I Grew My Boobs in China (35 page)

“Breanna!” Mom snapped.

“Wait, Mom, I actually think it was something kinda like that,” Ammon said. “Go ask him,” he finished, pushing me forward. Climbing over the bench and sitting on the hump between the driver and front passenger seats, I felt the heat of the engine beneath me as I asked him his name. Surprised by the question, he took his eyes completely off the road to face me.
Don’t worry about the driving,
I thought sarcastically, but thankfully, there was actually nothing he could hit. I was quite sure he didn’t speak English, but he could tell us his name, and it was Bimba. He put out his hand to shake mine.
Well, he’s learned at least one of our customs
, I thought.

“Bimba?” I confirmed with a tilt of my head. He nodded and flashed another big smile. His eyes were like soft chocolate Hershey’s Kisses.

“Bimba.” I enjoyed tasting the word on my tongue.

He pointed to himself, gently tapping his chest with his index finger and again announced, “Bimba!” A moment of silence passed between us before we both laughed out loud. I held out a candy, one of many we’d brought from the capital. Using his knees to drive, he took it and began fumbling and tugging at the corners of the wrapper with his huge hands, his head cocked like a curious bird as he glanced at me, and then back at it. Before his frustration led to the candy being launched out the window, I reached out to help. Opening it gently with my teeth, I handed it to him unwrapped this time.

Jumping onto the backseat bench, I told them, “It’s Bimba.”

“Isn’t that, like, the name of the warthog in Lion King?” Ammon asked.

“PUMBA!?” Bree said, shocked that he’s got it wrong.

“No, no. Imba, Bimba, something,” he continued, waving his hand vaguely.

“You mean
Simba,
” I suggested. Bree was dumbstruck by the fact that Ammon wasn’t up on his Lion King character names.

“Yah! You know what I mean, dork,” Ammon played it cool. As I nestled back in my seat, I noted again that the woven fabric was spewing dust everywhere. As usual, all the windows were open to catch the breeze. The wind was warm to the touch, but the movement of the air did cool us somewhat.

We travelled across a really remote section, surrounded by nothing. No pollution, or buildings, or people, or power lines. Not a single telephone pole in sight, not even a road! Nothing but beauty, oddly enough.
Ulaanbaatar
had been replaced by open fields and rolling hills very suddenly, vanishing as quickly as it had risen up out of the dust. I was relieved that the northern part of the country wasn’t exactly the same as the desert steppes we’d seen in the south.

Maybe it isn’t an African Safari with warthogs and lions, but Mongolia sure has its share of semi-wild beasts running around,
I reflected, but then I uttered my next thought rather a little louder than I’d intended.
“Knowing these guys, they will probably end up dragging me across Africa!”

“Oh, that would be fun. Can’t we go there?” Mom said, looking to Ammon.

“Just let me get us to India first,” Ammon said, not for the first time.

“I should really learn to shut my mouth sometimes!” I said, annoyed at the prospect of adding yet another destination to our already lengthy itinerary.

Tiny flowers, like the offspring of the sun painted over the shallow hills, displayed brilliant oranges, yellows, and reds across endless stretches of endless fields. Infinite puffs of clouds floated like bubbling cotton, and it was as clear as the horizon why Mongolia is referred to as “the land of the big blue sky.” There was almost nothing distracting one’s eyes from its massive splendour.

From the moment we first stepped into our old Russian van and joined the small convoy, I knew we’d be in for an exciting two weeks. A Scottish/English couple named Tom and Sarah, a single Dutch woman, Noortje, and their interpreter, Baagii, drove along beside us in a separate jeep. The moment we met Noortje, she had immediately set the record straight, saying, “I am from the Netherlands; Holland is not a country but only a region of the Netherlands.” I’d heard of neither the Netherlands nor Holland, and couldn’t have found either of them on a map to save my life, but for whatever reason, she wanted to make that very clear to us. We also thought it a bit odd that Tom and Sarah had chosen to travel through Mongolia, given that they were
vegetarians.

“I mean, why would they visit a country where the staple food is mutton?” Ammon had wondered after our first group lunch. Because mutton formed such a large part of the country’s traditional cuisine, all the locals could manage to offer them in its place was thin slices of raw carrot and plain rice. Not eating mutton in Mongolia is roughly equivalent to reading a book without turning the pages. At the end of our two weeks together, we were impressed that Sarah remained a meat virgin, though Tom had given it up and, in desperation, eaten the mutton we were served so often.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Many hours later, just as we were beginning to wonder when we’d ever get a break from the constant bumping, we started to slow down. Three men sat crossed-legged in the open grasslands just ahead. One stood and raised an open palm to signal us to stop as we approached. We saw the familiar red, octagon-shaped stop sign displaying not so familiar Cyrillic symbols at the corner of two intersecting dirt tracks that created the only crossroads we had seen in over six hours. The other two men scrambled up from the ground, shook off the dust from their clothes, and presented themselves in a most professional, serious manner. They made a few stern gestures and barked commands at Bimba.

“What`s happening?” I asked from my window to Baagii who’d jumped out of his jeep.

“He is police,” he said, dropping his aviator sunglasses into place.

“Seriously?” Bree said, scuttling up from the back seat to look at him.

“Of course,” Baagii laughed. I was sure he was checking Bree out thoroughly behind his shades, and I did the same with these so-called cops. The first man’s military cap tilted to one side of his head was the only sign of officialdom we saw; he was otherwise dressed in very plain clothing. He maintained a very serious stance, but not with a “know-it-all,” power-trip kind of attitude. Rather, he looked as if he were merely playing a role. He stepped to the side and directed both drivers to pull over. The other two cops acted as if they were rookie football players who had finally been called off the bench to play in their very first game.

Who would think to set up a checkpoint miles and miles from any form of life, out in the middle of nowhere? Surely, they could only expect a dozen or so cars in an eight-hour shift, and that’s assuming they even have shifts!

“What is he doing?” I asked Baagii, who was walking alongside our van.

“They ask him why he stops in the middle of the road and tell him he must pull over or he’ll block the traffic.” The first cop’s attempt to prevent us from blocking the completely non-existent traffic was so ludicrous that it did nothing to clear up my confusion, but he seemed very proud of himself as he giggled and slapped Bimba on the back the moment he stepped out of the van. Baagii laughed right along with him, sporting a big, toothy grin. I could only shake my head.
Maybe the reason they’re so anxious to make a kafuffle is to distract themselves from sheer boredom. Who assigns these guys?
I wondered.
Like actually, really, who is the person in charge? And where is the police station?
Everything was one big mystery, even with a translator along.

Once they’d all shared a good laugh, one of the officials walked over to their little pink-tarped shelter and came back with a hot pot of tea. The two drivers, the three policemen, and Baagii sat together in the dry grass to have a little chat, with not so much as a mat to sit on. I tried to imagine what they might talk about.
“So how is Billy Bob, and that guy who had that ugly goat? Oh man, and remember that kid who kept falling off his horse? Like, who does that?”
After their short tea break, we continued our journey, the police not having accomplished much of anything that I could see.

But maybe they were just being friendly. Everyone in Mongolia seemed to approach one another like long-lost friends pleased to have the chance to catch up. That was the norm when driving. Everybody waved to oncoming vehicles. They’d often stop to say hello and have a quick chat in the middle of the road before carrying on. Perhaps because they are so few in number, they really stick together and look out for one another, almost like family.

Faint dirt trails often branched off into several forks veering off into the distance, making it nearly impossible to navigate. It was now obvious why Ammon had broken down and paid for a guided tour, something that puzzled me before we started off across Northern Mongolia. There couldn’t have been another explanation for spending our cash on a tour, although a couple of young, carefree drivers and torn up Russian 4x4s were a far cry from the GGTs (Grandma Glayde Tours) our grandmother took regularly. We had coined that nickname to describe the kind of tours where old folks pour out of their big, air-conditioned buses, their overly large, protective hats and glasses both secured by strings around their necks. A GGT could actually be a somewhat bearable way to travel, despite Ammon’s insistence that they were mere vacations and not genuine travel. “Travel is not
meant
to be comfortable!” he’d say, and he’d made that crystal clear throughout our journey thus far
.

With no GPS, maps, or road signs, it was a wonder our drivers had any idea at all where they were going. As far as I could tell, a local transport system did not exist. Even in the city, taxi drivers were just local citizens moonlighting to make a few extra bucks. Mongolian taxis could be anything from small Toyotas driven by clean-shaven men to a mother driving a station wagon, her children in tow. A bus stop in the countryside seemed a more than slightly farfetched notion. But then I remembered those local families departing from the train, burdened by sacks and taking off on foot into the emptiness. I wondered where they went.
How can they tell that a certain bump or rock is going to lead them somewhere that was still miles away? Had they mastered the art of teleporting, perhaps?
We spotted the occasional group of children along the way, playing in the fields with a sibling or two and often accompanied by a herd of goats. The eldest of these young shepherds seemed to be around ten years of age, and they wielded little sticks to control their family`s livestock. We’d wonder every time we saw them how they found their way around and where their homes were? They never seemed troubled or upset, although we could never see
anything
for miles and miles. The children wore familiar-looking pants and t-shirts, and the girls most often had braided hair, wisps of which hung loose in their faces after what appeared to be a day of rough, robust playing. We saw no toys aside from their stacks of rocks, but they all smiled as we passed, their round, sienna faces smudged with dirt. Everyone seemed to be relaxed and carefree.

“Whoa! Maybe they`re, like, people who live underground and come up out of the quicksand every once in a while,” Bree let her imagination run wild.

“Nice theory,” Ammon said. But it seemed Bree’s conjecture could almost be true. We’d stopped at a very small sand dune and found a group of children ranging in age from four to thirteen with no animals, cars, bicycles, homes, or parents to be seen. Suddenly the random stop signs in the flat plains didn’t seem so random after all.
Perhaps the expected is actually the unexpected in this strange land?

Whatever the case, the faster and rougher the ride got, the bigger Bimba’s smile seemed to become. Every once in a while, he howled with delight, and more and more often, he turned in his seat to check whether he’d yet managed to splatter his passengers against the ceiling. The thought of this exaggerated cartoon buggy with socks, bras, and t-shirts spewing out of the creases of the suitcases in the open trunk made me laugh nervously. Luckily, though, my luggage was in no way, shape or form a fragile little suitcase; it was a strong, bulky pack that had yet to see enough wear and tear.
I hope you’re having fun!
I thought, glancing into the back where the rest of the family were bouncing about, but I was glad my pack was starting to look like a real traveler at last. It had built up some calluses and a fine coating of dirt. I felt totally ridiculous meeting people who had flag patches sewn to bags dirty enough to send germs screaming for the hills. One Belgian couple we’d met on our three-day cruise down the Yangzi River had been out for seven months already.
Seven months!?!
Their exploits made our measly seven
weeks
seem insignificant, and we quickly dubbed them our idols.
And all I’ve got is a lame sprinkle of dirt,
I`d think, realizing other backpackers would rightfully consider that pretty pathetic.

My hair was blowing and twisting in the whirlwind that whooshed past my dry cheeks. Out of nowhere, a cloud of winged bugs appeared, and I had to tuck my head back into the 4x4. The calm air caressed me as I shut my window and looked wide-eyed at all the hovering bugs, their little wings flapping steadily against the glass. It was as if we weren’t moving at all.

“So what is Jiminy Cricket anyway? A grasshopper!?” Ammon teased at one point when the bugs reminded him of one of Bree’s classic misinterpretations.

We continued to fight to stay upright as we rode roughshod through forested patches lined with rivers and streams, occasionally coming close to tipping sideways in a river or getting stuck in a crater of mud. We stopped often to analyze different challenging passages or to test how deep the rivers’ waters were. The 4x4s turned out to be a real godsend.

We had a few opportunities to slip off into wooded areas to pee while the men were occupied with their trucks. And while the experts studied the best way to navigate a river crossing, we washed ourselves off a bit and cooled the back of our necks to relieve the intense heat.