"Memories ... they were not only an immensely valuable, but also an extremely fragile asset for him. There was no relying on it. Memories deceived. Memories faded. New impressions, new faces, smells, sounds laid over the old, loosing gradually in intensity until they were forgotten. At all costs, he wanted to prevent that the bluster of the world puts on his memories." (Jan-Philipp Sendker)

The buzzing of thousands of mosquitoes. Eastern Mongolia is the heart of the vast steppe. Huge free-roaming herds of horses, a few nomads who defy the width. But nobody has told us that it's also the breeding ground of the entire mosquito population of Mongolia. Well, we soon notice. The summer months with most rainfall transform the lowlands in a huge swamp and the barely used dirt track from Ereentsav on the Russian-Mongolian border to the district capital Choibalsan runs right through it. No wonder the ravenous mosquitoes lunge at the two helpless cyclists who are heading south. For making all the misery complete, we also have no more insect repellent, a godsend for the blood-sucking beasts. Soon we choose our resting places only after anti-mosquito criteria. A large pile of horse manure, an old shoe sole, a scrap of plastic - and soon we sit in the middle of a stinking Anti mosquito smoke and give us a break. Not so easy with the buzzing of thousands of mosquitoes in the ear.

Mongolian words. The whole day we are riding up a great river valley on a dirt road. On the slopes are grazing goats and sheep, down by the river are staying the yurts of nomads. On the opposite side of the valley a perhaps six year old boy rounds up a herd on his horse. In a country without signposts and hundreds of dirt roads, the oral information of people is essential along with the GPS, so as not to get lost. So we make multiple stops to ask for the right way. Unlike in other countries, our vocabulary contains therefore soon not only the welcome and thank you phrases, but also geographical terms. River, lake, water, mountain, pass, and time and again "John" is popping up in the talks. Unfortunately we never meet him personally until the end. Only once we fell asleep with his howling in one ear and the funny Mongolian word for "wolf" in the other.

Thunder. The temperatures climb during the day beyond the thirty degrees. We sweat torrents, but now in the evening it cools down rapidly. We hurry up with teeth brushing, recheck the tent pegs and already the spectacle begins. The sky glows brightly, the flashes follow every second, spread vertically above the leaden firmament. Gloom and doom. We crawl into the tent. The lightning is still increasing in intensity. A bit like strobe in the disco. Then the first gusts of wind reach us, tearing at the tent and soon we no longer understand our own words. "Cosy, isn't it?" We scream grimacing at each other, while the first drops of rain clap on the tent. Five long minutes we are at the center of the storm, then the nightmare is over. The tent is still standing. Relieved, we fall asleep, the rumble of the rapidly removing storm in the ear.

Whistling marmots. The way to Otgon Tenger is rocky. Both sides of the dirt track, the mountain meadows are silver and blue. Edelweiss and gentians, and once in a while a cheeky marmot warning the clan members with a shrill whistle of the oncoming danger. Marmots are hunted in Mongolia as a special delicacy. Especially now when they are really fat before hibernation. Before us the white snow cap of the four-thousand high peak emerges. Otgon Tenger is the most sacred mountain in Mongolia, the origin of many rivers that feed the whole surrounding area with water. We've discovered a "seasonal road" on a map leading along the mountain. But now, the park rangers denies resolutely, draws the great detour of the main road heading south in the air. We insist, he finally shrugs his shoulders and lets us pass. Actually, the path then ends after a few kilometers at the foot of the mountain, no trace of a "seasonal road". Never mind, the campground is unbeatable and we look directly out of the sleeping bag to how the snow cap slowly becomes pink, one last evening whistling of our tent neighbor in the ear.

The pulse. Almost perpendicular the track is going up to the pass, we push, have a breather, push again. At the pass we can already see the Ovoo. A large heap of stones, adorned with blue ribbons, a few white bleached horse skulls and offerings in the form of cheese and money. Behind the pass lies Khar Nuur, the black lake, nestled in the sand dunes of Mongol Els. Push, have a breather, push. Far ahead we see appearing a turquoise blue line in front of golden sand. Until now we weren't sure if we are right, because we found only sparse information about the area in advance. And so the next days then also become an impressive ride through one of the remotest regions of Mongolia. Silence, only the throbbing of the pulse in the ear.

Motorbike rattle. Since yesterday afternoon we saw not a soul. The route through the central Mongolian basin is sparsely populated in summertime, because the water and food for the animals is missing. As always at noon, we stretch the silk sleeping bag as a sail shade between the two bikes and make ourselves comfortable among them. And right now a motorbike from the west approaches. Of course it stops and soon we sit with a Mongolian family under our shade-giving roof, share our food and answer questions about the whereabouts. Then the bike is loaded again. The little boy on the tank, then the father, the little girl cramping on his back and on the far end the mother squeezed onto the seat, holding on each side a large flour bag. In Mongolia, every space is used on motorcycles. We wave goodbye and at the end only the rattle of the engine remains in the ear.

A rushing river. In the west of Mongolia water is often in short supply. In recent weeks, the question of where we can find water on the track, was an ongoing issue. More particularly it is now to follow the Bulgan Gol on his way from the Altai Mountains into the Gobi desert. The river valley is mainly inhabited by Kazakhs, we recognize their yurts on the steeper roofs and the more filigree roof rings, but also their behavior reveal them. They are much more reserved than the Mongols, the family structures act hierarchical and male-dominated. The women often wear a colored scarf and they do the main work. In the morning they milk the camels, make it the typical dried curd, collect all afternoon dry manure, which they top up into heaps besides their winter brick huts. Heating fuel for the coming harsh winter. Then, when the rushing of the river will be only a memory.

Karaoke bar. Each small village has one. It's quite possible that the village consists of only two houses and a handful of yurts, but certainly there's also a karaoke bar. Perhaps even with VIP room. The Mongols are a nomadic people, in earlier times their dreams and aspirations, their stories and wisdom have passed through tales and songs. Of course, this is no longer the case. Today also Mongolians send messages with mobile phones, round up goats with the motorcycle, have television in their yurts and the traditional songs are now amplified with 120 Watt. But many Mongolians has remained nomadic shepherds. With a simple yurt as a home, a flock which determines the daily routine and the love to sing. Songs that sound after wideness, after wandering and living in the steppe. Their melodies are still hanging in our ear.

The furious howling of the wind. The last 42km in Mongolia lying in front of us. After two months in this country, almost exclusively on rough sand and dirt roads we reached the paved road to the border in Bulgan yesterday. “A piece of cake”, we joked, “we make it in two hours.” But now the land of the angry winds lifts up to its name once again. Stormy headwind from the west, as if to prevent us from leaving Mongolia. Actually, we should not be convinced, we would like to stay longer. But our sixty days are over. Between two gusts of wind we hear the farewell of the Mongolian border guards: Bayarti – see you again. Yes, definitely.