Halfway there, another man joined the old one. He was tall and broad, and had the look of a
person brought up in luxury. His sparkling watch and anonymously expensive clothes seemed all
wrong in the dirty, rugged backdrop of the airport.
He walked up to us, smiling. Di grinned back, reassured that the old man was not here to
kidnap us. He extended his hand to us and we shook.
‘I am Peter, from Beijing,’ he said.
Diana introduced us. ‘I’m Diana, and this is Abigail. We’re from Hong Kong.’
Peter nodded. ‘This is Temujin, our guide.’
The old man had crept up, making no noise at all. Unsmilingly, he locked eyes with me and I
felt like he had read every thought in my mind. I panicked. I was in a strange country, heading into
a desert, which may or may not be the right one, with a mind reader and a headstrong best friend.
‘… and I will be your translator for this trip.’ Peter finished. Temujin murmured something in a
deep, hoarse voice that commanded respect.
Peter cleared his throat. ‘Temujin says he knows a place where mysterious sandstorms and
voices have been witnessed. Would you like to go there?’
Temujin spoke again.
‘Temujin says he will take you there, because he has sensed second-sight in one of you,’ said
Peter, frowning slightly.
A shiver ran down my spine and I stopped listening to Diana and Peter’s chat. We got into a
jeep by the far side of the airport and we drove out of Ulaanbaatar, the road getting more smooth
and sandy as we left the city behind. All the while Diana and Peter had been chatting away, but
Temujin and I kept silent. As Diana grew more calm, I grew less.
Temujin knew about the dream. He had ‘sensed’ it in one of us. Had he had the same dream?
Had he encountered the forces behind it? Had he really sensed it or was he bluffing?
The rest of the ride passed in a blur of burning questions and images of Temujin’s shadowy
face and childlike eyes.
After a couple of hours, we were in bleak, barren desert. Peter coaxed us out of the car, and
I realised we were surrounded by a circle of yurts. Mongol men sat around fires, women scurried
between yurts, gossiping and sewing, children were running, jumping, laughing. Beautiful,
sleek, glossy horses stood out proudly, their regal heads bedecked in grandeur. I gasped. A
chestnut-brown one with black legs and a black mane and tail came up to me, muzzling my face.
Tentatively, I put my hand out to stroke it, but it reared up, screaming. It’s hooves flailed and it
gnashed it’s teeth.
A man cursed at me, stony-faced.
I shied away, and as always, let Di do the talking.
Peter put a hand on my shoulder and led me away. ‘This is how we will be travelling from now
on!’ he announced, proudly.
In a makeshift pen were seven tall camels, soft and shaggy. They seemed less scary than
the horses. I reached out, but Diana pulled me back. ‘Not again, Abby,’ she warned. Peter hoisted
Temujin on to a camel – where he looked perfectly comfortable – but Diana and I scrambled up on
our own. Peter put our luggage and a big bundle one camel, and some food and water and other
things on the last. Finally he hopped on one himself, with an easy grace that suggested he had
done so many times.
I will never forget that first trek into the desert. The searing sun, the sharp winds, the open
