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Gobi desert - 1993
Gobi desert - 1993
Jacek Pałkiewicz2006-06-17 16:28:50
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CHILDREN OF THE STEPPE
My travelling bag took shape again as I filled it with my gear. Previously it had been a faded, shrunken thing which had looked like an unfilled ghirba : the goat-hair water skins carried by the Beduins, albeit less and less frequently nowadays. As I placed my stuff in, however, it seemed to regain life, as if it were happy to be useful once more, to be setting off on another adventure whose end could not be foreseen. I packed at first with order and method, but then, as usual, I found myself cramming it with last-minute extras, another sweater, a book, a couple more pairs of socks. I was in an impatient mood. Packing my bag is always the last thing I do before I set off, out of superstition. I never pack until I am sure that I am going.
The wait for the bus to the town, then the train to the city, then the bus to the airport left me in a state of euphoria, or better, of grace. Unlike most of the other passengers, who I could see were nervous and anxious to be in the air, I enjoyed these formalities. Once my journey is in progress, no hold-ups can ever irritate me.
Bad weather, strikes, surly check-in clerks, frowing customs officials, I take them all in my stride. The important thing is that I am off. Even the destination of my journey is an unimportant matter, when it is set against the roar of the engines and the winds, freezy or hot according to the season, which are gusting over the runaway.
Still, a journey must have some destination. It must be one, moreover, whose attractions are such that the idea of not going becomes unthinkable. This particular journey was one I had long cherished. I was going to Mongolia.
The pallid sun of the Italian winter had "obliged" my fellow travellers to wrap themselves up in cashsmere scarves, sheepskin coats and expensive boots. When I got off the plane in Ulan Bator, however, I felt as if I had just arrived from the Caribbean.
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See photographs from:
Mongolia Gallery
