The yaks are all gone still, presumably having grown extremely bored of the ecolodge. Roberta is desperately trying to revive the iPad on solar energy so that she can finish her book.
We tried for another walk today. Roberta says I’m an early warning beacon for mosquitos. Bug spray is only useful for making you smell bad. You can hear the tiny squeaking laughter of the mozzies as they dive in to steal precious blood.
The mozzies here have no problem flat out biting you on the face. If you are waving your arms about your face they also have no problem biting your ass through two layers of denim.
In fact, during the rally it was this particular indignity that signaled it was my time to retire to the tent. Perhaps the others were of stronger character or thicker dermal layers or perhaps they knew their sober friend would start the driving the next day.
The reason doesn’t matter, but I have learned from experience that when driving/bouncing across thousands of miles of dirt roads it is rather better to not have a derrière that itches with every bump.
Nonetheless, a particularly angry bite to my bottom has once again sent us into retreat.
Roberta is reading a decade old Cosmopolitan magazine (the only English literature within a thousand miles) until the iPad returns.
I have just devoured two unpalatable creamy salads made out of some cold and ugly Mongolian river fish. I ate Roberta’s half because I love her and because the windows aren’t open for me to throw it out when the server isn’t watching.
When I go home I’m going to make Video game called, “Not possible!” In which you have to escape a ger camp by finding the hidden yaks and camels and battling through hordes of mosquitos with only an old nomadic longbow and bent, balsa-wood arrows without tips.