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vodka to ever slide down my throat .
Numerous cheers , and another bottle was brought to the table , it would be one of those nights as we reminisced of the days riding . Laughter filled the small hall , language barriers torn down , clear alcohol seems to have that effect , as we made gestures and discussed the steppe , the river crossings , the mysterious Ovoo , those shrines to shamanism constructed of stones and sticks scattered about the land . The blue khadag fluttering in the hilltop breeze offering blessings to travellers and Mongolians alike .
We laughed more at a chance meeting of a man with a welder in the middle of the steppe , his skills able to repair a broken Royal Enfield frame , proud to be photographed as he worked yet not so for a pose as his deel was torn . A proud man of a proud people , appearance is important .
Too many vodkas in our bellies we bid farewell to our guests and retreated to the warmth of our huts , as the cold of night settled around us and dogs howled in the distance .
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