and have taken a leading role in shaping our stories and destinations. On the other hand, as I look out at the frigid tundra of Mongolia, I’m realizing that I now have no one to blame for this awful drive but myself.
The Death Worm, known locally as Olgoi-Khorkhoi, is a nasty cryptozoological creature rumored to reside somewhere in these endless sands. The name translates as “intestine worm,” owing to its long, segmented shape. Described as vividly red, the animal measures somewhere between three and five feet long. Details on its offensive abilities are varied and confusing, but the Worm is widely rumored to spit some sort of deadly acid at prey and dispence an immense electric charge when provoked. The attributes are so outlandish that it might hardly seem worth the effort to mount a search.
What makes this creature intriguing, though, is the breadth of belief in its existence. Even though Mongolia is one of the least densely populated nations on earth, residents scattered across more than 600,000 square miles of desert are universally versed in tales of the Death Worm. This is a narrative that has transcended distance and time, passed down for generations.
The earlier part of the day was fascinating. Every so often we’d see a small cluster of yurts, the ghostly white outlines of these circular tents dotting the monotonous canvas of sand. We stopped in several of these nomadic enclaves to interview herders. It was hard to stomach the heated goat’s milk or the salted meats that were presented to us, but offerings from people whose resources are so limited are not to be dismissed. They urged us to sit on the floor and warm ourselves around the tent’s central stove. Firelight, it seems, is a universal kindle for storytelling, and as we huddled by the embers, legends gently glowed to life. They vividly recounted tales of the Olgoi Khorkhoi, even whispering the creature’s name for added theatrical effect.
My head eventually cracks against the window, and I come awake fully. We’ve stopped. I peer through the frosted glass and see nothing but the void. The driver opens his door as an electrifying rush of cold overtakes the car’s interior. I pull my parka around me and hop out into the darkness, swearing under my breath. The cars behind are stopping as well. Doors open and the crew steps out to stretch their stiff legs. The hood of our Land Rover is propped up, and I can see that one of the drivers is trying to fix the stripped wiring on a headlamp.
I also notice something much more troubling: the rest of our local escorts are carefully studying a map, bewildered. Our main guide, Zanjan, who has been driving the second vehicle in the convoy, looks dead on his feet. He opens a canteen of water and, despite the subfreezing temperature, pours it over his head, waking himself up. I glance over at Brad, who looks beyond horrified.
“Zanjan, where the hell are we?” Brad demands.
“Close. We’re close,” Zanjan quietly replies.
“How close, Zanjan?” I say, now studying the map for myself.
“Maybe another two or three hours,” he admits.
This is not the answer for which the group is hoping. An eruption of protestation follows, but it’s for naught. We are where we are, and it is what it is, a common mantra on Destination Truth . We use the rooftop canisters to top off the fuel supply, climb back into the Land Rovers, and carry on.
The final push is a blur to me. I fall asleep for seconds at a time, vivid images and flashes of dreams spraying across the inside of my eyelids. We bash through ditches and lurch over rocky hills for what seems like an eternity. The ordeal comes to an end at about two a.m. when the few, dim lights of the southern city of Dalanzadgad appear in the distance. A full twenty-two hours of off-road driving has left the entire team silent and sore.
We shuffle into a bleak-looking cement building that serves as a local hotel. Behind the desk are two young kids, both shitfaced, one
The Death Worm, known locally as Olgoi-Khorkhoi, is a nasty cryptozoological creature rumored to reside somewhere in these endless sands. The name translates as “intestine worm,” owing to its long, segmented shape. Described as vividly red, the animal measures somewhere between three and five feet long. Details on its offensive abilities are varied and confusing, but the Worm is widely rumored to spit some sort of deadly acid at prey and dispence an immense electric charge when provoked. The attributes are so outlandish that it might hardly seem worth the effort to mount a search.
What makes this creature intriguing, though, is the breadth of belief in its existence. Even though Mongolia is one of the least densely populated nations on earth, residents scattered across more than 600,000 square miles of desert are universally versed in tales of the Death Worm. This is a narrative that has transcended distance and time, passed down for generations.
The earlier part of the day was fascinating. Every so often we’d see a small cluster of yurts, the ghostly white outlines of these circular tents dotting the monotonous canvas of sand. We stopped in several of these nomadic enclaves to interview herders. It was hard to stomach the heated goat’s milk or the salted meats that were presented to us, but offerings from people whose resources are so limited are not to be dismissed. They urged us to sit on the floor and warm ourselves around the tent’s central stove. Firelight, it seems, is a universal kindle for storytelling, and as we huddled by the embers, legends gently glowed to life. They vividly recounted tales of the Olgoi Khorkhoi, even whispering the creature’s name for added theatrical effect.
My head eventually cracks against the window, and I come awake fully. We’ve stopped. I peer through the frosted glass and see nothing but the void. The driver opens his door as an electrifying rush of cold overtakes the car’s interior. I pull my parka around me and hop out into the darkness, swearing under my breath. The cars behind are stopping as well. Doors open and the crew steps out to stretch their stiff legs. The hood of our Land Rover is propped up, and I can see that one of the drivers is trying to fix the stripped wiring on a headlamp.
I also notice something much more troubling: the rest of our local escorts are carefully studying a map, bewildered. Our main guide, Zanjan, who has been driving the second vehicle in the convoy, looks dead on his feet. He opens a canteen of water and, despite the subfreezing temperature, pours it over his head, waking himself up. I glance over at Brad, who looks beyond horrified.
“Zanjan, where the hell are we?” Brad demands.
“Close. We’re close,” Zanjan quietly replies.
“How close, Zanjan?” I say, now studying the map for myself.
“Maybe another two or three hours,” he admits.
This is not the answer for which the group is hoping. An eruption of protestation follows, but it’s for naught. We are where we are, and it is what it is, a common mantra on Destination Truth . We use the rooftop canisters to top off the fuel supply, climb back into the Land Rovers, and carry on.
The final push is a blur to me. I fall asleep for seconds at a time, vivid images and flashes of dreams spraying across the inside of my eyelids. We bash through ditches and lurch over rocky hills for what seems like an eternity. The ordeal comes to an end at about two a.m. when the few, dim lights of the southern city of Dalanzadgad appear in the distance. A full twenty-two hours of off-road driving has left the entire team silent and sore.
We shuffle into a bleak-looking cement building that serves as a local hotel. Behind the desk are two young kids, both shitfaced, one
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