“Every path hath a puddle.”
Ice-cold temperatures. Frequent visits to the dreaded "pit" that masquerades as a toilet and nightmares about still being in the Mongolian border holding pen kept me awake all night. By morning I had been sitting at the border for 36 hours.
The border guards were now telling us that, unless money came in to pay for the import tax of the cars, we would have to wait another 48 hours due to the upcoming weekend. This was turning into a Mongol nightmare.
The head honchos at Mongol Rally headquarters assured us that the money had been sent. The head honchos at the Mongolian border assured us that the money had not been sent. There seemed to be some epic miscommunication.