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Genghis Khan

Hence a traveler crossing this grassland is awed—or humbled—by the sheer emptiness of it. Occasionally, very occasionally, towns rise modestly on the far horizon, but no pavement spans the distance between them. Just a dirt track. Nor are there road signs or gas stations, and of course no Mongol equivalent of McDonald’s, serving up mutton burgers and koumiss.
Drivers often set off cross-country—four-wheel-drive vehicles are essential—guided by the sun’s position and features of the landscape: a stream, a prominent hill. Hawks wheel overhead, patrolling for prey scurrying through the grass.
Eventually the traveler spies wisps of smoke, and soon a ger. Stop and you will be invited in; Mongols are hospitable. In the single round room will be cots, stools, a low table, a chest, a battery-powered radio, perhaps a couple of saddles to one side.
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