Today we join Chit Lebaron and his guide Mobutu as they voyage by camel through the Gobi desert towards the ‘Cave of Sandy Secrets’.
God damn the sun is hot out here. I mean really hot… and it’s a dry heat. Dry as a British Joke at a funeral. Dry as a woman’s vagina at an Andrew Dice Clay concert, dry as a bone in a dehumidifier. What I’m saying is that it is dry.
Mobutu has been a total pill since the journey started, he got really upset when I used most of the drinking water to wash my hands. Pretty sure he would have done the same thing if he had accidentally touched his camel’s nose. It was gross and I refuse to travel like that, so sue me. If he was so worried about dehydration he should have brought some Gatorade.
We encountered a Bedouin tribe on the second night. They took us in and fed us goat meat and tea and regaled us with tales of sultans and genies and falafels. I tried to trade Mobutu for one of the tribe leaders daughters but they were too smart for that. Even these savages know that Mobutu is absolutely useless.
The Bedouin’s packed up their camp and moved over night, I think it was because Mobutu farted in his sleep but he insists that it had more to do with me furiously masturbating during the belly dancing performance. I was under the impression that that was the ultimate compliment for strippers. He said they weren’t strippers, I said: I say tomato you say potatoes, it’s all Greek to me.
The night before we reached the Cave, me a Mobutu had a heart to heart. It had been a while since we had sat down and really talked… I remembered why shortly after we started: Mobutu has an amazing ability to bring every conversation around to the death of his parents and his kidnapping as a small child. It’s like, get over it, Mobutu. Stop living in the past… I can’t say sorry any more than I already have.
The cave itself was pretty boring. Just some guys chained together staring into the abyss talking about shadows on a wall and going on an on about reality. I looked around for a chest filled with treasure or a genie lamp but I didn’t find either so I just peed in the corner and got the fuck out of there.
Hopefully the next trip will be a little more entertaining; the historical whorehouses of Amsterdam are supposed to be ripe with entertainment and positively gushing with things to do.