T A B L E_T A L K When's the best time to go to Florence? Discuss the gem of Italy in Table Talk. R E C E N T L Y Gypsies of Spain By Curt Hopkins Scenes from a passionate stay in Granada (11/19/97) From Python to Pacific By Don George Former Monty Python star Michael Palin discusses his new PBS series and book, "Full Circle" (11/18/97) Full Circle By Michael Palin An excerpt that traces five days in his 245-day odyssey (11/18/97) Road Warrior Chris Gulker (11/17/97) The Surreal Gourmet By Bob Blumer Dinner and a video with a tasty trout recipe (11/14/97) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Wanderlust archives - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -		OF GERS AND GRIT ON THE FIRST RECORDED FOUR-WHEEL EXPEDITION THROUGH THE GOBI DESERT TO LAKE HOVSGOL. BY AMANDA JONES | I hate wind. I always have, ever since I was small, growing up on a bluff in New Zealand. They say it can drive humans mad. In certain gusty regions of Switzerland, courts accept wind as a mitigating circumstance for crime. And in other parts of the world, the suicide rate skyrockets along with the wind factor. The theory is that relentless wind drives all joy from the human soul. And so there I was in the Gobi Desert, one of the world's windiest places, suddenly realizing that a plan would be needed in order for me to return home with my sanity. And also realizing why people use the Gobi as a metaphor for the last resort, verge-of-the-world sort of place. You'll notice that they usually refer either to Timbuktu, which implies sort of out-there-exotica, or to the Gobi. The Gobi means out-there-living-hell. There's one rule in places like this: Never, ever face upwind. I learned this when I stepped off the plane in Dalzanagad, center of Nowhere, and guilelessly smiled at the man greeting us. My mouth ballooned with airborne grit, my eyeballs felt as if fire ants had nested on them and my hair has never been quite the same since. Several months before, I'd had a call from Land Rover inviting me to participate in the first (recorded) Mongolian south-to-north expedition from the southeastern Gobi, through the heartland steppes and up to Lake Hovsgol on the Siberian border. The trip was to be made in Land Rover's sports utility vehicle, the Discovery. This is an annual event for Rover. They air-lift vehicles to the edges of the earth just for the hell of it, and then tell people like me (whose off-roading history peaks at a U-turn across a freeway divider) to hop behind the wheel and drive from point A to point Z. This Mongolian expedition would cover 1,700 miles in four days. There would be no paved roads, in fact few roads at all. We would go from wind-flogged desert and gravel plains to hummocked grasslands and then, finally, to ice-and-snow-slicked mountains. The hours would be long and grueling, with nights spent in tents or, if we were lucky, in gers, the domed felt tents of the nomads. As soon as I'd signed on, boxes began arriving on my doorstep. At first there was the reading material: tips on desert survival, dissertations on paleontology, ecological perspectives, history-at-a-glance, topo maps, mechanical specs, Mongolian phrase books, pointers on cultural seemliness, pens and propagandistic corporate stickers and pins to distribute to nomads. Then came the apparel. The finest quality, all in safari khaki, all with the Land Rover logo discreetly affixed. Extreme-wear jackets, gale-proof woolen sweaters, hefty hiking boots, safari shirts -- and a note suggesting that we supplement this wardrobe with thick socks, ear-muff hats, fleece pants and a pair of snorkeling goggles. You would think this last item on the list would have aroused the suspicion of any seasoned adventurer. Instead I ignored it, reasoning, quite cleverly I thought, that Mongolia was one of the most land-locked countries on earth and any lakes would be frozen for a good six months of the year. Land Rover may have a bunch of hardy sorts coming on this trip, but I, for one, was not about to be exploring subaquatic Mongolia. And so, sans goggles, I arrived in Ulan Bator, slept off the brutal journey, had a meet-the-team dinner and then flew to the Gobi, where the vehicles awaited. There were two Discoverys, two Uazs (Russian jeeps) and a mammoth Gaz, a Russian troop transport vehicle that was our supply truck. Our party included 14 people: seven Mongolian men, three Rover die-hards and four journalists -- all female. We were met by Chimed, a rotund Mongolian biologist who was to be our dinosaur specialist, navigator, cook and touring bon vivant. His English was sketchy but unfailingly exuberant. "Velcome to da Gooobi," he said, his scarlet cheeks smothering his eyes in a huge, fleshy grin. It was freezing out, but Chimed wore a pair of Bermuda shorts with geckos crawling up them and a T-shirt that stopped slightly shy of a hirsute navel. "Ah, it a buootiful day in Gooobi," he yelled over the wind, flinging bare arms skyward. "Zo purrfuct. Ve drive and ve dig dinosaur bones, yiss?" Naturally, I paused to reflect on a bad day in the Gobi. N E X T+P A G E +| Dinosaurs wetting themselves - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - PHOTO BY AMANDA JONES