But at least we found a place to eat scrambled eggs.

We choose our restaurant based on which one has a more tasteful window display of bloody animal parts.

Driving very, very slowly across Mongolia, we eat really bad fish sandwiches and share them with a passing stranger.

A caffeine addict will do anything to get his fix—even make coffee with ragged old underwear.

We miss the Mongolian border crossing and have to dip into our sketchiest dried provision.

We’re down to the dregs of our supplies again, after being grossed out by offal in an outdoor market.

We can’t find a decent road to save our lives, but finally we get some good kebabs.

Yet another food I don’t recognize, and decide to try.

Our stomachs ruined from last night’s party, it’s our only nutritional intake.

Before he got sick of us, our host treated us to horse meat, vodka, and a place to sleep.

He must also have sour goat milk soup. Especially when those are the only things available along the roadside of Uzbekistan.

In a washed-up former shipping port, we drink cold noodle soup to beat the heat and do vodka shots with the local police.

It’s very hot, but crossing into Uzbekistan, we’re starting to see some better grub.

At the Uzbekistan border, we get more borscht, plus a little something extra.

Unforgiving sun, potholed dirt roads, a plywood table, and some kind of organ meat.