Toys for Boys (and Girls)

During the dinner party our first night back from the countryside in Mongolia an adviser from Khan Bank asked me if I liked tanks.  Naturally, I said yes.  (What male wouldn't like a giant moving steel box with a cannon attached?)  She leaned in closer and said, "you know, there's a place about 60km outside the city where you can drive tanks."  She leaned in even closer and whispered, "I can set it up for you if you want."  Awesome.  Driving left-over Soviet tanks in Mongolia: what more could you ask for?  

As promised, Neal put us in contact with Bat who set everything up for us.  We've been wondering where some of the zeros in our bank account have run off to so we were hesitant to go through with it.  No need.  $135 to drive the tank five kilometers.  Five k in an ex-Soviet tank is, apparently, plenty of time to split between four people.  

So everything was set.  Mihi and the three of us left UB at 9am to make it to our appointment at the tank at 10:30am.  The Joshi's driver (provided by the bank) would take us so we wouldn't have to squeeze five people in the Niva.  He's also Mongolian and therefore wouldn't get lost on the drive.  Three hours later, after taking a handful of wrong turns including one needless foray over a mountain range we arrived at a gate with an armed guard.  We couldn't pass.  After ten or fifteen phone calls to a number of Mongolians we found out that the people who ran the tank compound were resting and that we should come back the next day.  Keep in mind that before leaving UB three hours previously we had talked with the same people to confirm our appointment.  But so it goes.  We had a quick lunch from the cooler that we had packed and headed back to the city.  We agreed, and later confirmed, that "resting" meant drinking.  At least they didn't let us near a tank when the only ones who knew how to operate it were drunk.  

The next day we made it to the compound at 10:30 on the dot.  The compound was situated in what looked like an abandoned military training ground.  There were pillboxes scattered in the hills and a barracks that had been neglected for at least the past two decades.  A big paramilitary-looking Mongolian greeted wearing combat boots and camouflage.  

About 100 meters away was the tank (we assumed it was the tank because it was the only one in sight).  He escorted us toward it.  Then right past it.  We stopped at a shooting range where an array of WWII era Soviet weapons were displayed for us on a table.  We said, "No. Tank."  They said, "No tank."  Really?!?  No tank?  Then why did we come?  

After fifteen minutes of arguing back and forth with lots of hand gestures we gave up.  We decided to shoot a few of the guns and head back.  So we started pointing around the table choosing our favorites.  Then the big guy disappeared.  He reappeared holding a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) launcher.  Done deal.  Rockets were $100 a pop.  We each (including Mihi) took one.  

Shooting an RPG was a surreal experience.  Especially because it came as a complete surprise.  There was fifteen minute gap between the first moment any of us had seen an RPG-7 outside of movies and news programs covering Afghanistan and Iraq to Ezra hoisting the launcher onto his shoulder.  

When he pulled the trigger there was a loud whistling noise and a big bang.  

Ezra was aiming at a pile of tires about 150 meters away...

... and hit them dead on.  I don't think the Mongolians expected anyone to hit it.  After the smoke cleared and the tires had disappeared they ran up to Ezra cheering and throwing high-fives all around.  

I shot second.  I walked up to the line and they put the tube on my shoulder.  It took fifteen seconds for them to show me where to put my hands and to point downrange toward my target.  Then the instruction was over and they shoved the rocket down the tube.  I aimed, pulled the trigger, and hoped for the best.  There was almost no kick as the rocket left the tube, just the overwhelming whistling sound.  I missed high and left.  And my rocket malfunctioned (I think).  There was a dust cloud close to the tires then a second explosion 30 meters up the hill a full two seconds later.  I'm just glad the rocket didn't fall out of the tube and explode at my feet.  

Richard shot third and was close.  There was a moment when a huge dust cloud covered the tires and we thought he hit it.  It was an Independence Day moment when the U.S. launches a nuclear missile at the alien spacecraft over Huston.  A mushroom cloud engulfs the ship and the military command center rejoices.  The smoke clears and a transmission from the reconnaissance unit kills the celebration: "Negative.  Target remains."  That was us.  Cheering then, "the tires are still there!"  

Mihi shot last and didn't take off her purse.  Nuff said...

If I were to go back and choose between driving a tank and shooting an RPG I would take the RPG.  It was a blast (ha ha).  I now believe the stories we've heard about tourists shooting RPGs out of helicopters at cows in Cambodia.  The cow part isn't my cup of tea...

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-Jack