I wake up to the sound of a cockerel crowing, and I can see through the chimney-hole that it is barely light. It had taken a while to get to sleep, with my stomach rumbling most of the night, and then having to make a trip out to the toilet shed in the pitch dark. I will confess that I didn’t even go in it – I was terrified I would fall down the hole. So I went for a pee somewhere far enough from the ger, but not so far that I would get lost out there. The eerie silence and the sense of being watched were enough to stop me from sleeping another wink.

Chinua is crouched by the stove, presumably boiling more of that awful milk for us, and I feel simultaneously ungrateful and pissed off that I am here. But I am here, so I intend to make the most of it somehow.

Rory and Carrie have pulled the hoods of their sweatshirts up and over their faces in an attempt to stay asleep, but I can see that Sarnai’s bed is already neatly made and she is nowhere to be seen. Martin is leaning on one elbow, reading a book by the light of a small torch attached to his head. If I’d realised he had that, I would’ve asked to borrow it for my middle-of-the-night bathroom break. I sit up, and try to stretch some life into myself.

‘What’re you reading?’ I say, as quietly as I can.

‘Lonely Planet,’ he stage-whispers back. ‘Why are we whispering?’

I smile at him, and pull myself out of bed. I am still fully clothed. I think we all decided that undressing wasn’t really an option, under the circumstances. He sits up too, and mimes ‘walking’ with his fingers. I nod.

‘Here you go,’ Chinua says, seeing that the two of us are awake. She offers us mugs of milky tea, two small doughnuts in each. I’m about to protest, but Martin shakes his head. We take the drinks, pull back the felt doorway and creep outside.

‘Here,’ Martin says, as soon as we are away from the ger. He takes a small bottle out of his pocket and pours a couple of drops into my tea, then his. He spots my questioning look. ‘Vanilla essence. Read about it when I was back home researching the trip. Something on a forum. Vanilla essence for the tea and soy-sauce sachets for the mutton stew. Both strong enough to block out the flavours … unless you like things that taste of sheep, of course. Oh … and a sprinkle of sugar on the boortsog doesn’t do them any harm.’ He hands me a sachet of sugar. ‘Purloined from Maccy D’s in Moscow.’