The Escape. 25 July - 28 July
The bus ride back into Ulaanbaatar was uneventful enough, although, at the small rest stop at the halfway point I believe PB managed to accidentally order the flavourless 'barely soup' broth that he'd first experienced on the day we failed to get permits, for possibly the 3rd time. In other respects the rest stop was quite pleasant, save the lime-dusted outdoor pit toilets, which, possibly because you were meant to squat over them in the typical non-European fashion, had only half doors on them for privacy.
Once we got back into the capital, our first stop was our previous hostel. No luck - they were sold out. So we headed to one of the many internet cafes to find a new home for the night (we were hoping to be able to buy tickets back to China the next day). Despite my being distracted by the graphic pornography I could see playing on some screens in the cafe, we managed to find a hostel advertised as 'home-like' and run by a mixed Iraqi-Mongolian couple. After a bit of a struggle actually finding the address, we eventually stumbled upon it. It was indeed home-like, as it was, in fact, the couples home. But it was clean and cheerful and indoors and devoid of guests other than ourselves, so it seemed a marked improvement over our previous situation. Sadly it was also devoid of food, so, entirely famished at this point and with the sky beginning to go dark, we headed out into the streets in search of food.
Normally, this would be a fairly unexciting prospect; most cities that are capable of supporting more than one travellers hostel can generally be counted on to offer a decent array of late-evening food choices. However, we had reached saturation point on Mongolian food, particularly PB, as he had been disappointed so many times by the arrival of the thin, bland, miserly broth he kept unintentionally ordering. He no longer trusted his luck or his memory and was adamantly opposed to heading to anything even resembling traditional Mongolian fare. For myself, although I hadn't had the same repetitive experience as PB had, I, too, was feeling the monotony; the steppes of Mongolia are a wild and beautiful thing, but they do not and cannot grow the vegetables and spices necessary to make the more flavourful and varied dishes of their southern neighbour. Now, due to the political climate, it was unlikely that we would be able to find a Chinese restaurant very easily (although we'd managed to find a good tandoori-mexican fusion restaurant during our previous, longer stay in the capital), so we settled for a fried chicken outlet, Chicken Queen. It was small, it was fluorescent, it was cheap, the menu had pictures, and the food had an abundance of sauces available. It was perfect.
Chicken consumed, we headed back to the hostel and slept soundly on real beds. The next morning we braced ourselves and headed to the train station, girding our loins for the anticipated battle to purchase tickets to the border. To our absolute surprise the process was entirely painless. The line was short, there was no queue-barging, we managed to get cots together on the train that left that night. The whole thing was smooth enough that I wondered whether we might be leaving right when we were starting to get the hang of the country.
We spent the rest of that day checking out of our Mongolian hostel and arranging beds for ourselves back in Beijing, for 3 nights in advance. Remembering that Zamiin Uud, which we again would need to stop in, had had no produce available whatsoever, we went hunting through every grocery store we could find for some fruit for the long journey. After several attempts, we found not only a small basket of sweet plums but a discarded x-ray sheet. We kept, and enjoyed, both.
Once we got on the train that evening, my earlier worries that we were perhaps giving up on Mongolia too soon were dashed. We had to fight for our bunks, even though the number was printed on our tickets; they'd apparently been 'claimed' by a group that decided they wanted to stick together. The only problem was that the seats they were supposed to have been in had also been claimed; in fact, there were no free seats in the house, and it appeared, from the fact that 3 of them didn't even bother to show us, or the conductor, their tickets, that a few of them weren't supposed to be on the train at all. So we were squeezed onto the seats beside them, and crammed together into one single narrow bunk (the floor not being fit to sleep on because the group kept throwing garbage and peanut shells onto it), feet to head. Or, at first we were. After a few hours of lying so precariously, PB gave up and climbed to the upper storage shelf and slept there; although it creaked ominously under even his slight weight, it was at least clean and, he reported in the morning, fairly comfortable.
From the train station in Zamiin Uud we immediately went and caught another jeep ride back into Er Lian, this time with no border complications; now that Nadaam was over, the cross border traffic seemed much decreased. We headed to the train station in Er Lian only to find that no train was leaving that day. However, one of the joys of China is that someone is always willing to sell you something, so we found our from the ticket lady that there was an overnight bus we could take that was leaving tonight for Beijing. We caught a taxi from the train station and, after a miscommunication or two (the driver was wonderfully patient, it must be said), we found ourselves at a large bus station on the outskirts of town.
Tickets were purchased fairly easily thanks to Chinese commercialism and my smattering of mandarin, but we were about 4 hours too early to actually get on the bus. We decided to kill time at what looked like (and was) a nearby restaurant, and ran into a fellow foreigner on the way over. Tentative courtesies were exchanged and we decided to all eat lunch together.
His name was Guillaume; French, obviously, with good English and a self-effacing manner. He had been travelling for some weeks already and regaled us with anecdotes. His English name, he explained, was William the Lucky. He always had tremendous luck when travelling and in life in general, and he was very very grateful for it, as otherwise he would often have been stranded. Unfortunately he was heading in a different direction, on a different bus, so our goodbyes (after a wonderfully Chinese luncheon full of peppers and onion and spices) was the last we ever saw or heard of him.
The type of bus we took from Er Lian to Beijing is often called a Bed Bus, or a Sleeper Bus. Unlike the Greyhound buses of North America which are filled with single seats that partially recline, these buses are have no seats whatsoever. Instead, they have stacks of beds in rows along the sides and down the middle of the bus. The beds are like hospital beds in that the back is capable of raising slightly so the occupant can sit up. It felt a little precarious hurtling down the highway with nothing but a coverlet for protection, but it was wonderfully comfortable. I stayed awake for a little while, wondering at the tight, shiny rows of blue lamp posts on a highway that seemed, like so many Chinese highways, to be almost entirely deserted. But soon enough night fell and I slept soundly, only waking to the bright lights of the city of Beijing sometime in the very, very early morning.
2015/10/02
2015/09/25
a Frustrated Cat. Asia 2011
Ondorkhaan, the breaking point. - 21 July - 25 July.
Journal Entry for 22 July, 2011:
Out of Ulaanbataar, now stuck in Ondorkhaan in Khentii aimag. We got in yesterday at 13:00; unfortunately the bus for Batshireet left at 8 that morning. The next bus is on Monday, again at 8; we tried a bit yesterday afternoon and evening to get a ride, but after several hours of effort got only 2 offers, neither of which we were willing to pay, the charges being exorbitant. So, we wait till Monday, and camp till then. A few things of note about yesterday, though: we met an American woman whose name we never learned, who’s working as a photographer with an NGO working with the American Military, who in their turn are working with Mongolian doctors in capacity building. So there’s quite a few American soldiers about town, though they mostly keep to themselves.
Also, at one point while searching for a radio station to put an ad out to hire a jeep to Batshireet, I was put on luggage-guard duty and PB went a-wandering; but, while I was waiting, I met an elderly scientist named Dolmaa, who spoke some English and was very interesting and helpful. She studies fish and fish ecology and works at the Academy in Ulaanbataar. She told me about the Mongolian trout which can vary greatly in size and tastes very good. She also helped translate while we were trying to figure out a ride to Batshireet provided by a friend of a friend of a very trashy lady in a see-through turquoise lace top barely able to contain her bulk, with a lady in green with a young son with delicate blonde hair who were also apparently from Batshireet. But Dolmaa had to leave before the deal was concluded, so she didn’t see it fall through due to outrageous pricing. She did seem to think it might be dangerous for us to camp, but we had no problems last night. If we are lucky we will be left alone tonight as well, but we’re in a different place and it seems much busier so we’ll see.
Also yesterday we met two lovely little girls in the Post Office / Telecom Office / Bus Station, named as near as I can remember and translate, Naimiin (7) and Namiinjiin (8). I played ‘catch-the-bottlecap’ with them with my hat (also: PB & I bought hats) for some time and we had great fun, the younger definitely being the more outgoing. Oh, and one last story: at dinner yesterday a young girl, maybe 3 or 4, who’d been playing quite cheerfully in the main eating area disappeared into the kitchen and started screaming terribly; it turns out she’d somehow hurt her foot, burned it, actually. PB and I felt very bad and rummaged around for something that would help her in our first aid kits. All we could find was an anti-septic wipe with painkillers and aloe in it, but we gave them that, at least. Poor kid, she was too young to really know what had happened or why it hurt so much. And then, as we were walking away, the older girl who’d been in there ran after us and forced 300 mnt (Editor’s Note: MNT = tgr = Tugrik) into my hand. Strange day.
Today has been much lazier and less eventful, resigned as we are now to staying here the next few days. In the morning we lazed around the tent; in the afternoon we lazed around an internet cafe ( well, I lazed; PB taught himself some Korean) and this evening we lazed around in the river, which is generally shallow but quite swift. Anyway, as can probably be guessed from my penmanship now, it is too dark to easily write. I hope we will be generally left along this night, or, failing that, unharmed, and I will write again when writing is worth it.
Goodnight.
Storytime!
Writing would not prove worth it for some few days. Although we had met the photojournalist on our first unwilling afternoon in Ondorkhaan (which was apparently renamed Chinggis City in 2013, although the Mongolian Cyrillic on Google Maps still clearly spells Ondorkhaan), we never saw her again, and, despite catching the odd glimpse of American fatigues over the next few days, our time in Ondorkhaan was spent glorying in what can most kindly be called the Authentic Mongolian Experience.
We were camping as there was not a hostel to be seen, but also because the land was flat and grassy all about the town, with only the Kherlen River to the South interrupting with its short sandy banks and muddy burbling. The weather, it must be said, was beautiful: sunny and mild and unfailingly pleasant. Given all these, then, it should be no wonder that, after the first night spent not far from the bus terminal, we set up camp near a bend in the river, the easier to leave the tent and go swimming. Well, paddling, anyway; the Kherlen, though swift, is too shallow at that point for an adult to swim properly.
For children, though, it is apparently the precise right depth. On the day before we were to buy tickets and catch our bus (as we had been assured by the counter attendant that tickets were never sold in advance), PB had gone again to the town's internet cafe and I had stayed in the tent to alternate between napping and paddling in the river. Suddenly, around midday, in the middle of one of my river paddling sessions, I was stumbled upon by a group of 4 young boys, about 8 or 9 years of age, the same age group I had taught when I lived in Hong Kong.
Now, one thing that I have found to hold true almost everywhere in the world is that kids are always kids. There's not a huge amount of regional variation on the the nature of childhood, particularly of childhoods spent without much money. It seems to take either a huge amount of unconscious wealth or the horrors of puberty to really change or disguise the natural fecklessness and curiousity of the average child. So, with my own childhood spent by the Mackenzie and Liard Rivers of Northern Canada on top of my year of teaching in Hong Kong to help me bridge the adult-child gap, I hit it off with the kids right away.
None of them spoke much English, of course, and my Mongolian was limited to a scarce handful of words, but they didn't seem to mind and we made do with miming and facial expressions. Always appreciative of a fresh audience, the boys insisted I sit and watch as they took turns jumping off the small bank into the river, or sliding down the bank, or semi-swimming in the muddy water. I kept up my end of the bargain by clapping when appropriate and keeping up a steady stream of smiles, laughter, and commiseration at failed attempts at different stunts.
Even without understanding the language, different personalities soon became clear. There was a quiet, confident one who seemed the understood leader of the pack. Not the tallest or the loudest, still whenever there seemed to be a discussion going on, it was his statements that turned it into action. The others all looked at him whenever he spoke.
There was a noticeably smaller one, perhaps a younger brother, who the others treated with a rough affection and thoughtlessness. He mostly seemed to be overjoyed at his inclusion in the group, and could be counted on to vehemently support whatever was going on, be it laughter or jumping in the water or what have you; but during discussions and arguments would fall silent and hang back, not daring to venture an opinion.
The third was the tallest, with a round head and small eyes that, for some reason, made me think he likely wore glasses when they were available and his parents could force him into them. He was chatty enough with the other boys but shy and deferential with me. He had a ready laugh and seemed good natured; it also turned out he had a decent memory for his classroom English lessons and was called upon by the leader to translate the odd words or phrase. In these instances the leader seemed to trust his answers, acknowledging them with a curt nod that would bring a small smile of pride to the boy's face.
The fourth was the clown. Wild and unpredictable, keen for attention, he laughed the most and spoke the loudest. He attempted for brashness and bravado, but nearly fawned on the leader of the pack. Something about him, I'm not sure what, made me think back to my experiences in Canada; I could not banish the assumption that he came from a poorer or otherwise different family in the town. Something about him screamed that he was seen as different by the other boys, by himself, but that he had been included in this afternoon's activities because of this comparable age, and now he was desperately enjoying himself and wildly grateful to be given the chance to be among them. I sympathised, and I wondered what his home was like, but I didn't quite trust him.
After an hour or so, the boys tired of the water, and, through the leaders presumptuous miming, I was given to understand that they wanted to see where I slept. I obediently took them back to the tent, which was just large enough to house one adult and 4 kids if the door was open. Rather complacently I let them rummage around my few belongings, keeping PB's clothes and precious camera equipment safely tucked into the corner behind my back. This is when the little academic proved his worth. While his leader was flinging imperious questions at me via mimes and the help of our small pocket dictionary, it was the academic that was given the task of filling in the gaps. He acted as a translator for both the leader's questions and my answers, while the wild child and the younger brother contented themselves with murmurs of astonishment or agreement while going through my few mementos... and my multivitamins, which they immediately assumed were candy. I decided it probably wouldn't hurt them to not be corrected on that front, and so they were each treated to a multivitamin. They were apparently unimpressed with the quality of my "sweets" as there were no requests for seconds.
The questions were largely about where we had been, what China was like, and where we were from. They seemed interested in Canada, and I was able to show them a small map and point out the city I lived in. They commiserated with me about the cold, apparently their winters were cold, too. They tried to tell me how cold, but I couldn't understand the numbers. They were horrified by this, and the next 15 minutes were spent in me dutifully repeating the numbers 1-10 in Mongolian until they were satisfied. They had significantly less trouble in learning the English numbers. This knowledge established, they insisted on exchanging phone numbers. I tried to ignore my flashback to The Simpsons episode where Bart calls Australia, and dutifully recorded their phone numbers on a little scrap of paper.
Eventually the stream of questions ebbed, though, and, as the day was growing long, they soon turned for home. They had only walked about 20 or 30 feet away though, when, waist deep in the tall grass, they stopped and huddled around the wild child. I saw the face of the academic glance at me, his expression troubled and unhappy. Sensing trouble was afoot, I stood up and faced them with the pretence of waving them goodbye. The little group abruptly broke apart and, after a moments hissed excitement from the wild child to the leader, the wild child was shoved forward while the other three shamefacedly hung their heads and peeked out at me from the corners of their eyes.
"Hey - Kiss?" yelled the wild child.
Ah, I thought. So that's what this is about. I raised a wry and slightly disapproving eyebrow and shook my head, no.
More hissed excitement, but this time the wild child shoved himself forward and yelled,
"Hey - Sex?"
followed by gales of shocked laughter. I figured I didn't want to know where he had learned that word, and just shook my head again, trying to look more disapproving. Finally they moved off, and I lounged in the tent until PB came back, overall feeling pretty pleased with the afternoon.
The next morning we awoke before dawn with the intention of being at the bus depot at the earliest possible moment in order to assure being able to purchase bus tickets to Batshireet. It was only while I was packing up that I realised that I was missing 10 mnt and several Chinese jiao (cents, essentially) notes, as well as the wristwatch I had bought in the Temple Street Night Market in Hong Kong, which had broken within days. The little shits had stolen from me.
Strangely, it's the only time I've ever been robbed. Period.
Anyway, warmed by my outrage, we finished packing up and headed to the bus station. PB was the first one inside. I sat outside with our bags, waiting for the sun to fully rise. After nearly 45 minutes, he came back outside, tight with anger. The tickets were sold out, he said. Somehow, despite OUR not being able to purchase advance tickets, all the tickets had been sold in advance. The next bus was on Thursday, which would give us no time at all to be able to explore as we had planned and still get back to China before our Mongolian visas expired. With PB frustrated to no end with the infrastructure and my upset at having my things stolen, and no real other option anyway, it did not take us long to give up on our Mongolian venture and decide to head back to the capital and from there continue immediately to China.
For that bus, at least, there were still tickets. We left that afternoon.
Journal Entry for 22 July, 2011:
Out of Ulaanbataar, now stuck in Ondorkhaan in Khentii aimag. We got in yesterday at 13:00; unfortunately the bus for Batshireet left at 8 that morning. The next bus is on Monday, again at 8; we tried a bit yesterday afternoon and evening to get a ride, but after several hours of effort got only 2 offers, neither of which we were willing to pay, the charges being exorbitant. So, we wait till Monday, and camp till then. A few things of note about yesterday, though: we met an American woman whose name we never learned, who’s working as a photographer with an NGO working with the American Military, who in their turn are working with Mongolian doctors in capacity building. So there’s quite a few American soldiers about town, though they mostly keep to themselves.
Also, at one point while searching for a radio station to put an ad out to hire a jeep to Batshireet, I was put on luggage-guard duty and PB went a-wandering; but, while I was waiting, I met an elderly scientist named Dolmaa, who spoke some English and was very interesting and helpful. She studies fish and fish ecology and works at the Academy in Ulaanbataar. She told me about the Mongolian trout which can vary greatly in size and tastes very good. She also helped translate while we were trying to figure out a ride to Batshireet provided by a friend of a friend of a very trashy lady in a see-through turquoise lace top barely able to contain her bulk, with a lady in green with a young son with delicate blonde hair who were also apparently from Batshireet. But Dolmaa had to leave before the deal was concluded, so she didn’t see it fall through due to outrageous pricing. She did seem to think it might be dangerous for us to camp, but we had no problems last night. If we are lucky we will be left alone tonight as well, but we’re in a different place and it seems much busier so we’ll see.
Also yesterday we met two lovely little girls in the Post Office / Telecom Office / Bus Station, named as near as I can remember and translate, Naimiin (7) and Namiinjiin (8). I played ‘catch-the-bottlecap’ with them with my hat (also: PB & I bought hats) for some time and we had great fun, the younger definitely being the more outgoing. Oh, and one last story: at dinner yesterday a young girl, maybe 3 or 4, who’d been playing quite cheerfully in the main eating area disappeared into the kitchen and started screaming terribly; it turns out she’d somehow hurt her foot, burned it, actually. PB and I felt very bad and rummaged around for something that would help her in our first aid kits. All we could find was an anti-septic wipe with painkillers and aloe in it, but we gave them that, at least. Poor kid, she was too young to really know what had happened or why it hurt so much. And then, as we were walking away, the older girl who’d been in there ran after us and forced 300 mnt (Editor’s Note: MNT = tgr = Tugrik) into my hand. Strange day.
Today has been much lazier and less eventful, resigned as we are now to staying here the next few days. In the morning we lazed around the tent; in the afternoon we lazed around an internet cafe ( well, I lazed; PB taught himself some Korean) and this evening we lazed around in the river, which is generally shallow but quite swift. Anyway, as can probably be guessed from my penmanship now, it is too dark to easily write. I hope we will be generally left along this night, or, failing that, unharmed, and I will write again when writing is worth it.
Goodnight.
Storytime!
Writing would not prove worth it for some few days. Although we had met the photojournalist on our first unwilling afternoon in Ondorkhaan (which was apparently renamed Chinggis City in 2013, although the Mongolian Cyrillic on Google Maps still clearly spells Ondorkhaan), we never saw her again, and, despite catching the odd glimpse of American fatigues over the next few days, our time in Ondorkhaan was spent glorying in what can most kindly be called the Authentic Mongolian Experience.
We were camping as there was not a hostel to be seen, but also because the land was flat and grassy all about the town, with only the Kherlen River to the South interrupting with its short sandy banks and muddy burbling. The weather, it must be said, was beautiful: sunny and mild and unfailingly pleasant. Given all these, then, it should be no wonder that, after the first night spent not far from the bus terminal, we set up camp near a bend in the river, the easier to leave the tent and go swimming. Well, paddling, anyway; the Kherlen, though swift, is too shallow at that point for an adult to swim properly.
For children, though, it is apparently the precise right depth. On the day before we were to buy tickets and catch our bus (as we had been assured by the counter attendant that tickets were never sold in advance), PB had gone again to the town's internet cafe and I had stayed in the tent to alternate between napping and paddling in the river. Suddenly, around midday, in the middle of one of my river paddling sessions, I was stumbled upon by a group of 4 young boys, about 8 or 9 years of age, the same age group I had taught when I lived in Hong Kong.
Now, one thing that I have found to hold true almost everywhere in the world is that kids are always kids. There's not a huge amount of regional variation on the the nature of childhood, particularly of childhoods spent without much money. It seems to take either a huge amount of unconscious wealth or the horrors of puberty to really change or disguise the natural fecklessness and curiousity of the average child. So, with my own childhood spent by the Mackenzie and Liard Rivers of Northern Canada on top of my year of teaching in Hong Kong to help me bridge the adult-child gap, I hit it off with the kids right away.
None of them spoke much English, of course, and my Mongolian was limited to a scarce handful of words, but they didn't seem to mind and we made do with miming and facial expressions. Always appreciative of a fresh audience, the boys insisted I sit and watch as they took turns jumping off the small bank into the river, or sliding down the bank, or semi-swimming in the muddy water. I kept up my end of the bargain by clapping when appropriate and keeping up a steady stream of smiles, laughter, and commiseration at failed attempts at different stunts.
Even without understanding the language, different personalities soon became clear. There was a quiet, confident one who seemed the understood leader of the pack. Not the tallest or the loudest, still whenever there seemed to be a discussion going on, it was his statements that turned it into action. The others all looked at him whenever he spoke.
There was a noticeably smaller one, perhaps a younger brother, who the others treated with a rough affection and thoughtlessness. He mostly seemed to be overjoyed at his inclusion in the group, and could be counted on to vehemently support whatever was going on, be it laughter or jumping in the water or what have you; but during discussions and arguments would fall silent and hang back, not daring to venture an opinion.
The third was the tallest, with a round head and small eyes that, for some reason, made me think he likely wore glasses when they were available and his parents could force him into them. He was chatty enough with the other boys but shy and deferential with me. He had a ready laugh and seemed good natured; it also turned out he had a decent memory for his classroom English lessons and was called upon by the leader to translate the odd words or phrase. In these instances the leader seemed to trust his answers, acknowledging them with a curt nod that would bring a small smile of pride to the boy's face.
The fourth was the clown. Wild and unpredictable, keen for attention, he laughed the most and spoke the loudest. He attempted for brashness and bravado, but nearly fawned on the leader of the pack. Something about him, I'm not sure what, made me think back to my experiences in Canada; I could not banish the assumption that he came from a poorer or otherwise different family in the town. Something about him screamed that he was seen as different by the other boys, by himself, but that he had been included in this afternoon's activities because of this comparable age, and now he was desperately enjoying himself and wildly grateful to be given the chance to be among them. I sympathised, and I wondered what his home was like, but I didn't quite trust him.
After an hour or so, the boys tired of the water, and, through the leaders presumptuous miming, I was given to understand that they wanted to see where I slept. I obediently took them back to the tent, which was just large enough to house one adult and 4 kids if the door was open. Rather complacently I let them rummage around my few belongings, keeping PB's clothes and precious camera equipment safely tucked into the corner behind my back. This is when the little academic proved his worth. While his leader was flinging imperious questions at me via mimes and the help of our small pocket dictionary, it was the academic that was given the task of filling in the gaps. He acted as a translator for both the leader's questions and my answers, while the wild child and the younger brother contented themselves with murmurs of astonishment or agreement while going through my few mementos... and my multivitamins, which they immediately assumed were candy. I decided it probably wouldn't hurt them to not be corrected on that front, and so they were each treated to a multivitamin. They were apparently unimpressed with the quality of my "sweets" as there were no requests for seconds.
The questions were largely about where we had been, what China was like, and where we were from. They seemed interested in Canada, and I was able to show them a small map and point out the city I lived in. They commiserated with me about the cold, apparently their winters were cold, too. They tried to tell me how cold, but I couldn't understand the numbers. They were horrified by this, and the next 15 minutes were spent in me dutifully repeating the numbers 1-10 in Mongolian until they were satisfied. They had significantly less trouble in learning the English numbers. This knowledge established, they insisted on exchanging phone numbers. I tried to ignore my flashback to The Simpsons episode where Bart calls Australia, and dutifully recorded their phone numbers on a little scrap of paper.
Eventually the stream of questions ebbed, though, and, as the day was growing long, they soon turned for home. They had only walked about 20 or 30 feet away though, when, waist deep in the tall grass, they stopped and huddled around the wild child. I saw the face of the academic glance at me, his expression troubled and unhappy. Sensing trouble was afoot, I stood up and faced them with the pretence of waving them goodbye. The little group abruptly broke apart and, after a moments hissed excitement from the wild child to the leader, the wild child was shoved forward while the other three shamefacedly hung their heads and peeked out at me from the corners of their eyes.
"Hey - Kiss?" yelled the wild child.
Ah, I thought. So that's what this is about. I raised a wry and slightly disapproving eyebrow and shook my head, no.
More hissed excitement, but this time the wild child shoved himself forward and yelled,
"Hey - Sex?"
followed by gales of shocked laughter. I figured I didn't want to know where he had learned that word, and just shook my head again, trying to look more disapproving. Finally they moved off, and I lounged in the tent until PB came back, overall feeling pretty pleased with the afternoon.
The next morning we awoke before dawn with the intention of being at the bus depot at the earliest possible moment in order to assure being able to purchase bus tickets to Batshireet. It was only while I was packing up that I realised that I was missing 10 mnt and several Chinese jiao (cents, essentially) notes, as well as the wristwatch I had bought in the Temple Street Night Market in Hong Kong, which had broken within days. The little shits had stolen from me.
Strangely, it's the only time I've ever been robbed. Period.
Anyway, warmed by my outrage, we finished packing up and headed to the bus station. PB was the first one inside. I sat outside with our bags, waiting for the sun to fully rise. After nearly 45 minutes, he came back outside, tight with anger. The tickets were sold out, he said. Somehow, despite OUR not being able to purchase advance tickets, all the tickets had been sold in advance. The next bus was on Thursday, which would give us no time at all to be able to explore as we had planned and still get back to China before our Mongolian visas expired. With PB frustrated to no end with the infrastructure and my upset at having my things stolen, and no real other option anyway, it did not take us long to give up on our Mongolian venture and decide to head back to the capital and from there continue immediately to China.
For that bus, at least, there were still tickets. We left that afternoon.
2015/09/18
an Ecdemic Cat. Asia 2011.
Mongol Uls 14 July - 20 July, 2011
Director's Cut for 20/07/2011:
Been a while since I last wrote. We’re still in Ulaanbataar. We’re staying in a hostel that’s nice enough, though there’s only one bathroom for 2 floors. The day we got in we met up with a bunch of people from Stepperiders and had really nice Indian food. Unfortunately I threw it all up a few hours later; all that night and the next day I was terrifically sick. I was still weak the next couple days, but am better now. I suspect it was the marmot.
Despite all this, we at least now have a good idea where we want to go, and will (hopefully) be on our way tomorrow. We will go East, first to Ondorkhaan, then north to Batshireet near the Russian border. From there we will trek to Khan Khentii Strictly Protected Area, in the hopes of seeing the insides of some of the bathhouses apparently in the area. We hope the trek will take about a week, all told, and then we will make our way back to Ulaanbataar, and from there to Beijing, Shanghai, and, eventually, Korea, where PB will stay and I will leave.
Storytime:
Getting out of Ulaanbataar was not, in itself, particularly difficult. Certainly it was not the ordeal that getting into it from China had been; however, because we had decided to go to the Khan Khentii Strictly Protected Area, we thought we needed some sort of authorisation. The guide books and tour resources we found had conflicting information, and no one in the various hostels we talked to seemed to know much about it either. But, one rainy morning after I had recovered sufficient strength, we ventured out to the building we hoped would contain both information about the adventure we had planned as well as permission to do it.
At the time, as I stated above, the plan was to go east to a decent sized town called Ondorkhaan by bus (that being the only way to get there), then north to a smallish town called Batshireet on the Russian border, again by bus. From Batshireet we hoped to hire horses or a car to the Strictly Protected Area. At the time, however, the information we had indicated that a permit was needed to both get into the protected area, and, potentially, even to stay in a town so close to the Russian border. But reliable information on either subject was sparse and contradictory with next to no information available online (I'm told it's different now), so at last we figured the most efficient method was to head to the government office responsible for such permits and get it sorted out there.
It took at least one urban bus and a fair bit of walking to get to the government office, and so we were treated to the spectacle of Ulaanbataar without its habitual cloak of blue skies and brilliant sunshine. The city is built in a sort of valley-like hollow around the junction of two rivers, the Selbe, which flows into the city from the direct north, and the much larger Tuul, which flows through the southern edge of the city from east to west. The geography means that the centre of the city is fairly flat, but if you head to the south you run into the city's most recognizable geographic feature, the mountain Bogd Khan Uul, and if you head to the north you hit the edge of the hollow and face a steep climb upwards until you find the lip of the plateau again. Our destination was to the north of the city centre, and so we found ourselves slogging a fair way uphill over sporadically incomplete sidewalks. The rain was steady but not torrential, and did nothing to improve the look of the several grimy-looking gers (again, the Mongolian yurt) that huddled within the edges of the city limits. Still after much walking, and much walking around construction that had spilled over onto sidewalks, we found the building.
It was a sleek glass and metallic affair, low to the ground and dark blue in colour. The parking lot in front of it was in disarray, of course, but the vehicles parked on the soggy, uneven dirt patch were modern and shiny and dark. Overall, the building gave the distinct impression of having money and being very serious indeed... As did the guardbox and 10 foot high, razor-wire topped, chainlink fence surrounding the entire affair. Daunted but unwilling to be put off, we approached the guardbox.
A good hour and a half later, we walked away. Not only did we not have permits, we hadn't even been let inside. No information was available - at least, no information in English - and the greatest achievement of our quest had been to serve as entertainment for some bemused looking army officials as they walked through the yard of the building, cozily on the other side of the fence.
Frustrated and soggy, we wandered away, eventually finding a main street to take us back to the city centre. As we wandered south and downwards, dodging around loose paving stones and open pits now cheerily lit by fresh sunlight, we wondered how to proceed. The address we had been given was pretty unambiguous, and matched exactly the numbers on the unreachable blue steel building we'd been barred from entering. On the other hand, the book that gave the address was about 4 years old; perhaps it was out of date? Did that mean there was a different office we needed to go to, or simply that permits were no longer required? Were we willing to take that risk? If Mongolia deported us, would we be sent back to China or to Canada?
Pondering these and other questions, we wandered into a two-level restaurant for lunch. Decorated exclusively in unrelieved dark wood panelling, it was dimly lit and offered traditional Mongolian fare. The lower level was occupied by smoking Mongolians who looked askance at us as we entered. Being already mentally exhausted with the days efforts and unwilling to face further scrutiny without at least a hot meal to lift our low spirits, we retreated to the unoccupied benches upstairs. The obviously startled waitress handed us menus that were low on pictures (a Chinese affectation we agreed made food purchase exponentially easier) and had English transcriptions, rather than translations, of the menu items, although each section (Entrees, Vegetables, Soup, Meat, etc) was labelled in several different languages. We both decided on soup as the best remedy for the chill of the day and ordered at random.
Waiting for our mystery soups, we huddled over the ubiquitous Mongolian tea, heavy with the traditional milk and salt. As the warmth seeped into us, we began to draw a sort of stubborn courage. If the address had changed, and no new one supplied, wasn't it possible that the policy had been changed as well, we argued? Surely if the policy was still in affect, someone at the hostel, either staff or fellow guest, would have known about it, and none had. Besides, we were not going for very long; besides that, if we found out at the entrance that permits were necessary, we could turn back, or perhaps even purchase them at some office there. We mullishly decided that if we were unable to apply for permits, we would assume none were necessary and would depart, as planned, for Ondorkhaan in 4 days time. Bolstered by these arguments, not even the lackluster nature of the soup could bring us low again, despite the fact that PB's consisted literally of 2 tablespoons worth of shredded mutton in what appeared to be unseasoned water, rather than broth. Mine, at least, had some shreds of noodle and onion.
The rest of our time in the capital was spent pursuing traditionally tourist excursions. We visited the Museum of Natural History, which was ok, the National Museum of Mongolia, which was very good, and the Winter Palace of the Bogd Khan, which was small and somehow sad but also very enjoyable in its slight dilapidation and faded glory. We also went to the Chojin Lama Temple Museum and caught a performance of Tuvan throat singing, which I would absolutely recommend. And, 4 days later, we packed our bags and headed to the eastern bus terminus of the city, where, despite the delay caused while disputing the fare of an unscrupulous "taxi" driver, we caught a simple long haul bus east to Ondorkhaan.
Director's Cut for 20/07/2011:
Been a while since I last wrote. We’re still in Ulaanbataar. We’re staying in a hostel that’s nice enough, though there’s only one bathroom for 2 floors. The day we got in we met up with a bunch of people from Stepperiders and had really nice Indian food. Unfortunately I threw it all up a few hours later; all that night and the next day I was terrifically sick. I was still weak the next couple days, but am better now. I suspect it was the marmot.
Despite all this, we at least now have a good idea where we want to go, and will (hopefully) be on our way tomorrow. We will go East, first to Ondorkhaan, then north to Batshireet near the Russian border. From there we will trek to Khan Khentii Strictly Protected Area, in the hopes of seeing the insides of some of the bathhouses apparently in the area. We hope the trek will take about a week, all told, and then we will make our way back to Ulaanbataar, and from there to Beijing, Shanghai, and, eventually, Korea, where PB will stay and I will leave.
Storytime:
Getting out of Ulaanbataar was not, in itself, particularly difficult. Certainly it was not the ordeal that getting into it from China had been; however, because we had decided to go to the Khan Khentii Strictly Protected Area, we thought we needed some sort of authorisation. The guide books and tour resources we found had conflicting information, and no one in the various hostels we talked to seemed to know much about it either. But, one rainy morning after I had recovered sufficient strength, we ventured out to the building we hoped would contain both information about the adventure we had planned as well as permission to do it.
At the time, as I stated above, the plan was to go east to a decent sized town called Ondorkhaan by bus (that being the only way to get there), then north to a smallish town called Batshireet on the Russian border, again by bus. From Batshireet we hoped to hire horses or a car to the Strictly Protected Area. At the time, however, the information we had indicated that a permit was needed to both get into the protected area, and, potentially, even to stay in a town so close to the Russian border. But reliable information on either subject was sparse and contradictory with next to no information available online (I'm told it's different now), so at last we figured the most efficient method was to head to the government office responsible for such permits and get it sorted out there.
It took at least one urban bus and a fair bit of walking to get to the government office, and so we were treated to the spectacle of Ulaanbataar without its habitual cloak of blue skies and brilliant sunshine. The city is built in a sort of valley-like hollow around the junction of two rivers, the Selbe, which flows into the city from the direct north, and the much larger Tuul, which flows through the southern edge of the city from east to west. The geography means that the centre of the city is fairly flat, but if you head to the south you run into the city's most recognizable geographic feature, the mountain Bogd Khan Uul, and if you head to the north you hit the edge of the hollow and face a steep climb upwards until you find the lip of the plateau again. Our destination was to the north of the city centre, and so we found ourselves slogging a fair way uphill over sporadically incomplete sidewalks. The rain was steady but not torrential, and did nothing to improve the look of the several grimy-looking gers (again, the Mongolian yurt) that huddled within the edges of the city limits. Still after much walking, and much walking around construction that had spilled over onto sidewalks, we found the building.
It was a sleek glass and metallic affair, low to the ground and dark blue in colour. The parking lot in front of it was in disarray, of course, but the vehicles parked on the soggy, uneven dirt patch were modern and shiny and dark. Overall, the building gave the distinct impression of having money and being very serious indeed... As did the guardbox and 10 foot high, razor-wire topped, chainlink fence surrounding the entire affair. Daunted but unwilling to be put off, we approached the guardbox.
A good hour and a half later, we walked away. Not only did we not have permits, we hadn't even been let inside. No information was available - at least, no information in English - and the greatest achievement of our quest had been to serve as entertainment for some bemused looking army officials as they walked through the yard of the building, cozily on the other side of the fence.
Frustrated and soggy, we wandered away, eventually finding a main street to take us back to the city centre. As we wandered south and downwards, dodging around loose paving stones and open pits now cheerily lit by fresh sunlight, we wondered how to proceed. The address we had been given was pretty unambiguous, and matched exactly the numbers on the unreachable blue steel building we'd been barred from entering. On the other hand, the book that gave the address was about 4 years old; perhaps it was out of date? Did that mean there was a different office we needed to go to, or simply that permits were no longer required? Were we willing to take that risk? If Mongolia deported us, would we be sent back to China or to Canada?
Pondering these and other questions, we wandered into a two-level restaurant for lunch. Decorated exclusively in unrelieved dark wood panelling, it was dimly lit and offered traditional Mongolian fare. The lower level was occupied by smoking Mongolians who looked askance at us as we entered. Being already mentally exhausted with the days efforts and unwilling to face further scrutiny without at least a hot meal to lift our low spirits, we retreated to the unoccupied benches upstairs. The obviously startled waitress handed us menus that were low on pictures (a Chinese affectation we agreed made food purchase exponentially easier) and had English transcriptions, rather than translations, of the menu items, although each section (Entrees, Vegetables, Soup, Meat, etc) was labelled in several different languages. We both decided on soup as the best remedy for the chill of the day and ordered at random.
Waiting for our mystery soups, we huddled over the ubiquitous Mongolian tea, heavy with the traditional milk and salt. As the warmth seeped into us, we began to draw a sort of stubborn courage. If the address had changed, and no new one supplied, wasn't it possible that the policy had been changed as well, we argued? Surely if the policy was still in affect, someone at the hostel, either staff or fellow guest, would have known about it, and none had. Besides, we were not going for very long; besides that, if we found out at the entrance that permits were necessary, we could turn back, or perhaps even purchase them at some office there. We mullishly decided that if we were unable to apply for permits, we would assume none were necessary and would depart, as planned, for Ondorkhaan in 4 days time. Bolstered by these arguments, not even the lackluster nature of the soup could bring us low again, despite the fact that PB's consisted literally of 2 tablespoons worth of shredded mutton in what appeared to be unseasoned water, rather than broth. Mine, at least, had some shreds of noodle and onion.
The rest of our time in the capital was spent pursuing traditionally tourist excursions. We visited the Museum of Natural History, which was ok, the National Museum of Mongolia, which was very good, and the Winter Palace of the Bogd Khan, which was small and somehow sad but also very enjoyable in its slight dilapidation and faded glory. We also went to the Chojin Lama Temple Museum and caught a performance of Tuvan throat singing, which I would absolutely recommend. And, 4 days later, we packed our bags and headed to the eastern bus terminus of the city, where, despite the delay caused while disputing the fare of an unscrupulous "taxi" driver, we caught a simple long haul bus east to Ondorkhaan.
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