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.
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