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Taking the local train, Mongolia

Wednesday, May 2nd, 2007

I turn to Batjargal’s worker and ask him if he wants me to move so he can take a rest. We’ve cleared out our compartment of the Chinese after a brief standoff. This is a Mongolian train and there’s little they can do but move or fight, and the Mongolians are bigger.

Batjargal interrupts and says, “He doesn’t want to sleep, he only wants to drink vodka.” This is true and so it begins. I’ve brought two unpalatable Korean drafts with me and am drinking them openly until Batjargal tells me the police are coming and to hide my beers. “People are drinking too much vodka in this country. Is big problem.” He cuffs his hands to let me know what might happen if you’re caught drinking in public.

The Gobi desert is desolate. It’s flat and there’s nothing but the occasional camel. The sun slowly sets and the vodka train chugs on. I wake up at 1:00 and the Chinese are smoking again. The train felt packed when we boarded at 4pm but now the boxes and bags have been stored away and everyone has found his little corner to sleep. At 3am I wake up and look out the window and the first thing I se is the Milky Way shimmering brightly, even through the dust covered window. The sun comes up and I don’t miss Beijing.

 

The Border, China/Mongolia

Wednesday, May 2nd, 2007

“The fare to the border is 80RMB.”  Batjargal can see my furrowed brow and says he’ll ask if it’s per car or per head.  He comes back with the answer.

“I told the driver that you think it’s too much to pay 80.  I also think it’s too much.  But it’s still 80.  We have to take a taxi across.  There’s no other way.

Batjargal and his two workers are loading stone cutting machinery they bought on their supply run to China into the minivan.  The three girls I just had lunch with spent the morning shopping for clothes, handbags, yogurt and beer and are trying to wedge these last minute purchases in amongst the four large bundles of merchandise for their store in Ulaan Baatar.  Then there’s the woman with the case of vodka, the guy with the big black bag, and always more yogurt.  When we pick up the last passenger, a Chinese guy with a puzzled expression from all the cackling Mongolians, the van load is up to 13 plus the driver.  At 80 a head these guys are going to clean up and I’m bitter because I’ve heard the border crossing is walkable and here’s me with just my backpack and no yogurt.  I soon find that the crossing is far and if I knew what these guys were about to put their poor van through the 80 wouldn’t seem so bad.

We get to the gate for Chinese customs and the driver talks to the young, stoic soldier.  He’s ready to pass us through but makes one more pass around the van counting heads.  I know there’s a problem because we’re not moving.  Finally Agie tells me in Japanese that there is a limit of 10 people per vehicle.  After five minutes of confusion and probable exchanges of bribes we cross and go through customs.  The Mongolians happily send me to the front of the line, a gesture which screams “look we’re with the American and we’re late.”

I get a barrage of questions about my home state, my Visa from the mysterious country of Kyrgyzstan, and of course which country I like better, Japan or China.  I tell him China of course and he laughs me through.  The questions come from boredom rather than concern.

We climb back into the clown car and come to the next steely-faced guard.  Same thing, we’re three over.  After 10 minutes of begging, our driver is sweating bullets and we’re about to stage a mutiny for duping us into his greedy scheme.  Finally there’s a breakthrough and the befuddled Chinese guy is promptly booted from the van and runs to the nearest truck, stopping twice to confirm with the ranting driver what he should do.  This sight sends the Mongolians howling and soon we’re on to the next set of building surrounded by randomly parked Soviet jeeps.  The van can’t get around the last gray jeep so half of us climb out and the driver hops the curb between the jeep and a tree.  The whole maneuver’s pulled off with such haste that the door stays open and the tree snags a box, spilling beer and yogurt everywhere.  Chaos.

In the next customs line I’m once again designated “American car leader” and we’re through in no time.  We hop one more curb that I’m sure is going to bottom out the van or pop a tire but amazingly it makes it, although the spare tire underneath is now hanging on by a thread. 

Batjargal’s group and I don’t have train tickets and the last thing I want is to spend another day in this dusty border town, Zamiin-Uud.  We score tickets for 5,000 tugruk, about $5, and board the first carriage that’s packed with a Chinese construction team.  I can’t help but laugh at the irony of the situation.  I leave China to escape the crowds and end up on a train full of stinky, smoking, spitting Chinese guys.  Classic.

 

The Cheap Trip, Beijing to Mongolia

Thursday, April 19th, 2007
The standard way to get to Ulaan Bataar from Beijing is via the Trans-Mongolian train.  At 650RMB, this is kind of steep.  There's another option of taking a sleeper bus to the border town of Erlian 二连, crossing the border, ... [Continue reading this entry]

Heading North

Thursday, April 19th, 2007
When I arrived in Beijing three weeks prior a stiff wind had cleared the blanket of smog and dust that often drapes over the capital.  When I left today the grit was so thick the buildings took no time to ... [Continue reading this entry]