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Welcome

Here lies the chronicle of my three years of travels around the world, mostly in Asia. I've got lots of stories, lots of pictures, and hopefully some useful advice you can benefit from along the way. Enjoy.

Heading North

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 fade off into the distance.  This is a good time to leave.  We drive north, out past the perfectly mortared towers of the Great Wall at Badaling, past the craggy mountains in which it sits, and out onto the flat plain of Inner Mongolia. 

The bus is typical of Chinese sleepers: cramped, dirty, smokey, and today packed to the ceilings with the shopping bags of the Mongolians on supply runs to China.  I wake up at 1am and the first thing I see out the window is the Milky Way, a good start. We’ve finally left the smog and dust and are in the “big sky country” of Asia.

When the bus comes into the Chinese border town of Erlian at 4am a swarm of determined taxi drivers and hotel owners descend on me like a fresh kill.  Disoriented, a young Mongolian women behind me offers to assist by saying, “excuse me, can you help me?”  I know what she means.  Her two friends and her have a quick chat and I guess they decide that I look harmless enough.  We all pile into a mini bus and we’re off to a small hotel for 10RMB a night.  Not bad.

After some awkward attempts at communication, Bidemar, the huskiest of this group of huskies asks “do you speak Chinese…no, do you speak French…no.  I speak Spanish and Japanese.”  When we woke up this morning Agie had finally built up enough courage to try out her Japanese on me and our communication has been smooth sailing ever since.  Apparently they’re already making plans for us all to go see a big Buddha in Ulaan Bataar and we’re meeting for lunch in a few hours before it’s off to the barren wasteland.  Stay tuned.

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The Cheap Trip, Beijing to Mongolia

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, then taking the Mongolian local train to UB.  The sleeper bus is 180RMB and the train is between 5,000-12,800 tugruk, or $4-11USD so this option is less than half the price.

The trick is finding out where to catch the sleeper bus from Beijing.  It’s not from the DongZhiMen long distance bus station.  For a nice step by step site on catching the bus from the south of the city, read here.  I caught it from a different station near the fourth ring road in north Beijing.

The easiest/cheapest way to get their is to take the subway to Jishuitan 积水潭 station and either walking (15min) or taking a taxi one street east to Deshengmenwai dajie 德胜门外大街.  From here you can take several different buses (55, 670, 345, 315, 305) to qi jia huo zi 祁家豁子 bus stop.  The Deshengmen Long Distance bus station is right there. 

I showed up a day early to try to book a ticket and the guy told me I didn’t need to and to come back the next day at 4:30.  I did and had no problem.  Some other girls there had booked the whole bus/train package from their hostel for around 450RMB.  Not as cheap as doing it all yourself, but still cheaper than the Trans-Mongolian.  The email for that booking agent is mongolian602@hotmail.com.

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The Border, China/Mongolia

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.

 

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Taking the local train, Mongolia

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.

 

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How I came to Mongolia

May 2nd, 2007

I met Ogie in Beijing while staying at the Leo Hostel south of Tiananmen. She walked into the common room and let everyone know she was Mongolian. I might have guessed. Her high cheek bones and long black hair give her a look that doesn’t quite match the Chinese. We start to chat and soon I introduce myself. She grasps my hand with her vice like paw and stares me down with her laser glare. She has the most commanding presence of anyone I’ve met and after and hour of hearing her speak so passionately about her homeland, Mongolia is on my itinerary. She has been a tour guide for the past ten years and her family opened the Golden Gobi Guesthouse in Ulaan Baatar in 2005. At $4 a night how can I refuse?

 

When you arrive at the Golden Gobi you feel like you’ve arrived come home. Ogie is waiting for me in the living room and greets me with hugs. Two seconds later grandma is asking me “tea or coffee,” a question she repeats about five times a day. Ogie runs the place with her mother, three sisters and brother. They all live here and sleep in the open beds. When the place is packed I’m not sure where they sleep. Ogie’s two nieces Gochin and Urin are 11 and 5 and soon I’m the prime target and they constantly pester me to play. They take everyone in like family with absolutely no warm-up time and keep you on your toes. On day two Ogie’s sister Enkushi tells me to move guesthouses because she doesn’t like me. She chuckles, hugs me, and shows me to my new bunk. I feel at instant comfort in Mongolia.

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Ulaan Baatar

May 2nd, 2007

Batjargal has lived half his life under communist rule and half after. His careers and stories are all the more interesting to me because if his life’s dichotomies. In the 90s he used to fly to Germany, buy a couple of cars, and tow one of them all the way back to Mongolia. Now he owns a stone cutting company.

He offers to take me around Ulaan Baatar for the day and I meet him and his daughter for breakfast. In the hills directly south of UB, next to the giant profile of Chinggis Khaan painted on the hillside, is a memorial that dates back to the strong Soviet-Mongolian ties that dominated the majority of the last century. 

 

At the base of this hill is the Temple of Bogd Khaan Palace Museum, a run-down little exhibit where the religious leader of Mongolia used to live.  Bogd Khaan led the nation during the tumultuous years following the fall of the Chinese Qing dynasty and the rise of the Bolsheviks in Russia.  It was Bogd Khaan who turned to Russia for support against the cruelty of the Manchurians after the West rejected his plea of help and set Mongolia on the communist course. 

 

Next we head straight east out of town to a new monument they’re building to honor the birthplace of Chinggis Khaan.  It doesn’t take long to realize that Mongolia is still ga-ga for history’s most notorious thug.  His picture is on the money, statues, vodka bottles, hillsides, and now a 25meter high stainless steel statue in the middle of a remote valley.  

 

 
 

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Getting out of UB: The Central Mongolian Team

May 2nd, 2007

I’ve been trying to get out of town into the countryside but have found only one person who wants to go, a British girl named Danielle. With just two of us we can’t afford it so we’ve been searching the other guesthouses of UB for travelers in our situation. We find Winslow, a tall blonde Swiss guy to join us.  

 

 

We hire only a driver to take us on a seven day trip into Central Mongolia, negotiating home stay accommodations along the way. 

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Central Mongolia, Day One

May 2nd, 2007

We meet at 9am and meet our driver Shaga, a 58 year old ex-truck driver who turned to the growing tourism industry five years ago. After a quick grocery run we’re off into the wide open expanse. 

The area west of the capital consists of brown, dust-blown hills in the spring time. The asphalt road gradually deteriorates until Shaga gives up and veers off onto the bumpy valley floor. “Chinese built road good, Korean road, ah, so-so…Mongolian built road not so good.” If anybody knows, it’s Shaga. As we head west past the tiny village of Lun the landscape becomes more barren and flat. This is the northernmost reach of the Gobi, or the semi-Gobi as Ogie describes it. 

We veer north at 4pm and drive toward a range of rocky outcroppings at the base of which three yurts (ger in Mongolian) are nestled and surrounded by a pack of bleating goats. We settle into a cozy ger with an old couple with kind eyes and warm smiles. We head out into the hills and hike up to a saddle from which we can see the mountains rolling off toward the north.

 
When we return the old man is keen to show us everything in his magical coat with seemingly bottomless packets. Winslow breaks out his digital camera and breaks the ice instantly. Winslow and I smoke his pipe, snort his snuff, hold his blade, and then soon after our dinner of rice and dried beef porridge he starts hinting about vodka. We bring out the bottle and he takes the first shot. There is a beautiful Mongolian tradition that I’m happy to take away. With your right ring finger you flick vodka (not too much) once toward the sky, once toward the ground, and then dot your forehead; once for your soul. We all take rounds of vodka, me more than others, I think. More snuff, more admiring the man’s beautiful handiwork in saddle making, boots, and big sharp knives. We lay out our sleeping bags and eventually fall asleep to the sound of the radio weather forecast.

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Central Mongolia, Day Two

May 2nd, 2007

The old woman is up a 6am stoking the fire and making the milk tea. This is the Mongolian staple served everywhere you go and you’ll either hate it or kind of like it. I’m of the latter group as long as the tea they mix the milk with isn’t too salty. She mixes cow milk with green tea and it’s good. We’re on the road and happy, the kind of happiness that comes from new friends, food, and warm hosts. We leave the couple with sweets, wet wipes, and the empty bottle of vodka.

The terrain gets more mountainous and eventually we come to a huge ravine with an icy, slowly thawing river down below. The drive goes quickly and soon we pull up to our highly recommended ger stay at “the waterfall,” Orkhon Khurkhee. Our energetic host, Muugi, who reminds us for the first hour that his name is still Muugi, helps us unload our bags into the guest ger. Tonight we have a ger to ourselves.

After lunch he takes us on a hike down to the waterfall which hasn’t thawed yet and is still just a big cliff with a pool at the bottom. Further along there is a river that cuts a ravine through the volcanic rock and we climb down to walk among the sweet-smelling ponderosa pine trees.

What Muugi lacks in English proficiency he makes up for as a master of mimicry. He points out the yak (saltlak) and grunts while gouging the ground with his imaginary horns. The progression of animal imitations continues and they’re spot-on, finely tuned from a life spent tending the beasts. We follow him along the river until we reach an actual waterfall where we strip, some of us more than others, and have a makeshift bath amid the melting ice chunks.

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Central Mongolia, Day Three

May 2nd, 2007

We leave a wildly waving, jumping Muugi in the morning and head north toward the town of Tsetserleg. The three of us can’t help but notice that Shaga seems less sure about this route than in days past. “This is new road. We don’t go around mountain, we go over mountain.” He stops at many gers before lunch to make sure he’s still on the right track. We’re hungry so he stops at a cluster of four gers along the pass and asks them if they’ll cook us lunch. All of the places we’ve stopped so far have been either friends of his or Ogie’s, but these folks seem like they haven’t laid eyes on foreigners for ages. Within two minutes every other ger is emptied and sitting around our ger to gawk. I wonder how long they’ll talk about the day the pale-faces turned up.

Tsetserleg is a quaint little mountain village by most standards, but is a bustling metropolis in these parts. On this Thursday afternoon the streets are full of a mixture of blue jeans and traditional Mongolian long coats. We stock up on water, food, beer and vodka and enjoy some cake and coffee at the Fairfield Guesthouse, a surreal step into modernity complete with flush toilets and complimentary soap and toilet paper. What a novel idea!

 
An hour north of Tsetserleg we find Shaga’s friend Duchinjance, an enormous hulk of a man who lets us stay the night with him. He was once the top provincial wrestler and his son is now one of Mongolia’s top wrestlers. Duchinjance also happens to be a master chess player and he takes care of Winslow, Danielle and Shaga is short order. Shaga helps make dinner, rolling out the noodle dough while the big guy’s wife hammers, yes hammers out the dried yak meat. The dogs own the night in Mongolia. They howl and bark all night, sometimes right next to the ger making for some interesting dreams.

 

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