The Border, China/Mongolia
“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.
Tags: Eurasia: Marco Polo-in' it, Mongolia
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