Wanderlust Heaven!

The run-up to my Trans-Sib trip was a bit more hectic than anticipated.  I still hadn’t heard from Tania, the owner/manager at the Moscow hotel where I wanted to stay…she just dropped off from our email exchange and I didn’t have my room confirmed.  Russians are pretty relaxed about these sorts of things, but I’m not.  I had Zaya try to ring Tania on my mobile – didn’t get through.  I finally tracked her down using Skype, and I thought that did the trick.  Just to be sure, I sent one more email to Tania before heading to the train station.

Shared a taxi there with two Perth residents, Brian and Margie – he’s originally from South Africa, she from New Zealand.  It was pouring out, naturally, and we and our baggage got a little message between the guesthouse and the train.  But we made it…and we were looking forward to the adventure, to be punctuated by plenty of vodka consumption.  I had 3 bottles, Brian and Margie a couple more.

When I got to my compartment, a South Asian fellow was already in there.  Thomas was enigmatic – I couldn’t quite get his story straight, but methinks he was originally from Pakistan, or of Pakistani parentage, grew up in Kerala, India, and had just come off two years teaching English in UB.  Now he was en route to Poland to get work there.  A few minutes later Ivo, a German student, showed up.  An amiable guy, with an active sense of humor.  The fourth bunk was unoccupied for a while, but later a Mongolian clothes smuggler came by – actually, it wasn’t clear which of two Mongolian female smugglers had the bunk, but one of them eventually got it.  Talk about duck-duck-goose.

Besides the vodka, I had brought along a fair amount of food/junk food and got started on that right away.  Cup noodles were a major staple – every train car had a samovar, or elaborate coal-powered hot-water heater, so you would (nearly) always get hot water for tea, soup, and drinking.

As we departed UB I looked out into the hallway of the train car and saw the ‘train ladies’ lifting up the carpeting, exposing a ‘secret door’ in which some passengers (smugglers?) stowed some things.  I don’t think this was found at the Russian border…very random.

As we went by various signs I was happy that I’d taken the time to teach myself Cyrillic – hugely helpful.  Without that, you’re nearly helpless around here.  So many words work out phonetically into English equivalents, and you can always at least tell what town you’re passing by.

We got to the border around 9 p.m. or so.  By then we had started in on the vodka and had eaten much of our food stash.  I’m all about lightening my load, but this was ridiculous.  Still, I told myself the dining car would be attached at the Russian border (true – but not cheap or that good), and that we’d come across loads of vendors at the main stations (to be proven false, unfortunately).

A cute blonde Russian border guard came to our car, asking for passports.  This was the start of a hellacious process that probably went for 5 hours.  The highlight?  Thomas, the mysterious Paki/Indian/Keralan teacher of English en route to Poland, did not have a Russian visa.  Hmmm.  The guard was visibly astounded…and Thomas didn’t seem to have a real story.  He tried to explain (in English, unhelpfully) that he had finished his work in Mongolia, that he was en route to Poland (but lacked a Russian transit visa or a Polish entry visa), and that he ‘had nowhere else to go.’  Throwing yourself on the mercy of the Russian border police – nice.  Plus he was a ‘brown person’ – and we all know how openminded the Russians are.

By this point I had little empathy/sympathy for old Thomas.  In the first few hours of the voyage he had already become tiresome – he was not that well-informed about the world, despite occasional flares of opinion on topics like the global spread of the English language and how that might backfire on England/America.  And he didn’t drink…whereas Ivo and I were bonding over Mongolia’s famous Chinggis brand vodka.  So when they took Thomas and his shit off the train a couple hours later (the blonde guard came by again, and didn’t really hide her smirk when she told him to disembark), I just wished Thomas good luck, but wasn’t particularly broken up.  I imagine they kept him around the rest of the night and put him on a local, slow train back to UB first thing in the morning.

Camaraderie and company versus peace and space – I can live with both, but being stuck in the middle is not tenable.  If I’ve got to have roommates, I want them to be super-cool.  Ivo was great, and the female smuggler had her own charms…they’d be fine.

Before we got to the border that night, our smuggler roomie signaled that she wanted me to hide some of her surplus shirts in my bag.  I weighed the options…and given what I saw around the train, including the trap door and such, that I didn’t really mind hiding a few shirts.  I picked out some men’s shirts (different makes, of course), and stuck them in my backpack so that it would be fairly hard to prove that I was smuggling them.  Now the woman was in my debt, although I wasn’t too sure how she’d repay me for the favor.  Just as well…an unreturned favor isn’t the worst thing you can do.

I wondered if the trains originating in Moscow or Beijing (or Vladivostok) had a different composition of passengers.  Our Mongolian-originated train was probably 80% smugglers – I wonder if the Russian or Chinese trains are similar.  And I wonder if the ‘platform life’ at the stations differs as a result – perhaps few food vendors or moneychangers come up to the Mongolian trains, whereas they might find better customers on the others?…On second thought, I imagine smugglers (or, within national borders, petty traders) make up most of the passenger count on any of these trains…

Crashed that night after the train started up again, around 3 a.m.  I slept a bit, then awoke at 5:30 or so.  Went to the window and looked out – massive Lake Baikal was right there.  The world’s largest freshwater lake, it even dwarfs Lake Michigan, which I always found ocean-like and impressive.  I slept a bit more, looked out again around 11 a.m., and the lake was still in front of me.  We spent the rest of the day working our way around it, en route to the city of Irkutsk, about 70 km west of the lake.

Checked out the resto car, wanted something different to eat.  Got there just in time to run into a package tour of Chinese tourists, led by a very annoying group leader and a translator, who teamed up to torture poor Sasha, the waiter and the babushka cook in the kitchen.  I finally told these two to relax – did they think they were in a 5-star restaurant?  If this lot is the future of global tourism, I may just settle down.  Meanwhile, I was eventually able to order something for myself, and got a tasty little dish of mushrooms baked in cheese and sour cream.  Typically Russian, but at nearly US$10, a bit pricey for a small plate of food.  Clearly, I’d have to get creative the rest of the way to ensure a decent dining experience…

Thankfully, the Chinese crew were getting off shortly, in Irkutsk.  Unfortunately, I’d also be losing Ivo, who was proving a terrific traveling mate.  Before he got off, we discussed studies and work, and Ivo mentioned his interest in consulting…so at some point I’ll probably put him in touch with Monitor folks in Germany.
Got to Irkutsk.  Ivo got off…I looked around the platform and station to find 1) food and 2) somewhere to get more rubles.  I was frustrated in both.  I did observe the locals, though – there was a Stalin type lurking around the station entrance…and most of the others were pretty damn earthy, with spiky crimson-dyed hair, jean jackets, tight shorts, you name it.  I knew we were out in the provinces, and in the States you probably wouldn’t get a better-looking group of people either.  In fact, it might be worse – some of our fatties would put these Russians to shame!

Also saw Brian and Margie on the platform, hadn’t seen them in an entire day, since we set off from UB.  I told them to swing by my car and have a couple vodkas with me, or to meet me in the dining car that night for a meal.

That day was the summer solstice, I think – and while it was cloudy and rainy (poor Ivo, who planned to spend a night or two on an island in Baikal), it stayed light until well past 10 p.m.  Which brings up the topic of timezones…on the train and at all stations, Moscow time is shown and prevails…but that’s meaningless to the passengers, who need to adjust to the local time zones.  I kept my Treo on Moscow time, and just adjusted my watch to local time…which kept me busy reviewing my guidebook as to time zone boundaries.  People were constantly asking each other what time it was…the only solution was to consume more vodka and eat more junk food, then go to sleep.

Irkutsk was also where I got my first glimpse of the purpose of this train ride for most of the passengers, who were not ‘civilians’ but instead Mongolian clothing smugglers.  I had been told about this, but really had to see it for myself – whenever a train reached a major station, dozens of Mongolians got off, or stayed on, and shopped jeans, blankets, shirts, etc. to the locals, who seemed more than eager to snap things up.  My sole existing compartment-mate was a Mongolian woman who was kept very busy hawking shirts and jeans…it looked to be a pretty trying business and she didn’t seem that healthy or happy.

A few shots of platform commerce in action – come on down:

I still had about US$75 worth of Mongolian tugrugs, as I was too busy in UB securing my Moscow hotel booking to go and trade ‘em for rubles.  As a result, I was becoming desperate to unload them – they’re nearly worthless outside Mongolia.  I finally found a Mongolian fellow who was returning in a few days, and we traded his US$ for my tugrug.  He was willing to give me a normal exchange rate, but I gave him about US$7 as a ‘gift’ for his assistance.

Went to the dining car that night.  Met a French dude named Steve in there, chatted for a while.  Then Brian and Margie came in and joined me.  We polished off a few Baltika beers (Russia’s #1 brand!) and ate borscht and bread.  Trades tales of South Africa, New Zealand and Oz with them – we were probably there for 3 hours drinking and chatting.  Then back to my cabin for a nip or three of vodka, then some sleep.

Chiminai, a Mongolian lass in a nearby cabin, came over and asked if I had any spare  books.  I gave her one from my stash – which has been decreasing, thankfully.  I think Chiminai had a crush on me – she kept stopping by to offer me food or ask dumb questions.  I didn’t mind at all.

I had started reading ‘The Adventures of Augie March’ by Saul Bellow, a book/author I’d meant to get into for years.  Made some progress that night…but Bellow is long-winded and late in the night I found myself drifting off and missing large chunks of text, so I put the book down and passed out.

At 3 a.m. we reached the next major station (I could get the guidebook out right now but am too lazy).  All the smugglers, including my cabinmate, got up and went out to hawk.  There were quite a few locals lined up waiting for them – again, I was astounded to see all this.  And again, nothing in the way of good local food offerings or a working ATM to get rubles.  This was to become a theme – while the scenery along the way was often beautiful, and I had fun with many of the other passengers, the stops themselves were not that gripping and towards the end of the four days on the train I was not thrilled with my diet.

After going back to sleep, got up again around 11.  Went to the café car and worked to put together a cheap yet filling meal – I had a decent amount of rubles, but wanted to get into Moscow with enough to get to my hotel.  Moscow’s rep as an $$ city preceded it, and I didn’t want to be desperately seeking cash with 20 kilos of baggage dragging me down – I’d be perfect bait for the local scammers.

Ate black bread with slices of salami and a boiled egg with mayonnaise.  Very Russian meal.  No wonder the average life expentancy of a Russian male is 59.4 years.  Meanwhile, there were 3 Mongolians sitting there smoking and drinking Baltika beer.  And to think that I was worrying that I wouldn’t get in any running during the four days…

Lent a couple Lonely Planet books to Steve the Frenchman so he could find somewhere to stay in Moscow.  Quite a laid-back fellow – not as laid-back, of course, as Thomas the South Asian who showed up at the border sans visa…

Finally one stop had a little taverna with real Russian snacks – I got a piece of fried bread filled with chives and sour cream, and a potato/corn/meat salad.  Cheap and tasty, and a change of pace most importantly.

The scenery was often compelling – Siberia is very green in the summer (and, I suppose, very white in the winter).  A few shots from the ride:

Unlike Monglia, there were not many horses or cows – I think I only saw one horse in the distance.  Russian land’s not communal – that’s probably the biggest difference.  Also, grazing animals near the rail line is probably a good way to lose a few…

This day, our second full day, was hot and the sky was blue.  We reached the largest Siberian city, Novosibersk – the hometown of Anna, the Russian woman I’d met in Moron, Mongolia.  The scene on the platform was insane – the smugglers were presiding over a wide-open commercial lovefest, and at one point a fight broke out.  I didn’t get that on film…

It was early evening when we pulled out again.  I still had a lot of vodka left, and got going on the next bottle.  I had picked up a liter bottle of Sprite in Novosibersk, and that proved a nice mixer for the hard stuff.  The night got a little weird after a few cups…I think I drifted off or blacked out for a while…at some point Brian and Margie showed up and we polished off the rest of the vodka.  I don’t really recall them leaving my cabin…I don’t recall my cabinmate around that night (she often spent her time in other smugglers’ cabins – honor among smugglers, I guess), and that was that.

I awoke the next morning in very bad shape – perhaps the worst since Alan and Janine came to visit me at Bean Me Up in Goa and Alan and I’d done a bunch of feni, then red wine, then gallons of beer at BMU and another spot.  That time, I’d gotten up and spent much of the day either lying down or puking.  This time felt like a reprise – I was weak and a bit depressed about feeling weak.  I had consumed so much that I had slept right through that night’s stop at Omsk, a major city, where apparently the smugglers had another big sale.

I spent a few minutes in the cramped bathroom attempting a manually-driven puke – a sort of Russian vomitorium.  But I couldn’t get anything to come up and lighten my stomach, so I let it be and went back to my cabin to fester and let things settle.  And eventually they did, with the help of a couple cups of instant noodle soup, one of mankind’s great inventions (unless you have hypertension).

We were now leaving Siberia and coming up on the city of Yekaterinburg, where the Tsar and his family were executed in fine brutal Russian fashion in 1917.  I was hungry and it would be a few hours before Y’berg, so I went to the café car and had the usual bread/salami/egg combination.  I had my first ‘chat’ with the old lady cook, who asked me where I was from.  I told her America…she asked me ‘shtadt?’ which could mean ‘city’ (a la Dutc h/Afrikans – Cap Staadt is Cape Town) or ‘state.’  I guessed the latter and told her Massachusetts, and she told me, with some effort, that she has a friend there.  Random.  After that my portions got significantly larger, although not any cheaper.  And I always noticed that she and Sasha the waiter smoked in there incessantly, despite a prominent sign forbidding smoking right above the café car entrance…clearly Russia would be a different animal altogether.

Went back to my cabin to read and further rest my spent frame.  My smuggler roomie was also in there, she had a bellyache too and looked exhausted.  I don’t think, of the various job offers I’ve gotten along the way, that I’ll be taking up smuggling goods.  I imagine the smugglers turn right around in Moscow (they probably pick up some Russian crap there) and head back to UB.  I also noticed them rebalancing their respective inventories along the ride – perhaps the best sellers get more items to sell, or they might pick up/drop off loads at various stops.  There truly seemed no end of jeans, magically dozens/hundreds would appear off the train at each stop.

Got to Yekaterinburg…another commercial bonanza.  My roomie’s tummyache appeared gone, she was hawking like a demon.  A local was passed out drunk on the platform…eventually local staff showed up and discussed how to handle him:

A few hours later we passed through the former secret city of Perm, where various industrial projects were carried out and people were locked away in Perm-36, a notorious prison.  This stop had lots of stalls on the platform, which was a nice change of pace, but they mostly sold large containers of alcohol and not much appetizing morsels.  Plus, I was running low on rubles and wanted to make ‘em count, so I just bought some cup noodles and bread and counted on my remaining vodka to get me through the rest of the ride.  Actually, my bad hangover wasn’t gone yet and I wasn’t particularly up for another big night.

The locals still looked scruffy out here…I had a feeling I’d only see glamor and sophistication once in Moscow.  No big deal, although seeing mostly down & dirty people day after day does get old…

Back on the train, Chiminai gave me some Mongolian noodles, very tasty, thereby reducing my food anxiety.  As I ate the noodles, a skirmish broke out between a few of the (female) Mongolian smugglers down the hall.  This was sort of interesting…I stood there and observed until one of the ‘train ladies’ broke it up.  I should mention these ladies – there are a couple on every car, and they keep the samovar fired up, clean the halls and cabins, get to wear cute little blue outfits, etc.  My Trans-Sib voyage was on Mongolian trains, so the staff was Mongolian.  There are also Russian and Chinese versions of the trip, with various routes.  There isn’t really a single ‘Trans-Siberian’ train, what you have are the following:

-Trains run between Beijing, Ulaan Bataar, and Moscow.  As with Moscow and Beijing, UB is an origination point (my train started there – which was best for me, otherwise you might get on and find your seat already taken/fouled).

-The classic Trans-Sib line is between Moscow and Vladivostok, a 7-day journey.

-The line from Beijing-UB-Naushki on the Russian border is called the Trans-Mongolian line, and joins the Trans-Sib near Ulan-Ude, Russia.

-There’s also a line between Beijing to the east, up through Harbin/Manchuria (doesn’t enter Mongolia at all).  This line is known as the Trans-Manchurian and joins the Trans-Sib near Chita, well to the east of Ulan-Ude.

That all clear?

Took it easy that night.  Read my Bellow book for a number of hours and finally finished at 3 a.m.  Very good tale, rich in detail – a bit old-fashioned in its language, to be expected as the book is 50 years old.  It won the Nobel Prize for Literature back then, and has aged fairly well.  Only read it if you can deal with long out-takes and philosophizing…as I wrote earlier, Bellow is long-winded.

Slept right through our stop at Russia’s third-largest city, Nizhny Novgorod (fka Gorky), sometime around 5 a.m.  No big deal.  This was our last night on the train and I did need a bit of sleep – all the vodka and stops at all hours had worn me down a bit.  I was getting slightly cranky as a result…might have been different if I had ‘my crew’ in my cabin, or perhaps no roomies therein…but anyway the end was in sight and I had to say it had been a real adventure.

Got up and started packing my stuff – which took about 7 minutes as I’d hardly unpacked anything.  Early concerns about security and theft didn’t pan out – I never bothered wearing a moneybelt and had just locked my papers, wallet and phone inside my daypack, and stuck that under my seat.

Stopped in Vladimir, a former Russian capital, about 200km from Moscow.  Some famous cathedrals on the hills there…I went looking for an ATM, went through the gates inside the station, looked across the street.  Might have been an ATM or two over there, but wasn’t sure…and I did not want to stray too far from the train.  The train waits for no one, when it’s time to go it just goes.  Walked back towards the train – the station gates shut on me.  I didn’t have my ticket in hand, the train ladies keep those until you disembark.  I was in a bit of a bad spot, but I motioned toward my train and the staff just let me through.  Whew.

Read somewhere that in 1894 Mendeleyev (periodic table) himself invented the ideal formulation for vodka, which is 40% alcohol (grain) to water.  ‘Vada’ is Russian for ‘water,’ so ‘vodka’ is quite close to that.  Useful little factoid…

Around 14:30 the train pulled into Moscow’s Yaroslavsky Station.  We were all keen to get the hell off the train, despite the random fun and adventure we’d experienced together on the ride.  I smiled at my smuggler roomie (whose name was unpronounceable), and wished her luck on her next ride – which was probably in the next few hours.

I was slightly shocked I’d actually pulled this off – the notion I had 5-6 weeks earlier of doing this train trip and coming to Moscow seemed a distant memory.  As did the presence of Ivo and of Thomas, my two original cabinmates – Thomas who was likely back in UB, and Ivo whom I might be seeing again in St. Petersburg in a week or so.

I’ll stop here and write about my Moscow experiences and impressions in a few days.  Lots of those to share with you, gentle readers.  Over and out.

Mongolians are oddly confrontational folks and seem to like fucking with foreigners.  I might have gone off on this point recently, but humor me.  I was out jogging near the State Circus (which seems perpetually shut) and saw a cop car coming my way.  I moved to the other side of the road to stay clear, whereupon the cruiser (actually, a Toyota coupe) swerved right at me before veering off.  As the cops went by, the one on the passenger side, my side, grinned at me.  Charming.

Of course, incidents like this, and like my recent pickpocketing scare, make you paranoid.  I was walking down Peace Ave. the other day, head in the clouds, when I heard someone running behind me.  A pickpocket?  I volte-faced to check it out – and strained my shoulder.  Turned out to be a guy just running to catch the bus.

I also heard from an American Peace Corps staffer whom I met on the UB Hash House Harriers run this week that two American guys were beaten up, quite badly, outside Great Mongol Pub.  Seems they were targeted inside and followed out of the bar by a gang of locals, and were willing to scrap instead of running like hell.  One of the Americans had to be medevac’d to Bangkok for treatment.  I don’t like hearing stories like that…but at least I know what not to do if a gang of drunken Mongolians starts taunting me.  My pride has no floor…

Had a nice chat with a young professional in Level Bar, right below my guesthouse.  I had been walking home when the skies darkened – actually, only the skies on the east side of town darkened, the western skies were largely clear.  The effect was bizarre – anyway, I figured rain and hurried back to the guesthouse.  But before I got there a huge dust storm hit me – this city is so fucking dry and windy that you’re often nailed by clouds of dust and dirt.  I had grit in my mouth and my face was filthy – I ducked into Level to get out of the storm.

This local guy laughed and told me this happens all the time.  We had a long talk about the country and other lands, including the States.  I ended up asking him about the 1996 murder of Zorig, the ‘father of Mongolian democracy,’ who was stabbed to death in his flat, perps never identified.  The guy didn’t want to seem to talk about this…even here, I suppose, the walls have ears.  I’m cursed with severe inquisitiveness – I generally expect locals to clam up when I ask them about dangerous topics (‘what happened to the last king of Laos?’), but I feel the need to make an attempt regardless.

Went to a couple nightclubs on the Saturday night before taking off for Lake Khovsgol.  One was Face – modest little place, locals dancing around in a big circle.  Next was the biggest club in town, Metropolis.  Modern disco, expensive drinks, flashy clothes.  I fancied a lass down the end of the bar, and eventually asked her if I could buy her a drink (I know, not a great approach, but I don’t have a handle on Mongolian pickup techniques).  Her reply, in broken English, was to the effect that she could buy her own drinks.  Smackdown.  I finished my whiskey and limped home, tail between my legs.  My consolation to myself was that UB might not really have a bar pickup scene, and that you might need to spend a few months here to get into the right slipstream.  On the other hand, maybe I’m just getting to be the dreaded ‘old guy in the club’, a state which Chris Rock has warned against in his various gigs…

Did some sight-seeing on Sunday.  First, to the Soviet-built Zaisan Memorial, commemorating cooperation in WW2 between the two countries.  There’s a cool tank mounted on a pedestal, with the Moscow-Berlin route shown on the side.  Then you walk up a set of steps to the memorial itself, which comprises a stone sculture of a socialist soldier, and a montage of ludicrous socialist heroic paintings.  I had a slight feeling of Allied solidarity whilst there, but really the whole thing is so campy I had to laugh.  A few images of Zaisan:

Campiness aside, it is fascinating to get a look at how the ‘other half’ lived and thought.  And ‘evil empire’ aside, they did think they were onto something, at least for a few decades…

I walked over to the Bogd Khan Winter Palace, the home of the Buddhist god-king who died in 1924.  The place is showing its age, but there are some great maps, paintings, and items inside.  UB was first known as Khuree or Ikh Khuree, which translates as ‘Camp’ or ‘Great Camp.’  Later it was changed to ‘Urgu’ or ‘Orgoo,’ meaning ‘City of Felt.’  Mongolians aren’t city-builders, that much I knew, but it’s still funny to hear those sorts of names for the capital city.  The current name means ‘Red Hero,’ which isn’t much better.  How about changing it to Chinggis Khaan?  I don’t think that one’s been used yet…

That night I packed for my week-long trip, and visited Kiwi friends Al & Johnny at their rented flat.  I brought a bottle of Chinggis Khaan vodka, a salami, some pickles, and soda, and they had some grub and beer too.  We sat, consumed, watched the Yankees game on the tube, and parted ways around 1 a.m.  Johnny was flying the next morning back home to Christchurch, and I was flying to Lake Khovsgol.  I was happy to have met the guys – nice to know someone in an odd spot like UB.  And I do plan to consider the offer to join their jetboating outfit.

Monday I went to Chinggis Khaan Airport (detect a theme here?).  I was flying on the state carrier, MIAT, which had the cheapest fares. MIAT has a dreadful rep and that was soon reinforced when I saw no mention of my flight on the departure board.  I found the MIAT office, gave my ticket to the woman inside, who looked at her computer, spoke on the phone with someone, then walked me over to the Aero Mongolia line.  I checked in for that flight.  Looks like MIAT is eating itself – the domestic market is unprofitable so if they don’t sell many seats on a flight they just shut it down and throw the passengers onto a competitor’s plane instead.  Lovely.

Between sorting out my flight, I was able to watch the second half of the Celtics-Lakers NBA Finals Game 2 on two large screens they had at the airport.  I had watched the first half at my guesthouse – the Celts had built a 20-point lead and I was feeling confident.  For some reason many analysts had favored L.A. at the start of the series, but we won Game 1 and were pounding them in Game 2.  A security guard watched next to me – the locals seem to like hoops, as I’ve written earlier.

Our lead looking solid, I went through security and downstairs to the gate. That took some time – there were a few geezers who could barely walk and that held things up.  I was hoping for another TV downstairs, and when I got cleared I saw one, but it was switched off.  I looked around, then pressed the ‘on’ button, and the set flared to life.  I checked the channels and soon found the ballgame.  Soon I had a bunch of Mongolians watching along with me.  The lead was shrunk to 8, and L.A. was coming on strong.  Worries.

Then a local dude came over and changed the channel.  Huh?  I figured he was some airport official, but I don’t think so.  I made some motions with my hands, a kid said something to him, and after a minute he went back to the sports channel.  The lead was now 4 – yikes.  Paul Pierce of the Celts drove the lane and drew a foul, then sank his 2 free throws.  We held them off the rest of the game and were now up 2-0, best of 7, the series now shifting to L.A.  About 90 seconds after the game ended, we boarded a shuttle bus to take us the 18 meters to the waiting plane.  The kid who had helped me out smiled at me – we pretended to dribble the ball and defend each other, before I play-dunked on him.  He indicated that he liked Boston when we were watching the game…I’m glad the historical flashiness of Los Angeles hasn’t garnered all the fans in markets like this one.

I have had tremendous good fortune when it comes to Boston sports finals.  I was able to watch nearly all of the Red Sox playoff and World Series games…I caught the Patriots Super Bowl match (unfortunately)…and I’d seen most of the Celts’ finals as well.  But now I was off to the Lake Khovsgol region, and would very very likely be away from TV and Internet coverage for an entire week.  A long time for me, I’m a news junkie and the timing wasn’t great.  Still, I was hoping that the Celts would play well in L.A. and that I’d be able to watch the end of the series back in UB.

The flight was to a provincial capital called Moron.  There are some unlauts in there, so the pronunciation is more like ‘Ma-roon.’  Fitting name for such a dumpy little town.  The finest hotel in town is the Dul Hotel.  There was a chance I’d need to stay there before my return flight…at least there’d be satellite TV and Internet, so I could catch up on my endless emails, and perhaps watch a finals game, before plugging back into UB life.

I was met at the airport by Sarah, who was the local rep for Nature’s Door, the company which runs the two places I’d be staying at on the lake coast.  Sarah was very nice, but it was her first day and she hadn’t a clue.  I was expecting a fairly painless ride up to Khatgal, on the southern lake’s edge…but no ride was arranged and I had to 1) cool my heels at a ger camp/guesthouse in town for a few hours, and 2) board a public minivan for the ride up.  The cost was minimal, but the entire day was shot and I was visibly annoyed, letting poor Sarah know.  I think she phoned the manager, but nothing happened.

The minivan was fuller than full – there were 19 of us in there.  Reminded me of the Philippines’ joke ‘how many people fit in a jeepney?’  Answer:  ‘one more.’  A local guy was intrigued by the hair on my arms, and pinched it a couple times.  I made a face and indicated that he might be gay – that went over reasonably well – no one punched me.  I handed out candies and that went over very well.  The ride was dusty and long, nearly 3 hours.  I cursed Nature’s Door and Sarah silently as we bounded over hills and dry river beds to get to Khatgal.

First stop was Garage 24, where I’d spend a couple days.  This place was a former Russian auto garage, hence the name.  It’s just a concrete building with 3 rooms with dorm beds, and a couple gers outside.  I opted for a dorm bed.  The only other guest was Yoni, an Israeli who looked familiar – turned out he’d been, with his family, at the same guesthouse in UB.  Yoni was the typical hardcore Israeli – he’d just spent 10 days solo hiking around the lake and adjacent mountains.  His pack weighed a ton, and this was without food now.  He had a bunch of detailed maps of the region and seemed very self-sufficient.  And earlier in the month, with his family, he’d hiked/camped in the Gobi.  I did too, with an outfitter and guide, but Yoni et al had printed out detailed maps from Google Earth, stitched them together, bought some regular maps as well, and pretty much done everything on their own.  Yoni said that the Google Earth maps were so detailed you could actually see individual gers – helpful in case of emergency, lack of water/food, etc.  I replied that gers move all the time, and the Google maps weren’t updated daily.  He said that was right, but when gers move you can still see the places where they were beforehand (they leave marks on the ground), so you generally can track them down over time.   Very cool.  I wish I were an Israeli Jew…then again, Yoni was in the Israeli Self-Defence Forces for 4 years, and you all know what a pacifist I am.

Garage 24 was terrific in every way.  I generally don’t like dorms (I am 40, after all), but this place was so cozy and homey, and Yoni such a good guy, that it was absolutely fine.  If every bed were taken by an American college kid, I imagine I’d feel differently.  G24 had beer, good food, and utter silence.  An iconic guesthouse, right up there in terms of character and friendliness with such faves of mine as Lani in Vientiane and Hoa’s on China Beach.

I sat on the porch, and later in my bunk bed with my Petzl headlight (thank you much, Alan & Janine Mackay, for that suggestion), powering through ‘American Gods’ by Neil Gaiman.  Got through nearly all the 600 pages (small pages, admittedly) in a day.  More on this book later on.

Went to sleep around midnight.  I was beat from the long day of travels.  My mattress was pretty lumpy, but I slept well nonetheless.  The air around Khovsgol is so clean, and there’s hardly a sound – I’m sure the insects show up in force later in the summer, but for now they were largely quiet and I couldn’t recall such a peaceful place in all my travels, except perhaps for high mountains.

And the next day was more of the same.  I did nothing but eat, read and walk around Khatgal town.  I don’t think I’ve had a more relaxing day since I started these travels.  There’s just nothing to do in Khatgal, except walk around.  The town is spread out, and consists mostly of log houses.  Probably like the USA West was 200 years ago.  Deadwood Mongolia?  Domestic audience is probably too small to justify the production of that show.

The ‘town center’ consisted of 5-6 food stores, and a few election offices for the major parties.  Loud music was blaring, propaganda blasting, the elections were 3 weeks off and the Mongolians were getting into it.  The posters were quite funny – one candidate was wearing a cowboy hat and holding a snuff bottle.  ‘Snuff for every man, woman and child,’ I imagined the poster read.

I have largely worked out how to read Cyrillic, although some letters still stuff me up.  It’s well worth the effort, as some words do translate pretty well into English, and anyway you can at least pronounce the unfamiliar words and locals will understand.  And I’m going to Russia fairly soon so can use my newfound skill over there.

Got through American Gods that night.  Not a great book – probably the first dud in a couple years.  I have been picking my books carefully, I’m not the sort to devote any time to Grisham et al sorts of thrillers.  This book’s premise is that ancient gods (primarily Norse, like Odin and Loki) have American incarnations who have weakened over time as Americans turned to worship new gods, those of television, Internet, money, etc.  The new gods are trying to put an end to the old ones, and a war ensues.  Nice theme, but the book didn’t work for me.  Gaiman has lots of assertions that don’t seem credible/supported, the dialogue is a bit flat much of the time, and he introduces lots of sub-plots and characters that are left hanging and don’t serve much purpose.  Gaiman is famous for his Sandman graphic novel series, which I haven’t read – I suspect he’s a lot better there.  The recent books I’ve read – by David Mitchell, Salman Rushdie, and a few others – are very hard acts to follow, so Gaiman can’t help but suffer in comparison.  Anyway, that’s my two cents, feel free to give American Gods a whirl and let me know what you think.

Gets dark around 10 p.m. up here.  I like that…feels like the day goes on forever.  London’s like that in the summer too…and when I get to St. Petersburg, I believe I’ll experience the famous ‘White Nights.’  Do you think Mikhail Baryshinikov and Gregory Hines will be there?

I obviously had some free time on my hands (don’t I always, though?).  I took off my parka’s pocket zipper straps – noticed that one was busted, probably from the pickpocket in UB.  Having the straps makes it easier to unzip the pockets – I felt a bit annoyed as I removed them, as now I’d have more trouble unzipping…but I wasn’t in the mood for some vermin to try me again.  And I was certainly in no mood to try to find someone in UB to repair the strap…as I’ve written before, taking care of crap like tailoring etc. is a real pain and I aim to reduce the amount of time I spend on annoying tasks like that.

Took a shower at 11 p.m.  They heat water and give it to you in a bucket, a la Ladakh.  Felt like a holy ceremony, showering by candlelight.  Nice thing to do before heading off to bed.

Next morning I phoned home to say hi.  The post office has overseas connections – but the equipment is in plain view and I half-expected the woman there to have to move the plugs around, like in the old days.  The connection was decent, a bit faint but clear and no echo.  Spoke with Dad and Ellen for 10 or so minutes – about the Celtics, about my mail, etc.  Total cost:  about US$4.

Walked by the ‘port’ – a couple rusting hulks sitting there, probably waiting for someone to pay for a charter ride up to Khankh, on the northern lake edge near the Russian border.  Wouldn’t be me, although the ride would probably be stunning.

A few shots of Garage 24 and Khatgal town:

Got in a jeep to head to the Nature’s Door ger camp an hour north.  The weather was perfect, as it had been all week.  I was thinking that the snow and cold of the Khentii and Gobi was through, and that the true Mongolian summer had arrived.

Got to Nature’s Door, they showed me to my own ger.  Sweet.  Went for a walk before lunch around the lake.  Still a bit of ice on the lake…wouldn’t be much kayaking or fishing this time round.  Oh well.  Got some good shots from the walk:

Lake Khovsgol is huge, I believe 1-2% of the planet’s unfrozen fresh water is in there.  Of course, Lake Baikal in Russia (Lake Khovsgol’s older and bigger ‘brother’) has 10-20%, so there.  This is one of Mongolia’s main draws – most people make it up here for a week or so of horse-riding, hiking and camping, fishing, etc.

Spent 4 days/nights in Nature’s Door.  Did a lot of reading, mostly Lonely Planet guidebooks to Russia etc.  Spent a lot of time tending the fire in my ger – the stove goes through logs like mad.  Sometimes a cute staffer would show up with a thermos of hot water, for tea, and she’d crank up the fire.  Hard to keep the temp just right in a ger – I was often sweating, or cold, and would open/close the ger door as necessary.  But it was fun tending the fire, hadn’t really done that in ages.

As expected, no news of the Celts or anything else.  I hinted to the manager that she text someone in UB to tell me what was going on, but that didn’t work.  There was a TV dish outside the office, but they only got 4 local channels and no foreign news was available.  I’d be in the dark till I got back to UB, most likely.

Second day there, woke up to cold rain and cloudy skies.  Was scheduled to hike up a nearby mountain with a local guide – decided to do so despite the weather.  It actually hailed and snowed the higher we got…the views were fleeting.  My guide was a middle-aged guy named Bayaraa, like one of the dudes on my Gobi trip.  This guy’s age was hard to work out – could’ve been 45, or 60.  In any event he set a grueling pace and despite the cold I was soon shvitzing.  The climb was not easy and I had to stop and rest a few times.  Bayaraa was not sweating and seemed ready to run up the mountain.  Humbling.

Got a few shots of the farther mountains, and the lake too – here they are:

I was stymied in my attempts to get great lake shots at altitude, unfortunately.  I might ask friend Nigel to send me a few, he went to Lake K a few years ago and hiked around a good part of the lake.  My week there would be more mellow…

As we reached the bottom, wouldn’t you know, the sun came out and the lake shimmered.  My timing was bad.

Took a shower when I got back.  They had just fixed some problem with the water supply.  I turned on the water…the shower head fell off, onto my head, and a bunch of dirt (hopefully) came down on me.  Spent 15 minutes getting that off my head and bod and probably wasn’t much cleaner when I emerged.

Had dinner, then kicked back, tired after the long climb and weird weather.  My understanding of Mongolian summer was continuing to evolve…up here in the north/northeast, it’s colder later in the season and it’s not till July that the place is truly warm and sunny. Of course, the mossies are in full force then and the place gets (relatively) crowded, and I might not like that any more.

A peek at the innards of my ger…

Read in my Lonely Planet guide to Russia and Belarus that there’s a Jewish Autonomous Oblast (Region) in eastern Siberia, near Vladivostok.  Stalin created it – in large part to segregate the Jews, not to foster vibrant Jewish life.  The main city is Birobidzhan, and there’s still some Jewish presence today, although most families have upped stakes and moved to Israel and other countries.  Given what I know about Russian xenophobia, I think Israel is probably a much better bet than Birobidzhan.  Odd factoid, that.

Also read that the longest possible train ride in the world is through 12 countries, 18,000 miles, beginning in Vila Real de Santo Antonio, Portugal, all the way to Saigon.  You do need to switch trains, but that’s apparently the longest ride you can take.  Much of this is on the Trans-Sib, which I’ll have the pleasure of experiencing quite soon.  I haven’t verified this factoid, by the way, so go ahead and check the math if you feel so inclined.

Turned on my little radio, got nothing.  Probably easier to access alien transmissions out here than anything terrestrial…

Next day was Friday the 13^th.  I had signed on for a daylong horse riding trip to see the Tsaatan, an ethnic group which herds reindeer and live in orts, like teepees.  The date was not auspicious, and I am not an experienced horseman.  I had no helmet.  Oh well, I decided I go anyway.  The weather had turned nice and it was a great day to be out.  My guide, whose name I couldn’t get, was superb.  He took me to his family’s ger en route and on the way back…his wife stuffed me with tea and food, his kids got a kick out of my camera’s picture files, and they helped me read some Cyrillic on their posters and magazines.  I took Cyrillic lessons from 5-year-old kids – they were laughing at my crappy pronunciation.

The wife had a large bandage on the side of her face – she had an awful toothache and somehow this was helping – might have been medicated.  No dentist around, closest was in Moron.  She indicated that if it got worse, she’d tie a string to the tooth and the other end to a yak, and pull it out like that.  Fun fun fun.

The ride up to the tsaatan encampment was grand.  Blue blue lake, decent horse (a bit bumpy), and almost no one around.  The reindeer people site was a joke, though – talk about a tourist trap.  There was a single ort, a few tsaatan – indistinguishable from ethnic Mongols – and about a dozen unhappy-looking reindeer.  This was very obviously a site set up for tourists, who come, take photos, and then give US$3-5 to the tsaatan for their ‘troubles.’  Tsaatan generally live to the northeast, near Russia, and their reindeer feast on the lichen to be found there. Here, near the lake, there’s no such lichen and the reindeer are subsequently forced to eat local plants which don’t do the trick.  These ‘bizness tsaatan’ are a real hoax – they live entirely on tourist bucks and the visit was depressing.  I did have a nice chat with Dan, an Israeli now living in Brazil – we agreed this tsaatan visit was a depressing experience and that we’d not advise others to do the same.  That said, the day out itself was terrific.

During the ride back we stopped at the guide’s friend’s ger, where they handed me a smoked fish from the lake.  Not sure what type of fish it was, but it was fresh and perhaps the best fish I’ve ever eaten.  They smoke it right away, and I swear it’s better than any smoked fish I’ve had from Zabar’s or Barney Greengrass’s in New York…and it only cost me US$3, whereas in NYC it would be more like US$50.  Good fish can’t be beat.  Mongolians don’t generally eat a lot of fish, but I think those who camp by the lake do, and with very good reason.  I dreamed of that fish that night…

My guide (who only had 3-4 teeth, giving him a leering look) had a perverse sense of humor.  We came upon a herd of yak grazing, whereupon the guide got his horse going towards a couple of them…my horse followed suit.  The yaks spooked and ran – we kept that up for a half hour.  Probably not great for the yaks – might curdle their milk or something.  But no one came out to complain – and it was good fun for us to see the yaks scare and run off.  Our horses seemed to enjoy it too.

A few shots from that day:

It strikes me that Lake K is one of the more colorful spots I’ve visited…such rich colors come through in the pics.  If I ever do settle down, I won’t have any trouble decorating the walls with photos from my wanderings…even though my photographic skills leave something to be desired.

There were a few machines working the road – looked like they were widening it, and that a couple new ger camps were being built.  Lake K is a great holiday area and I have no doubt development will proceed there, I just hope it’s done tastefully and at the right clip.

Stopped again at the guide’s ger – my ass, back and inner thighs were in agony.  Hadn’t spent so much time on a horse in my life, methinks.  Would be sore for days.  The guide’s little girl walked alongside us as we rode the last couple kilometers to Nature’s Door.  I felt sore but also on top of the world as we got to the ger camp.  I had probably ridden 60 kilometers, often at a fast trot/light gallop, and felt like I had had a quintessential Mongolian experience…you’ve gotta ride a horse here.

The next day it was back to rain and cold, but I’d done my trips and was relaxed.  Had breakfast with two Taiwanese women, the only other guests.  Sat in my ger and read ‘Black Swan Green’ by David Mitchell, one of my fave novelists.  I’d read his other 3 works over the past year or so, and loved them all.  It would be good to read them in order, at some point – they all make some reference to aspects in his preceding novels.  This work was excellent, too – about a 13-year-old kid growing up in rural Britain.  A sort of British ‘Catcher in the Rye.’  Mitchell really has a distinct voice and can plumb the depths of the human experience – he and Rushdie, as I’ve said on a number of occasions, are my latest top authors.  I mean to keep abreast of anything new they put out.  Readers – any recommendations from you?

Finished the book late that night – I swear my reading patterns are crazy.  I lug around 8-10 books from my US visit, barely touching any of them until I get to a quiet place like a Mongolian ger camp, then I tear through them at the clip of one every day or two.  That gets the load down, except for guidebooks which I must keep for a while, but then again I’ll be taking a 4-5 day train to Moscow and need reading for that.  So I might need to reload again once in UB.  Heavy books are a traveler’s bane, except when you’re stuck on a long ride.

The bad weather persisted.  I got down to such mundanity as cleaning the innards of my old nail clipper with a ‘wet-wipe,’ the usefulness of which cannot be overstated.  Wiping your bum…washing your face and hands…cleaning appliances.  I’m a convert, except that they make me feel like an old granny.

Sunday arrived.  My last day at Nature’s Door.  Still cloudy, but I was hoping for some good shots of the lake from the hillside so started hiking up that way.  Had to abort after 45 minutes, as the clouds mounted, the hillside fogged over, and it started to rain lightly.  Oh well.

Took a jeep back to Garage 24 for the night.  Had considered going all the way to Moron, to the Dul Hotel, largely to watch sports of TV and check email.  But it made more economic sense to stop at Garage 24 for the night.  Did I mention that the nightly tariff at G24 is US$5?  Food is extra, but still it’s hard to top US$20/day there.

This time some other foreigners showed up.  Uli from San Francisco and his Czech girlfriend…Agnesz. and her British boyfriend…Jacques the French accountant…nice people.  G24 was strangely out of meat – unheard of in this country.  Had a crappy Korean beer (Cass), tomato soup and vegetable buuz (dumplings).  Chatted for a while with my fellow guests, who were thankfully staying out in the 2 gers, ensuring I had the entire dorm building to myself.  I do like a bit of space and privacy, and am mildly (?) misanthropic…after a couple hours of conversation I’d rather read a book.  But you already know that.

By this point I knew which mattresses were lumpy and which were not, picked the best one and slept like a corpse.  The room was warmer than a ger and while there was a stove with a fire in the room, it wasn’t critical and I didn’t need to feed the fire more than a couple times.

On Monday morning we all piled into a Russian minivan to head to Moron.  The ride was comfortable enough…and the scenery wasn’t half-bad:

Proof that the town of Moron indeed exists:

Most of us were catching flights to UB – Agnesz. was getting cash in town.  She had a hard time…and I got a bit annoyed (so did Uli, et al) because we spent time going from bank to bank instead of heading to the airport, a more time-sensitive mission.  Agnesz. finally got her cash, and we headed to the tiny airport.  Turned out I didn’t need to hurry…I was on MIAT and that flight was 3 hours late.  The other airlines took off pretty much on time, so I was stuck there along with Agnesz., who thought the same minivan would take her back to G24 straightaway but was being disabused of that notion.

I did have the pleasure of hanging out at the airport with Anna, a cool Russian chick who was on my flight.  She helped me order goulash in the cafeteria…we later commiserated about the lateness of our MIAT flight.  She was in a real hurry to get back to UB, as she needed to visit the Korean Embassy before it shut at 18:30.

Moron Airport is a modest place.  One little cafeteria, one little shop which only opens for 15 minutes every hour and which stocks fish – which seem to come in contact with every other product in the store.  My bottle of water smelled fishy – not a pleasant thing.

We finally boarded and took off.  The plane was an ‘AH-26-100,’ Anna was sitting next to me and thought this was an Aero Novosibirsk (her hometown) product.  It was not an encouraging plane – the luggage was stored inside the plane in a netted area.  It reminded me of Tom Hank’s FedEx plane that went down in the film ‘Cast Away,’  I was seated right next to the exit door, which I could have opened in 5 seconds.  The seating configuration at our end was two seats facing two others, like a train.  And there were no overhead luggage bins.  Like a cargo or military plane, I could imagine Russian paratroopers jumping out of the exit next to me.  I prayed silently that the props would keep turning and that the flight would be short.

We made it in one piece, but I swore never to try MIAT again.  I had been forewarned, rightly so.  Poor Anna didn’t make it to the embassy in time, it was nearly 18:30 when we got into the UB terminal.  Anyway, I had fun hanging out with her and got a dose of the famous Russian friendliness – hopefully I’ll get more of that shortly.

Back to Zaya Hostel.  Took a while to find my driver, but he eventually showed up.  Youngish guy – I immediately hit him up for basketball info.  He said ‘Boston’ and showed 3 fingers, then ‘LA’ and showed one.  Ch-ching!  He then indicated that Game 5 might have taken place but he didn’t know the result yet.  I was happy in any event – we’d be going back to Boston with the lead.  The goal was in sight and attainable.

Checked email – 200 or so sitting there.  Got through the urgent ones immediately, then went out for a bite and over to Marco Polo for drinks.  I was beat from sitting in the dusty airport all day so didn’t stay out too late.

Next day, did my round of errands.  Picked up my passport, Russian visa, and Trans-Siberian Railway train ticket at Legend Tours. Not cheap, but smooth sailing.  Looking forward to confrontations with Russian Customs agents.  Got a ‘repair haircut’ at a salon on Peace Ave. – the kid did a great job and now I look semi-normal instead of like Bozo the Clown.  Had a pizza at nearby Pizza Della Casa, and ran into Kiwis Al and Mike, so sat and had a beer with them.  Small town.

Did the Hash House Harriers that night – after 15 folks showed up at the Bayangol Hotel lot, and we took a van out to the country.  Anne and Rory from Ireland/UK were the Grandmasters, and I did the ‘run’ with Jim the Brit and an American woman.  The rest of the gang hiked.  Different sort of Hash, but fun anyway.  Plenty of beer and sandwiches afterward.  We had run up a sizeable hill and I was winded from that.  A homeless local hung around – we gave him some water (not beer) and our empties, I think that’s what he was looking for anyway.

Went with a few of the Hashers to Dave’s Pub afterwards, chatted for a long while with Rory.  Turns out he’s lived/worked in (he says) 114 countries, putting me and everyone else to shame.  Of course, many of these countries are total dumps – he’s in the oil biz and has to spend stretches in backwaters like Yemen (which I’d love to see, but probably won’t risk the kidnap/homicide threat).  He talked me out of visiting Ukraine – too murderous, he opined – but invited me to his large spread on the Bulgarian/Turk border.  I do think I’ll try for that before long.  Good folks, these Hashers.

En route to Dave’s I ran into Ashleigh, a fun Aussie woman who was also stranded with
Anna and I at Moron Airport.  Small town, really.  She didn’t feel like joining us for a drink, but I tried my best.

Next morning, landmark event.  Celtics-Lakers Game 6.  Series closeout opportunity for us – turned out we had lost Game 5 in L.A. and that the series had returned to Boston.  I found the game on CCTV, the Chinese channel – the broadcasters did a pretty good job, not talking too much.  Meanwhile, the Celtics gave the Lakers a serious whipping – a beating of historical proportions.  As Magic Johnson said recently, these Lakers are soft.  Not the classic struggle that we used to see.  L.A.’s center, Andrew Bynum, has been injured for several months, and when he returns next season L.A. might be stronger, but for now the Celts are clearly the better team and that warms my heart.  I still wanted revenge for the 1985 and 1987 finals, when we lost to L.A., and this was a small measure of vengeance.  And it was brilliant that our 3 veterans – Pierce, Garnett and Allen – got their first rings.  I imagined longtime team prezo Red Auerbach and radioman Johnny Most sharing cancerous cigars in heaven.  The good guys won and I’m sticking with that opinion. I hate L.A.

After the game was over, CCTV showed a few minutes of old Celtics finals footage – some really classic stuff, Havlicek (whom I met once, through friend Meredith), Russell, Bird, etc.  And they showed old footage of Garnett with Minnesota and Allen with Seattle.  Well done – I love looking at old clips, I could sit for days and stew in the nostalgia.  Reminds me of my younger days, when my father would take us to the old Boston Garden and we’d watch the magic of Larry Bird and crew.  Some of my fondest memories…talk about being in the right place at the right time.  Dad, thanks for getting season tickets in 1979!!

Boston only won 24 of 82 games last season, then traded for Allen and Garnett to complement Pierce.  I thought it would take time for all the new guys to mesh, but it did not…they had the right chemistry from early on and were the best team all year.  Some analysts picked L.A. to win the series, perhaps with some justification (they played very well in the playoffs and had momentum, while the Celts were a bit spotty), but they were wrong and we were the best.  Hallelujah!

Friend/former colleague/regular reader Bansi texted me during the game, and included a blurry yet nice shot of the arena stuffed with Celts fans.  He has perfect connections for sporting events – he manages to make it to every key game in town.  As the game wound down we exchanged text messages and it was funny that he was in the arena and I was in Mongolia, both watching the same game.  I would have traded places with him, mind you.

During halftime I changed channels – I don’t watch a lot of TV, so had to maximize the time – and watched 15 minutes of Ren & Stimpy in Mongolian.  Somehow it worked and I knew what was going on…

Also during halftime I worked up a fake e-ticket on Aeroflot, in case a Russian Customs agent wanted ‘proof’ I had a ticket out of Russia.  I’ve gotten very good at concocting these pages and they do provide peace of mind, even if agents rarely ask for these sorts of things.

Being back in the city brought its usual tortures.  Firefox had a new Mozilla browser upgrade, Version 3.0, so I downloaded that and had to get through the installation – a few hiccups.  Also, Microsoft released something called ‘Vista Service Pack 1’ (implying future Service Pack releases – wonderful), which took an hour to download, and then another hour to install.  And besides the waiting time, you have no clue what the software actually does or fixes, Microsoft gives you no info whatsoever.  One can only conclude that these releases fix bugs/vulnerabilities in the original OS.  I hate Microsoft.  The only benefit this time is that the upgrade seemed to free up 5 gigs of hard drive space, which I can use for photos and music.  Still, no thanks to Big Bill & Co.

I went with Kiwi Al to see the new Indiana Jones movie.  Reading the promo poster in Cyrillic is a kick – phonetically it works out, but it’s funny to read.

Final night in UB…went to a cultural performance which was actually quite entertaining.  One fellow did ‘khoomi,’ or throat singing – couldn’t believe the sounds he got out of his gullet.  Some dances and gymnastics, too – Mongolians seem big on contortionist acts.  As for me, they only reinforce the realization that my body is getting creakier and creakier…

Met Al for drinks at the Irish Pub.  We got a ‘table keg,’ which is a device that holds 3.5 liters of beer, and you can dispense it yourself.  Ingenious.  I was supposed to meet local friend Bolor too, but as usual, he didn’t show.  Al and I moved on to gents’ club Marco Polo – which was raided by the cops 30 minutes later.  A signal for me to get out of UB?  Perhaps.

An affluent-seeming young local offered to take us to another place – he seemed friendly and non-homicidal so we accepted.  We drove in his SUV for a while, then ended up at familiar joint Amrita.  The place he wanted to show us – called ‘Golden Banana’ – was shut.  Oh well.  Had way too many beers at Amrita, ogled the 6-foot waitresses, and eventually Bolor (whom I’d texted) showed up and joined us.  Stayed there till around 3 a.m…got a bit at Xaanbuuz (the Mongolian McD’s – nice lamb dumplings), and called brother-in-law Dave while waiting for my food.  Can’t recall much of our chat, given my state of mind(lessness), but I think we covered the various bases, including the Celtics.  Then I went to the guesthouse and got 5 hours sleep.  Gotta get up, pack, and head to the train station.

Fraternity brother/faithful reader Ari emailed me – he loved the photo of me in traditional Mongolian del and hat.  And he wrote that the stock market sucks, that it’s likely to suck for another year, until oil comes down.  He also promised to investigate the presence and promise of gers in his current home state of Wyoming – there are a few gers in a nearby town, as I may have mentioned in a prior posting.  Go, Ari – we need more Jewish financial types who live in gers in Wyoming.  A small but growing demographic.

In a few hours I get on the Trans-Sib train all the way to Moscow – 4-5 days.  Will bring several bottles of vodka, lots of tea and sugar, some wetwipes, snacks, toilet paper, and whatever else I can find.  See you next week, when I’ll be in the Russian capital attempting to fend off corrupt anti-Semitic cops and other sordid characters.  Over and out.

I celebrated the two-year anniversary of my travels by getting horribly lost in the Gobi Desert. Not my fault, by any means. Nomadic Journeys, my tour operator, had an inexperienced driver, and my guide and cook didn't seem ... [Continue reading this entry]

On Monday morning we took off for the Khan Khentii Mountains, the ancestral home of a certain G. Khan and clan. Our crew: Anka the guide, Mary and Kaz from Philly, Tuunga the cook, the driver, and I. ... [Continue reading this entry]

We all know about the high points of Mongolian history – namely, how Chinggis Khan and his boys (and a few girls, too) built the largest (contiguous) land empire in history, and how they got as far as Vienna before ... [Continue reading this entry]