Into Mongolia

We were in Russia for a little over two weeks.  It is a fascinating country and our stay there was highly informative.  Much that we saw was exactly as we had imagined; but we also saw a lot that challenged our preconceptions.  I hope that at some point in the future I will have the opportunity to return to explore further a country to which we were afforded only the briefest of introductions.  We left taking with us some amazing memories - but after two weeks we were ready to leave.  Above all, the necessity of fulfilling the oppressive requirements of Russian bureaucracy with which the tourist in Russia is burdened had become too onerous and I was anxious to leave it all behind.

After Baikal, we arrived back in Irkutsk in the late afternoon and decided to proceed directly to the train station in order to purchase tickets for immediate onward travel.  However, once at the station we found that we were too late to buy international tickets so we made our way back, exhausted, to the city centre for one last night of rest in the Baikaler hostel.

Again, the hostel was practically empty and we joined just one other guest, a half Canadian-half American named Mischa, and Masha, the Russian girl working that night.  Our original plan was an early night to catch up on some sleep; however, as often seems to happen, somebody is always on hand to produce the obligatory bottle of vodka and this time it was Mischa who provided the potations.  The bottle was soon empty and it wasn't long before we were putting on our coats to go in search of another.  After a long evening of discussing politics, religion and UFOs, our impromptu carousal dragged on into the early hours as the conversation degenerated.  I finally crawled into my bed, fully clothed, at six in the morning and slept instantly.

Our sole objective for the next day was somehow to acquire our international train tickets and, having achieved this by around midday, we returned to the hostel to await the hour of our departure.  I sent an email to a hostel in Mongolia, the UB Guesthouse and spent the afternoon checking frequently for a reply but none came.  Soon enough it was time to leave for the train station and after only a short wait we were boarding our next train ready for a change of scenery in anticipation of the next chapter of our story.

This journey was to be a mere two-night affair.  We had been advised that the border crossing was drawn out in the extreme and we were warned that once the process had begun, the train toilets were closed with no possibility of relief until we were on the other side.  With this information, we had calculated that we would reach the border at around four in the morning; so having drunk our final cups of tea at seven, we set our alarms and turned in early. 

When my telephone sounded, I felt as though I had hardly slept; but I managed to drag myself from my bunk and made my way down the carriage to the toilet to take all precautions against an uncomfortable border crossing.  I returned to my berth and watched out of the window as the sun rose, throwing light over the last we would see of the vast Russian countryside.  Four o'clock came and went, then five, then six.  The hours rolled by and we began to realise that we had miscalculated; we now had no idea of when we would be arriving at the frontier town.  Finally I decided to risk another cup of tea and tried, in my broken Russian, to ask the carriage attendant (this time, unusually, male) when we would reach the crossing.  He understood my question perfectly but unfortunately his response was beyond my comprehension and we remained in ignorance until I managed to ascertain that we were due to reach Mongolia at two o'clock in the afternoon.  I am not really sure how we misjudged the crossing by ten hours, but at last, as the flat landscape began to give way to the hilly terrain that marks the start of Mongolian territory, the train pulled into the last station in Russia and the wait began.

As I think I have said before, although perhaps I am slightly masochistic to think it, I really enjoy border crossings.  Frontier towns have the feel of a no-man's-land, liminal places that are neither one country nor the other.  It is exciting to think that once the procedures are complete, one passes into the unknown on the other side; and there is also the added excitement of the admittedly small possibility that one's papers will be rejected and entry refused.  That said, the crossing into Mongolia seemed unnecessarily long, although stories of eight hours without the use of a toilet were found to be much exaggerated as we were allowed out to walk around the station for most of the time and were only locked in the train for a relatively short period while the Russian officials came on board to check our documents, take our passports and return them with the all important stamp giving us permission to leave. 

Once through the barbed-wire fences and border guard posts, the train stopped to admit a number of young-looking Mongolian soldiers.  In contrast with the officials from the Russian side who seemed to have no uniform, the Mongolians wore pristine military fatigues and their faces were unmistakably Asian.  The train continued a few kilometres across the border to the town of Sukhbaatar where the process of passport control was repeated, this time in only two hours.  We were given the chance to change our roubles into Mongolian togrog and as the sun set and the sky turned black, we were permitted to step out onto the platform for half an hour while more carriages were attached to the train.

For the first time on our still short trip I felt completely lost.  To congratulate myself on another successful crossing, I decided to allow myself a celebratory beer.  Beyond the station we could just make out the outlines of some simple brick buildings and blocks of flats but also dotted here and there were a number of traditional Mongolian gers, the white felt tents still used by nomadic herdsmen on the Steppe and in the desert.  Our white faces were in the minority and I felt the weight of numerous pairs of eyes watching us with mild curiosity.  The 'shop' was no more than a kiosk and as I stood in the queue I tried to pick out the products on offer.  The items stocked were a mixture of international brands such as coca-cola along with local products marked in Mongolian in the Russian Cyrillic script, in use in the country since Soviet times.  As I stood hesitating at the front of the line wondering what to buy and how to ask for a drink, a Mongolian, completely ignoring my presence, walked straight past me and ordered his food.  I made no move to prevent him as I was still attempting to see if any beer was in fact available.  He bought his food and left; and another of his countrymen did exactly the same thing.  Their concept of waiting in line is certainly somewhat different from that which we know in England and when a third customer jumped in front of me, I retreated, empty handed, defeated in this simple task by a combination of lack of language skills and culture shock.  The beer, I decided, would have to wait. 

Back in the train, we were again soon underway.  I stared out of the window into the deepening darkness in the excitement of a new and alien country trying in vain catch a glimpse of the Mongolian landscape under the dim light cast by the almost full moon.  The effort proved futile and, frustrated, I retired to my bunk for another night of interrupted sleep.  My first real sight of Mongolia had to wait until the following morning as the sun rose, illuminating the carriage and the world outside, at some time before six o'clock.  Ulaanbaatar drew nearer and more and more gers punctuated the landscape; soon we began to pass permanent constructions as we entered the ugly, industrial suburbs of the Mongolian capital.  The train pulled into the station and we gathered our belongings and stepped out into the cold air of the Mongolian morning.  Before leaving Irkutsk, I had still not received any confirmation of my booking at the hostel so it was some relief that we saw their representative waiting at the station with a piece of paper showing my name.  With a group of Swedes also heading to same hostel, we crammed into the minbus and were driven along the almost empty early morning streets of Ulaanbaatar to the warm reception and the hard but most welcome beds of the UB Guesthouse.

Comments

[Marie]

Are U kidding ?! "On the road" isn't dull at all !!! It's one of my favourite novels ever. Ok it doesn't mean that's a good one !
i'm gonna read your new article.
bye 4 now. t8 care.

[dan]

Thanks...I think. But if my articles are as dull as 'On the Road', I think I should give up writing now. Although one thing's for sure - in the heat and humidity of the approaching Chinese summer, I'm certainly sweating as much as Kerouac apparently did when he wrote his 'masterpiece'. Anyway, glad you like my articles. There's a new one just published. We'll be in China soon... ;0)

[Marie]

So weird to read your entry about the border and Mongolia while you are in China for more than a month !
Would you mind updating the blog from time to time ? ;-)
But I love the way you write, it sounds like a roadtrip-adventures novel ! God, you're the new Kerouac ! Except that he wrote a whole novel in 3 weeks . Let me think, you wrote 3 entries in ... 2 months. just joking !
Take care !