The Daily Mumble: August 2007

Friday, August 31, 2007

A final day of Yurtastic fun in Mongolia

Date and Time: Early morning, 30th August 2007

Location: Bed 16, Carriage 1, sitting in the Russian border of Naushki. Carriage swarming with Russian officials.

About 5 hours since the train pulled in just a few metres down the track on the Mongolian side, we're still going through immigration procedures. Our passports have been taken by the scary Russian officials. We'd better behave ourselves from here on or there'll be trouble...

My final day in the Mongolian outback

Our final full day spent with the family of herdsmen was a relaxed affair. After a late breakfast (I don't think I need to tell you what that consisted of) we piled into GI Jim's Toyota and headed off across the grassland, not following any particular track. I had no idea where we were heading, but reaching the peak of the hill, I guessed it must be something to do with that unusual collection of buildings in the middle of the valley that had just revealed itself to us.

Sure enough, it was. The remains of an ancient (10th century?) Mongolian town that was of significant archaeological importance, as demonstrated by the plaques on the wall commemorating generous donations by some Japanese NGO that helped pay for the upkeep of the neighbouring museum that housed all sorts of ancient tools, pots and so forth.

Me in the museum, with special guest 'blur effect'

Click here for my Trans-siberian web gallery

Me with ye ancienty bird's claw up my nose

Hurrah for ancient cities

After a brief stroll around the grounds, it was back in the car, and off in a different direction from that from which we had come. The daughter of the family started making swimming motions - I guessed we were off to some river to get washed up.

I was almost right. In fact it was a huge lake that seemed to be very popular with local herdsmen as a place to wash their cows, goats ...and cars. The water was a filthy sheep-shit green, but this didn't stop the entire family from washing their hair (with Pantene Pro-V) in it. Both father and GI Jim went for a swim, but having had my toes nipped more than once by these little prawn things, I decided not to go in beyond my knees, and contented myself with sitting on the shore watching the children chuck water at one another.

The lake, looking surprising blue considering it was full of poo

Hair washing

Sheep washing

After a while, GI Jim decided to give the car a wash - the long journey along the dirt roads had not treated the paintwork kindly. To save him having to cart water to and from the lakeside, he did the sensible thing: reversed the car into the lake!

Car washing

Back at the yurt, the family were preparing our final supper. It was to be a great feast, and there was immense excitement as the huge metal bowl containing the main course was set down before us.

I took one look, and felt sick. In front of me was what had to be the remains of the goat slaughtered the day before - the fresh head had been given to the dog to play with, whilst the skin lay stretched out on the roof to dry. A huge great bowl of bones to be knawed at ...what should I do? Tell them that actually, I was vegetarian and whilst a bit of chicken was OK this kind of caveman thing was a bit beyond me? Ask the daughter if she had any Pringles left? Pretend I was really sick?

The head of our supper

Dead goat anyone?

When the bottle of clearly very special black vodka was brought out of the back of the cupboard to accompany the meal, I realised that this was serious business, and I simply could not afford to risk offending them by not partaking in the meal. Thankfully, the lights were low, and so i couldn't really see the bones in too much detail. I told myself that this was some vegan alternative, after all, these days you could get some astonishingly realistic soya-based fake meat dishes. I carefully selected a small specimen, and slowly began to gnaw. At this rate, I could make it last at least half an hour, and by that time the meal might be over.

Whilst the rest of the family dived in and created an impressively fleshless skeleton in the middle of the table, I hung back in the shadows, taking all the carrots and potatoes that I could find from amongst the mountain of gristle. Now and again I was offered another bone. I gestured that I still had some meat left on the one in my hand, and was left in peace.

In this way, I managed to get through the ordeal without too much of poor Billy passing my lips. By the end of the meal, the group's attention was well and truly on the bottle of vodka, which had mysteriously become two bottles, both of which were rapidly being relieved of their contents. Despite my 6 shots in fairly rapid succession, I was happy to find that I didn't really feel drunk. I was eating plenty of bread to try and soak up the alcohol - whether that had any real effect or not I don't know, but the placebo effect alone was enough.

I then made the mistake of asking to take a group photo - well, that was it! They clearly weren't used to having a camera to hand, thus the photo session went on and on - in fact it wasn't finished until after every single possible combination of people had posed and been captured on memory stick.

I'll spare you the entire show. Here's just a couple.

Pepe and the gang

Whilst the herdsman's family had gradually been warming to me ever since we arrived, it was only really on that final evening that the conversation and laughter really flowed between us. The language barrier was finally overcome; there was much back-slapping and taking the piss out of one another. Finally, I was presented with gifts of a huge great bag of dried curd pieces (which sits untouched on the table next to me!) and some little wooden dolls, which I assume must be traditional Mongolian toys. In return, I gave them the only thing I had with me (apart from dirty clothes and a bag of electronics) - a pot noodle that I'd bought at a station in China! They seemed quite grateful, and no doubt will be filling it with hot milk some time in the near future.

Moo Moo milking

And with that, my final day in the yurt came to an end. Aside from the incident with the sudden cessation of my constipation when stuck up a hill with no toilet paper, it had been a very relaxing day. I slept very well that night, thinking back on how lucky I was that everything had worked out as it had, with virtually no planning on my part. Yes, there had been times when I'd thought that I was going to be left in the middle of nowhere, my belongings stolen thanks to an incredibly well thought out plan which began with an old man falling off a platform on the sight of my penguin, but those times were very few and far between. Once again, I had been the recipient of incredible generosity: when was the last time you were invited to go on holiday with a family you happened to meet on a train the day before, none of whom spoke your language?

Slicing curd to dry in the sun

The kindness continued once we were back in Ulaanbaatar. Following a pretty horrendous 8-hour trip back along the dirt tracks (which saw me throw up the remains of the goat from the night before in addition to quite a lot of milk...), I was invited in to the family home. Within 30 seconds I had one laptop and two cameras plugged into the mains, and a few minutes later was in the shower, washing away the smell of cow shit. Using their dial-up connection I made a quick check of my emails, and posted the three blog entries that I'd prepared before my departure earlier thin the week. It all worked out wonderfully!

One of the thousands of birds of prey - shame about the flare from the sun

Three hours later, feeling thoroughly refreshed, I was given a lift to the station in their company car, and guided to the platform from which this train departed. What did I give in return for this hospitality? I provided the family with photographic memories, about 500 images (resized so as to prevent them selling them!) of their time in the outback. The mother had wanted her photo taken at almost every opportunity - a benefit of this was that she always wanted to take my photo in return, thus I now have quite a few pictures of me comparing my nose with those of Mongolian horses.

By special request for The Daily Mumble..!

All in all, Mongolia was spectacular - I loved it. The image of those endless miles of grassland with nothing but the occasional yurt or the shadow of a herd of goats to interrupt the scene will be etched in my memory for good. I look forward to going back there with *Twinkle*. Think I'll take a packet of Kellogg's All Bran next time.

Crazy goat

We are now being subjected to immigration procedures proper (after 5 hours sitting here, following 5 hours on the other side) - they're not done yet. It reminds me of my brief stop at Moscow International Airport a few years back, there too were the huge blonde Russian women who took no crap and barked orders at us. Our passports were taken a couple of hours ago; we're now waiting for customs to go through all our belongings whilst they're processed. I can hear the woman working her way down the carriage, giving the neighbours shit, making the kiddies cry. It seems they're pretty strict about the amount of luggage you have; this would explain why a couple of hours ago a Mongolian guy came to ask myself and Adrian if one of us would take a package across the border for him. We pointed out that doing so would be incredibly stupid, as we didn't know what was in the box. "It's just camel's wool" he insisted. I could just imagine myself trying to explain to customs what I was doing with a box of camel's wool, and why there was a package of washing-up powder in the bottom of the box... A similar thing had happened on the ferry (I may have already mentioned this); a Chinese girl asked if I'd take her laptop computer for her so she didn't have to pay duty. I remember thinking that I'd need the computer to be taken apart so I could examine the innards before I agreed to help out.

Anyway, I'm gonna leave it here for now. The to-ing and fro-ing of this train as it goes up and down the border post tracks for no apparent reason is doing me nut in. I reckon the drivers are bored, just passing the time.

Da svidanya! (Goodbye!)

p.s. A few more photos from my time in the outback... Remember, lots more in my photo albums. Click on any image to be taken there.

The son of the family I went with

This is how dusty the roads were!

Public toilets, Mongolian style (literally just a hole in the wooden floor of these doorless huts

Young monks

Horses at sunset

Where's my train gone?!

Date and Time: Early morning, early Autumn

Location: Bed 16, Carriage 1, Approximately 12 hours into a 40-hour journey from the Mongolian capital of Ulaanbaatar to the Russian city of Yakutsk.

There is something mightily odd going on here! I've just woken up and stepped outside to have a look at this station where our 10-carriage train has been for several hours. I know we've been here several hours because at about 4.30am I was woken by some loud clanging noises and the jerk of the carriage, as if an engine had just shunted into us. I checked the time, looked out of the window and just saw the usual collection of non-descript station buildings seen at many of the quieter stops along this route. I then fell back to sleep.

15 minutes ago I was woken again, this time by the rays of a beautiful golden sunrise, shining through the wafer-thin carriage curtains. Looking out of the window I see we are in the same place; the only change is that now there is a gathering of dogs, some 3-legged having been involved in arguments with trains, waiting to be thrown scraps of food. I;m thinking they are the ones abandoned at the border by owners ignorant of rules regarding the importing of animals. I also see a few people clutching towels heading off to the station building; I guess there must be a bathroom there. Needing a morning wee myself (and preferring to avoid the cesspit that is the on-board loo as much as possible), I get up and step off the train. Concerned that it might leave without me I glance along the platform to check that all the other carriage doors are still open. But they're not - because there are no other carriage doors!

Shunted off and forgotten for good?

The rest of the train has vanished! All that is left is our carriage, and one other! No engines, nothing! What is going on here? We seem to have been abandoned in the middle of some isolated freight yard! Did the engines get too tired and leave us behind? We were the last two carriages after all. Or did the coupling break without the driver noticing, him continuing to Russia with 8 carriages, oblivious of the fact that he has left a fifth of his sleeping passengers behind?!

I suppose there's not much we can do but wait. The matron doesn't seem all that concerned; she's just standing at the end of the carriage, cigarette in one hand, coal shovel in the other, feeding her mini boiler for our morning tea.

Myself and my carriage companions - two Mongolian Russians, and Andrew the Ozzie, have debated what might be the reason behind our abandonment. All we can think of is that our carriages were the only ones with printed images of foxes with pants in their mouths on the curtains.

No need to worry too much yet though, according to the Russian timetable on the wall we're not due to leave here for another 3 hours... At least I think it's three hours. Time zones make it somewhat confusing. Apparently, Russian trains run on Moscow time, which is 5 hours behind the time in the section of Russia to the north of us. But hang on, we're still in Mongolia right, so does that mean we go by Mongolian time? To make matters even more confusing, as soon as we do cross the border time actually goes forward, not backwards as it should when travelling West. Thus, as of a bit later today, I'll be back on Tokyo time despite a week on the road travelling north-west through the Tokyo-time-minus-an-hour time zone!

And I thought just dealing with a different alphabet was going to be tricky - now I have to start using a clock that goes backwards!

Tarra for now.

The moon. Not a bad shot for a normal camera me thinks.

Speechless for three days in Mongolia

Date and Time: Early evening, early Autumn

Location: Tradition Mongolian Yurt, somewhere in middle of Mongolia, 7 hours drive West of Ulaanbaatar

Feeling: Dairyed out, but happy.

Ulaanbaatar

It's nearing the end of Day 3 of our Yurt adventure. I wasn't expecting us to still be here, the arrangement having been that we'd be returning home either late last night or early this morning. Initially, upon discovering that we wouldn't be heading back into town today I was a wee bit peeved as the decision had been made without any consultation. I had the (literal) recharging of multiple batteries planned, and the washing of socks. As it is now, I'll only get into town a couple of hours before my next (30 hour) train ride begins. Still, I've come to accept this new reality now, and I am happy to remain at peace here in the countryside.

'Countryside' seems a somewhat inappropriate label for the grasslands of Mongolia. It suggests that somewhere there is a 'town-side' - yet Ulaanbaatar is (comparatively speaking) so miniscule that it doesn't really deserve a 'side' to itself, and the countryside so large that, well, it IS the Country.

Herdsman on the plain

I can't really come to terms with just how much space there is. I mean, it just goes on, and on. It belongs to no-one. This family of herdsman has been in this spot for three months - soon they will move on to fresh grazing land, as they do every few months. I asked the English-speaking daughter if they have always lived here, if they have always lived like this. No, when she was born they lived in the south, but yes, her family have always lived in yurts, moving from place to place with their livestock. She herself was now at university, and just came back to the family 'home' to help over the summer. Thus her ability to speak English, although somewhat mysteriously after that first night she has not said a word to me. The cynic in me says that after she'd managed to get me to hand over the money for my stay (I'd been told to give it to someone else and thus had not paid up) she no longer needed to be nice to me. However, the ego in me says that she was scolded by her husband for flirting with the Englishman. Whatever the reason, it initially threw me, but now I appreciate that it's her issue, not mine.

The girl in question with her brothers, holding Pepe

This has of course meant that I have not been able to talk to anyone for three days now, aside from making Mongolian-sounding acknowledgements and so forth. For the first day I even had trouble using my phrasebook, as I was unsure what language the family was using. It shouldn't have been Mongolian as they were allegedly Chinese, yet they spoke Mongolian with our guide and the herdsmen. It wasn't any Chinese I'd heard before either... I was stumped, until finally I managed to establish the fact that coming from Inner Mongolia (which is now a part of China) they were speaking a mixture of the two languages, but that they were happier reading Chinese than the Cyrillic script.

Yours Truly, and the parents (and a baby herdsman)

Joseph and the kids

My first full day got off to a mixed start. It wasn't quite as unpleasant as the one in Beijing where the first thing I did was electrocute myself by unplugging my mac in a careless manner, but it came close. Initially it was OK, well, more than OK - a beautiful sunrise that enabled me to get some great shots of rucking goats. They were very funny, sounding like human's impersonating goats with their calls to one another. There was one Billy in particular whose persistence I admired. He followed this female for ages, making sneezing sounds to seduce her, and then when she stopped walking, he'd raise his front right leg in a kind of begging action, and let out a gentle "Please?" type beeh. It was very sweet to watch, and I admired his gentlemanly approach.

The gentleman goat

The lads fight over the ladies

Anyhow, it was what followed this that was unpleasant: the digging out of live maggots from sheep's bums. At first, I didn't realise that these huge great wounds (some big enough to get a small fist in) were the result of a maggot's feast - but they were. The herdsmen /women would grab a hold of the affected sheep, sit on them and then start to dig the maggots out with any stick small enough to suffice. They then washed the wounds out, and filled them with some kind of powder. Astonishingly, once pinned down the sheep put up little resistance, although you could see just how happy they were when it was all over as leaving the holding pen they jumped for joy.

De-maggoting a sheep

Jumping for Joy

Following that, I went to watch the cows being milked, and then the horses. Yep, horses. They didn't give much milk, and weren't half as co-operative as the cows or goats, and always had to have their foals right next to them when being drained.

Breakfast, for a change, was milk, a mountain of dried curd, huge great slappings of butter and cream balanced on the end of little breadsticks, and more milk. By this time my stomach really was really complaining, and I had to go for a stroll to take my mind off the pain. Up the local hill I went, the vast grasslands stretching out before me in all directions. Down by the little zig-zag river in the shallow valley below the four yurts stood huddled together, smoke rising from the cow-pat fuelled stoves that sat in the centre of each one, boiling huge great bowls of milk for hours on end, resulting in a great thick pancakes of cream floating on the surface. Behind the yurts horses grazed, some tethered, some penned in, the remainder free to roam but reluctant to stray far from their friends. And beyond them, in the distance, a cloud of dust moved across the landscape - the goats were being herded to fresh pastures the other side of the valley.

Dust rises from a herd of goats

I felt better after my little stroll, and decided to give horse-riding a go. I've only ever ridden a horse once before, and on that occasion it became tangled in barbed wire and (naturally) extremely agitated. Still, out here, apart from the pens used to hold the animals in prior to milking, there's nothing in the way of fences. Just vast stretches of open land ready to be conquered by the pounding of hooves of a galloping horse.

Or, in my case, the incredibly slow clip-clop of the hooves of a horse that doesn't speak English and thus doesn't understand the words, "Go on horsey, good horsey, forward horsey". "Horsey, can we go a bit faster? They're all laughing at me". The horse seemed in no mood for speed that day however, and so I just went round in circles for a while. It was fun though - watch out for me jockeying in next years' derby.

Where's the "Go forwards" button on this thing?

The horse refuses to move out of frame as the parents have their photo taken

Naturally, after all that excitement, and a heavy lunch consisting of copious amounts of dairy products and goat broth (I tried not to look too closely at the pieces of meat after an initial glance - I could make out little veins and other yukky things), I was absolutely shattered, and so settled down to sleep in the cool of the dark yurt. I've not felt that relaxed in a very long time; several hours passed, with me oblivious to the comings and goings of the herdsmen as they played around with various barrels of milk at different stages of transmogrification.

As the sun neared the Western horizon, so it was time for the evening milking. Once the goats had been rounded up, a particularly amiable character was chosen to be victim of my udder abuse, as I tried in vein to get a drop from the swollen animal. It seems I just didn't have the knack. Thus, after five minutes the somewhat agitated animal was taken off me, and I was given the job of keeping the post-milked goats near the holding pen whilst the remainder were dealt with. Initially this was easy - 10 goats weren't all that much of a handful and I was easily able to keep them exactly where I wanted them to be. However, one-by-one the number increased, until 30 minutes later I was struggling to keep the gaggly gang of 50 together. Some were determined to explore the long grass off to the east, whilst others were steadfast in their mission to explore a particularly green patch of land the west. The biggest problem though was Blacky and Whitey - a naughty mother and daughter pair who insisted on not sticking with the crowd and doing their own thing. I later learnt that these two were notorious trouble-makers, and were often tethered for the day so as not to gander off to Europe as seemed to be their plan.

Trying to milk a goat

Sitting on the fence

Cowboy Joseph with the two naughty goats

By 8pm it was getting dark, and I was feeling sleepy. It seemed my body had well and truly surrendered to the rhythm of the outback, and after an evening meal of, er, milky stuff, I was only too happy to hit the carpet.

A Mongolian evening sky

Live from the Yurt

Date and Time: Early morning, early Autumn

Location: Tradition Mongolian Yurt, somewhere in middle of Mongolia, 7 hours drive West of Ulaanbaatar

Feeling: Peaceful, despite sore bum

It's extraordinary what a powerful influence one's surroundings have upon one's rhythm. It's only been 36 hours since we arrived at the collection of 4 yurts that is home to this family of herdsmen, but already my body feels it is only right that I rise with the sun, retire at about 8pm soon after the sun sets. I recall trying to get into this rhythm in Tokyo, but my body was vocal in its complaints from the start. Even after a week of forced early mornings I was no closer to waking up of my own accord before 9am, yet here, my eyes opened just before the sunrise, and I was wide awake within seconds.

Rucking goats at sunrise

If anyone had told me the story of how I'd end up here, I'm not sure I'd have believed them. On the Trans-Mongolian train I'd have a brief conversation with a Japanese-speaking Mongolian of Chinese origin; she would invite me to join her family when they went to stay 300km west of Ulaanbaatar in the Mongolian outback. I already knew her parents, as her father had fallen off the station platform when trying to stroke my pet penguin. She would tell me to meet her the following morning at the gates of Mongolia's most important monastery. I would turn up at the appointed time, where I would wait for almost an hour, engaged in conversation with a peak-capped Mongolian chap in his 70s, who, with the aid of my Phrasebook tells me time and time again that he is the highest lord in the entire land.

The monastery located in central Ulaanbaatar

Eventually, my new friend - who's name is so long I can't even remember - arrives at the gate. I am expecting a 4x4 or a high-wheel base van, the kind of which are seen outside all Mongolian tour company offices, but no, behind her is a Toyota XEV Vintage - a low-slung four door family saloon. Assuming that our route will not be along the kind of dirt tracks I saw from the train, I think no more of it and get in the passenger seat, next to the well-built chap dressed in camouflage gear and sporting a pair of wrap-around shades, just as he had been yesterday when he met the family at the station. In the back, her mother, father, younger sister and a little dog are sitting. I was just about to ask where her younger brother (age 10?) was going to sit, when he climbed on my lap. I shouldn't be too surprised, you rarely see a car that isn't full to bursting. But what about her, my friend?

The driver, GI Jim

"Oh, I can't come, I have to work" she tells me. Er, right. So that leaves me with your family and this army guy, none of whom I know anything about, and none of whom speak English (or Japanese). I try not to feel put out by this, maybe it was some kind of oversight on her part, you know, not to tell me. Everything will be OK, I tell myself, looking forward to a couple of days of relative silence on my part. I guess it will kind of suit the environment.

Miki the dog

The seven of us set off. After 200 metres or so we stop outside a fruit and veg market. Men carrying impossibly tall stacks of boxes - fruit from China - on their backs pour our of the front door, dodge traffic on the four-land highway out front and plonk them down on the opposite kerb next to waiting taxis. There are so many vehicles loading and unloading fruit that one gets the impression that the entire Mongolian economy is centred around fruit distribution. Out of the corner of my eye I see a vehicle that makes me look twice - a genuine Japanese "Kuro Neko" van, belonging to Japan's most widely used courier company. It's paintwork has been left exactly as when it was when it retired from service, but there's no smartly-dressed baseball capped driver running down the road with a parcel of fresh fish; instead there's a group of scruffy old men, sitting in the back surrounded by boxes of peaches and bananas.

Our already fully-loaded car is packed further with a great sack of cabbagaes, a box of plums and 12 litres of water; bursting at the seams we drive a bit further out of town, fill up with gas and oil, stop at a little roadside shrine to offer vodka to the Gods in order that we may be looked after during our epic trip West, and then hit the highway.

Shrine stop

I'm glad to see the back of Ulaanbaatar. Just as the guide book said, it's a filthy city. It sits in a shallow valley surrounded on all sides by mini-mountains that serve to retain the blanket of pollution that rises from the factories to the south-west of the centre. It's another of those places, like the places in China I visited, where one doesn't really want to breath. I think back to the Mongolia I saw from the train, and can scarcely believe it's the same country. From the train, that looked so big, so empty, so clean.

However, it seems that with so much apparent space (I think the country has a population of only 2 million, half of whom live in the capital) there is little concern for the environment - if there's so much of it, why bother protect it? The effect of this attitude is pollution both in the city, and the few tows that exist elsewhere. The Ulaanbaatar yurt hostel that I stayed in on my first night in Mongolia was situated in the heart of what I would describe as a 'yurt slum'. Filthy streets, a river that was more rubbish than water, and the stench of general crap. Thankfully, the yurt hostel had been built on top of a hill, and the yurts were pitched on the roof of the main building, lifting them above the stink below.

The Yurt Slum

Perhaps my concern for the environment clouds my judgement when it comes to summing up a city. I can't really get beyond the pollution to appreciate any other aspect.

So yes, you can imagine how glad I was when we reached the end of the city. I wasn't entirely sure where we were going - all my Japanese-speaking friend had said was that it was 300km to the west. And it is, but the journey that followed made it feel like it was a lot further. The thing was, the road was still under construction. It had been completed for the most part - a long straight bed of gravel that cut through the grassland like a knife, but every 500 metres or so there was a gap where a bridge across a little stream was to go, thus making the entire road useless. Instead, what we had to deal with was 300km of off-roading, in that family saloon. Initially I guessed that this was just a temporary thing, that we'd soon reach the end of the roadworks - but no. It went on, and on, and on. For 300km. We were driving for 9 hours in the end. Occasionally we'd spot a stretch of the highway that was without gaps all the way to the horizon - it looked beautiful. However, being under construction there was no entry ramp, so we'd climb the embankment, scraping the underside of the car on the gravel as we went over the top. Then GI Jim would floor it, and we'd bomb down the road, 90, 100, 110kmph, loving this opportunity to go faster than a drunken snail. In less than a minute we'd reach that horizon, and seconds later, without fail, we'd find ourselves facing a break in the road: time to return to one of the many dirt tracks that zig-zagged a course parallel to the road-to-be. Sometimes we were lucky and found a fairly shallow embankment to exit down, but more than once we ended up having to turn around and retrace our steps looking for some section where the road elevation wasn't all that great. Then there was that time when we got well and truly stuck whilst trying to negotiate a particularly risky way off. First, the sound of stone on metal, then the tyres spinning. We get out, and push GI Jim over the rocks and out of the mud. Behind us, a brand new Land Rover waits for us to clear the way, and then effortlessly continues on its journey, the embankment being nothing more than a minor blip in the road surface to its great big tyres and superb suspension. I try to tell myself it's more fun doing it the hard way.

A section of the dirt road

A section of the road we wished we could drive on

300km of off-roading near their end

The landscape was similar to that that I'd seen from the train - endless grassland, without division of any kind. Only this time it wasn't so flat. There were frequent gentle hills (covered in pot-holes where dirt roads traversed over them I hasten to add), and in the distance mini-mountains. We often passed herds of cattle, horses, sheep, and usually not far beyond them a little collection of yurts. Other than these (and the road on which we were driving), signs of human life were seldom indeed - in 300km we only passed two small towns.

A herd of goats cross the plain

There were a few other vehicles that caught my eye. One was a Citroen 2CV - I really thought that the mirage ahead was getting creative when I saw this, but no, it was a real French 2CV, and according to the sticker on the side, had been taking part in the Trans-Mongolian rally. Knowing how hard it was to not shoot the suspension to bits in a fairly modern Toyota, I marvelled that that little Dolly was still in one piece!

Another that struck me was a motorbike, Well, it wasn't the motorbike itself - that was like any other you'd see on any Western road - it was the passengers. Two farmers ...and a goat! Absolute classic. Heaven knows how they managed to stay on on those roads.

The final vehicle to make one question the sanity of the driver was the lorry with a car balanced precariously in top of its second trailer. It was tied on with bailer-twine wrapped around the back wheels...!

How to get a low-wheel-base car across Mongolia - give it a lift!

I don't know why, but it didn't seem like it took most of the day to get here. Time wasn't really a factor, it just took as long as it took. As I mentioned before, the only times that mean anything cannot be described by fixed numbers; they change every day with the rising and setting of the sun.

We were met by the herdsman and his family, who turned out to be related to GI Jim. A meal was set out before us: dried curd pieces, miniature sticks of bread, a huge dish of butter and cream, a bowl of partially fermented sour milk, all washed down with (you guessed it), milk.

Food that was going to be making an appearance at every mealtime for the next three days...

The dairy theme has continued ever since, and is the only cause of discomfort for me. I'm not a great fan of dairy produce, and when in Tokyo hardly consumed any save for a bit of milk in my irregular mugs of coffee. My stomach is not all that happy with this 3-meals-a-day dairy overdose, and I've become pretty constipated. This isn't necessarily a bad thing though, and is infinitely preferable to diarrhoea. Why? The toilet is that patch of ground just over there, behind that bank of tall grasses.

Our yurt

Our Yurt - in situ

I long to drink some water, but there's little of it around. I'm not too keen on drinking the dirty river water, as drunk by the herdsman's family. Their immune systems may be able to deal with it, but I'm not sure mine would. I'll stick with the constipation thanks.

We were all in bed pretty early that first night, and I, following an hour or so of Kafka on the Shore, slept very soundly on my own mattress-shaped carpet.

It was a good first day, great to be out in the vast, tranquil countryside. Free of the noise, stress and dirt of the city. I reckon all Japanese people should be sent here for a 3 week holiday every year to help them remember that life is more than just jobs and shopping.

Down by the riverside

Yurt and horses at sunset

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Endless miles of stars

VITAL STATISTICS

Date & Time: 25th August 2007, 10:10am

Location: Train carriage next to remote village in central Mongolia, 1500km from Beijing.

Feeling very happy. The train has stopped at some remote village - by 'village' I mean a group of 6 little widely-spaced homesteads, each consisting of a tin-roofed bungalow with up to three yurts behind it, and a large satellite dish. I guess that's so they can connect to the Tesco website to order their weekly groceries.

I slept well under my Mongolian rug. This, despite the most incredible snoring you have ever heard. It really was incredible, Harold and Barry sounding like they had entire orchestras up their noses. The sound of the train trundling along was incredible soothing though - it hasn't once gone over about 50mph, but that's just fine, somehow it fits in with the landscape. An awe-inspiring landscape. Vast, endless stretches of grassland. With not a tree in sight the dusty green is only occasionally interrupted by the appearance of a bunch of grazing horses or an isolated yurt. There's absolutely no agriculture, it's far too dry. In fact, rivers don't feature at all, not even in a dried-up form. I don't think they've ever been here.

I did actually wake up once or twice last night when the train jolted into action after a brief stop: looking out of the window I saw an awesome sight. Such a huge empty landscape, illuminated by the light of the stars - the stars! They were just beautiful. I have so missed them having lived in cities for so long. Out there, there is nothing to mask their beauty.

The sun rises casting a long shadow beside the train

Horse on the plain

Very hairy horses on the plain

This morning Harold and Barry played a few rounds of Mahjong, and then began a nectarine-peeling competition using the box of thirty or so fruits that I bought last night for a pound, and my penknife. There was much laughter as I failed miserably in every attempt to peel a nectarine in one - I blame the movement of the train. They've also invited me to stay with them at our destination, a very kind offer that I have turned down due to my booking at the yurt hostel(!).

Barry shows us how it's done

A little while ago I was standing in the corridor, camera lens sticking out the window, when I girl in her early twenties approached me and starting talking in Mongolian. I told her that I didn't understand - did she speak English? No. How about Japanese? I asked, in Japanese, not expecting any intelligible response. On hearing this her face broke into a huge smile, and she replied, in good Japanese, "Yes, I do!".

It turns out that she's here with her parents, who in fact I met last night at the Mongolian border town station when her husband, distracted by Pepe the penguin, fell 2 foot off the platform. He was ok, just shaken, and once he'd recovered we had a good sign-language conversation about penguins.

So anyhow, Wurentaogesi (am yet to get the pronunciation right) and I continued to chat, talking about our plans. I told her that I was thinking of going to some place near the capital to ride a horse and things, but that I wasn't sure exactly where this was. As it happens though, she's taking her parents to just such a place owned by a friend of hers, 300km East of Ulaanbaatar, and at only £8.50 (transport, meals and horse included) it's a bargain - would I like to join them? Sounds like a plan to me!

Looking at my schedule, I'm a couple of days behind but this doesn't really matter, I can still make it to Moscow on time. In fact, the less time I spend in Moscow the better I think, it sounds bloomin expensive!

As the train nears Ulaanbaatar so the number of yurt-centred homesteads increase. A fairly well-used dirt track has appeared by the railway line too - and with more than half an hour until we reach our destination people are already starting to carry their luggage to the vesitible area! After that show at Chinese customs I guess I shouldn't be too surprised!

The train approaches Ulaanbaatar

Tatta for now!

Hello Mongolia

VITAL STATISTICS

Date & Time: 24th August 2007, 10.13pm

Carriage 8, bed 9, train to Ulanbaataar from China. Currently just inside Mongolia, Gobi Desert

It was so funny when we were waiting to get through customs and immigration. As mentioned in my previous entry, I'd got to the station pretty early and so was first in line. The initial line was that for the first of 2 luggage x-ray machines; all major Chinese stations have them at the entrance for some reason. That wasn't so bad, as there wasn't all that much waiting involved, thus not too much pushing and shoving. After that it was the customs x-ray machine. By this time people were starting to get excited, and there was about 30 minutes of waiting for the officials to show up for them to get inventive with their queue jumping. Now, once again, I was right at the front, standing on the yellow line in front of the immigration booth. Seeing this, about 10 Chinese men who'd turned up late started to slowly edge their luggage under the barrier next to me. When the official on duty turned his back, they proceeded to shove it forward until it was right up against the official booth - and they were now standing in front of me!

The crowds - and their luggage - begin to gather in front of the station

I didn't mind too much, after all, seats were assigned according to ticket, so being first in line wouldn't really make any difference in the end.

But the game wasn't over yet. The men continued to edge forward whenever the official turned his back until eventually they managed to make it all the way past the booth to the x-ray machine. Eager to get through quickly they then started to place their packages on the machine's (stationary) conveyor belt! The more they put on, the further into the machine it was pushed - if they carried on like that it would be coming out the other side! ...and all this time the immigration staff were still in their office behind the scenes. Now and then a station worker would tell the men (kids) to get back behind the line, but they'd just argue with him until he gave way. It was all pretty funny to watch. I tried to imagine what would happen if they did this in Japan - something tells me they wouldn't get too far!

The atmosphere in our cabin is really nice. After a 90 minute walk around the border station (during which I met a very interesting Mongolian student who spoke excellent English, as well as Spanish, Korean and a bit of Chinese), we were back on board, welcomed by the two women in charge of our carriage and its little coal fire. During the first part of our trip they were pretty scary, barking at us to shut our window, yelling in high pitched blabbles for us stow our luggage properly. Now they know our faces, and now we are playing the role of obedient passengers, they are being kind and caring.

The matrons

Once the four of us were seated, the main man, one of the 50 year olds from Shanghai, I'll call him Barry, asked me for my penknife and cut one of his 6 watermelons from the net under one of the bottom bunks. He divided it into 8 slices, and together we sloshed away at the sweet flesh. Being a bit nervous about one of the matrons showing up and telling us off for getting the carpet wet, we shut the door and tried to keep the noise down. MMmmmmm, it was delicious. ...Barry and the other older chap, let's call him Harold (as he does remind me of the famous Mr. Bishop of Neighboursfame) are now comparing stomach sizes, teasing one another about being overweight.

From left: Harold and Barry

It's now getting on for 11pm, and I'm feeling dozy. I think I might retire to my bunk and get a bit of sleep. When I wake up we should have finished our Gobi Desert crossing, and will be close to the Mongolian Capital.

Oyasumi xxx

Thoughts whilst waiting for the train

VITAL STATISTICS

Date & Time: 24th August 2007, 2pm

Location: entrance lobby of station, Chinese border town of Erlian, the Gobi Desert

Time until next train: 4 hours

I don't really need to be here this early - check-in for the international train doesn't start for another hour - but I've had a look round town and had enough of the dust and heat.

I managed to get my grocery bill halved, simply by going through my collection of food and asking how much each item was, then saying 'that's too expensive' in Chinese to every price quoted. Turns out he was trying to charge me £1.40 for the Cadburys chocolate, double the UK price! I got him down to 70p on that, although he had the last laugh as after I'd eaten half of it I spotted the Best Before date - it was 2003!! Despite being over 4 years old it tasted pretty good, so I ate the rest of it. I'm now stocked up with coconut bread, pot noodles and plenty of water.

Young workers on the Chinese railway

Scene: 2 hours later, sitting on the train, 90 mins till departure for Mongolia

Myself and three chaps from Shanghai have now settled into our sleeping carriage - it seems most people have brought everything but the kitchen sink, thus the carriage is absolutely packed with boxes and suitcases. As we sit here waiting for departure, so local people keep on stopping at our door clutching great big nets of huge watermelons, boxes of peaches, bottles of half-frozen water and cartons of ice lollies. A sack of 6 watermelons will set you back £1.50 - makes a change from Japan!

I've acquired some informants, a group of three girls, a Mongolian and 2 Mongolian-speaking Koreans who also speak English. Apparently the train to Ulanbaataar from the Mongolian border town that this train is heading for is fully booked - seats are sold out until mid-September, and there's not even standing room available for tonight's train. It seems that all remaining tickets were bought up by touts who will auction them off at extortionate rates on the platform. There's a second rumour though, and that's that we can buy a connecting ticket here on the train before we get to Mongolia. I'm a bit confused as to whether this actual train will go all the way to my destination or whether we have to change on the Mongolian side. Well, I'll just do what my friends do, as I'm clueless. They said they'd keep me informed.

A small business in the border town of Erlian

Meeting so many people along the way means that I haven't really felt lonely at all on this trip. Well, actually, there have been two moments when I was filled with a rush of despair and isolation, longing to be with *Twinkle*. they were when I arrived at my hotel in Datong, and again here in Erlian. The Datong incident was soon dealt with as I found a broadband internet port behind the bedside table, and in Erlian I distracted myself by listening to a couple more chapters of Haruki Murakami's Kafka on the Shore - thanks for the recommendation Tom, and thanks for the download Audible.co.uk!

I dislike the idea of not being happy being alone, as it suggests that one does not like one's own company, which in my mind is not a good thing. If one doesn't love oneself (I don't mean in an egotistical or narcissistical way) then one can't give so much love to others. I mean, think of someone you know who is very happy with themselves - doesn't their radiance rub off on you?

I'm finding writing quite therapeutic, and am very glad I brought my MacBook with me. I find it pretty shocking just how forgetful I am though - I've been taking notes on a pad of paper along the way, and find it hard to recall the days when I've not written anything.

I'm trying not to think about arriving at my final destination, the UK. Even a brief moment of imagining being there fills me with fear and upset, as it confirms my separation from Japan and *Twinkle*. Those first couple of weeks will be spent visiting friends before I return to Sheffield, and I imagine I'll be in a bit of a mess, not really wanting to be there. That I am sort of looking forward to, back in my own private space, in touch with my friends in Japan thanks to the broadband, surrounded by my belongings from Japan. I'd like to think I'm a free nomad, not needing the comfort of possessions or a fixed routine, but that's not the case. I am yet to reach that stage of stillness.

That's not to say I'm not happy travelling, because I am, despite the very real concerns of having my belongings stolen. Time and time again I have been warned about 'the bad people' - they're worse in Mongolia you know. I have my passport and money in a hidden belt, my wallet attached to that with a cord. I never let my black rucksack out of my possession, as it contains everything of value that I own. The green one is just clothes and tea, so whilst it would be a pain if it was nicked I could easily replace everything it contains. I've avoided alcohol altogether ever since I left Shanghai; I just can't be too careful.

Bye-bye China

Scene: 3 Hours later. Sitting on the train at the Mongolian border town of thingamijig, Gobi Desert, waiting for immigration to process our passports.

Turns out the rumours were true and false. The false one was that we had to change trains and that all seats were already gone. The true one was that we can buy a ticket through to our destination from a women on board. 36,000 Mongolian Tugrik for the 13 hour trip to the Capital on a comfortable sleeper - that's £15. Mind you, sheets and the cup of tea handed out upon boarding are extra - a whole 1000 Tugrik, or 43p. I'm sharing a 4-berth cabin with three blokes from Shanghai. Two of them are in their 50s, the other is a university student. None of them speak English, so communication is limited to the sentences my phrasebook contains and a large piece of paper now covered in pictures. We've shared a few laughs and a bag of pumpkin seeds, and helped one another out with the immigration forms. When given a Chinese form I asked for the English version - the immigration official had a leaf through his pile of blanks but couldn't find one, so handed me the Mongol script version and burst out laughing. I thanked him in my best Mongolian, bayarlaa. That made him laugh too.

There's not much to see round here as we're surrounded by freight trains. There's a bunch of kids running around the yard, now and then pulling some lever under the carriage, causing a dramatic release of compressed air. Let's hope it's not going to disable the brakes.

A two-hour wait at the border gives us a chance to stretch our legs

One thing I noticed in Erlian was that far fewer people looked at me. I guess being a border town they're used to seeing foreigners - it made a refreshing change.

For some reason the train is now heading back towards China. Not entirely sure why, but according to my carriage mates it's quite normal. As long as we don't go too far - I left my passport back there!

tatta for now!

Doing Business in China

VITAL STATISTICS

Date & Time: 24th August 2007, 12pm

Location: The hotel Hutiejuhengnuobinguan, Chinese border town of Erlian, the Gobi Desert

Time until next train: 6 hours

Length of next train journey (to the Mongolian capital, Ulanbaataar): 17 hours

Hello. I'm sitting at my desk in my hotel room, just getting into the mood for crossing the Mongolian part of the Gobi by listening to my Mongolian CD.

I spent the morning getting all necessary business done, namely changing money and buying a train ticket across the border. Stepping out of the hotel at 9am I was dismayed to see a queue stretching a long way down the street in front of the international ticket office. People were standing there clutching great wadges of passports - at this rate I'll miss today's train too! I said to myself.

As it happened though, things went pretty smoothly. That is, until I reached the ticket window, where, contrary to what the policeman had told me, I found I couldn't pay in US dollars. I asked the somewhat embarrassed policeman where I could change money, in response to which he commandeered an old granny standing nearby and commanded her to take me to a local grocery shop where the owner was happy to rip me off with her personal exchange rate. Armed with my yuen, I returned to the ticket office and picked up my passport, various official vouchers to get me across no-man's land, and a ticket to the Mongolian border city. There, I shall have to buy the ticket to Ulanbaataar. For that transaction Mongolian Tugrik are necessary, and thus another exchange was called for. Reluctant to go back to the woman who had been only too pleased to see me before, I asked at the hotel reception where I could change some money. She babbled away in Chinese, me not understanding a word, and then drew a map for me directing me down the street. I followed the map, and at the point that she had indicated found a Post Office. In I go, and ask the clerk if I can buy some Tugrik. He looks at me in a disinterested fashion and shakes his head. I ask him where I can exchange money, which prompts him to heave himself of his comfy chair and take me for a walk a little further down the road. We enter another tiny little grocery shop, where the owner is apparently happy to change money.

This time I'm prepared: I've checked the exchange rate (or at least that of a few days ago) on my MacBook, and have the precise amount written down. He looks at this, and somewhat surprisingly only takes about 20p commission. Mind you, he wasn't gonna miss out on this opportunity to get all he could off me, and so when I asked him how much my two bottles of iced tea, Cadbury's Wispa, bread rolls and cup ramen cost, he told me 42 yuen - that's about £2.50. What a rip-off! There was no way I was going to pay that, and in fact I didn't actually have that much money on me, at least not until the hotel gave me my £7 deposit back. I told him I'd be back later - and later back I shall go, ready with my "That's too expensive" phrase.

I then went to look for some kind of internet access to tell the yurt owners that I've been delayed again. I decided to go and ask the very kind man in the travel shop who had told me all about the ticket-to-Mongolia system, and sure enough he came up trumps, switching on the pc at his desk and initiating the dial-up connection. I sent my mail, and thanked him many times; he was grateful for the 4 yuen (28p) I handed him.

I've been told that although the train leaves at 6pm, I need to be there for 3pm to get through immigration and so forth. It's gonna be a long day.

I've been meaning to tell you a little more about Datong, the first city on the Trans-Siberian after Beijing.

Riding from the station to the hotel on the 7p bus was quite an experience. The bus itself is a stunning mix of old and new. Whilst it sported an LED display (its disconnected wires dangling down) and the latest in IC-card technology ('touch and ride', no need to fiddle about with change), it also had a huge tank of water behind the drivers seat, with a hose going through a whole in what could be loosely termed a 'dashboard'; I guessed this was feeding some kind of cooling system. The problem was though that the tank wasn't actually watertight, thus every time we slowed down, speeded up or turned a corner water sloshed out of the top and onto the floor.

There were many traders with their jumble of plastic goods laid out on blankets on the dusty streets, people selling peaches from carts (sometimes sleeping soundly on top of the carts next to their produce!), burst water mains flooding the road, and what's that? A donkey and cart! And another one! They start appearing everywhere, usually with a load of watermelons or other assorted fruit behind them, led by an old man.

Checking in to the once pretty snazzy hotel was an amusing experience. I only had 200 yuen (£14) on me, thus the 250 yuen room charge was beyond my budget. When my phrasebook skills hit a brick wall, a phone call was made, and a young girl in a long pink traditional dress appeared. "Hello! How can I help?".

Her English was pretty good, and thus I was able to discuss all sorts of options such as cleaning the floor, or teaching her more English in exchange for a discount. Eventually a deal was struck - I could stay for 185 yuen if I didn't eat in the hotel restaurant. This was fine by me. I handed over my passport, and they then proceeded to photocopy my Japanese student visa instead of my Chinese visa. Error rectified, we took photos and up I went to my room, which all in all wasn't half bad.

The following day I spent hours trying to sort out a ticket for Jining. What a palaver! With not enough yuen to get me to Erlian I needed a bank, but was told that there was only one in this huge city that would change foreign money. Reluctant to take a bus and get completely lost, I opt for a taxi, writing down "Bank of China" and "place to change foreign money" on a slip of paper for him to read. 10 minutes and 35p later we arrive at the bank. In I go, and wait in line until served. It seemed to take forever to carry out this transaction. As I waited I glanced around, noting the fact that they don't have money kept in drawers - the just use big metal suitcases to keep their dough in. The other thing that caught my attention was the little electronic staff name cards with 3 buttons on. In English and Chinese they read, "With your help, how was my service today?". Once could then press the button that best summed up your feelings - satisfactory, average, dissatisfactory. I wondered if this meant that for the average Chinese banking customer, the service was neither satisfactory nor dissatisfactory - what might that be?

You know in the UK we have signs on the doors of banks saying "No helmets", well it's not really a security issue here. You see, for one thing, no one wears helmets, but more importantly even if one did it wouldn't really be as much of a threat to bank security as the other thing - people ride their motorbikes into the bank! I kid you not. There were two people in there actually sitting on their bikes whilst being served. It's not as if this is a drive-through bank either. It's a proper Bank of China bank, with a polished marble floor and three steps down to the street. Talk about being able to make a fast getaway!

Eventually I managed to buy my ticket (after being referred to about 5 different station departments!), and boarded the train for Erlian. It was standing room only, but I didn't mind as it was only a couple of hours. After a little while, I was approached by a 15 year old girl who speaks a little English. She invites me over to talk with her and her granny; I am only too happy to oblige. We go through all the basics, her granny (a high school teacher) doing more of the questioning than her, constantly prodding her grand-daughter to ask me this that and the other. Meanwhile, she is constantly feeding me hot water; I'm a bit mystified by this as it's a boiling hot day, but assume that it's some health thing, and sip away as slowly as possible. After a while it becomes clear that the 15 year old boy is understanding some of what I'm saying. I ask him if he speaks English - he does, a little. The process is now repeated with his mum, a maths teacher in her late 30s quizzing me on what I'm doing. The subject turns to my ring - am I married? I produce a photo of *Twinkle* and tell our story. When they hear that she is Japanese they all make a great deal of noise: "but Japanese girls are so beautiful and sweet! You are very lucky man!"

We exchange contact details, and as the train pulls into my station I promise I'll keep in touch.

I was only alone for an hour or so, as it was shortly after I alighted there that I met Tom.

Well, check out time is upon me, and I must go do battle with the man who sells Cadbury's chocolate.

See you in Mongolia!

love Joseph

The hotel Hutiejuhengnuobinguan

VITAL STATISTICS

Date & Time: 23rd August 2007, 10.30pm

Location: The hotel Hutiejuhengnuobinguan, Chinese border town of Erlian, the Gobi Desert

Distance travelled from Beijing: 842km

Time until next train: 20 hours

I don't really get what the architect was thinking when he was designing the bathroom in my large, clean and fairly modern hotel room. It's an all-in-one affair: sink on the left, toilet in the middle, shower on the right. But there's no shower tray or curtain, just the head attached to the wall. The floor is tiled, but is lacking in any kind of drainage channel. Being the same level as the tiled floor of my room proper, when one has a shower the waste water, soap and all, hits the wall, runs down to the floor, runs under the door and floods the entrance hallway. The toilet also gets a good soaking, as does the toilet paper.

Despite this, tonight's unanticipated hotel stop is turning out to be a lot more pleasant that last night's. For a start the white-washed walls are not covered in mosquito corpses and dried blood; all the lights work, the floor is clean (apart from the bit by the front door which has a nice coating of soap-scum!) and the price is the regular price, as shown in the hotel brochure (£7).

Arriving in the border town of Erlian, I was kind of expecting a connecting train to Ulanbaataar, 700km to the north. I've had my thinking conditioned by a Year in Japan - here in the Inner Mongolian Gobi Desert there's only one train a day, and I'd missed it by 30 minutes. I only found this out half an hour after we arrived at the end of our 7 hour trip from Jining. One of my friends from the train (who had earlier saved me from accidentally getting off at the wrong station) took it upon himself to find out where I could get a ticket to the Mongolian capital. He didn't speak any English (no-one did on today's train, although to be honest I was glad of a break from constant chatter), but we managed to get by with my phrasebook and sign language. First, we did a tour of the station's many ticket halls - all said they couldn't sell cross-border tickets and I'd have to go to an agent, the location of which they didn't know. Feeling stumped, we stood together thinking. I then suggested that we ask the police, writing the simple kanji for 'Police' that I'd picked up (literally 'Public Safety' if given the Japanese meaning) on the palm of my hand.

The police were just as unhelpful as the station staff, simply pointing in the direction of the main city and talking about some agent. It was at this point that I started to get a bit worried, picturing myself stuck in this place for days on end, unable to get a ticket for any train north. My first impression of Erlian is that it's not the most hospitable of towns. It's kind of raw, it's got that wild border-town feeling, ungoverned by any authorities - the hundreds of kilometres of Gobi Desert providing an effective barrier between Beijing and the locals.

Little boys on the streets of Erlian

The filthy streets are more sand than asphalt. Carrier bags do American Beauty dances wherever you look. Taxi drivers circle around in front of the station, hooting their horns to get your attention, even when they're in what could be loosely described as a taxi rank. Half of the shops are empty; those that are occupied have thick plastic curtains hanging from their door frames to keep the dust out, behind which stand owners who don't seem to want to have anything to do with the foreigner and his guide.

The main street, Erlian

Eventually we find a little non-descript business, the owner of which speaks a few English words, and is happy to advise. He tells me that I can get a ticket to Ulaanbaatar from his neighbour in the morning, it'll cost 360 yuen (£24) for the 16-hour overnight trip. For the time being though I'll have to stay here. He points at this hotel, a recommendation I accept, its size and prominence reassuring the part of me that is sure that everyone is trying to scam me. I thank him, and turn around to thank my fellow passenger, but he has vanished - his wife had been anxious to get home.

My train doesn't leave until 6pm tomorrow, although this isn't an issue as I'm sure I'll have plenty of fun in the meantime attempting to change some dollars into Mongolian Tugriks, and trying to find somewhere to send an email to the yurt owners to tell them of my further delay. (I'd experienced a brief flash of joy when I first turned my MacBook on here in the hotel room - there was a wireless network! Unfortunately it turned out to be an internal thing, and is not connected to the www. The hotel receptionist, when I asked her about internet, happily assured me that there was no such thing in this city).

Right, time for bed.

Beijing Duck

VITAL STATISTICS

Time: Mid-morning, 23rd August 2007
Location: On the local train heading north towards the Gobi Desert from Jining.
Thoughts: Hmm, now I understand why the windows are sealed shut - if they weren't the train would turn into a moving sand pit!

The landscape is pretty flat in these parts. Long thin strips of crops occasionally break the stoney grassland, turning it into a rainbow of greens, yellows and browns. For the most part a line of trees protects the banks of the railway from erosion, and the trains from being tossed from the line in the vicious spring winds (they are not always successful in doing this, as the occupants of a train just like this one discovered a few months back).

The carriage air is now full of fine particles of dust. It doesn't smell all that good either as the two guys next to me have just taken their shoes off. One of them clears his throat and spits on the floor. I guess he hasn't seen the Beijing Olympics ads on CCTV.

My Final night in Beijing

I shall now backtrack, to pick up my story that I left off with with the photos of the Great Wall.

Once back in Beijing, I decided to explore the old part of town, the network of little alleyways that, as mentioned in a previous blog, house a quarter of the city's population. What a fascinating place! I was mesmorised by the glimpses I got of life the other side of the door frames that marked the entrance to the walled-in communities. Many of these are now protected by preservation orders, as they date back to, erm, a long time ago, and have been victim to modern development projects. Some cunning foreigners (and increasing the locals) have seen these tumbledown grey-bricked shacks as great investment opportunities: they are, after all, in the very heart of Beijing. Subsequently, new cafes with Western menus, ethnic shops of the kind you will see in any Western city and swanky wood-floored Jacuzzi-equipped homes for the elite have sprung up - not a bad thing, as without this money the homes would be reduced to rubble in no time.

Fruit and veg shop in the Hutong area

As evening drew close, so I returned to Ku-san's apartment. Short on cash, I take the subway to the other side of town. I'll still need to get a taxi, but it'll cost considerably less. Once again I am mesmerised by the electronic ads that are displayed on TVs on the tunnel wall. They are programmed to display a perfect sequence of images, adjusted to match the speed of the train as it passes. We stop at a station, and suddenly the carriage is filled with singing. A heavily scarred man has got on the train with a microphone attached to a specially adapted rucksack containing an amp and a speaker where the back pocket usually is - busking, Beijing style. Once home I have a quick shower, and then we're all out into the waiting taxi: it was time for the local speciality, Beijing Duck.

Go into any supermarket in Beijing and you will be struck by just how many ducks there are. All dead of course, and pre-cooked, in bags. Anyone would the eat duck the way we drink tea; it made me glad I wasn't a duck in China.

We weren't going to eat in the supermarket though, no, I was being treated to what will probably turn out to be the most delicious meal of this entire trip at one of the capital's top restaurants. The endorsements said it all; alongside the various framed letters of thanks (for a great duck) signed by many ambassadors was one from the King of Morocco, saying he's never tasted a more delicious quacker. The service wasn't bad either - as soon as you walk in you are presented with a bar where you can help yourself to free plum juice, tea, or wine.

[crikey, this guys feet reaaaaallly stink}

Watching the ducks being cooked was quite a spectacle. Behind the glass wall, a team of chefs hauled ducks in and out of great flame-powered ovens, now and then dangling them directly over the fires to crisp off their skin. When it came to serving them, the duck was brought out whole on a small trolley, and one of the chef's would carve it up for you, placing the thin slices upon a bed of lettuce. The head, beak and all, was unceremoniously snapped off, and then chopped in half and used as a presentation piece to a single piece of breast meat that was supposedly the most delicious.

Beijing ducks. As seen in Tokyo, not Beijing due to temporary lack of a camera

[Crikey, the train's just speeded up to what I guess to be about 50mp/h. The way it's shaking from side to side I think I'd prefer it stuck to its previous 15mp/h!]

Accompanying the duck was an assortment of dishes, including venison, some gorgeous bamboo shoots served with crispy seaweed, and a duck soup served in a real hollow orange with its top chopped off. All in all, it was gorgeous, and I felt thoroughly privileged. Ku-san, THANK YOU! It shall not be forgotten!

I'm really very grateful to Ku-san, not just for the food and bed, but for the friendship that I found to be such a great comfort just a few days after leaving my home. It set me up for this long journey north; just knowing that you are there a few hundred kilometres away is a great comfort.

2 hours later. The Gobi desert

It's a captivating landscape. Vast stretches of sandy grassland, punctuated by nothing but the rare gathering of disfigured trees. There's no sign on any agriculture - the ground is just too dry. Any rivers there are do not carry water - they are just channels of dust, devoid of all signs of life. More than once I have mistaken them for dirt roads, roads without traffic. Every thirty minutes or so the train grinds to a halt at a seemingly deserted collection of tumbledown walls and dishevelled slate roofs. Do people really live here? What do they do? How do they survive? The wind removes what top soil there is and replaces it with sand, the rain ...what rain?

Life on the train continues to bustle. Families left right and centre scoop out the innards of halved watermelons, or munch on ice lollies sold by the staff who walk down the isle with boxes of snacks. Some compartments have a coal stove at the end on which one of the many conductors boils water in a big kettle; he then brings this round to us for our drinks flasks and pot noodles. Several hours into the trip many people are dozing, attempting to comfortable on this narrow plastic coated seats that make your bum sweat. There's a lot of people standing in the corridor, all seats having been sold. With only two trains a day one can't afford to be picky.

Beijing West station

This was the scene that greeted me at the incredible Beijing West station a few days back, after I'd said goodbye to Ku-san, his wife and daughter. Initially I'd seen the 'soft class' sleeper section, with its royal blue bed spreads and comfy-looking chairs. "Wow, not bad, not bad at all", I thought, as I headed down the platform to my carriage, the carriage full to bursting, with people leaning out of the windows, huge crowds crammed around the doorways, a granny being lifted up so she could get her foot on the first step into the carriage.

I told myself that this was far better than the comfort of the Royal Blue beds - this way I get to travel with all the characters, the way that most Chinese go. Entering the carriage, I start looking for my seat - Number 9. Everyone stares at me as I try to make sense of the seat numbers, and then suddenly, some one says in English, "What's your seat number?".

I turn around and see a Chinese man in his 50's, and next to him his wife. They are smiling; "Your seat number, which it is?"

Dr. Ci Jun Liu and his wife turned out to be Chinese Canadians. Born and raised in China, Dr Liu studied in Maryland, before him and his family moved to Canada in the 1980s. They were now on their annual trip to China to visit their families, and today they were going to the same place as me, Datong, several hours West of Beijing.

Dr Liu

How lucky could I be?! I Took my place by the open window, opposite a smiley young girl and a bossy granny. Naturally, it wasn't long before the folks around my table, and those around the table opposite (including Dr. Liu) became best buddies - we were one big happy family! I watched as the train continued to fill up; little boys dragging hessian sacks; people with mini-luggage trolleys stacked with huge great computer monitors; 5-litre bottles of water, plastic bags full of peaches, bananas and fresh dates from southern China.

With the train not yet moving, the temperature slowly rose, sweat dripping from my every pore. Seeing this, Dr Liu offered me a drink of a Chinese speciality - hawthorn berry juice, good for preventing heart attacks (and cooling one down on a hot day!). Beethoven's 9th symphony drifted over the intercom; this was later to change to the local folk music of all areas that we passed through. A mixture of coal and tobacco smoke drifted in from the vestibule area where the conductor was stoking the fire to boil the kettle.

Finally, the journey began. Leaving Beijing, I was struck by how different landscape this was from that that I'd seen from the bullet train from Shanghai. There, floods and swollen rivers were the order of the day - here, between the rocky peaks that rose up beside us, small terraced crops of maize and sunflowers struggled for survival. It was mountainous terrain, with the train passing through over 40 tunnels. At several points we passed huge great power-producing lakes, the result of communist China's first great construction projects in the 1950s. Then came the vineyards, home to the grapes of China's most famous wine, the name of which I forget. (It's a Chinese name in case you're interested..!). The coal-powered power stations were never far away - don't you know, Datong is famous for its coal, being exported as far away as the UK for its unique light-it-with-one-match properties.

Water-starved disfigured trees now dot the landscape