30days30years

I’m in!

I made it! Yippee!

I said not one word as I ventured through immigration at Ulaanbaatar’s Chinggis Khaan airport this morning. I figured the ‘less is more’ approach might work more in my favour this time! In fact I barely lifted my head, trying to avoid any sort of eye contact with the two men who caused me such trouble last time. I have to say I was kind of sweating as I stood in the queue waiting for my passport to be checked. The guy in front of me didn’t have a visa and got pointed towards the same room I did less than a week ago. “Good luck buddy,” I thought as I stepped up to the immigration lady. Hopefully he didn’t suffer a similar fate.

I was expecting there to be some note on the system saying ’don’t let her in’ but luckily all went smoothly and I was out the other side in no time. Phew!

What greeted me was a little unexpected – A blizzard.  I knew the temperature this time of year would be getting cooler but I was only really expecting snow on the mountain tops. I certainly haven’t packed enough warm clothes. In fact all I have is a borrowed jumper from Vibeke and a $4o fleece from H&M. Here’s hoping a nice Mongolian man lets me borrow his fur coat!

I spent the morning sleeping on a bench inside a foyer of non-descript building in the centre of Ulaanbaatar (UB) waiting for the office of a man who has been helping me to organise my eagle training to open.

He didn’t arrive but a nice young Mongolian woman did, who served me up a steaming hot  jasmine tea as she chatted about her two-year-old baby. She was also kind enough to give me a a bit of a cultural lesson of what I might expect in western Mongolia living amongst the Kazakh people for the next couple of weeks.

“You like horse meat right?” she asked. “Um, well I….” “They eat a lot of horse meat out there. It’s delicious.” All I could think about was my friend Fav who just loves horses and would be horrified at the thought of me eating one. I must admit I’m a little curious to try it though. If I’m allergic to horses on the outside, does that mean I will allergic to the meat too? I doubt it, but only one way to find out, right?!

A quick detour to the a six-storey State Department Store in search of some gloves – I couldn’t find any – wft?! – and I was in a ‘cab’ en route to UB’s Dragon Station to get the bus to Bayan Olgii. The woman had told me it was a one-hour ride. “But it’s only 7km down the street…” “Yes,” she said. “About one hour.”

I could see why. The traffic is mental. Drive like a bat out of hell, brake at breakneck speed, toot your horn and then yell at the person in front of you seems to be the general way of it.  All good fun as long as you don’t die.

Mongolia doesn’t really have a proper cab system so my “cab” was in fact just a random dude who was driving past. I stuck my hand out, he stopped, I said Dragon Station, he nodded, I showed him some money, he nodded again, and off we went.

When we arrived at a rubbish-filled paddock that vaguely resembles a parking lot I thought he must have misunderstood me. “No, no, I meant Dragon Station.” He points to ground. “Dragon Station.”

I get out and go searching for my bus. The people at the office I went to had been kind enough to order my ticket for me ahead of time and told me I simply had to look for the corresponding Mongolian word on the front of the bus to match my ticket. I assume it said Bayan Olgii but it was in cyrillic so I had no idea. Nope. No bus anywhere with “Bayan Olgii” written on it. I was a bit early though so I squatted next to my backpack as the snow fell, trying not to get my trackpants wet. It was already going to be a long bus ride. Wet clothing wasn’t going to make it better…

I was the only Westerner there so I was a beacon for anyone selling anything (No I don’t need a mobile phone cover for the late 90’s Nokia 5110, but thanks anyway!).

After a while I got so sick of being hassled (and of the cold) I decided to venture inside one of the nearby buildings for some relief. When I came back out most of the buses had left, leaving just two remaining – one, a larger Russian-type bus matching the description of what the lady told me I would be travelling on and a smaller one which had engine parts spread around it. Guess which one was my ride? I was hoping it wasn’t and stood around hopeful that another bus would come along for a another five minutes before I was approached by a western woman. “Where do you want to go?” she asked. “Bayan Olgii” “This is your bus then.” Bugga.

I picked her as being Eastern European at first but it turned out Rosa was from France and going to the festival as well. Bloody brilliant! Someone to talk to for the next 50 hours!

Rosa is a photographer and has spent the past 20 years travelling the globe photographing cultural festivals. She was just in China for some big photography awards where she won the top prize and used her prize money to fund this journey.

While we were getting acquainted the rest our fellow travellers seemed not the least bit interested in actually getting on the bus and travelling. They’d put their bags on the bus, and then go and take them off again. Then they’d argue with the driver, who would then try to put the bags back on the bus. The bags would eventually go back on only to be taken off again two seconds later to be wrapped in stickytape.

To our right a fracas starts. It is seemingly over nothing but two guys decide 3pm is a great time to have an all out brawl. Legs are kicked and faces slapped but no one seems to really get hurt. A car pulls up and an old man decides to attacks the driver. A young girl tries to break up the brawling boys while still on her mobile phone.  I look around to see whether anyone is going to step in as she gets knocked to the ground. The people standing around the bus seem only mildly aware it’s even going on.

When I get on the bus I’ m grateful Rosa has already claimed a seat in her limited Russian (most Mongols understand Russian). The bus is so filled with boxes there isnt actually any room for people to sit. An old man is in there packing, trying to create some kind of orderly system but of course no one wants their bag at the bottom the pile and no sooner has he stacked them than people are bustling in and removing theres so he has to start all over again. At this rate we won’t be in Bayan Olgii until Christmas. Has anyone told them you can buy buses now with an undercarriage to store luggage? There is a market there for anyone wanting to make a few bucks!

When we finally did hit the road we were an hour or so behind schedule, but at least we were moving. Then we stopped again. Of course. Another pick up point. Because people aren’t already sitting in the aisle!  Twenty or so people lunge to get on the bus as everyone besides me Rosa on the inside goes to get off. Why are you getting off? Come on people, let’s get moving!

Up to the back of the bus the old guy goes again, erasing all his hard work from the other station. His son, the driver, potters around looking at the luggage but not really doing anything with it. I need to pee so follow a few of the old women off the bus. The ramshackled hut acting as a toilet has a smell so pungent even the locals opt to swat behind it. I decide to join them until I realise it too is just a swamp for human faeces and used sanitary products. I duck behind a bus instead.

Back at the bus, the old man is making process, slowly. The son is now on the roof tying down boxes. Given the weather I’m praying my bag hasn’t been hauled up there while I was away.

The another fight breaks out. This time a middle-aged man is attacking the old man. What on earth has the poor man done? I thought as he is slapped and screamed at. Perhaps he put the man’s bag on the roof and he’s concerned about the snow like me? Once again no one seems in any hurry to come to the man’s aid, least of all his son who just keeps tying down the boxes.

Forty or so minutes later – and 3 hours and 10 minutes behind schedule – when we all piled back onto the bus, I realise the guy was angry  because the old man had told him there was no room for his mother who was waiting for a ride. They eventually managed to find her a spot and the younger man broken down in tears hugging the old man that he’d earlier been slapping, and then his mother for what seemed like an eternity. Get off the damn bus already!

In all we are 28 people on a bus which had a capacity to seat 23 (according to the sticker on the door) and that’s with the back four rows taken up entirely with luggage. Tight squeeze to say the least.

So we were off, finally! Nope. Guess again. We now needed petrol. (No one thought to do this before arriving at the station??!) When we finally took off from that pit stop I clapped and cheered. Deadpan looks was all I received. Come on… a little humour. No? Really?

The Mongolian people are amazing to look at and I spent several hours marvelling at their features until we stopped at a road house around midnight for dinner. Everyone piled into a small room with thick wooden tables and plastic table cloths where they dug into what looked like offal and noodles. I ask what the meat is. “Horse” is the response. I think I can wait another day before eating horse, so ask for hot water to eat some noodles I’d purchased back at the State Department Store when I was looking for a pair gloves.

Back on the bus, Rosa and I were freezing beyond belief, stuck next to the door which has a nice gapping hole in the bottom. Once again owing to the kindness of strangers, we ended up a blanket from a Kazakh man sitting up the back of the bus. Rosa had managed to befriend him on our numerous toilet stops with her limited Russian.

Just as we were getting comfortable and settling in for the night, we were startled out of our early dose by an almighty clunk under the bus. The driver gets out with his tools. A few of the men join him and they fiddle about for an hour or so. Four and a half hours behind schedule already. Will I ever make it to Olgii?

The bus trip: