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Dave Says:

Mongolia was just one of those words that I would use in hyperbolic statements such as: “Oh my God, the nearest decent bar might as well be in Mongolia” or “If you don’t live in Seattle you may as well live in Mongolia!” Now I have been to the object of my exaggeration I can tell you three things. Firstly, it doesn’t have any decent bars although the beer is quite yummy, secondly, it is indeed in the middle of absolutely nowhere and lastly and most importantly, it is everything that the middle of nowhere should be when it is the cultural and commercial bridge between Russia and China – two places that are definitely somewhere. I’m sure Sarah will tell you about its beauty, desolation, warmth and humanity so I will tell you about what it’s like to be on a timeless and perpetual frontier between east and west.

Firstly, they can’t drive for shit. Ok, I’m being a little unfair. Their off-road driving skills are awesome, amazing and well honed because they have practically no paved roads. Ten minutes outside the capital of Ulan Baatar and the tarmac dries up and is replaced by mainly mud. For one of the driest places on earth (23cm of rain per year) they sure see a lot of deep, sticky, bus sinking goop. Everyone is a great off-road motorist: the mini-bus driver, the coach driver, the 4WD bus driver and, for once in the history of mankind, the SUV driver. They take those ruts, marshes and mud lakes at about 60kmh, regardless of vehicle type, passenger density or safety margin. Even the 2WD Ford Taurus drivers give it a good go, their vehicles, not skill letting them down. One thing I never really thought about (because I come from a country with plenty of asphalt) is that once there is no road there’s no need to convoy anymore. You may as well just pick a general direction and hit the accelerator. So, driving across the landscape of Mongolia is like participating in the Wacky Races. On either side of your conveyance is an assorted mish-mash of anything that might make it across the flats, flat out, all trying to make the nearest town before you. First you’re in the lead, then you’re not, but then the guy who overtook you ten minutes ago is having his passengers push him out of the mud but just when you’re celebrating your own driver’s superior wheel skills, you find yourself behind your vehicle pushing ten tons of bus out of six inches of mud. On one trip, we did this three separate times before the driver gave up and called for help. Surprisingly a 50 seat coach is not that heavy when you all give it a good old shove.

So, I’ve already established what great off-road wheel-men the Mongolians are but put them on pavement and it all goes to crap. In my life I try not to be a conformist. I like to challenge the establishment, push some buttons, buck the system, however, the one thing I think is a pretty good idea is that we all agree on what side of the road we should simultaneously drive upon. The Mongolians still think it’s a mud flat race. It’s not that they don’t get that the right hand side is the right side, it’s just that they get confused when the nearest car is closer that a quarter of a mile away. U-turns, pull-overs, pull-offs and stops are made regardless of the proximity of anything including pedestrians. This isn’t, however, the rhythmic pulse of Hanoi where missed syncopation means certain death, this is frontier madness where just driving could mean certain death. Every man for himself in the race to the other side of the city and to more mud roads. Crossing the street in Ulan Baatar is a dangerous proposition – even the locals have a hard time with it. The obviousness of you, as a pedestrian, being there first and it making the utmost sense for you to continue makes no difference, the Mongolians are myopic city drivers, the Mongol Mr. Magoo.

Ulan Baator itself is a frontier town made good. The central feature, rather than being the city square where the federal government building sits, is in fact the State Department Store. This six story marvel of Soviet design with old school 1960′s Las Vegas flare was, for many years, the only place to buy anything that wasn’t either growing in the ground or grazing on it. Since the success of independence during the 1990′s the State Department Store has become the one-stop-shop for a city on the frontier of both the wild west of civilization and the wild west of capitalism. Gone is the blandness of Soviet made goods – here one can purchase a saddle and an iPod, North Face Gore-tex and traditional Mongolian boots, fat mud crunching tires and flat time-eating TVs. Everything one needs for an urban lifestyle where the roads last until the city limits and then the wilderness takes over.

For centuries Mongolia was part of the fabled Silk Road. Traders wishing to transport their goods from the west to the east came through UB, returning months later with furs, tea and goods bound for Europe. The Mongolians have picked up the mantle of those ancient traders and now transport whatever they can between China and Russia. Only now they do it via the railway and they do it illegally. Speaking no Russian, Chinese or Mongolian we’re not entirely sure how this actually works but our most recent leg of the trans-Mongolian gave us some insights. On first impression, it looked as if there was a mass migration to Irkutsk, Russia waiting to depart from UB station. Hundreds of Mongolians with big bundles of luggage were waiting to clamber aboard the train. As the soon as the doors were opened they ran aboard, not to secure their seat but to stash as much luggage as they could in places that were definitely not, nor anywhere near their seats. The theory holds that if you’re not sitting next to two dozen rice cookers, should a customs official ask, how could they possibly be yours? We heard from other westerners that their compartment was full of sausages hanging from the window. Once everyone was aboard and the train departed there was another flurry of activity. The ‘migrants’ would go from door to door opening compartments and offering to sell the occupants anything from jeans to handbags, rugs to towels and, of course, those rice cookers. We were not bothered at all. Probably because our ‘cell mate’ was a huge scary Russian guy with gold teeth. He had revealed himself to us to be a bit of a pussy cat as he wiped away the tears when waving goodbye to his girlfriend. But, to the traders, he was Ivan the Terrible and because we showed a little sympathy at the start and made him a cup of tea (everything is better after a cup of tea), he became our guardian angel and protector from the trading masses.

Once the border was in reach, the traders whipped themselves into another frenzy. Any space in any compartment, holes in the floor, service ducts in the ceiling, and, for a small consideration I’m sure, the conductor’s office were utilized for illicit goods storage. The traders then started to swap goods between themselves – shirts for bags, rugs for blankets, sausages for ??? It is apparently okay to take a combination of five rice cookers, eight pairs of jeans and three bundles of scotch tape across the Russian border without paying duty. Soon the train went quiet as we all awaited Russian customs. On they came complete with a huge guy in camouflage fatigues who proceeded, with bear in train carriage type efficiency, to unearth all the stashed goods. At this point I started to loose the plot a little. One woman had all her contraband dumped onto the floor, catalogued and confiscated. She made a huge scene, I’m sure protesting her innocence and justifying why she needed 100 Gucci bags for her own personal and private use. Her stuff was carted away but she was not. And that was it. I think she was the token sacrifice offered up to the Russian Customs God in return for safe passage for the rest. Either that or the Customs Officer needed 100 Gucci bags for his personal and private use. It is not for me to say because I was just very glad to get my passport back and have long since learned to keep my mouth shut and eyes (almost ) down. In hindsight though, I think our Russian companion was in on something too because as I was hanging my head out our door watching the proceedings he tried to engage me in conversation about his family. A nice thought but his English consisted of eight words and he had said nothing over the last eight hours. I think he would have preferred me in, not out, of the compartment at that point in time – oh – and now I think about it, what was he doing with a rice cooker and a red glittery Gucci bag.

Mongolia is the last place on earth where a frontier still exists and, as much as I wish civilization and wealth on these poorest of people, I also hope it remains the ‘wild east’ for just a little longer.

This entry was posted on Saturday, June 21st, 2008 at 12:36 pm and is filed under Global Travels, Mongolia. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.