14/4/97

An early start as the train to Ulan Baatar leaves at 0637, and by five we were on the road, with only a brief stop at the GAI checkpoint. I'm sad to be leaving Russia, particularly this neck of the woods, which seems to show more of it's recent history to the world. Promised to send Marina a postcard from Lhasa, and I was on my way again.

I have two Russians and a Mongolian in my compartment. Nikolai is a sambo instructor and Lhasi a professional sambo fighter, who are on their way to the world championships in Ulan Baatar (sambo is a former Soviet sport practised mainly by the military which combines judo, karate and it's own unique moves). Most of the carriage was filled with amateurs in their late teens, who alternated hanging out with the pros with attempting to charm the two Danish nurses travelling in another compartment. The latter fended them off by inviting them to write in their diaries, and an orderly queue soon formed in order to write long notes in Cyrillic which would in all probability, never be read! They've been working near Maidenhead for the last three years, and will be in UB the same time, staying in the same hostel. This soon percolated through to the Russians, whose visits to our compartment were soon incomplete without winking at me while repeating "Danish girls, yes, yes!". Just so long as they don't shout it at the window tomorrow night!

All the time this was going on, we're still passing the base of Lake Baikal, which never seemed to end. Habitation here was a lot more limited though, with a great increase in desert terrain, and by our first stop you could believe that we were in Central Asia, seeing it both in the people and the buildings. Around 1845 we arrive at the border, and waited there for a couple of hours while the Russian border guards decided whether we are worth inspecting. In the meantime, dozens of traders arrive at a break in the fence outside the station and commence selling everything from sausage to stereos. When the Border Guards arrive, they haven't even removed the "GB" from their epaulettes (as in KGB), but after 1030 we start moving again over the border; straight into an even worse delay!

It seems that the poorer the country, the more numerous the police, and Mongolia is no exception. We had the Army first, then what looked like the customs, and then some shifty looking characters in plain clothes that looked like secret police, and they were thorough. We were ordered out of our compartments one at a time, had our features minutely compared with the passport photo, and our baggage well searched. I had rather hoped that the Russian practice of insisting on a declaration of all the property and currency we had brought into (and taken out) of the country might now be unnecessary; sadly, I was soon filling out yet another form. The Mongolian in our compartment disappeared for an hour -he had brought back a walkman from Moscow! Finally, at 0100, we were moving again.

15/4/97

Got into UB at 0800; it looks very industrial and dirty from the train. I wished Nikolai and his pupils well, then headed off to the hostel, which is in the far east of the city in what was apparently known as the Russian quarter in times gone by; the large bust of Georgi Zhukov at the entrance of the "estate" emphasizing this. The hotel we found ourselves at had certain endearing features that reminded you that Soviet reality and aspirations were forever divorced; things like all wall plugs being canted at an angle, and the curtains being held up with paper clips! You can just imagine the Russian/Mongolian construction brigade manager loudly denouncing the drunk foreman, and then ignoring all manner of failings to ensure he made his quota. Perhaps customer service might have altered somewhat; like hell! There were nine tourists, but only double rooms, and as no-one had paid for the privilege of a room to themselves, the guides' mind seemed to go into endless loop; yes there's one left over, but no he didn't pay for a single room, what should we do about it, it, it....! I decided to cut things short by just moving into a room anyway. We then went up for breakfast, and two parties of three sat at two tables. Another party of three arrived, and made for a spare table; and were promptly shooed off and made to sit at the first two tables. The next part of the routine was supposed to be a quick walk down town, doubtless in a crocodile holding hands; hang about, that's one spare!

Most of UB that's worth seeing seems to be concentrated on the main E-W highway, from hospitals, including a Korean one, to parliament, museums and stores, finally ending in a Lamaist temple or two. All seemed (apart from the temples) very communist in character; I'll have to go further south to see something original. Most of my travelling partners were expats from Dubai, teachers mostly, and we arranged to meet in the UB Hotel bar later, as all the books declared that this was the place to be if you spoke about three words of Mongolian, with interesting people, decent booze etc.

When I entered the hotel at 8 pm, it turned out that the bar was closed. There was however a small side bar, with practically no-one in it so I installed myself there and had a can of Tiger beer. Three women who were already there invited me over, and announced they wanted to practice their English- everyone's learning it now- and I was happy to help, while learning a little Mongolian. After half an hour, the conversation turned to marriage, and funnily enough, two were married while the other was single and at twenty nine still living with mother. The others obviously thought I was a good match, and she seemed keen, saying I had beautiful eyes. I agreed of course; they're just about the only parts of me that are, but I doubted her sanity and/or eyesight when she announced that the rest of me was as well! I was saved from a fate worse than death my the arrival of the expats and the opening of the bar. It's not that she wasn't attractive, it's just that marriage to someone keener on my passport than my person seems even less so!

The bar seemed rather quiet, and I soon learnt why. The price for 4 cans of Heiniken was 9500 Tugrik (about 13 $), and they wanted to add a 2$ surcharge to every drink as well! For this and an entry fee, we were able to watch five Mongolian men get even drunker, while five teen aged prostitutes danced to naff dance music- badly. Finally, one of our number thought we should try the local vodka, called, naturally enough, Chingis Khan. My reading of it was that "paint thinner" would be a more appropriate name, and after I got back to the hotel, I spent an hour throwing up. Final analysis; avoid the UB hotel bar!

How they hold up curtains in Mongolia	Apartment buildings in the east of UB

16/4/97

Feeling awful, but dragged myself up anyway, and tea made me feel better. Breakfast here varies a little, with the staple seeming to be boiled rice gruel, usually with a little butter thrown in. I quite liked it, but drew the line at the jam they gave us to go with the bread; very much an acquired taste.

Next step, get a ticket to Dalandzadgad, so I went off in search of the MIAT office. Cynics may say that this stands for "Maybe I Arrive Today", but at the taking of hard currency from tourists, they're without peer; I was relieved of $142 for a return ticket leaving on the 19 th in two minutes flat. I'll reserve judgement on the other aspects of the service later.

My next port of call was the state department store, in a search for some toothpaste and a few other sundries, especially some sunglasses. The first thing you notice about the store is that it's state run. There isn't a sign on it or anything like that, but out of four entrances only one was open, with the others locked with an impressive array of chains; only a nationalized company would do that! Inside, there was fullish shelves, but with very little variety; the only brand of toothpaste I found was something called Lucky Mint (an LG product), which later proved to turn your teeth very yellow. They had loads of Mars bars though! On the way back, I dropped into the UB hotel (with a furtive check for any sign of my admirer first of course), to try to make a phone call home at the painfully high prices they charge ($10 a minute), but it turned out I could send email for $1.50. Thank God for that!

Talking to the guide at my hotel and to other Mongolians I've met, life here is rather grim, with 60% unemployment. The old way of things was that a high school certificate guaranteed an office job in UB, but all that has changed now, and many people are going back to the country. Even more surprisingly, many of the people I have met here left school at 14; if communist countries were good at anything, it was usually educating their young, especially in the sciences.

17/4/97

Russian TV on next door this morning; I know who my neighbours are at least. After getting up, the hostel staff seemed to think I was leaving on the train to Beijing this morning. I reminded them that I was staying another two weeks, which produced even more irrational panic, compounded by me asking to stay another night. What, one room occupied instead of none? Shocking!

I spent the rest of the day seeing a little more of UB, including sending the compulsory postcards, and signing myself up for the British Embassy expats get together on Friday night (tomorrow). I have no idea what it will be like, but any change from the usual disdain for backpackers will be extremely welcome! Later, after dodging the persistent artists making a beeline for tourists crossing Sudabaatar Square, a couple of ten year olds tried to rob me, armed with a couple of penknives. There are times when looking like an Iranian has it's advantages, and scowling at apprentice muggers is definitely one of them. They were quick to hurl abuse at me as soon as I was out of reach of course. The whole situation was very different from Russia, where beggars were usually OAP's with an obvious sense of shame; you didn't mind helping them out, especially as you knew that the pension was effectively non-existent. This lot are more like the ones back home; they think you owe them. The answer is the same too; get stuffed.

Back in the Russian quarter, it turns out I have company after all. Barry is an Irishman who has been travelling north from Thailand, and got a tour in Beijing with Monkey Business. This is the way to do it, the cost is less than a third of doing it from Moscow! Went for a run in the evening, plus a little hill training; got to keep in shape for all those Tibetan mountains.

Gers on the outskirts of UB	Benidict Allen and others at the Steppe Inn

18/4//97

I think that the hill training was slightly overdone; I think I've got a collapsed metatarsal arch again! It's happened a couple of times in the last six months, but after a lot of exercises I thought it was past me. The last time the physio clicked them back into place I nearly hit the roof, so I'll put it off until later.

That was a mistake, so I limped back to the hostel after failing to find anything other than Arkhi to relax my muscles and spent half an hour pushing the bones in my foot back into place. Pros do it faster, but although vodka wasn't used in the end, half a dozen sympathetic Mongolians clucking at the doorway made it more bearable. Afterwards I gently walked with my rucksack down to the embassy, and sat down at the entrance. The two policemen at the entrance were friendly, but in a few minutes a tall Ulsterman turns up; like me, early. His name is John Teggart, and he's working on the soon to be completed airport extension. We're let into the compound by a side door, and immediately to our left is a prefab hut named The Steppe Inn. A surprisingly large contingent of Brits turned up, most of whom worked for the Asian Development Bank; well that's what it seemed like! I met a civil engineer, map surveyor, quantity surveyor and writer in short order, all of whom were very friendly and full of little titbits of useful information (like how twenty trucks arrive from Germany every week!), if rather surprised to see me. When I explained that I had just phoned up the embassy and asked for an invitation, they were even more surprised. I had to explain that this little soiree was listed in the Lonely Planet guide, and as such, hardly qualifies for the best kept secret in the Northern Hemisphere!

The ambassador arrived with his wife, an Aussie who was probably a little stunned by the contrast with their last posting- Brisbane! I also bumped into someone famous; the explorer Benidict Allen, who was the star of the Skeleton Coast, a filmed expedition over the Namib desert with the assistance of three camels. He's reccing for a new journey through Mongolia and then China to start in September, and it seems that the Chinese government is going to provide his biggest obstacles; not exactly a surprise. (In fact I met him nearly a year later at a traveller show to find that he hadn't made it to the China after all!) I had been hoping for British booze, but there was only cans of Tiger beer, and everyone else insisted on buying. After a couple of hours, John suggested that we repair to an "expat cafe" in the building opposite the Ulan Baatar hotel; at the back, at the entrance of the Mongolian Red Cross, behind the door with a sign saying Beware of Motorhead Fans- well, I made the last bit up. It was run by the ravishing brunette wife of a World Bank exec, who clearly had better things to do than sit at home bemoaning the lack of shopping! I'm glad she felt that way, as she makes good pizza. Feeling the worse for wear after a few more beers, I tumble back onto the main road outside, and I'm acquainted with Mongolian taxi ordering. Wave at the traffic until a car stops (nearly instantaneous). State your destination (nisikh), a nod, then a price. Another nod, and you're on your way.

The airport is about 20k outside the town, but the road is OK. Presumably it's all to impress us furriners, but it isn't working yet as the place looks remarkably like Stansted; very modern buildings with no-one in them! After going in the front entrance (one security guard), I climbed up to what looked like the departure lounge, to find four more security guards and ticket agents playing cards. They were extremely friendly for locals who had a foreigner intending to freeload overnight on the floor, and offered me a place at the card game and some reheated tea. I had some instant coffee in the pack, and this was highly appreciated! After half an hour of trying to remember card games, I made to lay out my sleeping bag on the nearest row of chairs, but one of the guards insisted on showing me to what looked like the staff lounge, handed me the key, and said he would get me up in time for the flight! Well, I'm not going to look this gift horse in the mouth, am I?

John and others at the pizza resturant	If you see this man, buy him a drink!