TRANS MONGOLIAN EXPRESS: FROM UB TO IRKUTSK

It is a bloody big place your Mongolia. Your Outer bit, that is, which the Chinese and then latterly, the Russians controlled and abandoned.

Hence the fact that the next stage of the train journey was going to be a challenging 40 hour trek across two borders from Ulan Baatar, into Russia and to Irkutsk.

We were all incredibly depressed about leaving Mongolia. Although it has many challenges, it was a country whose spirit and energy proved a welcome relief after the challenges of China. UB is one of those cities on the trip that I already have marked down for a definite return.

On our last morning, Nemo took us on a tour of some of the re-established monasteries of the city to show us how the Mongolians had regrouped and begun to rebuild their city since the disappearance of the Russians.



But, we had to head on and, after a brief stop at the state department store to pick up a few snacks for the journey, we headed to the station and boarded the next stage of The Trans Mongolian Express.



The length of the journey is added to by the interminable border control systems of both the Mongolian and the Russian authorities.

Boarding the train at 6pm, the rest of the group and myself soon settled down to games of cards or scrabble, reading any one of the floating library of books we were circulating amongst ourselves or, inevitably drinking some of the local brews which involved both beer and vodka named after Mongolia’s most famous son.

I have to say, that at this point, I had actually become accustomed to train travel and began to actively enjoy the regular rumblings of wheel against track and the chug of the engine as it hauled us across the beautiful landscape. That is something I never thought I would say, but, God help me, I really did enjoy it.

I can’t claim to have enjoyed the special package of food that the attendants through in our direction at the beginning of the trip, but hey, it was a nice thought.


What I did not enjoy was the next morning as we clanged to a halt next at the Mongolian border where we would be sitting for the next five hours. For the first few hours we were not allowed to leave the train which was in a form of quarantine as the Mongolian customs people made sure no one was leaving with any national treasures. (I am not sure what those may be, but I am pretty sure then involved horse milk.) and to check the cases of the enormous numbers of people who travel this route taking goods from China to markets in Russia.

On top of which, because the train was stationary, the attendants also insisted on locking the toilets. You can imagine the consequences of lots of beer and vodka alongside some more benign liquids had on our bladders and we were stuck with no, shall we say, outlet.

People, apparently, have been known to fill plastic bags or even Pringle packets in desperation, but I could not bring myself to do that. Eventually, however, after nearly four kidney challenging hours, I realised I would have to do something or the whole of EAT MY GLOBE would end in disgrace in a puddle of filtered vodka.

So, I sneaked from my carriage away from the ever watchful eye of the frightening attendant and go to the small space between two carriages. Dropping my sweatpants and aiming in the gap that led to the track below I let rip, the flow began immediately and carried on and on and on until I thought I would have filled more Pringle packets than we possibly had between us. I let out a huge sigh of relief and, after couple of shakes, pulled up my drawers and headed back to my compartment.

As I came out of the carriage, the attendant was standing at the far end of the carriage watching me. Did she know what I had been up too? I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I gave her a huge, unreturned smile and a big thumbs up and returned to my bed. What happens between the carriages, stays between the carriages.

When we finally began to move again, we headed for the Russian border and another long wait. At least this time we were able to get off the train, pay a few roubles and use the washing facilities. Hardly enough to make us sweet smelling, but it lowered the ripeness to a tolerable level.

Well, we were now in Russia and used our spare time to walk to the local settlement and buy some provisions, which of course, included some of the local Russian beer, Baltika which comes in categories from 3-10 getting progressively darker and more strong.

We also indulged in some of the rather odd snacks that the Russians love so much and which became a staple through the rest of our journey. Pot mashed potato. God they love this stuff. Freeze dried mash potato in a container to which they add other flavours including, bizarrely enough, croutons. Hot water came from samovars at the end of each carriage. They are pretty grim, but seemed to fit the context of the trip and I found myself eating them despite my misgivings on more than one occasion.



When we finally passed border control into Russia, the next day passed quite quickly in a blur of more card games, general chatting, eating any old crap that was being passed around and, lots and lots of much needed sleep. In fact, on recent parts of the trip as I am getting progressively more exhausted, I have dreams about the rest I had on this journey enforced by the fact there was bugger all else to do.

The next morning saw us arrive very early at the capital of Eastern Siberia, Irkutsk. This, however, was not going to be where we were going to lay our heads for the next night. We picked up our rucksacks and boarded a bus which whisked us off to the small town of Litvyanka, some seventy kilometres away from the station.

The rigours of the journey, the early start and the gentle motion of the bus made sure that, within about five minutes of getting on the bus, we were all sound asleep much to the consternation of a young woman called Julia who had been appointed our local guide and who was, in that very formal Russian way, giving us a lecture on the history of the area.

We awoke with a jump as the coach pulled to a halt on a road next to some unfriendly looking Soviet residence blocks. This is where we were going to be staying.

Intrepid, the company with whom I was staying, arrange for the small parties they guide, to spend at least one night on the edges of Lake Baikal with local housewives who rent out spare rooms in their apartments to make some extra cash. We were paired up and I headed off to meet Ludmilla who, rather bizarrely, seemed only to speak German. Never quite figured that one out.




She was immensely friendly, however and, after shower, we were soon sitting down to a cup of tea and some lovely home made biscuits. A bit of a change from the shudder of the train slopping powered mashed potatoes all over me.

Lake Baikal is the deepest fresh water lake in the world and contains nearly 20% of the worlds fresh water. It is incredibly clean and the water is pumped untreated from lake to home.



The afternoon saw tour of the small but engaging museum, some lunch at a local restaurant and a boat trip out on the lake (spot scary porno star moustache ever present in the pictures from this period). But, perhaps the highlight was a trip around the local market to sample some of the local smoked Omul and Sig. It was hot and straight from the smoker with oil dripping from it and then down our chins as we all helped ourselves to chunks of the subtle white flesh. I hate to say it, but it spoiled me for other smoked fish.




Supper was a simple but entirely delicious affair back at the home of Ludmilla (still speaking to me entirely in German) which involved a small fresh salad and a bowl of Pelimi, dumplings filled with beef and then served in a light broth. Nothing haute about it but it was filling and, after the crap we stuffed ourselves with on the train, tasted incredibly nourishing.





We were in Russia, so of course we had to go for Banya (Sauna) but this was no ordinary sauna, this was sauna, Russian style.

We traipsed a good mile or so down to the lake’s edge and ( boys firs, girls second) stripped down to our swimming trunks before clambering in to a small room which had been heated to nearly 90o by water thrown over hot coals. In a small bowl on the floor were birch twigs soaking to supple terror in some more hot water already to whip each other with.

After about fifteen minutes, we were all a nice shade of pink and, as the girls watched and took pictures, those of the male persuasion in the group flung ourselves off a narrow plank directly into the river which was, unsurprisingly, freezing. So cold, in fact, that I actually felt my gonads retreat in a sort of “quick lads, back into the torso” kind of way, by way of protection.



It actually got kind of good to use by now and, after forty five minutes of hot & cold action, we had to be forced to hand over to the ladies who, it has to be said, attacked the whole thing in a much more lacklustre fashion.

After the sauna, of course, another tradition, Vodka. Enough vodka to make our journey and first morning in Irkutsk a rather interesting one.


But, that’s for another time

TRANS MONGOLIA: ULAN BATAR & THE GER CAMP

The history of Mongolia and its capital Ulan Batar, is one of subjugation and tyranny.

Since the time of Ghengis Khan (pronounced Chingis Hahn – btw) and the decline of the Mongol empire, this small country has been under the control of other nations. First the Chinese and latterly the Soviet Union.




As I have said in previous posts, I am not a historian, so if you want a lesson, go and use Google. However, the past history and , in particular, the recent past history, has had an enormous impact on what this country and UB itself is.

For nearly seventy years, Ulan Batar was a soviet outpost with all that entails, the economy was strictly Soviet socialism, religion observance was outlawed and all places of worship including century old monasteries, were destroyed or turned into municipal buildings.


In the early 90’s when The Soviet Union shattered into nations states, Mongolia was cut loose and left to fend for itself. With no recognisable source of income and no export market to the USSR, it quickly descended into poverty and would have descended into chaos but for one factor. The incredible resilience of the Mongolian people.

I can say, hand on heart, that I have yet to meet anyone quite like them brave, passionate, intensely proud of their country, intensely close to their families and inordinately hospitable.

Despite the fact that at least 60+% of the three million population of Mongolia lives the classic nomadic lifestyle, Ulan Batar (recently just topping the one million mark) sums up the state of the nation perfectly.

With no state funds to support infrastructure, the city’s pavements are crumbling and road surfaces almost non existent. Medical services are negligible and there is a great deal of poverty.

It is one of the ugliest cities I have ever seen and I understand why guide books describe it as a carbuncle on the face of the earth. The majority of the architecture is a legacy of its Soviet days and there are high levels of pollution.

In a remarkable contradiction to this tale of gloom, there is also an upside. Mongolia has a very stable education system and levels of literacy are high with a great many of the population speaking exceptional English (mainly because, without it, they have no chance of progressing in the world) The country has some of the most advanced communications networks in Asia and, because of foreign investment in the mining of Mongolia’s rich deposits of minerals, it has large ex pat communities from all over the world which, inevitably means equally large numbers of restaurants, cafes and bars to serve them.

By far the largest group are Germans and, whither go Germans, so go beer which also means that UB is stuffed to the rafters with pubs and bars primarily selling the local beer, Chingis, which comes in various forms all derived from German brewing techniques. In fact, the bar at The Chingis Brewery is a fully decked out German Beerkeller with all the Mongolian waitresses dressed in German gear which was slightly disconcerting for them and for me.


Food in UB is hardly of the delicate kind. It has more in common with that of its former Soviet overlords with smoked fish abounding along with stuffed pancakes called Kushur and I am not going to claim that meals there will be the memories that live the longest in my mind.



That being said, it is, with the exception of France, the only place that I have eaten horse.


For our first meal there, I ordered a horse rib. When it came it reminded me of the opening credits of The Flintstones when Fred gets a Bronto burger at the Drive-in and, when placed on the car, it tips it over because of its size. This was about the same size and I tucked into it with about the same gusto as Mr Flinstone. Quite gamey and a little bit stringy but not bad at all.


We only spent the one night in UB before heading out for the next part of the adventure. A trip which proved to be one of, if not the, highlight of the journey so far.

We set off pretty early in the morning to head out to the Mongolian countryside where we would be spending the next couple of days on a Ger camp sleeping in the tents that are the normal accommodation for the majority of Mongolia’s population.

Our guide, Nemo, had formerly been a urologist but, had not been paid in a number of years by the government who simply had no money and now was supplementing his income by showing groups like our own around his country.


His passion for his homeland was tangible and he took time to make a number of stops as we drove to the camp to show us things that we otherwise would have missed. A small pyre of stones, topped with flags around which you walk three times to make a blessing. Two men at the roadside with their eagles and, best of all, the encampment of a nomadic family with whom he was acquainted.



They gave us the opportunity to spend some time in their tent and to taste some of the food they made, primarily from horse milk.

Whenever I tell people that I went to Mongolia, they all say “did you taste the fermented yak’s milk?” This is one of those fallacies that seems to have become accepted by everyone (including me before I actually went there) but has no basis in truth.

The Mongolians certainly keep yaks, but only for their wool. They produce very little milk. Arag, the fermented drink so associated with the region, in fact comes from Horses’ milk.


Nemo showed us how it is produced, in a bag made from a cow’s stomach which holds nearly eighty litres of the stuff. About 10% is kept each time as a “master” and it is refilled each day with fresh milk which is then stirred vigorously with a paddle every time someone passes the bag. It reaches a strength of about 3% and remarkably, Nemo told us, Mongolians can drink easily drink as much as five litres a day.



We got to try some and I would love to say that I liked it. I really would, but I can’t. It was really a dreadful think which I would describe as being like white, musty smelling, horse piss.

The other products made from horse milk were equally challenging. A curd biscuit, a “vodka” distilled from a yoghurt and a hard cheese.


The only thing I did quite like was a cream with a skin that was similar to Clotted cream and made in much the same way by heating milk up in a pot over water.

After we left the camp, Nemo made another stop and suddenly and unexpectedly produced a set of golf clubs which led to the unexpected sight of a small group of westerners hitting a few golf balls in no particular direction across the Mongolian plains.


By now, we were almost at the camp and, when we arrived, I have to admit that it took my breath away. It was a small encampment, with about twenty ger tents which are often used by Mongolians from UB when they want to get away from the chaos of the city and return to a more idyllic existence. It certainly is idyllic and, after we settled in to our camp, I took the opportunity to go for a stroll.


The beauty of the surrounding countryside comes as a shock after the grime and decrepitude of UB. It is lush and green and incredibly peaceful. After China, it was a much needed slow down in pace.



The next twenty four hours passed very happily. People went riding. Not me mind you, I eat horses, I don’t ride them. People tried their hand at archery and people went for long hikes. It was good to be in out and about in the clean air and to have the opportunity to see the Mongolians doing things that have been part of their culture for centuries. Particularly riding.

They have a saying that “Mongolians are born in the saddle and die in the saddle” and it is true, they are incredibly at ease on horseback. The next morning, I awoke about 6am and headed out for a bit of a stroll. As I pottered around the camp, I saw two men on horseback out herding their cattle. They were going at full gallop, both standing up in the stirrups with their hands on their hips as if it was the most natural thing in the word and, to them, I guess it was.




When it came time to leave the camp, we all felt a little deflated. It was such a beautiful place to be and the quiet and calm so welcome that we were all loathe to lead it. However, we were heading back for one more night in UB before the beginning of the next stage of the journey.

The beginning of the Trans Mongolian/Trans Siberian Express which, after all, is what the trip was all about.

THE TRANS MONGOLIAN EXPRESS: FROM BEIJING TO ULAN BATAR
Ok, just a warning. As you read about the next bit of the journey, you are going to notice that the pictures of me feature an increasingly scary moustache which makes me look like a porn star c1972.

It is my own fault and the result of a competition for which I was the instigator.

More of this later, but I did want to warn you.

The Sunday morning after the end of my China tour was a bit, as I mentioned before, strange.

I was no longer with one group but had not yet met up with the next and so had time to kill on my own. Or, in this case with my chum, Jackie Tang who had led the China trip for us and offered on her day off to show me around some of the markets of Beijing and introduce me to the some of the myriad of street foods on offer including the much lauded Juanbing.







In effect, a crepe type snack that involves batter, eggs, sunflower seeds, chilli and a slice of deep fried dough.



It is a pretty hefty snack and, for all of about 50p, enough to keep most normal people full for one day or me until lunchtime when I headed back to gourmet st and to pick up some Olympic type pressies for my neice and Nephew back home.


I used the next couple of days to catch up on my writing and, by the Sunday was ready to meet up with my new travelling companions for the trip to Mongolia and from there on to Russia.

It is an odd feeling moving from one group of people to another. Dynamics change and so do the personalities. You just get to the point of being comfortable with one lot of people and then they leave, probably never to be seen again, to be replaced by another group who you will get to know incredibly well, primarily due to the close proximity, knowing that they will disappear too.

Still, this small group of about ten people seemed harmless enough and, as it turned out, perfect companions for the long, long journey

First up though, yet another supper of roast duck Beijing style. This was my third of the time in Beijing, but for most of the group, having just arrived from overseas, it was the first and only chance they would get to try it. I did not mind and, as it turned out, this was the best of the lot.




Li Qun is legendary and, situated deep in a Huetong, it has been visited by many foreign dignitaries whose pictures adorn the walls of the small restaurant. Well worth a visit.

The next day, while the others did some of the tourist stuff that I had already done, I spent most of the day napping and then preparing for the horrors of yet more train journeys.



The first leg of the trip was from Beijing to Ulan Baatar. It was, by the standards of the rest of our trip, a pretty short hop, being a mere thirty seven hours, however, much of it was taken up by sitting at a standstill as we waited to cross from China into Mongolia.

Given the horrors of my previous train journeys, this one actually turned out to be much easier. The trains, although Chinese run, were more comfortable and our four berth cabins were clean, if not spacious. Much of the time was spent playing cards, drinking copious amounts of beer and getting to know my companions a little bit better. Although, I am pretty sure I crossed the line when I told them that I prefer to sleep “unburdened”



The first long stop came at the Chinese border where we were asked to leave the train and wait in a holding station until our departure documents had been checked. Then, back on board the train to the Mongolian border where our visas for that country were checked again before we were finally clear to try and get a few hours sleep



I awoke in the middle of a coughing fit and slunk out of the cabin trying not to wake my friends only to find that the entire carriage was filled with dust, the obvious source of my discomfort.

We were, of course, heading through The Gobi Desert.




The dust clouds were so heavy that, despite all the windows being shut and the doors closed, the small corridor had filled with a sand cloud which coated the train and all of us in its wake.

I trudged to the tiny bathroom with its cold & cold running water and managed to give myself a bit of a clean just in time for me to join my companions who were heading down to the dining car to avail ourselves of a meal provided courtesy of Mongolian Railways.

Unfortunately, we were late getting down there and most of the food was gone which resulted in us being presented with two meatballs each along side a plate of lettuce. I was hungry as a dog so, I am not ashamed to say that I actually ate them.






A few hours later and after a few stops along the way, we arrived in Ulan Batar, the capital of Mongolia which turned out to be one of the most amazing places on the whole trip to date.

But, more of that later