Crossing into Mongolia

Unsure what the unconventional route out of the country brings I decided to leave the country with two days left in my VISA instead of pushing it to the limit. I guess one might say this is pushing it as well especially since my paperwork is not entirely in ordnung but with only 25 days for the whole of Russia experience this is as relaxed as I can make it.

There are a few options how to get across the border. There is a direct train from Irkutks to Ulaan Baatar but it is very expensive and slow for the distance it covers. On top of it it spends some 4 hours at the border. Why, don't ask me. Another way of getting out is take a minibus from Ulan Ude, a major town on the south of the Baikal Lake. This is faster on the border but super uncomfortable and boring. So I decide for the third, most adventurous variant:

I board a night train to Ulan Ude. It is only 350 km far from Irkutsk but since it takes the route around the mountainous Baikal shores it is very slow. So I manage to squeeze in some 6 hours of sleep before I am kicked out in Ulan Ude. It's not even seven in the morning as I'm arguing the price for the ride to the bus station with the local taxi driver. I manage to cut it to nearly a half but his semi-eager agreement makes me think I got screwed over anyway. Oh well, support the local community, eh?

The bus station architecture combines that of the stalls in any Slovak black market in with a hint of gypsy getto influence. As I find the empty marshrutka with the my destination written on it I sadly realize it is most likely to be a long day: these minibuses never leave before getting full.

I make an attempt to find a coffee since the hectic last four days and the miles covered on foot have quite heavily worn me out but I fail. At least I see the bus getting full now - too full I might add - and I have to rush in with my elbows spread wide to secure a place. Fifteen minutes later, with every little crease of the van filled with stuff of my fellow passengers we ride out.

The scenery changes dramatically. The Russian taiga gives way to the bare steppe half an hour into the journey. We make a quick 'cigarette' stop in a picturesque little village with an apparent non-Slavic feel. Wooden huts rather then proper concrete houses. Dirt roads with no pavements. Very organic looking cute little place.

I stretch my legs and breath in the cold morning air. I am just about to dig out the camera out of my rucksack to take a few snaps when the driver rams the door behind him, starts the engine, steps on the pedal and off he goes direction we came from. With all my belongings that is. Shit! My eyes follow him out of the line of sight and there is nothing I can do. This is the first time I left my valuables in the car and this is what I get. Surely god wouldn't punish me for a first minor slip?

Ten long minutes later the driver appears with a smile. A thought crosses my mind that this is the smile of a man who just sold my camera for 1500$. I peek into the cabin as he gets out to light a smoke and fortunately find everything intact. Thank you Mr. Driver for the lack of curiosity!

Two hours later with ubersore thighs from holding my 15 kilo worth of backpack in my lap - courtesy of my impatience to wait by the minibus at the bus station - we are stopped at some sort of a checkpoint. The two uniformed officers demand papers from all of us. Surely this cannot be the border I think as I hand the passport to the tall good looking man in his early twenties. He glances thought it without much surprise to see a foreigner in this part of the world. No fines to pay here. We continue rolling down the hill to find a military base with a fair selection of MIGs and army vehicles at its foot. So that's why the checkpoint..

Finally we arrive to the border town of Kyakhta. It used to be a key town on the tea route from China to England. A very prosperous one too until in the final sections of the Transsiberian were finished and the town faded into insignificance almost overnight.

Since it is not even eleven and I am in no hurry to get to the border - some four kilometers south of town - I turn down an offer by a local man to drive me down there for free. I stroll around to find some pastry for breakfast, the worst coffee ever but at least with toilet facilities and end up in the local museum. I expect a thorough exposition on the tea trade history but instead find rows of jars of cow fetuses with two heads, no heads and other missing or superfluous body parts. Next on the menu are stuffed animals from rodents through eagles to deer and bears. Nice. The last room is finally filled with the tea trade trivia but of course with everything in Russian Cyrillic. I couldn't honestly disagree with the right to charge the foreigners five times what the locals pay for the privilege of looking at this jibberish. (Yes, I am being sarcastic.) But at least there are pictures to look at - so I end up checking out the pretty ladies of the nineteen twenties. Not bad I tell you.

It's time to leave the town behind and head for the border. I choose to walk since the day is still young. Four kilometers later I arrive to the border where cars are stacking up in no particular order. Remembering my guidebook's advice I seek for a car closest to the front to arrange a ride. It is a bus in the end and since the first one is full I get in the following one. I exchange a few words with two Polish couples who have been waiting there for over three hours. Ouch. I don't think my patience is cut out for that..

The gate opens to let the first bus in. We wait.. Ten minutes later the gate opens again but the officer signals us to back off and let the other cars behind us move ahead. I sigh. This process is repeated a couple of times with trucks and cars of various sizes moving ahead of us when I run out of patience. I grab my backpack, say goodbye to the driver and find the first car that looks like it could accommodate me for those few minutes. Few words exchanged with the driver and I'm in. With three other slightly chubby Mongolian women so there goes the comfort. But at least we're moving through the entry gate in next five minutes.

It is not until now that I realize our driver is completely and utterly wasted. The hick-ups are a first sign followed by his inability to light up a cigarette with the car's lighter. Oh well, at least we're moving forward. I can always get out right after the crossing.

The process takes an hour. Don't ask me why cause I honestly don't know. Everything is checked. The documents by at least three people on each side. Stamps, forms to fill.. I almost forget about my VISA registration issues when I hand my passport to the first Russian official. She is of female species at least so I put on a big smile. When she asks me about whether I registered my VISA I acknowledge with a loud da and a deep nod. She demands registration slips and I tell her I returned them when I was leaving the hotels in the particular cities (just as I read it in this very insightful article on the internet). She doesn't look convinced but when another female officer sets in asking where I stayed and I supply a made up list of a few cities along the Transsiberian she seems satisfied. I am handed back my passport and off to the next checkpoint we go.

I am surprised nobody comments on the drunkenness of our driver. It is so explicit that a blind man couldn't possibly oversee it. When he starts honking the horn for a minute straight all the fellow Mongolian passengers try to shut him up. But no one seems to care. This is Mongolia :)

The Mongolian side of things goes a bit faster and soon we're out in the not-so-picturesque border town of Altanbulag. Yep, there goes the civilisation. I am definitely no longer in Europe. None of the pictures I made do it justice - the the town is a filthy mix of dust, garbage, falling-apart buildings and generally not-very-nice looking people. A thought enters my mind how long will I be able to survive here with all my possessions intact. And my health too.

I pay off the drunken driver for the privilege of spending time with him and find a taxi to the nearest provincial capital. I share it with three other people so it's fairly cheap. I wouldn't mind any discomfort at this stage as long as I am out of there. It does take another 20 minutes however before we take off, making a short tour around the town first to pick up yet another person. So the final number is six, including the driver, when our packed standard sedan sets for the road towards Sukhbaatar.