Sipping a strong freshly brewed coffee in the comfort of my tent in this middle of nowhere. I can here the wolfs howling from the other side of the lake. Tsagaan Nuur, the White lake the call it. I observer the waves gently making they way towards me in the slight evening breeze. Soon the night will take over and I can only hope my not-so-wintery equipment will take me through the night all right. It's been snowing two nights ago and that was at much lower altitude but the day seemed to have warmed up a bit so the prospects are good.It's been a long day. Long in terms of obstacles and indecision. It has almost made me wrap it all up and turn back to Ulaan Baatar but there are few things I am less found off then retrieting. And as it turns out luck fancies the brave as well as the prepared! But first things first..
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After coming back from Gobi there was not much left of my ideals of explorer's Mongolia, The lack of infrastructure seems to prohibit one to do any serious individual travelling and one has to resort to private or shared jeeps to get anywhere. No buses exist beyond the links between UB and some of the provincial capitals and the jeeps take away the last of what's left of the original feeling of exploration.
So I find myself back in UB sharing a guestohouse with all my trip compatriots. I must admit my luck when I end up in a different dorm to all the others so I do not have to deal with another hour of listening to the endless banter about nothing i.e. girly things. The relative solitutude, hot showers and all the other comforts of being left alone in a true city with running water and sewage system make me quickly forget all the annoyances of the past 11 days.
After a good nigfht sleep and a 20 minute morning shower I leave the guesthouse to see whether my ad for a truip to the West (of Mongolia) produced any results. Practically none is the answer since I do not count the Israeli guy whome I met before leaving for Gobi. The hair on his face, neck and arms earned him a nickname Wolfman. He got apparently inspired by my idea and started organising a trip on his own,. Being asked to join in I cannot forget his uberego shining through in every situation in the few hourse I had a chance to spend in his company two weeks ago and the Gobi experience still fresh in my mind my answer is a definitive no.
I have never met a single young Israeli person in my life until I arrived to UB. Spending some 10 days here in between my trips I met at least two dozens of them. Strangely enough they all seem to have similar character features: being loud, very confidently sharing their views and taking over space. At one point in the previous guesthouse, being surrounded by six of them and very few other travelers I could not avoid feeling like a Palestinian in Gaza. Or at least it gave me an insight!
It is at this point I meet Lukas, the 36 year old Berliner who has left his job for a year of traveling . Being on the road for 8 months already he has a very straight view on how he wants to spend his time and who with.
We immediately click and after an Indian dinner, a few beers and a lengthy discussion on world politics we storm the guesthouse and after hearing a faint suggestion to go out to Karaoke - a Mongolian favorite night out - we take over and lead a 'big' night out.
Ten people crammed in a karaoke booth singing the best of the worst over countless pints of Mongolian lager. Brushing up in Bee Gees and the like, my voice turning a nice gritty colour, I am loving every minute of it.
When most people decide to leave for bed at four o'clock we are no where near and order another round. Being kicked out an hour later searching for another bar to star the day with a pint we almost end up in a fist fight over money with a random Mongolian driver who was supposed to take us somewhere but kept circling around instead. Three to one is math easy enough even for his brutish features when he ends up accepting one sixth of the price he asks. As he gets back into the car he and flushes out a stream of colorful Mongolian in my direction I cannot think otherwise. A good night out indeed!
I do not bother to go to sleep at all unlike all my yesterday-night compatriots. The deal has been sealed in my mind and there is a lot to do. The day after tomorrow I am off to the West via the Central provinces. Taking a bus to Tsetserleg and continuing hitching another 200 kilometers to the White lake to do some fishing and hiking in the surrounding mountains. First few days in the company of Lukas, the rest alone.
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The blog is updated, super warm underpants bought and packed, another VISA extension filed and the ten hour bus journey can begin. In the end it turns out to be a much more comfortable experience then anticipated. The expected Japanese minivan actually materializes as a full-blown Korean bus.My backpack sitting on the seat next to me serves as a cushion for at least a third of the journey, the rest is filled with scenery watching and friendly banter with my friend.
We arrive at Tsetserleg in the early evening with enough time to try the local Mongolian cafes. The food is actually worse then the bad I am accustomed to and I have to suppress the feeling of guilt over my suggestion to Lukas of what to order. The beer tastes nice thought. It's bottled so I guess there is no other way.
After stacking up on vodka, the only essential item missing in hour backpacks we climb the nearest hill overlooking a city and camp under a clear blue sky. After a little incident involving a Korean cooker, a Mongolian adapter, a Russian gas and Slovak engineering when the camp almost burns down in a sudden fireball we retire for the night. Not before the mandatory few sips of the vodka to takes us through the night safely.By eleven the next day we're out on the road ready to take on the hitchhiker's Mongolia.
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"Sain bain uu. Ta khashaa yavj bain ve?" I volunteer when the first car stops over and the driver rolls down the window. The puzzled look on his face makes me repeat the sentence. Good day. Where are you heading?"Bid Tariat ruu khashaa." We're going to Tariat. The driver's face lights up in understanding.
"Ah.. bain bain", the driver responds merrily reluctant to share the destination of his journey. He rubs the fingers of his right hand in the familiar international gesture.
"Yamar untei?" I follow. How much?
The driver looks for a means to explain the figure spoken in Mongolian. As he hands me back the paper and pen I lent him I can see why his face lit up so brightly. 180 000 togrog! Roughly 120$.. You've got to be kidding! 80 US cents per kilometer? The taxis in the west cost less!
When I explain to him that his asking price belongs to another world he does not care to negotiate, utters some colloquial Mongolian with a frown on his face and drives off.
What a f- bastard! Lukas and I agree as we watch him leave. He was surely joking, right?
Well, if he was joking indeed then most of Mongolians in this province share his sense of humour. With five other cars a similar patter is followed, one driver sending us to the bus station when I share my idea of what is a fair fare for the length of this journey - 25000 togrog is what I am willing to spend for the both of us. He laughs wholeheartedly as he drives off.
So this is the friendly and hospitable Mongolia the guidebooks keep talking about? At least the pace is good and ninety percent of the cars stop by. It seems that some do so just to have a closer look at the strange white folk.When a van with a lovely and friendly looking family stops over our luck seems to be picking up. By this time I extended my knowledge of Mongolian to say we are hitchhikers. When they reveal our destinations match we decide no to ask about the price and hop on to the closed cargo back of their Russian minivan.
The happiness of being finally on the road surrounded by an authentically friendly looking family however quickly wears off when we make a U-turn and end up 500 meters back to where we started. Apparently the family has not finished their shopping yet and are planning to leave in three hours. No way we are waiting here this long and as we are unloading our backpacks I try to explain to them that if we're still waiting at our original spot in that time they are more then welcome to pick us up. As we're heading back on foot to where we started and resume our hitching position the driver father seems to be following us. Suddenly it dawns on me that this ride would in no way have been free nor the price left for us to decide, given as a present rather then a payback.
I cannot help myself feeling disappointed.
Don't get me wrong here. I am all for supporting the local families. They are mostly very poor and can afford little else then what their basic needs require. But there is a huge difference between support and extortion.
The tourist industry is definitely taking it's toll on Mongolia. Wherever there used to be the alleged unconditional hospitality before there now seems to be forward expectation of payback. I guess it is fair and it makes sense to make money on something that is money to be made of. But Mongolian's take this entrepreneurship to a whole new level. They expect to be given things without providing any service. Simply because the foreigner 'is' rich they assume that that money somehow belongs to them too. In the Gobi our driver kept asking me for cigarettes even though he visibly had his own. The owner of a tourist ger (that's how the yurts are called here) we stayed in asked us for beer and other things even though we payed for the night. Refusing in these cases is certainly out of question so one has really no other option than to accept it.
As we resume our hitching position we decide on a different strategy that would hopefully get us moving - to make the journey in a few hops. So we no longer ask for Tariat, the town nearest to the lake, when a jeep stops over but the next village some 30 kilometers away instead. The lady in the passenger seat who later turns out to be a doctor actually negotiates! Starting at 20000 I manage to get the price down to 5000. Not bad.And so after one and a half hours of the we are finally on the road! After we leave the town limits we continue driving through a scenic mountain pass into a valley with a wide river lined with tall birches and poplars. The autumn has reached Mongolia there is no doubt about that. The leaves have all turned beautiful shades of yellow and with the amount of light in this cloudless day and altitude they give out an irresistible shine.
When we get off in this no-where village, which probably has no other purpose then a night stop for a passing by trucks, we do not resist a little hike to the river. Long I have longed for a proper autumn, the previous three spent in the treeless south of England. And so after we cross the river and brew some coffee I walk off into the little forest rejoicing in the colors and the sounds.Before the night sets in we manage another hop. In the bluish colors of the dusk we can still recognize the contours of the not-far-off mountains when we get off. The deep chill of the wind lets us know we're in much higher altitude. It still catches us by surprise when we wake up to the sounds of snow falling on our tents - within half an hour the whole steppe is covered in white. I observe it from the relative warmth of my sleeping bag and with a few sips of vodka to take the edge of the morning cold creeping in we wait the storm off until the sun pierces through the clouds. As we're packing up our tents there is little trace of it left except for a distant mountain peak in the direction I fear we are heading.
Catching a really quick but equally uncomfortable ride we arrive to Tariat in the early afternoon. The driver of the car we arrived in and his wife own a guesthouse in the town and even when we suggest we stay there the driver asks a ridiculous amount. He even suggests we take a cheaper ride with someone else and then come to theirs. What business skill! Lukas seems very tempted to tell him to f- off but I calm him down. In the end the driver's wife, speaking fluent English, seems to beat some sense into her husband and we end up riding for about an eighth of the original price.So we're finally in Tariat walking around trying to find the only restaurant but failing to do so. We haven't committed ourselves to anything and have yet to come up with a plan! The lake is 7 kilometers away. Lukas suggests calling of the those ridiculously overpriced ger camps at its shores. He is totally against camping tonight and since the morale is quite low after the previous few days that opened our eyes and left a bitter taste in our months regarding Mongolians I end up agreeing, We are however again assured in our opinion of working Mongolia when none of the four camps called are able to provide transportation. Anywhere else it would be a matter of a few phone calls but not here!
Hungry, tired, disillusioned and with no other real options we settle for the local guesthouse. Normally the family provides a ger for their guests but since they have just wrapped up this year's tourist season they have none quite ready and we end up sleeping in their own house with the family sharing a tent in the yard. As I am falling asleep with the prospects of comfortable warmth throughout the night I can here fairly loud sighs of passion coming from the tent. As the lady explains in the morning she has been away for two weeks.. I am pretty sure however their little son slept in the tent with them - apparently there are no taboos here..
The next day does not start very positively. Lukas has decided to turn back because of his health condition - an undefined itch that's been 'consuming' him for weeks did not getter better after a trip to the Mongolian doctors. The Chinese once were even less useful so, again with little other choice, he decided to give the Mongolian ones one more try. And thus we shake hands and exchange a manly hug - him regretting he's never gotten to see the lake and me, well, a little disappointed to loose a buddy and slightly scared since my lonely adventure starts right here right now!
I have failed to mention a certain problem that's been occupying my mind for the past few days. I made a mistake of not taking enough cash out of the bank in UB for obvious reasons - well, maybe not so obvious: robberies, thefts and muggings that is - relying on the guidebook information being correct in the fact that I'll be able to get money out as I go. The unexpected spending towards the hitching fares are beginning to stretch my available budget and I desperately need to recharge my waist pouch. I have given the ATM in the last big town a try but with no avail. So it is time to try here and try harder.
I have made a short-lived inquiry yesterday but I was entirely unsuccessful. I try to put much more pressure when I enter the bank this time. There must be a way around even if the bank is not connected directly to the international system. Call the branch in UB, give them my card details, draw the money there and transfer it locally here. And put a 10 percent margin on top. That's what would happen anywhere else from bank manager's own initiation. But not here, no. You have to come up with all the solutions yourself and then hope that you come across someone willing enough to put them into reality.
When I am assured by the guesthouse lady that what I am after is possible I walk into the bank much more confidently. I have some of my 'ideas' written down in Mongolian but the bank teller seems to be finished at first sign of failure after trying the same she has tried yesterday. I have to call the guesthouse lady to translate as I take her through the whole process. She calls the bank in Tsetserleg then in UB and after a few passes of the phone with the lady translator on there and back I learn that it is simply impossible. They would need reassurance in the proof of my signature which I cannot provide and a fax is a non-existent thing here, not that they would be willing to go through all the trouble.Ok. I suggest a draft from my account. I go to the internet cafe - believe me or not there is one here - to get the international bank account number (IBAN) and branch code and come back fairly confident. That should work. But it doesn't since the lady has never heard of an IBAN or a bank account number not having 10 digits. I give up on her at this point. She however isn't finished with me and I have to pay up 4000 togrog for the privilege of her company. Even thought it ended in an epic failure. I give up though and pay up reluctant to waste another minute arguing.
There is one more thing I came up with in my mini brain storming session and that is to transfer the money to the account of the guesthouse lady and after three days, when they are there, have them draw them out for me minus a margin. I am not entirely trustful when it comes to Mongolians but this lady has been nice and since she is in the Lonely Planet guidebook she cannot afford to do anything evil. As I am discussing these options with here she seems a bit disappointed I won't spend the money on a tour with them but ends up agreeing. To get her to understand that I need the exact international bank account number not just some partial codes she is handing to me however proves more difficult. So difficult that after giving her my phone to call up whomever she needs to find it out and her coming back to me with the same old story I give up.And so it is then. At least I have 20$ on me I can change in the ban. They take no euros. Why would they.
With the twenty bucks turned into 25000 togrog I finally take off for the lake. There goes the planned horse riding and there goes the fishing too when I discover that the gear went off with Lukas.As I am making the 7 kilometer trek to the lake on foot thinking how unfortunately it all turned out - me having to go back to UB before starting again for the West - I come across a group of foreigners fishing by the river flowing out of the lake. When I share my day's troubles with a very nice New Zealender who is all eager to help out. And in no time the tourist group including its guides and driver turn into a Fishing/Horse-riding Banking Consortium. A passionate but friendly debate on the exchange rates unfolds with me, being partial, unfortunately having no say in it. So I end up changing all my euros and pounds about 15% under price but stuff it! Anything to get me going forward and never back!
And so it is! I've got enough money now to get me to the west where some sort of solution will present itself I'm sure. There are a few cities with airports and there is no way foreigners pay up cash for the tickets. And so now much more confident I give my regards and make headway towards the lake.I arrive to a pretty spot with a happy mindset and setup camp while it's still light. After a dinner of soup and noodles I stretch myself on the warm ground and light up a cigarette. The lake unfolds to my left with mountains as a backdrop. An extinct volcano shines above the trees on the right. The trees growing from a little plateau the river of lava has created few millions years ago. It's been a good day.
When the night sets in I start writing this story. I can hear the wolfs howling from across the lake. That and the voices and synthesizers of Modern Talking, the cheesy 80's East German band. For some strange reason they are still alive here. To my good fortune the person playing the music grows tired of it rather quickly and so I can go to sleep with only the calming sounds of the lake in a gentle breeze. The adventure starts tomorrow. Bloody hell, it's gonna be fun!
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