Trans-siberian Stage 3: UB to the border

We see more of Ulan-Bator...

A monument, high on a hill across the river (the ‘new’ part of town, where gers dot empty spaces between half-built high-rise apartment buildings). A mosaic runs around the circumference, documenting the relationship between Mongolia and Russia.

The main square, where a Saturday afternoon crowd rides rented bicycles built for two (or three) and kids tool around in teeny cars.

Gandantegchenling monastery: Back in the day, Buddhism was brought to Mongolia from Tibet, in the form of entertainment, in exchange for being spared the wrath of the Mongol army. But when the communists first came to Mongolia, they destroyed most of the temples, so they aren’t so prevalent anymore.

We waded through a sea of pigeons, feeding on the grain sold by bent-over men and women with weather-beaten features. Prayer wheels spin.

                     

Inside the main building, the monks were midway through their daily three-hour chanting session….

 The interior is a riot of fading colors – red rafters, painted walls, tapestries hanging everywhere, rugs on the benches that lined the edges of the room – and sunlight slants through the skylights, illuminating the dust dancing in the air. The monks sit, 2 rows on either side of the center aisle, facing each other. In front of them sit a stack of pages, about 1 foot by three feet. No ordinary pages, they are black with golden script, and contain the holy readings being chanted out loud. Some monks are chanting, some are reading along silently, and at seemingly random intervals there is a jarring noise of crashing cymbals and the deep thrum of gongs. As the stacks are finished, the young monks rise from their seats, wrap it in its golden cloth, and slide it back into its place, causing us to slide this way and that as they reached over our heads into the cabinets. Buddhas in glass cases line the walls. On a series of altars surrounding the largest Buddha on the center altar, offerings and candles are scattered, including cakes with ornate frosting frozen into place. Men carry out long trays filled with food for the monks – a shoe-shaped bread basket, a bag of various food items, and a small mound of what looks like cake.

In the smaller of the two temple buildings, this scene was repeated on a smaller and less ornate scale. In the back stood a cluster of people, crowding around to observe the ritual of washing Buddha’s face as they were draped in lengths of multicolored cloths.

Into the incense-filled stupa, where a tremendously tall golden Buddha looks down and prayer wheels line both sides of the perimeter walkway, their near-constant spinning looked upon by thousands of small robed buddhas.

Night train out of Ulan-Bataar.

The city falls away, more gers in rolling hills. Rain swoops in shimmering curtains, distant mountains cut a line on the horizon. Headlights burn on slick pavement. The train curves around a bend, stretching out behind us trailing lighted windows.

Settlements with houses of stone and small stations breezed right through. To the west, between the shadow of the hills and bruise of the clouds, a line of illuminated sky, shining so clear and promising,… but so far out of reach. And in the center, a pulse of fuschia, marking the setting of the sun. Soon this, too, fades, and the hills succumb to the darkness as fog settles in the valleys. 

Down the corridor, beds are being made, cup-of-noodles being consumed, cards being played, as we figure out how to exist in the small space. (Already we are engaged in a standoff with our attendant over the acceptable level of openness for our window). 

We are about to leave Mongolia behind... but it's not so easy. We have a border crossing to tackle first.... 

Trans-siberian: More Mongolia

Morning archery session at the ger camp,  aiming the blunt-tipped arrows at a sheepskin target. The arrows arc through the air with a satisfying flair. 

Impromptu volleyball game with some kids before reluctantly heading back towards the city. On the way, we stop at a religious site on the side of the road – a pile of stones, topped by an object covered in fluttering scarves, mostly blue, strung with prayer flags. 

Closer inspection reveals other items around the stones – small clay pots, buddha statues, crutches, a picture frame. As instructed, I choose a stone from the earth, and walk clock-wise 3 times around the pile, the edge of the stone rough against by finger. (I am reminded of the Cruz de Ferro as I contemplate the  possible significance of various offerings).  When my third circle is complete, I toss my stone to join the others, and Niema fills me in on the background of these religious sites, called an ovoo. 

Ovoo fun facts:

• These sites are significant to both Buddhists and Shamanists.
• The piles are begun by a priest, probably because the place has a spiritual vibe or energy. Then passing people add more rocks, scarves, flags…
• The tradition began long ago, when men going to war carried a stone from their hometowns and, when they reached the mountain pass carrying them to their uncertain future, they dropped the stone. Coming home from war, each man picked up his stone; those that remained were a memorial to the fallen.
• Blue represents long life, which is why blue scarves are prevalent.

 Back in town, we meet a local guide, who brings us on a tour of the Ger District of Ulan-Bator, which ended up being one of the most interesting parts of the trip for me, and highlighted the vast difference in life experiences between people in different parts of the world.

UB has a population of over 1 million people, and 68% of them live in the ger district, while the rest live in apartments. Electricity is available in the District, but water must be purchased at, and carried home from, the communal well (which is connected to the city water supply, so it doesn’t run out). Stoves are used for cooking and heating, and there is a new program that allows people to exchange their old wood or coal-burning stoves for a more environmentally-friendly stove, at  a fraction of the cost, in an effort to reduce air pollution. 

The District has a lot of car mechanics. K-12 education is free to every Mongolian – even in the country, nomadic kids can go to boarding school, paying only for food (and perhaps contributing a sheep or some wheat). Every Mongolian – man, woman, child – is also entitled to 700 square meters of land. Once claimed, it is theirs to keep, sell, or leave as an inheritance. There are rules governing where people can claim their allotment. Slowly, people in the District are selling their land to developers, who are building apartment blocks. They are, as we were told, sitting “on a gold mine”, and are in a position to not only receive a good price for their land, but perhaps a new home in the apartment block.

We visit a ger that is home to a man, his wife, and 2 of his children. Two of his sons, out of six children, have gers in the same plot of land. The sons are off completing their stint in the army. The man has stopped working – he used to work in the big market – and is now taking care of his grandkids while their fathers are away. His wife cleans at the local university.

            We sip traditional drink – milky green tea laced with salt, cupping the bowls in two hands, and learn that the man of the house is an archer. He moved his family to UB six years earlier, purchasing this plot of land, because their nomadic lifestyle didn’t provide enough work, or resources, to support such a large family. The ger is large, and their possessions seem a mix of necessity and sentiment – dishes, cooking pots, three beds, painted cabinets; and archery medals, family photos,  an animal skull.  Wedged above the ceiling struts is an old bow; easily five feet long and unstrung. These days, people use trucks to move their lives, but this ger and all its contents would have required five camels to transport it to the city.

            A chubby-cheeked child totters in, clutching the door frame for support, but our coos and waves only make her burst into tears, and she is snatched up by her mother as we ask the man of often he practices his archery. He laughs. Not often. He’d like to, but, you know… life. But he takes down a bow and flexes the string, demonstrating his technique. 

We inquire about entertainment – how do they relax? 

“Talk to each other” (A smile) “Gossip.”

Imagine that.

Here in the city, there is more to do, of course, and even in the country, solar power now allows TV in the gers along with lights, as long as the sun shines. Looking around, the simplicity of this life is appealing – a minimum of possessions, the ability to move your life in a single day. The diet, on the other hand,  is not so appealing: In the country, with no refrigeration, the summer diet consists mainly of dairy products. Then before winter sets in, livestock are slaughtered to take advantage of the natural freezer. Even in the city, this is the way. Our tour guide tells us that last winter, her family had six sheep slaughtered, and kept the meat, wrapped in plastic, on their apartment balcony.

Her parents still live in the ger district, she and her husband opted to take their three children, and her grandmother, to an apartment, because they could afford to do so. 

The last question we direct at our host is about the anchor tattoo on his hand. From his army days, he says. It was the fashionable thing to do. This is a landlocked country, we mention, puzzled. How does anything nautically-themed become a trend?

            “We dream” he says simply, shrugging his shoulders.

            As we exit, a tiny pair of felt booties are drying on the roof, and they seem to represent something – a simplicity, a freedom, a family.

Trans-Siberian, Stage 2: Mongolian ger camp

Here we are in a ger in Mongolia, nestled in a scenery I never could have imagined, in one of those moments that makes me so grateful for the life I lead and answers the question of why I travel....

Notes from the road: 

Impromptu sheep market out of trucks on the roadside.

Sun shines on the hills.

Two kids struggle with a loaded wheel-barrow.

Stream meanders, cows graze.

Pile of sheep-skins for sale on a tire.

River winds lazily through the valley, past a plain dotted with trees and herds.

Horses swish their tails, yaks amble. (And we stop to take photos, of course).

Spines of boulders, pine trees, and steeper slopes leading to rocky peaks.

After a plentiful lunch we headed off for a walk, despite the drizzle, pausing in the gazebo on the hill to learn about ger construction traditions.

Ger Fun Facts:

•       The size of a ger is based on the number of latticed wall sections it is built with; the larger the number the larger the circumference. (Math teachers wonder, if I know the number of wall sections, can I calculate the diameter?)

•      The walls are covered by felt, which is made by compressing wool by dragging it behind a horse!

•      Wedding gifts for young couples often include a ger or it’s accessories: furniture, animals, etc. 

•        These  more permanent ger camps are vacations spots for mongolians who want to escape the city for a weekend.
• 
  

As the rain trailed off,  we headed off across the fields, followed by a dog with a lanky, wolf-like way of moving. The wet grass soaked my shoes in seconds, but it felt so great to move that I didn’t really care. Wildflowers bloomed among rhubarb and cow pies as we skirted the hillside and entered the forest; the rain falling yet again and prompting our guide, Niema, to open his yellow umbrella. Soft-needled larches and white birches, purple columbines along the dirt path. Into a clearing as the sun breaks free, only to illuminate the mosquitos looking for a meal. Swatting and twitching, we admired the view back down to camp.

Eager for more, some of us continued on to a nearby monastery.  Down the other side of the hill, we emerged from the trees to shining sun and views of the valley stretching away to our left, ger camps dotting the nearby slopes. To our right loomed piles of boulders that we made our way below, still followed by our canine companion. 

At the head of valley, the monastery lies halfway up the slope of the mountain, and the path is lined with wise proverbs. We paid a man to let us inside, just as he was locking up, and he cackled, poking at us with his umbrella and saying something that was, at least to him, very amusing.

            The inside smelled musty, and every surface was covered with fabric or painted in bright colors – cushions on the benches, pointed tapestries on the pillars, a riotous altar around a golden buddha, who managed to look peaceful in spite of it all.

                      

            We were ushered out with the umbrella, and I was still photographing details of the exterior when I realized I was about to get left behind, so I rushed to follow the group down the hill, eyeing the rain coming over the mountain.  We couldn’t outrun it, so we trudged along, retracing our steps. By the time we emerged back at the camp, the sky was clearing yet again, and we paused on a grassy hillside, basking in the bright heat of the sun as it dried our clothes.

We made our own dinner that night – dumplings. Niema demonstrated each step, from forming the individual pillows of dough, to rolling them out into a circle, to filling it with minced meat with garlic and onion, to carefully pinching the top closed. There are different ways to form dumplings, involving different pinching techniques. We attempted three of these techniques. We also learned that if you host Lunar New Year celebrations for your family, you will need to make more than 1000 dumplings to make everyone happy.

Our hard work was devoured in minutes, and we lingered and chatted before heading to bed, the ger warmed by the wood-stove in the center, as a group of Mongolians partied a few gers over, their laughter ringing out until the morning hours.

Trans-siberian, Stage 1

June 18, 8:05am. 

The K3 train pulls out of Beijing Railway Station, shuddering to a start and officially beginning a 9000km adventure on the rails.

The sole inhabitants of Car #5 are two uniformed provodniks, 1 Russian tour leader named Bob, and six travelers who are now, for better or for worse, in this together.

The sky is blue behind the dusty haze, and we stand at the open hallway windows, glad for the cool breeze after abandoning our attempts to open our own window. (Luckily, we soon discover that the fan in our cabin is not just any fan, but an oscillating wonder that hits all corners of the cabin). 

The city sprawl is soon behind us, and the green train winds into a range of sandstone mountains, craggy, covered in a carpet of vivid green shrubs. Rivers wind in steep valleys, a lake spreads out under the railway bridge.

Tunnels keep suddenly plunging us into whirring darkness, cutting conversations in mid-sentence, before we burst back into warm sunlight and a new view.

Once through the mountains we emerge at the foot of a dammed lake, windmills turning on the other shore. Ranges of hills spread along the horizon. We move through surprisingly green fields – corn, fruit trees, even vineyards. Poplar trees bend in the wind, and though I can’t hear them, I know they are whispering.

Blocks of small houses, identical terra-cotta tiles.

Sun hats dot the fields.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.

Lunchtime brings our first encounter with the dining car – veggies and rice and a little mystery meat - not bad for a free meal. The other diners are mostly westerners, other adventure-seekers heading into the unknown. 

Standing at the window, face to the breeze; clouds feather against clear blue sky, hills and fields slide by, somehow barren and verdant all at once. I feel a sense of freedom as it’s all falling behind, nothing to do now but take it all in and fall back into the rhythm of the road… as unpredictable as it may be.

More gleaming rows of young corn, just about knee-high and right on schedule. Occasional villages and ugly industrial moments marred with smokestacks and broken windows.

A gradual flattening. Now windmills spin, cows graze on meager grass, and the sky fades out to the horizon, where a line of clouds billows and climbs… so much beautiful space.

June 19 

We pulled into Erlian, the last Chinese outpost, around 8:30pm last night. Six hours later, we pulled away from from the Mongolian side....

We gave our passports to the uniformed officers, then loitered on the platform in the deepening twilight as classical music danced through the cool air.

We reboarded to witness the changing of the ‘bogies’ – the wheels and undercarriage. It was quite the process: jacks were used to hoist the entire train, before the wheels were slid out and the new wheels slid and connected.

We watched from inside our car, sticking heads out the windows, as much for the ‘fresh’ air as a view of the process. 

It was 11pm as we left the shed, rejoined our engine, and headed across no-man’s land. I dozed in and out, hot and restless, as the process continued – passports given back, forms to fill out, passports handed over to a different set of uniforms, passports returned yet again. Each step seemed to take longer than the last, and underneath it all was the growing awareness that I really, really needed to pee. 

Finally, after 2am, we were on the move in Mongolia. Drunk with exhaustion, we were relieved when the toilets were at last unlocked and we were allowed to sleep. 

 We must have passed through the Gobi desert in the night, waking to a wide expanse - the Mongolian landscape sliding by – wide-open plains stretching away to the horizon, a carpet of short stubby grass. Rain falling in deep purple curtains behind us, blue sky showing in patches between layers of clouds.

Herds of sheep.

Two-humped camels.

Stout and sturdy horses.

Round white gers.

Occasional lonely houses. 

It was beautifully bleak, even as the landscape began to have more texture: low hills in the distance, the ground undulating softly, patches of yellow grass.

The low gray skies and spattering rain added to the bleak impression that UlanBator immediately gave. The roofs of houses were colored in bright shades, but around them were crooked fences, white gers, and dirt roads. As we drove from the station into the city center, we passed a wide array of buildings – crumbling to stately, gray to colorful. And kapaoke (karaoke) bars everywhere. It is a city that seems to be trying very, very hard.

As was our hotel. Unfortunately the water was off when we arrived. Apparently this is not entirely uncommon, as we learned from our guide, Niema, as he calmly discussed how he dealt with a month without hot water in his apartment while the pipes were being repaired.

Thus denied our chance to get cleaned up, we set off again in our tour van, splashing through puddles and getting the lay of the land, driving past the main square with its requisite horse statue.

We devoured a much-needed meal at a local cafeteria, where various combinations of meat and vegetables sizzled on animal-shaped metal plates and the local beer was surprisingly delicious.

Sitting on rug-covered steps, we enjoyed a cultural show, which was a perfect introduction to traditional Mongolian music and dancing….
Wild haunting tunes that made me think of wide-open spaces, 2-stringed instruments played with a bow or plucked like a guitar, horns and flutes, dances with a cheeky and flirtatious vibe. Fur boots, colorful costumes, ornate headdresses.  A limber contortionist, bending hot-pink and sparkles into unbelievable shapes; and throat singing, which was weird and wonderful all at the same time. Masked figures ended the show with a colorful parade.

In the next installment: an inside look at a ger, monasteries, bows and arrows.
More photos from this stage and beyond can be found at http://wicky.smugmug.com/. 

Hiking = Emotional roller coaster

It's not only the elevation that's changing.
******
The birds are chirping, the sky is blue and the sun is beaming over the horizon.

It is early for a Saturday, but you are a hiker, and early mornings do not deter you.

You are caffeinated.

You are are packed and ready to go.

You will (almost) definitely not miss the train.

The distant peaks cut a sharp outline on the horizon. They are calling you.

*********
As the train slides farther away from the city, more hikers appear onboard.

The mood is lively, (especially for a Japanese train),  crowded with brightly-colored backpacks, walking sticks, all the latest hiking fashions, and the sound of pre-hike onigiri being unwrapped.

And you are part of this.

You are so glad you got up this morning.

The views out the train windows are progressively more beautiful and impressive.

When you finally spill out the doors, the air is crisp and clear.

Your strides are sure, your pack feels light.

You are so glad you got up this morning.

******
Sh*t, this sucks.

You have been walking uphill for what seems like forever.

And a day.

Sweat drips everywhere. Your legs are heavy, each step requires effort.

Every time you turn a corner, the mountain magically grows.

You could still be sleeping right now.

You should be sleeping right now.

And while you're on the subject, you should have....

...had one less glass of wine last night.  and called your mother. and paid your credit card bill.

You might have (maybe been) kind of bitchy to your friend last week. She probably hates you.

What else can you berate yourself about?

Your heartbeat is a pounding drum, your thoughts a swirling mayhem.

You will never reach the top.

You are never doing this again.

***********

Sh*t this is amazing!

The summit had beautiful views, made more amazing by the fact that you had to earn them by sheer force of will and physical strength.

Your lunch was delicious, and the nap in the sun refreshed you.

This narrow ridgeline you are walking drops away in both directions, and you are ecstatic that you are here to tread the spine of the mountain. You feel exhilarated, inspired.... intrepid.

Even the wind joins in your joy, rustling leaves and sweeping over you, cool and sweet. It seems to nudge you along even faster.

You are, for the moment, alone in the universe.

You could walk for hours like this.

You hope it never ends.

***********
The trail begins to descend.

The wind, quieter now, slides through the sun-dappled lines of cedars on the mountainside with only a whisper.

The shade is cool and welcoming.

Your momentum carries you, your mind quiets.

Lost in the rhythm of your steps, you have time to reflect.

Your thoughts settle, your mind stills.

You are one with nature.

********
More downhill.

You are getting a little tired of this.

The silence has taken on an ominous tone.

Slightly dizzy from staring at the ground, you long for the ridge you recently left.

If you try to look up, your feet inevitably slip on a loose patch of rocks or a tree root.

In fact, you are almost sure that even the uphill from this morning would be preferable to this constant state of trying not to fall on your ass.

**********
Civilization is encroaching - chainsaws buzz, traffic hums, trains rumble.

The temperature is rising.

You just want it to be over.

*****
The trail has spit you out in a mountainside village, and you zig-zag the streets to the train station, feeling a bit smug.

Look at what you have accomplished - you have travelled far, and toiled hard.

Your mind returns to the heights you have recently left.

You would do anything to have that feeling again. And really, that climb from this morning (so long ago!) was not so bad after all.

This is your destiny.

You will return.