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| Luxurious upholstery, crap steering. |
We were trying to organise a Chinese visa. The queues outside the embassy are enormous; on our first visit we only just managed get in to pick up a form and get kicked out again. On the way out I answered a few questions from various people who hadn't even managed to get that far.
When we went back two days later, queing an hour before opening, I was approached by a Frenchman.
"Excuse me," he said, "are you the guy who gave a short speech the other day about the problems you've been having with the embassy?"
"Er, maybe. I was just answering question. Yes. I suppose it was a speech."
He had more questions. So this time when we got out (still no visas) I didn't wait for the questions and addressed the crowd with my views on Chinese bureaucracy. Mari thought it might be a good idea to leave town for a few days. We'd already met the president of the Mongolian Choppers Club - a very camp little round man with no shirt - in a biker's karaoke bar, and the city couldn't possibly offer us much more after that.
But getting to the Mongolian countryside is a pain in the arse, due the roads being made out of hardened cowshit and the bus engines pretty much the same. It was supposed to be a 17-hour bus ride to the lake we wanted to visit; one person we spoke to said it had actually taken him 40, without a seat, to get back. Apparently the locals pass the time by drinking vodka and punching each other in the face. So we advertised for some fellow travellers and hired a van and driver.
We were two Phillipinos, one Englishman, one Estonian, a Spaniard, and a Swiss. (Swissard? Swissle? Swissman?) First thing to do was write down all the provisions we needed for our ten-day trip and each draw out a selection of items to buy. I pulled out the following:
- 24 cans of gas
- 3 litres of vodka
- 20 toilet rolls
- A roll of bin bags
Next morning our driver came to pick us up in the van. His name was Unur and he looked like a Mexican villain from The High Chapparal. The first thing he did was take me to one side and assure me, through gestures, that he didn't drink. Not a drop.
The first day's driving went without incident; the second day we made it as far of the town of Moron, which I think is named after the bloke who designed it. On the third day we actually arrived at Khovsgol lake. Two solid days in the van might sound boring, but it wasn't - it was unspeakably, brain-curdlingly, gut-chewingly tedious. I could've snorted all 24 cans of gas, drank the three litres of vodka, and thus probably made good use of the toilet rolls and bin bags, before we even reached our destination. The Mongolian countryside is stunning - green-golden plains peopled by camels and wild goats, eagles swooping overhead in endless blue sky, lone horsemen fluttering across the horizon and hills ruffled like satin sheets shimmering in the distance - but it doesn't half get samey after a while. It's no wonder Genghis felt the need to invade Russia and China. He probably just wanted to bypass the visa application process.
Anyway. After two days communicating with Unur through grunts and gestures, we found out he could speak Russian, so Mari was able to talk with him a bit. We told him we wanted to go fishing in the lake and he said he'd help us get a license. After much driving in circles round the nearest village and getting dismissed from various departments, he somehow got us directly into the office of the District Political Administrator. This was a big man in full military uniform with epaulettes extending about six inches beyond his shoulders. He didn't like the look of me but kept grinning at Mari. As far as I could tell, he was assuring Unur that it was quite impossible to grant a two-day fishing license to me - presumably on the grounds that our great-grandfathers never entered battle together and I probably couldn't even drink five litres of fermented mare's milk without throwing up and wetting my pants - and then he gestured that he'd like to see the size of my rod. By the time I'd fetched it back from the van the license was written out, among much fraternal back-slapping between Unur and the Generalissimo. By this time he was grinning quite manically at Mari. Unur ushered us out of there.
When we got to the lake and Unur saw how desperately incompetent a fishermen I was he must've realised that all his efforts with the license were heading down the toilet, and recruited another local contact of his to help. A 4x4 skidded up and a stout old man leapt out brandishing a pair of rubber wading dungarees with built-in wellies. The waders were pushed up against me for size and I was delighted to see they didn't fit; no matter - the old man bundled me into the jeep and we sped away, leaving Unur creased up with laughter. I didn't even have time to tell the others where I was going, which was good, because I didn't have a clue.
Eventually we bumped up to a secluded river and got out. I was still worried about having to wear the waders but the truth was far stranger than that. When we got to the river's edge my new friend got into the wading suit himself, crouched down and gestured at me to get on his back.
I tried every sort of protest I could think of but the old man was having none of it: he was going to carry me over the bloody river and we'd bloody well catch a bloody fish. Eventually politeness bound me to get on.
That was a strange feeling. I kept wondering how I came to be riding piggy-back on an old man across a Mongolian river. It vaguely reminded me of a scene from the Bible that I couldn't quite recall. I was snapped out of this musing when the current got too strong and the man started wobble and veer downstream. The water was flooding into his waders and filling my boots, but we made it to the other side.
Obviously I didn't catch a fish and within 10 minutes the line was hopelessly tangled and the hooks were lost. Time to go back. I really didn't think he had the strength for the return journey; I pointed out that my feet were soaked anyway, then offered to take my trousers off - a big step when you're alone with a fisherman in the Mongolian wilderness - offered to take my trousers off and walk. Again, no dice. This time my worries were well-founded and halfway across the old man capsized. I managed to land on my feet and was only soaked up the waist but he was completely submerged, mostly because I'd pushed him further down in an effort to save myself. Rather than smacking me in the face he seemed to find the whole thing hilarious and we drove back to camp fishless and drenched but new best friends.
The next day Unur went on hunger strike after a dispute about taking us to see some local reindeer herders. We managed to calm him down eventually and he took us to see a local rock instead. The rock was big and rock-like but while we were there I did get the chance to realise a long-held ambition of riding a yak. I tried to organise a yak rodeo in Cheltenham a few years ago by sneaking into a local farm but the yaks ran away when we approached them. This one was tethered and had no choice.
Never did I encounter such a slow-witted and obstinate animal. It wouldn't start; once it started it wouldn't stop; and at all times it wandered off in any direction it fancied regardless of the way I was steering it. As a method of conveyance, I can report that the old man was faster and much more amenable, although susceptible to break down at crucial moments.
After my journeys on the old man and the yak, I had intended to make this blog a three-way "road test" review of various Mongolian transport methods by riding a horse as well. We eventually finished up in a tent with some old nomads (the alcoholic mare's milk is utterly, utterly disgusting) and after we'd eaten their supplies we asked to ride the horses. Mari went first and did a couple of graceful laps of the valley; I was prepared to go next but before I could step up, our Spanish friend attempted to mount the horse with a bit too much gusto and put it into a fright. It tried to throw him off but his sandal was caught in the stirrup and he couldn't either fall off or stay rightly on, instead being thrashed about with his bollocks banging lustily against the animal's hindquarters and his body flapping ecstatically in all directions.
It was quite a sight. The horse bucked, leapt and ran in demented circles; the rest of our party chased it around; the Mongolians laughed and shouted advice; and I stood watching and quietly decided not to bother going next. I really thought he might be killed. He held his nerve, though, and eventually managed to fall off with nothing worse than shin injuries and, I would imagine, very sore chestnuts. I tried to interview him about this immediately but he didn't want to discuss it.
Judging from the pained expression etched into his face as he lay motionless on the ground, though, I'd say Mongolian horse riding isn't a good bet for the novice either. So, in the absence of any old men to carry us, we decided to take the van back to Ulaan-Baatar.
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