The Continuing Haircutting Adventures

BEIJING - Spring's come early to Beijing. Today there were mostly sunny skies and a high near 60. I left my down jacket, hat, mittens and wool socks at the hostel as I made my way around the city.

 

The warm weather meant it was also time to shed my other warm layer - my hair. I purposely didn't get my red mane cut for nearly two months before leaving. That meant a thick mat of hair, which probably helped when I got off the Trans-Siberian without a hat. It also contributed to the oily, greasy feeling at the end of the long train trip, but nevermind. I needed a haircut.

 

I have a barber in Beijing. He gave me a memorable haircut back in June, and I took the subway this morning over to Xinjiekou to give him some repeat business. After getting quite lost (in an area I spent nearly a week less than a year ago), I found the barber shop. It's now a bakery.

 

Out of options, I decided to try a new place.  The decision wasn't difficult. I walked 100 meters down the street from my hostel (in Qianmen, just south of Tian'anmen) and popped into the first building with a spinning pole outside. Newly armed with the Chinese word for haircut - 理发 - I went in and requested the service.

 

Inside were two young women at one side of the room, and a old woman smoking at the other side near a cash register. I asked how much for a haircuit.

 

"Twenty," the taller young woman said.

 

At this I got angry. There's a sign on the door that clearly says a haircut is Y10. I'm insulted that the women a) quoted me a higher price because I'm a foreigner and b) assumed that I couldn't read Chinese even though I asked them how much in Chinese. Whatever. I no sooner started to walk out then they both said "Ten!" in unison.

 

I was directed to the washing station, where I received a brief head massage and hair rinse. Then the women wrapped a towel around my head and went toward the cashier.

 

"Jian. Jian. Qing lai ba!" They spoken into a walkie-talkie filled with static. They repeated the same lines several times, until several minutes later, Jian appeared. He brought with him a small pencil case, which contained the tools of his craft: two combs and three pairs of scissors.

 

Since my last Chinese haircut, I've learned the word for haircut, and not much else. I could only tell Jian, "not too short," and let him loose. He started to cut my hair very slowly, pausing before each slice of the scissors.

 

In contrast, his questions came rapid fire.

 

How long have I been China? Where did I come from? Why did I want to study Mandarian? Have I been to Xi'an? How about Shanghai?

 

He responded in kind. Jian is from Baotou, in Inner Mongolia. He's Mongolian by descent, although he doesn't speak the language. His father speaks it, but he can only understand a little. He came to Beijing a few years ago, because there are more job opportunities here. He likes haircutting so much, it's his only hobby.

 

Jian's questions got harder, stretching my limited vocbulary. What did I think about Mongolia? What are the best places there? Why don't many Americans come to China?

 

I struggled with the answers, twisting my Chinese words until Jian at one point said, "I don't understand."

 

At this I laughed. "I don't either," I said.

 

Right after this, the two women put "As Long As You Love Me," by the Backstreet Boys on the stereo. The reasons for this wasn't immediately clear, but to be polite, I said, "Nice sound!"

 

"How do you say this in Chinese?" they said in reply.

 

I was confused. Then they brought over a piece of paper with the words AS LONG AS YOU LOVE ME written down in neat English script. I understood. They wanted the Chinese equivalent of the words. I had no idea. I suggested 时间我爱你 - "The Time That You Love Me." It's terrible but they seemed satisfied, and put the song on repeat.

 

And then it was time for another haircut to end. This one took only an hour, but I got a chance to practice my Chinese, bargining skills and even met a couple nice women to boot. Not bad for Y10.

Farewell, My Belongings

BEIJING - Asia is not rolling suitcase friendly.

 

The chunks of frozen mud that litter the streets of Ulan Ude made reaching the Odon Hotel difficult. The bag almost fell through the gap between subway and platform in Moscow. And the rolling suitcase was no help in yesterday's Manhole Cover Incident.

 

Now that I'm in Beijing, I took a look inside the pack, and took stock of what was left in there.

 

Naturally, a few things are missing. Here's a list of what won't be joining me on my Chinese adventure:

 

1. Towel

Last Seen: Hostel in Warsaw

What Happened?: I took showers at the Warsaw hostel each evening, and then hung the towel up to dry. On my last day, I probably forgot to retrieve it. 

Importance: Low. I borrowed a towel in Moscow and then bought a new one in Ulan Ude.

 

2. Headphones

Last Seen: Moscow

What Happened: Fell out of my bag on the subway.

Importance: High. Bought replacement ones almost immediately from an electronics store.

 

3. Russian Phrasebook

Last Seen: Aboard the Russiya, near Irkutusk, Russia

What Happened?: The last night on the Trans-Siberian, a couple guys came over from the next cabin. We talked, drank several beers and ate tons of smoked fish. We made conversation by passing the phrasebook around, and then shouting out the appropriate phrase in English or Spanish. My companions especially enjoyed the "sex" chapter. 

Importance: Medium. This happened quite late in my Russia trip, but I still could have used the book during my adventures on the border.

 

4. One Rag Wool Glove

Last Seen: Sukhbaatar Square, Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

What Happened: It was a relatively warm day in Ulaanbaatar, so I carried my gloves inside my fleece hat. I kept this under my shoulder as I took pictures in the square. When I arrived at the Museum of Natural History, the museum guard handed me one glove off the ground. The other one was gone.

Importance: Medium. The glove was warm, but I have others.

 

5. China Lonely Planet

Last Seen: Erlian, China

What Happened?: As Kim hurried us off the Ulaanbaatar-Erlain train, I grabbed my rolling suitcase, jacket and pack. I meant to keep the Lonely Planet in my hand for reference, but accidently left it in our cabin.

Importance: High. Rather necessary for travelling. I managed to get a French replacement for free from the hostel here.

Falling Into China

ERLIAN, China - I've re-entered China face first.

 

The slow Mongolian train made it through the border at around 9:30 a.m. Chinese immigration, customs and health officers came through the train, distributing forms and then slowly coming back around to pick them up again. Three hours later, I staggered off the train, weary from lack of sleep and desperately needing a toilet.

 

I grabbed a Y5 ($0.65) taxi to the bus station with Jess and Chris, an Aussie and a Brit who met working at the Asian Games in Doha, Qatar. They made good cabinmates, even if Chris didn't participate in our card games. We grabbed three sleeper bus tickets to Beijing with the unnecessary help of Kim, who is increasingly acting like a chaperone on a high school trip to the Mongolian hinterlands.

 

"Be careful!" he said. "Around there are many thieves!"

 

Graham, chafing at all the warnings, decided to join us in search of a hot meal.

 

Erlian is a surprisely developed bordertown. The area around the train station is a criss-cross of wide boulevards and sparkling new buildings. The buildings are painted in bright pastels, and the town avoids the bland white-tile school of architecture found in many Chinese settlements. Buildings had huge Chinese New Year character posters displayed, showing "fu" for good luck and "Happy New Year" written in stylized calligraphy.

 

We walked on the bus station street for two blocks, passing several pharmacies, guesthouses and convenience stores. I asked someone at the second corner where we could find a restaurant, and she pointed to the left. We turned to the left, and down another equally attractive street. I gazed at the colorful advertisements, streakless glass windows and the bright displays behind them. It was really quite nice. Then suddenly, I felt my left foot sliding downward. I swung my right foot to the side to compensate, and then I stopped.

 

I looked down to see my leg all the way down a manhole cover. When I stepped on it, the cover had rotated 90 degrees, exposing a hole of several meters. If I hadn't swung my leg out, I'd be a couple stories underground.

 

That's China for you. Shiny new exteriors masking a more uncertain foundation. I must remember to use caution when traversing the fast-changing landscape.

Stay Safe

SAYNSHAND, Mongolia - As our train sped towards the Chinese border, six of us argued about a robbery.

 

The subject of the conversation wasn't present. I wasn't even sure of his name. He's Finnish, about my age, likes to wear white T-shirts and sports long, brown sideburns.

 

My most memorable encounter with the man occured the night I arrived in Ulaanbaatar. I shared a four-bed bunkroom with two other Finnish people, a couple who met on a travelling forum. We ate dinner, grabbed a drink and were back in the hostel by 10 p.m. Around three hours later, just as we were preparing to turn off the light, this other Finnish man opened our door.

 

"Hey guys," he said, "Let's go out now! It's the biggest party night of the year! I met these Mongolians and we are going to the club."

 

The Finnish couple looked at each other and then looked at me. We weren't in the mood to go out, especially with someone with as much energy as this man.

 

The next morning I headed to the countryside, and all the Finns were gone when I returned.

 

I learned of what happened later in the evening. So the Finn met with with businessmen friends, and they headed to the nearby Face Club. Things were going fine. The Finn bought some drinks for the Mongolians, they reciprocated. He went out on the dance floor, and started to dance with a couple local women. Suddenly the Finn could see some of the Mongolians glaring at him, looking rather angry. Thirty minutes later, the Finn started feeling tired. He walked out of the club, back towards the hostel, and blacked out.

 

He awoke some hours later in an alley. His wallet was missing, and there were bruises on his head, neck, arms and legs. Barely able to walk, he made it back to the UB Guesthouse with much difficulty.

 

"And that's why UB is very dangerous," Kim said, concluding the story in the train cabin. Kim -- really Mr. Kim -- ran the UB Guesthouse with Bobby, his Mongolian wife and my former tour guide.

 

"That's why we say don't go out after midnight," he said, referring to a sign in all capital letters on the guesthouse exit. "You have to be very, very careful."

 

Graham, from southern California and not used to staying quiet for so long during a story, finally spoke. "But that's not the point," he said. "What he did was stupid. You have to go out and meet people. That's why you travel."

 

"No," Kim said. "Local people, they work very hard. They have no time to talk to you. They no speak English. But some local people, they have no job, so they learn English, and then they trick you."

 

"I think that's a very ignorant attitude," Graham said. I admired his gall, an American taking on a Korean fluent in four languages, who arranged his train ticket to Beijing and owned a business in a foreign country.

 

I stayed quiet during the conversation. Both sides had points, but they refused to budge toward the middle. Having spent the last four weeks helped, hosted and fed by local people throughout Europe and Asia, I'm more inclined to agree with Graham. There are nice people in the world, who just want to meet foreigners and share experiences. And while there might be risks involved in travelling, I'm willing to accept them. I hope that attitude doesn't leave me stranded in a gutter someday.

The Mongolian Food Pyramid

ULAANBAATAR, Mongolia - A tour of Mongolian cuisine wouldn't take long. There are buuz and then there are khuushur.

Buuz are basically Chinese style dumplings with mutton inside. Some people put a piece of fat inside the buuz, which melts while it cooks. This kind of buuz will spill on any garment

Since buuz are white, they are eaten in abundance around the Mongolian New Year. Every ger I went to on this trip prepared dozens of buuz, and filled us each night until we didn't want to think about ever eating a dumpling again.

Khuushur is more of a summer food. It's made by placing mutton inside dough, just like a buuz. There are a couple key differences. Khuushur is long and nearly flat, and looks like a crushed calzone. The mutton inside khuushur is sometimes spiced, and usually mixed with onions. Khuushur is fried, while buuz are baked.

Both foods are similar to American Chinese in one respect: no matter how much you eat, two hours later you feel hungry again. It's hard to believe after ingesting 1,000 or more calories that the stomach wouldn't be satisifed for a while, but it doesn't seem to work. Some nights in the ger I went to bed feeling stuffed and hungry.

If you come to Mongolia and you leave Ulanbataar, your diet will consist mainly of buuz and khuushur.

Country canteens, or guanz, frequently have lengthy menus, taking up several pages in neatly-written Cyrllic. But ask the waitress what items they have in stock, and the answer will usually be just buuz.

Having sampled enough buuz for one lifetime in the countryside, I wanted some khuushur before leaving Mongolia. Since my traveling companions are essentially all vegetarians, I persuaded Caleb to break away from a salad and stir fry diet yesterday afternoon and take me to a khuushur joint.

We wandered around the center of the city for a while, stopping at tiny Mongolian eateries. They had buuz, and plenty of them, but no khushuur. After nearly half an hour of searching, we finally khushuur at a place called "My Homemade Khushuur."

Khushuur clearly wins a Mongolian taste test. It has flavor and even a hint of spice. It's easily eaten by hand and not as much juice drips out one end.

I wondered why we couldn't find khushuur at most UB Mongolian eateries. I put the question to Jeremy, a Peace Corps volunteer who has spent the last 18 months living in a ger near Tseterleg. He'd obviously spent some time thinking about the subject.

"There seems to be some strange rule that you can't serve both khuushur and buuz in the same place," he said. "As if two choices on the menu would be one too many."

Or perhaps it's because buuz and khuushur are so different. Just as in America you wouldn't expect tacos and hamburgers at the same restaurant, perhaps it's asking too much for Mongolia to serve both of their national dishes in one place. People need some variety in life, and Mongolians are no different.

Here Come the Posts

ULANBATAAR, Mongolia - It appears that the Mongolian Internet has been randomly deciding not to post certain entries I've filed over the past week. After finally finding an Internet cafe with a reliable high speed connection, I've resent these entries to Blogger through Gmail. Right now it all looks terribly messy, with "Fwd:" before entrie subjects and no discernable chronological order.

 

I'll try to find this in Beijing. For now, enjoy the typos.

English Speaking Friends

ULAANBAATAR, Mongolia - Here in Mongolia, everyone knows someone who speaks English.

 

I first observed this phenomenon in the Russian border town of Kyakrt, where faithful blog readers will remember I nearly wound up broke and trapped inside Russia. Arriving in Kyakrt by minibus, I waved goodbye to three friendly passengers: a student, his girlfriend, and The Man with Pink Bubble Gum. After helping me lower my giant rolling suitcase to ground level, The Man with Pink Bubble Gum gestured toward my notebook. He took my pen and wrote a name and phone number on a blank page.

 

"Mongolia. Anglski. Mongolia," he said.

 

I understood. In Mongolia this person spoke English.

 

Hearing this the student took the notebook and wrote another name and phone number inside.

 

"Tour guide. Ulan Bator. Speak very good English."

 

Then they left. Leaving me stranded 150 miles from the nearest city with insufficent funds to cross the border. English speaking people in Mongolia are all well and good, but right then an English speaker in Russia would have been better.

 

This morning my mission was slightly more mudane. Jin and Myriam, two Filipino girls teaching English in Hohot, China and I wanted to head to the Black Market, a venue on the outskirts of Ulanbataar famous for Mongolian handicrafts, crappy haircuts and counterfeit everything.

 

We walked 15 minutes from the UB Guesthouse to the Chinese Market. The sky was clear and the air typically frigid. My exposed nose and cheeks felt the now-familiar numbing sensation of walking outdoors.

 

The Chinese Market is a series of four crumbling concrete pillars in the middle of a square. They appeared to be the remains of a highway overpass, but no four lane highway has ever crossed Mongolia. In the summer Chinese merchants sell imported bok choi and pork. Now the place serves as a gathering place for minibuses, the cheapest form of public transport in the city.

 

Myriam knew the Mongolian name for Black Market, and spoke Russian, the country's most popular second language. She approached the first minibus and said our destination. The driver shook his head and pointed toward the end of the line. She tried the second to the same effect. She kept moving toward the

 

"I don't understand," she said, in her German-accented English. "Last week they were all going to the Black Market."

 

We decided to hail a cab.

 

Two minutes later a late-model mint Nissan with no markings pulled over. Taxis aren't regulated in Mongolia, so anyone with a set of wheels and time to kill can be a taxi driver. We agreed on a price of 1,800T a person to the market - about $1.50, and started inching our way through the heavy Ulanbataar traffic.

 

The driver immediately took out a cell phone and starting chatting. Talking and driving are pretty common in this part of the world - Eliot Spitzer isn't in charge - and didn't really pay attention until the driver passed the phone to Myriam.

 

I could hear a man's voice talking loudly in choppy English on the other end of the line. Myriam had to ask her questions repeatedly, but eventually she was able to hang up the phone.

 

"The Black Market is closed for Tsagan Zar," she said, "We need to get out of the taxi."

 

Thank goodness for English-speaking friends.

Chill Out Man

ULANBATAAR, Mongolia - Last night I tried to upload a few of my photos to the Internet. Ulanbataar has an Internet cafe on each block, squeezing a couple dozen ancient Dells into a dark room. At 50 cents an hour, it's cheap and always available, but damn if it isn't painfully slow. After two hours, I'd put up maybe 40 pictures. I decided to head back to the guesthouse.

Since it's run by a Korean, guests are required to remove their shoes at the guesthouse entrance and put on clunky plastic slippers. I chose a too-small blue pair and sat down on the couch. Myriam, Caleb, and Jin were finishing the "Sisterhood of Travelling Pants." I arrived in time to see the titular garment flashed across the screen along with the credits.

On the couch were two new people, Eric and Erica. They are Peace Corps volunteers, just back from one month in Thailand. Both wore Thai style baggy pants and tanned skin not normally seen in the Mongolian winter.

They came from a small town in Missouri, north of the college town of Columbia. Eighteen months into a two year stay in far eastern Mongolian, Eric and Erica had a few stories to tell.

We moved from the couch to the kitchen, where we pulled out the cards and a couple bottles of vodka.

"The other volunteers sometimes come over to play cards, but we always just end up drinking," Eric said.

After a shot, the conversation turned toward drunkeness in Mongolia. Soviets gave the Mongolians a taste for vodka, but genetics gave them little tolerance. In Choybalsan, people are passed out drunk in the street before 9 a.m., male life expectenacy is a decade less than that of women, and there are frequent bar fights.

On their last night in Ulanbataar before Thailand, Eric and Erica went out to a club. As Eric went toward the dancefloor, a Mongolian man pushed him. Thinking him just another harmless drunk, Eric ignored him. Thirty minutes later the same man came over and ripped the right arm off his long-sleeve shirt. He grabbed him so hard that his white undershirt tore as well. He showed us the tear.

Eric said he acted without malice. Why did this man act so aggressively? Perhaps this was an act of xenophobia, an expression of Mongolian desire to keep foreigners out.

"They hate the Chinese," Eric said.

Eighteen months ago, Choybalsan had two Chinese restaurants. Now there are seven. Chinese companies are buying abandonded Soviet mines from American investors.

Cheap Chinese imports flood the town's markets. Locals fear that the Chinese will overwhelm their sparsely populated country.

I've heard this time and time again in the past week. China is the Grean Satan. They stole half the country 100 years ago - the province of Inner Mongolia. Some Chinese maps show all of Mongolia as part of China.

"Some of them dislike us, but they really hate the Chinese," Eric said.

Mongolia is in the same situation as Lithuania, in constant peril of being swallowed whole by a large, powerful neighbor. While Lithuania looks to the European Union for protection, Mongolia has America and its Peace Corps volunteers. Perhaps they shouldn't be so quick to anger when they arrive at a disco.

My Ulanbataar Lingering

ULANBATAAR, Mongolia - Ulanbataar has a strange appeal.

 

It's dirty, loud and falling apart. Crossing a street is dangerous, as drivers care not for crosswalks or traffic lights. Children accost you on the street, shouting, "Money! Money!" It's hard to find a decent vegetable.

 

And yet I find myself lingering here. I planned to stop for a couple days, and now have been in the country nearly five times as long.

 

Part of the appeal is the price. Ulanbataar is a city where you can eat at fancy restaurants for $6, where nice clubs charge $2 admission and a bottle of Coke goes for 10 cents. Internet is under a dollar an hour, and CDs sell for a quarter of the American price. Here sticking to a backpacker budget requires few sacrifices.

 

There's more to it than being cheap. If I wanted to not spend money, I could have just stayed at home in Albany, slurping down Ramen noodles and watching "I Love New York" marathons. The city center is pleasantly cosmopolitian, with upstairs cafes and little Korean boutiques. Every kind of food is available, and while no one would confuse UB with melting pots like New York or Kuala Lumpur, a diverse crowd runs around the city. The person at the next bar table is just as likely to be German, South African, Chinese or American. And all have interesting stories to tell about how they wound up in Mongolia.

 

I'm in love. Soon I will have to head south and start the Chinese leg of the journey, but for now I think that can wait just a little while longer.

A New Kind of School

ULANBATAAR, Mongolia - Travelling north from the city center, the Soviet concrete buildings and crumbling sidewalks of downtown Ulaanbataar slowly melt away. In their place are less permanent shelters. Some are traditional Mongolian gers, portable tents marooned because of urbanization. Others are one or two-room houses, usually made of ill-fitting pieces of plywood. These homes are crammed on small lots carved high into the hills. Each dwelling, be it a tent or a makeshift house, has a black pipe poking out of the ceiling. Families here use cheap coal for heating, spewing a thick layer of haze across the entire valley. These are the ger suburbs, where most of the city's booming population lives.

 

I came here to visit one of Mongolia's only schools for disabled children. The school is in a tiny Soviet concrete house, four square-shaped rooms and a long hallway. School staff have done what they can to soften the hard Russian architectural features. The class room is painted rose, the blue game room has small house plants sitting on each windowsill.

 

The school director welcomed our party. I came with three people I met at the hostel: Myriam, a German volunteering at an adult facility for the handicapped in Irkutsk, Russia; Jin, a Malay going to a private architecture school in London; a French woman who works six months a year with Save the Children. She served as our guide and translator and arranged this visit.

 

The director had us sit in the classroom. Another staff member brought Nescafe and hard Mongolian bread. I pretended to sip as she started to tell us about the school.

 

The school -- offically a Community Based Rehabilitation Centre -- opened in September, a joint venture between three international non-profit organizations and the local Mongolian government. It aims to teach life skills to children with disabilities, both physical and mental. It has no name.

 

"We are still deciding," the Frenchwoman confessed.

 

According to the director, children with disabilities suffer widespread discrimination in Mongolia. Cash-strapped schools turn them away, and the government provides few resources. Children can wind up stuck in the ger, having little contact with the outside world. This facility aims to change that, bringing children together to learn how to put on clothes, write and play.

 

Before opening the school, staff members conducted an extensive survey of needs in the area. They found more than 200 children with disabilities: far exceeding the scope of the school, with has just four full-time staff members. They decided to focus on children with no previous education. Children come two or three times a week for several hours. Transportation is available on Tuesdays and Saturdays.

 

The director said early results have been promising. Previously mute children can now say a few words. Children have learned to play with others, and are improving their motor skills. The director pulled out a book of the school's work, showing lines of neat ABCs and colorful pictures of gers and stick figures.

 

The school is a pilot program, and if successful might be copied in other parts of the capital and throughout the country. Excellent service needs to be combined with economy. Otherwise it won't be able to operate in cash-strapped Mongolia.

 

"We need to show that we can operate without much money," the Frenchwoman said.

 

As we left the school, a little girl looked up from a massage a physical therapist was giving her in the exercise room. She started moving both her hands wildly, waving goodbye to the foreign visitors. We waved back, and she smiled.

 

***

 

Although the school is very thrifty, with staff-made and furniture and toys made from found objects, it still needs support. Donations can be made to the Community Based Rehabilitation Centre in Ulaanbataar, Mongolia through Save the Children's Web site at http://www.savethechildren.mn/face/index_e.php?type=news&news_id=18.

On The Rocks

TSETERLING, Mongolia - There aren't too many of the traditional tourist attractions in Mongolia.

The Soviets destroyed the monasteries, most of its great kings lived a nomadic lifestyle and the dry climate means waterfalls are few and far between.

Pity the poor tour guide, who must entertain foreigners on holiday. Thank goodness for the rocks.

On the trek so far we've passed dozens of ovoo, piles of rocks that must be passed clockwise. They're at key intersections of the road, on top of hills and near certain holy trees.

In Kharkorum, the old capital, a giant ovoo forms a new monument to the greatness of Chinggis Khan.

There's the Tsang'a, five-story archstone in the middle of the grasslands. The rock is supposedly so strong that several Mongolian wrestling teams are named after it.

Carved turtle stones guard the four corners of Kharkorum, beckoning visiting tourists to take one more photo.

We also saw Penis Rock, where childless Mongolians can come and increase their fertility. Legend says the phallic shaped rock was formed naturally, although a closer inspection show some awfully suspicious rounded corners.

If it's a fake, who really cares? No one actually comes to Mongolia to see rocks. They come for the scenery, the people and the hospitality. Rocks are just a way to kill time.

Welcome to Our Home

Near BALGAI, MONGOLIA - Mongolians are incredibly hospitable people, ready to give up their bed and welcome strangers into their homes without notice. But there are a few rules that should be followed once inside.

Enter the home clockwise. Don't point your feet towards the door or the altar. Don't touch anyone's head or take their hat. Always ask about the family and their livestock - "Are your sheep fattening up nicely?" - before moving on to general matters.

On Tsagaan Sar, the most important of Mongolian holidays, the number of customs and formalities increase. Thankfully on this trip to the countryside, I, along with another American, a Malay and a German, had Bobby in tow. Bobby runs the UB Guesthouse in Ulanbataar along with her Korean husband, Kim. They met in London, where Bobby, a Mongolian, was studying English. Now they're in business together, giving foreigners a taste of Mongolian life as they move along the Trans-Siberian route.

With winter business scarce and Bobby not able to attend her own family's celebrations (because of a death in the family during the year - another custom) she came along with us as a free translator, guide and all around nice person.

And so, when our hosts offered me a small pink perfume bottle, I knew to take this container with my right hand, unscrew the top, inhale deeply, and then hand it back with my right hand.

When the family patriarch offered the first of several rounds of vodka, I was able to dip my ring finger in the glass, flick it three times toward the sky, sun and the ground, and then down the shot.

Bobby also explained to our hosts why we wouldn't be interested in sheep's back, a block of solid fat that is a New Year's delicacy.

She told us how to eat dried milk candy, a Mongolian specialty that's hard as a rock shaped like a pile of dried white worms. First, suck the mound, then nibble away at the sides. This way, no teeth are broken while ingesting calcium.

Yes, Bobby's presence is most welcome here in the Mongolian countryside. With temperatures reaching -35 at night, we wouldn't want to offend our hosts.

Do svidaniya, Russia!

SUKHBAATAR, Mongolia – Before I came to Russia, I fretted several times on this blog about how this scary, oligarch-controlled, former democracy would probably extract sweat, bribes and a kidney during my recent visit.

Starting the trip in Eastern Europe didn't help, where people like Jonas in Vilnius and Dorota in Poland warned how Russia threatened their state's sovereignty by withholding natural resources and clandestinely supporting anti-democratic forces. They had the same message: you are entering the belly of the beast.

Ten days later, I'm safely out of Russia. I still have my iPod, camera, and all bodily organs. No border guards shook me down for money or tried to deport me to Kazakhstan. No fake police tried to steal my passport in Red Square (although two Brits I met up with did). No one force-fed me vodka until I passed out, and then took my things.

Instead I found caring and interesting people, who, though they didn't speak much English (I think my entry from Moscow about the level of English spoken was written a little soon), demonstrated their kindness in other ways. There was Olga, feeding me roast chicken, kabobs, sweets and tea on the five day Trans-Siberian trip. Ilana arranged bus tickets in Ulan Ude. Sasha bought me a couple beers late one night on the train and refused payment.

Even people who are normally touts were nice in Russia. Taxi cab drivers showed me the fare in bills so I didn't have to haggle. Shop owners gave correct prices even when the item names were hopelessly Cyrillic. Monks refused admission or money for guided tours of their monasteries.

No, no one in Russia tried to cheat me. Until today.

Sitting in an Internet Cafe/post office somewhere just south of the Russian-Mongolian border, it's hard to imagine that all of the nonsense that's occurred since my last entry happened in the course of one day. Some days at home go by so fast: get up, work, eat, watch TV and then sleep.

Today started bad. I slept in too late - my alarm didn't ring - and I missed my bus to Ulaanbaatar. I tried to keep my head cool, going right to the train station to look for a good train. There weren't any. I grabbed a cab and took a minibus to the border town of Kyakht (pronounced "card-TE") three hours away.

It was then that I realized this extra transport zapped my remaining supply of roubles. When I bought a direct bus ticket yesterday I figured had no use for roubles. I kept about $35 on me just in case, but I found out my case was even bigger. At the bank, the clerk was out to lunch. Forty-minutes later she returned with bad news.

"Visa card nyet. Rosebank. Ulan Ude."

Shit. That's three hours away in the wrong direction.

I left my bags at the bank and walked around the town's dilapidated streets, looking for another solution. Somehow I wound up at the movie theater (Now Playing: “A Night at the Museum”), where I recruited four women to go back to the bank and demand answers. At least I think I did. No one spoke a word of English and I lost my Russian Phrasebook on the Trans-Siberian.

We marched into Rosebank and the manager's office, and 45 minutes later, after a trip to another bank across town, several phone calls phones and one rather dangerous line cut ("Why do you let the American cut in front of the Ruskies," I overheard), I had $25. The bank manager put in a taxi cab and we were bound for the Mongolian border.

We drove for 40 minutes through thick pine forests, the quintessential Siberian landscape. We passed only a tank, with pale young Russian soldiers riding on the sides of the giant guns. We reached the border, but get this: the driver brought me to the wrong border, a train-only crossing.

So we – now with an old woman we grabbed at the train station – headed to the other border, where a mess of Mongolian traders were rushing to get across before it closed at six. My driver demanded 400 roubles ($14) for the first cab ride. Then he wanted 200 roubles for the return trip ($7). And he wanted to hand me off to a crazy Mongolian, who wrote in the dust of his ancient van that he wanted $50 to get me across.

I almost had a meltdown.

There would be no Chinese lessons from a voluptuous young woman, just a lifetime of hard labor in Siberia. The only solution was to open my wallet and show what I really had: 345 roubles. If the only way he would let me over would be for $50 that meant a life of Siberian exile for me. Finally a young woman came over, put her hand on 300 roubles and said that would be O.K. She pointed to her car: an old minivan that as we spoke was being pushed by five men through the narrow parking lot. The men ramped it up to a fast speed, the driver revved the engine and slammed the brakes simultaneously, starting the car while narrowing avoiding a concrete post. We were off.

After one, two, three, four, five checkpoints, none of which detected the OLD WOMAN HIDING UNDER THE LUGGAGE BEING SMUGGLED ACROSS THE BORDER, we were through. And transferred to another car.

At 7 p.m., 12 hours after I started, I made it to the beginning of the train line and an ATM. I paid off the third taxi driver (he only wanted $0.90, but I gave him $1.50. He was nice.) and sat down.

I made it out of Russia.

The Newest New Year

ULANBATAAR, Mongolia  - Holidays can sneak up on you.

 

Planning this trip, I knew that I wanted to avoid China for Chinese New Year, when one billion people see how much they can overwhelm the country's barely adequate transportation system.

 

So I made plans to come to Mongolia, safe from New Year's Madness.

 

But I arrived today in Ulanbataar to find the holidays have followed me. Tomorrow Mongolian New Year starts, and that means stores and attractions will be closed for three days.

 

In response, I've decided to head to the mountains, spending the next five days in the countryside at a place called "White Lake."

 

That means no posts for five days, and a diet of mutton, mutton and more mutton.

 

Happy New Year's.

Hey Amerika Man! Check out our Temple!

VERKNYANA IVOLGA, Russia - My eyes scoured the frozen expanse of the tundra, looking for the fossilized remains of life in this desolate place. I walked towards a small tree, empty branches curled toward the ground by the harsh Siberian wind. There, near the base of the tree, I found it. Frozen dog poo.

I traveled nearly 4,000 miles to see this place, a small settlement in one of the harshest climates inhabited by man. Temperatures are average around 5 degrees in the daytime, -10 to -20 at night. It's unthinkable for people here to even cross the street without putting on a thick coat, fur hat and warm gloves. Yet this community is thriving, in the middle of a construction boom that will nearly double its size in a couple years.

Ivolga is reached by tours originating in Ulan Ude, the provincial capital 35 miles away. After arriving in Ulan Ude yesterday, I went to Siberia Tours, and asked how to get to Ivolga. Five minutes later, Isla appeared, her large frame covered in a full length gray fur coat. She had on a matching hat.

"You see there is a problem," she said. "In the summer we have many tours. Right now, you are the only tourist in Siberia."

After crowning me The Only Tourist in Siberia, she continued.

"I can offer you a three-hour tour for this price," and she took out a piece of paper and wrote down 1,900 Roubles, or $68. Too high for my budget. I thanked for her help, purchased a bus ticket for the day after tomorrow and began wondering how I would spend the next two days if I didn't visit the monastery.

I walked to the city's center square, which contains the World's Largest Buddha Head and a bunch of ice sculptures. Off to one side is Safari Cafe/Safari Tours. I went inside to hear a young Buriyat give me a familiar story: there weren't any tourists now, thus, no tours. But she gave me bus directions to the sight.

The next morning I got on Bus #130 and headed toward Ivolga. At the bus' last stop, I followed a monk into a minivan.

"Where are you from?" the monk asked in perfectly fine English, and then he stepped outside to take a phone call.

"Hey Amerika Boy!"

It was the minibus driver, an old Buriyat man with crazy facial hair coming out of all sides of his chin.

"Give me 10 Roubles!"

And we were off to the datsun, a Buddhist monetary complex similar to the ones that used to operate in Tibet.

When we arrived, my monk friend and the driver quick scattered. I wandered on the property, and an amazing thing happened. No one tried to collect any ticket money from me. No one pushed a bunch of junk at me. No one even seemed to notice that The Only Tourist in Siberia showed up at all.

I expected a desolate place, the mostly dead shell of a religion. Instead I found the place full of life, the monks busily sawing, cutting and nailing away at new site buildings. They didn't have time to shill crap to tourists.

At first, I stumbled with monastery etiquette. Do you spin a prayer wheel clockwise or counter-clockwise? Should non-Buddhists throw coins in the collection jars? Can I take pictures of monks? But slowly I realized no one really cared. They were too busy with their daily
lives.

Siberian Buriyat monks differ from their Tibetan colleagues in that they can marry, so they live in tiny log cabins concentrated on one side of the site. The other half is devoted to temples, prayer wheels and an enclosed tree that apparently is a descendant of the one where the Buddha reached Enlightenment.

After touring the complex, I headed off the site to solve another mystery. There were dogs everywhere in the complex, resting near houses, wandering around prayer wheels and at the entrance. But where did they poo?

Then, under that tree, I found it. And I didn't even step in it.

The Dragon Draws Near

ULAN UDE, Russia - Stepping off the train after nearly five days, I took a panoramic look at my new surroundings. They looked Asian.

Asia officially starts a couple thousand miles back, where water starts flowing east off the Ural Mountains. But the Siberian cities and towns the train stops at look little different than those on the other side, just lonelier and more desolate. These tiny wooden homes with pointed roofs and constantly burning fires could be anywhere in the Baltics or Scandinavia.

Ulan Ude is different. The Buriyats, a Russian minority native to this area and closely related to Mongolians, are in the majority on the streets. They wear fur hats that are larger and more wild than their fellow Russians. There's Buriyat food for sale, pictures of temples and ice sculptures. The visiting merchants are a bit different, as well.

The hotel I'm staying at - the Lonely Planet recommended Hotel Odon - is a dive. In Soviet style, its concrete bunker occupies an entire city block. There are two entrances to the hotel. One leads to a dark casino, full of people chain smoking while playing low stakes slot machines. The other leads to a small hallway, which after making a left and a right jig, becomes the hotel lobby.

All of these people are Chinese. The people in the casino are Chinese. The ones hanging out in the lobby with an oversized plastic bag that doubles as a suitcase are Chinese. The people walking up and down the stairs are Chinese.

How can I tell they're Chinese? They're speaking it. Not standard Mandarin, but one of the many throaty varieties you hear out in the countryside.

Odon is thoroughly Sinoized. Signs for nearby apartments to rent are all in Chinese. The toilet seat in the men's bathroom has been removed so people can squat. Downstairs there's a Chinese restaurant, labeled not in Russian but Chinese: fangdian.

Calling this a hotel is a bit of a misnomer, because the entrepreneurial spirit of the people staying there has spilled over into the rooms. On my floor, several rooms aren't for rent, they're hair salons. Another is a manicure shop. Others sell knick-knacks.

I'm not sure what all these people are doing here in Ulan Ude. Trading I'm sure. Now that check in's been arranged and I've got my general bearings in the city, perhaps I'll ask them. At least Chinese, unlike Polish, Latvian, Russian and Mongolian, is a language I somewhat understand.

All Aboard

MOSCOW - The time has come to leave the cozy Sweet Arbat hostel, hidden on the top floor of an apartment building near the center of the city. Now I move to different quarters: Compartment 41 of Train #0002, leaving tonight on an express run to Vladivostok.

I spent the morning hitting a couple last sights in Moscow: a sculpture garden filled with discarded statues of Soviet leaders, the modern museum. But the real focus of the day was getting ready for the train ride. I bought cheese and apples, chips and cookies. The Lonely Planet (an increasingly dubious source, I'm finding) says there's plenty to buy along the way, but travellers arriving here from Mongolia report living on sausage and bread for four days.

One of the last things I did was buy a T-shirt that says "Russia" on it in Russian. I really wanted an Aeroflot-Soviet Airlines design, but the cheap material bunched around my shoulders and the sleeves draped way past my elbows. The saleswoman made forced conversation, making sure you knew that her conversation wasn't natural, but part of her sales pitch.

"Where are you from?" she said, before even "Can I help you?"

I dodged the question, eventually said I was Canada (I'm not sure why) and eventually loosened up enough to tell her that I was about to take the train.

"It's very dangerous," she said, and then laughed.

We'll see.

(So I'm taking the train almost to the Mongolian border. It takes just over four days, so there will no chance to post in that time.)

Dinner with Helen

MOSCOW - At the Mu Mu Restaurant on the Old Arbat, dinner time means making new friends. When you're dining solo, it means sharing a table with someone else. I chose the a table right by the door, which had a nice draft every 30 seconds or so when another patron came inside.

Seated at the table was a middle-aged woman, who greeted me in quick Russian. Then she pointed to her coat and said something else. I looked at her blankly, then said, "O.K."

She replied in broken English. "You understand me. You speak no Russian but you understand me?" She seem perplexed. I tried explaining that I had used context clues: the table, the coat, her empty cup, but she remained amazed.

When she returned, I asked her about the contents of my plate, which I ordered by looks: a heaping pile of buckwheat, a roast beet pancake and a heap of crimson blobs on top of spongy tofu-looking stuff.

I handed her the receipt, and she looked at my items and laughed.

"It's good. It's fish."

She said she was a promoter, and she handed me three business cards in Russian for a tattoo removal business. Did she like being a promoter?

"Anything that give me money. Promoter give me money, I like."

She went on. " I like village. City expensive."

Why did she leave; no jobs?

"Yes, you understand. You understand," and she smiled again.

Then the conversation took a strange turn.

"We've met several times before today, right?"

"No, today is the first time we've met."

As she left, gathering her two coats after a very long sip of hot water and lemon, I said, "My name is Jon. Good to meet with you."

"My name--" "My name--" She reaches back to English back, many years before. "My name is Helen. How do you say?"

"Good to meet you."

"Good to meet you," she smiled, and then walked out the door.

Nyet, My Russian No Good

MOSCOW - "No one speaks English on the street. You can try to speak Russian, but even if you say something, you won't understand what they say back."

These were the pessimistic words of Ian, talking on a bad cell phone connection two months ago from outside a library in Vermont to me, standing, worried in my kitchen. He should know. He lives here.

Despite Ian's advice, I packed a Lonely Planet Russian phrasebook for this trip. Leaving Latvia, I grabbed the book out of my suitcase and put it into my hand luggage.

Winding through the dark woods of western Russia last night, I practiced saying phrases that might be useful in the coming days. "Ehhh-TAAA." I have. I mouthed the words without producing sounds, afraid that my mostly Russian cabin mates would turn my exercise into cheap entertainment.

I shouldn't have been worried. From the moment I handed my ticket to the bus lady - who said "thank you," - I've been pleasantly surprised at the amount of English spoken.

At the entrance to the  Cathedral of Christ the Savior - a clustering of Orthodox domes on the bank of the Moscow River - I started rummaging through my bag for the phrasebook. Before I got it open, the young guard said, "English?"

I asked for directions to the Pushkin Museum - which houses a large collection of Impressionist and Modern art - and he a gave precise reply.

"Right. Then right. Then stay."

Sure enough, I took two right turns and walked a couple hundred meters down the street and there was the museum.

Now I'm not sure if this English penetration is such a good thing. What Russian studies were sacrifices so more service workers can understand the inquiries of an American tourist? ("Do I have to put my bag in the coat room?" "Yes.").

But it sure makes it a hell of a lot easier for someone passing through.

Standing Up to a Bear

VILNIUS, Lithuania - Sunday is not usually a day for serious journalism in Lithuania.

This week the main paper, Lietuvos Rytas, was filled with stories about an upcoming local election (a pop star known as Pyscho and a forest hermit nicknamed Tarzan are running for seats), and the introduction of the Euro in Slovakia. But even flipping through the Lithuanian-language paper without a translation, one picture stands out. Buried deep inside is a picture of Russian President Vladmir Putin dressed in a suit but holding a handgun, with two masked men standing behind him, dressed like Chechnyan rebels.

The headline referred to Putin's Power Pyramid, a pyramid apparently controlled by thugs. The text of the article expanded on the provocative photograph, detailing spy agency plots and connecting him to the still-unsolved death of a Putin-critic in London several years ago.

Translating the article for me was Jonas, a 22-year-old student of political science at Vilnius University, the best school in the country. As he read, it became clear how serious an issue he thought this to be.

I'm not too strong on Lithuanian history. I vaguely remember some kind of Polish-Lithuania state lurking to the west of Prussia on maps during a Western European history course. I decided to have Jonas fill me in. Was Lithuania independent between the Two World Wars?

Jonas' answer started 998 years ago, at the first mention of Lithuania in a book. In the 13th century Vilnius was founded by the man who became its first and only king after a dream during a hunting trip. After his death the area became a duchy, and at one point ruled from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea. (Maps of this large Lithuanian Empire hang inside several Vilnius bars.) The duchy joined with next-door neighbor Poland through marriage, but by the 18th century the combined state was threatened by Russia, Prussia and Austria. In 1795 the Third Partion of Poland wiped Lithuania off the map. Independence came in 1918, but the Russians, then the Germans, then the Russians again occupied the country for 80 years.

What happened in 1990 was not independence, Jonas said, but a reaffirmation of what happened nearly a century earlier.

Here, Russia isn't a new democracy, but a former imperial power ready to snatch power back in the country.

Jonas talked about a trip this summer, when he travelled to Iceland for a conference on political studies in small European states. He thought there would be hysterical talk of the Russian bear, threatening to overtake Europe. Instead he was horrified to find Russia to be a non-issue among the delegates, who came from Nordic, Baltic and even former Warsaw Pact nations.

'This is crazy. They are a real threat.'

He talked about how Russia cut off the gas lines six months ago to Lithuania. The official explanation was 'technical problems' but Jonas and other international observers believe it is punishment for the country's pro-European Union policies.

How is a nation of less than four million supposed to oppose the world's largest country? Consider this. Lithuanian guerrilla fighters held out for nine years against the Soviets after World War II, the longest in Eastern Europe. In a war of words, I'd give them a long time.

The Train Journalist

Trakiszki, POLAND - As the train slowed for the Lithuanian border crossing, a head popped out from the next second-class carriage and into view.

"Is this car going to Vilnius," the face said, referring to the capital of Lithuania and my destination.

"I think so," I said, but I'd almost missed this train earlier in the morning by hopping on the wrong track.

A Polish man, the six-person carriage's sole other occupant, nodded his head. He had been quiet company for the last six hours, saying only, "That is not allowed," rolling the double "l" sounds in a very Eastern European manner, when I attempted to nap with my shoes stretched across three empty seats.

I decided to leave him alone in the cabin and talk with this new gentleman, who cut an unusual figure. He had what might be described as a "Fu Manchu" mustache, a beret and long-hair put back into a ponytail. He was Jack Kerouac meets Pai Mei, the Western beatnik and Eastern mystic.

He introduced himself as a South Korean journalist who was travelling to Vladivostok by train, filing stories for a Korean newspaper each week. It was his fourth Trans-Siberian trip.

We swapped stories about the American heartland, he sharing examples from his time as a theology professor in Kentucky, me with my reporting stint in Kansas. We found a common source of complaint in mega-churches, and my new friend described, at some length, a congregration where parshioners were encouraged after services to visit an adjoining shopping mall.

"They have political power. They have business power. They have everything," he said of these church leaders.

Then he offered some advice on my itinerary.

"You must go to St. Petersburg," he said. "You never know when you'll be able to go there again. There might not be a next time."

"When I studied in Paris, I wanted to go to the Louvre but kept putting it off. I waited and waited, and finally I left, and never saw the museum. It wasn't until four years later that I got back there and saw the place."

Coming from this man, it's enough to make me think about changing my trip's route.

Heart of Palms

WARSAW, Poland - I spent most of yesterday, my first in Warsaw, looking for a palm tree.

The search began 36 hours after I woke up, post-driving to New York, flying across the Atlantic, retrieving my bags, locating a hostel and taking a shower. That's why I asked the friendly travel agent to repeat her directions on where I could find a train ticket.

"Go by the palsmk-- pawms-- palmm." She turned to a co-worker, unsure of the pronunciation, "Palm tree."

Strangely enough, this made some sense. Staring out the window of Bus 175 on the way from Frediric Chopin International Airport to city center, I glanced at what appeared to be a tropical tree in the center of a rotary.

That can't be, I thought. This is Warsaw in winter. That's not a palm tree. It must be some type of mostly-branchless spiky European tree. You've been looking at too many Soviet-style apartment blocks.

But given explicit instructions from a travel agent to seek out the tree, I set off in the general direction of the tree. For bearing I used the Palace of Culture and Science, a Soviet-era monolith that appears to be Stalin's Eighth Sister and is the tallest building in the city.

My search for the tree was frought with distractions. I saw an H&M and went in. Same clothes, higher prices than America. I went in an old bookstore to find a musty smell and a few texts on Polish astromony. I crossed the same street three times.

I reached the palace, but still couldn't find the tree. I took out my map (a small photocopy from the Albany Public Library's Lonely Planet Poland) and tried to find the palm tree. It wasn't listed, but it did say the Warszawa Centralna Rail Station was just two blocks away. I went there, bought a ticket to Lithuiana for $24 and was off to dinner in under half an hour. No palm tree required.

This morning I dodged into the Muzeum Narodowe , or National Art Gallery, to get away from a rain storm. Running into the museum's high gates, I turned to my right and saw 100 meters down the road a familar traffic circle with a palm tree in the middle, branches drooping in the wind.

(The tree, by the way, is technically called Greetings from Jerusalem Avenue, and was installed by Polish artist Joanna Rajkowska in 2001 as part of a temporary art exhibition. The tree proved so popular that it became a permaent exhibition. It's artificial.)

Reboot

ALBANY, N.Y. - Hello. Welcome.

Things here are a little more empty than they used to be, as I've hidden all of the other entries for the time being. They're long and occasionally funny, but unfortunately full of errors. Thankfully there's a master copy-editor at work behind the scenes, and she'll post the old entries as they are cleaned up.

 

Today I leave for China. It won't be a direct trip, as I snake through downstate New York, catch a plane to Poland, then wind around Belarus to Russia, and then hop on and off trains to Beijing. At least that's the plan. As with any month long trip most of the way across Asia, I'm sure adjustments will need to be made along the way.

 

I'll be posting when I can. Sometimes that might everyday, others times not for a week or so. No guarantees.

 

A couple other items of business: I've turned comments on, so feel free to post. My links section is broken at the moment; hopefully that will be fixed when I arrive at my destination. And even though there will be some copy-editing, one person cannot possibly catch all the errors and misuses of the English language that are bound to be in this blog. For that I apologize, for the content of the entries I cannot.

 

Happy reading.

The Hunt for Something

ALBANY, N.Y. - I am going to the East, in a way few Americans do.

The plane means that Asia is accessed either by way of the North Pole or over the Pacific Ocean. The Orient is no longer reached by passing through the fringes of Occidental territory, instead the colonization of the New World means that the descends of immigrants return to the Old World by heading West. That's strange.

I wanted to change that. I ran the numbers, primarily by checking Seat 61, a great site for rail around the world. When I found a cheap ticket to Poland on LOT Polish Airways, it was set. I would be off to Europe. I have the time because China is on a strange semester system thanks to the Chinese New Year. Classes do not start until three weeks into the lunar calendar, which this year is well into March. With the holiday retail season at Eastern Mountain Sports long over, this gave me the whole of February to get to China.

I won't have oceans of time, about five weeks point to point. And although I've made no reservations, there will be some constraints on my time. I've heard plenty about how beautiful Mongolia is, so I want to be sure and spend some time there. Direct trains out of Moscow leave only a couple times a week, since I have no ticket, I'll need to time my arrival in the Russian capital carefully.

With so much distance to cover, there won't be a ton of time to stop in each destination. The amount of travel is huge: I will fly across five time zones but then have to cross another seven on land. If I went point to point, it would take nearly nine days to reach Beijing from Warsaw. That's without getting off at any station for more than a hot dog.

And I do want to stop. I want see how Europe turns Asia, how the West becomes East, to relocate borders lost on frequent flyers. Please join me.