A Hasty Assembly

ULAANBAATAR, Mongolia — We were four, six if you count Bobby and Battir, but they do this for work and can't be counted among the adventurers. Fate brought us together, plus a common belief that costs should be kept as low as possible.

There is Cing, whose actual name might be Qing, Jin or Elida. There is Myriam, who favors a black bandanna around her neck, and finally Caleb, who knows a dozen Mongolian swear words.

The girls were expecting me. They had seen my e-mail sent from the small town near the border, indicating that I would stay through Lunar New Year and wanted to get out of the capital. I wouldn't go so far as to say I was their only hope, but their options were slim. Most people had just a day or two between trains, enough to sneak out to Terlej National Park on the outskirts of the city, ride a tame horse for 45 minutes, sleep in a ger and make it back by noon the next day. But the girls wanted more, someone with more time and up for a bigger challenge. I was their man.

Bobby, co-owner of the guesthouse, knew that she had to move quickly, so she started pushing as I filled out the hostel's registration forms.

"You said that you might be interested in going to the countryside?" she said.

I demurred. I woke up that morning before dawn, and had entered the country less than 24 hours before. I wanted a hot shower and a catnap before making any serious decisions.

"There are two women here," she continued. "They want to leave tomorrow."

She explained the itinerary. We would leave Ulaanbaatar midday, and begin the two day journey to the White Lake. The first night would be spent in a ger along the way. At the lake there would be horses, a ger family and climbing. Then we would swing through the town of Tseterleg, stopping there to refuel and then make our way to Kharkhorum, the old capital for the final night. On the fifth day, we would be back in the capital.

White Lake, Tseterleg, Kharkhorum. These places meant nothing to me. I knew Genghis Khan, Soviet Colony and yurt. That's it. I needed a nap.

Bobby pushed further. "I would come along as a free translator. These people are my friends. We stay with nice families." She promised an "authentic experience," by celebrating the second most important Mongolian holiday in a traditional way.

Then she brought out the calendar and started crunching numbers. The fee for the driver, petrol and the car would be $340. An eye-popping figure for someone of limited means, but then Bobby started dividing. Split over five days and four people, the costs would be well within the budget range. She promised two-dollar accommodation and one dollar meals during the trek.

Everything sounded fine, and I realized that I wouldn't be allowed a respite without making a yes or no decision. I was on board.

We had three, but the numbers were based on four. I found him in the hostel's small pantry, which is stocked with complimentary strawberry tea, bread and condensed milk. His name was Caleb, and he didn't seem to know what he was doing. He might come on the trip, he might stay here in Ulaanbaatar. He possibly could be leaving for China in a couple of days, or the embassy could take another week to issue his visa. He teeter-tottered, and he did it very well. But he did know the area and offered to take me out to lunch and to scout out a couple of record shops.

By the time we finished our Cuban sandwiches, the hesitation in his voice had died down. We swung back to the hostel for a credit card, and went to Mongolbank for a withdrawal. Mid-afternoon I slapped several dozen turgik bills on Bobby's desk, which made it official. In under a day, I'd be headed into the wilderness with five people I didn't know, to places I knew nothing about.

The future was wide open.

Deep Deep Deep in the Capital

BEIJING - Here's a character all visitors to China's capital should know: 拆. Pronouced "chai," it means destroy, and it's used to mark buildings that won't be around in a month or two.

As the country's preparations for the Olympic Games climax this spring and summer, more and more older buildings are being knocked down to make way for badminton arenas, five-star hotels and fancy Peking Duck restaurants. A BBC Radio documentary I listened to on the Trans-Siberian said that last year there was more construction in Beijing than in the last three combined for all of Western Europe.

Saturday I discovered that not all of Beijing's past is being demolished to make way for the Olympics. As with most things I find, I figured this out by getting lost.

I left comfortable Wudaokou for downtown Beijing to pick up a shoe. That's no typo - I meant shoe singular. Unpacking this week, I discovered not one of the five missing items described in a recent post, and only one Garmont hiking shoe. I also found a key without a key chain. Using Sherlock Holmes levels of reasoning, I realized I'd forgotten the shoe in my hostel locker. So it was back to Qianmen for the shoe and my Y100 locker deposit.

After picking them up unharmed, I decided to head to the Beijing Books Store, a block-long Mao-ist era relic. The crowds can be crazy, the staff surly, but the selection of reasonably priced English books can't be matched this side of Delhi. From a previous visit, a knew the store was not too far west of Tian'anmen Square and set off in that direction.

I walked three blocks, three monolithic blocks of Socialist deisgn, before realizing that I was on Qianmen Lu, and the bookstore was north on Chang'an Lu. I took the first right, and within 100 meters was plunged deep into the hutong world. Here the streets aren't paved, the only bathrooms are public, and spitting apparently is still legal. Old women sold dirt cheap apples, pears and the fruit best translated in English as "apple with a banana taste."

At the tiny Zhongmu Canteen, I ordered by pointing to the handwritten characters on the wall-mounted menu. Five minutes later, a huge bowl of heeping noodles arrived from a old woman with few teeth and nearly incomprehensible Beijing dialect. The food and a large Tsingdao predictably cost less than a dollar.

Across the street from the Canteen was a large fence. Behind it the Great Hall of the People, China's main legislative building, loomed not 200 meters in the distance. Tian'anmen Square was behind that. This neighborhood borders the center of the Chinese empire, and yet life continues as if one of the largest economic booms didn't exist.

Is China's economic boom a chimera? I'm sure the only reason this hutong district hasn't been raised is some historical significance, and that soon even if the buildings remain, they'll be renovated into luxury condos. Right now, though, there's still room in the heart of Beijing to step back in time, and get lost.

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.