I (Not Him) Have Been Expecting You

ULAANBAATAR, Mongolia — The sharp tug on my checkered sleep pants means it's time to wake up. My eyes open but nothing changes: It's pitch dark in the train cabin. Why did my bunkmate wake me up? I fumble for my glasses, and after locating them, peer out the window. The sky is still monochromatic, but I do see a smattering of white lights illuminating empty blocks. This must be Ulaanbaatar.

At the station I perform what is now routine: awkwardly gather my belongings and bang the rolling suitcase on the train as I exit. The station is long and narrow; there is only one set of tracks, and the sole platform is now full of scurrying passengers from the biggest arrival of the young day. I am conspicuous in my puffy green down jacket and internal frame pack. But I'm not the only foreigner in this crowd: I see, for the first time since Moscow, obviously Western European faces.

And where there are multiple people from developed countries in a developing one, there will be people trying to give them service. An aged man approaches me as I shuffle toward the main exit. His coat is worn at the shoulders and the hair on his uncovered head frizzles out like bolts of lightning.

"UB Guesthouse?" I ask him. He nods and I start walking in tandem.

I booked a room at this particular guesthouse on the advice of some westbound Siberian passengers. Through an online reservation service, I secured a bunk bed for the night of February 14. Fate intervened, I missed my direct bus to Ulaanbaatar and was forced to rely on a couple of beat up vans and the slow local train to make it to the city. This put me 12 hours behind my original schedule, so instead of spending Valentine's Day in a six-person bunkroom in the hostel, I was in a four-person bunkroom on wheels.

When I checked my e-mail just over the border in Sukhbaatar, I had a message with the subject line "Hi From Mongolia." It read as follows:

"Dear Johathan,

Thank you very much for your reservation through the Hostelworld.

We would like to know how would you like to come to Mongolia? By train or by air? Because we arrange a pick up service. Our charge is $10 from the airport, but free of charge from the train station. If you like, please send us your arrival information such as train and carriage number or flight number etc.,

With kind regards,
Bobby"

I responded by explaining my situation, and requesting a pickup the next morning. And here, apparently was my man. He spoke no English, but led me out the station to a vast parking lot. Taxis, vans and motorcycles were shoved into a tight space, arranged in positions that ensured more than half the cars had no chance of exit. As we made our way through the third row, a voice yelled my name.

"Jonathan? JONATHAN!" It came from a few cars over. A tall Mongolian with a western-style coat and a red beanie gestured when I turned my head. He then ran over and started berating the old man in Mongolian. "Come with me," he said, and dazed, I followed.

"That man isn't from the guesthouse," he said. "He tried to trick you. I am from UB Guesthouse." To prove it, he took a business card that showed the guesthouse logo identical to the one I saw online. The man seemed legit, and when we arrived at his late-model van, I could see a couple of white faces already inside. I let him take the rolling suitcase and toss on top of the other rucksacks.

The man who rescued me was Anbar. As we pulled out of the parking lot he explained in excited tones about how I'd almost wandered into a strange car. He grew more and more animated; I cracked a smile at my stupidity. I've been traveling on this lonely winter route for so long that I forgot about touts. With no tourists in Siberia or on the train, there's been no one to try to trick me. This encounter also happened before dawn, and I'm typically useless before noon.

So, Mongolia, you got me once. But now I've activated my anti-virus software, and I won't let anything slip through the firewall again.

Previously: "Straight Outta Ulaanbaatar"

Et Tu?

JIJIAWAN, China -- One of the first I will need to do back in Beijing is send out pictures. One to the group of monks we met in Xiahe, another to the Tibetan painting agent who accompayned us through a snow storm near Tongren, and now several to a group of old women who live in this tiny village.

This morning I went to Xining's bus station without a plan. I had one more day left, no desire to check out the remaining tourist attractions in town (The Qinghai Provincal Museum?) The bus station displays a giant map of Qinghai province, with Xining in the center and different routes streaming out towards remote areas. Having already travelled west, south and east of the city, I picked a path that headed north and read the destination: Huzhu.

An hour later I was in downtown Huzhu, which resembled downtown Xining and every other moderately sized Chinese city: a collection of hairdressers, Muslim restaurants, tiny clothing shops and traditional medicine stores along a few wide avenues, occasionally interupted by an open air market. I wanted to explore the countryside, so I started walking away from the center of town. Thankfully Huzhu isn't a big place, and within 20 minutes the stores ended and the road narrowed to two lanes.

I passed trees, dialpated houses and idenitically named gas staions. Then on the southern side of the road appeared a confabulation of cureved Chinese roofs, red lanterns and neon flags. At the compoaund's gate stood four women in elborate costumes. They said that this was the Tu Minority Exhibition Center, and that for 40 RMB I could see the Tu sing and dance.

During the Cultural Revolution, China tried to eliminate the traditional culture of its minorities, labeling them "feudal." Economically liberal China is trying a different approach: the song and dance method.

Minorities are "mysterious," "wonderful," and "unique," exotic creatures that should be viewed from a distance of ten meters or more. Travel agencies are in on the act, flying in millions of tourists to country's fridges, plopping them in a bus and dropping them off at a minority entertainment center. Here dozens of people in dazzling customes will feed them, dance and even sing (in Mandarian!). Three hours later, the stuffed, drunk and tired tourists will be head back to their hotel, with a new "understanding" of minority culture.

Under the pretext of looking for a bathroom, I poked around the entertainment center. Down a long hallway, tucked away from the freshly painted dance stage, I saw a row of tiny rooms. Inside were four bunk beds, the place where the performers and cooks lived. They were dark, dank and in poor condition. Where would my 40 RMB go? I suspect mostly into the hands of a local government official or tax agency, not the people in the show.

I would feel guilty visiting a stage-managed version of Tu life when a real-life village was right across the street. I crossed the street and went down a dirt path into the village proper.

At first the road was lined with Tu dancing places, many with two or three women standing out in front looking bored. The Tu obviously have thrown their lot behind entertainment tourism, but I'm not sure if the northern Qinghai tourist circuit is busy enough accomadate them. I ignored their "hollos" and pleas to see them dance and purchase trinklets that were probably mass produced in Guangdong. At the end of the street were four old men, sitting in front of a small convience store. They appeared to be the town's senitels, historians and gossips.
"Don't climb that mountain," one said to me, pointing to a terraced hill right behind the store. "It belongs to someone else."

I thanked them for their advice and head perpendicular to the mountain. The tourist part of the village ended, and there were only small homes with mud-concrete walls. In between were small fields, many with an old woman or two planting this spring's crops. Agriculture is traditionally a man's job; the Chinese character for man 男 contains a field pictograph, but today the man have headed to the city and left the work for the women.

A group of old women were sitting in the shade of one mud-brick house and invited me to sit on a tiny stool. They were taking a planting, and were more than happy to chat with the village's first foreign guest in quite some time. One lady with six remaining teeth said her husband was a teacher in Huzhu. A couple others were widows, all continued to work in the field despite their advanced age.

They pointed to the warm Qinghai sun. "It's been a good year for farming," they said. One lady brought her 10-month-old grandchild, who saw my white face and started to cry. The women laughed, and then tried to comfort the child.

A spent nearly an hour with the women, and hour where I learned about how a Tu person might actually spend the day. I couldn't hum its tune, or take home a DVD copy of the occasion, but I think witnessed something a little closer to have these people live their lives.

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.

Miss Penny Xu

WICHITA, Kan. – Rumor has it China is everywhere. You could tell that to the Kansans, but I'm not sure they'd believe you.

Two months on here in America's Heartland, I've had surprisingly few China-related adventures. I haven't written about the country, or any Chinese-Americans in my stories. I really haven't been in any situations where speaking Chinese could remotely be considered helpful. And so, the China has dried up from this blog.

This afternoon, I saw an interesting link while trolling the Web for a potential story: "2006 Wranglers China Tour."

The Prairie Rose Wranglers are a Kansas institution, a performance group comprised of mostly teenaged singers. They perform traditional Western ballads and songs, at a dinner theater 10 miles outside of Wichita. The Prairie Rose singers and unlimited BBQ cost $25, or $22.50 for groups of 10 or more.

They've entertained tens of thousands of people over the past couple decades, although probably not too Chinese. An entertainment agency set out to change that, and took the group over to China last spring. They came, they saw, they sang their tunes in Beijing, Shanghai and Xi'an, and left.

From the coverage in the paper and other local media, you'd think these were the first white people to ever set foot in China.

"I'm the luckiest kid in the whole world," an 11-year-old told our paper. Another child said he was worried about eating two weeks of only Chinese food.

I took issue with a couple things:

1. They claim to be giving the first musical performance on the Great Wall. They could have given the first musical performance of the Great Wall... on the day. But, no, many a people have performed on those steps. Even I sang "Hollaback Girl" on the wall.

2. Their motivation is apparently to meet "the Chinese people." I'm skeptical. Who are you meeting as you zoom through the country in a giant tour with no Chinese?

The whole trip seemed like a giant missed opportunity. Why were these guys stuck in the boring big cities? Why didn't they go to see China's real-life cowboys? Now a joint performance of a Tibetan chanting and doo-wop songs about "Missy Penny Sue' is something I'd pay 25 RMB to see. I might even pay $25, if it included some BBQ.