Smoked Fish on the Great Baikal Trail

Ever since we arrived in Irkutsk we’ve been operating on fast mode. Time is of the essence. It’s crazy to think that in less than two weeks, we’ll be back in Tanzania, that seven months of backpacking is coming to an end.

We’re camped about an hour and a half minute walk from Lisvyanka, a town on the south east shore of Lake Baikal. After a fitful night of camping on the beach, we left Olkhon Island at 8:30 am on a six-hour minibus ride back to Irkutsk. We shared the vehicle with three Montreal-ans, another backpacker couple, and a couple of Russians. We had a short pit stop at a café and Scott and I got the closest thing to our first Russian meal (we’ve mainly been cooking for ourselves and eating picnic food) – a small plate containing, perhaps, the best pork chop I’ve ever eaten paired with some of the worst rice I’ve ever eaten. Overall, it was a delight. The rest of the ride was a mixture of dreaming and half-sleep.

We arrived back in Irkutsk before 2:30 pm, made a quick trip back to Nerpa’s Hostel on the tram to switch out some clothing, came back to downtown, did some food shopping in Central Market (Irkutsk has quite a lively outdoor market scene), and hopped on a minivan for Lisvyanka.

An hour later we were buying two smoked omul fish at the Lisvyanka market and looking for the start of the Great Baikal Trail. Readily available smoked fish has been one of my favorite things about Russia. That and the cheap loaves of fresh baked bread.

The challenging thing about the trail so far is not always knowing which path to take. We’ve stayed high to avoid any sketchy rocky parts near the water, which has been fine. But we took a path down, closer to the lake, to set up camp. The utterly glorious thing about the trail so far is the abundance of colorful, beautiful wildflowers – Russian thistles (my new favorite flower), big yellow lilies, Dr. Seuss-y looking flowers, red flowers, purple and blue ones, so many. In some parts, they create a carpet amid the green grass. It’s the perfect time of the year for wildflowers around Lake Baikal.

It’s likely past 10:30 pm and it’s still not totally dark yet. It’s been like that since we’ve reached this area, which has made for some late nights. It’s quite amazing to start out on a hike after 6 pm and know you still have some hours of daylight left to find a proper camping spot.

We ate a dinner of smoked omul fish, cheese and tomato sandwiches, and sliced cucumber on a pebbly shore of the lake a little below our camp spot. We washed it down with a liter and a half of Russian beer and finished the meal with a dark chocolate bar.

Now I can hear the water gently lapping ashore. The boat traffic seems to have finally died.

Buying Tickets

Trying to be budget in Russia is hard work. Today it meant hanging out at the train station for over two hours trying to figure out how to cheaply get to Moscow from Irkutsk, where we’ve just arrived, in one week’s time. If we weren’t on a tight budget, we could’ve gone to a ticketing agent who spoke English (and who charges a commission) instead of struggling with a digital ticketing info booth that only functions in Russian. Thank goodness we had a train station employee who spoke English helping us through the process.

The distance from Irkutsk to Moscow is over 5,000 kilometers and takes over three days, in most cases nearly four days. We went through various combinations of departure dates and stopping somewhere in the middle, but no matter what, the only affordable tickets to Moscow are for two upper beds not close together. Which means for close to four days, Scott and I won’t be able to decide when we want to sit down (instead of laying down) because it’s up to the whim of whoever’s on the lower bunk. And we won’t be able to keep each other company unless we’re constantly playing musical train chairs.

What to do? It’s all part of the adventure.

Tomorrow we’re off to Olkhon Island on Lake Baikal.

Early Impressions

We’re on our first Russian train – train 349 – which is going all the way to Moscow. I’m not sure where it originated from. We boarded the train in Ulan Ude, where we spent two nights and one day, and will be getting off seven hours later in Irkutsk.

Scott and I are on train car 13 but we’re not sitting together unfortunately. He’s in seat 50; I’m in seat 42. Fortunately, we’re both on the right side of the train, which will allow us to get the best views of Lake Baikal. Supposedly this train leg of the Trans-Siberian is the most scenic and impressive because the train will skirt the southern edge of the massive lake as it approaches Irkutsk.

I’m sitting across the tables from a young Russian woman of Asian descent. We can’t communicate and I don’t see either of us making any effort to. Across the aisle in the four-bed section is a family – a mother, daughter, and son. Even though it’s past 11 am, many people still have their beds laid out – the mattress, sheets, blanket, and pillow. On these very long hauls of being on the train for three to four days at a time, people sleep on and off all day long. Luckily, the long haul for Scott and I is not today.

A couple of early impressions about Russia:

-          Russians are kinder and more helpful than I had anticipated. When we were lost on our first night in Ulan Ude, people willingly helped us. A local couple out drinking (I know this because they were each holding a can of beer) even walked the opposite direction they were going in to show us to what they thought was our destination. The hotel reception man at the hotel we were shown to but couldn’t afford spent about fifteen minutes looking up a place we could afford. He printed out directions for us and called the hostel so we could make a booking.

-          We are certainly in the developed world. You can’t just hop on a minibus going where you’re going whenever you want; buses have schedules. And it no longer costs US$2 to rent a bike like it did in India or Southeast Asia; it costs over $30.

The Top of a Hill

Around 5:40 am, the train pulls into a small Mongolian train station and doesn’t have plans to move for a long time, for about five hours. At first I don’t realize how long we’ve been there. Some amount of time earlier, I had looked outside the window and saw an old white building that, I could tell from the shading, once bore the letters for “Duty Free Shop” and I figured we must be somewhere near the border, but fell back asleep quite suddenly.

Next thing I know, Scott’s by the cabin door ready to go out. He whispers the words, “I’m going for a walk.” In my sleepiness, I tell him to wait, that I’ll come along. He finds out from the provodnitsa that we’re going to be at that stop from another two hours. Still not fully woken up, we’re walking away from the train and I wrap my scarf around my neck and pull on my fleece to protect myself from the cold wind. I ask what time it is. “A little after 6,” Scott replies. I’m a bit confused because I recall hours earlier the digital clocks on the train reading past 7 am (later I come to find out that all the clocks on these international trains – this is the first international train Scott and I have taken on this journey – are always set to Moscow time). Scott says that we’re going to climb a hill. I questioningly point to one in the distance and am relieved when he gives a negative response. We’re to climb a closer one. Most summits, no matter how close they may be, are daunting to me, especially so early in the morning, especially when I have a hidden fear that the train will leave without us (despite the fact that our train car is absolutely autonomous, attached to no other cars or engine). But I keep following Scott, as I normally do on such adventures, as we weave our way around town blocks until we find a path that goes right up to where Scott wants to go, where an ovoo has been erected.

The cold wind gives way to warmth as I put one foot in front of the other up and up the small hill. I reveal my fear of the train leaving and Scott points out that we’ve only been walking for 20 minutes (remember, the train will be standing there for at least two hours) and he brings up the obvious question – how would it leave?

I tell Scott, “Feel free to run ahead to the top. I’ll meet you on your way down,” to which he says, “No one is running up to the top. We’ll both walk to the top.” I tell him, “I just don’t want to slow you down.” He replies, “I’ve grown used to you slowing me down and I’ve grown to love it.”

Big rocks mix with smaller rocks on the way to the top and before I know it, we’re there. The ovoo is made of wood and wrapped mainly in blue kadars (scarves) with some prayer flags mixed in. The strong wind whips the scarves around as well as a plastic ‘I(heart)NY’ bag that’s stuck to the bottom of the ovoo. Below us are the town, green trees and rolling hills, and the river Selenga, which will eventually flow into Lake Baikal. Below is northern Mongolia. We’re almost in Russia.

*

As I had anticipated, the border crossing process was quite painless. The provodnitsa handed out departure and arrival forms to each compartment in our train with plenty of time to fill them out. With both the Mongolian departure and the Russian arrival, there were a series of passport checking and collecting, and superficial searches of our bags as we all waited outside the cabin. Eventually we’d be given our passports back with the appropriate stamps. With the Russians, there were the additions of a German Shepherd sniff dog and the photographing of our bags. During the Mongolian departure process, one of the immigration officials told us to shush after we laughed too loud. Indeed, the process is not meant to be fun. At least on this go around, there weren’t any lines to wait on or crowds to push through. We just sat comfortably in our train cabin for the officials to come to us. What a novel idea.

In total, the train waited five hours for the Mongolian departure process and another five hours for the Russian entry process. Ten hours of train stillness. In Russia, we didn’t climb any nearby hills. We just wandered around the small town wondering what people did there, bought two slices of delicious ham from a nice Russian woman at a store, read, and sat out in the sun.

The train is in motion now, thankfully, on our way to our first real stop in Russia – Ulan Ude, a town on the eastern side of Lake Baikal. We’ll arrive after 9 pm. Despite all the time we had in UB, we still didn’t manage to successfully arrange any accommodations for our first night in Russia. Oh well. Perhaps, by some small chance of luck or magic, when we get off the train, there will be someone there waiting with a sign bearing our names on it.

Into Russia

We’re en route between Ulaanbaatar and Ulan-Ude in another nice car (this one is even nicer than the last one if one can believe that), sharing the 4-bed compartment with a couple we had met a couple days ago on the bus going to Terelj. They live in San Francisco but the woman, Jitka (pronounced ‘Yitka’), is from the Czech Republic, and the man, Martin, is from Ireland.

Jitka just said, “Bye Mongolia. It was short, but sweet,” as she puts on a pair of socks and gets ready for bed. She and Martin were only in Mongolia for three days.

We’ve each received a plastic package containing sheets, a pillow cover, and a washcloth to go with the blanket and pillow we all get, so everyone’s made up their little bed except for me. There’s even a TV in our car although we haven’t figured out how to turn it on. Each bed also has a tiny reading lamp; the bottom bunks get one on each end.

I could get used to traveling this way.

As we boarded car 1 at the station in Ulaanbaatar, the man standing beside the door was white, and it was a bit surprising. Scott and I have never traveled in a country together where the dominant race is Caucasian (except for the States, of course). He’s our provodnitsa – the person in charge of our car. He checked our tickets as we boarded to make sure we were on the right car and shortly after the train pulled out of the station he collected all the tickets. Then he passed out the plastic wrapped bed sheets. A little while later, he came around once more, stood at our doorway and said, “Passports.” He checked them all for our Russian visas and jotted some things down on a clipboard.

Martin’s on the top bunk opposite Scott and I, watching something on his iPhone. Jitka is below Martin on the bottom bunk reading something on her iPad. Scott’s above me reading the big fat book I brought with me for this train trip – Kazuo Ishiguro’s Unconsoled. It’s the first Ishiguro that Scott’s trying out. It’s a brick of a book. Years ago I bought it from the library book store in Juneau, where almost every single book costs $1, and recently unearthed it from one of our totes stored in Scott’s grandmother’s garage. I brought it with me for this trip because of its girth. It was meant for me to read, but I still have another book to read before it, and Scott doesn’t have any books to read, so he’s decided to try the brick.

Supposedly in about five hours, we’ll get woken up, likely by the provodnitsa, to deal with crossing the border into Russia. This whole border crossing is supposed to take several hours, not sure exactly how many. But, unlike the last border crossing, I’m not stressing out. I feel like we’ll be told what to do and when to do it. I can relax for the time being.

A few hours before boarding this train, Scott and I went to see a cultural show, Tumen Ekh, at the park. It was absolutely wonderful – throat singing; beautiful Mongolian string instruments; dancing that took a bit for me to warm up to but when I did, I loved it; and a mind-boggling contortionist. We had debated the whole ten days we were in UB whether or not to spend money on such a touristy thing, but I’m glad we did because it was worth it. It filled our leaving Mongolia with enchantment and wonder. You’d understand if you’ve ever heard the throat singing. It’s a combination of poltergeist and whinnying horses.

Jitka has turned off her iPad, put on an eye mask, and turned in for the night. I can hear the breathing of someone asleep. Scott’s also turned in. The train is at a stop and just lurched as if it’s about to start moving again. I hear laughter coming from another compartment.

I guess there’s nothing left but for me to make my bed, brush my teeth, and fall asleep on the rails.

Zieak and Pepper

(Note: As usual, I'm in the process of backposting. We've arrived back in Tanzania which means extremely slow and interrupted internet. Due to this, there will only be sporadic posting of photos. I apologize for not being more visually stimulating.)

Scott and I lucked out big in Ulaanbaatar. On our first night there, I found myself talking on the phone with Zieak McFarland, a close friend of a friend from Southeast Alaska. Zieak spent several years in Petersburg, both long before I was in neighboring island town Wrangell and after I left. Over a year ago, Zieak, his wife Pepper, and son Jordan moved from Petersburg, Alaska to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia where Zieak and Pepper are both international teachers (Pepper is a seasoned international teacher, while this was Zieak’s first go at it).

Back in early May, Scott and I and Zieak and Pepper were all in Bangkok (far, far away from Alaska), but we never, unfortunately, met up. A few days before reaching Ulaanbaatar, I emailed Zieak, and even though my email ended up in his junk, he still found it. Which is a good thing for Scott and I because connecting with Zieak changed the dynamic of our whole time in the capital city of Mongolia.

Zieak, Pepper and Jordan were, themselves, jumping on the train for Russia soon after Scott and I arrived. For the few days we overlapped in the city and even for after they left, Zieak and Pepper generously offered their apartment to us, which allowed Scott and I to take a break from hostel living and have a home base for sleeping, cooking, doing laundry, and storing stuff while camping.

Zieak, Pepper, and Jordan were amazing hosts. Pepper made me an amazing mojito with homegrown mint, invited Scott and I to join in on family meals, and left us homemade cookies after they left; Jordan whipped us up the best milkshake ever; Zieak lent us his camping stove and always made sure we were comfortable and had everything we needed while there; they even lent us a mobile phone. Have a mentioned that before UB I’d only met Zieak a few times and only for very brief encounters? There’s something automatically comfortable about meeting up with someone you know (regardless of how well) on the other side of the world.

Plus, Scott and I got a small glimpse into expat life in UB. Zieak and Pepper introduced us to their friends, took us to see a great live Mongolian band, invited us to join them for delicious dinners with friends, and, in conversations, painted a more thorough picture of living and teaching in Ulaanbaatar.

A big thank you goes out to fellow travelers Zieak, Pepper, and Jordan for welcoming us warmly into their home and city.

The Longest Day of the Year

Near our camp site at Gorkhi Terelj National Park, Mongolia

It took us about two and a half hours of walking from where the bus went no further to find a perfect camp spot in Gorkhi Terelj, a serene national park located a couple hours from the hustle and bustle of Ulaanbaatar. There is not a person, not a ger camp in sight. Just a green meadow with wildflowers, rolling green hills in the near distance, and a babbling brook with flowing cold, clean water. On our walk here, we passed a town, ger camp after ger camp, normal tent camps, herds and herds of cows and horses with young ones, corrals, homes. But we kept walking. The meadow here even has taller, more unruly grass, evidence that animals don’t usually graze here. We made a fire ring, but being the longest day of the year and being in Mongolia, it won’t get dark until well after 10 pm.

*

Scott and I disagreed about whether or not to put the rainfly on the tent. He wanted to keep it off, arguing that a tent is meant to be rainfly free on clear evenings in order to offer viewing of a star-filled sky. My argument was that it would get cold and a rainfly would help keep us warmer. He won, but we were both right. The night did gradually get cooler and cooler and, with only one proper sleeping bag, Scott was the one who suffered (but he can handle it), although who knows if the rainfly would have added that much more warmth.

When I woke up, though, inside the tent in the middle of the night, I was aghast. My eyes took a couple seconds to adjust, but when they did, I was shocked to see, right above our laying bodies, the most stars, the brightest stars I’ve ever seen. It felt miraculous. And I would’ve missed that moment completely had the rainfly been on.

The perfect camp spot.

A small glimpse of the wildflowers that were in bloom at Terelj.

Scott found this nest of treasures in the grass.

On our second day, part of the sky filled with threatening clouds. They skies never completely opened though. On our walk back to the bus stop, we were sprinkled with only small rains.

 

Wild rhubarb! We picked a couple handfuls of this delectable stalk to bake in a crisp. Scott and I haven't had rhubarb for years.

The Gobi Desert, Baga Gazryn Chuulu

We’re camped out in Scott’s blue North Face tent in Baga Gazryn Chuluu, a place in the Gobi Desert that was a 6-hour bus ride south of UB and another hour west by car. We’re between some large piles of rocks. In front of us toward the desert road are four gers (a ger is a yurt) owned by one family. One ger is for the family’s use, their home, while the other three are for tourists, although, according to the daughter Gira, the family ger will go to tourists if the need arises. If this happens, the family will sleep in a camping tent, like the one Scott and I are currently in. Even though the beds in the ger are quite affordable – only 5,000 togrogs per bed; around US$4 – we opted to pitch the tent anyway. Scott had to feel there was a reason for him hauling the heavy thing through three countries.

The tent has proved its worth, staying put through horrendous winds, but it does not keep tiny particles of dirt and sand out. We’ll see if it stays dry, although the grey clouds that were threatening half an hour ago seem to be breaking up revealing a nice evening sky.

The family of the ger camp comprises of a mother, father, and two daughters. The camp is also home to three dogs who are friendly. Their main job is to protect the family’s large herd of sheep and goats from roaming, hungry wolves.

This afternoon when Scott and I were resting in the tent after a morning of wandering around the desert, Gira came over to the tent on her bike. She asked, “Do you look my sheep?”

At first we thought she was asking if we wanted to visit her sheep, but after a few moments we realized she was asking us if we’d seen her sheep while we were walking around. Gira explained, “The goats are here, but no sheep.” We told her we hadn’t, unfortunately, seen them.

It’s easy to imagine sheep, no matter how many, getting lost in this land. It’s vast and there are so many granite rock outcrops to hide between and behind. On our morning walk around the area we climbed the area’s highest “mountain” at 1,760 meters. We also scrambled over rough rocks, walked on dusty ground, and in the process spotted, in the far distance, a group of wild camels. We wanted to get closer but they seemed to be walking away from us at the same pace we were walking towards them. When we gave up chasing the camels, we came across a large herd of seemingly wild horses, including a few ponies, evidence that it is, indeed, the season to collect mare’s milk, most of which will get turned into a Mongolian vodka for the festive mid-July holiday of Naadam.

A rest stop in the Gobi on the way to Baga Gazryn Chuulu from Ulaanbaatar. The ger next to the bus is a restaurant.

Gobi roads - mere tracks in the sand and dirt.

Our first night at Baga Gazryn Chuulu.

The summit of the "peak" at Baga Gazryn Chuulu.
The blue thing you see here is called an ovoo, a religious and spritual marker usually placed on top of hills and mountains.

On our second day wandering around the desert, we came across hundreds of small, colorful, fast lizards (but not fast enough to elude Scott's grasp).

Gira, the ever-faithful herder, and her younger sister.

The father and mother of the ger camp we pitched our tent next to.
The day we left, they were coming back from town. The young couple that drove us to Baga Gazryn Chuulu from town stopped when we saw them (they are all related). We all sat on the ground for an impromptu picnic of beer (from a plastic two liter bottle)  just bought in town and braided smoked cheese that Scott and I contributed.

Glimpses of the Gobi

... as seen through the train window.

Typical animals of the Gobi - dogs, horses, and camels

A curve in the rails

Approaching Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

Too Many Times To Count

By chance we ended up in the luxury sleeper car on the train from Zamyn-Uud to Ulaanbaatar (UB). We ordinarily would never pay the 54,600 togrog (US$40 for both of us) it costs to be here instead of the more reasonable 33,600 togrog, but we were forced, by luck, to buy the luxury ticket. And is it luxurious. There are four of us in a compartment that has a sliding door, which means each party of two can comfortably sit on the bottom bunk and there’s plenty of space for storing our big bags as well as little hooks and shelves to store our smaller items. The car is clean; the women in charge are constantly cleaning the floors. And the bathroom is a dream, if one can say that about a train toilet. In this car, the two bathrooms are divided between gender. So far on this journey, the female toilet has remained immaculate. It doesn’t even smell bad, which, for anyone who’s been on a foreign sleeper train, should say a lot.


Scott sitting in our luxury compartment, looking out the window. Notice the sliding door behind him.

Scott and I are sharing the 4-bed compartment with a mother-daughter duo who are kind and funny. The daughter speaks very good English (self-taught) and, with her mother’s insight, has been giving us advice about where to go in UB and what to eat. They even spotted a large group of wild camels hanging out in the Gobi and made sure we saw them as well. The two of them have also been helping us with pronunciation – bar-yar-la-a (thank you) and san-ban-uu (hello). Since I can’t even get these two words down perfectly, I haven’t even approached asking them how to say longer phrases.

How we got into this luxury train car is a result of a prolonged frustrating episode of trying to buy train tickets to Ulaanbaater at the Zamyn-Uud ticketing office. As soon as we reached Zamyn-Uud, we quickly exchanged money and ran to the ticketing office, but it was of no importance when we arrived at the office and started waiting because, here, lines do not exist. Instead, those around us also trying to buy tickets employed the huddling method – groups of two would huddle around the window booth and not leave until they got their tickets. Others huddled around the original huddle and so on. The most opportune position was within the first huddle ring blocking those behind you from getting in.

After having spent the last hour and a half in a crush of people going through China immigration and then through Mongolian immigration, I was in no mood to push or be pushed. We tried a few times to buy tickets to Ulaanbaatar but all we got, to our utter frustration and madness, was a shaking head. Times were thrown out at us – 5:30 pm, 7:00 am – but we didn’t know exactly what they meant. We got that we couldn’t buy tickets for the current day’s train, so we tried to buy tickets for tomorrow’s – margaash in Mongolian. Still a shaking head. We were at a loss. I can’t say I didn’t contemplate using tears to help the situation. Then, out of nowhere, came English words, “You want to go on tomorrow’s train?” They came from a man who was standing in the second huddle ring. “Yes,” we eagerly replied. He translated our request to the female ticket agent. She replied. He translated, “You can’t buy the tickets now. You have to come back tomorrow morning at 7 to buy tickets for the 17:30 train.” Okay. We didn’t know why we couldn’t, at the moment, buy tickets for tomorrow’s train, but we accepted the directions and were resigning ourselves to staying the night and most of the next day in the small dusty town of Zamyn-Uud.

As Scott and I were walking out of the office, we saw the man who had helped us again and thanked him. His English was the best that we’d heard so far and I thought it might be a good idea to have him write down some words in Mongolian so we could have an easier time the next morning communicating what tickets we wanted to buy. After we thanked him, I said, “Tomorrow, we’d like to buy tickets for the sleeper car.” I put my two hands in prayer, leaned my head to the side, and mimed the motion for sleeping. Before I could ask him to write down the Mongolian translation for ‘hard sleeper,’ he said a jumble of English words about sleeping. His English wasn’t as good as I had originally thought – we didn’t  understand what he was trying to say – but before we knew what was going on, he was leading us out of the office and towards another building.

We guessed that maybe this man thought we were asking about a hotel and was going to lead us to one. Although that wasn’t our intention, it was still very kind of him to want to help us, so we followed. Next thing we knew, we were in another office building, not a hotel, and, in Mongolian, he was talking to various people. Scott and I had no idea what was happening – did this man think this office building had a place for us to spend the night? After a few minutes, he turned to us and said, “You wait. The train director will be here in ten minutes.” In a stutter of surprised words, we asked whether we were waiting to talk to the director about a place to spend the night or about train tickets. The man quickly clarified the situation – he wanted the director to issue us tickets for tomorrow’s train immediately so we wouldn’t have to go to the trouble of waiting at 7 am the next morning. He seemed to think, for whatever reasons, that it would be impossible for us to get tickets to UB the following morning.

The man, kindly and patiently, waited with us for the train director. We talked about his son going to Tennessee for high school. We asked him about the important Mongolian celebration of Nadaam. We asked him about UB, where he lived, what we should do there. We asked him anything we could think to ask to make the waiting time not as awkward. Finally, about 15 minutes later, we heard footsteps approaching and a man came down the hallway. It was, finally, the train director. The man instantly started talking to him. Scott and I stood up but kept our distance so as not to cross whatever social boundaries may exist. Soon, the man and the train director disappeared into his office. Scott and I just waited. Within a minute or two, the man popped his head out of the office and said, “Leave tonight okay?” “Yeah!” we replied. We had thought that the night train was sold out – that’s how we interpreted the shaking heads at the ticket office. Scott and I were relieved to think we didn’t have to waste time or money spending a night in Zamyn-Uud, even if it meant spending the 15 hours in a seat and not a sleeper, as we thought seats might be all that was left. Another minute later, the man emerged from the office with a piece of paper with the director’s handwriting. Apparently, this piece of paper would ensure us tickets on the 17:35 train. We were elated. After showing us this paper, the man said, “He is ready to see you now.” Scott and I went into the office and awkwardly expressed our thanks to the train director who sat emotionless behind his desk. He accepted our thank yous and shook our hands when we put them out. The formality and process of the situation instantly reminded me of Bhutan.

Scott and I, along with our new friend with the piece of paper, rushed back to the ticket office. It was on this rushed walk that we realized the tickets that the director has given us permission to buy were in the luxury class. After this man had gone out of his way to help us, there was no way we were going to show any emotion other than complete and utter gratitude. In our minds we were calculating what this would amount to, but when we got to the ticket window and presented the handwritten director’s note to the woman who had earlier shaken her head at us, we easily gave up the money, accepted our luxury class tickets and proceeded to look for our train car, car #16.

Scott and Pewjee.

The man’s name is Pewjee. While traveling, there are so many times when the kindness of total strangers is all there is, when you just have to let go of control and leave your fate up to someone else, someone you don’t know. It’s amazing really how strangers change a situation from bad to good, from impossible to possible. And that’s happened too many times to count.

Killing Time

We’re deep in transit mode. We’re in the midst of the crossing-the-border-process, about to go from China into Mongolia, something I had read about in Wyoming weeks ago in the guidebook and was dreading. The process seemed ripe for disaster, or at least many delays, but so far things have gone well.

After touring the Yungang Grottos in Datong, Scott and I had to kill a few hours in Datong before our 5:30 pm train to Jinnin Nan. We got to the station around 4:30 and spent the remainder of the time in the waiting area along with other passengers for train K43.

The waiting room in Datong.

Around 5:15 we boarded car 5. Even though we only had standing only tickets, I think I actually stood for no more than 5 minutes. Scott wasn’t as lucky and had to stand for the majority of the trip. But the ride was short, less than two hours, and we spent the time reading, periodically looking at the passing scenery. The Gobi was ahead of us, but for that train leg, there were mostly towns.

We arrived in Jinnin Nan, exited the train station and then returned to yet another waiting room. This layover was over five hours. The temperature had changed even more and those hours in Jinin Nan were the coolest we’ve experienced on this trip so far. The time passed with more reading (I finally finished First They Killed My Father), some iPod watching, attempts at sleep, eating ramen out of our new pot, trips to the bathroom, and general exhaustion.

Our 12:30 am 4653 train to the Chinese border town of Erlian boarded early around 11:40pm. We again boarded car 5 but this time with places on two hard sleepers. Beds 19 and 20 were the top bunks of a six bunk compartment.  In the dark, we stored our big bags on the overhead rack and hunkered down for the night ride on the rails. As I had remembered from previous trips to China, sleeper cars on Chinese trains are cleaner and nicer than their Indian counterparts. Each bed had a sheet, a pillow, and a thick comforter, all seemingly very clean.

After a somewhat rough sleep, I awoke to find Scott already out of bed. He was sitting on a stool, looking out the window, watching the Gobi pass by.

Train car #5, from Datong to Erlian.

Scott getting off the train after arriving in Erlian, the Chinese border town.

The train arrived in Erlian a little after 6 am. We walked the short distance from the train station to the bus station, found out tickets to Zamyn-Ude wouldn’t start selling until later, so found a breakfast spot where we spent over an hour eating and playing cards. Around 8:30, we returned to the bus station, bought two tickets on the 1:30 bus to the Mongolian border town of  Zamyn-Ude and have been killing time ever since.

Erlian is a strange town with an almost-done huge dinosaur museum, large streets with non-working traffic lights, and almost no one walking on the sidewalks.

It’s five minutes to one and there’s a line of baggage for this journey that snakes around half the waiting room. Scott’s unsure how all of it, plus passengers, will fit on the bus. We shall see.

Once we cross the border, that will be another obstacle passed. The challenge that awaits us once we get to Zamyn-Ude is finding a train ticket to Ulaanbataar without knowing how to say a word in Mongolian. The guidebook says there’s a train at 5:30pm but that it sells out quickly. There’s also the possibility of an even later train. Either we get on a train right away to the Mongolian capital or we spend a night in the dusty town of Zamyn-Ude. Scott reminded me today that all these unknowns, usual causes of stress to me, are all part of the adventure. 

Two Bowls of Noodles

While in Datong, we were told by two different people to try two different kinds of noodle dishes.

One cold noodle dish:

Liang Fen

And one hot noodle dish:

Dao Xiao Mian

Both were delicious, but I think I preferred the cold noodles better.

Datong, China

Datong turned out to be a surprisingly great 27 hours. When we arrived at the station we exited (as you’re forced to) and then entered the ticketing room. We were overjoyed to find that one of the ticketing lines catered to “foreign visitors.”After spending at least five full minutes at the window with the kind, English-speaking woman, I came away with four tickets – two standing-only tickets from Datong to Jinnin Nan and two hard-sleepers from Jinnin Nan to Erlian, China’s border city into Mongolia. There is no direct train from Datong to Erlian; there is a direct bus, but we’re trying, as much as we can afford, to travel by rail. With that hurdle gone, we still had to search out an affordable place to stay.

After walking in circles trying to find a hostel recommended by the guidebook, we followed an older gentleman to a different hotel. We managed to get a double room for Y10 more than what we had paid for dorm beds in Beijing. Again, we were overjoyed. We had had three nights of communal living so we were due for some stretching out and privacy.

Train tickets done, shelter done. All that was left was to explore Datong with the little time we had.

The government is rebuilding a wall that once surrounded the city center - a huge, gigantic wall that requires the use of the most cranes we'd ever seen, cranes as far as the eye could see. This construction project diverts roads and causes an overall annoyance to the lives of those in Datong who walk this route.

The next day, Scott and I visited the Yungang Grottoes, a series of Buddist statues and art pieces which were built in the 400s. We were blown away.

An Unexpected Conversation

Our train car from Beijing to Datong.

We completed our first train leg of our 8,000-kilometer journey to Moscow – a seven-hour hard-seat train ride from Beijing to Datong and it was painless. In fact, the ride was spectacular, and that’s mainly due to one man – Zhang Fei Long – who took great effort to communicate with us. As soon as we sat down in our seats, his eyes were glued to us, and not in the usual ‘you’re different and strange’ kind of way, but in an astonished kind of way. He tried speaking Chinese to us but I could only make out a few words. He quickly learned that speaking Chinese to us was a bit of a dead end, but he was excited nonetheless. He’d look at us with eager eyes and would be on the verge of muttering some words before becoming exasperated with the fact that he couldn’t communicate what he was thinking. This happened over and over. All I could say was, “duibuqi,” sorry.

Zhang Fei Long had a loud voice that attracted many onlookers. People sat up in their seats, stood up, their faces pointed our way with amusement. We had become a form of entertainment. I could tell from his interaction with his friend that they were discussing us and his want to talk to us, to ask us questions. When straight talking didn’t work, he even tried tracing characters with his finger on Scott’s leg, as if that would make things clearer. He resorted to his phone, typing English words strung together to make fairly intelligible sentences. At one point he typed, “What your favorite spot?”  Scott realized a few minutes later, after some gestures and words were exchanged, that he probably meant, “What is your favorite sport?” Both Scott and Zhang Fei Long answered basketball.

Eventually, a young woman plopped herself down across from us. She had been brought to us to be a translator and she was great. Her name was Hua Yujia. She’s in college studying design and revealed to us hours later that we were the first foreigners she had ever talked with. Scott and I were shocked at that confession as her English was excellent and she spoke with confidence.

Through Hua Yujia, the two of us and Zhang Fei Long were able to communicate for hours. Zhang Fei Long even said to us (through Hua Yujia), “When I talk to you, time passes quickly,” which is a truly nice compliment. We received more compliments later.

Besides basketball and the NBA (for which others around us joined in with names of famous NBA players), other topics included what we did for a living (Zhang Fei Long never would reveal what he did as he said it was too complicated to explain; Scott’s theory was that he was a gambler), the cost of traveling, family, hometowns, hobbies, and Zhang Fei Long’s “love” life. He was quite the jokester. At the age of 27, he is still single with “many girlfriends.” He does plan on marrying, but will still maintain his “many girlfriends,” (“just joking,” he added). The more we talked, the more spoken English Zhang Fei Long revealed and the fact that he understood a lot of what Scott and I were saying without Hua Yujia’s translation. Even though he hadn’t spoken in ten years, it seemed a lot of it came back to him, though it was nice to have the translator as a crutch. Toward the end of our talk, as Zhang Fei Long’s destination and home, Zhangjiakou, approached, he made sure to tell us, “When you travel, make an effort to talk to the local people. Even if they don’t speak English, maybe they could find someone who does.” It’s good advice. Zhang Fei Long also told us what to eat in Datong – dao xiao mien – more good advice.

His friend, whose name we never learned, also imparted some words to us. Through their questioning, Scott and I were able to explain how we’re returning back to Tanzania (we kept it general and said, “Africa,” to which Hua Yujia proved her understanding by replying, “black.”) to teach underserved students, students who wouldn’t otherwise get an education without the school that we’re teaching at. We also explained how we lived in Bhutan to teach and, generally, just enjoy traveling. Zhang Fei Long’s friend said how he thought that what we’re doing is great – to travel, see the world, and do good things, and that we should keep up that lifestyle as much as possible. When he said his words for Hua Yujia to translate, his tone was very serious, and Scott and I were very touched.

Soon, it became time for the conversation to end as Zhang Fei Long, his friend, and Hua Yujia had to prepare for getting off at the next stop. We all exchanged email addresses, wished each other well on our travels and life, welcomed one another to our hometowns and countries, and said goodbye. When the train stopped, people started to file out, Scott stood up and we both looked out the window. As Zhang Fei Long stepped off the train to walk away, he turned to look back, and we all met eyes and waved. 

Friend, Zhang Fei Long, Hua Yujia's boyfriend, Hua Yujia.

Zaijian Beijing

Tomorrow will be our official start of our Trans-Siberian travels, although this leg until we get into Russia is officially called the Trans-Mongolian. At 8:30 in the morning, we’ll board a 7-hour train ride (hard seat) to the city of Datong, where the highlight is supposed to be, according to the Lonely Planet, “sublime” Buddhist caves outside the city. I hate when the Lonely Planet calls anything ‘sublime’ and I’ll further refrain from ever quoting that guidebook company ever again.

To prepare for the start of the trains, Scott and I made a few stops on the way to our hostel to get some provisions. At the grocery store we bought some instant coffee for Scott (I stocked up on tea bags at the Delta Lounge at JFK), some snacks, water, and ramen noodles (for the longer train legs). Closer to our hostel, we went into a little mom-and-pop shop and got a big metal bowl set (for the ramen), two sets of chopsticks, and two mugs. I’m sure there are more things that, as we travel, we’ll figure out we need.

Beijing was bittersweet on this go-around. Is that the appropriate term for it? It had its bright moments (can’t emphasize enough how amazing the subway system is) but overall, I’ll leave this city with some sadness. The food just isn’t as reliably good as it should be (for goodness sake, I’m talking about Beijing where everything should always taste good) for the prices restaurant folks are asking for. From the standpoint of a Chinese-American who can only speak a minimal amount of Chinese (which is a very biased viewpoint when one is referring to China), I found that many local people were rude. I hate writing this because there were some very helpful Chinese people who without their assistance, Scott and I might have not arrived at our intended destinations (the woman in Miyun, the man tonight with his daughter who helped us find Li Qun, the man this afternoon who stopped crossing the road to look up directions on his smart phone to a market we were in search of, the man at the post office who got us the cheapest rate for mailing something to the US, and I’m sure several others), and the goodness should outweigh the badness, but the badness was that bad. Some folks were just that rude and made me feel very small. I would rather not write about these instances. Also, you just can’t bargain like you used to here.

We spent today wandering around with no real plan, which was nice after our seemingly jam packed days of site seeing. We ate jaozi and baozi (otherwise known as dumplings) for breakfast. We ducked into the National Museum of China to escape the suffocating heat and haze and we saw impressive pieces of jade as well as hundreds of other pieces from Ancient China, played our first game of cribbage in the country, and generally enjoyed the air-conditioning. We walked through Tiananmen Square and saw Mao’s larger than life portrait through a thick blanket of haze. We searched for two markets and found one. We ducked out of the rain and drank pijiu, or two Yangjin beers. We sought out the most affordable Peking Duck and learned the obvious lesson that cheap oftentimes translates to bad. Soon after, we found a random street window selling pastries by weight and got the best deal on cream puffs and egg tarts (and I quickly forgot about the bad duck).

And now Scott is sleeping and I’m up, trying to mentally prepare myself for life on (and off) the rails.

The Great Wall at Jinshanling

Gotta Love China