As it was my last day here in Ulaan Baator, I had wanted to visit two main sights that I had not gotten the chance yet.
However, after the Museum of Mongolian History, Pablo’s diarrhoea and my insufficient Mongolian Togrog prevented further activities.
We returned to Nassan’s Guesthouse and negative-energy couple was… Wait, hang on. They had packed up and left. This was great! Well, although they had left with their guitar, they had left behind their guitar pick. Pablo picked it up, eyes twinkling with evil glee.
The couple had been selfish and inconsiderate when we shared the room and we had schemed to rip off the last page of the books they were reading. But, we respected books. We could not do it. We, however, did not share the same respect for guitar picks.
I reached for my pair of scissors and snapped the guitar pick into two. I kept the left side, Pablo the right side. For a laugh, we promised to reunite the two halfs of the guitar pick when we meet in Buenos Aires in six months’ time, or when I eventually get there.
Ulaan Baator had not been the most pleasant city we were in. We had been victims, near-victims and witnesses to quite a few crimes. Many buildings and parks appeared to be neglected and some buildings were downright dilapidated. To me, it never really felt safe at night. But Mongolia in its entirety had been unexpectedly wonderful because of the things we did together as a group and the friends I made in Beijing. Outside of Ulaan Baator, Mongolia is breathtaking. The people are hospitable and incredibly friendly; the smiley children here have great personalities. There are picturesque rolling hills and steppe all around. Then, out of nowhere, you spot a few gers or a lone horsemen or some two-humped camels and horses grazing in the wild…
I was leaving for Irkutsk today and Pablo would be leaving for Moscow on 19 July. Pablo struck upon an idea for a meeting - that I should wait at the Irkutsk Train Station when his train pulled up on 20 July and we would meet for 20 minutes. Imagine: dark, misty night, steam from the train, a platform crowded with jostling passengers and porters, me in a hat (with feathers) and a mink coat… Leo Tolstoy’s popped into mind (minus the part where she threw herself under the train, of course) and we could not stop giggling about it.
Then, he suggested I try to get on his train on 20 July to do the rest of the Trans-Mongolian ride together. That would be great but I was not sure as it would give me very little time in Irkutsk and Lake Baikal.
He saw me off at the train station. Well, we would meet again… maybe in Moscow, maybe in Buenos Aires… Hasta la vista.
To Irkutsk, RUSSIA - 17 July 2002
The train had stopped at the Mongolian border for at least 4 hours before some sort of border activities began after 9am.
The border guard took my passport away. The French guy in my cabin had stayed 31 nights in Mongolia, including last night on the train. In a way, he had overstayed by one night as he was given a 30-day visa. The other Austrian couple did not even have entry stamps. They said no one was at the counter when they arrived at the Ulaan Baator airport. So, with these dodgy train companions who seemed more ‘illegal’ than I was, I could not understand why the border guard stamped their passports and yet took mine away.
After 1½ hour’s wait, I happened to stand by the train-door and spotted the border guard chatting with his cronies on the steps in front of the office and passing my passport around. Ah, must be my gorgeous photo again.
Finally, they returned it to me wordlessly and the train moved off eventually. 2 hours later, we arrived at the Russian border and played the same waiting game. In total, we spent at least 8 hours on the border.
I had expected to arrive in Irkutsk in 24 hours time but no… it seemed I had another night on the train.
For dinner, I cracked open my pack noodle into my lunch-box and added hot water. The train jerked and my lunch-box made a spectacular crash to the floor, spilling the water on me and scattering the noodles everywhere.
The Russian train attendant, with a full set of gold teeth no less, rushed out and ooohhed and aaaahhed over my predicament. She tossed me a wash-cloth to clean myself and proceeded to pick up the noodle to throw it out.
“Er… Nyet nyet nyet! [No no no!]” I hazarded, a tad embarrassed by what I intended to do next. I picked up the main unbroken square of the noodle sheepishly and indicated I was still eating this. “Spasiba. I’m sorry for the mess. Spasiba… Spasiba… [Thank you]”
Well, when you're hungry, you're hungry.
Irkutsk to Listvyanka, RUSSIA - 18 July 2002
We arrived eventually after 8am. I had several things to do first and I wanted to get out to Lake Baikal by today, if possible.
Left my backpack at the Left Luggage. Plodded into town on foot to try and find a bank. Had the presence of mind to stop and buy a sketch book, pencil and sharpener because now, I felt inspired to start drawing on my trip. Hunted for a café for food. Unable to locate one. By then, had walked across tiny Irkutsk to the bus station. Used the phrasebook and the universal language of numbers to buy a bus-ticket to Listvyanka, by Lake Baikal. Searched for a café for food again. Finally, found one. Ate awful microwaved food. Returned to the bus station. Boarded the bus. Realised I FORGOT to register my visa.
In Russia, it was not enough for you to have a visa for entry and an entry stamp at the border. You still need to register your visa with a hotel or tour agency within three days of arrival into the country. I officially crossed the border on 17 July. Today was 18 July and I had just hopped on a bus to a tiny village by the lake. So, 19 July would be my third day and I would need to register it if I did not want trouble in Russia. Argh!!!
I guess I had to return to Irkutsk the next day and get the registration done. It seemed I would be able to get on Pablo’s train on 20 July, after all.
Found a youth hostel for only R50 [R31 = US$1]. The toilet was an out-house with a hole dug in the ground… China flashback. But for the life of me, I could not find running water. When I asked the babushka [grandmother] of the hostel where I could wash my hands, she simply yelled at me and waved me away.
So… after toilet, where did I go? I furtively trudged out to Lake Baikal to wash my hands.
Lake Baikal, if I may briefly impress you with some statistics here, is the ‘Pearl of Siberia’ - crystal clear, drinkably pure (er… not for long) and surrounded by mountains and little wooden cabins. It is the world’s sixth largest lake and the world’s deepest lake (1637m) and contains nearly one-fifth of the world’s fresh water. There!
Listvyanka to Irkutsk, RUSSIA - 19 July 2002
Back in Irkutsk, I tracked down Hotel Arena without much problems. But the fat middle-aged woman in the hotel could not register the visa for me and would not accept me if my visa was not registered. With no Russian, I tried my best to inquire where I could get it registered. It got frustrating as we simply could not understand each other.
Then, I looked up and saw a familiar face with a huge grin. “Hi” he nodded. “BEN!!! B-E-N! Oh great!! How are you??” It was Ben from USA whom I had met briefly in the hostel in Beijing. So GREAT to see a familiar face in this daunting country! And even better if he spoke Russian. “Do you speak Russian?” Nope. Rats. We agreed to share the room to split the cost but first, I had problems to solve.
The fat woman very kindly (!!) gave me the address of the Registration Office. OK, I would try and get myself registered.
I waited for the office to open at 3pm and by then, there were already about 50 men and three women waiting outside.
When the office finally opened, everyone bull-dozed their way in. The building was in one of those old eerie buildings that was not designed as waiting rooms. It was tiny and had no ventilation. I had no idea where to queue. The 50 men, some fat, some skinny, all smelly, had glued themselves behind one another in some queue or other. I asked a few ‘staff’ and was directed to different doors and the last door pointed out to me was shut.
With the summer heat and no ventilation, I nearly blacked out. My claustrophobia took over. I felt a sense of panic surge from within me. I knew I could not do this alone, especially with no Russian and with no one willing to smile or help. I staggered out towards a more expensive hotel.
I had thought I needed to be a guest before this hotel would register me. That would mean I had to ditch Ben in Hotel Arena. Surprisingly, for a fee, they registered my visa there and then within 5 minutes. Strange bureaucracy.
We found that the party was celebrating the birth of her grand-daughter. Everyone at the table was offering us cognac and vodka and toasting us frequently. Soon, Voluptuous Babushka was using my phrase-book and telling Ben ‘It is nice to meet you’, ‘Hope to see you again’, etc…
Later, they wanted photos and Voluptuous Babushka wanted some where we planted kisses on her cheeks and yelled, “Mama!!” and then, she would squeeze us with one gigantic hug. One of the guys at the table, some half-pissed fat guy named Igor (IGOR, for heaven’s sake!) got me to dance. To my surprise, Igor lifted me up with his right arm (and only with his right arm) and I found myself ‘dancing’ with my feet in the air! Ben waltzed around, looking for a partner and the half-crazed Voluptuous Babushka elbowed her way into the café to snatch Ben up. It was one crazy, fun and very drunk night.
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