2. TRANSMONGOLIAN EXPERIENCE
From 12th June 2011 to 9th July 2011
Distance travelled: 7855 km
Distance since start: 12555km + 369 NM
Transportation: Trans-Siberian train (Moscow-Irkutsk) Mini-Bus (Irkutsk-Olchon Island); Trans-Mongolian train (Irkutsk-Ullan Bator); Train (Ullan-Bator-Beijing)
Highlights: THE trainride; Baikal; Horseriding at Hovsghol.
Bummer: Terribly hot train car! Getting kicked in UlaanBaatar.
On the second month of this overland journey I experienced travelling on some of the longest train lines in the world. First, the Trans-Siberian - from Moscow to Ullan Ude (5642km) - and then the Trans-Mongolian - all the way to Beijing (2213km)*. In total, I was inside trains for about a week (mostly in a very hot 3rd class car, with no open windows). Moscow, Irkutsk, Ulan Bator and Moron where my stop-overs. It was an intense summer month.
Trans-Siberian
The preparation for this part of the trip began a few months earlier. As a Portuguese citizen, I had to apply for a Russian and Chinese visa while still in my home country. Also, I had to get the Mongolian visa at the consulate in Paris. The procedures were not complex, but required a lot of documentation. I needed travel invitations, vouchers, insurances, tickets in and out of the countries, bank statements, declarations regarding my occupation - including from my employer at the time - and statements as to the intent of my trip. It all amounted to a whole lot of paperwork to take care of. But in spite of all this, my homework paid off and the actual visa procedures were painless . Everything was approved with no problems.
Paperwork aside, the trans-Siberian train experience was quite different from what I had expected. The most appropriate word to define it is "slow". I mean it. When I though about going from Moscow to Irkutsk I imagined a train filled with stories to discover. Adventures, mysterious people and all the weird stuff we are used to hear about. I'm sure some of this was there, but being unable to speak Russian I ended spending most of my time observing the people, reading or looking out the window into the Siberian forest.
The train moved at a slow rhythm. Outside, almost always the same landscape: brow sand, trees of white and black trunks, houses every now and then. Sometimes we would stop in minor train stations for three or four minutes. It was hot. The wind barely dared to go through the slight slot of the single opened window at the carriage’s entrance. Outside the window, the ground moved at a constant pace, sluggish, continuous. Less frequently, the train stops would go on for somewhat longer. Then, during blessed twenty or thirty minutes, the passengers allowed themselves to stretch legs and look for some food. Babuchkas sold their home made dishes. Little shops in the boarding platform did their business with fried noodles. Inside the plazkart of train 044 time passed in between conversations with a group of Polish travellers and my immersions in Tolstoi’s War and Peace. In the corridor, by my bed, men, women an children, moved towards and backwards from the boiler. The were not tourists, just people getting back home or moving to a find a job in a different city. It smelled of noodles, sweat ad coffee. The sun went up and came back down. And then it didn’t smell like anything anymore. People slept and woke up to the same brow sand, the same trees, the same houses. Some passengers smiled, talking cheerfully in Russian. The majority just let time pass. A feeling of continuity accompanied me inside that train. It was slow, but not boring. With all the time-zone changes, it was hard to keep a notion of what time it actually was.
There were some curious moments, of course. Like when I was approached by a Russian guy near Ullan-Ude, who interrupted my reading of "War and Peace" He spoke to me in Russian, and I obviously didn't understand him. In spite of his mean look, I realized that he didn't want to take my Kindle or my camera. After some insistence, I followed him to his seat. I was slightly afraid of what would come out of that - blame me for the prejudice, but hell, I was in Siberia...-., when the guy lifted his berth (there is a luggage compartment under) and took out a military jacket. It turns out that he simple wanted me to put on the jacket and take a picture with him. It was a sort of Russian hospitality gift and it was quite nice.
Apart from this and other small episodes - like sharing my seat with a german shepherd - those four days in the train were spend quietly. I enjoyed the experience, but I was happy when I found myself under the shower in the hostel at Irkutsk.
Lake Baikal
In the early morning after arriving in Irkutsk I left to remote Olhon Island, located 400 km away, in the middle of Lake Baikal. The trip was done in a public mini-van. That day I got to know the Russian style of driving. The trip last six hours, during which I tried not to think too much. Coming from a country were people are believed to drive poorly, I was shocked at how russians drove. They overtook anyone at anytime - even with cars coming the opposite direction!. The speed was such that some bags flew off the van, as it hit a road bump. Fortunately, we had no accidents.
Contrasting with the boisterous trip, the small village of Khuzhir on Olhon Island seemed stopped in time. In the midst of silence, rows of wooden houses lined along empty streets. Cows wondered around and dogs slept, simply lining on fences. Breaking this numbness, every now and then, there were some dog barks, whenever an old soviet van passed by.
The old Baikal Lake was the largest lake I ever set my eyes on. It spread into the horizon and melted with the sky. It was also silent. Very silent. At times, the only sound was that of the water softly touching the shore. I saw some people going in the freezing water, but after just recuperating from my illness, I didn't venture in. In an small soviet van, we drove around the island, which was almost deserted. There were only a few houses here and there. We ate fish soup for lunch, prepared on the spot by our driver. There was no noise in this place.
For three nights I slept in a share room at a small guesthouse named “Olga”. It consisted of a few wooden buildings and a small kitchen garden. There was no toilet, just a latrine. There was pleasant dinning room where the guests (we were five there) had their meals. The food was tasty and homely. I particularly remember a breakfast of bread stuffed with fish, onion and egg, a bowl of sweet rice, yogurt with fruit, and tea. As strange as it may sound, it was delicious.
Mongolia - Ulaanbataar and Hovsghol
After Baikal, I headed back to Irkutsk (it was another unpleast trip). The following morning I got on the train to Mongolia. The trip was more confortable this time. I had 2nd class tickets, and shared compartment with a Swiss, a Russian and a South Korean. At the border, besides the traditional customs procedures, we had to wait for the train wheels to be changed, as Mongolian tracks differ from the Russian ones. This took about eight hours of waiting, but surprisingly it wasn't as boring as it might seem. We got ourselves a few bottles of vodka and enjoyed some good moments sharing our travel stories.
At dusk, we arrived in Ulaanbataar.
Mongolia
The truth is that in UlaanBaatar you can still feel a sort of aggressiveness that probably comes from the old nomadic times. It is as if the fierce spirit of ancient days found no natural enemy, bringing no escape to a desire for force.
There were signs of a newly arrived world, however. Shopping centres, sky scrappers, expensive cars and fashionable western clothes went side by side with yurts, old Ladas, and traditional Mongolian outfits. I certainly did not find here a typical western city, or a traditional Asian city. Instead, I found a project of something in progress, something that is not yet anything. In the end, I am glad about not knowing what to think of Ulan Bator.
On the fifth day it was time to leave Ulan Bator and see the other Mongolia. I decided to head back north, to the mountainous lands around lake Hovsghol.
To do that I was confronted with a hard choice: a place on the floor of an old local bus - about thirty thousand Tugriks (about 28 euros)-, or a seat in a small and predictably overcrowded Russian mini-van for about fifty thousand? The destination was about 600 km northeast of Ulan Bator and the trip should take around seventeen hours. After some indecision, the Russian mini-van was chosen. It would be more expensive, but also slightly more confortable and with a proper seat. It should make it easier to overcome the discomfort of a long trip through vast areas of unpaved roads or simple dirt tracks. It was, at least, what I thought.
Reality, however, was quite different. Inside the tiny space designed for eleven people, twenty souls and their luggage were compressed beyond the confines of imagination. We were five sharing the three seats in the back of the van. It were seventeen hours of pain, bouncing around, stuck in between heads, legs and arms. I tried to sleep, but inevitably I would wake up with a collision of heads, or with the face against the window. The air was hot and stuffy inside the mini-bus, but the cold temperature outside made the passengers want to keep the windows closed.During those long hours, while observing the other passengers, I realized that such type of trip was normal to them. Everyone, old and young, man and women, all behaved as if such sort of trip was part of their daily life. Where a westerner would immediately complain about the unreal excess of passengers, a Mongol only seemed to see a faster transport. And if they could do it, so could I.
In the morning we arrived in Moron, a small town in the north. Ninety kilometres still separated us now from our final destination, as we intented to stay in the small village of Hatghal, on Hovsgol south shore. After some unsuccessful bargaining, we luckily managed to get a payed lift. This time there were enough seats for everyone, and the four hours that followed – with several stops for vodka – went by without any trouble.
It took ne some time to understand Mongolia. Travel books mentioned a country of friendy people, by was also full of recommendations and warnings about not to going out at night and being careful when taking photos in the street. What I found in this central Asia country was quite what I should have expected from Chengis Kahn’s decendents. It was beautifull, but quite agressive. Streets had holes the size of cars, horns echoed literally non-stop, and outside the centre of Ulan Bator - composed by a few dozen paved streets - the landscape was dominated by yurts (gers). In the beginning I didn't feel any special threat or danger. But that changed after I got randomly attacked in the middle of the street. A guy just decided to go for a kick - literally. After this, I was more careful and watchful.
In Hatghal, after one night resting in a Ger, we arranged everything for a horse trip around the lake. I carried only the essential for a few days: food, a couple of t-shirts, a sweater, a jacket, a notebook and a pen, some soap and a sleeping bag. By the beginning of the afternoon, myself, my friend Mirek – who had also travelled from Ulan Bator – Usher and Waata (two Mongol guides) started our way. It was the first time I was ridding a horse and I was apprehensive as to the difficulties I would find along the way.
Slowly, through plains and hills - frequently steeper and looking more dangerous than I wished – we rode amid some amazing landscape surrounding lake Hovsghol. The horse did not always obey my commands, but fortunately it never threw me to the ground. Every now and then we found a Ger on the way. We were received with typical Mongolian milk tea, bread and yak butter. It was there we rested, recovering energies for some more hours horse ridding.
At night we cooked on a small pan, with water from the lake, over a fire that served also as heating. The tent was cold and the ground was hard, but the fatigue was larger than the discomfort and I rapidly felt sleep.On the second day, by the afternoon, we reached a shaman’s place. We set out tends there, surrounded by half dozen salesmen and a reindeer family. Unfortunately, the language barrier didn’t allow for a particularly fluent communication. Nonetheless, it wasn’t a waste of time, and with more or less difficulty, we still managed something close to a conversation.
Finally, on the third day, we headed back. There was a storm on the way and horses were restless. Me and Mirek were a little apprehensive and wondered how we would make it if the storm got too near. Fortunately, we were blessed with enough breaks to let us through the woods. About six hours later, we were back.
The following day, we got on a bus back to the capital. This time we took the bigger bus - which was nearly falling apart. The ride took twenty cold and very tiring hours. More then once we had to stop and get off the bus because of the risk of landslides. Back in UlaanBaatar I made my mind to go straight to China. I was missing a trip to the Gobi desert, but at least I could see it from the train. The days in Mongolia and Russia had been quite amazing,
* The connection Moscow-Beijing two lines is also referred to as simply Trans-Mongolian.
