The longest train journey so far, border crossing & Ulaanbaatar

China has been by turns, infuriating and rewarding. That which I love about Chinese people stems from what annoys me the most about them. They really don’t seem to give a damn about anyone or thing. Their honest approach to human existence, in all its belching, farting, gobbing, pissing and shitting glory is what makes them likeable. I look forward to reacquainting myself.

We set off at a ridiculous time in the morning, bidding adieu to Beijing and China, surrounded by traders wheeling boxes onto a Moscow bound train, stopping at Ulaanbaatar, the Mongolian capital.

Our traveling companions for the thirty hour journey were two Mongolians – Dr Dashtsevel, a large and grizzled yet tidy and gentle professor of East Asian Studies, and Mina, a young lady with excellent English, who appeared to be a member of the emerging middle classes, kitted out with the usual trappings and spangly accessories. Both clearly veterans of the Beijing to Ulaanbaatar route, they wasted no time in getting some kip.

Not surprisingly, over such a long journey, the landscape underwent gradual but drastic changes – Beijing petered out into jagged yellow sandstone, segued into smooth rolling hills, dotted with lonely mining communities, patches of snow bizarrely juxtaposed with sand, then miles and miles of unbroken Gobi steppe, the train tracks a single line drawn over an otherwise blank sheet of wilderness.

We arrived at the border station of Erlian a little before nine, beginning the arduous five hour customs procedure. I figured earlier that my misplaced departure card wasn’t going to make the authorities too happy. Our shiny buttoned soldier-boy inspector politely commanded me to open my baggage, barking “why?!” even before I’d done so. Of course, my massive rucksack was buried in a tight spot within another tight spot. Once he saw that an actual inspection of my bag would be too much effort, he satisfied himself with an officious grope of my pyjamas, proving a few things I have long suspected of bureaucrats.

That formality aside, our cabin mates decided to have a duty-free spending spree, whilst we ended up getting locked on the train after a quick mission for a bottle-opener. The good part of that was having the cabin to ourselves and watching the carriage bogies being changed – Russia and Mongolia use slightly wider tracks than the rest of the world, so the carriages have to be hoisted up on big jacks whilst the right sized wheel sections are attached. The bad part of that was that the conductor locked the toilet for three hours.

The morning brought us insight into Mongolian eating customs. Mina’s sister had met the train at a station we slept through, with a bag of boiled mutton – considerably tastier than it sounds. Dr Dashstevel produced a knife and carved, saying in a responsible fatherly manner that all of it must be eaten, whilst Mina discarded her mobile in favour of gnawing a bone clean. This intensely meaty breakfast was washed down with a few swigs of scotch. As if she hadn’t been generous enough, Mina gave us each a note of Mongolian currency, folded into an origami shirt, apparently a kind of wealth-charm.

What we read of Ulaanbaatar as being an ugly Soviet style grid of blocks probably over-prepared us for what we found – the city isn’t half as unattractive as expected, nor anywhere near as polluted as Shanghai. It’s small, rough round the edges, noisy as any capital, but laid back, lazy even. Just what we need right now.

We’re staying at Khongor guest house for a few days in the hope of meeting some people to join us on an expedition into the wilderness outside Ulaanbaatar. Obviously, there’s no internet facilities. See you in a week.