The Hurd's the Word
ULAAN BATAAR
MAY 2
"Millie's," the restaurant in the "Central Hotel," reputedly served the best coffee in Mongolia. Mr. Bata's phone message would have to wait while I tested its reputation. After freezing all night in a ger, I was ready for some pampering.
The coffee did not fail to impress me, and the added bonus of "huevos rancheros" left me a happy ger-camper. I couldn't believe how authentic my breakfast was -- here I was in Mongolia, eating proper huevos rancheros just like I'd get in Texas. I heard Spanish coming out of the kitchen. I'd have to investigate more later. For now, my coffee addiction fed, I braved the cold and walked over to see Mr. Bata.
"Your friend," said Mr. Bata slowly and seriously, "is still here."
"Huh?" I mentally ran through my short list of friends in Ulaan Bataar. I had none. He could only be talking about Yancey, who I'd left at the airport just a few hours before.
"Yancey is here?" I said, dumbfounded.
"Yes. The Chinese require a transit visa for Americans -- even if you spend only one minute in their international airport transit lounge."
I had asked Mr. Bata about this earlier in the week, and he now went to great lengths to explain that this was a new thing, only for Americans.
"I had two Australians transit through Beijing last week, and they did not need transit visas," he explained.
Maybe. There was no point in arguing over it. Either it was a new policy, a result of the Lukewarm War going on between the U.S. and China, or the Australians had visas and Mr. Bata hadn't realized it. If I'd had the sense to look the info up on the State Department's website instead of trusting someone who had never actually done it, I would've read this about China:
"ENTRY/EXIT REQUIREMENTS: Visas are required to transit China, even if one is only changing flights at an airport."
I went back to my hotel, where the ever-helpful manager handed me a note from Yancey.
"Hey, guess what? I'm still in UB. At UB Hotel Room 219."
When the airline staff had informed him that he needed a transit visa, Yancey had jumped in a taxi and gone straight to the Chinese embassy.
It had been closed for May Day. The UB Hotel was the town's upscale semi-luxury hotel, and we'd been pretending we were staying there for days -- we'd asked their concierge for information and made good use of their toilets. It was the only hotel he knew, and Yancey had desperately wanted a shower so he'd paid the steep price for one night and checked in.
Ulaan Bataar
I called Yancey's room but got no answer. I went to the internet cafethat we had visited together, and he was there e-mailing his family
that he was going to be a "little late, please take care of the dog."
He was in good spirits for someone who had just been stranded in Mongolia. I told him about Millie's, and we returned there immediately
so that Yancey could have some chicken tacos. He was still sick with the Chinese cough, so he spent the rest of the day in bed while I hunted for a working scanner.
The more "developing" the country, the more likely it seems that it will have public internet access. That is, in somewhere like the US, there are relatively few internet cafes, because many people have access from home or work. But in countries where the average yearly income ranks in the US hundreds or thousands, there are lots of internet cafes because no one has access to the internet from home or work.
It is equally likely that these public internet cafes will have at least one scanner. And it is nearly certain that this scanner will not work. Perhaps this is because the driver software is outdated or corrupt, or it could be because so many public users alter settings on public computers, and no one is sure how to set them back.
I finally found a working scanner at an efficient gaming cafe, and
ended up giving Photoshop lessons to the attendant. Sadly, he offered me no
discount in exchange.
MAY 3
Yancey left the expensive hotel and checked into the Ekhlel, across the hall from me. He had gotten up early and raced over to the Chinese
Embassy, only to discover that is was not open on Thursdays. Monday, Wednesday, Friday only, except that yesterday had been May Day. We knew that government businesses were closed all week in China, and desperately hoped the embassy would open on Friday. I schemed up a Plan B, in which Yancey would switch his ticket to Tokyo or Bangkok. No doubt the change would cost him, but at least he had an alternative.
We wandered the streets of UB, ate at Millie's, and shopped for beer labels for Rob at the State Department Store. Rob, when he wasn't
leading Intrepid trips across China, was host to a huge collection of beer labels from around the world.
The sidewalks of UB are filled with entrepreneurs and their telephones. These are land-based lines, and they are Mongolia's version of a pay
phone. Someone gets a long phone cord, drags their phone out to the street, and then charges passerbys a small fee when they use it to make a phone call. Ingenious.
We capped off our day with a visit to the "Jazz Club." Someone had painted names of jazz greats on the wall, and Yancey pointed out some misspellings.
"Look, Sonny Rolling," he said. "And Bill Frisele."
We sat in my room later and watched TV. Yancey was fascinated by the Russian-dubbed American programs, where the narrator just reads the Russian translation right over the English.
"I can't hear the dialogue! This is driving me crazy!" said Yancey. I fed him some of my codeine cough syrup and sent him to bed.
MAY 4
We were eating French toast at Millie's by nine. Yancey was going to be first in line at the Chinese embassy, and Altai was going along for moral support. I opted out, knowing that my presence would not alter the outcome.
Millie's French toast was great. Yancey's curiosity overcame him and he waylaid the cook.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
The cook, who may have been part owner, explained that he was from Cuba. He had studied in Tashkent (at the time Uzbekistan was part of the Soviet Union). He had met his wife there -- she was there studying from Jacksonville, Florida -- and followed her to Mongolia. He now enjoyed the freedom of movement that came with the US passport. He was also a fantastic cook, and even made his own syrup, a passable imitation of fresh maple.
"This is the best French toast cooked by a Cuban in Mongolia that I've ever had! declared Yancey, before scampering off to throw himself at the mercy of the Chinese consular officials.
Ulaan Bataar
The embassy was open and the Chinese were helpful. Yancey got his visa, and didn't even need Altai's help. He met me back at the hotel and we visited the "Mongolian History Museum." It turned out to be an interesting muddle, so we left it and went shopping at the post office.
What? Shopping at the post office? It turned out that the philatelic center at the post office had a remarkable selection of stamps,
including many featuring images of angry blue gods. But the highlight, the most amazing souvenirs to date, were the pristine sheets of Mongolian "X-Men" stamps.
They were from the early '90s, and appeared to be Marvel-sanctioned. We bought sheets until we ran out of local currency.
Back we went to the State Department Store, to change more money and buy me some peanut butter for the train to Siberia. As we left the store, six Mongolian men in winter coats crowded us in the doorway. Yancey stopped and backed up. I was in the thick of it, and pushed back and twisted out of the way. We were surprised as Mongolians generally didn't walk into us the way people had in crowded China.
Later, we met Altai for a final goodbye dinner. He insisted on paying -- in Mongolia, the person who does the inviting always pays. He'd caught a cold, probably from spending the night in the country with Yancey and me. He was secretly a building construction engineer, trained in Bratislava. His career had screeched to a halt with the Asian economic crises, and he'd been leading tours ever since.
On Sunday, Altai would be picking up our friends Emma and Tim (last seen in Beijing) and escorting them to a ger homestay in the Mongolian countryside. I hoped they would have better luck -- and better weather -- than we had.
Yancey and I had one last stop to make before I boarded the train. We were on the hunt for a Hurd CD for our friend Pond Scum. Hurd was the hot Mongolian metal band du jour, and Pond Scum likes metal, so... what better gift than a Mongolian heavy metal CD? We went into a CD store and asked for Hurd. The attendants giggled. I guessed foreigners didn't ask for Hurd very often.
They had a cassette, so we pooled our remaining funds and bought that. And we were soon glad that we hadn't spent more on the CD version.
Yancey put the cassette into his Walkman.
"This is awful!" he said. "Scum is going to hate this."
"If it's that awful, he'll love it," I responded. "He may only play it once, but at least it'll be funny."
We ran back to the hotel to grab my bags. I threw my "Manhattan Portage" bike messenger bag down on the bed. My camera spilled out of the side.
"Huh?" There wasn't normally a big slit in the side of my bag.
"Bag slashers," said Yancey. He proceeded to read aloud the guidebook warning about bag slashers in Ulaan Bataar. No doubt the men at the
State Department Store had scouted us out and waited to crowd us in the doorway. They hadn't gotten anything due to my uncooperative twisting away, but I was unhappy and would have to sew up the bag on the train.
It was the first deliberate act of unkindness I'd encountered in two-thirds if the world. Disappointed, I donned the silk fake "Levi's" money belt I had almost not purchased in Vietnam.
"I never wear money belts," I had said, but then Lynne had pointed out that the belt was only a dollar and weighed nothing.
I said goodbye to the charming Hotel Ekhlel, and said goodbye to Yancey for a second time, admonishing him to take any plane he could if he
couldn't get to Beijing. I boarded the train to Siberia and was given a 4-berth compartment to myself. The Russian train attendant, Pauline, gave me clean linens and access to her private bathroom. I watched the ger suburbs of Ulaan Bataar go by. Yancey, Altai, Mrs. G., the Cuban, and filtered coffee receded into the distance. I sat down to study Cyrillic and reestablish my Russian identity as "Masha."
NEXT: Siberia! Kinda cold, and kinda boring.
