“Is this enough fat?”: Travels in Mongolia

We’d been in Mongolia for about 36 hours and were sitting on footstools around a small, low table inside a ger. My wrist was starting to ache and Anjel had developed a blister on her right index finger from the large cleaver. We were getting tired, but there was a large pile of still-frozen mutton in front of us, and the dumplings weren’t going to make themselves, so we kept chopping.

We weren’t the only ones working. Mr. Ghambataar was sitting with us, going through his pile of meat like butter while his wife was preparing dough from scratch. There was a fire going in the stove and the Ger was warm, which was nice because on the other side of the felt walls it was -35°F. We paused to sip from the ever-present cups of hot Milk Tea – but not too much since after dinner we were going to have our last chance to go outside to use the toilet before the dogs were unchained for the night. “If you need to use the toilet at night,” our host warned us through the translator “wake me up. It is not safe for you to go by yourself.”

Even our translator “Baagii,” a young man of 23 who was studying tourism and just beginning to work as a guide, had gotten pulled into dinner preparations. He was hacking large chunks off the leg for us to chop and had just handed me another steak-sized piece of fat, when he surveyed the pile of raw meat on the table and asked “is this enough fat? Or would you usually use more?”

Spending several days out on the Mongolian steppe, it was hard to find things that didn’t highlight what a foreign world we had wandered into – yet the more time we spent there the more we found to love about the country.

It was 6:30 in the morning and pitch-black when the #6 train we’d been riding from Moscow pulled into Ulan Bataar. We stepped out of the 75°F car and onto the sub-zero platform, immediately surrounded by a dozen or so enthusiastic Mongolians offering taxi rides and hostel accommodations. We had boarded the train at 10:30 pm on December 3rd and this was the morning of the 8th.

Having been unsure about what 101 straight hours on a train would be like we had stocked up on extra reading material and made sure the iPods were charged; imagining ourselves pacing the train by day 3, wandering from car to car, sick of the endless vistas of snow outside the window. However we quickly found the train to be  a cozy little haven, bumping and swaying through the Russian countryside in what felt like a long, slow Sunday afternoon.

Traveling through St. Petersburg and Moscow had been exhausting and the downtime was a welcome break. They were amazing cities but both had lived up to their reputation of cold indifference in Winter. Though we spent time with some wonderful people, the thick diesel fumes filling the air gave us a new appreciation for emission standards and the watchful police, aggressive drunks, bustling subways and constant chill had worn on us. The last minute change to our travel and lodging plans when the train line between St. Petersburg and Moscow was bombed two days before we were scheduled to travel that route certainly didn’t ease things.

So it was with great pleasure that we sipped tea, read books, and took short naps each day as we rolled across Siberia.

The only other traveling companion in our 4-berth compartment was Anton, an officer in the Russian Air Force. He spoke just enough English for the three of us to get to know each other and spent a several hours showing us photos of his wife and 15-year old daughter who were waiting for him in Naushki.

Of course to round out the trip there were also the Finnish backpackers, the high-maintenance-looking Russian woman who boarded the train with her husband wearing a white fur coat but spent the rest of the time walking around in a t-shirt and microscopic (and not entirely flattering) jean-short hot pants,  the surly provodnitsa (female carriage attendant), the platform vendors selling fur hats, smoked fish & beer and even the requisite noisy drunk who threw up in the hallway after drinking too much Vodka.

The trip was fantastic and if you’ve ever considered  riding the Trans-Siberian, I would strongly suggest you do it. Whether you stop and spend a few days at towns along the way or just go straight through like we did, the scenery is amazing and it’s quite an experience. Truthfully, the train line we took is called the Trans-Mongolian. The Trans-Siberian doesn’t make a right at Lake Baikal, and instead continues straight on to Vladavastok. Nonetheless, the route is the same for most of the trip, they both take you across siberia, and very few people know what the “Trans-Mongolian” is.

When we finally arrived in Ulan Bataar, we were excited, but definitely a little disappointed to be leaving the train portion behind us. However, we found ourselves quickly swept up into Mongolian life, which started as soon as we stepped onto the platform. Anjel had handled the Mongolia portion of our bookings, and had already reserved a room for us at the Golden Gobi hostel. We were swamped with drivers crowding round shouting “Taxi? Taxi?” as soon as we left the train, but there was Bob standing with a Golden Gobi sign and our names written on it.

Bob was of course not his Mongolian name but Mongolian names tend to be long and very difficult for most westerners to pronounce, so it’s not uncommon for them to introduce themselves by a westernized nickname. Bob and Boogii (“Boggy”) worked at the Golden Gobi; Baagii (“Baggy”) was the guide/translator that we hired and he introduced his buddy the driver as Daagii (“Doggie” – though Anjel swears she heard it as “Dougie”).

We waited on the platform while Bob collected a couple more people off the train. The Finnish backpackers from next door hadn’t made any reservations in advance and there was room at the Gobi so they piled into the minivan/shuttle with the rest of us. Anjel and I had reserved a private room with a shower for our first night in the hostel. Typically we’re fine staying in rooms with 6 or 8 bunks – but we’ve also learned that from time to time it’s nice to have a little privacy and knowing that when we arrived we were going to be on day 5 without a shower, and then leaving a day and a half later for 4 days in a ger it seemed like the private room was an acceptable splurge.

We actually went back to sleep for several hours after arriving at the hostel and checking in. Ulan Bataar is five time zones ahead of Moscow, but every train stop (until you reach Mongolia) is still on Moscow time so it’s very difficult to find out what local time is along the way. Between slowly moving the clocks forward over the course of 5 days, the fact that there are less than six hours of light per day and the frequent naps it’s easy for your internal clocks get thrown off. At least ours did.

*The glow from the heat lamp (in the above picture) gives the room a strange “red light district” vibe that really wasn’t there. It was a pretty normal room.

The capital city of Mongolia is Ulan Bataar, but the locals just call it UB. The city itself is an amazing blend of old and new; drab soviet architecture and flashing LED signs. Inside the capital city traffic is crazy and people are as likely to be wearing traditional Mongolian dress as they are designer labels. Ten miles outside downtown you can find people living in slums without running water or electricity in a rented ger for $14 a month and 100 miles out of downtown you can find nomads living almost exactly as they did 800 years ago when Genghis Khan founded Mongolia.

UB is amazing, but certainly not beautiful. Guidebooks correctly describe the city as heavily polluted, especially in winter when the smoke from coal (and anything else people can burn to keep warm) fills the air and hangs over the city. It leads to some beautiful sunsets but is murder on the lungs and eyes.

When we visited (from December 3rd through the 22nd) the average temperature was around -30°C with the windchill pushing it as low as -50° some days. This made even simple exploration of the city a challenge. We rode the bus several mornings to a school where we were volunteering, just outside the city limits. On the first day we were lucky enough to have a friend with us who already knew the route – the windows on the bus were completely frozen over with ice and locals would often scratch a tiny peephole with a credit card or key to keep an eye out for landmarks identifying their stop.

It’s not just the physical surroundings that are different in Mongolia – the culture has its own quirks. One morning one of the owners of the hostel asked what our plans were for the day. Hesitant to say “nothing” before knowing what I was signing up for I said: “I’m not sure… why?”
“Maybe you help my sister with English today.”
“Your sister needs help with her English?”
“Yes, she will be here around 10:00. You can you help her?”
“Ok, sure” I replied.

It’s very common for English speaking travelers to help Mongolians with their English. We’d been doing it with the children at the school, so I figured we could help out for a while. At 10 when her sister showed up, Anjel and I were in the sitting room, casually finishing our breakfast. “Hello,” she said, introducing herself. “Take your time getting ready, there is no rush and it is a 15 or 20 minute walk.” It immediately became clear that we had signed up to go somewhere to help her sister. A few more questions revealed that it wasn’t her sister that needed the help; she ran an English language school and was looking for some native speakers to work with the students on their conversation.

15 minutes later as we were finally bundled up and walking out the door we apologized a little, explaining that we were happy to help – her sister just hadn’t made it clear what exactly we were doing. “That’s ok,” she replied, smiling. “It’s very common for Mongolians to only tell you half. It’s important to keep asking questions. Slowly they will tell you more. It’s cultural.”

We got this advice at the end of our time in Mongolia, but we could immediately see the truth in it. The day after we arrived in UB we left for our 5-day trip into the countryside on a 3-hour bus ride to Darkhan. The tour agency had given us a detailed map to the bus terminal (which even included a photo since few if any Mongolian businesses have visible street addresses), told us how far it was from where we were staying and how much we should expect to pay the cabbie. They even gave us a sheet of paper that had our destination written out to show the bus driver. What they didn’t tell us was that, upon arriving at the bus station, we would find no less than 6 buses that seemed to be going to our destination along with two dozen taxi drivers offering to take us there as well.

Between the shouting and being physically pulled towards various vehicles it was more than a little overwhelming. Luckily one bus driver gestured for us to follow him, and led us into the (almost entirely unmarked) ticket office where we bought two tickets to Darkhan. Knowing that there were several buses outside, we asked the ticket agent which bus we should take. She circled bus “33″ on our tickets and we thanked her profusely.

Our comfort evaporated as soon as we left the office and found that “33″ is useless when none of the buses actually have a number on them. Again the same driver came to our rescue, going so far as to grab a ticket from someone already on the bus to show us that ours was the same.

Once we were underway we assumed our bus adventures were over – next stop Darkhan!

We became a little less sure the first time we broke down on the side of the road.

My expert opinion (as a passenger sitting inside the bus) was that there was some sort of transmission trouble since the engine was running smoothly but we didn’t seem to be going anywhere. The driver and another guy got and started working on something outside the bus. 10 minutes later another guy got out followed by 3 or 4 more. Another 10 minutes passed and whatever they had done seemed to have worked as we were back on our way. Of course in the process something seemed to have happened to the door of the bus as it no longer closed all the way, and instead, partly open, acted like a Ram-Air hood scoop, directing ice-cold air straight into the bus.

We slowed and pulled over to the side of the road 2 more times, each for around 5 or 10 minutes, and each time we were eventually on our way though the engine note of the bus seemed to get progressively worse and worse.

When we did finally arrive in Darkhan it was comforting to immediately spot someone holding a sign with our names on it. He introduced himself as Baagii, took us inside for a delicious lunch and then led us around Darkhan for a tour of the sights. It was a mixed blessing that it was snowing and nightfall was rapidly approaching as we walked around for about two hours. On one hand, it was freezing, on the other, the falling snow and fading light did make for some amazing sights.

That night we stayed by ourselves in someone’s apartment (as part of the tour it had been left to us for the evening) and the next morning after breakfast the driver showed up to take us out to the family we’d be staying with.

About 2 hours after we left the city, following a flat tire and no small difficulty driving a front wheel drive sedan through hilly,  snow covered dirt roads, we finally arrived at the ger of Mr. Ghambataar and his family.

It’s here that the story slows down. We walked into the ger, set our packs out of  the way, met our stoic host and his wife, and had what was to be the first of many bowls of milk tea. It’s basically exactly what it sounds like and it’s good, though it does take a little getting accustomed to. It’s usually pretty salty – though if not served salty it’s usually rather bland. It is an absolute staple of Mongol life. They’ll drink milk tea before a meal, with a meal, before heading out, as soon as they return, first thing in the morning, a last bowl before bed… they love it. If you walk into a ger, the first thing you’re going to be offered is a bowl of milk tea.

As we sat back and sipped our milk tea we looked around the ger. There were three beds (which doubled as seating areas) against the walls along with several cabinets and a small sink. In the center of the ger was the wood-burning stove, used for cooking as well as heating the ger. Ger size is determined by the number of walls and are made in 4, 5, 6, 8 or 12 wall versions. The number of walls refers to the number of pieces making up the outer circle - all girs are round. We were in a 4-wall ger which was roughly 17 feet in diameter, 5 feet high at the outer wall and 7.5 feet high in the center. Gers are surprisingly roomy and can apparently be completely broken down and packed up in 20 minutes by 2 people.

That night we had a delicious dinner of dumplings in milk tea and went took one last trip out to the bathroom before bed.

We’ve generally done a good job of picking our cold weather gear, so we thought we would be well suited to handle the temperatures in Mongolia. Our sleeping bags are rated to -7°C/20°F, and we have a silk sleep sheet to add another 10 or 15 degrees of warmth. On top of that, as we slid into the bags I was wearing my long underwear, fleece pants and long-sleeve wool shirt.

Our hosts were very polite and welcoming, but they couldn’t help but chuckle that day as we had put on all of our jackets, scarves, gloves and hats every time we left the ger. It was probably because of that that Mr. Ghambataar came over to lay 3 additional light blankets and a super-heavy sheepskin coat on top of us once we had laid down. I was sure I was going to be too hot, but amazingly the result was that we were perfectly toasty all night. We have mummy-style bags that can zip closed so that there’s only a small 2″ by 4″ opening left in the bag to breathe through. It was so cold in the ger once the fire went out that Anjel and I woke up to find that we had both put a jacket over that opening to block it; the air that we felt coming through was like ice.

The next morning began with milk tea and a hearty dumpling breakfast. After taking care of a few things around camp (and a final cup of milk tea before we left) we bundled up and headed out to the car. Our destination was a nearby Buddhist monastery. The trip to the monastery was actually supposed to be a very central part of our trip to the steppe. The plan was to head to the monastery on the day we arrived to meet the head monk and receive a brief tour. We would then return the next morning to spend the entire day there – seeing what day-to-day life was like, eating lunch with the monks and including time for reflection or meditation.

We were more than a little upset with the tour company when we found that things weren’t going to work out like that at all. The tour information said that our host family’s campsite was only 2 kilometers from the monastery – which it is.  In summer.

In winter, the family’s campsite is over 15 kilometers away – a good 3 or 4 hour walk and not something to casually undertake in sub-zero temperatures. It was also too cold for us to ride horses so our host was generous enough to drive us there. We were thankful to get to see the monastery, but felt terrible that he had to take time away from his other tasks for the day to take us.

Nonetheless once we arrived the monastery was amazing. A small walled set of buildings surrounded by snow-covered hills. The temples were gorgeous and climbing up the hill behind the monastery resulted in some amazing vistas.

Of course this portion of the trip also didn’t turn out exactly as we expected. We happened to arrive on a special Holy Day, and as a result, there wasn’t the normal schedule of daily life around the temples. Second, and amusingly, it was mostly a school for young monks. So while we had imagined sitting in on prayers and chanting and having a quiet afternoon of meditation and reflection, what we got instead was about 30 minutes of watching young monks (mostly between about 5 and 15 years old) fidgeting their way through prayers.

If it sounds like we were disappointed… we were. However, got over it pretty quickly. It was turning out that the tour we had booked and the experiences we had hoped to have were not exactly working out – but that’s often the way things are in places like this. Things were the way they were, and there wasn’t much we could do about it, so we refocused on what we were enjoying – which was getting to spend a lot more time getting to know our host family. We played cards with them, teaching them Kings in the Corner, while they taught us the game we’ve dubbed Khanquest and some ankle bone games. We helped clean out the sheep pen, which was hard work, but amusing. We drank vodka and showed them pictures of our family while they showed us pictures of theirs.

If anything, we took away a huge desire to return in the summer. It was amazing to visit in the dead of winter and we had some idea of what we were getting into traveling through Siberia in winter. It’s not commonly done which is one of the things that really attracted us to the idea and having done it, we don’t regret it, but I don’t think we would do it again. Amazing as it was, there really were significant limitations to what we could (or wanted) to do. Also, I would strongly suggest having a translator with you if possible. We had one as part of our tour and our experience would not have been the same without the ability to talk, joke and share stories with the people we met.

Our hosts were kind and generous, chuckling while we put on layer-upon-layer of clothing whenever we left the ger (while they practically went out in short sleeves) but covering us with extra blankets to make sure were were warm at night. We got to see the typically stern-faced Mr. Ghambataar turning into a cooing softie whenever his 1-year-old granddaughter was brought over from the ger where his son and daugher-in-law lived 20 feet away and his wife would spend hours preparing meals – making dough, tending the fire and offering us bowl upon bowl of milk tea.

Mongolia really was worlds apart from what we were used but it was hard not to feel at home while we were there.  It is definitely on the list as a return-to destination; though definitely in summer and definitely with a pair of dirt bikes for exploring the countryside.