The walrus boss

(Please back date to 2/19/13)

I left the lodge around noon yesterday. Natasha had actually left the night before because she had some matter to attend to in the city in the morning leaving the three of us, I and the two Germans, Ronny and Henrik, to ourselves. The three of us had slept in, made breakfast and drank some coffee. Then Ronny and Henrik rented the two ice bikes and headed off to the lake. I slowly packed up my things and walked down the village road to the bus stop. It was the clearest, sunniest of my days in the village and, walking towards the shore, I could see very clearly to the other side of the lake where large, snow covered mountains loomed. I hopped a minibus and made my way back to the city.

Jane was there again. She helped me in and I collected the things that I had left behind in the hostel and then I ran out to do some quick errands before heading to the train station. I was pretty productive. I found an outlet adapter for my computer (although it doesn’t work really well - I might have to find another one), picked up a Russian SIM card for my old Chinese cell phone, and bought some food for the train. I said one last goodbye to Jane and then walked my way back over the bridge to the train station.

I ran into Sean and Karen (the Aussie couple traveling the world - today marked their 200th day on the road) there in the waiting hall. They were hopping the same train as me. But I only had confirmation pages for my tickets so I had to swap them for actual tickets at the ticket office. After waiting behind several lines in order for me to talk to a station worker, I decided to have a go of it myself at the self serve kiosks. In China, the lines for tickets at the train stations are daunting. Disorderly lines of dozens of people, all trying to cut each other and shove to the front, fill the ticket booths. But the station workers are so used to such scenes, that each person is taken care of in a matter of seconds, few words ever need be exchanged. But here at the Irkutsk ticket office, each line had only one or two people in it but I sat in several of them for over twenty minutes and still the people being helped were not finished. I couldn’t tell what was taking so long. The self serve kiosks were annoyingly easy to use. I collected each ticket from here to Moscow in a grand total of 2 minutes (totaling 4 confirmation pages and 4 tickets to process). Good to know.

Irkutsk Station

Platform one where my train awaits

My train, No.349, on the Blagovyeshchyensk-Moscow line

Our train pulled into platform one, and the three of us hopped into car 8. This was the first time I had actually traveled in a train full of Russian people. The last two trains along the Trans-Siberian line have been filled with Mongolians. So at first we seemed to blend into the crowd. But it didn’t take long for the others to notice there were foreigners in their midst as soon as we began to talk in English in the passageway. From that moment on we were the token foreigners on the train.

This train was set up exactly like the others I had taken (but this one looked a little older). I found my compartment and, walking in, the first thing I noticed was this walrus of a man sitting on the lower left bunk. He had a bald head, small squinty blue eyes, a big lower lip, and a belly as round as he was tall. This was one big guy. He started to say something to me in Russian to which I replied, “Izvenitye, ya yesho nye govoru pa-ruski,” which means, “sorry, I can’t speak much Russian yet.” He paused and then continued to tell me in Russian where my bed was (lower right, right next to his) and how to hang my coat on the hangers near the door. And then he waddled his way to the back portion of his bed and leaned back against the wall, exhaling loudly.

A short, very thin Russian guy, maybe early twenties, with blond hair and wearing a typical Russian military undershirt (wide neck, blue and white horizontal stripes) darted in from around the corner and introduced himself as Rosen saying, “Me...Rosen....you?...” pointing at me expecting me to say my name which I did. He was very drunk, the smell of beer emanating from his body. His head swayed when he spoke and talked in very good, caveman English saying other basic things like, “You....go. You.....go......where?” Krasnoyarsk, I said. “You.....go.....Krasnoyarsk. I.....go......Krasnoyarsk. Bye bye Krasnoyarsk,” calling me Krasnoyarsk. The walrus watched us as Rosen ducked out of the compartment and away. I had some time now to unpack my things a bit, stow my luggage away under the bed, and lay out some food that I had brought for dinner. I had a loaf of bread, spread cheese, and small packaged sausages. I started to rip off bits of the loaf when the walrus took from his pocket a massive, very weighty knife. I said, “spacebo” and began to cut the loaf into slices.

My nice spread was nothing in comparison to the meal the walrus was sharing with his and my compartment mates. He had laid out newspaper to cover the small table and unwrapped three, big dried fish, all their fish parts intact. Then he took out a tupperware container of sausage cut in slices and plemeni, homemade Russian potato dumplings. He began to chow down.

Towards the end of the meal another Russian man, tall and thin, with a very thick black mustache, also wearing a Russian military undershirt, sat down and began talking to the walrus. He said something to him, tapped him on the shoulder and began to laugh. The walrus just wheezed. Then the man turned to me and asked, “kak vas selvut” (what is your name). I told him, “Minya selvut Stephen.” He told me his name was Sergei. When he talked, a large vein sprung up from out of his thin neck. He had a long, thin face and a big grin. He looked a lot like Daniel Day Lewis’s character in Gangs of New York (a rather frightening character, actually). We tried to communicate over various topics and every once in a while he would lean into me while speaking, pause, and then say, “humor”, while grinning wide and tracing his grin with his fingers. He was probably kidding around with me through most of our conversation but I don’t have the linguistic skill to pick these things up. The walrus and Rosen were enjoying themselves though. Sergei congratulated me on my choice of beer, “vosem (8) percent, very good!” Then he looked at Rosen, pointed at him and cocked his head in a weird way, then looked back at me, pointing to his head and flicked his finger up and away indicating that Rosen was drunk. “Humor,” he said. After about an hour of such conversation and making fun of Rosen’s worsening English skills, Sergei began to tell me that he was a soldier (a Ranger he called it) in the Russian army and had fought in Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation in a city called Jelalibad. He was proud of it, clearly, by his serious expression, and the other cabin mates got quiet too. I turned to Rosen, looking at his shirt and asked if he was a soldier too. “No, no, no, no, no...” he said quickly, as if embarrassed to have appeared to have been a soldier like Sergei. Then Sergei asked me if I smoke by gesturing his pack of cigarettes towards me. I said no and then he said, “Good!” while making a hand gesture of a cigarette, putting to his throat, then lifting it, made an exaggerated smoker’s cough and then burst into laughter while tapping the walrus on the shoulder. He started to leave and then turned to me, pointed at the walrus and said, “Boss.” Rosen nodded in agreement and then both Rosen and Sergei left. It was only then that I noticed that walrus had some interesting tattoos in Russian above his hands and that he was missing a thumb. The boss looked at me with his big lower lip covering his upper lip, then rolled over and started to sleep.

I was wiped out from the earlier conversation so I too rolled over and tried to sleep. But I couldn’t. In fact, I couldn’t sleep for most of the night. The boss was so big, that as he slept, his snoring was so loud that it kept me awake. But it wasn’t really snoring. It was an epic battle for his unconscious, sleeping body just to keep him alive. It sounded like he was drowning. And the volume changed in waves. He would snore quietly for a few seconds then he would briefly go silent, and then he would let out three, very loud groans, more like shouts, and sometimes the shouts were in Russian words. It was very creepy for me. I was sleeping only two feet away beside him in the adjacent bed. And every time I opened my eyes, all I could see was his huge belly, spilling out from under his shirt, over the side of the bed, towards me. If I tried to get up and use the bathroom, I had to be extra careful not to brush up against his exposed belly. It was a long night.

The walrus boss left early the next morning leaving me, Rosen, and another more quiet Russian guy with a fading CCCP tattoo on his left shoulder who stayed up late reading a Russian sci-fi book. I slept in as long as possible to make up for the lost sleep the night before, and the rest of the train ride was relatively uneventful. Rosen slept away his hangover.

We pulled into Krasnoyarsk around noon and I wandered up to the cheapest hotel I could find (I only recently found out that there is one hostel in the city - I’m moving there in the morning). The hotel I’m in now is similar to the digs I had in Jiayuguan - “no toilet, no duche,” as the Russian lady behind the counter described it to me. The hotel is called Hotel Sever and is a very traditional, old Soviet style hotel with high wooden paneling and little charm. I haven’t had much time to explore the hotel yet and I only briefly walked around the city, but it seems like an agreeable place so far. The highlights, so I’ve read, are the local ski resort where I hope to do a day of snowboarding, and the local nature reserve, a protected section of forest just south of the huge Yenesei River in the south part of the city.

And tonight I’m headed to a cafe that advertises wifi. I haven’t been able to post in a long time - hopefully you will be able to read this shorty!

The lake

(Please back date to 2/17/13)

The eco-lodge I stayed at in Listvyanka, on Lake Baikal

I woke up this morning feeling more refreshed, more relaxed than I have throughout my entire trip so far. I awoke in a comfortable bed within a cabin retreat deep in the Siberian taiga, deep in the forest, a few kilometers in the hills from the shores of Lake Baikal. I’m staying at what is advertised, and correctly so, as an eco lodge connected with the hostel I stayed at in Irkutsk. You can’t imagine a more serene, peaceful location. I think perhaps its seclusion and location outside the city (and away from the main train station along the Trans-Siberian) discourages visitors in the wintertime. I and an English woman from Newcastle, Sarah, were the only occupants. So we each had a small dormitory room to ourselves. When we said good night last night and turned off the lights, there was absolute silence. Lovely.
I left the hostel in Irkutsk fairly early, left some things behind (like my big bag and some much, much needed laundry - Jane helped me out with that), and set off for the minibus that runs hourly from the main market in the city to about an hour’s distance along the river to a small resort village called Listvyanka on the southern shores of Lake Baikal. Lake Baikal is the largest freshwater lake in the world and its water is so clean that (when unfrozen) you can drink the water straight from the lake. The lake is shaped like a banana where the long stretch runs north to south. During summer, you can go swimming and look beneath you down to 40 meters clearly and see fish, the bottom, whatever. 40 meters! And in winter, the entire lake freezes over, the ice at least one meter thick. They build a temporary highway that cars can use to drive across the lake and access tiny Siberian villages that are normally only accessible by boat. Even when the lake freezes over, the ice is so clear that you can see right through, maybe 10 meters or so. This is an incredible place.

A shoreline view from the ice of Lake Baikal

After a wild, suicidal drive down the snowy forest highway, my life in the hands of a very large Russian man, to the lake from the city, I hopped off at the last stop on the one main road in Listvyanka, and walked inland in between two small mountains up a small village road overrun with big, local, and angry, Siberian dogs. Walking quickly and without making eye contact, I walked the kilometer up the snowy road to the lodge deep in the trees. I walked with Jack, the owner of this and the hostel in the city, a Russian and great guy from Irkutsk who speaks perfect English. He was taking a couple of days off to spend with friends in the village, but was walking with me up to the lodge first. He introduced me to Natasha, a Russian woman, originally from Irkutsk, who has lived the last 12 years in Auckland, New Zealand but has returned home for a while to take care of family. She is a life coach and yoga instructor by trade in the land of the kiwis, and naturally her English was perfect. We chatted awhile and eventually Sarah, the English woman, checked in as well.

I wanted to spend my first day absorbing the atmosphere of the village, exploring the main street, and walking out onto the ice. I walked down the main street first. The village gets busy with Russian tourists who want to see the lake and try their hand at some winter activities. Their is a small section of the lake, near the main road, that is reserved for such activities. Snowmobiling on the lake, walking around an ice sculpture garden, ice skating, etc. are all possible. This area was lively and good for people watching. There was an outdoor market, small, with stalls that sold smoked omul, a local fish from the lake. I read about this fish before I arrived. It’s famous for the region. I walked up to a round Russian lady behind a counter of smoked fish and in my best Russian said, “odin omul, prazhalsta” or one fish, please. She obliged, taking humor in my butchered pronunciation (but I was happy she understood me - improvement!). I was handed an entire fish, splayed from its belly in two halves connected along the spine, kept splayed by toothpicks. I walked down to the lake, sat on a bench, and munched away as if it was a large turkey leg, carefully avoiding bones and eyes and weird fish stuff.

Smoked omul, famous in Listvyanka

Boats frozen into the lake for the winter

The village has some points of interest on its own: boats frozen into the lake, abandoned factory buildings graffitied in impressive artistic detail, I think there’s a museum but I skipped it. I walked out onto the lake. This was a surreal experience. Imagine being shrunk down to microscopic size and then dropped on top of an ice cube. A massive, crystal clear ice cube. The lake is like this. It is windy and it snows a lot here, so the wind kicks up the snow into small dunes leaving most of the ice visible. There are cracks, humongous, three dimensional cracks that are a result of shifting temperatures (always below freezing so not dangerous) that relieve and build up pressure along fozen points of the surface. In a quiet location, you can hear the thunderous pops of cracking ice in the distance. But these cracks don’t expose the water. They just create giant lightning bolts across and down into the meter thick ice that create these incredible, chaotic patterns. I walked north for a few hours along the shoreline consisting of steep cliffs, evergreens, and taiga, and no people or buildings. This was the Siberian experience I was hoping to receive.

A view of my feet standing on the clear ice of Lake Baikal

I bought some things at the local shop and walked back into the small valley to the lodge. I stayed up late in conversation with Sarah and Natasha, sharing stories and experiences. Sarah cooked us a dinner of local potato dumplings, stewed tomatoes, and green peas. I love free food. I had a couple local beers (not great but better than China’s). There is no wifi, no cell phone service, and no possible distractions. It was nice to escape the city and end the night in conversation.

This led to my deep, peaceful sleep and my fresh start to this morning. Today was Siberian adventure day. There are loads of winter activities here. Some are unique because of the lake. You can go snowmobiling on the lake or in the taiga, mess around with the Russian tourists in the festivities area (where Russian techno pop blares from speakers - Russians listen to this stuff all day long, mornings included, and often are accompanied by very, very sexy music videos. It’s like a club atmosphere everywhere you turn), or go cross country skiing in the back country, stuff like that. But I wanted to go dog sledding through the taiga and ice cycling on the lake. I rented the bike from Jack early in the morning. It is a serious mountain bike with tires outfitted with small spikes that are designed to grip the ice. And I had a reservation with Sarah to go dog sledding in the early afternoon. So after a pleasant morning and some good coffee, I took the bike out onto the lake. It was very cool. The bike did indeed grip the ice (but was still a little slippery - pure, unadulterated ice is very slippery) and I spent an hour or two having a go at the bike and taking some clever photos and film clips. I was planning a longer trek up to a small village about 15 kilometers up the coastline later that afternoon.

But then I met Sarah for dogsledding. If there is one thing you should experience if you ever find yourself in the Arctic tundra, it is dogsledding. The place we found is a small farm, deep in another valley up from the village, that is home to over 40 beautiful dogs most of which are from Alaska or Finland (because they are smaller and faster I was told). Sarah and I walked up to the farm to dozens of super excited, yelping dogs. We were led into the farmhouse by a few young Russians and outfitted in a special suit to keep us warm. We were then led out to the dogs as they were being prepared, prepped with harnesses, and attached to a small sleigh. Each of us had our own sleigh and our own dogs. Each sleigh had a bucket seat in front where the guide sat (so he could properly control the dogs, make sure they were headed in the right direction, etc.), and two skis in the back where I stood and could control the direction of the sleigh. We were briefly instructed with body language from a large Russian man with a thick, black mustache how to control the sleigh, and quickly afterwards we were off. The dogs wanted nothing more than to sprint away, down the snowy trail into the forest, and when allowed, they snapped off and jolted the sleigh to a start. And they were fast! We did a 10 kilometer trail through thick forest deep in the valley, my Russian guide shouting Russian words to the dogs which clearly understood him. I took some photos and videos, trying not to be flung from my sleigh. It started snowing about halfway into the 45 minute adventure and it was cold. But it was one of the coolest things I have ever done. Our two sleighs pulled back into the farm, we said our, “spaceba!”, and were off, beaming with childish excitement.

Dog sledding through the Taiga outside Lake Baikal

My ice bike on Lake Baikal

We ate a Russian lunch at a nearby cafe, mine a soup of dumplings and hers an omul soup, we parted ways, and I hopped back onto the bike. I immediately headed for the the ice. After about 10 minutes of cycling I took a turn a little too sharply and the ice, unforgiving in its beauty, threw me from my bike and I took a bad blow to my left shoulder. I’m pretty sure it’s not broken because I can still move it, but it hurts like hell. I can just tell it will take a while to heal and will be far more sore tomorrow. After that, I was more cautious in my subtle turns along the slick ice. I cycled for a little under an hour north along the shoreline when I ran into Jack. He was cycling too and was just returning from the village in the north. He told me that at least once a week he comes out to Listvyanka to do this route (about 4 hours down and back) and is trying to build up his fitness to do a longer trip further north up the lake (which involves camping out on the lake overnight, pretty cool). I began to drink some water when he said to me, “Nyet, not a good idea. Eet will lower your body temperature. Dreenk this.” He handed me hot tea from a thermos. I was glad for the advice. He also shared with me an adventure that he helped coordinate for a couple of German guys a couple of days ago (a plan that he thought was crazy) in which he drove them to the very northern edge of the lake, several hundred kilometers north of Listvyanka, supplied them with some superb gear, and planned to pick them up (hopefully, he said with a shrug) two weeks later at the southern shore. Apparently, they had raised money to walk (and at times cross country ski and parachuting(?)) and camp out each night on the ice, dragging a sled of supplies with them. The money was raised as a collection for an immigration system through an organization they worked for to support a community known as “the driest place on earth” in Kenya. Pretty neat, but a little crazy.

I bid farewell to Jack and continued cycling. The ice changes depending on which portion of the lake you are traveling. Some is rough, some is covered in snow, some is crystal clear (and slippery) so the terrain was challenging. Keeping your balance and plowing through snow required a lot of energy. I passed by some cross country skiers and a guy with his van ice fishing. And the sun was setting. I made it within sight of the village but, still several kilometers away, I turned back. I was really tired. Cycling back was beautiful, with the setting sun to light the way ahead of me, but agonizingly exhausting. I guess I haven’t exercised in a while (it’s hard to do on the road) and the way back was slow going with the wind coming at me. I did make it back though before the sun dropped below the mountains. I stopped at the little market to buy some things for dinner and breakfast and walked the bike up the snowy village road to the lodge.

Jack helped me out with this photo

Can you read the ice?

I’m typing this with my eyes half closed and my shoulder deeply sore, but these last few days have been the best so far of my entire trip. Siberia is a weird place. Unimaginably beautiful here at the lake and in the taiga, and the city of Irkutsk is full of history (mostly for its exiles and the Decembrists) and of course is full of hardened Russians who are certainly interesting people to meet and observe. There is not a place around with a culture like this (and I’ve never seen a place with so many beautiful, high-heel-in-the-snow-wearing girls - they are dedicated).

I’ll get another good rest tonight and sleep in tomorrow and slowly make my way back to the city. My train leaves tomorrow evening so I have plenty of time. I still want to get a Russian SIM for my phone and look for a power converter for this computer (the only way I am writing this now is because I was able to borrow a charger from a German here at the lodge (he just arrived)).

Next stop: Krasnoyarsk.

Mongolian vodka

(Please back date to 2/15/13)

A distant view of the bridge over the Angara River

As the title of the post implies, my evening last night consisted of my first real taste of Siberian hospitality. My Mongolian compartment mates and my two Aussie companions, Sean and Karen, destroyed two bottles of Arkhi, authentic (and quite good) Mongolian vodka. As you can well imagine, train rides through this part of the world are long and nothing passes the time like a good drink. The tradition on these trains is of sharing with your buddies, and oh did they share. Once the vodka started flowing, so did the conversation, a mix of English, Mongolian, and hand gestures. The Mongolians were students in grad school in Irkutsk. I don’t remember their names (they were authentically Mongolian sounding, rest assured) but I do remember, through our vodka induced conversation, that the guy, 26, was studying architectural engineering and the girl, 25, was studying medicine, and both planned to use their studies to get jobs and help develop UB.

But I (well, all five of us) drank too much. When we pulled into the station at half past 6 in the AM, I was still sleeping and so were my two Mongolian friends. Our provodnista had to come knocking on our doors to get us moving. Dizzily, I gathered my belongings and stumbled off the train to the frigid Siberian air on the platform in Irkutsk. Russia! I’m here.
I was bundled up quite nicely apart from my very exposed face so the walk from the hostel made me forget all about my hangover. I knew where I was going. I had researched ahead of time how to get to the hostel in the middle of the city about 3 km away. But getting there required that I cross a bridge over the large, beautiful, and frigid Angara River, the river that flows west from the bottom of Lake Baikal. And it was 6:30 in the morning. By the time I got to the bridge the sun was just rising above the horizon over the river, the sky lit in purple and orange, and the moment I stepped onto the bridge I was immediately hit in the face with a wall of real, Siberian wind blowing in from the river. My body was fine (I bought some boots in Mongolia, my toes are now happy), but my face had never experienced something so naturally offensive. My nose was dripping, the steam from my breath collected on the pathetic excuse I have for a beard and froze in droplets, my eyes were tearing. But the river, through my tears, was remarkably beautiful. The river never freezes despite the temperature because it flows so quickly and in such volume. But huge pieces of ice, broken from the lake which does freeze upstream, flow along the surface of the river. It looks magical. But it was hard to appreciate the beauty of the scene, the sunrise, the ice in the powerful river, when you’re being hit with thirty knots of Siberian wind.

I did make it however. The hostel was easy to find. It is set in the downtown area of Irkutsk on Lenin Street (obviously) and I was greeted by a very friendly Russian girl with very good, accented English and was easily set up for the day.

I decided to spend the first day just walking around, seeing the sights of the city. I had my guidebook which helped me locate some beautiful churches, some museums, and a few statues (Russians love their statues). One of the more interesting places I visited was the Volkonsky House Museum, a large 19th century mansion near the center, constructed for a bougeios member of the original Decembrists, activists during the Tsar period, committed to exile in the Siberian far east. The house was really cool and the staff had done an excellent job maintaining the original house as it was back then. The Decembrist (and more famously, his wife that followed him into exile) threw elegant parties for the city’s VIPs and was very important within the developing city. There was loads of information about the history of the family members, the Decembrists, and the city in English. But I was the only visitor that day and the old women who make up the small staff of the museum were very excited I was there. They very quickly found out that I don’t speak any Russian and I very quickly figured out that they don’t speak any English. So it was odd when in each room I visited I was followed very closely by a small, eager, Russian babushka with reading glasses who supplemented my reading with loads of information in Russian. She didn’t care that I didn’t speak Russian. As long as I nodded in attention and interjected with things like, “Oh?” and ”Mm hmm” and “OK”, she was quite satisfied.

The main hall of the Raising of the Cross Church in Irkutsk

I visited a few other small museums and statues but mostly I got a feel for the city. I had been to Russia before. My ship (when I worked in the Navy) pulled into Vladivostok, a coastal city on the Pacific, near Japan, for a week so I got a sample of Russian culture there, but I was again reminded of how unique and interesting the people are in this country. Russians can’t speak English as a whole. That’s not unique but it is for a country of Caucasians. The women are stunning and wear fur and high heels - all of them. The people are mostly unfriendly and can be off putting (not all the time though as I am finding) but aren’t off putting if you engage them. In fact they are quite friendly and are very willing to help if asked. The city itself is unique, even as a Siberian city. Most buildings, houses, structures that date to the city’s founding in the mid-18th century are made of wood with very intricate patterns carved into the edges and siding. They are all unique. The houses are mostly plain colored, brown usually, but the edges and doors are painted vibrant colors. And most of these houses are the originals (except for a large portion of the city that was ravaged by a fire in the late 19th century) and are partly sunken below the surface of the ground. A lot of the houses are crooked or slanted with corners of the structures partly submerged into the earth. An interesting sight.

Irkutsk is famous for its Siberian style of wooden architecture, some of it sinking into the ground

The highlight of the day though was my visit to the orthodox Bogoyavlensky Cathedral. It was late in the day and I was very tired and wanted to return to the hostel for a rest (my hangover was gone but I was still pretty exhausted from last night). I almost skipped it but decided at the last minute to duck in. When I first walked through the heavy wooden doors I was greeted with sweet, Russian choir music. A quartet of singers were rehearsing presumably for the weekend’s services. And they were so remarkably talented. The music hung in the air of the cathedral as I wandered around admiring the very beautiful paintings along every inch of wall and ceiling as well as the skillfully crafted statues of saints and the Holy Mother. Orthodox churches (apparently, from my noticing) are partitioned into various rooms with one a bit larger than the others. There is a pulpit but no pews, just a large standing area. Churchgoers were constantly coming in and out, genuflecting and praying in front of various statues and paintings, lighting candles. I walked slowly around the church, taking in the artwork, and then I stood in the back, observing the churchgoers in prayer and listening to the choir. It was a very peaceful end to a very busy day. I returned to the hostel in a very good mood.

The one hostel employee, Jane, is a local girl from Irkutsk and we stayed up late chatting in the common kitchen area. She invited some of her friends over and we, plus a German traveler, talked about a range of topics from politics (all Russians love this topic) to languages (Jane is fluent in Russian, English, and German) to travels. We shared a few beers (I opted out, I needed a break), and then the conversation moved to travel in Irkutsk. They were thrilled that we, me and the German, Ronny, wanted to spend some time in Irkutsk and see Lake Baikal and were disappointed that we intended to stay only for a few days. I get the feeling that Siberian Russians are fiercely proud of their home regions but are surprised that people want to visit. Irkutsk though, has gone a long way recently to encourage tourists to come. They said the city has recently spruced up its infrastructure and museums in an effort to attract visitors. I think its location along the famous railway and its proximity to the lake is enough attract travelers (like me). But these girls want people someday to come for the region and the people as well. I think they probably will.

So, my first day in Russia was a good one. Tomorrow, I’m on a bus to Listvyanka, a village on the shores of Lake Baikal, the largest freshwater lake in the world. It’s going to be good!

K263, Russia!

(Please back date to 2/14/13)


Happy Valentine’s Day! I walked from the hostel with my luggage (a large, black, North Face duffel bag that I can wear as a backpack, and a small black backpack that I use for my camera, and a Swedish blue and yellow Ikea shopping bag embroidered with the Chinese symbol for new year that I use to keep my train stuffs in: food, wetknaps, vitamins, coffee, etc.) to Sasher’s for one last meal of Russian goulash and a pint of Chinggis Khan Beer and to buy a loaf of bread for the train ride. This is the one train leg of the Trans-Siberian that has no dining car so 36 hours of food must be brought along with you.

Then I walked the 3km from Sasher’s to the train station (or воксал, voksal, a word appropriated into Russian after the famous Vauxhall Station in London) where I met up with another two Aussie travelers I had met the last night at the hostel. Shaun and Karen, a couple from Brisbane, had just gotten into UB after a week long adventure through Tajilk NP by dogsled. They had been traveling the world for over two years after selling off some decent property investments in Australia. The three of us sat down and rested, waiting for the train in a small cafeteria-style restaurant in the station waiting hall. We ate a few Mongolian meat pies while at the next table over, a very drunk Mongolian man made gestures at Shaun with his hands, swaying in his seat, to indicate something like, “you, me, outside, let’s fight, eh?” Shaun is a big Aussie and just shook his head to indicate that he didn’t want to and then went back to eating dumplings. The drunken Mongolian also looked in my direction and I politely declined the offer.

Ulaanbaatar - Irkutsk

We hopped the train thirty minutes or so before departure. This train is a little older looking than the last train I took out of Beijing: no imbedded television monitors, no electrical outlets, no automatic samovar (just a steam kettle - but it works) and no compartment to myself. My cabin mates are two Mongolian guys in their twenties, transporting boxes of Mongolian goods to Irkutsk. They have a case of Arkhi, Mongolian vodka, and various boxes of Mongolian dry goods. They don’t speak English so conversation isn’t really happening. But in any case it was late and we all slept pretty quickly.

The train rolled to a stop around 5AM, in a small station near the Russian border called Suche Bator and we sat here at this station until about 11AM. I woke up around 7 and, realizing the train had stopped, understood that the doors to the bathroom would be locked. I put on my coat and hat, and stepped off the train onto the platform. The light was just coming up over the snowy hills and I looked around the deserted station and then back at the train. It was just my car, isolated, sitting on the tracks by itself without any other cars, or an engine, nearby. You could see the steam bellowing from the stack above the door. Puzzled, I walked to the bathroom on the platform and brushed my teeth. I came back to the platform and found other puzzled passengers (foreign ones) looking around as well as if to say, “Where did the rest of our train go?” I took some photos and then went back aboard and patiently waited in the warmth of my cabin.

Our lonely train car

Around 10, an immigration officer came aboard to collect our passports and customs papers while the three of us stepped out of our cabins so that another official, in camouflage, could take a look around. This one was more thorough but all was well. We got our passports back thirty minutes later, reconnected with an engine car, and rolled out of the station steaming towards Russia. We’re north of the Mongolian Steppe now. No more flat, rolling grasslands. We’ve entered the very southern portion of the Siberian Taiga, the largest evergreen forest in the world. Plains are slowly giving way to hills and frozen lakes, lined with huge, beautiful pine trees.

We eventually rolled across the border and slowed to a stop in a place called Naushki, another border station. Our car was again jolted into isolation and an entourage of military members came aboard and asked, in Russian, for everyone to return and remain in their compartments, and one by one they checked passports. In my compartment, third from the front, I was first approached by a Russian man in a police uniform donning a fur hat, Russian style. He asked the others if they were Mongolian, they said they were, then he asked me for my passport. He looked at me with a humorless expression, eyelids half covering his eyes, and flipped through each page repeating with a thick Russian accent, “veeza, veeza, veeza...” slowly trailing off until he found my visa. Satisfied, he moved on. Next, a large blonde woman with heavy blue eye makeup walked into the compartment and collected our passports. One by one she flipped open to the picture page, looked at us and back at the passport, then entered in some information in her digital notepad before stamping and returning it. This is the first time that all of the immigration process was taken care of onboard.

She moved on and a small, mousy woman in military overalls asked us to step out of the compartment while she poked around the seats and hopped up into the upper storage compartments. After a minute of poking around she left and we returned to our seats. Following her was a slow, fat man, a customs officer, who poked his head in and asked the Mongolians (who apparently do speak Russian) some questions. Then he made them open all of their bags and boxes, remove every item they owned while answering very thorough questions. They had to ruin their carefully taped boxes in the process. After he was satisfied with my Mongolian cabin mates, he turned to me, asked to take a look into my food bag, and, quickly satisfied, left to move on to the next cabin. Last to drop in was a man in a blue camouflage uniform with high, black boots, again asked us to step out, and led a dog in to sniff about the compartment. The dog was thorough but he too found nothing. The Russian officer gave us a, “spacebo”, and then we returned once again to our seats. After about another hour or so of this, the immigration officials were finally satisfied with the train car and we were able to get off and walk around the tracks and up to the small station. The Russians were not kidding around.

My compartment aboard K263

Naushki Station, border town in Russia

We first went to use the bathroom. We found the public restroom at the end of the platform and between the entrances to the men’s and women’s sides was a small office with a sliding window where a plump, Russian woman sat waiting to collect money. The privilege of using the restroom is worth 10 rubles (or about 30 cents) - 10 more than I had in my pocket. So I and three of the Aussies with me (the original four Aussies from the first train were on this train as well in addition to Shaun and Karen) wandered around the station looking for an ATM. We were directed into a waiting hall filled with soldiers. There was at least a hundred young recruits, probably awaiting a train to take them to some base, or home. They were decked out in uniform fur boots, green pants and jackets, and brown fur hats and each had a large, canvas rucksack. They all stared at us as we walked in towards the ATM. Luckily, we obtained rubles. The Aussies returned to the woman to pay her for the toilet, she smiled and refused them, explaining she couldn’t break the large bills the ATM gave them. I relieved myself behind a train.

We eventually got rolling again. What I hadn’t realized when I booked the tickets for the train is that this leg of the journey goes along one of the most beautiful stretches of Siberian taiga and the banks of Lake Baikal and is generally considered by travelers as the most attractive section of the trip. And we were going to pass all of this through the night. We left the Russian border in late afternoon, it was soon dark, and we won’t pull into the station in Irkutsk until about 7AM. Oh well. You win some, you lose some. Irkutsk tomorrow and then Lake Baikal soon afterward.

Youth of Mongolia, put down your pipes! or Best of UB

Today was my last day in UB. My train tonight leaves at quarter past 9 and so I had plenty of time to wander around the city and see some of the sights that I missed out on yesterday. Much to my delight, most Mongolians are coming back to the city to reopen the shops and restaurants so I basically had my first chance to buy some basic, but necessary items like water, food, boots, etc.
 
I first walked to the southern end of Sukhbaatar Square to first see if the Museum of Political Persecution was open but this one was unfortunately still closed. This little, niche museum is supposed to have some very powerful exhibits that describe the history of the Communist purge of its monks, professors, etc in the 1930's. It acts as a historical account of the actions that were taken and as a memorial to those that died. I didn't expect it to be open though, small museum as it is, but these types of regional museums are by far the most interesting. I was hoping...

But next to the museum was the Choijin Lama Temple, an old Buddhist temple that has been out of service since 1938 but the government spared this one as well as the monastery I saw yesterday in order to turn it into a museum, one that is still run today. The first few structures of the complex aren't too exciting, mainly normal temple gates which lead to the main temple hall that houses a very nice selection of Buddhist statues of various warrior deities. All have angry faces, painted red and blue, riding various animals consisting of dragon heads with lion bodies. The deities are holding staffs and spears and their eyes bulge in rage out of their heads. They line the walls of this hall and surround a more serene, golden statue of the Sakyamuni Buddha - a calm, lotus flower holding Buddha in and amongst raging deities.

But this wasn't the interesting part. Once I circled around to the back portion of the serene Buddha statue, it led me to a hidden back temple hall, smaller and darker, with a collection of the most grotesque and fearsome looking statues and paintings I have ever seen in a Buddhist temple. The center of this room was a large, empty seat made with delicate, patterned cushions, too big for a normal man. The walls were further ringed with warrior deities except these one were less than human looking. Some had skulls for heads with three eye sockets and wearing a crown of smaller skulls and flames rising up through the backs of their spines. Others had multiple heads, painted red, with glaring fangs dancing on the broken bodies of humans. Others had hundred of arms, each holding a different weapon. All of the statues were three times the size of a grown human and all were in some warrior dance pose. Behind them were murals painted along the walls and on the ceilings. All of the scenes depicted humans in various forms of suffering. There were graphic paintings of human heads torn from their bodies, people torn in two, getting stabbed, etc. The entire room was filled with this kind of stuff. It was very intense and very old. The room was poorly lit which added to the effect and every corner of every inch of the room was painted or was filled with statues both large and small. A bit frightening for a child but sort of a hidden gem of a collection of Buddhist art work. This museum is an undersell.

I left the museum and, hungry, found a western cafe called Millie's Cappucino. It looked just like an American diner and had the menu to match. I ordered a tuna sandwich with fries and an apple juice. The small diner was full with huge expats. Just really fat people. Some of them were American, some English, some Australian, all of them speaking English with some sort of accent. I found out later that this was a popular spot with diplomatic folks, being in close proximity to the embassy district, but also western contractors and various other entrepreneurs from the west. It is really quite interesting to see the kind of expat this city draws. Most cities I have been traveling to, if they had an expat crowd, were usually either students, sometimes diplomats as in Beijing, or young professionals working for foreign IT or car companies. UB attracts resource tycoons. Since the country is finally opening up its vast countryside to drills, big men from the English speaking world have moved in. For some Mongolians, this means a lot of money moving in very quickly and now the city, amidst the poverty, has opened Louis Vuitton and Gucci shops. I was at one of the original expat pubs last night, a very swanky Irish pub. The place was packed. Half of the people were the western expats earlier described, but the other half were these nouveau riche Mongolians. There is a pretty interesting and unique effect happening in UB.

I also did some chores. I went food shopping at the local supermarket and picked up some cheese, salami, bread, gherkins, stuff like that for the train ride. I am so happy to be eating like a western person again! I bought some boots, some German made winter boots to keep my toes toasty warm, and I packed up.

I'll quickly share some other interesting points to ponder about UB before signing out for a few days. The taxis are awful here. They aren't labeled and there is no system in place to monitor them (even though they have to "register" with the police first). A couple of days ago Nilika, Anna (the British girl from the orphanage), and I went to take a cab from the the bus station that took us back into town from the village where the orphanage was located to our hostel, and I asked Anna, "how do you know which ones are taxis?" She replied, "They're all taxis." You just kind of hop in whichever car stops for you, the driver restarts the odometer (hopefully), and you are charged an often secret or arbitrary rate based on your mileage. Ours luckily was an honest cabbie.

Another weird thing about UB (and I only read about this), is that there exists an entirely underground community of homeless people during the winter within the cities sewer systems. Apparently, there are little options for the homeless in this city and since it is so cold, sleeping without shelter or a heat source in the night can be lethal. In fact, Mongolia has a problem with deaths in winter due to drunkenness, some people pass out in the street and freeze. It's terrible. But I believe that this underground society actually exists because every once in a while I came across an open manhole while walking the streets and, peering down them, it became clear that people have created make-shift ladders that lead down into them. Or some manhole covers are only half covering the manholes themselves - obvious signs.

Lastly, UB is home to much graffiti. Mostly youth, activist graffiti. A lot of this style of graffiti are messages of action, political messages and the like, but a lot of them too are just hilarious messages written in English like, "Don't worry, be happy," or "Piss here (with an arrow pointing to a drain on the sidewalk outside a pub)". My favorite today was, "Youth of Mongolia, put down your pipes! (is it in reference to drugs, weapons, flutes? I don't know).
 
I'll leave you with the best of UB. See you in Russia!

Me and a sleepy Mongolian child at the orphanage

Hanging out with the older teenage boys at the orphanage

A special meal at the orphanage for the White Moon festival

Children at the orphanage enjoying the festival meal

The Lotus Orphanage outside Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

Village road leading to the Lotus Orphanage

The feet of Buddha, outside the Gandan Khiid monastery

25 meter statue of the Buddha in Migjid Janraisig Sum, the main hall of the monastery

Sukhbaatar Square, UB city center

Objectify much?

UB has some excellent English language graffiti

Where did Lenin go?

Small correction to yesterday's post: it was not an American diplomat that visited Mongolia ultimately saving Gandan Khiid (the monastery) from destruction, but US Vice President Henry Wallace in 1944 (VP to FDR?).

Today was all about UB. I woke up at a reasonable time and left to go see the famous Gandan Khiid Monastery (or Gandantegchinlen as it is referred to locally), about a 3 km walk from the hostel. As I talked about in yesterday's post, this monastery was saved from destruction in order to use as a diplomatic showpiece and prove to the international community that the Communists of Monoglia hadn't destroyed every last remaining ounce of Buddhist culture in the country. In 1937, much like China's Cultural Revolution, Mongolia, due to the influence of the Communist party, purged itself of religion, executing thousands of monks and burning almost all of its monasteries to the ground. Intellects, poets, academics, all were similarly purged or exiled and although the Communists have been out of power in Mongolia for decades (in fact, many in the international community think Mongolia today is a shining beacon of democracy that the West hopes will rub off on its less than accomodating neighbors), it was only recently that many of these monastaries have been rebuilt. But now, Gandan Khiid is a booming monastery with over 600 resident monks.

The monastery itself is home to a university of Buddhism (like a seminary) and many resident temples where you will find students, all in crimson robes and shaved heads, reading, reciting, and chanting mantras from the sacred sutras. And if you visit the monastery in the morning, some of the temples are left open so you can observe the monks during their lessons.

I got to the monastery around 10 in the morning. Even though most of the city is completely shut down for the new year, the monastery keeps on and there were many pilgrims visiting this morning as well. I think I was the only "tourist" (at least I was the only one charged entrance). The pilgrims come from all over the country to visit the monastery, pray in the temples for prosperity in the new year, and talk to monks who are trained to read their future. I was the only one with a camera.

Migjid Janraisig, the 26 meter tall Buddha in the main hall

I wandered into the main temple first, Migjid Janraisig Sum, a large hall that houses a 26 meter high statue of the Buddha, coated in gold. It is quite a sight. The hall walls are covered by hundreds of miniature statues of Ayush, the Buddha of longetivity. Ususally you are not allowed to take photos in places like this and rightly so, out of respect for the reverent. But before I entered I was charged an entrance ticket (the only fee in the whole monastery - it was small, I was happy to pay it) and there were three options: normal, with camera, and with video recorder. I chose "with camera" and then afterward didn't feel too badly about taking pictures of the Buddha and around the hall. Inside, pilgrims were crowding around the entrance waiting their turn to bow, make an offering, and pray in front of the Buddha. After they prayed, they walked around the temple's outer walls, the walls covered by Ayush, and, walking clockwise, spun the prayer wheels and then exited the temple. I did the same but instead of spinning prayer wheels, I snapped photos.

Temple prayer wheels, spun clockwise

I then moved on to the academic buildings, smaller temples filled with monks. I was lucky enough to observe one room filled with monks in chant. It was a small room ringed by a outer walkway where pilgrims (and I) could circle the temple. In the middle of the room were benches with long, thin tables where monks had books open and were reciting the words they were reading over and over again. They did this individually and it created an inharmonious hum throughout the space. But every once in a while, one monk would chant something loudly, above the other chatter, and then all the monks chanted together with him in unison. It was very peaceful.

I wandered around the grounds of the monastery for a little while longer but soon grew so cold, I could no longer move my fingers. I have thick gloves but I can't wear them and take photos at the same time. I needed to warm up. I walked back to the German cafe and ordered some cream of mushroom soup and some hot lemon water with honey (another excellent meal at this place - go to Sasher's Kaffe if you're ever in UB). I would normally regret not eating at a cheaper, more local place to try and experience some of the local food but considering this is the only place open in the city (besides a few other western cafes), I don't feel too bad. If the Mongolians wanted me to try their mutton and potatoes, they'd be open.

I then moved on to the center of the city, Sukhbaatar Square, named after the man who rose up and proclaimed independence from China, which is home to an iron statue of the man on his horse. It is the city's main square. It is ringed by the Parliament Building to the north, the national museum and Mongolian stock exchange to the west, some shopping malls to the south, and the Ulaanbaatar Hotel to the east. The UB Hotel is the city's original diplomatic hotel where all the VIP's stay. It is a very classy building with stately, Soviet style rooms. In front of the hotel is a statue of Lenin. But when I went there today, the base of the statue was there (it says ленин or Lenin) but Lenin himself was not. He appeared to have been torn away because you could see some of the wires sticking out from the top much like the iconic Saddam Hussein statue in Baghdad. It must have been torn away recently too because as far as this year's edition of Lonely Planet is concerned, he's still there. I wonder where he went?

Lenin statue with no Lenin - in front of the famous UB Hotel

In front of the Parliament Building is a massive, seated statue of Chingis Khan in all of his glory. He is very big and his demeanor demands attention. He's frightening even in statue form.

The mighty Chingis Khan

Then I wandered around Peace Avenue, the main thoroughfare through central UB that (normally) has shops and restaurants and is the most interesting street in the city to walk around. But I again began to freeze and, tired from having walked for hours, decided to go back to the hostel to warm up. But! What I forgot to mention is that before I left this morning, I knocked on the door to the hostel's office one floor below and lo and behold, the manager, Aninda, was present. So I finally got to talk to an employee for the first time and pay for my stay and plan my checkout for tomorrow morning. But before I left she asked me if I could surrender my key because she was expecting another group who planned to stay a long time and she had no more keys left (I didn't ask why she only had three working keys for a hostel that accommodates fifty or so people). My spidey senses said no but I said okay, recalling my first day in front of the hostel with no employees, staring at the doorbell sign with no doorbell. I didn't want to give up my key. But she ensured me someone would be around to let me in if I just knocked. And she was a super friendly Mongolian girl who also helps run an orphanage on the side so I obliged. But, go figure, when I got back from my outing there was not a soul around. I banged on the door and sat on the steps, angry at the world.

Fifteen minutes later, a friendly, old Australian woman found me and let me in. She was staying on the hostel's second floor where the office was located (I had no idea there were rooms down there), and she remembered me from that morning so she let me in on her floor where I could warm up and we chatted awhile. She had just arrived last night and was staying in UB for two months to volunteer in a shelter for kids with special needs. She had traveled much of the world herself, and was at the point of her life where she wanted to start giving back. She was really nice. After talking awhile, I decided to go again and knock on the door and this time my Bangladeshi hostel mate was around to let me in.

So now I'm warming up, collecting my thoughts over some delicious instant coffee. In my wanderings today I found another spot that is open until late this evening called Cafe Amsterdam. Supposedly they make sandwiches and serve beer. I'll be heading that way later on.

Tomorrow is my last day in UB. My train leaves the station around 9 in the evening bound for Russia. I'm very excited.

The orphanage

Yesterday I was told that Mongolia had just started their White Moon Festival, a holiday that lasts several days. The White Moon Festival was established as a way to celebrate the beginning of a new cycle in the lunar calendar, much like the Chinese New Year. But in practice, it is a chance for Mongolians to take time off work and visit family. The first night, last night, is the big feast night celebrated within the home with your immediate family. A huge meal is shared but the staple dish is mutton dumplings. And they make festival cakes made with layered loaves of bread, each layer either signifying happiness or sadness (each cake always has an odd number of layers so that the top and bottom layers are happiness), and the top layer creates a basin filled with candy and other Mongolian sweets (including curd, which I tried today, not bad). You are supposed to touch the bottom of the cake, and take a sweet. The subsequent days of the festival are spent traveling to visit relatives and share a meal of mutton dumplings with them (and lots and lots of Mongolian vodka). The first day is reserved to visit grandparents, the other days to visit the rest of your friends and family members. And this festival is the big one for the year. So every Mongolian treats it seriously and this is why no one works these days (the few days I'm in UB). Everything is closed.

White Moon Festival cake

I figured this out yesterday though. So when I heard my hostel mate, Nilika, was off to see the orphanage that is associated with the hostel, I figured that would be a great day trip and authentic way to see Mongolia and learn about the festival.

I woke up later than I had intended. It was around half past 9, I had just gotten out of the shower when a Mongolian girl burst through the hostel door (remember, there are no staff members here - in fact I still haven't met anyone to whom I can pay for the room...) and went poking around each room of the hostel. Finding only me she asked if I had seen Nilika. I said no, but that she had probably gone for coffee. She looked frustrated and out of breath. She walked out the main door and ran into Nilika on the steps of the apartment building, they exchanged some words, and then left. A few moments later, Nilika found me and said, "Our cab is waiting."

So I quickly got dressed, gathered my things, and hopped in the cab. We drove for about 30 minutes out of the city into the surrounding hill communities. Mongolia looks like the biggest place on the planet which is an odd way to say that. It's just that you can see so far off in every direction and over the horizon you also see these towering, sugar-coated mountains straight out of candyland. There is nothing harsh or jagged about the mountains here, just tall, rising, rounded off hills coated in soft snow, glistening in the sunlight. The plains that stretch to the mountains are so vast they make the country look endless from the ground. And UB as a city is a small, dense pocket of a community located within these plains. You can see the plains sprawl away from the city limits.

The oprhanage is located in a small village in a small valley. Our cab driver had to risk the snow bank as there was little in the way of roads out in the village. But we made it. The orphanage is located on a large plot of land, fenced in, on a low slope that meets the side of a mountain. It is spread over a small collection of buildings, most are dormitories, one kitchen and dining hall, one office/library, and one play/meeting hall. We found a bunch of kids out front sledding on one of the hills near the meeting hall. One woman looked at us and correctly assuming we were visitors and probably looking for Didi, led us into the meeting hall. Didi, an Australian, is the founder of this orphanage and she has been in UB running the place for over 20 years. She has a full time staff of about six employees and several volunteers. The staff is a mix of Mongolians and foreigners, British, French, Dutch, etc.

Didi and her kids

As soon as we walked through the door we were greeted by dozens of screaming Mongolian kids, all of them excited to see us. All of the kids had sticky fingers and dripping noses and were full of energy. The place was lively. I was immediately approached by a 15 year old girl named Buren who taught me some handshakes she knew and showed off some of her taikwando skills. Then a bunch of the boys tackled me, proving to me they knew how to wrestle. Wrestling is the country's national sport. All boys learn to wrestle. The Mongolian spirit is wild and nomadic and they have these very strong, macho personalities. The boys are like bears. They see you and want to tackle you to the ground and then say hello. And they know how. Even these boys, some of them 5 or 6 years old clearly knew how to properly tackle me to the ground and would have if I wasn't 12 times their size. In Mongolian wrestling, there are no weight classes and no time limit and no rules. You just sign up and fight until someone loses. Its beastly and awesome.

So I spent most of the day getting tackled. The kids learn English as a part of their schooling so they could speak some broken English with me (even the really young kids - I was very impressed) and this is thanks to the foreign staff here which come for a few years at a time.

We played with the kids for the rest of the morning and then went to the dining hall to eat. It was a special, festival meal of pasta with potatoes and vegetables and tofu, and vegetarian dumplings. One quirk Didi has is that she is vegetarian and founded the orphanage as a vegetarian one. So the kids are too. The tables were set with each seat being supplied with a plate of pasta, a cup of berry tea, and access to other vegetable dishes. Some of the kids helping out the cooking staff walked around with platters of dumpings and potato salad. And the main table, the one I was sitting at, had the big festival cake I described earlier.

The kids sang a song that had repeating lyrics and they sang the song until everyone was finally sat down and ready to eat. So the song went on awhile. Then we ate. The meal was delicious. Usually, the cooking staff are comprised of full time, adult Mongolians but since this was the festival, Didi gave them the day off to go be with their families. So the meal was prepared entirely by the kids. A few of them were learning to be cooks and so this was their day to show off the skills they had been acquiring from the full time staff. They did an excellent job.

Kids singing a festival song before mealtime

After the meal was finished, we all moved into the play hall where gifts were exchanged. Every kid received one gift, all mailed in from their sponsors. Their sponsors were from all over the world (I saw the list). All the kids received age appropriate gifts: jewelry, remote control cars, puzzles, dolls, etc. One little girl got a kid's doctor kit which was quite popular and all the kids started taking our temperatures and listening to our heart beat. My favorite gift though was given to a 12 year old boy who had earlier told me he loved Michael Jackson and proved it to me by doing the moonwalk. He asked me, "Michael Jackson is from America, right? And he died, right? And his face was black and then it was white, right? I love Michael Jackson", and then giggling, ran away. He must have also shared this with his sponsor because later, when he opened his gift, he found the DVD version of "This is it", Michael Jackson's big production that was cut short due to his untimely death and later turned into a documentary about his final days. I've seen it - it's good. And he guarded this DVD like it was gold - showing everyone his gift and then hugging it close to his heart so that he wouldn't lose it.

I spent the rest of the day playing with the kids. One of the staff workers, Anna, a young girl from Birmingham, England, helped us find the main road that could get us back to UB. We walked through the village, a beautiful place, as the sun was setting over the mountains. The village is made up with sparse homes (of the European style - not Chinese style) and some gers, and a lot of cows roaming about the hills. We went to the main crossroad in the village and waited for the bus to take us back into town. I slept the whole ride into the city.

Village road to the orphanage

Tomorrow I will walk around the city and see what I can. I've heard the monastery is still open (it is an active monastery that is host to a school for monks so it shouldn't be touristy - there is no entrance fee). Most of the Buddhist monasteries (and monks for that matter) were destroyed in the Soviet days in the name of Communism. But this monastery was preserved. Apparently, decades ago, an American diplomat was making a trip to Mongolia during the Communist days and the Mongolian officials asked him what he wanted to see while he was there. The diplomat had never been to Mongolia before and knew little about the culture or its current events. So he said, "Well, how about a monastery?" thinking that that would be a good choice. The government then spared one monastery in order to use it to host this American diplomat and then ever since used it to entertain foreign dignitaries. So, it's in fine shape. There are also some good statues of Chingis Khan I want to find.

I think it is time to sample some Mongolian vodka. Do as the locals do!