Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Ulaan Baatar
Day trip to Mongolia.
Like you do.
Were meant to be having lunch in a ger on the Mongolian steppes.
But.
Due to trackworks on the Mongolian section, the rail timetable means we have to leave Ulaan Baatar at 1350hrs.
So.
Disembarking train at 0800hrs it’s to be a whistle stop tour of the capital.
Instructed to leave all valuables on the train. Told there is extensive pickpocketing in Ulaan Baatar.
WAMC is determined to have his pocket picked for a laugh. So leaves a US$1 note sticking out of his back pocket. I’m determined to nick it for a laugh at the first opportunity but am beaten to this little trick by LC who nicks it. We show Mrs WAMC what we’ve done. Who can’t stop laughing.
Natural History Museum has an excellent display of dinosaur skeletons along with a very interesting display of dinosaur eggs.
Initially prevented from entering the massive expanse of the main Sukhbataar Square due to the Czech President and entourage departing but once allowed through the cordon there’s soon a throng of street hawkers flogging sweets, cigarettes and such like from their manky boxes. One box even has a telephone handset which appears to be a satellite phone judging by the aerial. The square is bounded by the newish looking and large Presidential Palace with statutes of Genghis and Kublai Khan (he being the grandson of Genghis).
Having discovered our dastardly trick, WAMC tries his luck again at being pickpocketed at the Buddhist Gandan Monastery. The sort of place you feel would be the last place to have something stolen from you.
WAMC’s dollar note in his back pocket is stolen inside the monastery, dear reader. Yes, whilst admiring the 26m high golden avalokitesvara (Buddha related) statue the dollar bill disappears. Not very buddhist. I’m sure you’ll agree.
Obligatory song and dance show. You know. For the tourists. But in the most unlikely of settings.
An Irish pub.
Which obviously sells Guinness.
Having worked in Dublin for three years have acquired a taste for a pint of Guinness.
Start the ball rolling. Even though it’s still mid-morning.
Ask local tour guide if I can have a pint of Guinness. Suspect it’s going to be needed. Sitting through an hour’s worth of Mongolian throat warbling.
Guide asks if anyone else would like a pint of Guinness. Which she pronounces as ‘Jinnus’.
Ten hands shoot up. Ten more pints then.
All looking forward to a pint of the black stuff.
The Guinness eventually arrives.
Bugger.
Expectations were so, so high, dear reader.
It’s not Guinness.
No.
It’s Chinggis.
The local lager.
Something got lost in translation, dear reader. Sounds similar. Tastes different.
Concert begins.
With a woman shrieking. Purporting to be singing. You can enjoy the show in the videos below.
This may need more than one pint.
Treated to Mongolian throat warbling.
Another pint for that.
Then.
The contortionist.
All male eyes pop out on stalks.
Not quite sure how old she is or whether it’s legal to be watching someone do things like that with their body.
As someone remarked after, “She rewrote the book on sexual positions.”
Having an hour ‘at leisure’ deposited at a shopping centre for all those souvenirs I’m not buying. Spotting a food shop go in search for a bottle of Jameson’s to replenish depleted stocks in my rucksack. They accept Visa, having no Mongolian cash for the brief few hours we’re here, and given a little card with the product code on. Which has to be taken to the cashier. Once paid, till receipt has to be taken to another counter to get the bottle of Jameson’s in exchange for the till receipt. What. A. Faff.
Whilst waiting for the bus back to the train, a young boy street urchin with dirty clothes and face and a really snotty nose comes up to one of our group begging. Trousers are half way down his bum. The street urchin, not one of our group, I hasten to add. Handed a few coins which he delights in looking at and holding them up to the bright sun. Bloke takes pity on him and gives him his remaining Mongolian notes. Boy can only be five or six. But he’s incredibly happy with the donation and cracks a little smile of recognition of how much money he now has. Relatively speaking.
Train trundles through the Mongolian steppes. Low, rolling pastures. Teletubby Land.
Back to the border.
For another convoluted border crossing.
As there’s no bar car to retire to after dinner, on account of having to leave it in Russia (as Mongolian railways would only allow a certain number of carriages in our train set), a group of us stay in the restaurant car to drink the wine. Waiter relents and leaves the bottles. Rather than being a waiter.
Drinking is curtailed when asked to return to our cabins for border formalities again.
Border officials are less than impressed and definitely not entering into the party spirit as we pass them by with glasses of wine.
Drinking resumes when a shout comes down the corridor from Mr Ex-Army to open my bottle of newly bought Jameson’s.
All of a sudden, the entire carriage congregates at Mr Ex-Army’s cabin. For another impromptu party. Great atmosphere. The Jameson’s is flowing. Flowing until the bottle is finished, dear reader. I only bought it a few hours ago. Was meant to be lasting until Vladivostok.
But. You know.
This is what memories are made of.
Little do I know that this is to be my stag night.
For tomorrow, I get married.
