Parties, Pageants, Hiking in the Bogdkhaan Uul

I’ve had a little trouble getting photographs onto this blog, so for the time being I’ve decided to stick to small file sizes - however, if you want to see any of the pictures in their full glory, and also photos I don’t have room for in the blog, please check out my new Flickr site (also under the Ulaanbaanjo name, there should be a link in the column on the right). Once I figure out the technology I may be able to improve the situation and make it a little more user friendly. And if anyone has any advice, please be encouraged to either leave a comment or send me an email ulaanbaanjo@yahoo.co.uk

Thursday 28th, Friday 29th & Saturday 30th December 2006
Following the party at the Grand Khan, the social whirl has continued: I’ve attended the students’ Christmas/New Year party - much of which was taken up by a beauty pageant style contest judged by the teachers to find a King and Queen of the Prom; I was also given a gift from the students (a giant candy Christmas tree made in China for export to the US, listed ingredients include Titanium Dioxide). I’ve attended the teachers’ Christmas/New Year party, where entertainments included an inevitable contest to find out who the King and Queen of the teachers were (I feel I was let down in this by not wearing a suit, otherwise then my banjo turn would surely have won me a crown); we also had two ballet dancing angels who danced for 2 minutes and posed for photos for 20. We had a traditional singer perform a few songs - the singing style seems to be a fusion of western operatic singing and oriental tones and melodies. At the Grand Khaan we had a woman singing who I’d seen a video of on Mongolian TV a few times - a really powerful singer.

Having learnt the error of my ways since the party on Boxing Day, I sat at the ‘Wine’ table, with the older and calmer teachers rather than at a ‘Vodka’ table, on the understanding that I would so be able to civilly stick to a glass or two from the vine, rather than struggling to keep down distilled grain. Having sat down, a waiter then brought a half dozen beer and two vodka bottles to the table, and a single bottle of cheap red wine. Later in the evening the ‘Vodka’ tables got an additional bottle of quality ‘Chinggis’ vodka - our table got a bottle of real French red. Still, I managed to wilfully refuse all but the most obligatory vodka toasts. As the party wound up our glamorous principal arrived and shortly announced to a cheering audience of inspirited teachers that we had all been invited to the corporation’s employees’ party, which was being held at an expo centre on the far side of town. I gamely attended, danced without being drunk, listened to one of the top young Mongolian rock bands play their hits (they were pretty good), amongst a crowd of wildly enthusiastic photocopier engineers, teachers, waiters and god knows what other lines of business (and I am assured there are many) the corporation is involved in.

Saturday morning, regardless of having avoided the pitfall of drinking copious amounts of vodka, felt I really needed to clear my head. Yet another bright and glorious day, but with a particularly thick and orange morning smog. I left my apartment at 10am, walked across the edge of the centre, past the Ulaanbaatar Hotel and the statue of Lenin out front, and down a long avenue south with little traffic. My map showed this to be an alternative route over the railway and river south in the direction of the mountains to the busy road across the ‘Peace Bridge’ which I had walked on Christmas Day. After crossing over the tracks of the Trans- Mongolian the long straight road continued, through a very quiet area with even less traffic, smart new apartment blocks being built, and the mountains south and east clear and inviting.

The road surface seemed smooth and quite new, and walking almost the only sound was the steady crunch of the powdery snow beneath my boots, the sky here clean and deep blue. Past the last of the construction sites and then a large and fancy looking driving range. Had almost reached the mountains - the road carried on, rising, clearly to bridge the wide river that runs from west to east at the foot of the southern mountains. Strangely, there seemed to be a few obstacles in the road - it occurred to me that although there were no signs to warn of it, the bridge was incomplete. Left the road then and walked down to the wide, frozen river: and indeed, 20 feet above me the bridge continued half way across, and then abruptly stopped, pillars in the middle of the river awaiting the bridge’s completion. Later, I was told that it is not uncommon for unwary and usually unsober drivers to drive off the edge. I didn’t actually see any sign of this, although I’ll have to go back and check out if it’s possible. How long the bridge has been incomplete I don’t know - I do know that for the obvious reason of the deep subzero temperatures, most construction in Mongolia grinds to a halt for the winter months.

Now at the foot of the mountains, headed west up the frozen river. The river must have been frozen entirely solid, but I still trod a little warily. When I’d previously walked to the war memorial (Zaysan Tolgoy) I’d been very drawn to the hills that surrounded it in a horseshoe ridge - presumably a small glacial valley. I was dimly aware that these hills presumably formed part of a very old National Park I remembered reading about. The eastern foot of these hills came down a quarter mile upriver from the unfinished bridge. As I reached that point, I past a large group of fellers, all dressed in the colourful sashed robes, boots and fur hats of nomads, playing a sort of curling/bowls game on the ice with pucks of some sort. It was a very picturesque scene - regrettably my camera was playing up at the time. I left the river and struck off up the hillside.

The hill was quite steep, and the going fairly slippery with slow (yellowed grasses growing through), but I took my time, knowing it would be easier on the ridge, enjoying the warm sunlight and the ghost of green in the grasses above me; pausing frequently to look back down on the game in the ice, and the higher I climbed, looking back in wonder at the city, and the thick dark sea of smog above it: all the time myself breathing wonderful, clean air, and wondering why no one else in a city of a million people would be out here walking on so glorious a day. In Britain it is a very hit or miss thing to go out hill-walking at winter - you have to be very wary of changes in the weather, have precious little daylight to walk in either - the day seems to be darkening as soon as it has begun, and your spirits inevitably harden and darken with it. I don’t know what the air temperature was during yesterday’s climb - it may have been unseasonably warm, but was undoubtedly no more than -8C and could feasibly have been significantly less. With no wind, and the air dry and crisp, I felt a lot warmer and in none of the life-or-death rush to get to the top and down of climbing Snowdon on a wet and windy summer’s day.

After the first small peak, the ridge was easy to follow, and eventually I came across the boot tracks of other walkers. My geology is pretty much non-existent, the hills reminded me of the Lake District, smooth sided, with broken rock showing through. There was practically no litter at all, which seems incredible contrasted with the casual filth and grime of dear old UB. The hills are pristine, feel wild - and always you look back at the colourful, sprawling chaos of Ulaanbaatar - at the power stations belching out smoke to the West, at the crowded tower blocks, cranes and construction sites, at the barely visible northern ger districts rising on the slopes of the northern hills - then the snow covered mountain tops rising like islands from the dark grey sea of smoke above.

Looking down into the basin the ridge surrounded, at it’s lip is the rugged pyramid of rock (I would like to say basalt, except I only have a vague idea of what basalt actually is), topped by the very splendid Zaysan Tolgoy monument, looking not unlike Isengard. Beyond that, too, the golden, shining Buddha statue (according to my city map, the “highest, bronze-plated statue of Buddha” in the world!) and from the gardens, the big bronze bell ringing out intermittently, clear, heavy and deep. There are ger in the little valley, and I watched as a farmer herded his brown sheep and maybe goats from one pasture to another.

I continued along the ridge from small peak to peak, stopping often, looking about and smiling to myself. After a while I met my first other walker - a man in blue robe and orange sash, bearing a large sack of chopped fire wood on his back. He smiled and nodded when, I raised my hand, and continued his laborious way down along the ridge. On the higher slopes there is a large forest - how legal it is to chop down the wood I am not entirely certain. It’s an extensive forest, but I am guessing it wouldn’t feed the stoves of UB’s ger for a week if it was open game.

Eventually I approached an ominous looking battered old sign - some fierce cyrillic words and beneath: PROHIBITED AREA. Oops. It may have referred to the area East of the ridge trail I was following, which was to be my excuse if anyone challenged me over being there. Later, I had a fresh look at my map and my Bradt guide. The National Park south of Ulaanbaatar is called ‘Bogdkhaan Uul’ (or Bogd Khan, or Bogdhan) - ‘uul’ means mountain. It is Mongolia’s oldest protected area - a minister declared it such in 1778. I am yet a bit vague on the details, but the guide refers to both a “Strictly Protected Area” and a “Transition Zone” - so whether I was breaking any rules I am not sure. I have a feeling that the area may not be much policed in the winter, but that I might risk a fine walking it in tourist season. I am reluctant to enquire at the official Bogdkhaan office as I have a pretty strong feeling that they will say that I need a pass whatever - so I think I’ll get Mongolian friends to enquire for me.

I walked up into the timber line. Most of the trees seem to be dead or dormant (as well as not being a geologist, I am not a great expert on flora or fauna, either) - so it was a pleasant surprise to climb one peak and find a tree fresh and green. I don’t know what kind of evergreen it is, but it was round-topped and the green very light and bright, and so a further surprise among all the lifeless, conical pines. I sat on a rock that was almost warmed by the sun, and enjoyed the peace.

Being around 2pm, having got most the way along the eastern arm of the horseshoe, I decided to find a path down through the forest. I came across what seemed to be a sledge track down through the woods, and shortly found a sturdy piece of plastic sheeting. Had to give it a go, and so slid very quickly down through the trees, panicked a bit as I sped up and up and was also entirely unable to steer, carried down by the track. I managed to bring myself to a stop, and walked the rest of the way down. At the bottom, in the middle of the small valley, is a collection of ger and ramshackle wooden houses. Approaching this I passed a group of kids playing with a sledge - maybe having come down the way I’d just followed, maybe just pulling each other around on the flat. They followed me, laughing, introducing themselves with “Hello, may name is...”, giving me the ‘peace sign’ and shouting out bye-bye as I left.
Walked through the settlement towards the Buddha park, dogs barking at me, feeling invigorated and a little footsore too. Ignored the buses though, and carried on up towards the Peace Bridge, through the increasing noise and dirt, occasionally looking back at the mountains, which seem to get larger as they get fainter towards the city. Past two police traffic officers deep in joking conversation, one miming beating someone with his orange traffic baton, the other wearing`a full santa outfit (including beard) beneath his Day-Glo outer jacket. Plodded across Sukhbaatar square, gearing up for tomorrow night’s big celebration. The tree, according to the UB Post, is the first real Xmas tree the city has had: a splendid Spruce from the Bogdkhaan Uul. “We sought and received permission of the Environment Minister for this,” the city’s head of the Cultural Office hastened to add.

Chim-chim-cheroo, Gifting, A Dog is for Life

Wednesday 27th December 2006
I was pleasantly surprised yesterday to learn that not only do we get Monday off for New Year, but also Thursday and Friday. I suspect that I am almost beginning to enjoy teaching, nonetheless a break will be very welcome. I still have to get up pretty early tomorrow because the 11th grade students have asked me to play a couple of tunes at their New Year’s Prom, and I agreed to head down there at 10am to run through ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown’ and ‘Let It Be’ with one of the students who is a pretty good guitar player. I have now committed myself to running a Bluegrass jam at the school one or two nights in the week.

Last night was our parent corporation’s New Year do at the Grand Khan, and of course also my banjo picking debut there. I had been asked to come down at 7pm to play at the night’s “opening ceremony”: when I got there I found out that they had a whole slew of professional entertainers lined up for the night, and that they meant for me to play outside alongside an accordion player in a Santa outfit. I was dismayed at the notion that I was to be expected to freeze my fingers off as some kind of amusing hillbilly freakshow, while the real musicians would be playing in the pub’s luxurious and warm interior. A troupe of dancers were running through their routine for the chimney sweep song from ‘Mary Poppins’ as I sulked and Lhagvaa very generously said I could play a few tunes with a keyboard lounge jazz player. The old guy didn’t look massively thrilled at the honour of backing me up, but he gamely suggested ‘Country Roads’ as a song he knew, and of course picked up the ‘Worried Man Blues’ very easily.

Outside there’d been fireworks (and an accordion playing Santa), then the guests rolled in, in their tailored suits and flowing ball gowns. Tables for the serving of free booze were everywhere - a limitless supply of beer, wine, whisky and of course vodka - all the very best stuff. I did my best to pace myself and had a glass of beer then a bottle of Guinness before I played. Then a large Chivas Regal with plenty of ice as the lounge Jazz carried on and I hung around feeling very scruffy in my Wranglers, waiting to be called on to play, thinking that piano man had decided to just ignore me. The crowd were all elegantly dressed and suavely enjoying their wealth and privilege, and I couldn’t quite see “Now we’ll pick things up with a bit of Hillbilly music, folks!” going down too well. The professional dancers filled the floor and the PA blasted out Chim-chim-cheroo. Finally, just as I had decided that maybe I would have another whisky, the excitable announcer jumped up and let loose a string of showman talk and flung out his arm in my direction. There was a polite scatter of clapping, the keyboard player looked at me with world-weary reserve and I stepped up onto the stage.

Well it didn’t go down like a lead balloon, at least, and one guy shook my hand when I stepped of the stage, with what I felt was admiration - doubtless for my bravely giving it a go in spite of my obvious shortcomings. There was no rapturous applause, however, and kind of glad it was over, I settled down to some uninterrupted (except by amazing food) drinking. Let me assure any prospective future employers that there is no way that I would have allowed myself to drink excessively on a week night - but the principal and various big wigs from the school and the corporation behind it gave me every encouragement. I am sure that my extremely agile and energetic dancing later in the evening won me the many admirers that my banjo playing had failed to arouse; I am sure, but the memory is a bit hazy, so let’s just say it did.

Woke up this morning feeling considerably less than great, and then some. Sunlight was pouring into my bedroom - grabbed my watch: 9am. Got up and showered, brushed my teeth and gargled mouthwash. Did not really feel much better. Thinking that it might not be such a good idea to turn up in front of class drunk, I phoned the School. Someone answered in Mongolian, I said Good Morning and my name, they said something else in Mongolian and hung-up. I have spent so much time boasting to my employer that I never take a day off work that I realised that I would have no option but to go in, and catch my 10am lesson. This I did. The freezing walk didn’t really freshen me up any, but it certainly woke me up a bit more. I had three classes left to get through. Stayed sat down for them and didn’t write anything on the blackboard, which would have made me feel nauseous. Kept as far away from the students as possible, and found that, in all, the lessons went fine. Had a good chat with one of the best students in one of my worst classes after the lesson: she said that the previous teacher, an American who quit just before I arrived, had ranted at them on a regular basis about how much he hated teaching them. They aren’t bad kids, but this class simply do not understand the work that they are being shoved through - I need to go back over basic grammar with them, and hopefully some of it will stick.

Lunchtime I decided not to brave the canteen. Yuan Yuan, the Chinese teacher, arrived carrying a waste paper bin and a smile. In the bin she had a shivering puppy that she’d found out on the street. I guess it was a couple weeks old and in a sorry state, but didn’t look injured and its eyes weren’t glazed. I suggested she get a little rice and milk for it (my friend’s dog has just been ill, and the vet told them just to feed it that).

She came back shortly with a little bowl of the rice and milk, and the news that the school had told her that she must not keep the dog on the premises. “He’s so nice,” she said, “you take him, Jim. Yes, you like him.” “I can’t take a dog, Yuan, and I don’t know anybody here I could give him to.” “Yes, you take him, you like dog. He so lovely.”

I guess the drink still hadn’t quite worn off; I agreed to take the dog if she still had it after my next and final lesson. But I’d be taking him to the vet for an injection or finding someone with a gun. Yuan said it was no problem, I could just put him back out onto the street, and I was so very kind. “Please don’t ask me for any more favours, Yuan: you’ve used them all up.” She laughed.

We took the shivering dog back to my apartment (“Here your new home, dog! Very nice!”) and tipped the little feller into the bath. I showered him for about 20 minutes, until the water ran off him clear. He didn’t protest much and drank a bit of the water. I dried him a bit with a tea-towel and then carried him through to the kitchen, putting him down on a folded seat cover in a plastic basin. He lay curled up, and I shut the kitchen door and went for an hour or so to lie down.

I felt better when I got up. Checked in on the dog, who I’d decided to call Jamsran, after the chief ‘Wrathful Deity’ in the Mongolian/Tibetan Buddhist canon. He looked considerably better, and was still curled up in the basket. I had to go back to the school for a teachers’ meeting. Would try and get some dog food on the way back. The meeting turned out to be about the Christmas ‘Secret Santa’ system that the school runs. We had been asked, last week, to pick a number and so a name of one of the sixty or so members of staff. That person we would secretly give a gift to during the week. The gift was typically a chocolate bar or piece of cake. On the staff room door was a list of the names of the staff, with a column along side it for each of the days of the last week in the year. Throughout the week, it was eventually explained to me, people put stars or smiley faces next to their name as they received a gift. I got a piece of cake one day and a coffee mug on another. Smiley faces on the chart. Some members of staff had dozens of smileys, and some none. There was a great deal of gleeful excitement amongst many of the teachers about the whole process. Well, tonight was the grand finale of the whole thing - which I had had no idea about. A teacher read through the names on the list and then revealed who that person’s ‘Secret’ Santa was. They then gave the person they’d received a chocolate bar or piece of cake from an extremely expensive looking gift (a lot of framed paintings, baskets with champagne bottles and chocolates in, etc.) out of gratitude. It took about an hour to go through the whole list. I was the only person who hadn’t bought a gift for my secret Santa. Myself, I received a plastic bag, containing the very same box of chocolates that I had given as a gift, and a bound notebook. Is there any meaning to the return of the original gift in Mongolian culture? Was this some kind of snub?

After the long, long process of sitting through the counter-gifting we then each had a gift to collect with a lottery ticket we had each been given. Some people had dozens of tickets, so I assume that the school had been selling additional tickets. I stood in front of the gift table, hungry, tired and hung-over, while a mad scramble of teachers pushed past me to get their gift or gifts. I got another mug.

I was starting to worry a bit about having left Jamsran so long, was mentally preparing myself for a torrent of abuse off Puru’s mother for keeping a stray dog in my apartment. One of the teachers had told me that you need a license for a pet, and also gone on about the various illnesses the stray would probably have. Thankfully, things were drawing to a close at the school. There was now a raffle for which our lottery tickets doubled. A dozen prizes of ascending spectacularness, each winner being accompanied by much cheering and jollity. Sadly, I didn’t win anything; finally, the humidifier and the (drumroll) deep fat fryer were triumphantly carried off and I was able to leave.

Stopped off at a small supermarket on the way home in hope of finding dog food, but no such luck. Would try the bigger supermarket further past the apartment. First though to drop off my gifts and check up on Jamsran.

He had certainly picked up his spirits. He’d knocked over the bin, figured out what I’d put the newspaper down for (Good boy!) and playfully chewed at my boots as I walked in. I left the kitchen to discard my coat and he started to yelp as though he was testing out his voice: it sounded like he would have the capacity to get a fair bit louder. Felt very paranoid about my neighbours complaining, and tired and hungry. Went back into the kitchen and cut small slices of smoked sausage, which I attempted to get Jamsran to sit down for. He wanted more; he scratched at fleas. I left the kitchen, and he again started barking.

I would have to take Jamsran to the vet tomorrow, and I was supposed to be going to the students’ prom for ten. Well, gentle reader, I thought it through. I could not house train a puppy and leave it alone in the apartment every day. He’d been washed, warmed up, fed some. It wouldn’t be fair to let him get any more used to the apartment. If I took him to the vet, it would be for injection, because I couldn’t look after a dog. Maybe if I let him out near some warm pipes somewhere he might survive the night. Maybe some other dogs would look after him, like the cheery bunch I’d seen peering out of a hole in the ground near the market. I cut a few more slivers of sausage and put some newspaper down in the bottom of my school bag, wrapped Jamsran up in a teatowel, gave him a couple of slices to chew, and placed him in the bag. He sat quietly as I zipped the bag up.

Puru and Mungun knocked on the door just as I was leaving - to give me a present of a 2007 calendar featuring the President of Mongolia or somebody. “Thank you, thank you, very nice. I’ve got to go out now, thank you.” Jamsran shifted in the bag, but didn’t bark. I did not want to let the kids see him. I did wonder why it is that you’re always smuggling puppies out of buildings to abandon them in the arctic cold when you’re hungover. Some kind of penance, I guess.

Jamsran kept quiet as I descended the six floors and left the building. It was some time after nine, and there were plenty of people about. I walked away from the tower blocks, hoping that I would get a chance to stop and let Jamsran out without anyone walking past. Maybe I should just unzip the bag and leave it somewhere.

As chance would have it, just round the corner from my building, I saw a homeless guy emerging from a manhole. I hurried over. “Excuse me, do you speak English?” I tried. The guy, who was not too scarily drunk, looked a bit confused. “Please, I have a dog,” I continued, opening my bag like a kitchen appliance salesman. He called to someone else beneath the ground, and a young lad climbed up.

I have been warned very strictly to avoid the homeless people here: the manner of these two (luckily) seemed to be very gentle and understanding. The young man held Jamsran against his chest and stroked him. They didn’t seem to be expecting any payment so I quickly handed them a T10,000 note, for which they were very grateful. I hurried off, feeling a little sad, but immensely relieved. Maybe things will work out for Jamsran.

With a certain sense of irony, I walked to the Korean restaurant, and treated myself to dinner for my good deed. The meat in my Bi Biim Bap was very good, although I couldn’t decide if it was pork or beef.

London and Belfast residents: Lhagvaa and ‘Beer Band’ are flying over to Europe today and playing sometime somewhere in your town! Lhagvaa does not know the details, but the Mongolian Embassy may know as they have sponsored their trip. Go see them, and say hi. Oh and tell them how famous and well-respected I am as a musician in Europe

Merry Christmas, Zanabazar Museum

Monday 25th December

Merry Christmas!

Yesterday I met a young American doctor whilst getting a meal at a Korean restaurant. He’s over here as part of an exchange program, working in Accident & Emergency for a few weeks. He had a piece of advice for me: “Whatever you do in Mongolia, don’t get sick. There’s a reason you don’t see old people here.”

Managed to get myself up, fed and out at a reasonable hour of the morning today. It was snowing when I left the house, which was very apt and seasonal, although the sun was shining brightly too: looking around, there did not seem to be any clouds in the sky. Quite possibly, as part of the seasonal celebrations, the city had a giant snow making machine hid behind one of the tower blocks, bellowing out chemically manufactured flakes.

Crossing Sukhbaatar Square I noticed that they were still putting up decorations around the tree that was erected yesterday: it has miniature Santas crawling up it, and a big red soviet star on the top. I guess the decorations may actually be getting put up for New Year’s Eve, but possibly they are just being erected on an unfathomable Mongolian schedule.

After a long visit to the Zanabazar Fine Art Museum (on which more later in this post) I started to walk south out of the city , heading for the War Memorial, with the intention of taking the day-time photographs I had promised after my previous night-time visit to the spectacular location. Outside a restaurant near the centre I was very impressed to see a bunch of guys putting finishing touches to a splendid ice sculpture of four life-sized horsemen, leading the way for a bronze sculpture of Genghis behind them. I got a couple of decent photographs, and a laconic sculptor taking a cigarette break took one of me pretending to carve the ice, before the battery failed on my camera.

Crossed the Peace Bridge out of the city: it takes four lanes of traffic over a wide valley of railway tracks (including the Trans Mongolian), concrete-clad pipes, and a sorry-looking frozen river. The view to the west is dominated by the city’s two monstrous, smoke-belching power stations. Half way over the bridge, eight fully battle-dressed Mongolian horsemen came charging from the other direction into the city. Behind them followed a cart pulled by two horses, containing a somewhat slim, but doubtless merry, white-bearded and crimson-clad fellow. Now that is Christmas, Mongolian style! I carried on walking in the direction of the looming mountains.

It doesn’t take long to walk out of the city and reach the Bronze Buddha park at the foot of the 'Zaysan Tolgoy', War Memorial’s hill. On the way I passed a lot of construction sites where, to judge from the completed sites, ‘luxury’ apartments in the shape (very approximately) of Bavarian castles, garishly painted, will be built. Otherwise, the usual mysterious pipes and broken concrete structures abound. Managed the few hundred steps up the monument without too great difficulty; passed an empty plastic ‘Vodka Blackcurrant’ drink cup near the bottom - further up, a mysterious splash of frozen purple fluid in the centre of the steps. The view, climbing and from the top, is splendid. The mountains look very Scottish, are dappled with snow, and forested with firs. Beyond the Monument there are a few old soviet buildings and a few ger encampments. Was very drawn to make my way up the encircling ridge of hills - if I can get out there earlier in the day maybe next weekend I could give it a try. Looking back at Ulaanbaatar, it is at least more visible than at night. Unbelievable that these hundreds upon hundreds of apartment blocks are barely lit after dark. It is a smoggy and scrappy sight: a considerable contrast with the beauty of the mountains.

Walked back into the city, deciding to treat myself to another restaurant meal. Unfortunately, the American Ger’ll Bar was closed for a private function, so I had very good Indian food at Los Bandidos Indian & Mexican Restaurant - indeed, Los Bandidos is Mongolia’s Only Indian & Mexican Restaurant - fancy that!

So, the Zanabazar Fine Art Museum. At the Choijin Lama Temple the other day none of the guides spoke English, but the lady who ran the gift shop spoke very fluent English indeed. She was reading a copy of ‘The Beautiful and the Damned’, although was reluctant to be drawn into conversation on it. “Ah,” I said, “’The Beautiful and the Damned’: one of my favourite novels.” “Yes,” she replied neutrally. “F Scott Fitzgerald is a really fine writer,” I ventured. “Yes.” It didn’t look as though we’d be starting a book club, so I had a look at the odds and ends on display. She was much more vocal on the merits of various pieces of tat (and otherwise - there was plenty of interesting stuff in the shop too, to be fair) for sale. Because I was a volunteer in Mongolia (I didn’t hasten to disabuse her of this notion) I would be entitled to a special rate and not have to pay “tourist prices.” Wow. Of course, as everything in the shop was labelled but nothing was priced, I had no way of ascertaining the veracity of this statement and - call me a cynic - I suspect that the T1000 I paid for a Mongolia sticker for the old banjer case was the same amount a mere tourist would have to shell out. I said that I was particularly taken with the Temple’s collection of traditional Mongolian devotional art, and enquired whether there were any other collections on display in Ulaanbaatar. “No,” shopkeep answered very vaguely, “well, some of the other Temples have some art, but our collection is the best.” She would be very surprised, then, to learn that in the centre of UB I found, with the help of my Bradt guide, the Zanabazar Museum of Fine Art - a museum entirely devoted to Buddhist devotional art.

Arrived at the Zanabazar Museum at 11am this morning. It’s a fine old dour soviet era building. The ground floor seems to be being prepared for an exhibit of some sort, but I was allowed upstairs to view the main collection. Again, I was the only visitor, but was allowed to view without a curator “tsk”ing at my heels. As I left each room, however, the lights were turned out, in what may have been something of a hint.

There’s some interesting Bronze Age pieces in the museum: I am assuming that I’ll find more at the Museum of Mongolian History so will pass over these for now. The centre of the collection is a room of bronze work by the master of the Mongolian Renaissance, Zanabazar (1635 - 1724). I took some notes from the decently labelled displays.

Zanabazar was the grandson of a Khan and so a direct descendant of the great Chinngis - always a good pedigree for a Mongolian national hero. He was born on the 25th day of the 9th month of the year of the Wooden Boar, which I don’t need to tell you is “the best day for the meeting of fairy goddesses between the autumn & winter.” As a young child he studied in Tibet as a disciple of the 5th Dalai Lama and was proclaimed to be the first reincarnation of the Bogd Jivzundamba. He received the title of Khalkun Gegeenten, or “Holy Saint.” He founded numerous monasteries and temples in Mongolia (his first when he was just 13).

He “created an ideogram and derived script in 1686 which he named ‘Svayambu” meaning ‘self-enlightening’; the ideogram, today the state symbol of Mongolia, was intended to express the idea ‘May the Mongol nation exist by its own right.’”

Zanabar’s bronze castings of buddhist deities are the work for which he was best known. The pieces in the museum are very fine, and about a foot and a half in height. The main pieces at the Fine Arts Museum are the five Buddhas, representing the defeat of “the five evils: anger, ignorance, pride and greed.” I am assuming that this list is a sort of buddhist mystery or joke, something like the painting of ‘The Three Asses.” The five appear alike, but “every detail of each differs.”

Zanabazar’s works “embody the 32 and 80 features (32 inner content, 80 iconographic[?]) for depiction of the beautiful human body, which include proportionality of the body and its various parts, strength, youthful muscles, straight and shapely shoulders and limbs, rounded waist and so on; so Zanabazar’s works were the Mongolian mode of Mankind’s dream of aesthetics.”

There is an excellent collection of Mongolian Thangka paintings, Mandalas and applique (embroidered silk) wall-hangings. The Thangka and Mandalas are basically of the Tibetan school of devotional art - which Liverpool residents can see an extremely good collection of at the World Museum. Thangka painting came to Mongolia in the early 19th Century and reached its artistic peak in the early 20th century. These portraits of deities are characterised by “precise anatomical proportion, the incorporation of symbolism from religious parables and artistic amplification.” They’re very trippy. The ‘Ten Wrathful Deities’ - the protecting demons of Buddhism of which our pal in coral Jamsran seems to be chief - are a favourite subject.

Mandalas, the museum informs, serve to invoke ”the Holy Force within the contemplator... not communion outside oneself with the Divin Power, but an ecstasy or invocation whose purpose is to find and realise the... Divine Power in one’s own heart.” The Mandalas are designed to suit “all levels of consciousness... for the spiritually highly developed, for average people and for the people not yet developed... who are politely referred to as children.” The Mandalas will typically incorporate into their design the Eight Auspicious Symbols: The White Conch, The Wheel, The Lotus Flower, The Auspicious Drawing, The Golden Fish, The Vase of Treasure, The Victory Banner and The Precious Umbrella. My favourite is The Precious Umbrella.

The final section of the museum is mostly devoted to the art of Marzan Sharav - and features his most famous work ‘A Day in the Life of Mongolia’: a large traditional zurag painting on cloth - which depicts many colourful incidents typical of Mongolian nomad life (and with a great deal of humour). I spent a good while absorbing some of the details: wool and hides are prepared; a blacksmith’s privates are exposed when his pants catch fire: an old man points and his wife covers her eyes; sheep are butchered, and someone throws a boot at a dog escaping with a sheep’s head - it jumps over a roll of wool, beneath which a man and woman secretly embrace; a priest says rites over a dead body in the desert while dogs (or wolves) watch - other dogs meanwhile devour a fresh corpse, while vultures pick at the remains of another; men brawl in various encampments; at the top of the picture trees are felled and carpenters work the wood at the edge of the forest; there feasts, traders, ger being assembled, women attacked by snakes that have hidden in their baskets; farmers tend fields and scrubland is burned; at an encampment of camels a man and wife make love, and a midwife assists at the birth of a child.