One Million and Counting

A ceremony was held in Ulaanbaatar on May 8th to honour the birth of the city's one millionth citizen (born April 11th). Actually, the honour was bestowed on three babies born around the same time. After the birth of the children, the President and other worthies rushed to congratulate the families and speak proudly of this milestone event. All well and good, but a Mongolian friend remarked to me that all this celebration seemed a poor joke to him, considering the problems facing the city. The city's real millionth citizen was clearly born some while ago now and possibly to one of the uncounted thousands of people living here off the census books. Some estimates put the city's unofficial population at 1.2 or 1.5 million, with the ger districts growing and getting more crowded, and an unknown number of homeless people still living under the city in the heating system. The estimate for growth of the official population, as quoted in Thursday's UB Post, predicts 3 million citizens by 2015.

New apartment blocks are being built everywhere, but it seems that the demand must be well ahead of supply - for one thing property values are currently increasing by around 20% each year. I am hopeful that if the '40,000' homes scheme - which aims to use public money and private investment to build a new stock of social housing - begins to look like working then the government here might increase the project, as it's my guess that 40,000 homes ain't enough.

Happily for the city's three 'one millionth' citizens there need be no concern over their future housing. The one month olds were each presented by UB Mayor Ts Batbold with keys "too big for their little fists to grab" (UB Post) to single-bedroom apartments. Yes, in a city where people live in the sewers and the monthly rent for an average sized apartment is three times the average wage, the Mayor is handing out flats to babies.

I'm curious about these flats, but there weren't any other details included in the paper. Have they been handed over with any conditions? I mean, do they belong to the babies or their parents? I'm hoping that, however small these flats are, this means that at least three ordinary families here will get a chance to move into their own place and start building a better future - but maybe the flats will just be moth-balled for twenty years until the babies can make use of them - or sold so Dad can buy a Humvee.

Supermarket English, Taxi Mongolian, F Grades, Poetry

Thursday 3rd May
There's now a very languid heat throughout the day and warm night breezes, but still no green shoots appearing: as yet there's been no rain. Thursday afternoon is now the calm lull in my week - no lessons at school and no evening classes either. I've just started a job teaching the managers of a supermarket chain basic English three nights a week. It's the first class that I've been left entirely to my own devices to devise and run, which I am slightly surprised to find is coming as an almost welcome challenge rather than a dreaded chore. It's strangely enjoyable trying to work a supermarket twist into every lesson plan - suggestions are welcome, folks. So far the students seem very happy with the class - although admittedly I've only taught two classes so far, so there's plenty of scope for disillusionment to settle in before my contracted month is over.

The lessons are at the supermarket's HQ, which is at the very western edge of the city. In conversation I'm frequently challenging the way that my fellow expats criticise the driving here, countering that it's certainly no worse than London even if the lane-changing and light-jumping is somewhat colourfully individualistic. It now occurs to me that my experience of Ulaanbaatar's traffic has been fairly limited, my opinions, some might say, coming from a sheltered viewpoint - spending most of my time around the city centre and only usually getting a cab late at night when the streets are mostly empty. The experience is a bit more enterrorficating on the ring roads at rush hour, particularly at the big junctions. My admiration goes out to the traffic cops who stand in the middle of the tornadoes of steel and rubber, permanently blowing on their whistles and vigorously waving their batons as ton after ton of painful death speeds by them with mere inches to spare, or screams to a juddering stop and reluctanctly concedes his authority.

I can now ask "How much?" and count to nineteen, whilst also knowing the words for hundred and thousand - an achievement I am very proud of in spite of the fact that it has taken me five months to attain. Combined with "Yakshtay?!" ("Are you taking the piss, mate?") this means that I am rising to a level of mastery of taxi-driver Mongolian hitherto only dreamed of. No longer do I settle for tourist rates! No longer do I accept a charge of 40p when I know damn well it should be 15p! In outrage I will complain "Bi bagsh, bi bagsh" ("Me teacher, me teacher") - I guess that once I can say "I am not a tourist" then I'll have learnt everything I need to know. I can give the number of my district, and have an impressively accurate mental GPS of the city, although this isn't guaranteed reliable after 2am/five pints. There's a sizable degree of confidence that arises from conquering this sphere of daily life.

Incidentally, as I don't think I've mentioned this before, in UB every car is a potential taxi - one just stands at the edge of the sidewalk (a more appropriate term than pavement as it simply indicates where pedestrians are found, rather than any expected degree of surfacing) and waits for the first fume-belching, exhaust-rattling vehicle to pull over. This is how everybody who gets around by taxi manages it, and there doesn't appear to be a level of risk to the activity worth worrying about. In fact (very much contrary to the advice given by hotels etc all over the city) in my experience it's generally only in the licensed cabs with meters that a really concerted effort is made to rip-off foreigners: every single time I've got into one on my own the meter has either been switched off or else it climbs at an astronomical rate. I had a fairly heated exchange with one driver who was trying to charge me about ten dollars (enough to get you to the moon and back) which might have turned ugly were it not broad daylight and outside a fancy hotel. Private citizens have always been far more modest when they've tried to overcharge me - only doubling the fare rather than asking for 5 or 10 times the going rate.

My job at the school, as I have previously remarked, is now drawing to a close. Final exams are underway or approaching for all the grades. I am being magnanimous in my scoring, only partly because my departmental senior has politely and cautiously informed me that F grades are not given in Mongolia. They're built into the school's grading software of course, but they have to be creatively avoided. Sometimes I'm reluctant to play along with this - such as today stopping the 10th grade (advanced class) student who can neither speak, read nor write a word of English, from transcribing the essay his neighbour had generously scribbled out for him. I have been given the freedom to teach my classes however I liked so this a bit spoil-sportish of me, I know, and will doubtless gamely give him a D when the time comes, but I do kind of enjoy the exasperated "he-just-doesn't-get-it" looks from students when I insist on their not copying work in exams. Looking at the results as far as their essays and this terms creative writing go, I allow myself the luxury of shaking my head and concluding that they just don't get, because a lot of the work that I've insisted they do for themselves has actually been fresh, original and a pleasure to read. The classrooms and walls of the school are plastered with the students' poetry and prose. This is because the Mongolian teachers get a cut in their pay if the walls aren't plastered with the "students'" work. Almost every single word so neatly printed out in curly fonts is lifted from a 1950s rock and roll song or is just direct from Wikipedia, complete with all the link words still underlined. And yet, when I force my students at a metaphorical gun point to write a poem in 10 minutes or less if they don't want an F grade this term, I get charming results like

Spring

Spring is beginning of
something new
In Spring we saw
new herbs, vegetables
In Spring it
rains very first time
of the new year
That rain brings love
all living things
will fall in love
That's the beginning of
Life.

which may not be Keats but it's refreshing indeed to read after marking 20 essays about "A Mongolian who has made a great contribution to this country" - which proved, surprise, surprise, to be 20 identi-kit potted bios of guess-which plucky young son of the steppe, visions of oceans united in his merciless eyes? I particularly liked the inclusion of the word "vegetables", which has an earthy and prosaic rhythm that takes the poem away from mere cliche.

Back Streets, Bookshops, Morin Khuur

Monday 5th February 2007
The tree-lined avenues north of the Government Building at the centre of Ulaanbaatar stretch out to east and west and are the main university district of the city. The buildings along these avenues are rather grand and sombre, built, I suppose, in the early soviet era. They are brick buildings, with plaster facades moulded as stone. There isn't the profusion of shops selling bootleg cds and cut-price cashmere, but rather some very good restaurants here and there, and otherwise the heavy wooden doors and dark stone-linteled windows don't give much clue to what goes on within, except to suggest serious business of some kind.

I enjoy cutting through the back streets between this area and my apartment block, which is at the north western edge, behind blocks of accommodation known, I am told, as Student Town. The surface of the street rolls like a frozen sea, and the cars that do pass down there make their way as cautiously as I do, no more eager to rip off their exhaust pipe than I am to slip and break my neck. There are two make-shift ice rinks behind what I suppose is a school, most evenings and throughout the day at weekends children and teenagers skate around to Mongolian and Russian-sounding pop music played from tinny speakers screwed to the wall of a wooden shack. In an impressive building between the back wall of the Chinese Embassy and back alleys where dogs root through discarded vegetables and shredded plastic bags, running off with the prize of a large filthy leg bone, there's a karaoke bar and the neon-lit sign for the King Arthur restaurant. I'll pass this having left my home, ignore the temptingly-priced menu, turn a corner then pass through a gap in a wooden fence.

Just before reaching the main road there's a great square of a building with one of the ubiquitous 'PC Game' establishments in the basement, and on the first floor, behind a typically anonymous great wooden door, a little supermarket that I tend to buy bread at and - sorry mum - cigarettes. Of course I'll give them up again once I'm back in Blighty but at 40p a pack I'd be losing a fiver every time I didn't buy any, wouldn't I?

In the hallway before the the supermarket there's a door leading to a bookstore which has thte best collection of second-hand English books I've found so far. It seems that most have found their way there through the hands of diplomats at the US Embassy - there are an awful lot of very dry books on American politics, mostly 30 years old at least but with the odd book on Clinton in between numerous appraisals of the Nixon era. A lot of Grisham and Grishamesque thrillers, which I assume is also popular reading with diplomats. When my iBook had decided to take a five day rest I was very happy to find a copy of 'Creation' by Gore Vidal which I am enjoying working my way through. They only charged me 3000 Tugric ($3) - a lot cheaper than most second-hand books here. Actually, I was very happily surprised to receive my first piece of mail when I arrived at school today - my sister Helen had sent me 'Out of the Ordinary' by Jon Ronson. At first I was deeply disappointed because I thought I'd already read it just before leaving the UK: then happily remembered that I was confusing it with Louis Theroux's book. A confusion which I am given to believe Mr Ronson would not find flattering.

Having passed through this area on Saturday whilst wandering aimlessly in the direction of Sukhbaatar Square, at the corner between the Natural History Museum and the rear of the ominous Government Building I noticed that the building on my left called itself National Musical Instruments and Instrument Makers of Mongolia. Couldn't see up to the windows, so I climbed the steps to the door. Most of the souvenir shops in UB sell somewhat gaudily painted Morin Khuur - known as the Horse Head fiddle - a beautifully carved two-stringed cello most typical of Mongolian folk music. For all I know the instruments flogged amongst mocassins, fur hats, bows and arrows and paintings of Genghis on stretched hide are as good musically as any, however, this small establishment has the sombre feel of the home of the work of true craftsmen. The walls are lined with Morin Khuur and other instruments: including large snake-skinned Chinese banjos, an array of different sized and styled dulcimers, European fiddles and, somthing I was hoping to find, a lovely fretless Khulsan Khuur. The Khulsan Khur looks pretty much like a Morin Khuur - with the same two strings and box-shaped body - but this one's head was carved as an ibex rather than a horse. It is plucked or indeed (for the benefit of Old Time banjo enthusiasts) frailed - at least it was when I saw one on TV a while back. I had a little play around with it - was very delighted with the silly little melody that fell onto my fingers, and the beautiful feel of the neck. They're asking 100,000T for it and I may have to go back there on pay day.

The back room is a workshop, where it seemed at the time mostly old instruments - some very fine and venerable looking, very intricately detailed and carved - were being repaired. The smell of sawdust in the air, and clouds of it dancing in the sunlight, contrasting with the shadowed darkness of wood hanging all around.

I picked up a brochure for the shop: they're the Eshiglen Magnai Co. Ltd: established in 1991 by Purevdavaagiin Baigal av, "famous master on production of Mongolian traditional instruments", they now have more "40 masters leading in the field of traditional musical instruments" working with them. Their mail address is

Eshiglen Magnai Co. Ltd
Ulaanbaatar 210646
Mongolia
PO Box 46-178

and they can be contacted by email via

toogii_36899@yahoo.com

Half-term, Wolf Hunting, Palace of Culture, Laxative Clyster No.20

Saturday 20th January 2007
The school holidays have begun, with a tremendous wave of joy and relief all around. We were to have one week’s holiday, but Friday morning I learned that the school management had met with the teachers and decided to give us two weeks holiday instead. Naturally I was very happy at the news, although if I had known how long I would get as a break I might have made arrangements to do something with my time. As it is, because of my committments to teach in the evenings, it is going to be difficult for me to get away from the city for more than a couple of days and I find myself wondering what I can do with all my spare time. Most of my students are going abroad - to Thailand, south China, London, and Korea. A lot of the kids’ parents work for the school’s owning corporation, and there jetting off in two chartered planes for warmer climes for a week - or now maybe two. I’m most envious of the students who are going to the countryside. One student did very kindly invite me to go skiing with his friends and himself at the weekend, which I felt a bit of a coward in declining his offer. I haven’t skied (skiied?) before and I feel fairly certain that there are dozens of better ways for me to break my leg whilst over here. Another student is going hunting with his father 300km away from the city. Two of his uncle's horses were recently “eaten by wolves” and he is very much hoping to hunt the creatures responsible.

Wolf-hunting is a subject of passionate enthusiasm for many Mongolians. Wolves are hunted with rifles and night sights and with bows and arrows,they are stalked on foot, chased on horseback or fired at from the comfort of a Mitsubishi Shogun. A student in my night-school class very eloquently explained the national obsession, and poured scorn on the objections of Europeans who had been shocked to learn during a study visit he made to Ireland that he enjoyed killing wolves. “We hunt the wolf and kill them. When we find their hole, we pull out the wolf cubs and kill them, but we leave one alive. Then, when this cub is grown he makes noise - awooo! - and brings the other wolf, they hear him, and we kill them too.” Something every Mongolian confirms when I ask is that “no part of the wolf is wasted.” A lot of the Mongolians who I have discussed wolf-hunting with have been tour guides, or from the middle and upper classes of UB society. They have told me that, once killed, they give the carcass to the “countryside people, who are very poor.” This seems quite an act of generosity, as from their accounts the individual parts of a wolf when sold have a total value around $1000. Whether this figure is accurate I don’t know, but certainly every Mongolian I have asked has stated an absolute belief in the medicinal qualities of the wolf: which is to say that following a fairly straightforward homeopathic rule you eat wolf liver for cirrhosis, lung for bronchitis; the brain is a cure for headaches, the heart for pulmonary ailments; wolf throat beats lemsip every time, and of course the wolf testicles, preferably eaten as soon as the wolf is slain, will guarantee a man unshakable vigour and virility. Most people I have spoken to have a personal testament to the efficacy of these cures.

Assuming that noone invites me to go wolf-hunting, I find myself at the beginning of the holiday well-disposed towards the notion of doing some class preparation. So far, preparing for a class has meant knowing roughly what grade of students I was to be teaching and checking my notes from the previous lesson (usually something like "No students brought books to class. Most students settled down to answer p.67 q2 once 5 mins of lesson remained."). Now I have two weeks' breathing space I supppose I can sit down and plan lessons properly.

A student from my night school class took me to the 'Swiss library' which has quite a lot of decent books on the subject of teaching English. The library is nestled in the 'Cultural Palace' on Sukhbaatar Square: a fine building which contains a theatre, the Ulaanbaatar symphony, numerous other small libraries and also Dave's Place English Pub (a cosy little cellar bar frequented by Anglophonic ex-pats, where you can eat very passable 'real English chips' and also cheese and baked bean toasties).

I am constantly looking for reading material. I have recently become an avid downloader of e-books from the Project Gutenberg site. The website has thousands of out-of-copyright books in its catalogue and the books are free to download and distribute as you see fit, which is a considerable resource indeed. There's a lifetime of reading material on there. Reading books off a screen isn't the chore you may imagine it to be when it's the only way of getting something worth reading. Reading in the bath is a bit more of a problem. The e-book format has many advantages - for example, using the 'find' feature of your word-processing software to scan through the complete works of Shakespeare, the King James bible or the unabridged Pepys diaries makes a very useful research tool. And it's free! Some of the books are available in audio format. Obscurities that you would have to pay a lot of money for in print, such as 'The King in Yellow' and 'The House-Boat on the Styx' are yours for the click of a button.

I was delighted to find on Gutenberg a book I have been trying to get a copy of for years: 'Enquire Within Upon Everything' the ultimate Victorian gentleman's guide to, well, everything of course. A friend once had a copy he found at a flea-market. The section of medical advice will give many hours of hilarious reading, and is really quite an alarming insight into the state of medicine in the late 1800s. They make Mongolian wolf-cures look like the height of medicinal sophistication. To treat 'Hysterics': "the fit may be prevented by the administration of thirty drops of laudanum, and as many of ether." Inflammation of the brain? "Application of cold to the head, bleeding from the temples or back of the neck by leeches or cupping... Avoid excitement, study, intemperance." 'Cupping' is one of the treatments used against mad King George - placing a glass cup on the back of the patient and heating it with a candle to cause blisters. May possibly make 'avoiding excitement' a bit of a problem. The dutiful husband is advised to treat 'scanty' menstruation from his wife by (in 'strong patients') "'cupping' the loins [and] exercise in the open air." Is your child suffering convulsions? "If during teething, free lancing of the gums, the warm bath, cold applications to the head, leeches to the temples, an emetic, and a laxative clyster, No. 20." 'Laxative clyster no. 20' by the way is a "pint and a half of gruel or fat broth, a tablespoonful of castor oil, one of common salt, and a lump of butter; mix, to be injected slowly. A third of this quantity is enough for an infant." For those unfamiliar with the term, a clyster is an enema. That should keep the buggers from convulsing.

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.

Mongolian Hospitality, Black Market, Big Buddha and the War Memorial

Sunday 11th December 2006
Today was gloriously sunny. Pottered around in the morning and had a fairly long bath. Downloaded a Today program piece about the 'Special Relationship' mainly out of Radio 4-longing . Need to get a little radio so I can hunt for the World Service.


The daughter of the building supervisor does not ever seem to be off duty herself. She knocked on my door to indicate that she needed me to turn on the light outside my flat. Then she very conscientiously scrubbed the floor outside my flat; following which she also started to wash the metal security door to my flat. I felt pretty guilty about this and eventually managed to persuade her to stop. Played her 'Blackberry Blossom' on the banjo in a very feeble attempt to compensate her for her troubles without getting into the awkward territory of paying her any cash. She smiled and at least allowed me to think that I had somehow repaid her hard graft. Resolved to buy her some colouring books or something.

Around 2pm I was collected by the one Mongolian family I know, who very kindly took me to their home for a Sunday roast. They live further out of town, and the mountains loom massive over their home. Their apartment is very nice but also very small: thye are waiting on a bigger apartment that they hope to get early next year. Between their home and the mountains is a settlement of ger, from which smoke curled up very picturesquely. My students largely blame the air pollution on people living in ger and burning anything they can get their hands on as fuel - which undoubtedly contributes to the problem, but here the air was noticeably cleaner. The dinner was wonderful - mutton, rice, roast potatoes and carrots and a lot more. The family apologised that they had run out of the Bisto gravy granules that they'd bought in England, so I'd had to make do with real gravy made from the mutton fat and absolutely delicious. Far too much dessert - including the discovery for me that the things that they sell in the supermarket that look like bags of miniature cream horns are miniature cream horns. I crammed in as many as I could.


As the family had very kindly promised me, I was taken, as the sun set behind the mountains, to Narantuul, the famous 'Black Market', which is close to their home. I know that a lot of this blog has so far been about how I bought this for 30p or that for £1 - frankly, an obsession for me, but I do hope to get onto other subjects about this fascinating country. Please indulge me one further time at least, or skip to the next entry.

The Market is definitely one of the must-sees for any tourist visiting UB - I am very happy to have had a guide, though. Nonetheless, the sheer number of vendors there mean that if you can resist being wheedled into making a purchase you will be certain of getting yourself a good price (i.e. not the tourist rate, as it were) on whatever you buy. The market is huge: conveniently, traders seem to be located together - so that you get rows of coats here, jeans there, boot-makers together, etc. Stalls are neatly laid out, and in general resemble a UK knock-off gear market - one nice forrin touch being that all traders keep the goods not on display in giant wooden chests. The aisles are narrow, and the ground was frozen so there was a considerable hazard from the people busily pushing past.

I would heartily recommend the clothing that I brought out with me to anyone visiting a similar climate to Mongolia who would prefer to travel light. Good quality but cheap canvas hiking boots provide ample insulation from the ground; M&S merino longjohns beneath hiking trousers; thermal long-sleeved vest topped by one top, over which a body warmer and a gore-tex jacket; ski gloves and a hat that covers as much of the face as possible: this is all plenty warm enough for -25c, I believe would stand up well to wind chill (with a scarf) and importantly is all very breathable so allows you to move about plenty. The moving about plenty could well be part of it - I don't know how well it would suit shooting the breeze in the middle of Sukhbaatar Square. So I felt that I needed to get some gear more in line with what I see worn about me - something a bit more substantial.

I looked somewhat boggled at the endless ranks of coats - determined to find a decent parka to wear into school (meaning that I'd like to get something more traditional, but don't want the kids laughing at me). Settled on a huge Diesel 'Canada -Style' parka for a princely 45,000, or around £20. It certainly seems to be the real thing but curiously none of the labels say
Made in China - but maybe they leave those off for the domestic/semi-domestic market.

I had a pretty good time amongst the boot stalls. Every cobbler insisted on me trying their boots. By and large they were in no way big enough to fit me, but of course they all insisted that the leather would stretch, etc, and I couldn't possibly find anything any bigger. As I was about to give up hope (or take up one of the offers to have a pair made for me for next week) an old lady ran up with a very sizeable looking pair. They are hand-made Mongolian boots - in less of a traditional style - basically resembling biker's boots, tan in colour. They fit like a dream - a good shape, with a bit of room enabling me to wear an inner 'sock' for the winter or stuff in an extre insole. Sadly, the same lady also offered me another pair for only a little more, these others didn't fit quite as well. It was a shame because, as my friend translated, these were made with "real dog fur" inside. "But I like dogs!" I had her translate, "not wear, I like them." Everyone found this very funny. They were very cosy boots, but as I said, sadly did not quite fit. Stuck with the biker boots: T35,000, or around £15.

I bought one or two other things, shirts etc, but topped it all off with a delightfully revolting chinese padded dressing gown in gold and brown. It is a little on the small side but will do until I find something a bit bigger - whereupon I can sell this one to a fancy dress shop.


After the market, the family drove me up to Ulaanbaatar war memorial, the Zaysan Tolgoy, where I got to tramp around at night in the snow in my new boots and parka, which was very pleasing. The memorial is just outside the city on top of a col at the foot of the mountains. At the bottom of the hill there's a 20 foot or so golden buddha I am told was built in the last couple of years. To one side is a giant temple bell and on the other a drum. These can be rung or beat upon to your heart's content; the vibrations as they reverberate are incredible.

Once I'd tired of banging away like a school kid we drove halfway up to the monument then walked the remainder of the way. It must be an impressive sight by day - with the mountains behind, that were now shrouded in darkness. At night it has an utterly impressive character, though. The memorial, built by the soviets, is on the top of a very conical hill. It's a viewing platform maybe 50 feet or more in diameter. There's a wall around it about four foot high, into which there's one entrance - and then, from a pillar at the front of the memorial (which seems to be a stylized soviet soldier unfurling a flag) a band of concrete encircles the platform from aboev. This turns the whole surrounding landscape into a diorama , with the stars forming the ceiling. Somewhat difficult to describe, but utterly awe-inspiring. Inside the higher band we have a representation of the history of communism from Russia to Mongolia, that can be dimly made out in the dark.

We'd climbed the hill for the view of Ulaanbaatar. At night, it is a bunch of lights - and not that many. I think in the UK or America you'd be moved to say "Is there a town over there?" Must get there in the day some time, so as to get a photo of the monument and see the UB smog as a whole.

Home, I decided against/chickened out of walking over to the Great Khan yet again. Some instinct told me that there was a distinct possibility that any banjo picking was not guaranteed, and I now no longer have the money left to buy a pint. Will think about it again once I have a few Torogs in my pocket.

Arriving in Ulaanbaatar

Friday 1st December 2006
I landed in Ulaanbaatar (henceforth, following standard practice, in the main referred to as UB) around noon. It being a beautiful cloudless day, the flight provided compelling window-gazing: looking down after take off from Beijing almost the first thing I saw, with a leap of excitement (such as is possible strapped into an airline seat) was the Great Wall as it zigzagged crazily over a ridge in a sea of mountains. Much of the Gobi was dusted in snow: I could make out the spokes of tracks made by horses and herds centring on gers; then gentler mountains, forested on their shaded sides, and, as the plane circled round to land, Ulaanbaatar: tower blocks dimly visible in a haze of smog. The contrast with the wild beauty of the landscape was staggeringly emphasised by the cooling towers and one enormous chimney of a power station belching out smoke and vapour in the foreground. An ominous sight, although perhaps coloured by my optimism it also had the look of a frontier town: a colony on a near virgin planet, poisoning its own air but as yet unspoiling the vast beauty around it.

I was very much arriving to the unknown. For the next 6 months I'll be living in UB and teaching English and as much as possible playing and teaching Bluegrass banjo. It is understood that I have zero experience teaching English. As for what I have to expect I know very little except that I'll be teaching full-time and that as far as my accommodation goes I "don't even have to bring a spoon"

Smart black uniformed guards, both women and men, in the tunnel connecting the plane to the airport had perhaps been selected for their posts for their powerful, broad mongolian features - skin flawless, dark, calm eyes, assured and competent expressions. And in that tunnel (which had twee carriage-style lamps on the wall) a first touch of the frigid chill outside, which the pilot informed us was 15 below zero under the dazzling midday sun.

No hassles, thank God, at immigration; no eyebrows raised at my ticking the ‘work’ box of my entry card and my final apprehensions vanished when on walking out into the arrival lounge a tall dark woman approached me and asked “Mr Fallows?” (I was disappointed, though, very disappointed, that she had not seen fit to stand there with a card with my name , which I have always seen as an essential part of the (however sterile) romance of airports. My contact from the school introduced me to an older, short and broad fur-hatted gentleman whose name and position I did not catch, and we left the terminal.

Walking out of the building - seen framed there in the doorway as I approached - stepping out into that bright sun and cold air, there was what I swear seemed to be a wolf (and so I like to think must at the very least have been a dog with some wolf in it), watching me calmly.

We walked to the car.

My hosts drove me through the city for my first look at my future place of employment. It was cheerfully explained that most of the pupils were from well-off backgrounds, spoiled and entirely unmotivated to learn. The school - closer to UB’s centre than I had expected - stands out as being a very flashily modern building, but was much smaller than I’d imagined from the pictures I'd seen. I didn’t seem to elicit more than the occasional curious glance from pupils, who were obviously quite used to seeing westerners about the place. I was introduced to the staff in the staff room - who again happily appeared to be the best sort of run-down, get-through-the-day teachers on the whole and who all spoke English, mostly pretty well too.

Dinner was a compartmented tray with four hand made burgers oozing grease on a bed of pasta and soggy chips that could have acchieved English canteen standards - also a purple-coloured side-helping of pickled beetroot, potato and peas. A small hundreds-and-thousands topped piece of cake and a cup of sweet tea to wash it all down. I actually managed to eat most of mine (left the chips) and can in theory see how the fatty meat is suited to the climate, but I cannot hide the disappointment to have gone from the best Chinese food I ever et in Beijing to school-bloody-dinners. Well, they made me a cup of lemon tea and most importantly of course it was free - a perk of the job.

As I asked for it I got approximately five minute of introduction to the course I’ll be teaching from Monday (the course proper may start a week on as next week is an ‘English Olympics’, whatever that means) - once I’m settled in I’m to teach literature however the hell I please and of course there's my afterschool Bluegrass class too. I was told that I’m to set homework ‘at least weekly’. Will try and have a good look at the course books on Monday.
Having had a chance to send a few emails I was summoned to go and see my new home, which (forbodingly) up to this point had ‘not been quite ready’. It seemed and indeed surely was even colder when we stepped out of the school than earlier at the airport, causing genuine relief once shut into the car. The cold is certainly invigorating.

The apartment (see charming photo at the top of the page - my apartment is close to the centre of the picture, four floors down from the top) turned out to be very close to the school - 5 minutes walk, in fact. My heart rose with delight on turning into the giant frozen mud courtyard overshadowed by our building: having been alarmed last night on finding on-line dreary pine and chrome ‘luxury apartments’ for rent in UB, I was pleasantly relieved to see a crumbling concrete relic of socialism. We entered a narrow yellowed hallway and found the creaky lift, which I intend to avoid using as much as I can. A second guess on the unmarked buttons found my flat on floor 6. The landlady was inside: on seeing the living room I thought for a moment that I would be living as a guest, but no, the whole apartment is mine and yes, it seems that the school are paying. The kitchen has a painted Mongolian dresser; there’s a Russian Doll, a puppy emerging from a barrel, two Chinese tigers and countless other bits of charmingly revolting tat in the front room's enormous wall cabinet. A 3-piece suite (altho it appears that the Mongolians don’t bellieve in slouching - the backs are certainly going to do my posture a bit of good); the bedroom has a carpet on the wall and a traditional Mongolian style of wooden bedstead; there’s a balcony between the kitchen and living room for drying clothes and I guess summer use; bright, ill fitting carpets and plenty of heat but it’s by no means stifling. I love it. Mountains visible towering over the city (and later, the sun setting red over the power station I’d seen earlier from the airport, lighting it redly afire).

No spoons though.

I felt a twinge of a tear when I was left there alone, suddenly a resident of this crazy post-soviet city on the far side of the world. I unpacked and then (around 2.45pm) resolved to go out and change my last Y100 note to get some groceries in. Wrapped up plenty before going out, but resolved to skip a few layers so as to guage what’s suited and also so as to be able to upgrade my cladding. So: t-shirt, cotton sweater, fleece, berghaus, boxers, socks, jeans, hiking boots, gloves and lastly, me hat.

Needed 'em - the cold was biting where my face was exposed. but without the wind and wet, by no means unendurable if I kept walking. And in the bright sun, amongst bustling bodies it was exciting - again, the most apt word I can find is exhilerating. Saw a young man emerge from beneath boards at the foot of a building, maybe a street kid, and later a young man with flowing black hair and tall leather boots striding puposefully and warriorlike. The traffic honking and people laughing and shouting at each other - mini vans pulled up outside cigarette kiosks calling out some kind of trade (I later read that these are unofficial taxis, shouting out a destination for any takers [Edit - wrong! They were licensed 'Micro-buses' - the unofficial taxis are literally any car that stops]) - dozens of little internet cafes, bars, saunas, phonecard booths: all with grimy neon plastic signs in garish script and illustration. The air sadly had me choking on the fumes, possibly owing to a contrast between an inherent clean quality not fully mixed with the auto poison, probably in reality just very unhealthily polluted.

At the Khaan Bank I changed my Yuen for crisp new Mongolian notes. I found that I can live cheap here if I can avoid being tempted by baubles and fripperies. Just round the corner from my flat there's a supermarket, where I was happy to be able to find ample groceries to suit my tastes. For T12000 (£5?) I bought:

1 small (250ml) bottle vodka
1l orange juice
1l milk
1/2l cooking oil
1 loaf (delicious) bread
1 tub butter/marg
2 onions
6 carrots
1 bag beansprouts
1 jar chilli sauce
small bag washing powder
small bottle washing up liquid
1 jar strawberry jam
2 2l bottles drinking water.

I cooked myself a passable stir-fry once home, followed by bread and jam. Ran myself a bath of passably hot water. Poured myself a congratulatory vodka and orange. And so to bed.