Beijing to Ulaanbaatar: A Piece of the Trans-Siberian Railway
Long haul train travel has always held a mystique. The soothing rumble of the wheels as they roll past anonymous landscapes, brigadoon towns fading into nothingness, never to be seen again. The smokers crouched between the cars, blowing wisps into the crisp air. The hours of stillness. Reading. Playing cards. Walking aimlessly from your cabin to the caboose. Chance encounters, long conversations. Staring out the window watching civilization roll by.
In the era of highways and airplanes, the trains that once heralded the future are now in the quaint category of 'slow travel'. Case in point: a flight from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar takes 2 hours, whereas a train takes 26. Yet here we were, at Beijing Rail Station, embarking on the first leg of the famed Trans-Siberian Railway journey: Beijing to Ulaanbaatar.
Riding the Trans-Mongolian Railway last month vs. less dignified train ride in India in 2011
Long Digression
Our journey was born circuitously, from Mike's idea several years ago to take the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Ulaanbaatar (as with North Korea, Mike's pre-occupation with trains, and in particular the Trans-Siberian Railway, was greater than mine). But, that idea met an untimely end when I mentioned in casual conversation to my father that we were thinking of taking a train through Siberia, stopping along the way in places like Krasnoyarsk, Irkutsk, and Chita, to explore.
"I would strongly advise against that," was his flat response. "Life does not mean much out there."
For context, I have couchsurfed solo through South America, hitchhiked across Rwanda, and spent a month wandering around India. None of these exploits raised any visible concern from my parents. Perhaps a raised eyebrow when I called from the DRC border, explaining that an ATM had eaten my bank card, I had $3 in my pocket, and could they please wire me some money so that I could get out of the country, assuming I could figure out a way to get back to Kigali where I could access a Western Union (therefore the hitchhiking across Rwanda).
So, it was extremely unusual to hear such a strong response to what appeared to be a relatively conservative travel idea. My parents had grown up in the Soviet Union, and perhaps this was the reason for the comment. They knew nothing about travel in Bolivia, for example, but they had something to go on, when it came to Siberia.
I weighed my dad's advice, and recalled my own recent experiences in Moscow, where I had been traveling for work on and off over the last few years. In particular, I recalled an incident one evening, when an American co-worker and I were walking through an underpass, on our way home from dinner. Pedestrian underpasses are ubiquitous in Moscow, due to the wide boulevards. In the winter, they serve as gathering spots for drunks, drinkers, and other unsavory characters.
It was 25 below zero that night, and as we entered the underpass, we noticed a group of 5 or 6 young men huddled, drinking vodka, and speaking loudly. As soon as they spotted us, they fell silent, put down their bottles, straightened up, and placed their hands in their pockets, sizing us up.
I remember the terror of that moment. It wasn't ambiguous - they were very clearly evaluating whether it was worthwhile to attack. We were too close to turn back. I muttered "don't say a word" under my breath; English would mark us even more clearly as foreigners, and would also indicate a higher likelihood that we were wealthy. As we passed within 5 feet of the group, I shot them a grim look - my best Russian stink eye, which I thought would more convincingly mark me as a local - and just like that, we were emerging up into the starless night.
But I digress. Point being that Moscow is a cosmopolitan wonderland compared to the backwoods of outer Siberia, and the combination of that experience, and my dad's unequivocal stance, made my spidey senses go off. Travel - particularly to remote places - relies heavily on judgment calls. At that moment, we made a judgment call not to engage.
How we got here
Fast forward three years, and Mike and I were planning our next trip. To decide on where to go, we usually start with our mental bucket list of places we'd like to visit, then evaluate feasibility based on time needed, time of year, cost, and also "level of roughing it" that we had tolerance for, at that moment. This time around, we knew we could secure a good chunk of time (2 weeks plus a weekend on each end), and - given that our last vacations had been to Spain, Portugal, New Zealand, and Vanuatu - we were ready to rough it a bit.
"What about Mongolia?" I offered up.
Since I was a little kid, I've been fascinated with Mongolia. I mean, how can you not be? It's at the end of the world, nobody goes there, nomads still roam the frozen landscape, following traditional routes from millennia ago. Its the land of Genghis Khan!
And so it was set - we would go to Mongolia. But, you can't just fly directly to Mongolia. You have to go through Russia, China, or Turkey. Flights via Beijing worked best, and so the idea was born to spend a few days in China's capital.
And how do you get from Beijing to Mongolia?
"The TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY!" - yelled Michael with absolutely no context as we sat on our couch, poring over travel literature.
And there it was folks, the long-lost dream of the Trans-Siberian, except instead we would take the Trans-Mongolian branch, which connected Beijing to Ulaanbaatar.
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The Journey
Our 26-hour journey started at Beijing Central Station which, aside from a chaotic entrance that included passport control and false starts into weird luggage shipping areas, was uneventful. We had arrived 45 minutes early, enough to chat with an older American lady who worked as a business consultant, teaching Mongolians and Kazakhs how to "start businesses that aren't dumb" (confusingly, she spoke neither Mongolian nor Kazakh), and to buy some gold playing cards with Chinese landmarks on them. These would come in handy later.
At around 11 a.m. we boarded our train, and at 11:22 a.m. it groaned to life and rolled slowly out of the station.
Our cabin was comprised of two bunk beds, a small table with a teapot, and a bench, all decorated in a deep red cloth with gold thread embroidery.
We shared a sink/shower with the cabin next door; the toilets (which were so bizarre looking I had to snap a photo) were at the end of the hall.
We immediately made friends with a Qiwi couple in the cabin next to us, and made a conscious decision to avoid a one-armed German who kept cornering Chinese passengers, holding them hostage for what seemed like hours with stories that usually began with, "you know what I like about your peoples..."
The time went remarkably quickly. We played about 30 games of Crazy Eights, making up new rules each time, and looked out the window at the Chinese countryside, which alternated between lush green pastures, scraggly steppe, and rolling mountains. Occasionally (once every 2-3 hours) we stopped at a small town for just a few minutes; enough for passengers to hop off and new ones to come on.
By far, the worst part of the first day experience was the food. We were given free lunch and dinner tickets, and also mistakenly assumed that the dining cart would offer drinks and snacks for sale. This was incorrect. Lunch and dinner were served at set times, and no food was offered for sale in between these times. Lunch consisted of boiled cabbage, rice, and a bit of bland chicken. Dinner was the same boiled cabbage (now cold), the same rice (also cold), and a single gelatinous "meatball" (I assume it was meat) that Michael wisely did not touch, and that I discarded after two bites.
By the time we got to the town on the Chinese-Mongolian border, Erlian, we were starving.
The border town experience was interesting. The train had to stop for approximately 90 minutes, for two main reasons: first, the Chinese regulation size wheels had to be taken off and replaced with Mongolian size wheels (yes, this is done every single time a train crosses the border); and second, the Chinese dining car was to be replaced with a Mongolian dining car (salvation!?!?).
So, we had 90 minutes to wander around. By the time we arrived it was 10 p.m., and so most of the town was shut down. From what I could tell, Erlian was a utilitarian, sort of industrial town. It was significantly colder than Beijing, and had a bit of a frontier, windswept feel to it. The town is relatively sizable - 100,000 people - but at that hour it appeared to be a single, deserted strip of trainside convenience stores and restaurants.
Michael and I bought some nuts at a bodega, which I was hoping would tide us over, but Michael insisted that we sit down and have a real meal at one of the fine establishments lining the dusty street. I should note that we were the only customers on the entire strip, and all of the menus of course were in Chinese and Mongolian. After some impressive sign language exchanges, we made it understood that we were hungry, and agreed with what looked like a 12 year old girl manning the restaurant that "noodles" were a suitable (only?) option.
Fifteen minutes later, we were brought a large, steaming bowl of noodle soup in a beef broth, topped with fresh cilantro. Michael scarfed it down, while I nervously eyeballed the train station. We had left all of our belongings on the train, our passports had been taken for customs, and if the train left, all we would have with us would be non-working cell phones and 100 yuen ($15).
Another 20 minutes, and Michael was finished with the soup. The girl brought the check - 7 yuen ($1). I tried to give her a round 10 yuen for tip, but she was totally confused by my offer, and insisted on giving me change. So, we left things there.
Finally, at 12:30 in the morning, we boarded the train. Once back on, we were interrupted a couple of times for border procedures and paperwork, and fell asleep for good at about 2:30.
I woke up at 6 a.m. to find ourselves crossing the Gobi Desert. Not a soul in sight. The desert didn't look quite as... deserty... as I had expected. There we scraggly vegetation sprinkled alongside the tracks, with nary a sand dune in sight. Still, the vast expanse of nothingness was something to behold. Just a small fence and a power line running through an empty sea, interrupted occasionally by pockets of cows and a still more occasional Ger (the Mongolian version of a yurt).
We ventured groggily to the dining car, and here we had our biggest surprise of the trip. The stinky, repulsive Chinese dining car was replaced with this:
Ornate and opulent, the Mongolian dining car boasted intricately carved wood, Genghis Khan memorabilia, and - most importantly - a menu! We immediately ordered coffee and omelets, and were pleasantly surprised to find that they were palatable, even tasty. As an aside, Mongolian omelets appear to be served on top of a piece of bread, and are topped with pickles.
Sated, we returned to our cabin for the final hours of the trip. We played a few additional games of cards, watched the landscape turn from the Gobi to a scraggly steppe, and wrote in our journal. Soon, we came to our pre-final stop, a Mongolian town called Chojr, a town of 7,000 that used to be a Russian military base during Soviet times. The 15 minute stop allowed us to stretch our legs, make a quick loop around the station, and snap this confusing photo of what appears to be a large statue of a man holding a rocket:
At about 11 a.m. we left Choir, and continued on through the Mongolian landscape. More nothingness, punctuated by small industrial pockets, coal mines, and trucks carrying heavy equipment - and more coal. Another three hours, and the scraggy steppe gave way to a patchwork of multi-colored roofs and Gers, increasing sharply in density and finally turning into soviet-style apartment complexes, glass office buildings, and wide boulevards. We were in Ulaanbaatar.
