Tag Archives: mongolia

On foot in Irkutsk


Posted by Patrick Okens

"Rustic charm' or 'seen better days?"

Dec. 3 – Irkutsk

At the Mongolia-Russia border, at midnight, the Russians used a German Shepherd to search the train, after the Mongolian Cocker Spaniel had sniffed around. Neither found anything of interest in my compartment, but I still watched the dogs with some apprehension. Earlier, a Mongolian woman had tried to convince me to hide some goods to help her avoid paying duty on them. I refused, earning a rude gesture suggesting I was dismally underendowed. Later I checked my entire compartment to make sure there was nothing stashed away that could be pinned on me.

"Inside the kitchen at my home stay"

In the morning, the train skirted Lake Baikal for a couple of hours. We approached Irkutsk to gentle flurries, much to the delight of the Australian passenger, who had never seen snow fall.Walking from the station, I got to my homestay easily. I have a cheap, comfortable room in the cozy wood-paneled home of a German-speaking woman.

Last night and today I walked around Irkutsk. It’s not a small place, but after two weeks in China’s megacities, it felt quaint, human-scaled, easy to negotiate. There are many old wooden buildings. One could say they have a rustic charm, which is a polite way of saying something used to look better. But after the imposing, never ending concrete phalanx of apartments in China, these distressed houses, with their crooked frames and cracked paint, were a small comfort.

My first dinner in Russia was at a sushi place on Ulitsa Karla Marksa. Service was slow, but I had no reason to hurry. It was the sort of mellow, mood-lit place that plays acoustic, soulful covers of U2’s “With or without you”. The guy at the table next to me tried to figure out chopsticks. Another pulled out an iPad. Three young women drank tea and smoked. I had a hearty fish soup, and seafood mixed with rice. The waitress (the designated English-speaker) asked me:

“What do you think about Irkutsk?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ve only been here two hours. The meal was nice.”

“It is very cold now.”

“Yes, but I am from Canada.”

That was a lame response. I’ve been living in Vancouver, which has made me soft. It was -15 C that night. Those low temperatures have held, so my Siberian rambling on foot requires a different approach. It means dressing up to spend the entire day outside – boots, heavy socks, longjohns, fleece-lined trousers, five layers up top including overcoat, wool/Gore-tex cap, gloves. It also means marching at commuter speed on the icy, lumpy sidewalks rather than ambling along. My face remains exposed. The bristles of my beard keep freezing, and the metal of my glasses stings the bridge of my nose. Yes, I chose this experience. Siberia is not famous for its summers.

Today is Saturday, so Irkutsk was shopping. At outdoor bazaars, all sorts of cheap goods were on offer including the usual plastic Christmas kitsch. From loudspeakers, the cold air carried the voices of famous crooners. First Elvis’ “My Way”, then, perhaps an indication of Russian humour; Ella Fitzgerald’s smooth “I love Paris in the springtime”. At the large indoor market shoppers got their groceries. Fruits and vegetables (imported and expensive), salads, pickles, cheeses. Heaps of frozen, surprised-looking fish. Behind large refrigerated displays of red animal flesh a butcher looked on, hands and forearms flecked with blood.

I misread the bus schedule to Lake Baikal (actually, the truth is I forgot to adjust my watch to account for the time zone change), and will go tomorrow. This means an extra day in Irkutsk, which I do not regret at all.

Thank you for your Siberian Idol votes. The final tally, with all polls reporting, was:

Novosibirsk: 9

Omsk: 6

Krasnoyarsk: 2


First Steppes


Posted by Patrick Okens

Dec. 1 – K3 Train from Beijing to Irkutsk – In Mongolia

We awoke to light blue skies, a vast white, undulating plain, and patches of yellow grass. Mongolia.

Yesterday, after an hour on the metro, I arrived before dawn at the Beijing Railway Station. Announcements boomed through the cavernous hall as I had a sad, bland breakfast at McDonald’s. We rolled out slowly into the frost-tipped city’s morning, elders outside doing calisthenics, car traffic still looking tolerable. All day the railroad cut north, tunneling through steep mountains which flattened into gentle, butternut contours. The pale brick buildings along the track were low and rough. Power and telephone lines. Water frozen in the ditches. Sheep grazing on dry stalks.

I had not expected to have an entire four-person compartment to myself, but I did and it was/is awesome. More room to spread out and makes sleeping easier. This did not entail isolation. I’ve met other “fellow travellers”; a former Starbucks executive from Los Angeles, a videographer from Brisbane, two bald, bespectacled Swiss men (one short, one tall), an Irish couple from Kerry. There’s easy and instant chemistry among us, doing the Trans-Mongolian route the “wrong way” and in winter. We’ve all done far-flung travel and can easily share stories without vanity or one-upmanship. There are Chinese and Mongolian passengers too, but language barriers limit the contact to nods and “Ni hao”.

Arriving that night at the China-Mongolia border town of Erlian, the train stopped. Mongolian and Russian railway gages differ from China’s so the wagons must change bogeys. While this was being done, I spent a slightly suspenseful half hour with the Chinese authorities. They had never dealt with someone who had come to China by ship. The entire green-uniformed border control staff clustered around me, like medical students studying a rare case of cranial deformity. Their best English-speaker asked the questions posed by his superior officer:

“Did you arrive by car?”

“No, by ship.”

“From where?”

“Canada”

[Pause. Discussion in Mandarin.]

“Were you working on the ship?”

“No, I was a passenger.”

“How many passengers on the ship?”

“Only me.”

[Pause. Discussion in Mandarin.]

“Was this a cruise ship?”

“No, it was a container ship.”

“Why did you take this ship?”

“For adventure.”

[Pause. Some smiles from the junior officers as this is interpreted.]

Lengthy discussion among the entire team ensues. Senior officer picks up the phone, makes a call, says a few words, puts the phone down, waiting begins. I try to remember that I’m dealing with the Government of the People’s Republic of China, that this is no time to be chatty, and keep my smiling mouth shut. All the same, I’m not too worried as the only word I understand being spoken among the relaxed-looking junior officers is “Xbox”. A few minutes later, response comes from Shanghai Pudong port where I landed. My story checks out and I’m free to go. I then wait past midnight for the Mongolian authorities to complete their formalities and return my passport. As we start rolling again, I can finally go to sleep, gently rocked by the rails.

From the warmth of my compartment, the wintry Mongolian landscape is beautiful. Deep undulations, sun sparkling on snow, herds of shaggy horses and even dromedaries. Ulan Bator, by contrast, sprawls low and ramshackle in a bowl of its own smog. Plank fences delineate small property lines, crummy houses with tin roofs. Packs of stray dogs trot along the tracks. Thirty minutes at the station, long enough to step out onto the platform, breath freezing while we snap a few pictures. Passengers board with large bundles, workers dump loads of coal to heat the samovars that supply each wagon with boiling water. Then northwards, sun setting over a mountain range to the west, and suddenly the snow is gone.