Part 16 - Mongolia (Me and Ewan)

My travel lull is over. I'M IN MONGOLIA. MONGOLIA!!! I am on a train going through the desert in MONGOLIA!!! Whooooo-hoooooo!

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My original thought in coming to Mongolia was "Hey, I'll be in Beijing. I'll just pop on over to Ulan Batar for a couple days and then come back. Then I can say I've been to Mongolia. How cool would that be!" I didn't read anything about Mongolia. I had no idea what I could do there. I was just going.

Then someone gave me that book written by Ewan McGregor about riding motorcycles around the world, Mongolia included. I am completely aware that I only wanted to read it because it was written by Ewan McGregor. It's the way he sings. He gives me goose-bumps. (I was made aware of the TV show long after I became aware of the book. They didn't show it on Asian TV.) So I read the Ewan book and while I knew I wouldn't have GPS or a support crew following close behind, I thought I'd take a chance.

Tim Cahill's travel piece, The Yogurt Riders, also got me excited. But I don't know what Tim Cahill looks like, let alone how he sings.

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Because I don't plan anything in advance, there's no way I can get the direct Trans-Siberian train from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar (Pronounced UlaanBAAter - emphasis on BAA. We've all been saying it wrong.) before the first half of my 4 month China visa runs out. I purchase a package from my guest house, where they handle all the tickets and transportation over the border. It's an overnight sleeper to the border at Erlian. At 6am, the two other foreigners and I are picked up by some guy waiting at the bus station with our names. He takes us to a hotel where we get to sleep for a couple hours until the border opens.

At 8pm we are piled into a van with 3 very large Mongolians. In fact, that's my first thought. Wow. Mongolians are huge. Not like Asians at all. (I might be able to buy clothes here.) The 2 benches in the back of the van are not screwed down. The Mongolians have filled the van with cheap Chinese merchandise and the benches have been placed on top of the plastic sacks. My head is hitting the roof and every time the driver brakes I go face-first into a large woman's lap.

Chinese immigration is easy. The building is large and clean. Some local guy cuts in front of me, Zen and Gina. "Hey." I get his attention, point out the three of us and then point to him and the back of the line. He guffaws and ignores me. Then I give the guards standing not 3 feet away a "Hey" and go through the same hand gestures. "What?" Nothing registers in their smoke-filled brains and I want to smack their vacant stares back to the Qing dynasty. In 5 minutes I will be out of China and I am happy.

You know you're in Mongolia when asphalt gives way to dirt.

Zamyn Uud is a town that seems to consist of the train station, the shops around the train station and the road to and from the train station.

Zen, Gina and I are now sitting in an empty van in the parking lot while our driver leaves us to get tickets for the afternoon train. While he's gone, two men get in the van. Zen says that all these guys know each other. They must be friends. But when the driver returns, he immediately gives them the boot. I guess they're not friends.

He gives us our tickets, points to the departure time (6 hours later) and drives off.

It is around this time that I learn that Mongolians do not speak Chinese. They're not too fond of their neighbors to the south. I can't communicate...AT ALL. I don't know one word in Mongolian. I've got no guide book, no phrase book. All of sudden, I feel vulnerable.

The two strange men that have been kicked out of the van and who smell of alcohol, follow us to the waiting room, the luggage storage, the restaurant. After several pleas to leave us alone, Zen takes a chair and slams in on the ground. Sometimes you need to be aggressive to let people know you're serious. But the men stay put. I see a police officer in the waiting area and call him over. I point to the men and he ushers them away. He knows what's going on. These guys are claiming that they carried our bags for us and that we owe them money. I wonder how often this scam works for them.

Another Overnight Train

This is my first Mongolian train. Actually, it's a Russian train. So, this is my first Russian train. Honestly, I'm not expecting too much. Mongolia is like India, right? Wrong. For $12, I am in a 4-person, private compartment. There are sheets, blankets and pillows and the benches are nicely cushioned. Everything tells me that I'm not in China anymore right down to the compartment speaker volume control. These Chinese would never think that you might want quiet.

Zen, Gina and I are joined by a local man who doesn't speak any English. However, after 1/2 hour of watching the two of them play cards, he has picked up all the rules. We all play Shithead - not the most complicated of card games - and watch the desert sand turn golden as the sun melts on the horizon. I'm on a train, going through the desert in Mongolia!

I sleep with the sheets up above my head, as the desert sand creeps in through window and door seams. Every surface is dust-coated and the train attendants sweep hourly.

In the morning, a Mongolian with excellent English comes to chat with us. He is a guide and takes tourists (mostly Americans) on wild sheep hunting expeditions.

"You mean I can come to Mongolia and kill animals for fun?"

"Oh yes, sure."

Of course, Mongolians kill animals for food, for survival. Charlton Heston they are not. There are 5 animals of Mongolia: camels, cattle, goats, horses, and sheep. The ratio of horses to people is approximately 14:1. The Mongolian horseback riding fantasy is taking form.

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The UB Guest House has been recommended by at least two people. For the solo traveler, this is the best place to meet up with others looking to hire a car and tour around the country.

Proper roads connect Ulaanbaatar with 3 other main population centers. On these routes there is public transportation, though it is limited. Perhaps one 10 hour bus ride a day. And large parts of these proper roads wouldn't be considered proper in the least.

Despite a lack of formal public transportation, all vehicles can be considered possible traveling options. Hitching, for a price, is common and safe, though not necessarily economical for the foreigner. When one car a day passes through, you are at the mercy of the driver, who will be able to fund his vodka habit for a year with what he will charge you for a 5 hour drive.

Most travelers hire bulky, gray 4x4 Russian jeeps or vans. In groups of 2 (older and rich) to 6 (on a budget), popular destinations are the Gobi Desert, Kharkorin (the former capital), Tsetserleg, Tsaagan Nuur (White Lake), and Khovsgal Lake. The more adventurous and/or wealthy head to the far west.

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I walk into the UB Guest House at 9am and am met with a "Hi, do you want to go on a tour of the Gobi? I'm trying to get a group together."

Okay, that was easy.

After a couple group meetings, 6 solo travelers have agreed on a 10 day itinerary. We will go south to the Gobi Desert, then north west through Kharkorin, Tsetserleg and on to Tsaagan Nuur at which time we will send our van back to Ulaanbaatar (UB) with 1 or 2 people from the group. The rest of us will make our way to where ever we want to go next, which at this time is undecided. How we will get to wherever that is, is also undetermined. Ain't traveling exciting!

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The next couple days are spent readying outselved for a few weeks away from civilization.

Walking around Ulaanbaatar I am struck foremost by the fact that these poeple don't seem to pay much attention to me. Maybe they give a quick look, but they certainly don't turn as I walk past. They don't look me up and down. They barely acknowledge my existance. I am a regular person walking down the street. How wonderful. I love them.

With the help of the Peace Corps worker, I find a pharmacy and show them the note that has been written for me requesting allergy medicine and nose drops. Horray for the Peace Corps. After I leave the pharmacy, a man who was watching my purchase catches up to me on the street and shows me a vile of liquid. I can only assume that this is allergy medicine of some sort but I'm not about to buy a vile of an unknown substance on the streets of a foreign country. (Show me a vile of whatever in SF and I'll take it.) I wave him off and keep walking. That was weird.

During our tour, we will be staying in gers (Pronounced gair. Yurt is the Russian word.) set up especially for tourists and owned by local families. I don't actually know this yet. I think that we'll be sleeping in family gers. Lunch and dinner will be provided but we have been warned that these meals are simple, lacking things like fruit, vegetables, meat, taste. Additionally, we will need to prepare our own lunch on the road, most often in the middle of nowhere.

Yes, I make a shopping list, which is divided up between the 6 of us.

lemons / honey / candles / lighters / tp / cooking oil / propane / tea / drinking water / peanut butter / nutella / fruit / dish soap / sponges / spices / plastic bags / canned food / pasta / sauce / dried fruit / bread / meat / snacks / vodka / bubbles / playing cards

We are essentially preparing for car camping.

The last thing on my list is a guitar. I didn't really think I could make it another year without one. And now I'll be in the same car for a couple weeks and won't it be nice to be able to play for local families - just like Ewan.

The black market is on the south east side of town. It has been advised not to bring anything: not a wallet, purse, backpack. Pickpocketing is rampant. I ask vendor after vendor where I can find a guitar. ("gee tar" - with hands in air guitar position). I am pointed in the same direction and finally come to a booth selling electronic appliances. But she's got two guitars hanging in front of the extension cords. My choices: blue or white. This certainly cuts down shopping time.

Mongolians aren't big on haggling, but I get her down from 20,000 togrog to 18,000. That's a big $18 US. I name my fifth guitar Blue Steel. (Big points if you get the reference.)

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The morning of our departure, we are packing gear and provisions into the back of our Russian beast. The guest house owner, Bobby (female) gives us a couple itineraries for the group. And here we go. I just can't keep my mouth shut.

"Bobby, can we each have an itinerary?"

"No, we only give two."

"Why?"

"Because it's policy."

"But you're the boss. Change the policy. I mean, how hard can it be to print out a few more copies. I think this is something we would all like for our memories."

"We give two itineraries. We can't just give it to you because you want it."

"Of course you can. You can do anything you want. You're the boss. If this is about saving money on paper I'll pay for it."

"You can go to the store and copy it yourself."

"Listen, I only say something because another group said that they all wanted a copy. If this is something that everyone wants, maybe you should think about providing this small service. Just for future reference."

"Why are you like this? No one else in your group wants this."

"Yes, they do. It's just that I say what I think and they don't."

Bobby is now tearing up. Apparently, she's not feeling too confident in defending her "policies".

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Two itineraries are fine. We'll copy them ourselves."

Yes, Ross, I made another girl cry. Two girls in 15 years. That's not too bad. I think I've made more than 2 boys cry in that time. At least I hope!

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3 Sheeps to the Wind Tour

The Players

Jen - American. 36. Organized, structured, bossy, direct, predisposed to getting car sick and trying to stop smoking. A recipe for disaster.

Elin - Swede. 22. Easy-going party girl. Doesn't feel the need to get involved when there are "too many cooks in the kitchen." Uses a lot of British slang like "Fuck all". Also a recent non-smoker but gladly smokes with me when I decide after 3 days that maybe this isn't the best time to stop.

Isabel - Swiss. 22. English isn't quite good enough for me to figure her out, nor for me to want to bother. She's outdoorsy. She likes staying up late every night watching the stars for hours with guys she has no intention of hooking up with.

Gail - Canadian. 57. Hippy who has built her own ger in her backyard so she could have her own space away from her husband, from whom she is now divorced. Holds her own with the younger crowd. One of those touchy-feely types who must qualify every statement with superfluous information. She gets interrupted a lot because people get tired of waiting for her to finish.

Scott - American. 28. Social. Funny. Everybody's friend. The glue of the group. Wants to make everyone happy. A definite Libra.

Ken - Irish. 31. The only Irishman I've ever met who doesn't know how to take the piss. He's an accountant. Need I say more. Because he has no sense of humor, he can only see in me a controlling, overbearing bitch. Maybe so. Maybe so. We keep our distance.

Baatar - Mongol. 23? Can't remember. Our driver. His English consists of "stop", "eat" and "vodka". Or so we think. It's quite possible that Baatar is fluent, but chooses to keep a low profile.

Of course, I don't know all these things on day 1. But, what with making the guest house owner cry, everyone already knows that I'm the difficult one. I am now 3 hours since waking without a cigarette. Don't I know how to win people over!

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And we are off. Baatar drives west on the road out of Ulaanbaatar until, at some indistinguishable point, he turns off the road and heads south, following the tracks of the previous vehicle. Most of Mongolia is navigated in this fashion.

The first of many times I feel like throwing up I ask Baatar to "stop". He pulls off the dirt path, like he's expecting another car to come along and rear-end us.

While we're all stretching and taking in the first of many varying desert scenes, Scott sprints by the van and looking back yells, "I'm running in Mongolia!"

I go over a small hill to use the facilities. "Hey Scott! I'm peeing in Mongolia!"

We quickly learn that no one wants to take the time to boil water for noodles in the middle of the hot desert. (Those noodles are never eaten.) The food that Elin and I bought is eaten first: gourmet breads, tomatoes, canned mushrooms, cheese, chocolate.

A couple hours after lunch Baatar stops the car and points to the hills. "What? Are we supposed to go there?" He points at his watch. Forty-five minutes. Okay. We're supposed to go there. The granite rock formations of Baga Gazaryn Chuluu glide up out of the dusty desert floor. We all climb to various perches and take in the unexpected and surreal beauty of the Gobi.

Though we have the choice to sleep in a guest house, some people in the group would prefer to camp. Tents are pitched 50 yards from the guest house. It's like camping in your parent's backyard. But I'm not saying nothing. Look at me keeping my mouth shut. Yep, that's right. Ten hour since waking without a cigarette.

After dinner everyone goes on a walk while I pack up the van. Uh, how did this happen? I'm sure I brought it upon myself. I have to know where everything is. Everything has to go where I say it belongs. It's a curse. The curse of the super-organized.

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I pack up the entire van on the second morning. It is a thing of beauty, like a jigsaw where every piece has fit together perfectly. Food and cooking supplies are easily accessible. Sleeping mats and bags fills gaps and create cushions to minimize movement and clanking sounds. Truely, this is a work of art, to be appreciated, to be revelled. Unfortuantely, I think I'm the only connoisseur of efficient packing. Go figure.

There is a cardboard box that doesn't seem to belong to anyone. Further inspection reveals that the box is full of candy, choco-pies and vodka. Baatar gives me a stern "no, no". Humm? Interesting combination.

During lunch a car drives by. Yes, another car. Of course we give a wave. Of course, they stop to pay their respects. Bottles of vodka are opened. Cigarettes are passed around (though not to me). Your average exchange in the middle of the desert. Scott then busts out Russian with them. Mongolians don't always like to admit they can speak Russian, but the older ones usually know, at least, a bit.

Both our van and their jeep drive side by side in the desert for some time. It's like a race you see in the movies, with the desert dust being kicked up by the wind and the back tires. It is perfect. I cannot believe I'm here. I'm driving through the desert in Mongolia!

Today's sightseeing stop is a completely different landscape than yesterday's. Atop a plateau, water and wind have produced huge sand castles of the cliff face. The purples, reds, oranges and yellows stripe and dot the cliffs and desert floor, like G-d has tried to tye-dye the earth.

Tonight we sleep in our first ger. One for the boys and one for the girls. Small beds line the perimeter of the ger and a table and stools mark the middle. The wall (outer barracade might be a better description) is covered with cheap material, like drapes with gaudy flowers.

Outside, there is nothing but desert in every direction. We are all wind-blown and dusty. I prepare a basin of water for the girls to dip our towels in and wipe off the dust. Elin and Gail dip one end of their towels in the basin, wash off, and then dry themselves with the other end. I come back from the outhouse just in time to see Isabel finish wiping herself off and then rinsing her entire dirty towel in the basin water I have yet to use.

"Did you just put your...." I can't even finish the sentence. I'm speechless and annoyed. Two days without a cigarette.

Elin sees what's going on, though Isabel remains oblivious. "Yes, she did."

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It's a short ride to the only town in the desert, Dalanzadgad. The name sounds like at least 2 of the 12 tribes of Israel.

Here, we can restock and have a shower.

At the local market, both Scott and Isabel question my purchase of 6 cans of peas and carrots. (All food costs are shared.)

"Why do we need so much?"

"There are 6 people and we've got like 9 more days. They will be eaten."

"Yeah, but I don't like them."

"Well, I don't like choco-pies or dark chocolate, but I don't say anything when you buy that crap." (I didn't really say "crap".)

The group decision making is a difficult thing. We must all agree on every move that is made. What we eat. When we eat. What to buy. How much money is spent. What is a necessity. What is a luxury that we should do without. This is and will remain the biggest obstacle of spending 2 weeks trapped in a car with 6 strangers. So, let me buy my frickin' peas and carrots and you buy your disgusting dark chocolate and we'll all be happy. Two and a half days without a cigarette. Thank you very much.

The town of Dalanzadgad is the trailer park of the desert. Plots of land are seperated with wooden fences. In fact, from the dirt roads, the only thing you can see are fences and the tops of the gers inside. There is something strange about having a ger fenced in. Aren't these nomadic dwellings? Turns out, they are not. Even in Ulaanbaatar, people have gers on property that is never left. The gers never move. Thus, a ger is like a trailer. It can be moved, but often, it is put in one spot and stays there until a flood or hurricane picks a new location for it.

That night Scott rallies the group for an excursion into town to the Mustang Bar. How often do you get to go drinking at a bar in the middle of the Gobi Desert? But a bar. Hummm? How will I have a drink without a cigarette. Given my mood the past few days, I decide that maybe this isn't the best time for me to stop smoking. I'll take one for the team. Yes, I am a selfless girl.

We order a couple bottles of vodka (total charge = $3) and some juice. After a few rounds, the locals at the next table join us on the dance floor. I have assumed responsibility of the the computer playlist and now the entire bar (all 8 of us) is up and shakin' it. It's the best of American MTV pop: Britney, Justin, Jennifer, Pink, Michael. Isabel tries to get to the computer, but I assure her that it's all taken care of. Don't touch my playlist! No one can dance to fucking Rammstein.

When our local friends have finished off our booze and fags we huddle together and walk down the unlit desert streets. Dogs are barking from behind the wooden fences for which I am now thankful. No one pets a Mongol dog.

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Baatar is not happy that we're all still sleeping. We try to tell him what we did the night before but it's no use. Past tense is a difficult thing to act out, especially when you have a cheap vodka and cigarette hangover.

Because we've all overslept, we have perhaps an hour to view the ice gorge of Yolyn Am. I didn't even know we were coming here today. If I had my own itinerary....

Yolyn Am is way cool. Go look at the pictures. I'm too hungover to write about it.

Back at the car, Ken yells at me for telling him that the box he's trying to put something in is full. "I can figure it out Jen!" Fine, fine, fine. I'll just pout quietly. And when he's looking for the honey for his damn afternoon tea, I'll let him look in every bag and every box, even though I know exactly where it is. He can figure it out. I'm a very mature 36.

The desert floor is, again, different than what I expected. Here it is compact and rocky. This desert doesn't have a whole lot of sand. Purple and brown craggy mountains frame the northern and southern edges of the horizons.

We arrive at the sand dunes of Khongoryn Els (Singing Sands) late in the afternoon, though the sun remains high. Sunset is around 9:30pm with dusk lasting for hours. The sand dunes are the main attraction of southern Mongolia. Looking south, they take up one's entire field of vision, going on for approximately 100 km. I guess this is where all that desert sand ends up.

Our ger faces south, as all gers do. There are no beds. We spread mats on the floor, one next to another. The first person that returns from the WC needs no prompting.

"This one is bad. Lazy lazy outhouse builders."

We all groan. Day 1 we were outside. No rating. Day 2 outhouse got a high rating. It was a new, deep hole. There was no stink and and you couldn't see the refuse on the bottom as there was no refuse on the bottom. Dalanzadgad was okay. But it is in a town. That's never as good as being competely outside. Now it's Day 4 and whoever dug that hole got distracted or bored. He stopped before he began. The hole is maybe 3 feet deep. There it all is. As soon as the sun sets, I can just go outside.

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Day 5 is a rest day. No nausea today, except when I have to use the WC.

Elin, Gail and I do morning desert yoga. It reminds me of that 80s aerobics show where they're on the beach and the three instructors take turns leading low, medium or high impact. The things that stick in my head.

Breakfast is stale bread, again. Usually we disguise breakfast in honey or nutella, but today I don't have to eat with everyone. I can skip breakfast and wait for an early lunch of, that's right, peas and carrots. I'm eating peas and carrots in Mongolia!

We spend most of the day lounging in the ger, the only place where there's shade.

The rest of the group goes on a camel ride in the afternoon. Since I wasn't conferred with and since I'm still pouting, I don't go. I'd prefer to go to the sand dunes closer to sunset anyway. Better light.

It takes about an hour to walk to the dunes. I trudge over sand mounds, go shoeless across a river, weave between more sand mounds, hop over marshy grass knolls before reaching the base of the dunes. The diversity of the terrain in this one hour walk astounds me: sand, hard weeds, mud, grass, flowers, streams.

Once on top of the dunes I giggle. The cool sand squishes between my toes. I am alone for the first time in days and it's quiet. The sun sets behind one thin cloud and everything is changing colors: the sand, the sky, the distant mountains to the north and south. The shadows reach farther eastward and when I am a good 10 feet tall I make my way back to camp.

It's nearly 11pm when I arrive and the group has saved me some dinner. Gail, Scott and Isabel have collected camel dung for a camp fire. I guess I'll stop pouting now. Who's got a cigarette?

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I am watching Ken pack the car and I am dying. Look at those huge gaps of unused space! How can he not know to put the biggest rucksacks on the bottom. He hasn't left any space for the food. If Baatar hits the breaks everything placed haphazardly on top will fly into the back seat, but not before smacking me in the head. Ahhhh! I have to turn away. "Well Judge, he didn't pack the car trunk correctly, so I had to hit him over the head with the frying pan for which he couldn't find space."

It's a long drive out of the desert and I'm in the very back. Not happy. Want to throw up. Crying. Waaaahhhh.

But pee breaks are amazing. The land is now pebble covered and we drive in between chocolate brown hills.

Approaching Arvaikheer we hit our first paved road in a week. All of a sudden the car stops rattling. My boobs stop bouncing. My stomach stops churning. It's something that none of us expect but the second it happens we all stop what we're doing. "What just happened? Ah! Road happened!"

We're in a city, and I use the term loosely.

I meet a strange group of kids outside the government Internet cafe. I think they have developmental problems because one of them keeps fondling herself.

We also discover that there's a bar on the second floor of the public shower. After our dumpling dinner, Scott, Elin and I take a walk back down the street to check out the night life of central Mongolia. The bar is beautifully decorated, with wood paneling and heavy tables. Elin and I have officially given up giving up smoking. We order a couple beers and instead of exact change, the waitress gives me gum. That seems fair.

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We are now officially out of the desert. The landscape has turned light green and yellow. In the grassy meadows are herds of goat, horse and camel. This is the first time I've seen camels that aren't there to assume the tourists. These are real camel herds, trotting across the land, crossing the roads, as real herds so often will do.

The stop at a local family ger camp, farm, area (What would you call it when there are no property markers?) at first seems impromptu. But as the family children line up for pictures, we know that they've been through this routine before. This is an extended family: one set of parents, grown siblings, their spouses and all the kids.

After we watch the horses being milked we are brought inside for some authentic mare's cheese and airak (fermented mare's milk). We all stare at each for a while. Scott and Gail think to break out the phrase books. Scott tries to sell off Elin and Isabel to the single uncle. Ten camels. Everyone laughs.

At some point I need to use the facilities but there are no hills, nothing to go behind. I need my privacy. This is when I am introduced to the greatest invention of all time.

THE PEE COAT!

All Mongolian ger-holds have large, long coats. You put on the coat and go squat anywhere and the coat provides you some privacy. If you don't have a genuine Mongol pee coat, a jacket tied around the waist will suffice.

(Please note that the pee coat is actually an old dell, part of traditional Mongol dress.)

So, Elin and I are outside the ger taking pictures of each other squating in the pee coat and the local women think this is the funniest thing they've ever seen. I've never made a Mongol laugh before. They are cracking up.

"Stop. Stop." they say as they hold their guts. "You're gonna make us pee."

"No problem. Take the pee coat."

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About 20 minutes down the road from the pee coat family, Baatar stops the car at a small stream. That's odd. Nobody asked for a pee break. We all just used the pee coat. He goes down to the stream, dunks his head in the water and lays in the grass.

"Uh, guys. I think Baatar is drunk."

"Well he did have 3 huge bowls of airak."

"Oh great. Our paid driver is drunk off his ass."

"At least he realized it and stopped to sobber up."

"Let's eat."

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We make it to Kharkorin without incident. Nothing like a little processed meat to soak up the alcohol.

Kharkorin was the ancient capital of Mongolia during the reign of Genghis Khan, though some sources say that the city wasn't erected until after his death. But from here, the Mongol empire spread from Beijing to the Caspian Sea.

We visit the Buddhist Monastery Erdene Zuu, which was reopended in 1990. Seems like armies and occupiers like destroying peaceful places of worship. The things men do.

That night we stay up drinking vodka with another tour group we call "the boys". We haven't talked to anyone else in a week.

It is a melancholy sunset; feelings of longing, fortuity and saddness mingle and shmooze. They are the mixer in my cocktail. They are the drag on my cigarette. An old Mongol is riding his horse across the meadow, sitting high in his wooden saddle. Don't take a picture. Just watch.

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Today the landscape changes again to dark green trees covering equally as green grass. Purple and yellow wildflowers sprinkle the meadows. It is a child's crayola picture: blue sky, white cotton ball clouds, trees adorning perfectly convex hills.

There is a hot springs 2 hours from today's destination. Baatar parks high on a hill overlooking the hot springs resort. It looks closed. There are no people in sight. Ken finds some staff and arranges a price. Look! I'm saying nice things about Ken.

Men and women are seperated, in both changing rooms and outside pools. All us ladies are putting on our swimsuits when the female staffer motions "No suits." Huh? But the pools are outside and the fences are low. I ignore her and get in the pool appropriately covered. The other girls follow suit. (Get it? Follow suit?) She doesn't know what to do. I'm telling her bathing suits are okay. No problem. She's saying "no suit, no suit" and then a man peaks around the corner from the boys side. Ah ha!!! Suits stay on.

When we arrive in Tsetserleg, it's a hard rain that's falling. Our gers are in someone's backyard. "The boys" are also here. And while their ger leaks, at least it has a stove. We spend the evening stoking the fire, playing cards and drinking vodka cocktails. I haven't consumed this much vodka since high school. Gail gives me one of those hippy massages. The kind where energy is used instead of one's hands. She's petting me like a cat.

The outhouse here is frightening. There is no door. There are two large slits that are the toilet openings. It's a WC for two. The squat spaces are seperated by thick pieces of wood. But are they thick enough? Has weather and time effected their quality? I stay close to the opening where the door should be and step carefully. Rating of 2.

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We're saying goodbye to the ger owner and everyone is standing outside the van. No one will get in the car. They're all standing there to see who will get in the back seat. We've been randomly switching seats, but it's these types of things that never work out fairly. It's someone's turn for the backseat but they are not making a move. I know it's not me. I've got the front seat today.

"Come on guys. Get in. Elin. You're in the back."

With this, everyone has regained control of their limbs.

The ger owner points at me, says "boss" and giggles.

Now, it's not that I'm really the boss or want to be the boss. What I am is impatient. People need a kick in the pants. Groups need leadership. I don't care who assumes that role as long as it's assumed. People who think that a collection of individuals don't need guidance are the same people who don't mind sitting around for hours waiting for someone else to speak up.

On our way out of town, we stock up on water and other essentials as we don't know what will be available at Tsaagan Nurr (White Lake). Baatar has a worried look on his face as he sees us piling the trunk and spare seat with German pretzels and bottled water. He's trying to tell us something. What? What is this? Your brother? Your brother is sitting in the front seat? Your brother is coming with us? You are our hired driver and you're bringing your brother and his saddle on your job? And what's more, you're putting him in the front seat so that 4 of us can squeeze into 3 bucket seats for a 7 hour drive? Okay. Got it.

The nice people in the group are fine with this. Elin and I are not. The nice and skinny-assed people sit with Baatar's brother in the middle 3 seats. I'm in the front. Elin is in the back.

We are now heading for Tsaagan Nuur. It is here that some of us hope to fulfill our Mongolian horseback riding fantasy.

Alas, Tsaagan Nuur is not what we had hoped for. Yes, it's beautiful, but it is also barren. The hills to the east of the lake (where we are staying) are brown and treeless. The hills far across the lake are forest-covered. How long would it take to get over there? Could we get over there? There are a few sets of tourist gers along the south-east border of the lake but this isn't a place where locals live. It exists only for tourists. Swarms of bugs flitter around each ger, around each breathing body. No one is thinking about staying here long.

But Baatar sure looks happy. What's gotten into him. He's all perky and smiling. Most unlike his usual stoic self. Elin asks why he's cleaning the car.

"Tomorrow UB."

Uh oh.

"No. Tomorrow here."

Baatar is ready to up and leave. He hasn't looked at his itinerary. I guess Bobby didn't give him one. Policy and all. With the help of a translator from another group we tell Baatar that he's staying here 2 days and then taking Isabel and Gail back to UB with him. We show him our itinerary.

Baatar is smiling no more. He thought this was his last day of work. He thought he could fuck off tomorrow. Hired help!

It's raining again. Elin and Isabel have gone off to "the boys" ger. Ken and Gail are sleeping. Scott is writing in his journal about vodka. I'm reading Dosteovsky's, The Idiot, which I've been trying to get through for months. I keep stopping to read other books that I can actually enjoy and finish.

The ger is leaking in the middle, where the cloth flap has been pulled over the stove-pipe opening. The leaking spreads to my bed. With great difficulty, Scott and I move my heavy wooden bed to a dry part of the ger. When Elin comes back we find that the ger is leaking over her bed as well. She and I lift the bed to moved it and the frame falls to pieces. She and I are laughing. Scott is recording the episode in his journal. Ken rolls over and mumbles something about it being too hot and to stop putting wood in the stove. Gail doesn't move. Where's Isabel?

Elin has little choice but to go sleep in "the boys" ger. I'm still laughing watching her move slowly through the rain and dark with the use of her torch, powered by batteries that wouldn't even turn on a digital camera, and her blanket slung over one shoulder. Oh. Here's Isabel. Scott tells us a bedtime story about 3 bears who are real estate developers in Florida. I read a page of Dostoevsky aloud. Scott and Isabel are bored and confused. We all fall asleep to the sound of water dripping from ger canvas to tin pot.

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In the morning, Elin, Isabel, Scott and I decide that we have the best chance of fulfilling our Mongolian horseback riding fantasy back in Tsetserleg or finding a ride to another location. There are very few tourists coming through White Lake. It is not the bustling hub we thought it would be. Tsetserleg is a hub. In fact, Tsetserleg is just like Chicago. Additionally, we had met the Brit owners of the western cafe in Tsetserleg who arrange horseback riding with a local family for $6 a day.

And since Baatar is going back to UB, it shouldn't be a big deal to drive back through Tsetserleg and drop us off.

Now it gets interesting.

With the help of that interpreter who's second language is German, not English, we tell Baatar that we all want to go back to Tsetserleg the next day and then he can continue onto UB.

He says no.

Huh? Isn't his job to drive us where we want to go? Is he not the paid driver?

It's a long and confusing exchange. At one point, Scott takes the itinerary that is being held up as the word of G-d, crumbles it into a tight ball, and throws it angrily away. Sometimes you must show aggression. You go Scott! So very unlike his usual goofy self. I sit back, happy not to the "boss" for this one.

Baatar, the ger owner and the translator are all saying that the road is bad, gone. Baatar is not going that way. But we know this to be bullshit. It hasn't rained in a day and these cars are made for going through water.

We are stunned that Baatar won't fulfill this simple request for us and instead is going to leave us in this place, where the ger owner says it will be 5 days before he can get us a car out. Right! That's 5 days of revenue for him.

There goes Baatar's tip.

While Elin, Isabel, Ken and Gail go on the pre-planned horseback ride, Scott and I decide to hunt down some information about the road to Tsetserleg. We leave the group as they saddle up. We turn our backs on Baatar. Scott is visibly hurt. "Baatar is dead to me."

We walk down the road going from ger to ger. Within an hour we've talked to two tour groups who have come from Tsetserleg and confirm that the road is, indeed, passable. We have also found two possible rides to Tsetserleg for the next day. What is more remarkable is that Scott has used Russian, French and Mongoian to obtain most of this information.

"How do you know French?"

"High school."

"You remember your high school French?"

"Yep."

"Freak."

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We have arranged a ride with some very nice local people who have a sleak, black 4 wheel drive van. Gana and Gana have agreed to take us the 7 hours to Tsetserleg for a mere $110. Yes, we have paid Baatar for the two days it takes to drive back to UB and we're still paying $110 to go the same way.

The Ganas are 2 hours late in picking us up. We drive 5 minutes and then they stop the car and all go into what we think is a restaurant.

"Have they just gone in for breakfast and left us in the car?"

This does not look good.

In Tariat, the town that marks the beginning of the lake and park area, the Ganas put us in another van (one that is not nearly as nice) with 2 more people who are paying $20 a piece. These people are now making $150 to drive us 7 hours. We are furious. I'm ready to sit on the side of the road. I won't do it. I won't go. I'll sit here all night. But the 2 others (Howie and Kathy - a lovely American couple) are arguing the other side. "It's only $5. Let's just go." Howie isn't feeling well. Their fate is now dependent upon us. What can you do? We pay. I feel violated. We vow not to mention it ever again.

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Finally in Tsetserleg, we get rooms at the hotel next door to the Fairfield Cafe and the only espresso machine in all of the Arhangai province. We haven't had real beds in weeks. Visions of soft pillows and warm lattes fill my thought bubbles.

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At over 12 pages, this should be enough to keep you busy for a while. Stay tuned for more adventures in Tsetserleg and beyond including fire, flood, and fairy tales.

(Is this one too long and boring. I really want some editorial feedback. Don't be shy. Mom, Dad - Do you even read this?)

Part 15 - Huang Shan to Beijing, China

http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/1698767

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May 25 - June 11, 2006
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GETTING THERE

The first leg of my two day train journey is 20 hours: midnight to 8pm. I have a lower berth, meaning I can sit up in bed. This is not the case with the middle and upper berths. The aisle does have some fold-down chairs, and I stretch and smoke in the areas between cars.

I arrive in Yingtan (Jiangxi Province) to a downpour. It's a transit junction and so small that there's barely a mention of it in The Book. I let a tout take me to a hotel because she has an umbrella, she says we can walk from here, and she is a she. Not surprisingly, it's a seedy place with peeling paint, moldy walls and a toilet that necessitates thick-soled shoes.

They hand me the Chinese check-in form and are confused when I tell them "I can't read Chinese. I don't understand." Well ain't this a wrench in the works. I don't think they've ever filled out this form for a foreigner. More likely, I don't think this hotel is authorized to take foreigners and they don't know how to accurately lie.

I pick up my bags and go two doors down to an identical seedy hotel where they have figured out how to lie to the government.

The owner comes to warn me about not keeping my things near the window as the screen is ripped, all the while staring at my after-shower, bra-less chest. I cross my arms indignantly and give him an acrimonious eye. Men! Yuck!

It's still raining the next morning when I taxi to the bus station. The streets are flooded. People are pushing bicycles and scooters through knee-high pools where the roads dip. I am relieved to see that the roads outside the city are fine. The way they drive in perfect conditions is already hazard enough.

Three hours later in Jingdezhen, I switch back to a train. In the ticket line, a man in military dress helps me buy my ticket to Tunxi (Anhui Provnice) and waits with me in the lounge. He then carries my pack onto the train, puts it in the overhead and when we reach our destination, he carries it outside and finds me a share taxi to Tangkou. He asks if I have a friend here. (This is all going on in Chinese). No one here really understands that someone, let alone a woman, will or can travel on their own. "No friend. I am one person. I go Huang Shan. I go Shanghai. I go Beijing. It's okay. Thank you."

I HATE HUANG SHAN

Huang Shan is one of the most famous mountains in China, consisting of 72 peaks, the highest reaching 1800 meters. Rich tourists stay at expensive hotels near the summit and rise early morning to get the best views of the mountain tops poking out of the quilty clouds.

I take a cheap hotel room in Tangkou (the gateway town to Huang Shan) because it has a western toilet, en suite!

The fact that it's Saturday has escaped me. When you travel, everyday is Saturday. But Saturday at a famous Chinese tourist attraction is not a good thing. The parking lot is full of buses. The Chinese people get off the bus and race each other to the bathroom. I am not kidding. These woman are running to get ahead of all the other woman on their bus. It's like the bell for recess has just sounded and they want to be first on the swings.

At the ticket booth am I floored, shocked, outraged at the entrance price. My guide book is a bit old, yes, but a 100% increase seems exorbitant. TWO HUNDRED YUAN. That's $25. What does this place think it is? Disneyland? There are no rides here. There are no chocolate covered bananas. No one is dressed up in funny costumes. Well...that's debatable.

I have come all this way. What am I going to do? Turn around? I am not in a good mood.

I start up the cement steps of the eastern route. I try to keep up my pace so that the Chinese crowd behind me doesn't catch up. Soon enough I run up against the Chinese group in front of me and the 3 hour ascent becomes a steady, unceasing line of people.

At one point an American-Chinese girl is crying and yelling at her boyfriend in English. "Some people aren't meant to do this type of thing you fatty." She's crying about climbing stairs and calling HIM fat. The guy looks at me knowing that I'm the only person within earshot that has understood the petulant little bitch. What a fun day for them both.

The summit is windy. The sky is an unhealthy white, diminishing what would otherwise be a striking, dramatic panorama. What a fun day for me!

The western route is another 4 hours down. Restaurants and souviner shops are on paved terraces that are junctions to other mountain paths. However, my goal now is to get out. On stretches where the stairs are wider than four buttocks, I hop by high-heels, push past people with canes, excuse my way through friends walking 3 abreast. The narrow passages are traffic jams. Analogous to their driving habits, individuals will walk in the oncoming traffic's lane because, well, they are simply more important that the rest of us. They refuse to see the problems it causes for everyone left in their selfish wake.

By the time I reach the bottom my legs are mush, jello, instant noodles. I am exhausted and pissed off. Today sucked. Huang Shan sucks. Mountain stairways suck. Chinese tour groups suck.

Pave it. Rail it. Charge an entrance fee.

I hate Huang Shan!


I HATE NANJING

"The Rape of Nanking" by Iris Chang, is a must read. It is a poignant and harrowing telling of the Japanese invasion of China and the brutal massacre of nearly 400,000 Chinese in a matter of months. (The author, a Bay Area resident, killed herself in late 2004.)

This is the reason I want to come to Nanjing. I am expecting some big emotional journey into China's past; a glimpse into what many call the Asian Holocaust. What I get instead is a closed museum.

Whether or not I know the exact day of the week is besides the point. I know that museums are often closed on Mondays, but The Book says the Massacre Museum is open every day.

Why don't I stay one more day? I don't know. The foreign student dormatory is expensive. My tolerance for being stared at is waning. I am in need of a big city where I can get lost, where there will be other foreigners drinking beer at some cool hostel . Besides the Sun Yatsen Memorial, this town isn't anything special. It's big and dirty without much character. They sky is hazy white. You're average Chinese city. I need to move on.

But while I'm here...

CCTV 9 is the one English TV station in all of China and it's usually only available in larger cities. I spend the two evenings in my expensive room, watching "isn't China great" news and various talk shows.

Some of my favorite shows are:

Culture Express: Hosted by Ji Xiaojun, a suave guy with a deep voice. His hands alternate between neatly folded in front of him or straight out in front as if he's directing aircraft. Check him out at:
http://www.cctv.com/program/cultureexpress/20040715/101795.shtml. This show focuses on aspects of national entertainment, the arts and history: the history of jade, calligraphy, an all-girl band playing modern music on ancient instruments.

Getaway: A travel show hosted by a beefy African-American man who speaks great Chinese. They never show a map or spell the name of the place they're talking about. I usually spend the 1/2 hour looking through my guide book trying to figure out where they're talking about.

Up Close: Hosted by Eyee Hsu, a Chinese-American and Berkeley grad. http://www.cctv.com/program/UpClose/20050321/100283.shtml . This is a talk show with guests like American architect, Benjamin Wood, who designed the new Xin Tian Di entertainment and dining area in Shanghai. The show trys to get the audience involved by asking questions and having them write their answers on individual whiteboards. (On another show, at least one audience member thought that you could contract AIDS through kissing.)

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Waiting for my train to Shanghai, I sit in front of the train station. It's a huge public square, as are most areas in front of Chinese train stations. People come and sit next to me and look over my shoulder at what I'm reading. It's not like they can understand it. They just want to take a look at what the white person is doing. Sometimes, they'll stand 3 feet in front of me and stare. A father is trying to get his toddler to come stand next to me so he can take a picture. Not that he's asking me if this is alright.

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SHANGHAI - NOT BAD

I have now been travling for 8 months (not including my 2 month stint at home) and I have never, not once, made a reservation. I arrive at a youth hostel that has been recommended by a fellow traveler and am dumbfounded when they tell me they are full. "What do you mean FULL? What is this FULL?"

In a small town, this isn't a problem. You walk down the street to the next place. But in a city, this can present somewhat of a larger problem. I'm not about to wander the streets of Shanghai at 5pm with my full pack hoping to come across a youth hostel.

What to do? What to do? (My guide book, by the way, has very few budget options and has proven unreliable in the accomodation sphere. 　My feelings of resentment towards this outdated paperweight have, in fact, been increasing steadily for some time.)

But wait! I hear there's this thing called The Internet and it has all sorts of usefull information. We'll give that a go.

Five minutes in a taxi and I am checking into the Hiker Youth Hostel, where I've made a reservation by phone not 10 minutes prior.

I'm in culture shock. I haven't been around this many foreigners for weeks. I don't even know what to say to these strange creatures. I slink into the corner of the TV room and watch Friends for 5 hours. (Someone has just purchased a pirated version of the entire series on DVD.) Go Team Aniston!

It takes me another day or so before I feel comfortable enough with the natives to make contact. They seem harmless enough, but you never know what lurks beneath the veneer of beer, pool and small-talk. I approach with caution.

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It's good to know the the US has once again staffed their international embassies with knowledgeable, competent people. I pay a visit my country on the 8th floor of a department store. Where else would US Citizen Services be in China?

"I'm going to Mongolia. Do I need a visa ahead of time or is it visa on arrival? I ask.

"You need to get a visa from the Mongolian Consulate."

"Are you sure? Because I read online that this was no longer necessary. I just wanted to double check with you."

The helpful staff person returns 5 minutes laters with a print out from the Internet.

"You're right. Americans no longer need visas for Mongolia."

"Well. I'm glad I came down here to help you do your job."

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Shanghai, on the whole, is an okay place. Public transportation is fairly extensive. It's a good city for walking and maintains a certain charm and character that is...well...un-Chinese.

Here, I am a true tourist and my favorite attraction is the ultra-cheesy Bund Tourist Tunnel. This tube connects The Bund (The riverside walkway where you view all the modern buildings on the opposite side.) on the west side of Huangpu River with the Pudong Area to the east. The mode of transportation isn't a regular train car. Disneyland's People Mover comes to mind but it's been so long since I've been to Disneyland, I don't know if this is an accurate parallel. It's a plastic and glass box on tracks. As you inch through the tube, a recorded voice will say something like "Rain and Thunder" and then the walls will be lit with blue and white neon lights with accompanying sound effects. In the next section, seperated by a drape, the voice will say "Flying Lights" and you will be treated to what some lighting expert thinks is the visual and aural equivalent. Another section of the tunnel has inflated cartoon-like characters. I have yet to figure out the connection with the light show. This $5 round trip takes perhaps 45 seconds each way. Definitely worth it.

While I resent paying high prices to look at ruins, temples, and paved mountain paths, I love doling it out to go to the top of very very high things: The Eiffel Tower, The World Trade Center (Am I allowed to bring that up anymore?), many a church spire in Europe, Taipei 101.

The Oriental Pearl TV Tower is that funky looking structure with the orbs. At 468 meters high (1,536 feet), it is the world's third tallest TV and radio tower. Toronto and Moscow are #1 and #2. I pay my 100 yuan ($12.50) and take the ear-popping, high-speed elevators to the top. Of course, this is Asia. Not only is the horizon masked in brown haze, buildings across the street are out of focus.

I take the tourist tunnel back to The Bund. The sun has set and the city lights that characterize the Shanghai skyline are ablaze . I'm in Shanghai. Not bad at all.


SUZHOU

Suzhou is about an hour and a half north of Shanghai and is labeled "The Venice" (Italy, not California) of China. With canals and traditional Chinese gardens, it is said to be a worthwhile visit.

I am with a girl I met at my youth hostel. She's flying from place to place in China, hitting all the big spots in a matter of weeks. She doesn't speak a word of Chinese. "Ask them what time the train returns. Ask them if we can buy a round trip now. Ask them if we can stand up on the train. Ask them how often the buses run." How would she ever manage to do this on her own? I am trying to get us tickets to Suzhou and back so that she can catch her 5pm overnight bus to Beijing, but it's Saturday and tickets are hard to come by. We can take a bus there and getting a return train ticket later shouldn't be a problem. So we are told. Even so, we have about 2 hours to see everything.

Venice? I don't think so. The canals are confined by dirty, white, cement walls. The water is brown and uninviting. And besides the few streets that remain designated for tourism, the remainder of the city is modern and nondescript.

All Chinese gardens look exactly the same: cobbled walkways, ponds, small wooden bridges, well-groomed tress and shrubs, gazebos. It is truly lovely and if it weren't Saturday in China, it could be a place of great tranquility. Nevertheless, I am not paying 70 yuan to see a garden that looks exactly like the garden I just paid 70 yuan to see.

I wait outside the second garden, sip a Sprite, sit on a fake Chinese rock and watch the tour groups take their tour group photographs in front of the garden entrance.

Of course, Dory gets lost in the garden and we miss our train back to Shanghai. (I never think it's a good idea to venture far off on a big travel day, but I keep my mouth shut. This is her deal.) She's crying in the ticket line while I try to convey the importance of us getting to Shanghai right away. I fail miserably. But a generous, and more importantly, English speaking young man comes to our rescue. He explains our situation to the ticket taker. No go. He walks us to the bus station and explains our situation to this ticket taker. The earliest we can get on a bus is 3:45 which would, most likely, put us in Shanghai about 15 minutes after Dory's bus leaves for Beijing. Dory is still crying. "Let's just take the bus. If you're late, you're late. You buy a ticket for the next day. It's only money. This is not the worst thing that could happen."

Dory gets lucky. The bus ride is fast and she makes it 5 minutes before the bus leaves. She tells me the hostel she's staying at in Beijing, knowing that I'm heading that way in the next day or so. Now I know which hostel to avoid.

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TOILETS

I say that if a country has good roads, it should have good toilets. Sadly, this is not the case in China. Roads help make money. Toilets don't.

Normal places like guest houses and restaurants usually have squat toilets. Places that cater to westerners will have western toilets. We've been through this before. What I haven't mentioned are public toilets, roadside toilets and even some toilets in hotels that cater only to Chinese.

The Trough Toilet - A trough runs parrallel to the wall. Waist-high walls act as stall seperators. There are no doors. You crouch across the trough with one side on your body next to the back wall. Would should happen with the trough toilet is that water flows from one end of the room to the other, taking away the refuse. There is no individual flushing mechanism. What actually happens is that crap sits there because someone is too cheap to have the water running. Even when water is running, most often there isn't enough force to move anything. What to do when you're in a situation like this? Hold your breath and don't look down!

Public Squat Toilets - On my drive from Shanghai to Beijing I walk into the "bathroom" and find 4 woman squating side by side. No stall seperators. No doors. One woman is changing her sanitary napkin. She leaves the old one on the floor. This is no place to be shy. Nor is it a place to loose your balance.

Even if a squat toilet is clean, it will still stink. All squat toilets stink. Western toilets don't. I have no idea why. While some people say that squat toilets are more sanitary because you don't have any part of your body touching it, I say, "Yes, but no one ever misses when using a western toilet."

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BEIJING

Ever since entering China, a popular topic of traveler conversation has been the various changes going on in Beijing due to the upcoming Olympics. Beijing locals refer to this as, "Er Ling Ling Ba." That's "Two, Zero, Zero, Eight."

It is now illegal to spit in Beijing. I haven't seen this enforced, but there is less spitting here than in rural places. People rarely spit on the floor of overnight buses going to or coming from Beijing.

It is now illegal to smoke in hospitals. It took the eyes of the world to focus on Beijing for these people to realize that maybe cancer causing behavior should be avoided in places where people are trying to heal.

Wearing your pajamas in public is being discouraged.

A coal burning plant near Beijing has recently been shut down as one part of an on-going effort to decrease the air pollution.

By making these reforms, the government is admitting that the habits of the Chinese people are unacceptable and sub-standard compared to the western world.

Other intesesting facts:

Dust storms have been common this spring. These storms coat the city and make it hard to breath. Beijing is blaming Mongolia. Isn't that cute. Blaming a country for wind.

For the two week duration of the Olympics, local residents will not be allowed to drive. It will all be taxis and buses, at least in Central Beijing. Imagine anyone telling an LA resident that they can't drive for 2 weeks.

I will watch with great curiosity to see how Beijing handles the influx of people and pressure. My guess is that they'll try to keep visitors as far away from locals as possible. But do these people want to see the real Beijing? It's doubtful. You want real? Go to a local internet cafe where the guy on your right is smoking , hacking up some flem, playing video games while the guy on your left is smoking, loudly slurping down some instant noodles and looking at porn. This is China.

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Have I talked about my compass before? I would say that a compass is one of the best travel tools one could possibly have. It is best utilized, not in the mountains as you might think, but in the city. In Nanjing, a hotel tout tried to take me to a hotel she said was south of the train station (according to my map). But when we left the train station, she starts walking north. Thanks to the compass, I know this isn't the way I want to go, and I leave her behind.

In Beijing, I find myself on the map and walk west, in the direction of the main street and the center of town. Never take a taxi that's waiting inside the station. They refuse to use the meter and will try to take advantage of your inexperience in a new city. My taxi ride to Leo Hostel was less than half the price quoted inside the bus station.

Leo Hostel is another happening spot. (Dory is at the Red Lantern, all the way across town.) Here, they organize tours to various sections of The Wall, Chinese Opera and Acrobatic Shows, tickets to Mongolia, and provide free movies and cheap beer.

The Great Wall of China

I immediately sign up for a tour to the "Secret Wall". Only available at Leo Hostel, a group of 10 is taken 2 1/2 hours outside the city to an area where The Wall is in it's original state. Vegetation grows wildly on the foot path and stones are loose, missing or piled haphazardly. There are no safety railings and often the side walls are completely missing.

It's a 30 minute walk up a hillside before you reach the ruins. In our group is a rather large girl (and it's not me!) who is having difficulty getting up the hill. She needs to stop every 10 feet and wait several minutes to catch her breath. She has only brought one small bottle of water for a 3 hour hike. I have 3 liters. I am surprised that she doesn't know that hiking The Wall is a strenuous activity and that no one at the guest house mentioned that to her. I'm the only person that waits with her. I don't know why I do this. You can leave her alone.

It's been well over an hour when we reach the top and the rest of the group is waiting. No one is happy about this situation. But the walking is easier now. A little up. A little down. And everyone wants to stop to take pictures.

The whole thing takes maybe 4 hours with frequent stops. Far too many for my taste. The sky matches the color of the stones, which match the color of my outfit. Everything blends together. The pictures are crap. But it's a nice day out. There isn't one souviner vendor in sight. Nor are there any buses or megaphones or high heels.

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The Milk Fiasco

I have been craving milk for weeks now. I don't usually drink milk at all. Maybe a little cream cheese or some cream in my coffee. But if I'm craving it my body must be telling me something. This is not the first time I've tried to buy milk but it's never worked out. Here's why...

(In case you might have forgotten, bold and italics means Chinese is being spoken.)

"I want milk. I don't want apple milk. I don't want watermelon milk. I don't want fruit juice milk. I want MILK. Do you have?"

"Yes, I have."

I buy it, crack the bottle, take one taste and start yelling at the woman.

"This is not milk! It has fruit juice. It has sugar. You are a stupid egg."

I leave the open bottle and walk off in a huff.

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The Travel Lull

I have hit a travel lull. This is my term. If you hear anyone else use it, know that it came from me. A travel lull is an affliction affecting long term travelers where it is impossible to keep up a high level of energy and excitement about everything and everyplace. In normal life, some may call this a rutt. However, you can easily put an end to a travel lull by going to a place that is different (in feel or culture rather than geography) than the places you've been or by drastically changing the types of activities in which you've been partaking. I have been in China for almost 2 months, it is stinking hot in Beijing, it takes forever to get anywhere in this city and I don't feel like doing anything.

I sleep late, have coffee and read, check email, have breakfast, read, maybe watch a chick flick (which is only possible to do early in the day when all the boys are out), take a nap. Oh, and I'm drinking with 20-somethings and watching the World Cup with a bunch of Brits who care about the game. Kill me now.

Understandably, I feel a strong sense of obligation to see all the major sights. It's a tacit tourist contract that must be fulfilled. Failing to do so would deem me an incomplete person, creating a cultural blackhole in my otherwise voluminous itinerary.

Tiananmen Square - It take me 1/2 hour to figure out how to cross the street. As the American architect, Benjamin Wood, said, "Beijing is ruled by cars." The enormity of this cement field is powerful. As a westerner, I can't get that image out of my head. You know the one. I wonder about the Chinese's love of Mao. He remains a hero. (Another great book on China is "Wild Swans" by Jung Chang. As far as I know this book has not been translated into Chinese. And while many westerners know if it, most Chinese have never heard of it. I did see it in a English book store in Beijing. Ms. Chang is not well liked in China.)

Chinese Acrobats - This is cool. Certain parts are what I imagine Chinese gay porn would look like. (Go look at the pictures.)

Summer Palace - It's an hour and a half bus ride out here. Beautiful but...pave it, rail it, charge an entrance fee. Half the buildings are under construction in preparation for 2008.

If fact, most of Beijing is under construction. (Make that most of China.) Look in any direction in Beijing and you will, without fail, see at least 5 cranes assiduously poking at the firmament.

Forbidden City - It's nearly 3pm when I force myself to leave the hostel. Walking towards the entrance a local woman says "hello". I give her a curt "No!" "I just want to practice English," she tells me. "Yeah. Right." I don't even slow my pace. For all I know, it's her job to distract me while her friend takes a razor blade to my back pocket. More likely, she wants to sell me something.

Also called The Palace Museum, the Forbidden City is the largest and best-preserved collection of ancient buildings in China, probably because this is where Mao lived curing the Cultural Revolution. And yes, it's big. This seems to be the primary feature of China's attractions. It's concrete (the secondary feature). Unfortunately, I don't find the architecture that interesting or different from any other old Chinese building. There are no trees. No green whatsoever. Again, half the buildings are under contruction. Pave it, rail it, charge an entrance fee.

Mind you, my profuse negativity comes from the fact that I am in the middle of a travel lull. Not much you can do short of leave town.

What a grand idea. Not only will I leave town. I'll leave the country..........