The Dumb Laowai

Damned internal alarm clock! The wake-up call isn't until 7:00, but I keep waking up at 6:00. I lay in bed, thinking of only three things. What's breakfast going to be like? Who went for karaoke last night? How much will it hurt when I roll over?

The answers couldn't possibly come in the same order. C - It hurt like hell. A - Breakfast was crap. B- No one admitted to it. Bets are still on if we can prove it.

I know that the camel ride slightly aggravated my posterior discomfort, but it wasn't very taxing, overall. I'm quite amazed then, when I finally decide to test the water, that every part of me still demands to be put out of its misery. Ass, I can understand, though I'm pleased that scabs have replaced the oozing sores. Back, I can also understand, since I've had some injuries. The thighs just come as a total surprise.

I DON'T WORK OUT. Other than 12 oz. curls, I haven't done anything physically taxing in over two years, at first due to accident-related injuries, followed by habit-related laziness. I fully understand that physical effort will take its toll, but how could a three hour horse ride reduce my will to live two days later?

I considered this question as I duck-walked to the shower. A relaxing, hot shower started to make things a little better, soothing muscles and calming the mind. Am I really getting that old? Will it take months for bruises to heal?

I once had a teacher who explained that, past puberty, we begin dieing. Once we're past our prime, the body stops putting much energy into repairing the damages we incur daily. That's why a broken bone for a college student is a six week inconvenience, whereas it's a seemingly eternal, life-threatening situation for an 80 year-old.

I'm now at the mid-point. I'm not the normal college age, but I'm not 80 quite yet. However, I had better start thinking about non-skid soles for my shoes, because the downhill grade seems to be getting a little steeper every year. I'm going to start taking care of myself, watching my diet and my alcohol intake, exercising, generally, living right. Aaagghh, I've got a few more years of partying left in me. I'll worry about it later.

The shower washed away all negative effects of the trip, except for the legless feeling. I quickly dress and head downstairs for the buffet. Baotou is an even bigger city than HoHot, approximately two million people. This puts me into a torn frame of mind. The breakfast, if anything should be better, but how could I expect better than yesterday? I quickly find out that each day is totally unrelated to any other.

I had arrived first, apparently early enough to irritate some of the staff. Of course, they had been there much earlier than I, so, perhaps their surliness was due more to lack of sleep than having to deal with an aging, limping laowai at 7am. If I was the cause of their displeasure, they accomplished total vengeance within a few minutes. That's how long it took me to search the buffet and ask each employee for coffee, with no positive results.

It's far from the first choice of discerning breakfast diners but, having lived in Atlanta for a few years, I've come to appreciate the versatility of Coca-Cola. On this day, it was to serve as a coffee substitute and I promptly got two glasses of the go-juice. If only those good people made a substitute for baozi.

This particular buffet looked more like a salad bar than a satisfying, grease-filled offering. My doctor had warned me not to consume raw vegetables that I had not washed myself and, in this case, I was only too glad to take his advice. The only green things I want to eat for breakfast are inside my omelet.

The entire tour took on a weary outlook as we entered the buses with minimal caffeine intake. The promise of a local museum did not help our enthusiasm levels. As I said, Baotou consists of approximately two million people, very few of whom care about museums. My hometown, Rockford, Illinois, has never grown larger than 150,000 people, yet it boasts a museum far superior.

We wandered through two small floors of miscellaneous exhibits, without helpful guides and able to read every eighth sign. All others were in Chinese, which is challenging to decipher, and the Mongolian script, which makes Arabic look simple. As I recall, there were a few dinosaurs, some weapons, a lot of revolution photos and a small gift shop. We got our money's worth from our free admission.

I did take away one lasting impression though. I've always admired the toughness of the Mongolian people. Nothing ever came easy here. This was driven home by one simple, small display. I saw numerous further examples, but it only took one to remind me that "These guys were bad-asses." I had come upon a knife and a leather scabbard that were intriguing. The knife was large and sturdy; a serious tool, but it was the scabbard that absolutely stunned me.

I'm no archaeologist, so I'm sure that my conclusion is incredibly flawed, but I still like the visual that hit me. On the side of each leather scabbard was an additional sleeve, holding chopsticks. Kill it and eat it where it falls. That was the picture in my mind. I assume that there were usually a few intermediary steps, but the visual has stuck with me. That scabbard showed me the entire scope in one small package. Kill, eat. I'd probably have to go on a retreat to have any hope of explaining how striking that image was to me, but I'm not really sure it's all that important. You have to admit, though; those bastards were tough.

Another non-descript lunch later; we were headed for some more cultural activities. I've always found these to be a little on the boring side. How interesting can it possibly be, and how much are you really going to learn from a tour guide just going through the motions? As it turns out, a lot more than with a tour guide who doesn't even recognize the motions. In her normal, disinterested manner, she basically informed us that "We've arrived at xxx. Somebody (married, died, fought, built or destroyed something) here. Enjoy yourselves and be back at the bus at xx:00."

We visited a Buddhist temple armed with such staggering information, only to find out later that 90% of it had been built last year. The original was destroyed during the revolution in the 1940s. At another cultural stop we were allowed to climb a tall grass mound that was some guy's tomb. No pamphlets, commentaries or signs that we could read. We were simply doing our lemming imitation all across Mongolia.

The last stop was to be a working factory, which certainly sounded like a snoozer. The factory lived up to expectation. They produced a variety of items, including knives and swords, stuffed animals, paintings and cashmere clothing, but it was very low-key and lasted only ten minutes. However, even the most determined non-shopper couldn't have gotten through the gift shop gauntlet in less than twenty. Apparently this is the real purpose of the visit. I think we were there for almost two hours.

We saw enough knives to hold a large show, which was timely, since I had recently lost mine and couldn't find anything decent in Beijing. It was all I could do to walk out of there without nine or ten. It was slightly easier to decide that a sword was probably not very practical. The cashmere shop was at least 5,000 square feet and stocked with everything. I'm not really a cashmere kind of guy, but even I knew that $50 was pretty damn good for a sweater. Unfortunately, this is when I reverted to my local mindset and became convinced that I could find better and cheaper elsewhere. I didn't stop to think that we would not see any elsewheres.

The grocery store was very intriguing, offering more than seventy different flavors of mutton jerky, as well as a like variety of milk wines and other delicacies. Many of us stocked up on the wines and spent the rest of the time tasting the mutton until it was time to leave. It was off to another dinner, one that promised a little break from our dining monotony. We were to have a hot-pot dinner.

Still wondering about the milk wine? None of us was very keen to actually find out the secret. We'd all heard the history of fermented mare's milk as a Mongolian staple, but there were also a lot of sheep. Neither source bore investigation since we liked the wine (previously referred to as moonshine) and didn't want to be put off by manufacturing details.

I know that most readers are wondering why I have referred to wine as moonshine. They couldn't be farther apart, right? Here, wine is a more generic term, meaning "this will get you drunk." Anything alcoholic is wine, or jiu, pronounced jeeoh. The first word tells you how dangerous it is. Beer is pi (pee) jiu. At or near the top of the scale is the dreaded bai (bye) jiu. The danger to initiates, other than the taste and pickling properties, is that this simply means "white wine." I can't really avoid using the word in the future, so please remember that wine just means booze. Even the milk wines varied from 22% to 58% alcohol levels.

We were now back in HoHot, and everyone was a bit excited, anticipating coffee in the morning. It's funny how the smallest things can color the memories of an entire vacation. Coffee is one of those small things with enormous power. But now, dinner.

Hot-pot is a style of dining more than a dish. A large metal bowl of boiling soup is set flush into the tabletop and various raw items are ordered for you to throw in. In this case, our bowl was partitioned and contained both mild and spicy broths. The ten of us proceeded to throw in mutton and various vegetables, scooping out ladlefuls every few moments and throwing in more. It was delicious.

It makes for a very active meal. You're always passing dishes of ingredients or feeding the pot yourself. You're eating, laughing at stupid stories from the day and always pouring beer for your neighbors (you should never pour your own beer in such situations - that's the other guy's job.) Because every restaurant I've seen uses 4oz. glasses, it's never-ending.

It's a shame that this type of restaurant will never make it in the U.S. If we can and do sue for coffee we spill on ourselves, what chance do you have of being insured when you put large pots of boiling liquids at every table? I won't even mention the heater beneath the table to keep things bubbling. People are constantly claiming to have found a mouse or a finger in their food, often disproved because it hadn't been cooked the same way as the food. Imagine if you could slip something into the pot and cook it right at the table? If you ever have a chance, try the hot-pot, but don't expect to do it in the U.S.

Fat, happy and tired, we headed to our hotel. We knew about the bar quirks and were prepared with our bottles of wine, as well as a new card game we'd learned on the bus. No weird karaoke bars here and coffee in the morning, even if I did have to walk past a dish of sheep guts. Our standards were dropping fast.

As we began to wrap up and call it a night we heard initial reports of the evening's bar excursion. The well-informed crew had found a hip-hop club in HoHot, Inner Mongolia. No wonder the world hates us.

I've had problems loading pictures onto this server lately. If it doesn't start working soon, I'll look for another host. Any recommendations would be appreciated.

I had gone to bed feeling absolutely no part of my body except for those that were horse-damaged. Nothing indicated a good night to come; pain, concrete mattress, having to sleep on my stomach out of courtesy to my roommate (I snore like a shipful of drunken sailors – I’ve actually had neighbors complain before.) Yet, it all worked out beautifully. My posterior was too sore to sleep in a normal position and I was too worn out to care about the mattress.

I slept like a baby and awoke feeling like a new man. At least I felt like a new man until I tried to roll over. Every part of my body screamed for euthanasia, but my mind was sharp, so I laid there for a while and mentally reviewed my vacation so far. I came to a few conclusions that had escaped me while the torture had been ongoing.

Pain and discomfort will break down a lot of social boundaries. The night before, someone I’d known for a day had given me a graphic description of the state of his own ass. Since I was in the same situation, I didn’t find it disturbing at the time. Actually, it was somewhat reassuring to know that I wasn’t the only who looked like he’d met a rabid cheese-grater. He was worried about infection and I was glad to say that I had packed a nice, little medical kit. He was grateful for the Neosporin, which he would return this morning.

Since I was now clear-headed, I began to worry. How many other people did he tell? Would there be any Neosporin left for me? Would I now be forced to hear multiple bloody ass stories? I truly hoped for the reappearance of normal male restraint in such matters.

I also realized that I would not see anything on this trip but tourist traps. It would be impossible, as I suppose it is for most tour groups. The realization hit hard though, because I had never thought about it before. A group of 130 people on three buses simply can not go anywhere rustic or authentic. It can’t be accommodated by anyplace other than those set up for large amounts of people. I felt a sudden urge to slip away from the tour for a while, but the operators had planned well. Every night we would be 200 miles away, in an unnamed hotel. I was stuck.

I laid there a while, looking for a bright side, before I realized that I could still beat the hordes to the breakfast buffet. My hopes weren’t very high regarding the quality, but I’d be damned if I was going to stand in line for bad food. I went downstairs and got a very pleasant surprise. Various breads and rolls, baozi, eggs and COFFEE! This was heaven. I even tried a few, safe-looking local dishes, mainly vegetable I think. I steered clear of the chafing dish labeled “Sheep Guts.” They didn’t look any better than the tubful I had seen yesterday, soaking in water and sitting on the ground in the sun.

Being one of the first arrivals, I was able to absorb a few cups of coffee and sit back for the floor show. I watched our group stagger in by ones and twos, the sorriest looking bunch imaginable. A call for bingo at the rest home has people moving faster, showing more agility and moaning substantially less. 130 people had magically aged 60 years overnight. I knew that I was one of them, but up until that point, I thought I just felt like crap; I had no idea that I probably looked worse.

Since I’d awoken early, I was ahead of the pack and stepped outside for a cigarette in the sunshine and to make a few notes. I had given up on notepads as too inconvenient and had bought a small MP3/pocket recorder. I was walking around the front of the hotel recording my observations and, when I stopped, noticed a very stern guard at the entrance. He stared at me as if he was wondering whether to call the police or conduct the body cavity search himself.

I remembered that I was in a communist country and that we had to have special travel permits to come to this area, so I didn’t take his attitude too lightly. I looked right back at him and started to record again, hoping that a blatant display would show that I had nothing to hide. I later realized how lucky I was that this had worked, because I had nothing left to say and simply said on tape that I was talking just to put the guard at ease. That probably wouldn’t have gone over too well back at the station.

The rest of the group finally started to arrive. On an organized tour, the schedule is God. Wash, eat, perform medical self-treatments, pack and get to the bus in ninety minutes. Being professionals, I would assume that the operators know that this is not going to happen on day one post-horse. We left thirty minutes late, which was probably their plan anyway.

In what was to prove a daily pattern, we were told that we were to have a two hour bus ride, followed by lunch. Groans aplenty. The trip was fairly uneventful, driver antics aside. We traveled a four lane highway the entire time, so even these were not quite as traumatic as the day before. Then again, maybe we were just a little jaded.

Lunch was not worthy of mention, but our departure was interesting. We were shown to a large, three story restaurant that does good business in parties and wedding receptions. This was one of China’s three “Golden Weeks”, when much of the country had the week off, and it was a popular time for weddings, often multiple weddings. Our arrival had been earlier than the wedding groups, but to leave, we had to march through a large, full-blown multiple-wedding reception in progress, as well as by some other parties in side rooms. That many foreigners walking through had to portend some specific future for the marriages, but I wasn’t about to stick around and ask whether or not it was good.

Another thirty minutes brought us to the Sounding Sands, a tourist trap in the desert, complete with camels, parasailing, eight wheel, open-topped desert vehicles and gift shops. We stood in line for almost 45 minutes waiting for seats on the chair-lift across the dry river valley to the dunes.

As our guide got to the head of the line, she called for the rest of her group, spread out among the other tourists. The leader of a smaller group objected and the match was on. Chinese, in general, have little patience for and often no concept of waiting in line. Now we had two entire groups jostling for position. While the battle raged, everyone just rushed the gate, improving nothing. I wondered about being pick-pocketed, but then realized that any potential thief probably couldn’t move his arms any better than I could. I couldn’t tell you who won, if anyone. I just know that assuming small Chinese women to be meek would be an enormous mistake on your part. I’d put her in the ring against anyone.

Something about being a tourist makes everyone a little less intelligent. We didn’t think anything of jumping on a camel for another hour in the saddle. Must have been something in the lunch.

It was much more comfortable, but still irritating. On finishing, we had 20 minutes to rejoin the group and leave. I guess they hadn’t planned on us waiting for an hour on the bus for two very embarrassed laggards. Now behind schedule, it was off to dinner. We had managed to waste an entire day, basically, to ride a camel.

Heading into town, we were told that we were entering Baotou, The City of Beer. I was going to need a massage that night because my head snapped up a little too violently, saying “I like this place.” Someone across the aisle disillusioned me, saying “She said City of Deer.” My groan resulted in quite a few laughs. Everyone was chatting about this and no one noticed the open manhole we almost went into. Sitting at the front of the bus often shows you more than you want to see. The only other person to see it was the assistant tour guide, who told me that it is quite common, as manhole covers are a popular target for thieves.

Dinner was again unremarkable; every meal the same. Ten people seated at a round table and brought ten various dishes. I can’t say if the lack of imagination belongs to the tour operator or the restaurant union, but we got the same dishes every meal. We made a game of guessing which dish came next. By the end of the trip, we had it down cold.

We settled into our hotel and looked for the bar. My friend and I were the only ones there and were enjoying our beer when the manager said something to us. We indicated that we didn’t speak Chinese and he motioned “No problem” or something like that. I never was very good at mime games. (Remember the bad haircut?) A few moments later, the lights went off and he had apparently disappeared through a trap door in the floor. I’m pretty sure now that I know what he was saying.

We had seen mention of a night club and karaoke rooms upstairs and one person descending simply said “Interesting, you should check it out.” His departure made us doubt his sincerity, but when a few more friends arrived, we went up for lack of alternatives.

We walked into the most bizarre entertainment complex I’ve ever seen. We were greeted by four beautiful women in identical, peach colored gowns from “Gone With the Wind.” They held menus we couldn’t read and simply let us walk by. We went down a long hall with numerous side halls leading to the karaoke rooms and saw no one.

We eventually came to an open side room and entered 1960 Las Vegas. Local guys were all banging their glasses on their tables, shouting approval as the Mongolian, latter-day Wayne Newton was belting one out, holding a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. All that was missing was the Rat Pack. It all seemed a little Twilight Zone-like, and that was before we noticed that there were no women other than the waitresses.

We continued down the main hall and shortly emerged into a bowling alley. We were practically speechless and, without need for discussion, headed back out. We noticed someone in one of the side halls and she was followed by nine more beautiful women in various states of dress and undress, all headed into one karaoke room. Suddenly, the lack of singing made sense. We walked out shaking our heads and laughing.

We found beer in the gift shop of the next building and returned to the semi-dark bar to relax. We had lost my roommate, who had gone off with a group looking for a bar they’d heard of. We were entertained by small groups returning from the bar excursion, all women who just described the bar as strange. They had never seen a boy in tight shorts pole-dancing onstage.

We directed a few raised eyebrows at each other, but said nothing to the young ladies before they went to their rooms, confused. My roommate returned shortly thereafter and confirmed our suspicions that the entire group had been directed to a Mongolian gay bar. He had finished his beer (it was German, after all) and quickly made his way back. When we tried to determine how this had happened, we were told that a few of the guys knew of this place somehow and had suggested it. Uh-huh! We were in Baotou, Inner Mongolia and these guys had found a gay bar in less than an hour, before even leaving the hotel. That’s a better intelligence network than the CIA, or even the Masons!

I was told later, by my Australian professor friend, that she and her roommate, both mature women, had ordered a massage from the concierge and when they opened the door to their room, were met by two young girls in mini-skirts, heavy makeup and high heels. Apparently it was hard to tell who was more rattled by the encounter. That Baotou is a happening place, let me tell you.

The night wore on and we were all a bit tired, as well as still being saddle sore. We were two and a half days into the trip and the highlight so far had been the breakfast buffet. We finished our beers as we talked of the plates of food we would inhale in the morning. With something to look forward to, we called it a night, placing side bets on who would sneak back downstairs for some “karaoke.”

Misc. Odds & Ends

I have been a Bear fan my entire life. I finally get to China the year they get it all together. Tuesday was my only chance to see them play before the playoffs and I faced a tough decision. I wasn’t comfortable with my Chinese because I had forgotten so much over the vacation week, but this was a one-time thing. I finally decided, at 7am, that the Bears came first and started looking for an ex-pat sports bar.

Two hours later, I walked into The Duck and Goose, clear across town, and sat down with two other Chicago fans. The Bears were already down 14-0, which called for a stiff drink with breakfast. The drink also helped me get over the strangeness of watching "Monday Night Football" on Tuesday morning. We lost one guy at halftime, down 20-3. I lost the other with five minutes left, down 23-10. I ordered another drink to wash away some of the sorrow and a few more to celebrate the greatest, strangest comeback victory I have ever seen. That game alone could hold me for almost a year. It may have to, since I was the only patron in the bar, jumping and screaming like a lunatic. The staff was more terrified than amused.

I’ve seen a lot of strange designer labels over the years, but I recently saw a pair of slacks with the logo “Mexican” on the hip. Maybe that’s in style over here, or just cheap.

It’s started getting a little cooler here, mid-50s at night. Heating is controlled by building managers and is normally turned on in mid-November, regardless of temperatures. I’m still trying to figure out how it will work in my building; there are no heating vents anywhere. For now, an extra $10 comforter works just fine.

Up until now, I’ve always practiced my language skills with taxi drivers. That may have to stop. Yesterday, a driver, on learning that I was American, started to vent about North Korea. He even went so far as to pull out a newspaper and flip it open to an article about the tensions, all while he was driving in rush hour Beijing traffic. It was the first time that I had been scared in over a month. I may play dumb for a while.

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Sorry to be so late with the update, but my trip to Mongolia was followed by a case of “Mongolian Belly Rot”, or whatever they call it over here. Genghis already had his revenge, but he took out a little more on me. Four days of physical misery followed by a couple of days of the mental anguish of playing catch-up on my Chinese have taken all of my time. I started getting a little carried away with detail, so I’m afraid I’ll need to cover this subject in a couple of posts.

As the day of departure neared, everyone involved compared packing lists; how warm the clothes should be, how big of a backpack one should get, whether or not to bring food, etc. You’d think we were striking out for a hike to Nepal or somewhere equally inconvenient. Come to think of it, we were. We were headed for Mongolia, the land of Genghis Khan; one bad-ass guy that took a few of his buddies and whipped the world. We were going to meet his descendants and ride the horses and camels of his people. This was the definition of roughing it.

Our tour organizer had told us at our briefing that temperatures in the low 30’s F could be expected and that he personally could not recommend the food to anyone. Coming from a Chinese person, this was especially worrisome. I’m quite sure he normally eats foods that I have nightmares about, and yet he’s telling me that Mongolian food, well, it basically sucks.

This presented me with my first dilemma. I’d already purchased my backpack, a large North Face hiking rig for which I paid a handsome $32. I wasn’t about to buy another pack, so I had to decide whether I would pack frivolities such as underwear and socks or necessities such as food and water. There was no way that my parka was going to make the load. Unable to come to any decisions, I fell back on a tried and true decision-making technique: I had several stiff drinks and slept on it.

My body has adjusted to my school schedule even better than I had hoped for. I wake up at 6:00 sharp whether I need to or not, just before the sun. Some part of me had to be aware that I could and should lie in bed for a little while longer, but I think that was the part that was most hung-over. I put my feet on the floor, stood and immediately tripped over a misplaced backpack, falling on a pile of clothes, shoes, electronics and food. This was when that moaning part of the brain awoke and convinced me to just lie there for a few moments and take stock of things.

The crunching noises beneath me said that packing food had been decided against by fate. My companions never knew how close they came to smelling me in three day old underwear. On reflection, this was also a blessing for me, as they may have left me there in that case. I was just going to have to take my chances. In the worst case, I was pretty sure they had rice and, on my doctor’s advice, I had a water bottle/filtration unit that takes everything out of the water, including the taste.

An order of baozi, water and aspirin for breakfast put the world to rights. I’ve become absolutely hooked on baozi, small steamed dumplings stuffed with meat or vegetables. Put an order in front of me and, five minutes later, I’m ready to take on anything. I belatedly realized that perhaps a little research was in order and logged onto the internet.

I found that the weather would be in the 50’s-70’s, same as Beijing. That made my packing decisions a great deal easier. I had the basics and decided to wing it.

We met at the university around 6:30pm, just in time to be told via cell phone that the embarkation point had changed to the far entrance, across campus. Over the next thirty minutes, 130 people were informed in ones and twos by friends because the tour operators neglected to put up any type of sign, or even to leave someone to spread the word. I started to wonder about trusting these people to get me back from Mongolia. However, without further mishap, we drove off, headed across town for the train station.

China relies much more heavily on rail for its travel needs than the U.S. On top of normal traffic, this was the beginning of one of the biggest holidays of the year. The result was a dense mass of humanity in the largest train station I had ever imagined, much less seen. 130 students marched for what seemed like a mile through the station, nudge by nudge, elbow by elbow, trying to keep an eye on the green flag held aloft by our lackadaisical guide. We stopped a couple of times, for no reason apparent other than to enjoy the experience and become intimately acquainted with the locals.

We had all received our berth assignments, but few really knew what they meant. As we boarded, we found a dozen berths on our car, all open to the common aisle and each containing six beds, three to a side, separated by 24”. The bottom beds had plenty of head room, as this was where everyone normally sits prior to lights out. The middle bed had less so and the top bed had enough clearance to crawl in from the ladder, but barely enough to prop yourself up on an elbow. All, of course, came fully equipped with the standard board disguised as a mattress.

Our conductors acted much the same as prison guards, and enforced lights out before 11pm. I have to say that our rail car was extremely modern, clean and quiet, but sleep was still next to impossible. Not one person claimed to have slept for more than a few moments at a time. The occasional midnight trip to the facilities in low light was challenging. If you were truly tired, as I was, you might have failed to notice that the first step into the rest room would put your foot in the middle of the squatter, or floor toilet. I avoided this embarrassment only by jerking up my leading foot and planting my face on the opposite window.

Coming to full alertness, I found myself on a dark train at 3am with my feet in the aisle and my face on the window, straddling a sewer. I didn’t step in it and I had hit the window, rather than the screen, so it wasn’t all bad. I was still clean and still on the train. A little contortionism got me squared away, but there was no way I was going to sleep now.

We arrived in Hohhot at 7am and disembarked to find a city of two million people, complete with heavy traffic, thick smog and gaudy, neon signs. I was speechless; I had expected to be shown to my horse. Instead, I was shown to another bus, on which I would spend four terror-filled days.

Hohhot is the capitol of Inner Mongolia. I found out on the train about the “Inner” part. I was a little disappointed. It just doesn’t have the same ring to it. But I decided to think of them as North and South Dakota. How different could the two Mongolias be? Genghis Khan was from this one anyway.

We were assigned buses according to our native or secondary languages, so that a guide who spoke our language badly could be provided. As we left the station we were told that we were on the way to see true, native, Mongolian herdsmen, ninety minutes away. Ninety minutes through winding mountain roads with a driver suffering from severe psychological problems. He blasted his incredibly loud horn the entire time, possibly keeping time with a tune in his head. We passed people around blind, uphill curves, on the right and left shoulders, and, occasionally, down the middle stripe if there was oncoming traffic. At one point, he passed on the right half-shoulder, practically scraping the guardrail, fifty feet over the Yellow River. By the end of the trip, half of the people were rotating to the rear of the bus for safety and half to the front in attempts to take the most spectacular “near death” photo.

Bless the herdsmen. If nothing else, they sang and greeted each person off the bus with a cup of incredibly strong Mongolian moonshine. It was sorely needed, even if we were required to commit alcohol abuse. The custom of sacrificing liquor to the gods is interesting, but I needed every drop at that point. Grumbling, I followed the ritual, dipping my fingers into the cup and flicking booze to the skies, repeating it for the ground and, finally, smearing some across my forehead. I then drank, gasped and went off on a futile search for more.

We were allowed thirty minutes to wander around the area and were privileged to see a few dozen, modern yurts, complete with solar power and street lamps. Several herdsmen pulled up on four-wheelers, one with a large, British flag logo. This just didn’t feel right. After a virtually untouched feast, we were shown to the horses. The briefing had understated the food situation. At least there was more moonshine.

We were treated to a three hour horse tour, with a couple of stops. Treated is the wrong word. It cost US$10, but the only other option was to sit on the bus for three hours. Everyone rode, except for Su, who claimed to be allergic to horses. Being patient and in no rush to push to the front of the line, I ended up with a nag that must surely be glue by now, a week later. They assigned me a guide, whose sole job was to drag my horse and keep it moving. The one time he lost the rope, my miserable mount immediately tried to head back, regardless of what I thought. The rest of the trip, she screamed and snorted, stopping every five minutes and refusing to move.

The rest of the group galloped off, leaving me feeling like a kid on a pony at a birthday party. I was later told that galloping is much more comfortable than trotting, but I never found out. My fleabag would trot just long enough to rattle my kidneys and then come to another stop. She was extremely irritated by all of the motorcycles and four-wheelers the Mongolians used to get to the rest stop and meet us. An entire tour group is riding ornery, smelly horses and they’re riding modern vehicles. So much for the authentic grasslands.

By the time we reached the first stop, I was looking for more moonshine to numb the pain. I got off the horse, stretched and was given the one minute warning to head out again. It seems I had missed the fifteen minute break. I decided to try for a different horse, but out of nowhere, my little, sadistic guide appeared with my demon.

I made the next stop in time to have some milk tea and develop a plan. I snuck out the gate and around the other side of the herd, to find little Genghis again waiting for me. I was resigned to never losing either of my torturers and gradually went into a pain-induced trance, repeating my mantra over and over: “Please let it stop. Please let it stop. Please let it stop.” I was so out of it, I actually heard bells. I knew that couldn’t be a good sign, but then I realized we had stopped. My Mongolian herdsmen/slave-driver, complete in vest, red satin-like pants and riding boots had pulled a cell phone out from nowhere and was taking a call! You’ve got to be kidding me! Was he going to ask me to "do lunch" next? Have my people call his people?

We started again just as lightning began flashing and, five minutes later, I was one of only two students not yet under cover from the pouring rain. I was beginning to question Su’s allergies, as she had been allowed to ride a four-wheeler the entire time and had just left me in her dust. Why couldn’t I have thought of the allergy angle?

The Horse From Hell was finally motivated enough to trot for ten minutes non-stop, but not enough to gallop. Now freezing and drenched, unable to sit or to stand in the saddle and my posterior cleft substantially lengthened, I cursed all of China with every breath. There had better be more moonshine, I thought.

My horse decided to twist the knife one last time and stopped fifty yards short of the corral. I was so glad to get off the nag that I really didn’t mind until I got my feet on the ground. After threatening to completely give way and dump me into the mud/manure, my legs decided to merely wobble for a while. An Australian university professor near my age caught up to me and we stumbled our way to the buses. All we lacked were the hats to give a good impression of bowlegged cowboys after a rough Saturday night.

The just-in-time theme continued yet again. As I mounted the bus slowly, the rain stopped and it was announced that the horse races and wrestling exhibition would begin. I’d had more than enough of horses and couldn’t care less about grown men wrestling, so I settled into my seat and lapsed into a stupor. Apparently the herdsmen were lacking enthusiasm as well, for the race and wrestling were over in less than ten minutes.

The trip down the mountain should have been even more frightening, since the roads were now wet and the driver made no changes to his madness. I didn’t feel a thing though. It wasn’t until we approached the city that I regained any sort of interest, and then only because I could sense the proximity of a hot shower and a bed. As was to be our daily routine, we found out that dinner was first, followed by an 8:00 check-in. I think dinner was pretty good, or at least I remember no real complaints.

The shower was life giving, and after quarantining my horse scented clothes in double trash bags, we headed for the lobby bar. Somewhat revived, I was able to appreciate now that we were in a 3 ½ star hotel. The management claimed four, since they’re obviously biased. After considering that we were in Mongolia, after all, I let it slide as four. Of course, that was before I had met their bar staff.

We had been told several times that the bar was open until midnight. It was absolutely true. The little fact that no one mentioned was that because cold beer is much more valuable than warm beer, all of the coolers are locked at 9pm, when the manager goes home. Warm beer or nothing were our options. The guides had said that we were in an unsafe part of town and warned us not to wander out, not that we could have walked to the corner store. We settled for room temperature beer.

At some point I was told that the gift shop had beer and I did my best Festus crossing the lobby. I even did a little Walter Brennan cackle when I saw Budweiser in the cooler. I grabbed a can and prepared for rapture. It took every bit of my self control not to spit it out all over my companions. Closer examination revealed that I was enjoying Mongolia’s finest, Blue Diamond, “A beer for all seasons of people!” That damned horse just wouldn’t leave me alone. I know that’s where the beer came from and no one is telling me any differently.

Dashed alcoholic dreams brought on the return of fatigue in spades. I just couldn’t take any more and went to my room. Standard granite mattress aside, I slept like the dead until 6am. I’ve got to figure out a way to shut off that internal alarm clock.

Next Chapter – Camels & Gay Bars