Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
'All right, mate?' said someone with a distinctly English accent. I rose from
my dreary half-sleep to see a clean-cut man with a crisp, untainted backpack and a
Lonely Planet guidebook.
———
The comfort and security of the train ride was short-lived. In half an hour or so
we arrived at Suchbaatar. The encounter with the Englishman made me feel un-
comfortable about myself - I too was 'one of them'. Inevitably, I thought, we were
foreigners, and to think we had turned native would just be kidding ourselves. In
reality, I hadn't worked for money in more than twelve months. Even living in the
forest on four dollars a day had probably left us looking out of place and incompre-
hensibly rich. Our bikes, for starters, cost more than the average Russian wage for
two years. How had the Russians really perceived us?
By the time the train doors opened, I was itching to slip back into our routine. I
stepped out of the carriage and made my way across the tracks to the station plat-
form. Before riding on, we would have to reassemble our bags, which had been
stripped off at the conductor's demand. The sun had already set and I felt an ur-
gency to get going before total darkness descended. I was nervous. I knew almost
nothing about Mongolia. All we had was a very basic tourist map. We didn't know
the currency or a single word of Mongolian, and we weren't even sure where Ulaan
Baatar was.
There was a rush of activity on the platform as Chris dumped the rest of our bags
down. It was already dark and the group of children had multiplied to a seething
mass. I caught glimpses of shiny eyes and teeth in the glow of a distant streetlight.
We dragged our gear against a wall so that we wouldn't be totally surrounded.
After mistaking a prostitute for a money exchange woman, we eventually changed
some Russian roubles for the Mongolian tugrug. Finally, we pushed the bikes into
the darkness.
'Which way is Ulaan Baatar?' I asked Chris.
'I don't know … that way I guess,' he said, pointing into the dark.
In an instant, the kids caught onto the idea. They rushed from behind and
clung on, pushing and pulling. Some threw rocks, and I was peppered with gravel.
'Where's the bloody road?' I yelled.
'Shit, I don't have a clue!' Chris called, from somewhere ahead.
I was out of control - the kids were pushing me over bumps, rocks, a gutter, and
suddenly towards oncoming headlights. I couldn't stop, yet I couldn't break free.
