Goodbye, Lenin!

As we left Irkutsk, effectively ending the Russian lef of our trip, I was feeling pretty good. Pretty, pretty, preeetty good. I wasn't in any pain, for once, having bought a new backpack that afternoon to replace the make-shift one I'd fashioned from the rubbishy remains of my original wheelie-bag after its wheels had broken off two weeks earlier. But at a more cerebral level, I was just generally feeling really happy and content with everything.

I'd gone off on my own little mini-adventure earlier in the day in search of the aforementioned brand new backpack, and it had given me the oppurtunity to explore some less-visited areas of Irkutsk, to interact with the locals a bit more and get a better understanding of how it might have been to grow up there. I had time to think, time to take in the smells and sights of this foreign land. I was really pleased to have done it, and it did me good. Sadly, however, not everyone was in such a free-n-easy state of mind..

It all kicked off a few hours into our Trans-Mongolian journey. Everyone had enjoyed the good old 'Trans-Sib' train ride so much that I thought this would be more of the same. And I suppose it was, to start off with.. we played some cards and read a little, occasionally cracking wise and trading quips. The Pristine Marmott had broken into his Mongolian guide book and was trying to brush up on some basic language and background for what was to be our next destination.

At around 1AM, The Hugless Stone looked up from behind his book and asked if any of us knew how easy it would be for us to get ourselves invited to stay with some local Mongolians in a 'Ger', the traditional tents they live in up in the mountains. "It shouldn't be too difficult", said The Marmott. "Says here most of the youth hostels arrange if for you if you want.." The Stone thanked him for clearing it up, but The Marmott was not finished yet -- oh, no...

"It looks pretty f###ing interesting," he said, slipping into the expletive-ridden dialogue he loved to use to describe things that were really interesting. "Apparently we'll be there at the best time because it's the winter so the nomads are all just chilling out all day". "How ironic..", chimed The Stone, entirely mis-using the word 'ironic' but nonetheless getting a titter or two out of The Hippo and I. "Summer's the worst," continued The Marmott, undeterred by the interruption. "Why?", chipped The Stone with glee, "are they all just nomading around?"

He was clearly pleased with himself for such rapid-fire japery. The Hippo and I were giggling like school-girls but to The Marmott it was no laughing matter. "Are you f###ing shitting me?!" he roared down at The Stone from where he was lying up high on his bunk-bed. "What do you mean?", replied The Stone, confused, and no longer such a barrel of laughs. "What do I mean?!" snarled The Marmott, fuming, before unloading a torrent of frustration on The Stone below.

He had been "trying to spark up an interesting conversation amongst us about Mongolia", he lamented. He'd just wanted us to talk seriously about something for once, maybe get a little intellectual stimulation instead of always just joking around. "And when you're just down there making stupid jokes at my expense", he continued, "it just feels like what I'm trying to say is worthless, like what I'm saying is just something for you to f###ing take a big fat shit on!"

The Marmott was angry that day, my friends. Like an old man trying to send back soup at a deli. We could see that he had a point. But for some reason, The Stone just could not apologise. Everyone could see that he hadn't meant to offend, but he had done, and he owed old Marmy an apology. But it wasn't forthcoming, he just kept on fighting his corner, trying to defend himself. "Just shut up!", screeched The Marmott, taking what had been a pretty intense argument to previously unthought of levels. "You just keep talking and talking and talking like f###ing diahorrea and you don't stop, you never stop!!"

The atmosphere was electric. You could feel the blows hitting deep. This was pent-up anger from long before anyone had mentioned "nomading around". The Stone looked like he was welling up inside and at last he choked out the beginnings of an apology. It was 2AM. The whole ordeal had lasted a full hour.

But it wasn't over yet. Oh, no. Then came the deconstruction. Now that frustrations had been vented, temperatures had cooled and pulse-rates had returned to normal levels, we all set about re-playing every second of the fight: who had said what, and in what order, and why. It was an oppurtunity for all the previously unaired grievances that we'd had to come out, and by the time 4AM rolled around and all had been said that needed to be said, everyone felt better to have said their piece and we bade each other a calm goodnight.

Yes, as we left Irkutsk, effectively ending the Russian lef of our trip, I was feeling pretty good. Pretty, pretty, preeetty good.

The next day passed fairly uneventfully, at least in comparison to what had come the night before. We had a lazy morning followed by a lazy afternoon, capped off with a lazy early evening. All the horror stories we'd heard about how difficult it was going to be to get out of Russia without having to bribe guards and so on turned out to be hogwash. The only border control people we met were friendly Mongolian folk, simple people who were simply delightful.

But that's not to say it was a total breeze, however. The troubles first started around 10PM, when we pulled in to one particular train station for the second of two big border-control stops..

The travel guide had mentioned how boring these stops can be since they can take up to four hours. So, once they'd given back our passports, we did as the Holy Book suggested that dismounted from the motherf###in' train to go buy food and explore the area a little bit. We found some road-side food stands and palmed off great wads of cash to the locals for some home-made dumplings and ready-made meals. Back on the train we tucked in, discovering that the dumplings were exquisite, simply heavenly. Since they'd only cost us the equivalent of a few pennys, I suggested we head back out for more. So, we suited up once again (because it was the coldest we'd encountered so far on the trip, roughly -20 degrees), and headed out to plunder.

The job completed, we headed back to the train sharpish, only to see it pulling away from us into the distance, into the darkness, into the night. There was a moment of 'WTF?!", then The Marmott handed me the bag of dumplings and started sprintting as fast as he could after it, waving his arms furiously and screaming at the top of his lungs. I followed after him, slowed by the fact that my arms were full of dumplings (plus I'm deliciously out of shape), but it was no use. We couldn't catch it. The train was gone.

"Okay, let's think about this for a second..", said The Hippo, trying to keep his head screwed on. The Stone had stayed on the train, so we knew our bags would be safe at least. The Hippo and I both had credit cards on us so we knew we could buy new tickets for a new train if we had to. We were calm. We were collected. It would turn out okay in the end. We just knew it.

We started walking back to the station, since we were outside and as I mentioned earlier, it was f###in' freezin'. We walked in silence. The only sounds were the clangs of the station workers as they worked on the other trains, and the music blasting out of a radio on the platform.

Just then, The Marmott spotted something. "What's that?", he asked, pointing at a light in the distance. We turned to follow his gaze, and I turned on my super-human extra-long-distance vision. "Don't get your hopes up," I said, "but that looks like our train.."

As it pulled closer, all our fears melted away. It was our train! We moved close to the edge of the platform, preparing to rush on as soon as it reached us, when a new song started to play on the station radio that caused The Hippo to stop for a moment and smile:

"Sweet dreams are made of this.."

The words floated out into that cold Mongolian night and we just had to laugh.

When we arrived in Ulaan-Baatar early the next morning, we were met by a very friendly guy from the hostel who had offered to pick us up. "You from England?", he inquired. We told him we were, and he tapped his hat proudly, showing off the England football logo he was wearing. He walked us to his mini-van where he introduced us to his driver. The guy had an unpronouncable name but he had slicked back hair and dressed like a gangster with the attitude to match, so we called him Mr. Infernal Affairs.

We got to the hostel and English Hat Guy showed us around. "Sometimes, there is a lady who sit her, she is know everything!", he told us. "I help her maybe sometimes, she not here so I gonna show you what". He led us to a room with a computer in it. "This is computer, internet is yes. It is not so fast, but it no matter, it is free!"

He did an equally bad job selling us the rest of the town, warning us endlessly that "many people are pickpockets!" and that "they are shit!". He told us how boring Ulaan-Baatar was, whilst extolling the virtues of his two favourite eateries, 'Berlin Burger' and 'Pizza Broadway'. "Do not go traditional Mongolian restaurant," he warned us after we'd asked him for directions, "you will not like".

Surprisingly, we decided to ignore his advice and headed off to explore the city and it's tradtional cuisine. But before we ate, we raced across town to a Buddhist monastary to watch a morning service. It was fascinating, and a whoe new dose of culture-shock reminding me just how far east we'd already come.

The monks were all dressed in brightly coloured robes and had close-shaven heads. Some of them were only young kids, not even in their teens, who giggled at the back and pretended to mouth the words to the various chants. In one corner was a western-looking guy who appeared to be some kind of disillusioned ex-pat. He didn't know the words either but he was wearing all the garb and seemed determined to make this his new life.

It was an amazing ceremony to watch and had me really excited for what still remained for us on this trip. But after about an hour there, my stomach was getting the better of me. I was committing the deadly sin of Hunger, and I was feeling faint as a result. So, we headed back into town, in search of some real Mongolian delicacies.

Instead, we found 'National Mongolian Fast Food', a place that looked like it's name suggests, althought tasted simply sublime. We'd each chosen our meals by pointing at the pictures and hoping for the best, but when mine came I was in no two minds about it: it was the best. It was mutton and vegetables with egg and ride and potatoes, presented to my place still spitting in the pan and mounted on an ornate wooden plate with designs painted around the edges. And in a case of definitely being able to judge a book by its cover, it tasted incredible. "This is the best meal I've ever had," I said, believing every word.

We left the restaurant and headed off to the Mongolian Natural History museum, but that's when things started to go awry..

I first started feeling a little woozy from the moment we walked in the door. In retrospect, I'm very pleased that the guard had ordered us to leave our coats and jumpers in the cloak room, because even in just a t-shirt I was sweating up a storm, truly schvitzing like a chuzzah. Every step became a struggle, and I'm afraid I can't tell you much about the museum itself because with each new room we went in, I just headed straight for the chair in the corner and sat with my head in my hands, hoping desperately that by remaining completely motionless I might somehow vanish away the fever that was taking hold of me by sheer will-power.

But it was not to be. As the afternoon wore on, I was feeling worse and worse, and after we left the museum and headed eastwards to grab a beer at the 'Gengis Club', I wondered if it would be an offence punishable by death in Mongolia for me to vomit all over the sidewalk.

When we got to the club I headed straight for the Men's Room, whilst the others went to get a table. Safely locked in the toilet, I stripped down to my undies, trying desperately to reduce my ever-climbing temperature. I considered 'doing a Borat' and splashing toilet water all over my face, but even in my altered state of mind I realised that wouldn't most likely help me get better in the long run.

Instead, I tried to vomit. I've never enjoyed the old 'two fingers down your throat' technique, surprisingly, but I tried everything else. I threw back my head and then lunged forward, doubling over until my nose was inches from the toilet bowl. I threw myself against the walls. I jumped up and down, my balls flapping from side-to-side like the pendulum of an old grandfather clock gone haywire. I shouted expletives at the top of my lungs, then wretched like I've never wretched before. But there was nothing. Nada. Zip. Diddly-squat. The vom was not forthcoming, and I was only feeling worse.

Eventually, I decided to do the unthinkable. Feeling like a professional bulimic, I put two fingers in my mouth and pressed down. Nothing. I pressed down harder, and let out a gigantic belch. I pressed harder still, and there it was! I let loose a torrent of vomit more volumnous that anything I'd ever produced in such a manner before, a think, chunky concoction riddled with half-digested pieces of mutton, the remains of "best meal I've ever had". Simultaneously I was thrown backwards, like Will Smith in 'Men in Black' after he takes his first shot with the ray-gun. But it was out, and that was all that mattered. I lay there in a crumpled heap on the floor, pondering my next move..

Re-clothed but still a little shaken, I stumbled out of the bathroom to re-join my friends in the bar. I sat down next to them just as the waitress brought over four beers. "Oh yeah, we ordered you a beer," The Marmott told me. I almost laughed.

They could see I was the worse for wear (maybe it was the little flecks of vomit on my jacket that gave it away, I don't know..), but either way they did me a solid and drank up swiftly so we could head back to the hostel. Once back in our room, I made a beeline straight for my bed and crashed out. My head was spinning a little and I sensed that there might still have been some of the evil lurking inside of me, but I was sure that if I could just get to sleep, I'd wake up safely back home in England laughing about what a horrible nightmare it'd all been. "Are you going to be okay?", The Marmott asked me. "Yeah, yeah..", I mumbled, "you guys go do whatever..."

They left me alone, and I spent the next few hours drifting in and out of consciousness like a down-and-out boxed after one too many slip ups in the ring. But as I dozed, dazed, still the evil grew inside of me and with each awakening I felt more and more it threatening to come out. Eventually it grew too much to contain, and though I was too weak to stand, I did my best to make precautions. I reached into the bag of dirty laundry that lay next to my bed, and pulled out two of my old t-shirts. I had just enough time to toss them on top of the covers before the first explosion came. Like a tidal wave, dotted with tiny little sufers in the form of chunks of meat, it poured out of me. Once! Twice! Thrice! And More! I hurled. I spewed. I vommed. I bogged it. I up-chucked and I chucked-up. Again and again I let loose, aiming always with beautiful precision for the make-shift target that lay before me in the form of my t-shirts. Again and again and again until I was truly certain that everything was out of me.

Satisfied at last, I lay back and immediately fell straight to sleep. I was only awoken when The Stone and The Hippo came in to check on me. They turned on the lights and I sat bolt upright. "How are you?", asked The Stone. "There's good news and bad news," I replied. "What's the bad news?", he asked. "That's the bad news..", I responded, pointing at the bad news. "Ah.", he said, succinctly.

"Don't worry about it," I said, "I'll clean it up". He didn't argue, but told me he just had to show The Marmott first. "Sorry..", he added, as an afterthought. "No need to apologise," I told him.

So, The Marmott came in. The good old Pristine Marmott, our resident clean-freak who abhors any less than perfect hygiene. "Don't worry about it," I said, and motioned for him to pass me a plastic bag. He did so, and in one smooth motion I rolled up both t-shirts and dumped them unceremoniously into the bag.

The initial job done, it was now time to change the mattress. An unfortunate casualty of the afternoons events, it seemed my t-shirts had not been able to protect it from getting a little drenched. However, when I stood up, it quicky became clear that even whilst I might have exorcised the beast from within me, I still wasn't fit for active service. That's where my great pals stepped in, coming to my aid. The Marmott, Hippo and Hugless Stone all did their part, helping me into a new bed and outfitting me with a new sick bag and a few bottles of water.

But if only I'd drunk them.. you see, it turns out when you throw up that much, you lose a lot of water from your body. And when you're dehydrated, it can mean only one thing.. diahorrea!

Love it. Love that shit. But I'll spare you the gory details, because (believe it or not) there's some things even I won't dare put pen to paper about. Instead, I'll just say this:

As I lay back, trying to catch a few more winks whilst still maintaining complete control of my bowels, there was only one thing running through my mind.. we were in Mongolia, and it was going to be a whole new experience.

See you next time, folks.