Thursday, 3rd December, 2015
- Day 93/298
- 31%
With the frigid countryside side fenced off, I head for the safety of Sonid Youqi where I continue to amuse those with whom I struggle to communicate.
Sonid Youqi
Troll vs Ox vs Cart.
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Good thing I wasn’t expecting The Ritz.
Not pretty, but functional.
The line of craps.
In the morning, flashes of orange and white strobe the motel forecourt as guests’ vehicles race to beat the coming dawn.
When the day properly arrives, I snap some photos of my digs before heading back to the local village, which has considerably more personality by day. Stopping at the grocery store to thank the lady for helping me the night before, I pick up more bathroom supplies, Oreos, water and large ginger kisses. I gobble down the latter, hoping that the sugar will kick start my metabolism and rejuvenate my extremities, which are still numb and tender from last night.
The day’s riding is uneventful, the cold wind presenting the biggest barrier to progress despite rugging up in a balaclava. Its relentless attack drains my energy reserves and discourages rest breaks. My only defence is to wear more layers, there being a limit to the amount of crap that I can stomach in the pursuit of core warmth.
I bet this ride would be an entirely difference story in summer, but then there would probably be more traffic too. The current quantity is manageable, the big trucks currently passing in small groups of three. They are laden with large round timber logs, thin timber palings and fuel barrels, and, in the other direction with hay. The traffic seems pretty light and I wonder how many vehicles pass through the other border crossings, the ones off-limits to tourists.
Riding into Sonid Youqi, I’m expecting a couple of blocks of town and then for it to peter out into the desert again.
But the local toll booth is an extravagant affair. It plays modern sounding pop music and has six lanes. Unfortunately, a prominent sign depicts no tractors, no motorbikes and no bicycles. That rules me out, so I take a detour and hope that I won’t detour past the entire town, as camping still looks like a problem here.
On the way to Zamiin-Uud, I’d talked to Tommy about how I was never settled in Wellington and moved flats every 6 to 8 months. I quite liked the idea of portable container houses, so he suggested that I buy a ger. It would be difficult to transport a full size ger on my bike, although I could put it in a container. In fact I had looked into this before I came to Mongolia, but the ones that I found online were steeply priced at EUR 10-15,000, albeit for ornate wooden ones. However in the UB markets, the components were considerably cheaper, the most expensive part being the woollen coverings, perhaps a manageable EUR 1000 all up.
But, much more importantly, there would be nowhere to set up a ger (or graze the accompanying goats/camels) in New Zealand, as all the land is already owned by somebody. In the Mongol countryside, all the land is public domain. In New Zealand there’s only the Queen’s Chain (opens new window), which grants public access to most of the coastline. It’s a shame because New Zealand is a beautiful country, but all the rolling countryside is in fact hill stations, sheep and dairy farms, and those farmers would have something to say about you setting up shop there for 6 months at a time.
I’d learned that the public domain worked for Mongols, but was being increasingly abused by foreigners who were marrying Mongol women, then setting up permanent rather than nomadic dwellings. So it’s really interesting to see that the sides of the road here are fenced, blocking access to what seems like empty open land. And this is the reason why I can’t legitimately camp here, quite aside from the fact that I don’t particularly want to, there being snow all over the ground and a freezing wind from the west which at times makes it seem just as cold as Mongolia.
The alternative road has two lanes instead of four and no shoulders. Sometimes a snowdrift forces me to stop and assess if it’s safe to stray into the middle of the road, but most cars approaching from behind warn me with a toot. One car slows down next to me and the passenger window is lowered. A man looks at me and says Hi! He looks familiar but I can’t be sure, so I say hi back and take one hand off the handlebars to wave. But as I do this the car pulls away and I hit black ice and wipe out. Unhurt, I’m none the wiser as to who he actually was.
I soon reach a second, smaller toll gate, like the one outside Erlian. The young woman on duty here doesn’t seem to understand my request to pass, but the man with her waves me through. I think next time I encounter one of these gates I’ll just ride around it and save everyone some trouble.
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Troll vs Ox vs Cart.
Android vs West Wind.
A statue of an ox & cart marks the official eastern entrance to Sonid Youqi.
I snap a picture, happy to have some record of the day. The other attempts have resulted in one or other of my smart phones shutting down immediately, both refusing to charge at these low temperatures.
A string of modern apartment blocks follow and then the main street, which at eight blocks long seems to go on forever. Trees lean from west to east and giant smokestacks billow smoke in the same direction. The lesson seems to have been learned by the town planners, with new apartments going up in the west instead.
I spot a hotel on my left, but it looks far too expensive so I continue on down the strip. At the halfway point, I stop to take my balaclava off as it’s blocking my peripheral vision. But a police car starts honking at me and, while I have no idea what the road rules are here, it’s clear that stopping like this is not allowed. Perhaps this is a taxi-stopping and pedestrian-walking zone and not, in fact, a bike lane.
I push on and pass some people burning a pile of rubber in a roadside carpark. The fire sends noxious clouds of black smoke billowing into the environment. This, obviously, is allowed, as is shadowing touring cyclists in your sports ute with impenetrable tinted windows, which is quite annoying.
I pass a few recognisable buildings, a bar, a club, shops with Chinese signs, chain stores playing more modern sounding pop music and several motorcycle shops, which I hope sell pogies.
At the far end of the street, the town becomes more low rise and I assume that this is where the cheaper accommodation is. But it feels edgy and I can’t read any of the signs. Pulling a u-turn, I ride into the cold wind which now proceeds to burn my unprotected ears for the eight blocks that it takes to retrace my steps.
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Old but not shabby.
Sun streams in.
Room for the whole gang.
Coat hangers in the bathroom can mean only one thing!
Writing desk.
American ashtray.
Back at the expensive looking hotel, a man is wandering around the carpark, wedged between a small office booth and the front door proper.
His hand holds a can whose contents periodically spill out onto the asphalt and I wonder if he is an alcoholic. But I ask him anyway, is this a hotel, can I sleep here? He says yes and points me to the office, and I assume that he’s actually the watchman or caretaker.
Inside, a friendly lady unlocks the office door and announces that the rate is either ¥ 60 or ¥ 80, per night. I’m unsure which, as her communication device is the doorframe and her finger.
She shows me the room, which has a really nice vibe, old, without being shabby. It’s almost a carbon copy of my room in Erlian/Erenhot, although this one has a polished wooden floor. After entering the room, the left hand wall features a good sized wardrobe, followed by a tea tray and jug, a writing desk with lamp and stool, and a TV. In front of me, sun streams through net curtained windows, below which there are two sitting chairs and a small table. And to my right there are two single beds adorned with red-golden bed scarves, two wall lamps and a multifunction bedside table. And there’s no smokey smell, despite the overabundance of ashtrays.
Best of all the room also has a bathroom, with a real toilet. The bathroom has a good layout and is also furnished with clothes hangers, which is surely an invitation to wash my clothes here. They also have the same shampoo and bath foam as the last hotel, and I make a mental note to search for other brands at the supermarket. I have a sneaking suspicion that there can be only one.
Heading back to the office, I accept the variable price and hand the lady ¥ 120 (100 + 20), saying that I’d like to stay for two nights. She hands me ¥ 20 change, so the rate is obviously ¥ 80. Trying to communicate the desire to stay a second night is difficult, but I think she understands. I think I’m meant to pay her for this tomorrow, if I still want to stay tomorrow. I think.
After washing my clothes in the basin, I indulge myself in a long, hot, steaming shower. Unintentional oohs and aahs slip from my lips, as the hot water unlocks distant memories of warmth and icy-wind-free days.
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The hotel restaurant was a bit flash.
Enjoying random orders, free drinks and Mozart.
Meat and vegetable stir fry.
Clean and hungry, I head out to find the hotel restaurant.
Walking into the main lobby, on the right there are several smartly dressed ladies and beyond that a service desk and then the restaurant.
I peek in. It looks very flash. I wonder if I am in the right place and ask the lady, in my best charade acting, if this is the place where people who slept here eat. You know, people who have keys like this one (holds up key). The two older women send a younger one out to deal with this escaped mental patient, but as this isn’t going anywhere quickly I decide to trust my stomach and go for it.
I walk in and suddenly feel very scruffy. Unshaven and dressed as I am in my standard cyclo-tourist wardrobe, I stand out like a sore thumb. Everyone else has clearly made a determined effort to dress appropriately for the environment, which is a long room with wooden wall panels and sparkling ceiling lights, big glass tables and high backed chairs with gold coverings. There’s even a Mozart soundtrack tinkling away in the background. Ooops.
The older lady looks at me as if to acknowledge my faux pas and leads me to an empty table anyway.
She hands me the menu, which is in Chinese. There is a distinct lack of Mongolian and an even more distinct lack of English. I try to ask her what she recommends. She looks around for support. A second lady comes over and I start making the international big plate actions. A third lady comes over and I keep making the actions. They laugh and so do I. More big plate actions, no response. The other patrons are looking over to see who this language-less fool is. I decide that I’ll try my luck with the completely random approach and choose a few things. As I choose each thing I look to them for validation and they either let me order it, or don’t.
A strong looking man at the table in front turns around to suggest a photo (picture) menu. The ladies realise that there is an easier way and return with a tablet which has the entire menu by picture category, including some special items. I point out a few things that I like, including meaty fried rice, broccoli, and meat and vegetable stir fry.
The older lady writes down some Chinese characters and asks me if that’s right. Um.. My friend suggests that they are asking whether I want rice. Ah, yes please.
He offers me a third of a glass of some sake-ish alcohol. I take it and it is strong, reminiscent of the contents of the little green bottle which I drank with my Chinese friends at the lake outside Manzhouli.
I try to order another bottle so I can repay my new friend, but the man says that it is unnecessary and instead passes me the remaining half bottle. He asks me how old I am and then whether I am the one riding the bicycle. When I respond there is laughter around the table.
The staff wander off to begin making an unspecified number of dishes and I begin mentally calculating how many Yuan are left in my wallet – at least 180. I hope that this is enough.
My first dish arrives quickly and it is some fairly unappetising raw potato-like vegetable in perhaps white vinegar. I munch away at it out of obligation but am looking forward to the main(s).
As time passes, I realise that the alienating Mozart soundtrack is actually some kind of abbreviated futuristic remix, a short loop which ends in laser sounds. Unless there were laser sounds in the original, which I can’t be sure of as I’m a bit rusty on my Mozart. To be honest, I don’t even really know if it is Mozart.
The main course arrives with a bowl of steaming stir fry and a Fawlty Towers type waiter who carries a stand and heating candle. The stir fry is good but there is no way that I can eat all of it, nor drink the remaining 53% alcohol, nor listen to the repeating maybe-Mozart-with-lasers-loop anymore.
Fortunately no more dishes arrive, so I get off lightly with a ¥ 61 bill and head off to bed.
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The Goodnight Fish.
In New Zealand, they used to run a quirky animation when the main television network stopped broadcasting for the evening.
This was known as The Goodnight Kiwi (opens new window), the Kiwi being our national bird and midnight being something that people used to respect, before binge watching of Netflix was a thing.
Here in Inner Mongolia, where things are very different to New Zealand, the goodnight animation is also very different. Here, a boy with a tuft of hair cradles a fish, which is jerking its tail in true 8-bit style. Of course it could mean anything else, like Press 1 for room service, but I nostalgically dub it The Goodnight Fish.
Goodnight, fish.