The Old Man is Snoring

The path leading down from our youth hostel is muddy and I’m careful not to slip, making sure my body weight’s always right above my feet so I don’t loose my balance. The kids who were playing football here yesterday are tucked away inside, probably knocking the same ball in one of the nearby yurts, on the other side of the wooden panels lining the narrow muddy lane. We get to a small wooden bridge connecting our little slum with the centre of town, a small ditch full of old cans and plastic bags marking the border. We walk across, minding our steps as one of the planks is missing and you don’t want anyone twisting an ankle this far from home.

It’s raining again, and Supertramp’s song is playing in my mind as I leap across a large puddle and make it to the pavement with my feet still dry, the Sambas keeping the water out, and I’ve no idea if it was a child, a housewife or machine who sewed the leather together but they did a good job. The thought of a kid sewing shoes comes and replaces Supertramp’s song, and I hope no one’s been kept away from school for keeping my feet dry. I concentrate on the next puddle, and spot a car coming my way on the road, and I jump our of the way just in time to avoid getting splashed by its front wheel. On the opposite pavement a group of girls in high heels are giggling as their consider the options, trying to find a way to cross the street, unable to manage a long leap with their fancy footwear. Ulaanbaatar is desperately missing a good draining system, the streets are full of dirty rain water going nowhere.

It’s raining heavily now, and we rush into a small canteen, Mongolian style. From the outside it’s hard to see it’s actually a restaurant, there’s no sign up or anything. People just know it’s there, and we were lucky to spot it yesterday. I take my raincoat off and lay it on the back of a chair. There’s nothing poncy about this place, it’s small but full of people tucking into their meals. No one has bothered about the interior design or any type of decoration, it’s just white and kept simple, but the smell of good meat and potatoes is making our mouths water. The boys sit down, and I go up to the counter to order. I point to a random dish on the laminated sheet of paper and show 3 fingers. I get a bottle Coke for Spag so he’ll be alright even if he doesn’t like what’s on his plate. I decide that El Afghani and I are going to try a local iced tea. Doesn’t look too bad. A minute later the waiter comes along with 3 plates of beef, rice, carrots and potatoes, the sort of dish that reminds me of Bolivia. Simple honest food, nothing too fancy, but always good.

Our next stop is the National History Museum. It seems like it’s the perfect day for that. It’s empty, apart from a small group of tourists, the usual Western European mixture following a guide around the different rooms. From the prehistoric times onwards, the museum takes us through Mongolia’s rich history. It’s interesting to be in a country with a long heritage, looking at bronze helmets and carved rocks; especially after having travelled across a continent where a 50 year old house is considered a rare piece of history. We wander around the place, and learn about the Mongolia Empire and how it spread from the Pacific Ocean to the Ukraine, conquering most of Asia but never making it to the Indian Sub-continent, the Himalayas holding them back.

We push the museum door open, step outside and realise it’s raining harder than before. We stand under the porch for a moment, grim expressions on our faces, naively waiting for something to happen. A group of youths walk past and they’ve clearly given up on staying dry, walking with their heads up and laughing about, feet under-water, and legs above, beaten by the weather, nature always winning in the end.

Seb