Wandering the streets of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

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The Kempinski Khan Palace, my hotel, was on the corner of Peace Avenue, a more or less straight road than ran East to West through the entire length of the city. My room looked out across the honking intersection, thick with cars and buses. A policeman stood in their midst, blowing his whistle and pointing like his was in charge, which he was. Behind the junction were more God-awful apartment blocks, a fixture of downtown Ulaanbaatar, and then something called the Somang Plaza, a shiny glass shopping mall that boasted Good Price on its front. Further back were the glorious ranges that led to the Bogd Khan Mountain, a 3000ft monster that looked down upon Southern Ulaanbaatar.

Braving the dark streets

Before it got too dark, I ventured outside to find a grocery store. I put on two jumpers, a thick coat, my woolly hat and some thermal gloves. I put my passport, phone, laptop inside the safe and, after removing a little bit of cash, checked the mirror. If a choking gang was in operation, they would get scant offerings from me. Mind you, when I looked at myself, I looked like a mugger myself, especially with my gloves and burglar hat.

Evening was settling in over the cold streets of Ulaanbaatar. Instead of heading down to the busy junction, I turned uphill, along a road called Ikh Toiruu. A line of commercial blocks was across from me, each more ugly than the last. The lower sections featured billboards written in Cyrillic. Further on, I spied a plastic sign attached to the column of a street light. It advertised a place with the intriguing name of Hennessy’s X,O CLUB. It was close to the Seattle Rest and Pub, a brick establishment that reeked of a 1970s council estate. Next door was a billiard hall where a group of young men had chosen to loiter, drinking cans of beer and smoking cigarettes. If any group were potential chokers, then these were them, but none paid me any attention as I passed.

The supermarket from Hell

Finally, I came to a supermarket, or CYПEPMAPKET, as it was written. I climbed some steps, bypassed a swaying drunkard and entered my first Mongolian supermarket.

Its shelves were full of dumplings, noodles, husks of bread, bottles of beer and vodka. At the rear was a closed-off meat section, but the dairy portion was still open. I considered buying some yak cheese or milk to go with my dumplings. One large section catered for candy. Gaudy colours and bright lettering would surely attract a child, but not me. I headed straight for the fridge and picked out a couple of bottles of Altan Gobi, the local beer. I also grabbed a bread roll and some strange meat that might have been ham or chicken. When I placed it all on the counter, the harridan behind the till barked something at me, presumably the price.

“English?” I asked, more hopeful than expectant.

The woman looked up with scorn in her eyes. Actual scorn. It was as if I’d asked where I could find a place to fiddle with her hamster. She said something else and looked at her watch. I offered her a wad of tugrik, but the woman shook her head. I offered more, but she shook her head and tutted. I didn’t know what else to do, which made her grab a 5000-tugrik note ($2.50) from my hand. After a show of displeasure at having to deal with me, she unlocked the till and found some change. I thanked her in Russian, which brought another scowl of irritation.

I exited the shop with my booty, retracing my steps to the hotel. It was freezing and there was some snow falling. From the heat of tropical Africa to the frozen hinterlands of Mongolia in the space of a week: my body was in confusion. I escaped the winter chill and entered the plush lobby of the Kempinski. I had a meal fit for a king, and I would consume it in my room. The next day I would save for seeing the sights of Ulaanbaatar.

Next morning

The next morning was crisp and sunny. Temperatures were hovering around zero, but the sky was a stunning blue. Ulaanbaatar's infamous pollution (due to coal-burning power stations and the sheer amount of wood burnt in people’s homes for heat) would not be bothering me today. I walked down the hill to the intersection. The zebra crossing lines were faded, and the sections that were left were mostly covered my impatient vehicles. With the little green man flashing, I ran across, reaching the safety of the other side with barely a second to spare.

I made my way along Peace Avenue, passing the Somang Plaza, still proudly boasting itself as a Good Price Market. The British Embassy in Mongolia was on my right, a large white building set back from the potholes and traffic. Pleasingly, its entrance was unguarded and unfenced, and if I had chosen to, I could have walked up the door and gone in. I stopped to regard it. Somehow, the embassy building had escaped the worst of traffic fumes, or someone had recently cleaned it, because it looked almost pristine, unlike most of the other buildings along the thoroughfare. One of the worst offenders - and surely a contender for Worst Looking Piece of Architecture in Ulaanbaatar - was the XacBank building. It was cube of concrete, rendered in dirty beige and streaked with white clumps of flaking paint.

And yet, despite the ugly buildings, the cracked pavements, the beeping traffic, the cold and the possibility of being mugged, I was enjoying myself. I was in a brand new country, wandering along a street in a city I had once only dreamed of visiting. I pulled my hat tighter, and carried on walking.

The Wrestling Palace was on my left. It was a red and white, circular building with a flying saucer-shaped roof. Wrestling is big business in Mongolia, where competitions can last for days. Brass bands knock out jaunty tunes while large, bare-chested men grapple and try to get each other to the ground. The palace looked closed for the winter.

Chinggis Khan Square

The square was huge. To get to it I had to walk through a patch of greenery called the Chinggis Khaan Park. Someone had shovelled mounds of snow away from the paths and onto the frozen grass. At the northern end of the square was the imposing Parliament Building, a wide expanse of white columns, sweeping marble steps and sheets of blue glass. On the top was a massive red and blue Mongolian flag. As I approached, I spied a gigantic statue at the top of the Parliament’s steps. It was the great man himself, Chinggis Khan, seated and with his arms resting on the edge of his oversized throne. Whoever had cast the giant representation had made the founder of the great Mongol Empire seem obese. He looked like Buddha.

On one step of the grandiose Parliament Building, stood a soldier. He was wearing camouflaged fatigues that sported a thick furry collar. An equally thick and furry hat covered his head. He had thrust his hands deep into layered pockets. He was watching five elderly men walking down the steps. They shuffled carefully and slowly, balancing on each other from time to time. All five were wearing deels, colourful traditional-type clothing resembling tunics. Each one was a different colour: olive green, sky blue, orange, red and brown. Though common attire for nomadic herders outside of the cities, it was only the elderly who commonly wore such clothing in Ulaanbaatar,

A car zipped by me, driven by a toddler. A few more electric powered plastic vehicles zigzagged around in the space between the statue and the Parliament building. A woman sat nearby, waiting with more vehicles for hire.

The five old men sat down on a bench, chewing the fat and smoking cigarettes. They were clearly friends, happy in each other’s company. I left them to it and wandered to the western edge of the square. A huge white building that might have been a palace, but was probably a bank, lay at right angles to the Parliament. The Mongolian Stock Exchange was just along from it, and on the eastern side, lay the Opera House and National Art Gallery. Chinggis Square was most definitely the place to be in Ulaanbaatar.

State Department Store

I was back on Peace Avenue when something made me pause for thought. It was not the traffic snarling around me at every crossing, nor was it the slippery, frost-coated pavement beneath my feet. No, it was something far sinister: the hotbed of chokers, no less. I had found the State Department Store. I gulped and walked past it, pressing my chin as close to my chest to thwart any would be assailants.

Nothing happened.

I stopped and walked back across its front façade. People were going in, others were coming out. A group of teenage girls walked past me, and not one of them tried to choke me into submission. Emboldened by this, I decided to enter the actual breeding ground of muggers itself.

I found an escalator and lots of shops, including one that offered Italian Elegance Shoes. I discovered that the State Department Store employed helpful people who wanted to assist me across its seven floors. At the top was a department store with large windows. I walked past some ornaments and looked out. The view of central Ulaanbaatar was not pretty by any stretch of the imagination, but it had a certain charm. The mountains helped, and so did the snow streaked roofs. To celebrate my bravery at entering the shopping mall, I almost bought a stuffed yak, but common sense prevailed, and I exited the State Department Store onto the street.

I passed a shop called Banana Male. Its signage was written in English and so there was no misinterpretation. Except there was of course, especially since the store was closed and its windows covered. What on earth had it once sold, or was it still open, but only at night? I had no idea and so carried on until I found the homely-sounding British Shop. From the outside, it looked how a Polish Shop might look in a British town, i.e. run down and sorry-looking. I noticed its sign was flanked by a couple of faded Union Jack graphics.

I went inside, hoping to hear the tinkling of a bell as I did so. Instead, there was a creak and that was it. It was smaller than I expected, and instead of Polish sausage and Zywiec lager, much of its stock was either foodstuff from Asda and Tesco, or tourist items such as London snow globes, small plastic flags and Tower of London key rings. Was there a market for Asda’s own brand of gravy in Mongolia, I wondered? Clearly there was, because one shelf was full of it. I wanted to question the owner, but the Mongolian woman behind the counter couldn’t understand me, which I thought a bit of a let-down considering where she was working. I left the shop without buying anything and walked back to the hotel.

It was time to rest before I sought out an old Soviet Monument I'd read about.

http://www.theredquest.com

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Comments

[cabochick]

God I loved it there, no threat of chokers though. Wow that's a whole new level. I had many similar experiences so I enjoyed your report.

[Cessna152]

I thought the 'choker' aspect made a nice little side story. But like you, I enjoyed Ulaanbaatar. Glad I went.