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| Journal - |
| June 14th, 2006 > out there in the middle of nowhere |
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| With just days to spare on my Russian visa I have again picked up the rails. From here, the Trans Siberian train continues on its ever-eastward journey to terminate at Vladivostok some three days later. But for me, I have decided to deviate from the original plan and turn south into Mongolia. The only logical reason for going all the way to the Pacific coast was to cross to Japan, an expensive extravagance my budget could not cover this time around. But more to the point, Mongolia sounds a lot more exciting.
As I mentioned in previous journals, the scenery along the Trans Siberian route is nothing to get too excited about. However, the Circumbaikal line is regarded as the most picturesque, replacing the tedium of bog and Taiga with mountain and lake. So it is a bit of a shame that my train would complete the 200km section in eight or so hours, during the night. I simply had to take this one with so little time to spare on my visa. Luckily, the full moon reflecting off Lake Baikal still offered some wonderful views as we rolled through the night. |
| The following morning a halt at Zaudinsky offers the traveller an opportunity to decide where they want to go. This is where one of three Siberian services split away from the main line. It is also a perfect point at which to mention the two other routes that commonly come under the umbrella of “Trans Siberian” travel; the Trans Mongolian and the Trans Manchurian.
In 1894 work forged ahead with the main line east from Moscow and west from Vladivostok. Russia had secured an agreement from the weakened Chinese empire that allowed a second line to cross Manchuria. The railroad would branch off the main line at Chita in Russia and continue on to Harbin in China before finally going on to Vladivostok. The terrain was easy going and the problems encountered were political rather than practical. In 1899 substantial antiforeigner feelings within China spread throughout Manchuria and eventually to the Russian controlled railway. Stations were set on fire and 480km of track were torn up, work only being able to continue once the Russian military intervened. Since those times, the line has been under Japanese control twice. In between, various arrangements of part ownership with China and then post WWII it was offered back to Russia by the allies as a concession to her involvement in the Pacific War. Shortly afterward, in 1952 the line was returned to China as a gift to the new Communist regime. Then, in the 1960s, China/Russia relations took a nosedive and the border was closed altogether. Whether you followed that or not, all you need to know is that this section of the line is now called the Trans Manchurian and it is again possible to travel along. The service now terminates in Harbin but it is possible to travel on to Vladivostok from here; though you will need a double entry visa for Russia. A more recent addition is the Trans Mongolian, which follows the route travelled by ancient tea caravans from Beijing through Mongolia to Ulan Ude in Russia. Late 19th century Mongolia was formally part of the Chinese Manchu Empire, a relationship not enjoyed by the Mongols. Too weak to fend for itself, in 1936 the country became cosy with Russia with the signing of agreements on economic and military cooperation. A railroad was laid in short stages, eventually reaching Mongolia’s capital, Ulaan Baatar, in 1949. As relations relaxed between the Soviet Union and communist China, the final fifteen hundred kilometres of track was laid from Ulaan Baatar to Beijing. As with the Trans Manchurian line, all borders were closed with China during the 1960s but are again open for travel. |
| As it turned out, I had more than enough time to deal with this. Seven hours, to be precise. The Russian penchant for paperwork is even more popular here, I suspect mostly for the benefit of the traders and smugglers that have joined the party along the way. The customary shunting of carriages left me feeling very stranded for some time as the entire train disappeared, my single carriage left alone at a very deserted platform. Though my Provodnitsa looked like an extra out of Cell Block H, she proved very friendly and helped the time to pass. I could not be sure when we would depart, so I did no more than walk the length of the platform around ten times; the most exciting moment being when a locomotive hitched up my carriage and trundled off with me in hot pursuit. It always happens to me; I loyally stay with my carriage for hours then as soon as I turn my back someone tries to sneak off with it. |
| I don’t want to go on, but it happened again later in the day. Only about six hours into Mongolia we had another extended stop at a wild looking place without even a platform as such. There was more shunting of carriages and after several hours boredom had set in, I decided to cross the road and see what I could buy in the shop (a bottle of beer being predominantly on my mind). Counting my lone carriage as two tracks in, I climbed under the next train and set off to see what I could find. I soon returned with supplies, under another train to the second set of tracks; nothing there. Gone. There was much activity alongside the train I had climbed under, but no sign of my carriage where it should be. I always (unique bit of travel info here, folks) leave something easily identifiable in the window, in this case my coffee mug with a Russian cartoon on it, to help in these situations. Trains in these places all look the same, you cannot read the information in a hurry and they often do not bother displaying carriage numbers. Recognising your Provodnitsa is another way to find your place. Needless to say, I found my way, they had shunted my carriage onto another track and joined it to this new train some way further down the line. But I can do without those sort of panics at my age. |
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| check out the country profiles below - they took ages to write! |
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| Turning South... |
| My cabin mate for this journey, I forget his name, was a young Mongol lad from Ulaan Baator. That is about all I managed to establish, but as with all such trips we enjoyed each other’s company. He is the first Mongolian I have ever met, distinct in his features, an attractive fusion of south and central Asia. Now following a course southeast, the landscapes would change dramatically. The frozen forests of Siberia have quite suddenly given way to vast open steppe, the snow has gone and from the warm interior of the train, it seems spring-like. Most obvious of all, for the first time I see animals grazing. |
| Going nowhere fast... |
| Reminding myself I am still actually in Russia, I reflect on this stage of the journey. If you have read my journals through this country, you have witnessed a difficult start but steady improvement along the way. I have appreciated the complimentary emails from readers who valued and in some cases identified with my opinions along the way. I had to do a bit of soul searching when writing up Moscow; the temptation when travelling is often to glorify a location just because you are there. But this website is mostly a record for me, not a guidebook, and so I wrote it as I saw it. While it would be inaccurate to say I have fallen in love with the country, she certainly has grown on me. In fact, it could be the start of a sordid affair, without the love, because rather than getting to know her I am actually leaving full of intrigue. It was a first date with a rather large and mysterious woman that did not go too well, but I liked her enough to do it again some time. Certainly farther east the landscapes have become more interesting and the people warmer. Anyone with a passion for far out places only has to glance at a map to be completely in awe of the scale of the country. So I am pleased after a bumpy start to feel a little tinge of sadness as we approached the border. |
| I have a really good feeling about this place. The few people out on the streets have kind faces. It is altogether more interesting than anywhere on the trip so far. The side streets are full of curiosities that demand exploration and I really feel like I have made it to somewhere a long way from home.
When planning their own trips, people often ask me how I organise my money. Well, of course it is all down to personal choice. Being in between home countries as I am at the moment, I have bank accounts all over the place. I operate my main one online through First Direct (HSBC) because they offer great interest rates and brilliant service. But like all banks there is a small charge for international withdrawals. So I periodically move money into my Nationwide account, also managed online, the only bank I know off that makes no such charge. Up until Irkutsk in Russia I have been able to draw money from ATM machines. Sometimes you have to hunt around a bit for them. Of course I carry a visa card, mostly reserved for emergencies. On top of that, I have a bit of hard US dollar cash for those awkward moments at borders, there is probably nowhere in the world that won’t accept those. Finally I take along for the ride some AMEX USD travel cheques. A lot of people think of them as old fashioned and uneconomical, but I think they are great in any situation. You may loose a tiny amount during the transaction, but it is always nice to know they are there and if stolen you can get the money back, unlike wads of cash. Using US dollar traveller cheques I bought some local currency; the delightfully named Togrog. At T2040 to GBP 1 or T1178 to USD 1, I ended up feeling incredibly rich with T354,000 to play with, all in ten and five thousand notes; I could have used a brief case to carry them all in. I took a lucky guess when I chose to stay at UB Guesthouse . It is run by Koreans and I figured it would be a well-managed place. I was right. Despite my smelly feet I hit it off with a lovely English couple called Tom and Steph. They had been here a day or two and were planning a trip with another couple they had just met, and needed an extra person to spread the cost. We got together that night and with no major clash of personality, I was in the gang. To my advantage, these guys had done all the research and organising, which made me feel a little lazy, but the trip would begin at lunchtime the following day and it was too good an opportunity to miss. |
| I dragged myself out of bed early next morning to spend a few hours looking around Ulaan Baator. It is quite unlike any place I have been before. The streets were largely quiet at this time, something to be savoured as when the roads get busy every single driver constantly blows their car horn, for reasons only known to them.
In no time at all I had left behind the concrete and climbed a dry dusty hill that overlooked the city centre. The weather had cleared, offering my first opportunity to get my bearings and take in the awesome panorama of the surrounding Four Holy Peaks. The city really does have a frontier feel to it. The small centre quickly gives way to the urban fringes where you will find more Gers (traditional Mongolian tent) than housing blocks. Minor roads are made of dirt and animals roam freely, you always feel like you are on the edge of town. From my vantage point I could look down over Gandantegchinlen Khiid, Mongolia’s largest monastery that houses over one hundred and fifty monks. Much of the country’s residents practice Red Buddhism, which narrowly survived the communist purges of the 1930’s along with Gandan Khiid. Behind me to the east is Sukhbaatar Square, the geographical and cultural centre of Ulaan Baatar. It was named after revolutionary hero and first leader of independent Mongolia, Damdin Sukhbaatar. An accomplished horseman, he formed a nationalist army that along with the Soviet Red Army ousted the Chinese and White Russians. Known as the ‘People’s Warrior’, he died at the age of thirty but lives on today as a national hero and sits astride is horse on the square. |
| If any of you know anything of Ulaan Baatar, it will probably be for the famous Naadam Festival. It is a traditional cultural and sporting event that takes over the entire city during July. The three main pursuits are horseracing, wrestling and archery and Mongols travel from far and wide to take part in these most traditional of skills. |
| I am usually quite stubbornly against taking part in tours of any kind. I will happily waste large amounts of time and money trying to organise my own adventure; but in this case, to gain a really good insight into a place like this you need help. Ours came in the form of Bimba, who along with his four-wheel drive van have forty years experience of desert driving, and Dava, our charming interpreter who bridged the language barrier and explained everything tirelessly. We simply could not have done the things we did without their help.
With each day, the landscapes changed as we headed south. Though still bitterly cold there was less ice around, and the land itself looks sparser. It is quite hard work, and for anyone who does not travel well, possibly a nightmare. Temperatures fluctuate wildly inside and outside and vehicle, and riding out the ceaseless knocks and bumps is incredibly tiring. However, the reward is to see a country untouched by tourism, to see nomadic families going about their usual business, wearing their traditional clothing. More importantly, we do not just see it from the window of a moving van. Each night, at the end of a long day’s driving, we would stay with a family in their ger, the traditional tent used by Mongolians. There are no communications of any kind, so Dava relied on her network of families whom she knows are willing to offer a bed to travellers. Entering a ger can be a little daunting at first, as all of us are cautious not to impede on the family’s privacy. Thankfully, my travel buddies are all intelligent people who realise that there is a danger of this kind of tourism becoming almost voyeuristic. Thus we are careful to keep quiet, be friendly and respect customs. It is also an exciting moment. It is a real family home, and a privilege to be invited inside. Everything around us is alien; the smells, the faces and sounds that depict normal life out here are so far from what we know at home. The ger is the traditional home of the Nomadic Mongolian, and is to be found all over the country in both desert and city. They are low and circular, and vary in diameter from perhaps six to ten metres. The basic wood frame supports a heavy felt covering, and with maintenance, they will last around seventy years. The entire ger can be built in less than two hours enabling families to move often as their animals and local conditions dictate, as they always did and still do to this day. The first thing to strike me on entry is how very warm and cosy it is inside. Some things are familiar; a couch, a dresser, a bed or two and sometimes a TV, all arranged around the circumference. Always the centrepiece of every ger is the wood burning stove, with its smoke stack climbing vertically through a gap in the roof. Either side of this are two wooden struts that support the weight of the roof, often elaborately decorated and forming an area that is traditionally sacred and should not be passed through. Some floorings were bare dirt, most an assortment of rugs laid over each other. The interior is very simple and practical, with very few material belongings on display other than on the dresser unit that is always placed at the ‘head’ of the ger opposite the entrance. On here we would typically find a Buddhist shrine, a few ornaments and usually a collection of family photographs. One of these will house a family of four or five, in which they will eat, sleep and socialise. All cooking is carried out on the central stove, which mostly burns dried animal dung. It is this, often along with a nursery pen for weak animals, which gives the ger an animal odour that will always remind me of my time staying in the desert. We all were surprised to see televisions in some gers. A satellite dish of the size you would find at NASA control is needed, from the outside completing the illusion that the house you are looking at is actually on some alien planet or from the film set of Star Wars. The small amount of electricity required to run this and a single light bulb, amateurishly wired, is produced from a miniature wind turbine that harnesses those ample Gobi winds. |
| Mongolia |
| It was something as a relief to find Ulaan Baatar there at all, for in keeping with their nomadic lifestyle it was frequently moved. The first recorded capital of the Mongolian empire was called Orgoo, established in 1639. It finally settled into its current location in 1778, but the name continued to change with various invasions by the Russians and Chinese. In 1924 it was renamed Ulaan Baatar, meaning Red Hero and declared capital of Mongolia.
I was quite unprepared for the chaos outside the station after months of quiet Europeans and Russians. The mob of taxi drivers touting for business (and it was only six AM) did not even bother yelling at me, they simply used their car horns to produce a deafening cacophony that was most unwelcome at this time. I knew roughly where I was going, so I sharpened my elbows and pushed through the madness. UB is quite a popular junction for travellers making their way to central Asia from China, or indeed folks headed to Moscow, thus according to my guide book there is a surprising number of guest houses available. It is a strange thing because this is one of the most remote capital cities in the world and yet it has a traveller infrastructure more developed than anywhere in Russia. I hiked several kilometres along the dry dusty streets, elated at the sheer exoticism of the place. I have been fascinated with Mongolia and its people for some time, and the excitement of finally making it here has filled me with energy. By the time I find my way onto Enkh Taivny Orgon Choloo, (lets just call it Peace Avenue shall we?), it is snowing as hard as I have seen anywhere. It is that time of year, the thaw, and though cold the streets were clear of the white stuff. Clearly, drivers have all but forgotten the art of driving in the snow and I lost count of how many near-miss accidents I witnessed along the way as they skidded at the junctions. |
| Ulaan Baatar |
| Our Russian built van, skilfully steered by our driver, Bimba, negotiated its way through the chaos of UB traffic. We had earlier bought enough supplies for seven days of camping, and we all felt excited as we approached the edge of town; it would be the last concrete we would see for a while. Busily talking among ourselves, we were all surprised to look out the window and note that just minutes clear of the city we were amid such a massive open landscape.
Soon after, the road ran out altogether and from now on, we would only bounce along dirt roads in varying degrees of bumpiness. We have a lot of distance to cover, up to 300km per day – quite a lot when your average speed hovers around 40kph. |
| Adventure in the Gobi Desert |
| In 1901 the first trains to rumble along the Trans Siberian still faced a major obstacle, Lake Baikal. I mentioned last time how they initially laid tracks across the ice to join the lines up, which ended in tragedy. They subsequently used two icebreaking ships to transport the trains across, one of which is now at the bottom also. Despite the huge cost and engineering challenge, it was eventually recognised that the only option was to build a railway that would skirt around the southern shores of the lake. The line was the most difficult section along the entire railway to build, requiring a bridge or tunnel into the cliffs almost every kilometre, for all two hundred of them! |
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| the landscape opens out as I turn south and approach the Mongolian border |
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| railway workers prepairing to steal my carriage the moment I turn my back |
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| in Ulaan Baator, you are never far from the edge of town |
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| at left: Sukhbaata Square with hero Damdin astride his horse - at right: Gandantegchinlen Khiid |
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| Team Marmot One – meet the superhero adventurers of the Gobi Desert |
| Byambaa (Bimba) – van owner and driver with 40yrs experience in desert driving |
| Tsenddavaa (Dava) – intelligent fun-filled translator and guide |
| Tom – action hero Rugby player with a penchant for BF nowhere places on trip with partner Steph |
| Steph – high-kicking sheila with hippy ambitions, travelling Moscow to India with partner Tom |
| Rob – humorous upcoming photographer aiming for the top with National Geographic, on trip with partner Hannah |
| Hannah – feisty adventurer with hippy tendencies, travelling just about every continent of the world with partner Rob |
| Timo – slightly thinning oldie who hijacks other people’s trips and writes things about them |
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| Outside, some families had built basic enclosures to manage their animals. The walls were made of dried animal dung, painstakingly arranged very much like a traditional dry stone wall. There will almost always be a dog or two, a motorbike and perhaps a few tethered camels. Nearby, the toilet is a basic hole cut into the sand with three sheets of corrugated tin erected to preserve the dignity. It is something quite special to sit on the loo and stare out into the desert. |
| As we travelled each day, when not putting the world to rights or torturing ourselves by listing our favourite home cooked meals, we listened as Dava (our translator) explained life in the Gobi and answered our questions. We were free to stop whenever we requested, and at least once a day we took significant time out to explore a local feature or point of interest. On day three, a real surprise was to leave behind the largely flat featureless desert and enter a mountain range. Known as Yoliin Am (Ice Canyon), it is an area of outstandingly rugged beauty. We hiked the along a permanently frozen river that wound its way through the range of craggy mountains. The sheer walls of rock on either side channelled a bone chilling wind, at one point so strong it was almost impossible to walk into. Here there is the potential to spot Ravens, Vultures and Eagles. Hidden somewhere up there among the rocky peaks are also Deer, wild Goats and Wolves. And whenever you turn your head, out of the corner of your eye, the fluffy blur on four speedy miniature legs of the Gofer, as it bolts for its underground home. Despite the desolate, apparently deserted surroundings, you feel you are being watched and I would not be at all surprised to see a Gollum type character scuttling around the crevices. |
| Out there... |
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| Other diversions along the way included food or fuel stops at tiny settlements, breakdowns, punctures and my newfound passion for finding the ultimate animal carcass to photograph. Weird? Well, maybe. However, no Gobi Desert photo album is complete without a classic shot of scattered bones. Thankfully, these are in abundance, whether from predation by wolves, the remains of a family meal or natural wastage. I am not sure Bimba or Dava totally understood our constant requests to stop the van every time we passed a pile of bones bleached white by the elements. |
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| As we reached the southern extremity of our route, we turned east then north to continue on our loop, and with it the landscape changed again into what we would all expect to find in a desert – vast open spaces and shifting sand dunes as far as we could see. The surface under our wheels had detiriated, and after a particularly long day we ground to an abrupt halt before a muddy river bed. It had been Bimba’s intention to drive across the frozen mud, but it had begun to thaw earlier than expected and we risked getting bogged down. While we witnessed an awesome sunset Amgalanbatar (Ama), who was driving another van that had joined us, went on foot to locate the ger where we hoped to find a bed. Eventually he returned with a man who would guide us through the dunes to a better crossing point. It took some considerable skill on the part of our guides to navigate their way in the dark, constantly getting stuck and loosing our direction. Despite all being very tired it somehow made our adventure all the more real, and spirits were high as we approached the ger where we could rest. Unfortunately there was little space and no food available, so we tucked into our camping supplies (noodles becoming a little monotonous now) and all bedded down on the floor together.
Tucked into my sleeping bag I felt warm and secure as a sand storm began to rage outside. My thoughts turned to the lone wild horse (Przewalski horse) we had spotted earlier in the day. Dava was certain it had been separated from the herd the previous night. As the thing galloped back and forth, lost and lonely, she was sure that from the distant hills it was being watched by many sets of eyes. This, she says, is a well-known tactic of the Wolf. The very thought of this unfolding drama filled us was awe, and we wanted to park the van and sit there all night to watch, but of course we had to keep moving. I was quickly snapped back to reality at the discovery of two huge ticks on my chest. These little bloodsuckers are common out here. They are five times the size of the ones at home, and get around on the wind so it is difficult to avoid them. Trying not to freak out at my uninvited guests, I enlisted the help of my travel buddies to hold a bottle of vodka over them for fifteen minutes to kill them. I then had to carefully pluck them out of my body (at last a use for my Swiss Army knife tweezers). We all spent the rest of the trip in itchy paranoia. Sometimes we felt a little uneasy in arriving unannounced and inflicting ourselves on a family, so we were careful to behave with respect. We also agreed that in actual fact putting up with us foreigners, in our funny clothes, did earn them some much-valued cash; and I hope the experience was as enriching to them as it was to us. Typically, once inside a ger we would be offered a cup of milky or sometimes salty tea. The mother would usually be busying herself preparing a meal and in keeping with men the world over, the husband would squat near the burner and watch. The children would initially look quite petrified at the very sight of us, particularly with my newly acquired beard, but would soon gain their confidence. They are very quiet people, even the children play in silence, and they move quite slowly and deliberately. Clothing was usually of the traditional kind; the del is an all-purpose coat or dress, sometimes plain and sometimes decorated, while the inconceivably large boots are hand made and appear virtually impossible to walk in. The kind people who allowed us into their lives had offered us the opportunity to experience a different way of living, in an environment where simply surviving is an everyday chore. Before coming here, I was perhaps a little tired of the term used to describe Mongol herders, Nomad. Years of reading travel magazines and looking at websites is the cause of this; the word itself is synonymous with travel and every other company or travel journal is nomad this and nomadic that. But here, it is not about an image or anything other than the way they live. And for me here is the most amazing thing about these hardy people, the fact that they survive and actually live well from this desolate environment. Their daily lives are inextricably linked to the animals they herd, be they goats, camels, horses or yaks. When conditions and the animals themselves dictate, they move to new pasture. Some gers we viewed did have structures that are more permanent such as a holding pen; these tend to be in the areas near a water source or exceptionally good grazing where they may not need to move so often. Dava explained to us that there is no concept of land ownership out here, and with only two and a half million inhabitants in a country not much smaller than India, with roughly just two people per square kilometre, I can see why. You should not travel to Mongolia for the cuisine alone, for you may well be disappointed. Theirs is a very limited diet based on dried meat, dairy and rice or pasta. Fresh vegetables are scarce outside of UB and fruit almost nonexistent, and yet the Mongolian people look so incredibly healthy. A typical meal consisted of rice or pasta boiled in a broth of mare or camel milk, with dried meat and potato added. It is a high fat diet that suits the environment in which they live, but one which is likely to leave the average westerners’ stomach growling. Toward the end of our week out there, taking turns to list our favourite home cooked meals brought us all close to hallucinating. The closing days of our journey took us north west back toward the capital. We rode Camels, saw fossilised dinosaur bones, and survived a sand storm. On our final night, with our hosts, drivers and translators, we drank vodka and listened to khoomi (traditional Mongolian singing). A famous alcoholic treat is called Airag; it is made from fermented horse’s milk, but sadly for us we are here at the wrong time of year to try it. Dava told us that a few friends can get through forty litres between them in one night – it is quite week at only 3%. We also wrestled with Ama, a sport all Mongol people enjoy, and despite his lack of height, he was as strong as an ox and had floored five of us in a row within seconds. |
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| On the return leg to UB Dava took us to visit her family and the area where she grew up. That is, once we could find them, for their ger had moved and we spent some time driving around in search. As always they made us welcome with a warm meal, and we enjoyed watching Dava catch up with her loved ones. Her grand farther, in his eighties, along with various children and the rest of the family, worked with expert hands as they handled a herd of goats, weaning the kids out of the mob. A little girl whom I think was a niece, I failed to note her name, so full of character and energy has become above all my most treasured image from this trip. Whenever I look at her picture I am reminded of the Mongolians’ incredible friendliness, their kindness, sense of fun and stoicism. |
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| filling up with fuel - Gobi style |
| a Gobi town consists of.... lots of Gers |
| This excursion into the Gobi, to see such fascinating people going about their lives, has been something I will always remember. Despite this being by far my longest journal yet, I could continue to write more and more. I have learned so much and reminded myself of why it is I travel like this.
My special thanks go to Bimba & Dava for sharing your knowledge and working so hard to show us your country and people. Completing the Marmot One gang, fellow adventurers Tom, Steph, Rob & Hannah – thank you for putting up with a single, slightly balding, thirty, thirty two year old solo traveller, for your cool jokes, intellectual conversation (straight over my head) and your respect for the people and places we saw. I wish you all the best on the remainder of your own journeys. Also, to the cool guys we often bumped into along the way, and sometimes shared a ger with, and whom I would have loved to write about also if this journal was not already so long – bayarlalaa! |
| In all the excitement of this side trip, I had almost forgotten the final stage of my great rail journey across a third of the earth. Next time, the final leg from Ulaan Baator to Beijing in China, my halfway point. In addition, some news and an explanation as to why the last few journals are a little behind schedule!
I have put together a collection of my favourite images from Mongolia, which has been added to the new feature WanderYears EXTRA. Rather than clogging up this journal with too many images, you can pick the ones that interest you from the small thumbnails and view them at a larger size than I could possibly include on here. To see some beautiful faces and far out landscapes, click here. |
| Thats all for now... |
| The temperature has again plummeted with occasional snow showers and a wind that can cut you in two. In over fifteen hundred kilometres of driving through the Gobi Desert, we have passed through only three settlements of any size. They are not even marked on my map, and exist as a centre for trading and exploiting minerals. The population is in permanent flux, as you would expect, but usually only number a couple of thousand. Children from outlying areas come to these settlements to receive some schooling. |
| So what has it cost so far? |
| Overland travel certainly ain’t cheap, however no price can be put on the experiences I have already had. The costs below are for travel and accommodation only, from London to Ulaan Baatar in Mongolia. They are accurate according to the exchange rates at the time. I saved on accommodation by always staying at budget places, sometimes with a host (thanks guys) from COUCHSURFERS, and most of all by travelling overnight on the train whenever possible. Total cost of transport by train/bus from London to Ulaan Baatar: GBP 411.00 or USD 740.00 Total cost of accommodation over the entire trip: GBP 204.00 or USD 367.00 Total, not including food and miscellaneous: GBP 615.00 or USD 1107.00 COST OF GOBI ADVENTURE Price is fully inclusive of vehicle, driver, translator/guide, accommodation & food for six days GBP 111.00 or USD 200.00 or Togrog 235,600.00! |