I've done Han Solo proud.

The train from Irkutsk to Ulan Bataar

While writing this I am sitting in a hostel in Ulan Bataar, listening to my new friend Ury practicing some Spanish flamenco guitar. It serves as a nice soundtrack.

I rocked up at the train station in Irkutsk a full hour before my train was to leave, because I am gangster like that. A bit overzealous, some would say, as the train-platform didn’t show up on the board until a full hour later.

After I balooned through the train like Baymax from Big Hero 6, I squeezed into my cabin and found a pleasant surprise. Becky was not only a very chilled out lady and the perfect cabinmate, she was also a welshie and I could reminice about Aberystwyth with her. 

We immediately nested.

A minute later I darted out the door to secure some snacks and swag for the long train ride. A familiar tongue greeted me from the kiosk on the platform. Tongue as in language, not as in… you know what? Screw you.

Stu the Geordie, He Who Drinks The Wine, Wielder of iPhone, Frostbane and Champion of Trains was a very pleasant addition to the party. He had stories about Laos was a great inspiration to me and which would have made my dear parents very concerned. On a side note, I have also finished Feast for Crows.

Outside the countryside was a sight to behold. Rural Siberian towns and tundra slowly gave way to frozen steppes and a more Mongolian landscape. I am still in love with the wooden Siberian shacks and farms that are dotted along the Trans Siberian/Mongolian railway.

The predatory Lada, here seen stalking a flock of sheep.

Also, TUMBLEWEEDS REALLY DO THE THING!

In one hamlet we spotted two adorable little Siberian girls that are too cute for words.

We routinely spotted lone little huts along the way, miles and miles from the nearest sign of civilization. We imagined that when the parties in the small village on the other side of the mountains grew too loud, the miser living alone would send up smoke signals and tell the youngsters to keep it down. 

 It seems that Siberians are just as fond of neighbours as Norwegians. 

By this time we had befriended German Simon as well, a scoundrel and professional cheeky bastard. A polyglot with German, Chinese, English and Spanish (if not more) to his name. 

Is also renowned for looking like a cold motherfucker in pictures. 

Now, for some exiting tales of misadventure! 

The adventures started at the border town of Naushki, where we were greeted by a grand station that lied boldly and shamelessly about what lay beyond.

The train was set to stop for two hours, so we tumbled off the train and rubbed our eyes at the glare of the midday sun. A brief quest for more snacks proved fruitful, and when we returned there was no train.

Sufficiently terrified, we bravely roamed the platform aimlessly until the train returned to us. Becky went aboard, but me and Simon decided to join Stu in a new quest. For cigarettes. 

Naushki is a charming town, in its own detoriating soviet way. At the park right across from the train station I found a moose (elk?) statue, and could not pass up the opportunity for a stupid tourist photo. 

After that we went from one little cornerstore to the next until we came to the outskirts of town. The buildings that didn’t look like Siberian driftwood sheds were concrete coffins. I have never pondered the reason behind the term “this town has gone to the dogs” before, but it suddenly dawned on me.

Strays, strays everywhere. Some healthy and friendly looking, but most were mangy as, well, dogs. 

Siberians have a pretty casual attitude to the animal-population of their towns, as was evident by a woman with a stroller being incapable of giving a single damn when a cow moseyed down the street and gave her child a sniff.

Incidentally, this was also where we found the last store in town. They sold an assortment of brands of cigarettes from an old wooden box that was hidden away behind the counter. To say it was shady was like calling Putin a hobby-politician. I picked up a pack of cigarettes too, to help lubricate dealings in the future. This is what they call foreshadowing.

We also bought a drink of fermented bread sold as soda pop. Which is just too Russian to fail.

When we got back to the train we got our biggest surprise. I found Becky looking nonplussed on as a little Mongolian lady was rearranging our cabin and stashing bottles all around the place.

"Oh no, this is not alcohol. This is medicine... for sober people."

My incredible mastery of subtle social cues told me something was a bit off. 

I politely but firmly extracted my bag from her den of booze and collected all my belongings in a corner of the cabin. I refrain from being anybody’s mule. However, we found ourselves unable to tell our new friend to take a hike down the oncoming rails. 

Did this have something to do with the fact that the attendants were completely in on it and very calm? Because she had a legal ticket to a bunk in our cabin? Possibly, but let me tell you: This lady was a true master of her craft. Black Marketeers are fun.

"This? Moutwash, sir!" 

From the second she saw me enter the cabin, she was all smiles and never stopped working. Bottles flew under the bunk, snuck their way behind pillows, got stashed under the table and one even was hung up in a net above the bunk. All the while she kept assuring us that “shhh, this invisible,” “this for tonight, party party, yes?” “customs no problem, they see nothing,” “you have very nice shirt, sir.”

Invisible!

Like a ninja.

She had us at hello. 

Now, if an intimidating man had suddenly started shoving bottles where they don’t belonged, it would have been a completely different story and a resounding “fuck off” to the hypothetical gentleman. That’s public relations, for you. Sneaky little ladieses.

Since nothing was in our bags and we had complete deniability, we sat back and watched the show as both the mongolian and russian border patrol failed to give a shit about the veritable pub stashed away in all the train’s cabins. (Oh no, we were not the only ones.) 

Even the mongolian lady in the KGB / SS uniform had nothing to say on a train sounding like a winebag.

Amazed and coming down from a slight adrenaline rush, we asked her how this could be.

Turns out that her and her gaggle of smuggler-ladies had been doing this for just about 10 years. They bought it over the border, smuggled it across and Then, after customs, they swept through the train like a hurricane and spirited the spirits back into various crates and boxes.

In Sühbataar, on the Mongolian side of the border we were able to step off. Take a breath, change our roubles for Mongolian tughrik and have a laugh at the enterprising mongolian ladies and their schemes.

Tugh life.

The next day we would be in Ulan Bataar, bright and early, and I would, amongst other things, have an unexpected meeting in a buddhist temple. 

Until then, stay safe (and don’t smuggle Sangria)

Eg reise ålaina.