Return to Mongolia

This August I went back to Mongolia to reclaim my wife, Altaa, not because I had lost her, but conversely to get married to her, again. In May, we had our wedding in Britain, yet none of her friends or family were present. This time it would be the reverse. So we were entering the realm of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton - marrying the same person twice (except without a divorce in between) - and this in the space of three months which is not a claim anyone can make. Luckily for me, as a man, I only had one number to remember - 24 - since we tied the knot on May 24th and did it in Mongolia on August 24th.
It had been more than a year since I had set foot on Mongolian soil. In the intervening period some extraordinary structures going up in Ulaanbaatar (none of the new, however, with warning lights atop, so lucky there is little low-flying traffic). These include a towering office block that dwarfs the aircraft carrier-like Central Cultural Palace (previously one of the tallest Mongolian buildings around) and a vast, shiny, black monolith that looks like a cross between 2001: A Space Odyssey and Blade Runner. But the most impressive of all, is a curvilinear building of glass and metal that billows at one side like the sail of yacht and along that vertical curved expression bends out again horizontally. It cuts into the view from the central Sükhbaatar Square of the surrounding hills, but it is the UB equivalent of London’s Swiss Re ‘Erotic Gherkin’ skyscraper. A massive Mongolian national flag was draped from the upper levels of this incomplete edifice, presumably in celebration of the country’s first ever Olympic gold medal. On the 22nd August, however, it was a very windy day and the flag jerked and bounced as it was buffeted. Just after half past three, it disappeared. Had it blown away, having slipped loose its moorings or been drawn in by the construction workers? This was answered when it turned up again on another big building when Mongolia’s athletes returned with a record medal haul of four (by population proportionately better than the UK, let alone the USA).
Other buildings had also been going up - in flames! In early July, the capital city was rocked by riots protesting the outcome of the general election. International observers concluded it had been broadly free and fair, but the opposition Democratic Party disagreed. Fired up by angry rhetoric and rising commodity prices, protestors did the same to the ruling party’s headquarters, completely burning it out. The destruction spread to an art gallery and the storehouse of the Mongolian Philharmonic Orchestra, both in the Central Cultural Palace. Of the three volunteer jobs I had during my first stay in Mongolia in early 2006, two of the locations were shells and a third was inaccessible. By and large though, the damage was in a comparatively small area and a brief military curfew ensured the violence did not continue.
The city hotels that we stayed in were of variable quality. The first, the Land Hotel, was as basic as an en suite can be and several wodges of chewing gum were stuck to one panel of the bed’s headboard. One night was enough. After, we went to the Negdelchin hotel, next to the Wrestling Palace, taking out a standard double room. This was like a matchbox carved out of the end of the corridor and it anyone used the toilet that bordered the wall and did not close the door on conclusion of their business, it was impossible to get out of our room for the doors clashed. unless one pressed the hinges of the toilet door to close it. There was a TV but the signal was static-infused to say the least. We had to get out of there and moved up a floor into an en suite. This was of far higher quality with oodles of space, a good view of the Wrestling Palace and a decent telly signal, but had masses of flies, their number being replenished by fellow troopers coming through the bathroom air vent. About 35 were killed, more than 25 in the bathroom, at which point the problem was satisfactorily resolved for a while. Following our wedding, we went to Terelj national park for the briefest of honeymoons (24 hours). It was far enough from UB to see the pure, majestic night sky - the Milky Way in all its uninhibited glory. Then we came back to the city, returning to the Negdelchin for another en suite which was the most pleasant of the lot.
We had plenty of things to get ready before the Mongolian marriage occurred such as going to the so-called Black Market to buy traditional summer apparel. It is said a wedding dress is worn only one day in a lifetime, but these clothes would share the billing with western dress and so had the potential to not even match that. For forty-five pounds though, I was not over-extending myself. I also had only brought hand luggage with me so I needed a shave after a while. I purchased the cheapest razor blade available in the biggest of the department stores in the city centre. It labelled itself a Sputnik; made in Shanghai, packaged in St Petersburg and sold in Ulaanbaatar - how’s that for a carbon footprint? It might have been less damaging to actually put it into low Earth orbit. Sputnik was a deceptively smooth shave, mimicking space travel - that getting into the cosmos is the easy bit; it is the landing that’s the hard part and just touching chin or cheeks thereafter felt like they were re-entering Earth’s atmosphere, but, hey, it only cost a pound.
On the day of the wedding, we visited to where Altaa’s family was staying, in traditional ger huts on the edge of the city. There we changed into the traditional deels we had got a few days earlier. Altaa had a red full-length robe aflame with intensity, overlaid by another with gold patterning on it. I had a deep blue affair, with similar golden swirls on the outermost garment, plus boots and a hat, reminiscent of cowboys. After exchanging initial pleasantries, we went in convoy to the Wedding Palace.
Inside was a side room for changing into our western clothing, which was required by the authorities. Then we ascended the grand central stairs for the civil ceremony. It was a simple repeat of vows I had made in Britain, about taking Altaa to be my wife and treating her right. Ring-giving was an essential act and now both Altaa and I have an additional ring, these ones with Mongolian styling on their crowns. We signed a register (just the once unlike the four times in St Mary Magadalene) and got a certificate booklet and a glass representation of the Wedding Palace, which could double-up as a rather effective paperweight. As we stood in the centre of the small hall, Altaa’s family came forward to festoon us with flowers. We were led out into an adjoining hall by a woman kitted out in extravagant traditional dress. Here a man in traditional clothing sung our praises, Altaa lit an ornamental bonsai bonfire and we each knocked back a silver bowl containing vodka. Here, I finally asked Altaa’s father for his daughter’s hand in marriage even though it was a fait accompli twice over. The ceremony concluded, the moment had arrived for the mass posing for pictures, both on the steps of the grand central staircase and out in public in Sükhbaatar Square.
Our reception was held in the main restaurant of the four-star Bayangol Hotel, since Altaa’s parents were determined to spare no expense. We had a five-layered cake and after we had cut through the icing and sponge and returned to our seats, it was amusing to watch as three waiters puzzled as to how to separate the storeys from one another. Eventually, they worked out that they had to unscrew the stem, but even then it was not finished. The compère wore a black and gold lamé jacket and a winning smile, as well as bearing a powerful singing voice.
As our reception started, the waiting staff were rather pre-occupied with a television placed behind one of the loudspeakers next to the stage. This was to monitor the progress of a Mongolian boxer in the bantamweight final - one of the last events at the Olympics. His opponent was from Cuba, a nation famed for producing high-quality Olympic boxers and so, in a way, the Mongolian really was punching above his weight in terms of expectation. Reality though was unyielding to the Cuban. With the Mongolian already well ahead in point-scoring, the 4th quarter of the match was shown on the big screen on the stage, as he cruised to victory, a few more jabs embellishing his comprehensive total. With the Mongolian boxer ascending the podium to take his gold medal - Mongolia’s second ever - the national anthem played and we all stood up to attention. It is an honour in Mongolia to have the national anthem played at one’s wedding since it is used for only special occasions. As Altaa said, it was a double celebration - the wedding and another gold medal for Mongolia. When we had to give speeches, I kept mine simple as Altaa had to translate it. I was thinking about mentioning American World War II general Douglas MacArthur, but instead of saying “I will return” as he did in initial defeat at Corregidor, I would say “I will return” in triumph, noting when I come back to Mongolia next year for a while; however, I thought something might have got lost in translation, especially as Altaa understandably wanted me to speak in whole sentences. Halfway through the reception we got changed into traditional Mongolia clothes again and I had to make special effort not to let my sleeves droop into my food. Altaa’s family and friends made various verbal and gift presentations to us, contributing to a wonderful day.
Our honeymoon was not even the following day. First of all, Altaa was recovering from the night before that she spent with her friends from university, having over-indulged herself with the vodka. She had fun dancing, though I felt the DJ’s set was a bit limited, looping round every twenty minutes. In the evening we went round to Dave’s Place, which was finally closing - this was to be its final week. There I met the members of two Mongol rally teams. Two of the guys themselves were called Alex (the second Alex partly shadowing the first Alex with the other guys on the trip) and there was also Matt, Tom and I think his name was Kunarl or something unfamiliar like that. Unfortunately, they took the wrong route out of Russia, having their car confiscated at the border by stern Slavs and having to pay for an exorbitant taxi ride, though it was not the money rather than the sense of actually completing the journey that grated, since these guys had escaped Georgia days before conflict broke out, negotiated bribe-bloated Azeri officials, taken a ferry across the Caspian Sea, kipped on a mountain pass in Tajikistan, waiting for the Kyrgyz border to open, found helpful Kazakhs (who wish vengeance on Sacha Baron Cohen) who give unhelpful directions to exit Almaty, but still go back to collect their wayward foreign charges and almost ran out of money in Krasnoyarsk (luckily the bank they found - with a story to that to - accepting dollars). There’s enough stories to last a lifetime. The first Alex had brought a bottle of Champagne with him from Britain, but despite remaining unspilt, searing desert temperatures and freezing climes near the roof of the world ensured it was not unspoiled, being decidedly flat on its grand opening. I had one more night in Dave’s Place, the night before final departure back to Britain. There I met Lee, the American, again and Dave stood me a beer for the road.
Our honeymoon on the Tuesday came as the tourist season was drawing to a close. The camp that we finally settled on had just had a busload of foreigners leave that morning and the four remaining Russians left very early in the morning the next day. On the Wednesday we had a brief walk over a minor hill. There was a hut situated near the summit, but cows had invaded the wooden structure. We weren’t going to enjoy a cool beer there anyway, but if we had it might have been a bit crowded. Instead, I enjoyed a chilled, fermented beverage, relaxing on a steel rocking chair (which needed mastering since it was very sensitive to moving) on the wooden veranda of the main building of the camp.
On the final morning, we did a manic round of last goodbyes to Altaa’s elderly relatives and her immediate family saw us off at the airport. The flight wasn’t so bad, but it had none of the luxuries of the 747 I took going to Korea (which even had the soundtrack to The Living Daylights on its album tunes). What was unpleasant was the daunting prospect of a whole 24 hours transit in Beijing Capital International Airport Co. Ltd. We were based in the new Terminal 3, which was just as well, as Terminal 2, where we disembarked into, was chaotic. You had to wander around until you blundered into the right channel. Everyone else was non-plussed as well, standing for ages in a queue before being told it was the wrong one and so on. Moscow’s Sheremetyevo is drab by comparison in architectural terms, but the channels are clearly delineated and everyone knows where they need to go.
But the charm of Terminal 3’s design melted my irritation. The exit was a glass dome of a tortoise shell with seductively smooth edges and gracious curves, while the convex arched roof of the terminal itself is a soaring marvel to behold - think the British Museum’s roof around the Reading Room, yet still more innovative and vast.
Twenty-four hours in Beijing Terminal 3 may sound like the title of a Russian miserably novel, but it wasn’t so bad with Altaa as companion. Twenty hours in Sheremetyevo - alone - was enervating. Beijing T3 is three times bigger than the first two terminals put together, though the large model map on display could have done with a dusting. The official airport police (there were frequently huge knots of police cadets disgorged from the city outside, no doubt parcelled away to quell some remote uprising, vi an inbound flight) strolled in lockstep and even went to the urinals in tandem, the sound of urine hitting porcelain timed to perfection. The cubicles had a dispenser of paper toilet seat covers, probably to cover the eventuality of a rustic and uncouth hick who’s never seen a flush toilet before, let alone used one and, shy to pee in open company, nips in and relieves himself without thinking to actually lift the toilet seat first. This was a common trouble with Mongolian toilets that weren’t open plan. Ever obliging, for those who are old-fashioned in toileting habits T3 had some open plan cubicles too.
The Para-Olympics were in full swing and the 2008 Olympic slogan One World, One Dream was still draped in prominent places, a reminder that in a totalitarian state no-one can have individual dreams. There was a rather uninspired Bird’s Nest scale fabrication in one section, that took two seconds to decide it was not worthy of a camera shot; mind you, plenty of Chinese loved to pose by it for photos as if it was the real thing.
Our meals were held in a Chinese fast food restaurant called East Dawning, which may or may not have been a KFC franchise (since there were telltale signs of a icons of a beaming, bearded fellow in a an apron dotted here and there), but if so, then in this case the Colonel’s influence was benign, since the dishes were sinicized, though I steered clear of anything to do with chicken. I enjoyed a coconut flavoured beef curry for my supper an ahd some tomato beef noodles for breakfast, sharing an iced Strawberry Knickerbocker Glory-thingy with Altaa who had poultry-related meals. We also had some Chinese wafer crisps as a snack and though I was tempted by the cucumber flavour crisps (?!?) in the convenience store selling them, I went for the relatively safe option of a box of BBQ taste ones.
The longer we waited for the hours to elapse, the closer the city smog encroached upon the airport. By morning, it was a wonder anything could take-off or land so dense was it. That was the backdrop to the enveloping dusk the previous night. The heat was something else as well. I was sweltering in the confines of an air-conditioned airport, making an uncomfortable sleep on benches more sticky. Altaa and I took shifts in sleeping. On the bench behind us we had a bunch of Russians, though I chose not to broach the issue of Georgia (or, for that matter, anything) with them. While contemplating in these moments, it was always inspiring to look outside and see the myriad lights of the waiting hall (which partially dimmed at 3am) reflected against the night like cascades of droplets from some celestial fountain. We survived the twenty-four hours, the less than motivating inflight movies and the British leg of the return (Tube and train). Now, Altaa is back in the UK, with us doubly married.