118 days ago
118 days ago
However, as the train clunked closer to the city, the magnificent view gradually morphed into an urbanized, polluted and impoverished disarray. The sky turned grey while the grassy fields altered to crumbling pavement. People and buses replaced the herds of wild animals while the hustle and bustle quickly relinquished all spiritual feelings. It’s hideous, puzzling and revolting. It’s Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia.
I exited the train at the central station relieved to finally stop moving. Nonetheless, there was one problem- the mercury was well below 0 degrees Celsius. As Jack London would have said, “it certainly was cold.” Now, the cold is my worst enemy. I’m from Louisiana where winter doesn’t exist. Furthermore, the majority of my travels have taken place tropical climates. I can handle the warmest of temperatures and high humidity without a problem, but when there’s cold, my body shuts down. I, as you can probably already tell, despise the cold with a bitter passion. OK, enough about the cold, moving on...
Obviously, I couldn’t change the temperature. Instead, I grabbed another jacket from my bag and headed to the hostel on Peace Avenue; the main street of the city. There, I met a few British and Irish backpackers. After discussing our plans, and realizing that none of us wanted to spend another day in the eye-swore capital city, we decided to pitch in for a guide/translator to show us around the country side for the next several days. We paid our cash and everything was set. Wake up call the next morning- 8am. To prepare for the excursion, at just around dinner time, I ran out to exchange the rest of my Russian Rubles into Mongolian Tugrik. In total, I was carrying the equivalent of about $400 USD.
On my way back from exchanging money, I ran into the three English guys (Steve, Dave and Dave) who would be traveling with me the next day. Steve was solo traveling and just happened to meet the two Dave’s on the road in Russia. He’s a sociable guy who loves joking around; the kind of person you can’t help being friends with. The two Dave’s, a bit more reserved than Steve, were friends from back home. They just graduated the University and were looking for an adventure before heading off into the real world of 9-5. All four of us got along great and were anxiously looking forward to our trip.
They invited me to dinner that evening, but, as mentioned, I was carrying my camera and a lot of cash on me. So I told them, “Hey, let me run and put my stuff up real quick. Will y’all wait? I’ll only be five minutes.”
Steve, in typical fashion, responded, “Come on mate, it’s cold. Nothing’s going to happen. We’re hungry!”
After a few of Steve’s witty remarks, I laughed and gave in. “Yeah, you’re right. Nothing’s going to happen. Nothing ever happens.” I went with them instead of returning to the hostel.
It’s amazing, looking back on it, how such small decisions like these can be so life changing.
We stuffed ourselves that night with traditional Mongolian dumplings, greasy platters of meat and Genghis Kahn Vodka. That’s right, Genghis Kahn just isn’t the greatest conqueror of all time, he’s also a vodka brand, beer label and modern day celebrity. He’s the heart and soul of the Mongolian people in more ways than one.
It was getting late and we were drunk (Genghis Kahn Vodka is indeed as strong as the warrior himself), and the two Dave’s remembered that we had an eight hour drive the following morning and took off to bed. However, Steve wanted another drink. It’s hard to deny a drink with Steve since you know the jokes will flow continuously without a dull moment. We told our buddies that we’d see them early the next morning.
After quickly finding a place to grab a drink, we saw that the party scene wasn’t exactly what we expected. The bar was a drab with reprocessed Mongol pop music. Several empty tables cluttered the room while a half functioning disco light from the 80s glittered above the dance square. My Middle School dances rivaled this place; meaning it straight up sucked. After a few brews and several crazy stories by Steve, I realized it was time to leave.
We walked to the street to hail down a car since they don’t have taxis in Ulaanbaatar. You simply raise your hand and some one will stop. Basically, you’re hitchhiking. It was late and there weren’t many vehicles on the road, so we walked down the deserted street in the below freezing temperature for several minutes. Astonishingly, the cold wasn’t bothering me too bad. I think the vodka helped warm me up. Could this magical liquid be the key to combating the cold? Maybe... Apparently, the Mongols and Russians would agree since they drink the stuff like water.
Soon, Steve and I spotted the head lights of a car in the distance. We stopped and waited for it to approach. We waited and waited, causing the cold to return and creep slowly up my spine.
In the midst of waiting, something happened. My world turned upside down. Smack! A bolt of pain screamed from the back of my skull and out my eye sockets. My vision blurred while my knees buckled. My body fell limp, dropping to the frozen ground like an imploding building.
My world is black. My body is frozen. My mind blank. I’m horrified. I’m unconscious. I’m down. What the fuck is going on?
Slam! A boot to the abdomen awakes me. I regained consciousness only to find myself on the icy ground getting pounded by two hooded thugs in thick black jackets. The kicks and punches struck me from all angles. One of the guys held me down while the other ravaged my pockets. I kicked and struggled with all my might, but no amount of force could knock them off. I squirmed, yelled and tried everything in my power to break loose, but it was impossible. These guys were robbing me, plane and simple. After stealing everything, I was positive there was nothing else to take. But, the guy was still holding me down, not letting me go. The other dude stood up and looked at me in an intimidating manner. Though I couldn’t see his face, this man was radiating violence.
Still stuck on the ice crusted ground, a terrifying thought hit me. I was convinced their job wasn’t over. Sure, they got the money and camera, but were they looking for something else? Maybe my life would be just what they needed to top off their night? Perhaps if they left me alive I’d notify the police and have them arrested?
I looked up at the man hovering above me and waited for the final blow. I knew I was going to die.
“This is it,” I said to myself, “this is it!” I thought about my family and friends, along with a few special moments that defined my life. I realized that even though it was all over, I had no regrets. I accomplished a lot for a 23 year old and was comforted by the fact that I was going to die doing something I loved- traveling. I prepared myself for the afterlife, or reincarnation, or whatever happens after your soul leaves your body, and began praying. It’s amazing how religious one becomes when teetering on the edge of life and death.
In the blink of an eye, the guy released me and they took off running. I lay on the ice breathing heavily while quietness filled the crisp air. I wiped the blood from my face only to smear more of it into my eyes. After resting peacefully for a moment, by myself in the arctic freeze, I regained my composure and said in a faint whisper, “I’m alive.”
I slowly pushed my self up, noticing the rips in my clothes and mosaic splotches of burgundy blood and crystal white flakes below me. I made my way down the street with a slight limp hoping to see a store, a hotel, or a restaurant; anywhere that was open. A bright green neon light of a hotel appeared in the distance. Step by step, my mind was blank; still in shock over what just happened. I didn’t care how long the entire ordeal lasted or if I would ever find the guys who assaulted me; all that was trivial. The receptionist at the hotel saw me and immediately knew what had just happened to me.
I woke up in the hostel the next morning to discover that Steve had been robbed also. We talked about our experiences over a cup of bitter tea and stale bread in the kitchen that morning. He told me that a few guys also knocked him down and searched his pockets, but left after not finding anything. “Didn’t find anything?” I questioned. Steve responded, “Yeah mate, I had all my money in my shoe.”
Though both of us were a little beat up and demoralized, Steve and I decided to go with the others for our three-day excursion into the wilderness. The eight hour drive along the unpaved road to our first destination, Karakorum (the capital of nearly the entire known world during the 13th century which is now nothing more than a village of a few wooden shacks, Yurts, a stream and a small hill) was excruciating. The bumps didn’t help my wounded body, but that wasn’t the worst part. Instead, the pain of not being able to capture everything with my camera seemed to hurt more. I cursed the culprits from the previous night along with my friends in the van taking photos out the window, an act of pure jealousy.
The breath taking scenery of the Mongolian country side would be a worthless memory, nothing captured on film. The nomads I met, the food I ate and the round tents we stayed in would be meaningless unless I could show others back home my wonderful experience. Participating in shaman rituals and keeping the fire lit by petrified manure, likewise, would only be a few insignificant electric shock waves in my brain. I honestly thought everything would be meaningless without my camera. That, ignorantly, is what I truly believed at the time.
The last night of our tour was spent outside of Karakorum (literally the middle of nowhere) at a nomadic family’s tents. The sun was setting and, of course, the mercury dropping, but the translator said the old man residing in the Yurt wanted to take a ride with one of us. I accepted. We rode together under the picturesque sky, not communicating due to the language barrier. He began to sing a traditional song, putting me in a state of meditation. So pleasant it was I didn’t even notice my worst enemy- the cold. (Now I know that vodka and meditation are two proven methods to fight the cold).
The next day, while everyone was loading up the van getting ready to return, the translator called me into his dwelling, saying the old man wanted to talk to me. The elder, with a wrinkled face partly covered by a thick purple hat, offered me some of his snuff (a tradition done by friends in the country) which I eagerly accepted. The quick whiff burned the hell out of my nostrils! He then began speaking, followed by the translator’s English, saying that I was a good rider especially since many foreigners can’t ride horses well. (Apparently you get a lot of riding experience growing up in a Southwestern Louisiana). I modestly thanked him and reached to shake his hand. With my arm extended, he noticed the cuts on my hands. He promptly asked, “What happened?”
I pulled away my wooly to reveal more scars on my head and recalled the account of the mugging. I also told him that I was a little upset because I had such a great time on this trip and appreciated his family’s hospitality so much that I wanted to remember it forever, but now couldn’t since I didn’t have my camera. He nodded and chuckled a bit. The translator then said that we must go, peering out the small door toward the van parked outside.
The guide and I left and headed toward our ride. Suddenly, the old man, shouting from the door of his tent, said something causing both of us to turn around. He uttered something in harsh Mongolian which sounded like a man drowning, then turned around and shut the tiny door.
I asked, “What did he say?” The translator then looked me in the eye and repeated the man’s words, “They can steal your money, and they can steal your camera, but remember, no one can ever steal your memories.”
I contemplated the man’s wise statement the entire way back to Ulaanbaatar. It had a profound effect on me. For one, I wasn’t bitter about not having a camera anymore. I actually realized that since I wasn’t clicking a tiny metal box the entire time, I actually enjoyed myself more by appreciating the moment for what it was. Still to this day, I think about my Mongolian trip instead of flipping through images on my laptop. Not surprisingly, the sounds, smells, tastes and sights are more vivid in memory than a photo could ever portray. And while it’s true that none of my friends or family could see my experience, that’s unimportant since one travels for the experience to better himself. Besides, could my family and friends truly understand everything by flipping through a couple of digital pictures? Sure, pictures are great, but they’re not everything. Maybe it’s better, in the words of Robert Louise Stevenson, to only “travel for travel’s sake.”
Oh yeah, and for the getting mugged part. Sure, it sucked. It’d be a lie if I told you otherwise. But I perhaps learned the greatest lesson of my life from it. As Western and Eastern sayings alike state, falling off the horse is part of life. And if you love something enough, you get back on. While traveling at times can be dangerous, the chance of getting murdered while on the road is very slim. However, if such an instance happens, I at least know I’d fall doing something I love. Traveling defines me as a person and is the most important aspect of my life. Nothing, not even a gang of Mongolian thugs beating the living shit out of me, can or will stop me.
