I Am Not a Tourist! Mongolia Part Two

We met our fellow travelers the night before we set off for the Gobi Desert. Our group was an easygoing mix of Kiwis, Brits, an Italian, a Swiss fellow and a voracious Belgian couple, anxious to buy or take anything within reach. The next morning we piled into three Russian vans with our guide Khishgee, drivers Puntsag, Bayaraa and Jigmee and a woman named Mendee whose family ger we stayed in on our first night. Mendee was catching a ride home from Ulaan Baatar but decided to stay on for the whole tour and help with the cooking and cleaning up. Her English was basic but good enough to joke with us tourists. She rode in our van for the first leg, taking pictures and chatting. "Cashmere," she grinned, pointing at The Bob's hairy legs. We headed south to her family's cluster of traditional huts, known as gers or yurts in Russian. The herd of surprisingly flatulent goats owned by Mendee and her husband were a great source of entertainment. From there the ride over the rollercoaster dirt tracks took us south to the Yol Valley, stopping along the way at another huddle of family gers to try airag, the traditional, slightly alcohol drink made from fermented horse milk. It had a mildly fizzy, sour taste but was surprisingly palatable. Unfortunately, one member of the tour discovered he was highly allergic after downing a bowl and a half and had to go back to the nearest hospital with Khishgee while the rest of us pressed on. The Russian vans, like Kombis on steroids, took the roads uncomplainingly thanks to the expertise of the drivers. Puntsag led the convoy as the oldest driver with the cheerful Jigmee and Bayaraa following. Bayaraa, who wore his patchwork bucket hat at a rakish angle and had a fondness for gangster rap and, inexplicably, Wham. Even in my wildest imaginings, I had never thought to factor George Michael into my Mongolian experience but there was something cheerful about bumping through the countryside with Last Christmas blaring.

The tourist camp in the desert had a block of coveted showers that were little more than trickles of warm water but after two days in the dust and heat of the Gobi, they appeared as the most decadent of luxuries. It was the last running water we would see for several days. We drove on to the Gobi Gurvan Saikhan National Park where the vans dropped us at one end of the valley and drove off to meet us again at the other end. We tramped 10km through stunning scenery, following a small stream and keeping an eye out for exciting wild animals like wolves or Gobi bears. The best we managed was a wild goat so far up a cliff it was more like a moving dot than an animal. Mongolians sold hand-carved souvenirs at a few spots throughout the park. The Belgian fellow and his wife, both in matching head to toe khaki outfits, stopped to look at the items and asked Khishgee to translate. "Don't tell me tourist prices!" bellowed the Belgian in his thick European accent. "I am not a tourist!"

Camping in the national park where the world is your toilet is fine, unless you happen to have raging food poisoning. I've never seen the Bob move so fast as when he dived across me and half out of the tent to demonstrate his digestive pyrotechnics. It left him out of action for a couple of days, which meant he missed the camel ride. Mongolia boasts the rarer two-humped camels which are shorter and fluffier than their mono-humped counterparts. When camels don't have enough body fat, their humps go floppy and if there's anything more comical than a camel, it's one that looks like a month-old party balloon. I was delighted to be paired with a solid humped fellow whom I nicknamed George. George was a prince among dromedaries. Seated comfortably between his two humps, I managed to encourage him into an awkward, rollicking trot towards the end of the ride. Once he was comfortably seated back at the gers, I even risked a pat. Although he didn't encourage my affections, he didn't spit on me either which I took as a sign of camaraderie.

Our last stop in the desert proper was at Bayanzag or the Flaming Cliffs, so named for the rich red and orange landscape which almost glows in the sun. It's the site of many of Mongolia's amazing dinosaur finds and we trekked through the barren landscape to be collected by the vans. The Belgians were intent on finding some kind of fossil despite the area having been extensively excavated and took twice as long as everyone else to get to the meeting point while the rest of us sweated under the desert sun. On the way out of the area the drivers stopped to show everyone what they said was a dinosaur claw still embedded in rock. The Belgian fellow immediately began trying to smash it out of the landscape to the horror of his fellow tourists and after a reasonable amount of outcry, left it alone and got back in the van.

And so, gentle readers, began the long trek north to the land where the yaks roam free...

Tradition, Modernity and the Great Bustard: Mongolia Part One

Mongolia: A Traveler’s Handbook, by Battulga Tumurdash, contains a piece of unarguable wisdom: “Saying Mongolia’s roads are in very poor condition is somewhat misleading, because the drive to many destination [sic] will involve no road what so ever.”

It’s a truth that rattles the bones of travelers traversing the country in any kind of vehicle and a joy we had yet to discover when we arrived in the capital Ulaan Bataar late on a Thursday night to find a tour representative holding a card with our names on it.

When attempting to leave the airport parking lot, we encountered the first and only Mongolian road rule: there are no rules. People park wherever they can find a space and the exit to the carpark was blocked by an assortment of vehicles. Our driver managed to find another gap and squeeze his van through it with some impressive manoevring before bumping off towards the city. Despite our advance booking, the hotel staff seemed confused by our presence and rang our room repeatedly in the next two days, asking, “When are you closet?” which we took to mean, “When are you leaving?” We later discovered most of our fellow tour members had similar experiences and several rooms had no hot water so despite being regarded with constant suspicion, we got off lightly.

Two free days was enough time to get a decent look at Ulaan Bataar, that cheerful jumble of shiny glass high-rises, concrete communist boxes and crumbling brightly painted facades. Modernity has arrived with a vengeance in the form of giant department stores filled with international fashion labels. The city people are well dressed and the women negotiate incomplete pavements with gaping open manholes in improbably high heels. There was even an enormous Twilight poster covered in Cyrillic script proving that a country where yaks roam the street unimpeded still isn’t immune to terrible pop culture.

The Natural History Museum is a haven of the unintentionally comical. Along with housing an astonishing collection of dinosaur bones and fossils, there’s a bird whose name has been translated into English as the Great Bustard and a small deer with an unlikely pair of giant fangs. Killer Bambi looked more like a taxidermist’s prank than a bloodthirsty killer roaming the steppes but the biggest laugh came from the inflated blowfish which sported a pair of plastic googly eyes usually found on cheap toys. On closer inspection of the other sea creatures, it appeared the taxidermist in charge of the fish display had done a quick run down to Geoff’s Emporium to accessorize his creations. The National History Museum and Zanabazar Fine Arts Museum provided more appropriate and sedate displays but in all three establishments the staff followed us discreetly, as if they expected us to rip open a cabinet and make off with a giant golden Buddha the moment they turned their backs. Considering we were occasionally the only visitors in the room, it was a little unnerving.

Perhaps the wariness is a result of Mongolia’s lack of experience with tourists, something which is refreshing for travelers who can walk down the street unimpeded by toothless children trying to sell them bookmarks or postcards. The only places we were asked for money were at attractions like the central city’s Sukhbaatar Square, which borders Parliament House, the Gandan Monastery and Bogd Khaan’s Winter Palace. Even then, it was more polite inquiry than the kind of hassling common in other tourist cities. The monastery, Mongolia’s largest, features a 26-metre-tall golden Buddhist Migid Janraisag statue and a range of different temples. We ducked quietly through doorways to discover colourful wall hangings, Tibetan pray wheels and a monk in maroon robes chatting away on a cellphone in one corner. The palace has a kind of shabby genteel look with overgrown lawns and uneven floors. It houses the beautifully preserved art, belongings and furniture of Mongolia’s last king, Javzan Damba Hutagt VIII.

Ulaan Bataar is an easy city to navigate even for those who don’t speak Mongolian and the locals still look at tourists as people rather than dollar signs. Sure, western culture may have a toehold and it’s probably only a matter of time before Mongolia works out how to harvest the tourist dollar. There’s Tommy Hilfiger nestled alongside tacky souvenir shops, but refreshingly, there’s still no McDonald’s.

Have I succumbed?

This is the first of its kind. And when I say that I mean the first blog post I have ever done. Made even cooler by the fact that I'm moonlighting on Jane's blog.

I have 2 children, one much older than the other, and as we speak my infant is opening and closing things he shouldnt be. I should stop him, if I was going to buckle to the pressure of people who rush about molly coddling their children, sanitising his face and hands but in all honesty I just cannot be bothered.

Does that make me an incredibly bad mother? Is it bad to want your child to get germs and learn by snagging his fingers not to do something? Or am I going retro on the child-rearing?

Who would know? What I do know is that I have succumbed to the lure of daytime television and I dont care who knows it. My day is now centred around 16 and Pregnant (oh yes, there's nothing better than watching teen's cry about having unprotected sex) and the Jeremy Kyle show. Whats that even about? In whose world it is good TV to be white trash and yelled at by a man in a suit? How do I get his job?

In all honesty I think he is doing what we all want to do. I would love to walk up to people and say 'Look here love, he is a loser and all he's going to be is a loser, now sling your hook' or 'YOU ARE A LIAR! A good for nothing liar with no self respect'

Brilliant. I may start today actually. Just not filtering things. I'll let you know how it all goes.

The 80s are calling!

Remember back in the 1980s, everyone's mum seemed to have a copy of that Women's Weekly cake book with that awesome swimming pool cake it in? Behold! I have brought the pool cake into the 21st Century and added an icing diver for good measure. This cake also taught me that jelly will melt fondant icing after a while. Good to know.

The train that became a yellow submarine

This cake began life as a train, because it was the only cake tin I could think of that was vaguely the right shape to turn into the famed Beatles' yellow submarine. It worked pretty well in the end, after some creative sculpting. Sometimes buttercream is just the best substance for the job.

Wedding cake the first

This was my first attempt at making a wedding cake outside of cake class. Luckily the bride was undemanding and basically let me do what I wanted. I'd like to think my skills have improved since then, but it's still not a terrible first try.

For the fashion-conscious man

This edible bedroom scene was made for a fashion-conscious fellow’s 21st birthday. My biggest challenge was thinking up enough different styles of men’s shoes to surround half the cake. I come from thrifty stock where owning two or three pairs is considered more than enough. By complete coincidence, the birthday boy wore an outfit rather similar to his icing effigy on the day.

Blackboard baking

This educationally-slanted cake was made for a friend of a friend. Black icing can be a challenge to work with because it stains everything around it, but it does look pretty good.

The Hangover

Ah, my sister's 22nd birthday cake. I was inspired to make this after being shown some pictures of exemplary amateur cake making by a friend of a friend which I inexplicably took as some kind of challenge, despite having never met the woman. Spurred on by her rather spectacular efforts, I set upon the fondant with feverish enthusiasm, determined to create my magnum opus by doing a still-life of my sister's room on a Sunday morning, complete with empty beer bottles and discarded clothes. My sister quite rightly called me a freak when she saw it.

Itsy bitsy teeny weeny

The plate in this picture is actually a tea saucer I picked up cheap from an antique store just for the occasion. Luckily I only had to make one cake because icing a cake that small without ending up with something that looks like Gaudi's Sagrada Familia was quite a challenge.

Cannibalism is his reward

Unfortunately for Spidey, his sweet and sugary existence was ended by a pack of hungry five year olds and if there's one thing movies have taught us, it's to never get between a pack of feral children and their chosen target. Look at the ones in Hostel, they were pretty much as bad as the sport killers. The feral kid from Mad Max set the standard and they've been trying to raise the bar ever since. In this case, a butter knife rather than a boomerang was the weapon of choice.

The Nana Cake

This is a cake I had to make for cake class which was fondly dubbed the Nana Cake because it's the kind of thing only someone over, say, 60 would probably want for a birthday cake. Having demonstrated my capability for creating buttercream basket weave at the expense of my wrist tendons, I've never actually had the opportunity to use it again. It turns out even my grandparents aren't that into edible baskets. Who knew?

In the beginning, there were cupcakes....

These cupcakes have put me on the spot somewhat for my first rant, given that I can't actually remember why I made them or who I made them for. There's not a whole lot about rose cupcakes that inspires strong feelings of any kind, so I shall let their pleasant rosiness speak for itself.

Cakes and rants to come

Soon enough.