Twice a week there is a direct train to Ulan Baatar from Beijing, though, to make a long story short, this wasn't a possibility, however there is another option. The alternative was to take bus or train to the Mongolian border, cross it, then take another bus or train to the capitol. The only problem was nobody had any solid information on exactly how to do this, even the guidebooks. This was all the information I could get: “the bus leaves every day at 4pm, it takes 10 hours to get to Erhort and you will arrive at 6 in the morning, it is not possible to make a reservation for a seat, just go early”. As the whole of China operates on Beijing time I felt suspicious concerning the accuracy of this information, but seeing as how I really didn't have any other option I had to take a chance.

Armed with the bus stations name written in Chinese I found a cab (a bit of an accomplishment in it's own) and set out. The cabby was slightly confused as to why I was going to the place, but he got me there. The “bus station” as it turns out, is the parking lot of some office complex where a sketchy dude stood next to two raggedy buses, this is when things got really difficult.

Chinese is a tonal language meaning how you say a word is just as important as what your saying. One of the kids at the hostel in Shanghai (who actually speaks Chinese) ended up going 24 hours on a train before arriving to find out that he was in the wrong town, same name, different tone. This was especially a problem at the moment because I didn’t know the exact name of where I was going. Every map spells the name dramatically different, Erhot, Erlain, Eilan… same city, different name. This actually ended up not being as big a problem as one would expect because the man selling tickets flat out refused me a ticket to anywhere. I tried a variety of tactics to make sure we weren’t just having a simple misunderstanding but after about the third try he refused to even acknowledge me. So I ended up in a little bit of a situation. Way out in the suburbs of Beijing, with all my bags, needing to get on a bus that I, for some unknown reason, had been banned from… if there ever was a time for a cigarette this was it.

Inside the office building I did manage to find a map, but copying the Chinese name of the border town was proving to be more than a little challenging. It was time to get local involvement, and I decided to ask the first person to walk by for help. The lucky winner was a girl of about 12. She came over when I waved but then just stood there with a blank look on her face as tried to pantomime my request. This caused me to exaggerate my movements, but still no response. Before long I was waving my arms like a jackass trying to get my point across, and although her look went from blank to slightly disturbed, I still got no response. I was just about to give up on the whole thing when she blurted out “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Chinese”, I was totally stunned, and for about 30 seconds I was the one with the blank look on my face.

The girl, it turns out, is Mongolian, but had been living in Chicago for the last 2 years, and was heading back to Ulan Baatar to visit family for the summer. She was traveling with her Uncle, who also spoke English, and his friend, who did not speak English. After I told them my situation the three of them accompanied me to the ticket seller to set things straight. As the seller saw us approaching we were all instructed to “talk to the palm” but they ignored the palm and went for the face. After ten minutes of yelling (and what looked like threats) the family convinced him to sell me a ticket, which he even did with a smile.

The bus was a sleeper, which meant that the regular seats had been taken out and replaced with three one foot wide rows. Two aisles separated the strips so you weren’t too close to your neighbor, and in the back there was a play pen sort of area six beds across, no dividers… my family made sure that I had a real bed not one of these, they also made sure I had a top bunk.

The bus was filled almost entirely with Mongolians and their numerous possessions. There is something funny about the Mongolian mentality when it comes to traveling. It’s like someone says “oh, you’re stopping by Beijing, well could you bring back 1,000 apples, 400 pumps, 750 baby bibs and 50… no make that 55 manikins”. All purchases are seemingly random and to the best of my observance there is no common theme. The goods are packed into cube shapes and surrounded by miles of packing tape giving each one the appearance of a coffee table sized bomb. For every person expect at least three packages, though the actual number tends to be higher. Underneath the bus storage space was filled by the first two people and everything else had to be placed in the aisles. We watched in disbelief as one coffee table sized bomb after another was pushed, shoved and pulled on board. By time they we were ready to leave the bus was so full that only about a foot and a half of space was left between the ceiling and boxes. I had to spelunk my way to bed.

The ride wasn’t as bad as you’d expect, aside from the drunk Mongolians who ended up in the play pen behind me. They were ok during the day (the uncles friend told them if they touched me he’d kill them) but after he went to sleep and they got even drunker my guitar became target number one. So I ended up sleeping in a one foot by 6 foot box, spooning up to an acoustic guitar with my lumpy day pack under my head… not exactly what I call comfortable, but at least I wasn’t in Beijing.

In the morning we arrived in Erlain (as spelled on the welcome to sign) and my family once again took me under their wing. As I crawled off the buss, literally, the three waved me over to their Jeep; it turns out they arranged for my transit over the border (it’s illegal to walk) as well as brought me out to breakfast. After a quick stop in the market to buy even more stuff (several hundred nectarines a couple tricycles and a box of pens) it was into the jeep, capacity 3 population 11, for the ride out of China and into Mongolia, a surprisingly easy but time-consuming process.

By late afternoon I found myself standing in the middle of the Gobi Desert waiting on transit to Ulan Baatar. On arrival in Mongolia we went straight to the train station to buy our tickets. It was three hours before tickets when on sale and already more people than seats were in line, shoving matches were already breaking out. After an hour of what looked like a street brawl the police showed up and set up a barricade, everyone was sorted (pushed) into a single file line.

Things stayed this way until about a half hour before tickets went on sale. Slowly but steadily people began jumping over the barricade and shoving their way into line. At the very inclination that someone was thinking about hopping the barricade everyone in line would point and hiss, pretty soon all you could hear was hissing and yelling. If the line jumper couldn’t orderly make it into line before the police came by the perpetrator, elderly old woman or otherwise, was in for some public discipline, then escorted out of the station. When the ticket windows eventually opened things hit a fervor and people in the back began to push the people at the window out of line in hopes of getting a ticket. When our turn came I grabbed the bars on either side of the window and pushed back (this is where being a foot taller than everyone else helps out) the Uncle then slipped into the pocket of space I created and purchased four beds for the train that evening. Success! As we squeezed out through the mob, bruised, exhausted, sweaty... but victorious, the uncle turned and said “welcome to Mongolia”.