Carrie has been reading the guidebook entry for Mongolia. The capital, Ulaanbaatar, is our first proper stop on this journey, where we will actually get off the train for longer than a five-minute cigarette break.
‘“Genghis Khan was born around 1162 near the border between modern Mongolia and Siberia. Legend holds that he came into the world clutching a blood clot in his right hand”,’ Carrie reads aloud. ‘“Before he turned ten, his father was poisoned to death by an enemy clan. His own clan then deserted him, his mother and his six siblings in order to avoid having to feed them.”’ She blows out a breath. ‘Harsh.’
‘That’s all fascinating, obviously,’ I say, tipping a cigarette out of the packet from the fresh carton that we bought at the last stop – something else that the platform sellers are keen on hawking. I stick the cigarette behind my ear. ‘But have you booked accommodation here? Only … well I don’t have anything, obviously. And I can ask a taxi driver or—’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ she says, jumping up off the bunk and dropping the book into her backpack. ‘You can stay with me. I’ve got everything booked for two, haven’t I?’ She hoists her backpack onto her shoulders. ‘Come on, let’s go down to the door. We’ll be stopping in a minute.’
The train has slowed right down, and it’s clear from the chatter outside in the corridor that the tour group are excited that we’re approaching a major stop. I pick up my own backpack and follow Carrie out of the cabin. Our little home for the last twenty-four hours where we’ve started a new friendship, and a new adventure. I’d been scared to ask if she was happy for me to continue on the journey with her, wondering if maybe up to the first stop was all she was happy to share. I don’t want to seem too needy.
I’ve made that mistake before.
‘Have a wonderful time in Ulaanbaatar, girls,’ says a spritely looking lady in beige-pocketed jungle shorts. I can’t remember her name.
‘See you in Moscow, Marion. We’ll get fired into the proper voddie there.’ Carrie pats her back pocket. ‘I’ve got your email.’
‘She’s staying off the firewater from now on,’ the man next to her says. ‘Can’t control her.’
Carrie laughs. ‘Well, Steve, what kind of fun would it be if you could control her, eh?’ She steps forwards and hugs them both. Then we climb down the steep metal stairs and onto the dusty platform.
‘Right,’ she says, ‘let’s go and find out what this place is all about.’
I follow her down the platform, envying her warm, easy personality. She’d got to know the people in that tour group, while I’d been far more reserved – spending most of my time watching her engage. She is fascinating.
I had planned to get off elsewhere, but Carrie’s ticket had destinations pre-booked, and with her helping me out, I could hardly make a fuss. She hasn’t said anything about paying her since she handed me the ticket, and she’s paid for everything else too. I’m wondering if I don’t bring it up, will she? It’s not like I can’t pay her. I assume I can withdraw what I need in Ulaanbaatar, and I have a roll of emergency dollars in a hidden pocket of my bag, but why pay for things if you don’t need to?
We’re outside the station now. I’m smoking, casting a surreptitious eye around the place but trying to look casual, while Carrie speaks to the station guard, showing him the map and the guidebook. He’s shaking his head and pointing to the patch of land that seems to be the car park. Several men stand waiting. All of them are smoking. None of them look particularly threatening, but you never know. I would suggest that we walk, but my quick flick through the guidebook earlier makes me think it might be too far with our rucksacks to carry.
I take a moment to check Sam’s Facebook, and see that he is ‘#hanging’. What a surprise. All he seems to do there is party. There’s a picture of him with one of the German lads, both of them grinning and holding massive beers. I enlarge the photo, trying to see if there are any girls in the background, but it’s dark and grainy – probably in one of those awful clubs. I put my phone back in my bag.
Looking at the mainly elderly gents hovering around their tatty cars, I think it’s unlikely that any will offer to carry our bags on their heads, like they did when I was in India. I told Carrie about this in the Hard Rock Cafe, and she snorted in an ‘I don’t believe you’ way, but the only places she’d been before Beijing were Vietnam and Thailand, and the culture there is not the same at all. The Indian bag-carriers are called ‘coolies’, and they are waiting at every train station. Between them and the men lugging around the huge pots of steaming chai and tiny earthenware cups, it’s a very different experience to this so far. Also, there are no monkeys scampering across the tracks here. So far, Mongolia is not particularly inspiring. A trickle of the younger passengers have set off on foot, while a few others have headed towards the taxis. There is a minor flurry of excitement and some rapid-fire conversation as the drivers decide between them who they will take, and probably, what inflated prices they can charge. Luckily Carrie has read the guidebook in more detail than I have and she won’t let us be ripped off.
I drop my cigarette and crush it underfoot. Carrie comes back at last. The station guard has recommended a taxi driver who she assures me will not overcharge or kill us, so I hitch my rucksack onto my back and follow her to the car. She hands over the address, written neatly on a piece of paper.
‘Let’s drop our bags at the hostel, then get out and explore the place,’ Carrie says. We pass flats, low, ramshackle houses, a couple of fancy-looking glass buildings.
‘I was looking at the guidebook earlier,’ I say. ‘Apparently there are two Irish pubs and a British pub here. Maybe we can head there for a bit.’ I really want her to say yes. As much as I love discovering new things, I’m feeling quite tired after the train journey, the effort of it all. I’d love to go somewhere that feels like home. Just for a bit. The culture will still be there tomorrow.
‘Oh, definitely,’ she says. ‘I saw those too. I fancy a walkabout, then a proper night out.’ She leans over and takes a strand of my hair between her fingers. Twirls it around. ‘We can get dressed up.’
‘Have you looked outside,’ I say. ‘Not sure it’s a very “dress up” sort of place.’ The taxi driver looks into his rear-view mirror, and I catch his eye for a moment. He’s smiling. Maybe he knows something we don’t. Assuming he understands what we’re saying.
‘Good shop,’ he says, pointing out to the right.
We follow his line of sight to a monolithic building. It looks like a communist prison, but I try to be optimistic. A department store, maybe? From what I’ve seen so far, this place is such a mishmash.
‘Brilliant,’ Carrie says. ‘Can you recommend a good restaurant?’
The taxi driver laughs. ‘No Mongolian barbecue here.’
Carrie opens her mouth to question him further, but then the car swings around a bend and comes to a stop next to a cut-through to a small square lined with terraced houses. They’ve been painted various colours, but the paint is faded and peeling. One of them has a sign nailed on the wall next to the front door, but I can’t make out what it says.
The driver points. ‘Sunrise Guesthouse,’ he says.
I turn to Carrie, trying to work out if there’s been a mistake. It looks like we’re in the middle of a housing estate, and not a particularly nice one at that. But she’s already out of the car, handing over notes. Picking up her rucksack from where the driver has dropped both of them onto the rough, cracked concrete. Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers.