This past weekend I took the long, slow train to Inner Mongolia. The original plan was somewhat vague. Including notes of camping in a yurt, the traditional and now extinct mobile homes of the Mongolians. The only hint of this lifestyle remains as a money maker for grassland tourists. Riding a horse through the grassland steppes, riding a camel in the Gobi Desert were to be the adventure highlights. However on the ride to the North, the real challenge came in securing tickets for the weekend getaway. With loaded packs, I led Nick to the train station the internet search page had guided me. 6:25 the train was scheduled to leave from Beijing North Rail Station. Staring at the empty tracks from above the Xizhimen subway, the station looked baron. Despite our lack of Chinese language, we tried our best to communicate to the woman inside the ticket window. I pointed to the rail number I had written down. Behind the glass, she shook her head. I pressed once more. Perhaps she had shook her head in confusion. In the magic of travel an English speaker popped behind our shoulders and asked if we needed help. Did we ever. This was the beginning sign of our rough adventure.
The tickets to Inner Mongolia couldn't be purchased from the old Beijing North Rail Station, we would have cross town, via the subway to the new gate station serving all of China at Beijing West Station. Luckily I had written down an alternate route to Hohhot, the capital of Inner Mongolia as a leaping off point, rather than the original plan of Baotou.
The tickets for the night train living in one hour and a half to Hohhot were all sold out but one soft sleeper. Of the train classes in Chinese travel, soft sleeper is the grandest of all. Coming with the mattress that is thicker than the width of two hands. Since there were two of us, one soft sleeper would not suffice. The impatient ticketer signed in obvious strain as to force us to make a decision. Leave the next day (causing us to cut out the camels at the Gobi desert) or don't go at all. We exchanged our red kuai for two hard sleepers. The best deal for a 12 1/2 train ride and headed back to Tsinghua for a good night's sleep.
The next day's train ride, China landscape passed by between reading, snoozing, and window viewing. Through the daylight sun, I watched the sections of the Great Wall curve by on the tall mountains, an hour out of the buzz of Beijing. The mountains rounded out and turned to farm land. Corn formed rows in areas that barely took root and vacant ghost towns stared back as a sign of the useless land. The most intruging thing was the open doors as circular as the "fake" pearl earrings I had purchased in the market in Beijing weeks ago in the beginning of summer. But as my round jewels continued to shine with luster, these doors showed their age by the chipping paint and the general lack of movement from within. As the distance between towns spaced even greater from the viewing of my window, movement could be seen as dots on the fields. Dockeys or cows pulled carts, followed by farmers watching over the land. With each mile I felt I was going further back into town. Centuries later, the Great Wall still played a devisive role in the land.
After sunset, we arrived in Hohhot. The hostel that I had arranged was true to its billings of great hospitality. Three steps out of the station, Nick and I were greeted by a Mongolian duo waving a sign reading Anna Frisk, Andamen Guesthouse. They hailed a cab and we rode confidently to the hostel. The accomadation is located on Yellow Street. Named after, I can only assume, the characteristic color tinge of the buildings alinging the street, the place chocked full of restaurants, bars, and KTV. In the city of Hohhot, Nick and I were looking for authentic Mongolian barbeque and at 9 p.m. Yellow Street became Lucky Street. Mongolians smiled and stared as we walked the street, deciding with zero rationality as to the best bbq in the strip. Half way down the block, the aroma was enough to make one stop and we sat ourselves down in two empty plastic lawn chairs. During summer nights, the restaurants overflowed into the blocked off street. The grill extends to the exterior of the chairs, sending its aroma as a welcome sign to passing onlookers and potential customers.
Through pointing at the menu (and the food of the next neighbor) we shared more than a dozen skewers of mysterious meat. It tasted good and we filled our stomachs to the Mongolians delight.
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