The joy of border crossings

We boarded the train yesterday at 5.45am. Matt and I found our cabin; this time the attendants were Chinese. Our cabin was locked which meant we had to wake the poor soul up inside it. He is a man called Mr Bolat, originally from Khazakstan but has lived in Ulaan Baatar for 20 years; he spoke virtually no English . Our other cabin mate is a 70 year old American lady from Florida, called Sheila. Sheila has basically done loads of travelling as a nurse overseas and lots of independent travel; she embraces life with an energy and passion that left us quite inspired. She's also a hoot. The rest of the carriage this time seems to be tourists from various countries.

At around 6.15pm we stopped at Naushki, the Russian side of the border. An army of extremely official looking Russian customs officers came on and collected our passports plus we had to complete a customs declaration form. A mere 6 HOURS LATER the officers returned; ordered us out of our cabins so they could search it then returned our passports to us. I forgot to mention that anytime a train is stopped, the toilets are locked (the toilets are essentially drop toilets but with a kind of trap door, so not quite as airy as the Thai trains we encountered last year, so it wouldn't be good for the local township if we were all allowed to alleviate ourselves on their doorstep.) We then set off the short distance to the Mongolian border crossing, Sukhbaatar. (Two people made it to the toilet before they were locked again, although I hasten to add that the carriage attendant was one of them). We filled in more declaration forms and once again our passports were taken off us. This time we were waiting for just the 2 hours. We could finally get some sleep at around 2.20am. At 6am the attendants scared the living daylights out of us as they barged into our cabins, their comb-over hairdo stuck up, hastily tucking their shirts into their trousers, shouting 'Ulaan Baatar!' It was actually a further 2 hours before we arrived - perhaps their clocks were wrong. Ulaan Baatar, by the way, is referred to as 'UB' by its younger generation, so that's how it'll be referred to in this.

We arrived quite excited at the prospect of being met by someone; only this someone (Bernard van der Haegen from Happy Camel / Chez Bernard - in case anyone's ever in UB don't contact him) didn't turn up. Neither did Sheila's lift. Mr Bolat organised a taxi for us; we went to a hostel whose card we picked up at the station. The taxi driver then tried to charge $20!!!!! This journey should have been $2. We're beginning to learn NEVER to trust taxi drivers at train stations. We didn't pay him this amount and after a lengthy dispute he sped off.

The hostel is slightly out of UB centre and we're getting gawped at more than ever as we really do look different from everyone else now and this side of town there aren't many tourists. The hostel is only just ok. No hot shower, no towels and no loo roll.

UB, for a capital city is really still quite underdeveloped, although 32% of the country's population live here (which is a lot when you consider the actual size of the country). It's extremely dusty and pretty run down in a lot of places. People cough up spit and phlegm everywhere and pee (the men anyway) anywhere. Sadly there are also quite a few drunks literally passed out on the pavement; one man was laid across the kerb of a pedestrian crossing (mind you, you see that in Oldham too). Speaking of which I think the traffic lights and 'green man' only exist for decorative purposes as cars just come straight at you when you try to cross. Furious horn-beeping is also another favourite pastime of drivers here. Disorganised chaos is how I would describe the roads.