Spending a month in Mongolia is not much different to spending a month on Mars, or somewhere equally otherworldly.
It’s rough, freezing (-20 C in daytime is common) and seemingly full of not much at all; Massive skies, massive rocks and massive distances between them.
Ulaanbaatar is the capital city which over a third of the country’s mainly nomadic population vaguely calls home. It’s surrounded by hills and whole boroughs of makeshift Gers [circular felt tents] and shacks that stretch away up into them. Meanwhile, down beneath the crumbling concrete of the town, a whole subterranean population lives in the sewers [which house the city’s hot water pipes] in an attempt to not freeze to death. It goes without saying that horrific burns and injuries are almost uniform.
The rest of the slums are home to a pretty aggressive Mongolian Nationalist movement: The swastika and ‘Neo-Pashist’ graffiti daubed across the corrugated fences are an indication, but running into a bunch of Mongolian skinheads at night will confirm this notion.
Amidst the crashing poverty, crushing cold and small pockets of the Kill Whitey brigade, however, I met folks that were warm and welcoming; In a totally tough and indifferent kind of way, that is.
I guess that’s a pretty good description of the country in general.
