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Sunday, July 23 Road to Manzhouli
Jul. 23rd, 2023 11:32 pmWoke up at 8:15am with the alarm, then slept till 9.
We ate the same Mongolian breakfast as yesterday, but this time with GQ, discussing our travel plans. Our host Stoop invited us to come stay in the yurt in a few of days, after we visit the border and the yurt gets dry from the heavy rains. Why do we go to the Russian-Chinese border? I don't know – even though it feels like I have something to do with it. I half-joked that if I cross the border then the Russians will send me to fight in Ukraine; a joke, but only partially.
So we drove to the west, to Hulun Lake; the plan was to loop around the lake; then drive the northern part of the loop along the Russian border; to the west – Republic of Mongolia, the real Mongolia; lots of scenery along the way. The plan was to stay overnight in Manzhouli – the Chinese town on the Russian-Chinese border; "-li" at the end means "inside", so "Manzhou-li" means "inside Manchuria". I knew very little about this border town – the border towns that I had visited before were small and unnoticible, with police checking the passports, some small trade for the travelers, that was about it – so was the Polish-Belorussian border, and Russian-Georgian border; what I remember of them. I heard about big tourist flooded border towns like Tijuana near San Diego, but I had never visited.
On the road we saw cows, sheeps, and other cattle. Horses? We surely saw horses too.
For lunch we stopped in a small town called New Barag Left Banner, recommended to us by Stoop. The place was a wooden house with a dozen of wooden tables, totally empty; the waiters looked pissed that we came by. We ordered three dishes for three of us: steamed viggies, stir fried veggies, and a pot with meats. The later was huge; it alone must have been just enough for 4 people. We wondered: why didn't the waiter tell us that we ordered too much, that the dishes are large enough for us. "They are like that here. They never interfere in what you're doing," – B said, – "but they are nice people if we talk to them."
Then driving again across the steppes. It all looked the same to me – grass, cows, sheeps, occasional rocks, and whatnot. Perhaps, stopping somewhere in the middle would help appreciate it, but from the car it looked all the same.
Next on the plan was to meet up some local artists that B followed on the Internet and arranged us to meet in person. We met at a public square with various scattered trades on the ground – plastic basins, pots, fruits and veggies. Ormis is a photographer whose interests are primarily in Inner Mongolia, whose works are shown on some exhibitions in China; he looked like a quite man in his 30s with typical central asian facial traits, quite distinict from Chinese face, but I'm unable to describe what exactly is different. His friend was a larger dude, simple and friendly looking; he didn't talk much. B had a short conversation with them, in Mongolian, and I was thinking of how weird that we're meeting these strangers, and I can't even speak their language, and what we were even doing there. The big guy proposed to drive to a tea place somewhere nearby. On the way, B said it was a typical Mongolian setup – when meeting someone man is supposed to invite his good friend who will be taking care of all the logistics, take care of guests, etc.
The tea place looked like a camp of artistic Mongolian yurts and small wooden cabins around, with tea tables inside, just outside of the city, and a large yurt in the center, large enough to fit perhaps 50 or 70 people. We walked to the main yurt: inside, there was a stage with guitars and drums, a mic stand, and a sound system; but no one was playing – it was only about 6 in the afternoon, too early; a bunch of tables, chairs, and soft sofas around; a bar counter on the side. It looked like a 1980s rock club in the day light. We crashed on couple of the sofas. We were joined by another guy that reminded me of Victor Tsoi with his waivy hair, patchy beard, leather jacket, and his cool iconic 1980s sunglasses.
So, we drank tea and talked. Speaking Mongolian, Mandarin, English – it was not an easy task to communicate at this table. B translated, but then she had her own topics to discuss with Ormis, so I didn't want to bother them too much with translation. GQ figured our hosts spoke some Mandarin too. I would say something in English, GQ would translate to Mandarin, then B would explain some terms in Mongolian, then the guys would reply in Mongolian, and B traslated to English; B later said her Mongolian was not as good either. I figured it was a special skill to say something meaningful with so much translation going on. What did I say? We talked about art and representation of this place, and how much a single place has to ofter if one looks carefully, our hosts claimed. Ormis would listen, take a moment to think, and thoughtfuly reply. I asked him how wasn't he getting tired working in the same place all his life, finding interesting in the mandane; he said knowing the place very well allowed him to capture the changes unseen by travalers. Inspired by artistic conversation I brought up Plato, for some reason – that was too much; that the multi-lingual conversation skill that I am talking about – not to bring up Plato like that.
Meanwhile, the Mongolian part of the convesation turned political. The crackdown on Mongolian education earlier this year, and the like. It is not too bad, our hosts told us, – the kids can be sent to Mongolian schools across the border; the propaganda enters through one ear and exits through the other; the imporance of education is exaggerated – developing connection to a place through family and time is more important than school.
The hour passed fast; we had to keep driving to Manzhou-li. I asked the guy that reminded me of Victor Tsoi if he knew about Victor Tsoi, the musician – of course he did know him, and also Cui Jian in China, he said, another Korean whose songs played at Tiananmen Square in 1989. Interesting how Victor Tsoi and Cui Jian are the Koreans making a splash in Russia and China.
Then another few hours of driving; at night, we appoached Manzhou-li. What the heck was that. It reminded me of driving in to Las Vegas: because of all the neon lights and high rises imitating castles. A giant neon lit Russian matroyoshka welcomed the visitors. Neon lit Kremlin was just next to it. Then lots of neon signs both in Chinese and Russian: "мебель" (furniture), "меха" (furs), "торговый центр" (shopping mall), "таможенные услуги" (customs services) and the like. Finally, my Russian was useful to read the signs. The city was full of parked cars at every sidewalk possible, and crowds of people walking along the stores. It took us half an hour to find where to park our car; a walk to our hostel. A group of Russians in telnyashkas I heard saying: "Зачем мы сюда прихали? Нажраться!" (Why did we come here? To get drunk!). GQ said I didn't look like those Russians. I guess I did not.
At check in at the hostel, as usual, they had to take a copy of my passport. This time the receptionist told us that it was actually a new law, and that they only had to report Americans and Uyghurs, but not other passports. I can understand they watch Americans, but Uyghurs? Those are just Chinese citizens, don't they? For some reason, they are mistrusted to the same degree as Americans. We went to our room; B and GQ were tired, but I thought I'd go see this city a bit more since there wouldn't be staying there for another night.
First, I ran into the hostel's communal kitchen downstairs. It looked pretty cozy, reminded me one hostel in Utrecht in the Netherlands, where students stayed for longer than just a few nights – for weeks, in fact, and it bound a kind of community. Except, I could barely breath there because of the cigarette smoke everywhere; in another room there was a large communal table with 8-10 people at it, and all young Chinese guys were drinking Russian beers and smoking cigarettes. One of the young guys was wearing telnyashka, welcomed me in English and started asking me question. It was quick till we got to the topic where I was from.
– I'm Russian-American, – I said.
– Slava Wee-Dee-Wee! – the young Chinese guy shouted.
– What? – I didn't understand.
– Wee-Dee-Wee!
– Oh, Veh-Deh-Veh, – I finally understood. VDV, so-called Russian "elite" armed forces – in fact, a bunch of soldier pricks, infamously getting drunk and fighting on their "special" day on August 2 – that was about all I knew about them.
– Are you from Veh-Deh-Veh? – I asked.
– Oh, no, I'm just fucking around, come join our table, have a beer! – he invited.
I knew what happens after; I knew this story. I had to go for something else. I could barely breath from the cigarette smoke. That guy was a kind dude though, but I had to go.
My next stop was at a small store nearby; the plan was to find Russian beer. Where else if not at the border? Two Chinese ladies were chatting at the store entrance; they asked me what I was looking for. I didn't know how to say "beer" in Chinese, and English turned out not to be useful here. The younger girl was guessing what I wanted in Chinese; I couldn't explain. Then, the older girl spoke a chain of syllabi that finally came out in my mind as Russian sentences – she spoke Russian, she did, I realized, those weird sounds made sense – my Russian was finally useful for something! I said "пиво" (beer); I said "русское" (Russian). She understood; she showed me a freezer with icecream and bottles of Russian beer under the packs of icecream. It was all dark beer. I said "светлое пиво" ("white beer", lager, essentually); she couldn't understand. Then, "bai cha" – white tea, I remembered; I said "bai пиво" – "bai", she understood, "net" (no) she said. Lingua franca in action, in places where English is too foreign to be known. I bought a bottle of dark Russian beer called "Stari Melnik" in China without B's help. I thought it felt like an achievement because I almost never did anything by myself in China.
I went back to the hostel. B was still awake. I told her the story of how my Russian, and my attempts at learning Chinese, all came out to be useful here, at the border. In bed, I kept thinking of Ormis: the personality of an artist touched me. What was it? Confidence in his own life? Unpretentious and thoughtful communication? He radiated something attractive; he made me think and question.
– What does Ormis do for living, – I asked B, almost falling alseep, – he's not making a living on his photographies, does he?
– Oh, he's in the propaganda department, making some of those pomegranade unity posters, – she said.
That made more sense. I slept shortly after.