🇲🇳 Nomads

Hello Adventurers, 

Taylor Swift has her 1989, and I’ve got mine: Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. The dorky film was released in 1989 when I was a seven year-old, and — *spoiler alert* — my juvenile self thought the scene where a transported-to-the-future Genghis Khan nearly drank from a toilet bowl was eww hilarious (for context, Khan had been asked by Bill to clean this unknown-to-him-contraption…and the Khagan didn’t understand what a porcelain throne was).

Anyhoo, that was my silly introduction to Mongolia by way of kitschy comedy Khan…but I did become more seriously interested in both decades later — as an adult still juvenile — when I ‘audio binged’ Dan Carlin’s excellent ‘Wrath of the Khans’ (these sub-episodes of Carlin’s larger ‘Hardcore History’ podcast series were once free / are now unfortunately behind a paywall). However, if you don’t want to pony up the loot for ‘em today (nor commit the hours of listening they require), the gist is that Khan and his nomadic pastoralists (e.g. some horse-riding looters) massacred 40 million people in the 13th century — and lowered global carbon dioxide levels in the process — as they destructively created the largest contiguous land empire in history. And when you add Naadam and some gers and shamanism into that Mongolian mix, I knew it was only a matter of time before I would have to bang-out some steps in this part of the Great Steppe. But, moving on…

Luck sometimes requires us to be in the right place at the right time, yet it is my belief that the most resonant travel — being that which impacts us on the deepest level (if we’re lucky) — requires us to arrive to a place in the right headspace to best receive its frequencies (being subtle wavelengths we wouldn’t detect if we arrived in the wrong state of mind with broken antennae).

And given I sold the majority of my earthly possessions last year (to partially fund this global project) — and have been living out of a backpack for much of this year (to execute this project by way of marathons) — still-to-this-day-nomad-y Mongolia jived with me…like, in the ‘here and now’ of who I am (and in a manner that it wouldn’t have had…like, had I visited Mongolia at an earlier point in time).

That said, I refuse to romanticize this part of the world because the living is objectively tough / the government corruption is rampant / things get done by handing envelopes of money to powerbrokers…but as someone who has whittled down his life to the most essential, being able to temporarily observe — as well as share proximity with — the many Mongols here who still roam freely / live by way of bare essentials…it existentially resonated with me (this being a cornball statement — I know, I know — which may induce eye rolls because of my choice versus their circumstances…but whateves).

If anything, this year — as well as my time in Ulaanbaatar — has taught me that I am my most authentic self when I am freely moving myself through the world by footstep; trekking unencumbered and documenting the earth true (and that anything that impinges on these things, impinges on the singular essence of who I am; a rolling stone that reveres rambling and reportage).

Anyway, this issue of the newsletter is a dispatch ‘bout Ulaanbaatar. It isn’t a place that’s for everyone, but I think anybody who visits it would def find it interesting. So let’s get into it,

- Ben Pobjoy

The ‘November Batch' of Pobjoy Postcards joined me on a Mongolian marathon last week where they climbed the snowy hills of Ulaanbaatar ... before being posted from Korea. If you want to receive a one-of-a-kind handwritten postcard from me — being the final one from Japan in December — then subscribe here.

2023 TREK TRACKER

Where in the world...record am I?

• Countries visited: 69

• Flights taken: 73

• Kilometres flown: 118,952

• Marathons completed: 209

• Kilometres trekked by foot: 9.942.2

• Total kilometres trekked since 2015: 73,034

RAPID WEEKLY RECAP

A speedy synopsis for time-crunched reader

• The Wildest Thing: I temporarily lost my sense of taste in Ulaanbaatar because the wintertime air pollution there is some of the worst in the world🤐

• The Biggest Obstacle: Enduring very slippy sidewalks covered in black ice…which toppled handfuls of locals…because public works doesn’t really exist in Ulaanbaatar (due to croneyism and financial mismanagement at all levels of government)🙁

• The Lesson Learned: If there’s a will, there’s a way😣

FIELD NOTES: ULAANBAATAR, MONGOLIA

Tough place, tough peoples

I knew that going to Ulaanbaatar — which is the coldest national capital on the planet — could very well be a gamble in early November…but I was willing to try my luck (because I had consulted numerous climate charts in advance, and everything suggested that I could squeeze in a quick visit…before I risked being chilled to the bone / boner by its wicked winter weather). And the temperatures there — which I had been monitoring in real-time by way of multiple weather apps from afar — were working in my favour…well, until they weren’t.

Like, I kid you not…36 hours before I was set to arrive, Ulaanbaatar went hella south by way of a -20°C cold snap…as I was marathoning +30°C weather in Kowloon (in booty shorts and a t-shirt)…as my winter gear was 10,000 kilometres away back home in Canada. So I did what any sensible / under-equipped person would do, I modified my travel plans and went somewhere warmer I found a Uniqlo in Hong Kong and bought the warmest-but-cheapest shit I could find (e.g. a thin down jacket, thermal underwear, crappy lil gloves, and a decent doubled-walled toque for about a hundy Yankee bucks all-in).

And then I boarded an Ulaanbaatar-bound plane by way of Korean layover in my ‘fingers crossed’ deep-freeze get-up, I exited the airport at 3AM into Mongolia, and was picked up by a sixty year-old dude and his buddy (who spoke English as well as I speak Mongolian ala zilch)…who were sent to pick me up by my Airbnb host as a courtesy…because the water pipes in my privé accommodations had allegedly burst…and these homeboys were my ride to some alternate group-lodging 50 kilometres away (the full address of which hadn’t been communicated to me…nor any other significant info for that matter). And the overall / general WTF-ness of everything? It was compounded by the whip’s Japanese-side steering wheel…in a country that drives on the opposite side of the road.

So we drove off…into the darkness of an empty highway — at speeds of 140 km/h (I’m not kidding) — in total silence…and with all the windows down (being their thing, not mine)…as I adjusted to a 50°C degree temperature difference experienced as winds to my face (which honestly wasn’t that bad ‘cause I have four-ish decades of lousy Canadian winters under my belt). Anyhoo, 25 minutes later we pulled up to some Soviet-looking residential complex (which was down some alley and ‘round a corner) before the driver escorted me inside a building as well as up four flights of stairs into a maze-like flat of many locked doors. Then, he deposited me into room with a bed that had a set of keys on a modest desk (and he bounced sans explanation nor instructions).

And in a nutshell, that’s Mongolia; totally unclear, mostly half-confusing…and yet where things somehow fully work out. But in the moment? It did my head in…so I went to bed to try and get my head on straight (via a good night’s rest).

I awoke the next morning feeling a lil off — which is the norm these days — y’know, just like general tiredness from 100,000+ kilometres flown as I’ve nearly marathoned 10,000 kilometres by foot (through nearly 70 countries this year alone). And I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it; it wasn’t a head cold in the making nor the early symptoms of fever-y COVID-19…just a tacky-feeling on the tongue with a weird taste in the mouth and shorter breaths in the lungs and a foggier-than-usual brain in the cranium and some rust-coloured piss fired outta the dinky and light stomach cramps in the guts (which I attributed to breaking into my emergency food stash the night prior…where I foolishly ate a fibre bomb ala half-kilo of dried fruits).

Anyhoo, I just sorta shrugged it all off before slamming an instant coffee — which I made thick like molasses with the unadvisable-to-drink-local-tap-water to jolt my subpar system into operation — before I set out on my marathon; where the plan was to go north of the city to visit a remote Buddhist monastery then loop south of the city to climb an old memorial that commemorates scenes of friendship between the people of the USSR and Mongolia.

The first thing I noticed on Ulaanbaatar’s sinisterly icy streets were the icicles immediately forming on my beard as I exhaled…and then all the old Toyota Priuses on the gridlocked roads…like, they’re everywhere (and in the tens of thousands)…which struck me as a weird ‘two-wheel drive’ choice ‘cause only 10% of Mongolia’s rutted roads are paved…but it turns out that the country is a dumping ground for this used model of Japanese car (and hence why the steering wheel doesn’t match the side of the road that the Mongols drive on).

And so I began my push north; past the many car repair shops — with garage doors wide open as their insides were being heated by stoves — as the mechanics fixed all the busted Priuses, past all the makeshift convenience store cabins with piping chimneys informally built on sidewalks, past the feral-but-friendly dogs ripping bags of trash apart looking for food, past the occasional man selling skinned / full carcass mutton atop blood-soaked upholstery from the trunk of his SUV, past countless vendors selling what I presumed were bags of charcoal for Mongolian Barbecue (I was wrong about the former and the latter is actually a Taiwanese invention that has nothing do with grills and everything to do with griddles), and past the ever-increasing super rickety fences enveloping ramshackle shacks (which isn’t me being dismissively Western…and more ‘bout this hot mess in a hot sec).

All of it was folky / folksy and makeshift and seemingly do-whatever-you-want-unregulated, but what stood out the most were the handful of metalworkers I saw making metallic decorations for the all the rickety fences; with designs inspired by motifs associated with Mongolia’s unique strain of Buddhism (50% of the population is Buddhist here) as well as the country’s penchant for animistic / shamanistic Tengrism.

About 12 kilometres north of Ulaanbaatar — when I began to approach its outer edges where the yurts (which are known as gers here) came into view — I started to feel atypically gassed…so I pulled into a convenience store to pause, thaw, and hunt for a rejuvenating soda (anecdotally, they got my beloved Pepsi Max here — holler! — oh, and it is easier to use Western credit cards in Mongolia than it is in Macau…digital transactions in the latter are a pain in the arse).

Anyhoo, the store — which mostly sold cigs and vodka — was manned by a boy alone (working on a school day) who was about seven years-old, and after buying my can of soda I gestured / pantomimed / physically asked sans speaking the language if I could drink my soda inside to warm up…which the boy ‘got’ then permitted by way of a head nod. Bless!

So I cracked open the can as I cracked open my phone to do some Googling…because I could see I was in a valley, and thought I was maybe at high elevation (and presumed that such was the cause of me feeling like dog shit). But nope, the ‘net said Ulaanbaatar was only 1,350 metres above sea-level (and altitude sickness only hits me when I get up in that 3,500+ metre range…like when I was in La Paz earlier this year). So elevation / altitude wasn’t the cause…it was in fact much, much worse; it turns out that in the wintertime, Ulaanbaatar is the most polluted capital in the world.

Lots of traditional nomads are permanently settling there now (or just semi-permanently pitching a ger there for a few months during the winter), and this is because — if I understand things correctly as per the culturally unique land laws here — anywhere a Mongolian puts down a ger, they’re legally entitled to the 0.05 hectare of land around it…which they can visually mark with a temporary fence…hence all the rickety fences everywhere (and they can do this regardless of whether the larger parcel of land is already owned by the state, other citizens, economic entities or organizations).

However, in the wintertime, all the inefficiently felt-lined gers are warmed by stoves that burn inefficient raw coal (and the 200,000 gers in the country burn 600,000 tonnes of coal for domestic heating during the winter months). And in Ulanbaataar — which sits in a smog-cradling valley where nomads congregate — this means that the PM2.5 which (according to Time magazine) are, “Ultrafine particles that can carry carcinogens such as arsenic and mercury and are small enough to permeate most of the body’s defensive filters,” are here, “133 times the level the World Health Organization (WHO) deems safe.”

The result is that children in Ulaanbaatar have a 40% lower lung function than the rural kids elsewhere in Mongolia (and lots of other associated health issues…which UNICEF has deemed a child health crisis)…and any wintertime visitor like myself? Well, you feel like you’re sucking on the bong that is satan’s asshole which is basically farting death into your being. It is sooo fucking gnarly — and I’ve marathoned polluted places like Mumbai and Medellín with bad air quality — and the Mongolian shit here…it gets deep in your lungs (and in your clothes), and does not wash off of your body when you shower.

When I exited the convenience store — which was on the ridge of an embankment — all the poison poot-ing gers (which presented themselves like a panorama down below) immediately lost their rustic charm, and took on a completely different significance; one that was so incongruous with the white and snowy landscape, the Bogd Khan Mountain range, and the deep blue sky.

And while I couldn’t escape the crappy air, I was soon distracted by the beauty of the Dambadarjaa Monastery (being one of Mongolia’s three main Khalkha Buddhist monasteries, with this specific one containing the interred remains of an important spiritual leader). And I poked ‘round it — in the northern hills of Ulaanbaatar — and had it all to myself…well, until a Prius drove in (and an old woman exited to spin a prayer wheel, walk in circles, and chant).

Travel — and the greater world itself — they’re both funny yet not ha ha things at their cores; because on this project I’ve observed life everywhere to be generally more chaotic than it is orderly and predictable, and everything to be more confusing than it is intuitive and understandable…and all of that is what makes the world — as well as wandering it — so fucking special. And I’m a cosmopolite — like, I know a lot about certain things — but I don’t know everything ‘bout everything. As such, so much of what I’ve come across this year is honestly lost on me…like a mystery unknowable because of the limits of my knowledge…and I often find myself in places or situations that I recognize I’m not worthy of (because I fundamentally don’t understand them…as I try to).

And I used to feel some guilt in these moments, but today it mostly just makes me miss certain friends or family members…learned individuals who I wish I could sub-in-for-me in these moments so that they could better appreciate them (than I) and/or me just wishing I had the means to teleport ‘em to join me (yet sparing them the pains of the marathons)…so we could peacefully share in these awe-inducing moments together.

And these Buddhist things? They’d mean a lot more to my brother — so I profoundly missed Elliot in this moment (who just so happens to be one of my biggest supporters because he’s that class) — so I fired-off a foto of the monastery to him by phone, and he immediately replied;

“3 Towers = 3 Jewels - Sangha, Buddha, Dharma. 4 Medallions = 4 Noble Truths. Between each is an 8-spoked wheel - Eightfold Path. Then the wheels that you can spin at bottom = Dharma Wheel, denoting the ongoing repetition of birth and death, cause and effect, and constant presence/eternal truth of Dharma. Ben, that’s a classic piece of architecture!!!."

The explanation above luckily gives us nimrods some context for what we’re looking at…but this monastery? It was visited for Elliot (I love you, man…and like that corny postcard sign-off, “I wish you were here”).

Benny was getting too low / emo in all the Buddhism below (i.e. missing my lil bruv)…so I hiked myself up some steps — ones buried under knee deep snow — up a hill near the monastery to go observe an ovoo as well as take-in a view by way of vista. And just a bit of a ‘gear hack’ for y’all; I’ve learnt over the years from my make-do-marathoning that if you pull waterproof socks up to yer knees and jam yer feet into some excellent GORE-TEX sneakers…your pants will get soaked, but you’ll at least have fashioned yourself some de-facto winter boots. And my time in Mongolia? It was just that make-it-work sort of thing. Like, continually and non-stop.

And on the approach up to the khadag flags, some corvids flew over the ovoo — and these parts are the realm of the eagle hunters…and the saker falcon is the national bird of Mongolia…and one Tengri myth here concerns a goose that endlessly flies over water to represent time — and I just stood atop that hill freezing my dick off as I felt a mix of gratitude for being somewhere that felt like it was at the ends of the earth…while feeling so gleefully terrified at being so far from home (like, of comforts and/or of things known).

And dunno, I just mention this ‘cause I had a moment of reflection up there in that astral plane — because this project is slowly coming to an end — and I just want everyone to know that if I were to drop dead a nanosecond after the Marathon Earth Challenge wraps…I don’t want anyone shedding a tear (save my exes who are permitted to cry tears of joy, LOL). Basically, I juiced the hell out of this year — to give myself a year of heaven on our messy earth — and I sorta beat life at its own game by living and dying a thousand lifetimes in 2023 (all of my choosing and of my own design), and therefore can’t cower — or ever plead for more time — when death comes for me and/or taps me on the shoulder and tells me it is time to go one day, whenever that’ll be.

I know loved ones’ll hate reading the above paragraph (e.g. my wife), but something leads me to believe that the Tengrists or ghosts-of-Khans in these parts would get what I’m getting at; the unrivalled sense of absolution in annihilation (when you torch the life you once knew…to light the way forward though darkness and absolute adventure…to unlock a deeper understanding of yourself as well as this pale blue dot…and beat the fucking odds along the way). I bow down.

I’m mostly just sharing the above photo to acknowledge that Mongolians are prolly the toughest motherfuckers I’ve come across this year (like, on my many marathons ‘round our planet). Their air is acrid, their society / amenities only half-function (‘cause of government corruption), and many walk around in -20°C temperatures with ears and fingers exposed like it’s a no thang chicken wang (e.g. I saw an old lady who was sat on a stool on the sidewalk selling coffee beans for like a 12 hour shift…and she had a light jacket on at most, and wasn’t bothered in the least). Throw in all the nomadic shit (there’s no sewage…so people ‘poo and pee’ in holes they dig in the ground…and there’s no running water for ‘em…so everyone is constantly carting jugs of non-potable water gathered at piecemeal water stations), and basically, I get how the Mongols sacked the earth with near ease nearly a thousand years ago.

While Mongolia wasn’t formally part of the USSR, it was a soviet satellite…and for 70 years it operated as a socialist one party state. The only upside to this party-not-celebration-dynamic was the creation of the Zaisan Memorial, being a propaganda monument-meets-mural atop a hill south of Ulaanbaatar (with a military tank down below) that — according to Wikipedia — “Honors allied Mongolian and Soviet soldiers killed in World War II...[and] depicts scenes such as Soviet support for Mongolia's independence declaration in 1921, the defeat of the Japanese Kwantung Army by the Soviets at Khalhkin Gol on the Mongolian border in 1939, victory over Nazi Germany and peacetime achievements such as Soviet space flights including the flight of Soyuz 39 which carried the first Mongolian into space, Jugderdemidiin Gurragchaa.”

Now, I don’t know if you’ll ever go to Ulaanbaatar, but if you do…well, this thing is must-visit (despite it being up 300 precarious stairs); the art itself is incredible, the mural via tile work is flawless technique, it is all set against a backdrop of mountains, and it offers a dystopian view of some coal-fired power stations off in the distance (which belch particulate emissions that — as fucked as it is — catch the light of a setting sun receding behind the mountains — in a contradictorily beautiful way (pictured below). ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Look, it’ll bum you out as much as it bummed me out, but I didn’t make it to the iconic shimmery / towering Genghis Khan monument here (FYI, he’s actually known as Chinggis Khan in these parts). So why didn’t I go? Well, because it was 50 kilometres outside of town…and I intended to ultramarathon there and back (being a distance I’ve easily done in the past)…but due to the temperatures here (and the black ice) coupled with my makeshift winter gear, I would’ve frozen to death…but mostly I didn’t want to risk slipping and smashing my camera (because I’m an unemployed cheap-ass).

That said, I did marathon through Sukhbaatar Square — which is a cold and menacing Communist-era square — and it had three big and blobby busts of Genghis Khan, Ögedei Khan, and Kublai Khan (which were dope to see / compensated for what I didn’t see).

However, they weren’t the highlight there. Such was the statue of Damdin Sükhbaatar — the square’s namesake as well as a Mongolian revolutionary hero — who is immortalized as a statue (pictured below) on the exact spot where his horse once ripped a piss (I’m not kidding).

Anyhoo, Ulaanbaatar is a polluted mix of nomadism and communism and buddhism and shamanism and croneyism. And if adventure is your calling, then hit it before us millennials ruin it more!

BEST LOCAL THING-Y

Admittedly, I can’t say this is the best thing I ate…because I did temporarily lose my sense of taste in Ulaanbaatar. But, I was supremely grateful for a warm meal in a cold-ass place…that was a vegan ‘take’ on traditional Mongolian cuisine (which is something I’ve never tried before). And this plate of grub was from Agnista Café — which along with a can of soda — was less than $10 USD. And sorta fancy for these parts (despite the neon lighting in the dinning room…which is an anti-ambient, Asia-wide thing).

So I had the Tsuivan which is basically like an unseasoned stir-fry that was legit good because of the noodles (which were made from this delectably greasy / spongey flax seed concoction) paired with a bunch of Khuushuur which are a protein / veg hash-filled Mongolian take on deep-fried dumplings (and something we all know to be great…because things ‘wrapped in dough and then boiled or fried’ are loved worldwide as momo, gyoza, pierogi, empanada, ravioli and stuff of that ilk).

Also, I didn’t take much notice of it at the time…but this place had some visually maximalist programming playing on a wall-mounted TV in the dinning room (which I simply chalked up to being a funky Mongolian show, and thus kinda ignored). But it wasn’t…and keep this in mind for next week when we go to Korea.

POBJOY'S GLOBAL PRICE INDEX

This is an on-going documentation of how much things cost in different places around the world. Here are some of the things I bought in Ulaanbaatar (all prices converted to USD):

• A 200 millilitre carton of vanilla soya milk and a 500 gram bag of trail mix from a grocer in the state department store: $6.12

• An americano from a café: $2.78

• A 100 gram bar of dark chocolate, a 100 gram box of cookies, and two 330 millilitre cans of Pepsi Max from a convenience store: $4.68

MARATHON MUSINGS

On conscription and being on the mutton-less lam

I know there is increasing evidence for the merits of fasting, but IMHO it’s just something that is questionably popular amongst supposedly healthy types (ala a justifiable eating disorder for leaner-aspirant men). Me? I’m an enigma…so I like some healthy stuff / some healthy pursuits…but also like to drink no less than one leet of aspartame-laden soda a day; done to delight my tongue / corrosively clean-out whatever gunk is in the internal tract that runs between the back of my mouth to the most exit-ist part of my booty hole.

Because of this addiction, I wasn’t gonna leave my last can of soda un-drank; being the one in the shared fridge in the kitchen of the rooming house I was staying in. So I hit it well after midnight like a ding dong, and bumped into a human there who I had been bumping into numerously over the previous few days. First, when he asked a visiting Korean guy if he was from North Korea (dude was not). Second, when he was cooking big chunks of meat in a pot sans water, oil, veg, spices, seasonings or anything (and not like in ‘carnivore diet’ vibes…because his comportment didn’t off-gas that). Third, when he was out front the building — in shorts and sliders — smoking a ciggy like no biggie when it was freezing AF.

Anyhoo, we probably wouldn’t have ever chatted — just because I defer to minding my own business / never wanting to bother anyone in these shared scenarios — had it not been for this guy’s toddler daughter (who looked like an Asiatic Inuit with gorgeously massive chipmunk cheeks…like a total adorbs lil cherub).

So I was in the kitchen sat off in a corner — swigging my Pepsi Max with one hand as I scrolled my phone with the other — and the chipmunk cherub rolled on over after she had finished eating some boiled-yet-plain pasta shells…like, to come play with the bearded dirtbag stranger (you gotta love this about kids). So I defaulted to my old tricks for entertaining kids; making funny faces at ‘em, playing peek-a-boo, and gently poking their lil potbellies while making ‘fart-y sound effects’ (which is something that makes kids universally giggle everywhere I’ve been this year ala farts transcending language). And I tried to do this quietly so as to not wake the house, and it amounted to an icebreaker of sorts — in a very icy place — between me and her appreciative Dad (whose English wasn’t half-bad).

And you know how these things start with men, we first discussed the weather…which he said with all seriousness was too warm for him…which threw me for a loop…so I asked him where he was from and he said Yakutia…which is some place I’ve never heard of…so he clarified that it was also known as the Republic of Sakha…which is also something I’ve never heard of. And then he schooled me in more ways than one.

Yakutia is the largest republic of Russia, and located in the Russian Far East…and according to Wikipedia…it is also something that took the Russians — be they Tsarist or Soviet — a lot of time and resources to bring into the fold — and keep in the fold — these last few hundred years (as the resistant indigenous peoples in those parts aren’t Russian in the least…they’re a Siberian ethnic group who speak a Turkic language, and are traditionally hunter-gatherers and/or reindeer herders…from above the arctic circle where the winter temperature drops as low as -50°C on the reg).

And they’re known as the best shots in Russia — because they only eat what they can kill by rifle — so according to this guy, the Russian government was quick to show up (and forcefully round many of ‘em up) when Putin mobilized his society to serve as the army in his war in — and on — Ukraine. But here’s the catch, the Soviets had sent loads of Ukrainians to Russify Yakutia in the 20th century…so this guy knew Putin’s premise for war was BS…because this guy knew lots of Ukrainians (like, as neighbours). And so he grabbed his wife and daughter — and said goodbye to friends and family — and the trio (all younger than 25) slid outta Russia into Mongolia more than a year ago.

Despite being an accomplished white collar professional in a prestigious trade — I gotta keep things high-level due to the sensitivities of this all — the guy first took his family to South Korea where he worked under-the-table in some lowly construction gig before his visa expired. And he was in Mongolia now as a layover before flying to Türkiye…to hopefully make some more scratch (before ideally going to France to seek asylum).

And being courteous — he steered the conversation towards me — and I tried my best to minimize my dumbo exploits…because I felt like such a gallivanting goofball in comparison. So I changed the convo back to him even quicker — and asked him if he could even / ever go back to Russia should the war end — and he said that it was unlikely that he’ll ever be able to go back (because he’s associated with the ‘Free Yakutia Foundation’ which is anti-war, and pro-independence). Meaning, he can only go back to Yakutia when it is its own thing / Russia can’t jail him nor whack him.

It was nearing 2AM at this point — and I had to get up at 3:45AM to meet my driver outside the building at 4:15AM (for a ride to the airport that was comp’d to me by my Airbnb host as a ‘2.0 sorry’ for the burst pipes / accommodation switcheroo) — so me and the Yakutian, us two went our separate ways…like, after some genuine well-wishing sealed with that kind of firm handshake where you wrap your freehand ‘round the collective ball of all the others in the mix…and hold onto the hands longer than necessary to try and shake some good luck into the universe.

Anyhoo, I retreated to my room — and tried to sleep — but couldn’t sleep ‘cause I was thinking ‘bout all the things me and him had just talked about…which’ll keep you up at night as you oscillate between counting your blessings and subtracting your guilts.

I exited my room a little while later to piss out some pollution — and my driver (being the geezer that had picked me up from the airport days before) was silently leaning against the wall right outside my room (like indoors and not outdoors)— which wasn’t the plan…and sorta creepy…yet totally Mongolian as I came to know this place to be.

And we got in his car a few minutes later. And he turned on the radio which played what sounded like Mongolian rap music. And we sped along the highway, slowing down once to yield for a herd of wild horses perpendicularly crossing all the lanes in the dark. The latter sounds cinematic…but it wasn’t. Everything was just a circus of confusion by that point.

But Mongolia…

Strange place (or maybe not strange at all).

Just a place full of nomads, wanderers, and those passing through (for reasons that vary so greatly in their importance).

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