At first glance, Ulaanbaatar proves unattractive, with the aforementioned apartment blocks, interlinked by the exposed pipes that stretch from the coal and natural gas plants billowing their steam further out. In the winter, freezing temps turn this into smog, making the capital one of the most polluted cities in the world, its toxic particulates trapped by the cold air and the ring of surrounding mountains. The poor air quality has led to discussion about moving the airport further out, due to ample cancelled flights. (Town planning isn't much better. I don't know who the genius is that decided to set the massive sports arena out on the same road as the airport.) In his book The Horse Boy, Rupert Issacson states that Mongolians don't do cities well. But rather than the Mongolians, the blame should fall on the Soviets. Practical, functional, but by no means attractive.
We arrive at out hotel, the Blue Sky, a mollusc shell rising across a broad boulevard from the obligatory central square. LYL tells me that on her last visit a few years ago, this tower of blue glass had been the stand-alone high rise in the city. It has since been joined by a dozen more, all hotels, clustered in the same few blocks. From these lofty heights, one has a good view of the mountains hemming in from all sides, no doubt a magnificent sight when coated with snow (provided they can be seen at all through the smog). The nearer hills stretching toward them are dotted with white ger, like little beads of foam on the surface of a bright green sea.
Despite the first impression, the city's charm takes hold at street level. We start at Gandan Khiid, Mongolia's most important Buddhist temple, and one of the few to survive the Soviet purges of the 1930s. The windhorse flies on, above the circumambulating pilgrims spinning as they go oil-cannisters repurposed as prayer wheels. We join them, lapping a trio of buildings that look like Russian dacha. A prayer service is underway in the main temple, and we go inside to quietly sit awhile, relishing the Tibetan cultural vibe that I so adore.
After a quick peek at the 26-meter statue of Migjid Janraisig (Kannon/Kuan Yin) and her amazing surrounding pantheon of Buddhas and sutras, we move down the hill, past the Centre of Eternal Heavenly Sophistication (intriguing, yet sadly closed), to the main boulevard. We dawdle, looking for lunch, before settling on a Monglian Hot Pot place. The cool hues of John Coltrane serenade us as we sit at a table with a sunken heater at center, then laden down with a number of side dishes to immerse in the boiling water. I really appreciate the chopsticks, long and lacquered, with screw on the end where you can attach tips of wood, thereby practicing hygiene and alleviating waste.(I'm looking at you here Japan.) As we leave we are encouraged to roll a series of sheep's ankle bones along a square of felt, which reveals our fortune. We have no idea what it means, only that the proprietress gives both of us an enthusiastic yet wordless thumbs up.
The next stop is a contrived one: the State Department Store, a throwback to the Soviet glory days of 1921. We intend to buy some traditional kit to wear at dinners, a bit of fun we enjoy while traveling. Yet here nothing appeals, all of it too formal, too expensive. (I will return the following day to pick up a light jacket, since the clouds of morning had spoken of autumn, a season which the forecast then attempts to bypass entirely by promising 6℃ nights while we're out on the Gobi.)
Across the street is Beatles Square, so named for the large brass figures of the Fab Four at the center. I can't help but be reminded of Almaty's similar Apple Statue. Back to school sales have overflowed from the State Department Store and a series of stalls have been erected in one corner.
We continue along. I am surprised by all the well-dressed youth in this Chic Élanbataar, which suggests a burgeoning middle class. Yet below the new hotels, some of the old remains, as well as a few open and untouched spaces. One has a lovely little villa in the center, which reminds me a bit of Jim Thompson's house in Bangkok. It looks abandoned, but for a guard sitting in a little hut by the front gate.
With the cool temperatures and small town vibe I'm reminded a lot of Boulder, aside from the ger of course. I'm told that over a million people live in the city, about a third of the country's entire population. The numbers tend to increase after a hard winter, the fatal dzud that often kill up to a million livestock. Thus the capital is simultaneously on the grow and falling apart. The streets and sidewalks are broken, and water lingers after recent rains.
LYL decides to go back to the hotel for a rest, but I detour over to Chojin Lama Temple, the former residence of Mongolia's last state oracle. Converted into a museum in 1942, it has all the look of a Taoist Temple, yet filled with articles more Tibetan, including the lingering ghosts of butter lamps. The exhibits aren't too profound but the handful of buildings appeal, and it is fun to frame for photos their spiky corners against the more modern towers above.
I wander past the blocky and unmistakably Russian-built Wedding Palace, foregoing a pair of inviting cafes to instead visit a craft beer bar I'd seen on the drive in. They don't have the sampler flights that I ask for, but amazingly they bring me four modest glasses anyway, free of charge. I nurse these awhile, followed by a 'guilt' pint, thinking what a funky little city this is. Eventually a trio comes in and sits at the opposite corner of the place, yet one voice, the American one, still cuts across. He and his female Mongolian colleagues small talk for a few minutes, until he launches into some inane business speak. I don't know his position, where he sits in the company heirarchy, but his language, though friendly, is aggressive and didactic. I'm reminded of the book The Ugly American that I've recently read, and here before me I see its basic premise at work, that my countrymen too often take a position of superiority, rather than one of understanding. But what do I know.
We meet our Wild Frontiers group the following morning, the numbers refreshingly small, just six. We set off immediately across the square, taking a few photos with the massive statues of the Khans, then spend the rest of the morning at the National Museum, finding it as grand and informative as I'd been told. Another hot pot lunch follows, this one more formal but not quite as tasty as yesterday. Then a performance at the Tumen-Ekh Ensemble, which in just an hour offers a remarkable cross section of the diversity of musical forms that the steppe has to offer. These kinds of things can be very hit or miss, but this one is particularly good. And when I see the singer staring off into space as he sings khöömei, I begin to feel tears welling up in my eyes. That's where it started for me 20 years ago, with the mesmerizing throat singing, suggesting perhaps a tie to this part of the world, and its vastness. As we file out I decide that I'll buy a horse-headed fiddle when we returned here to UB in two weeks.
It is a very easy day, just wandering a small slice of the city. We finish at a trendy little restaurant near our hotel. It is western fare (and opulent wine) but I appreciate our guide Tulga's choice, for once we leave this cosmopolitan city, all our meals will most certainly be from one of what the Mongolians refer to as the five snouts...
On the turntable: Genesis, "Foxtrot"
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