They were crammed in like broken string puppets in a dusty backstage box; elbows twisted around ankles, and their shoes a peculiar mishmash of colours.

I forced my way into the pale grey cabin with my backpack, then squeezed out a seat on one of the two lower bunks. “Hi, I’m Ant. Don’t worry, I’ll save my farts for first class,” I joked.

“I am Anton, and this, is Eveline. We are from Austria.” We shook hands: One gay. One lesbian, I assumed. Another passenger grinned sinisterly. A mute Mongolian, I reckoned. “That’s Erdenebaatar” said Anton, “he’s a Mongolian. Does not say much.”

I’d only decided to go to Mongolia because my ex-girlfriend didn’t want to. I wound her up so much, we broke up. I’d coldly booked the Trans-Mongolian route, because it was cheaper than flying and after five days in Moscow — being bitten by swarms of nyets — I was devoid of romantic notions: I needed sleep.

“Vodka?” Did that Mongolian man just say, vodka? It was 10 o’clock in the morning, I mused.

It appeared there was little choice.

Within an hour I was warmed with the friendship of this smiling Mongolian. Within two, he revealed the vodka we were sharing was meant as a gift for his family. I became good at translating, and informed Anton and Eveline that Erdenebaatar had just completed police training in St. Petersburg, and was heading home to Mongolia. And, would we care to watch a Mongolian pop music video?

Beats looking out the window, I figured.

When Erden wasn’t drinking vodka, he was asleep. He did both with equal discretion. But somehow, when he sat with a bottle of vodka, I felt obliged to sit there with him. Some days, I had to sneak away to meet new people.

Les and Gavin, were a pair of butchers from Lancaster, England. Gavin was in his late-thirties, and wouldn’t have looked out of place in a wrestling ring. Les was old enough to be his father, and looked the spitting image of the boxer, Henry Cooper.

They were travelling from Lancaster to Hong Kong, entirely by train. My eyes widened, “That’s amazing, are you writing a blog?” I heard the distant thud of his meat cleaver. I laughed, nervously. “Do you fancy a game of chess, Ant?” asked Les.

I’m drunk, I thought. “Sure,” I said.

After an hour I retired. The hypnotic thrum of the Trans-Mongolian doesn’t allow you to do anything, for too long.

At 07:35 on day six we arrived in Mongolia’s featureless capital, Ulaanbaatar. I gathered my belongings and alighted Train 4 as a flock of touts descended onto the platform. I stepped to the side.

Tony and Evelin were haggling; their flailing arms danced in the morning chill. Gavin and Les, the motte-and-bailey of the platform, stretched out their weary bodies. I caught a glimpse of Erdenebaatar scuttling between his compatriots. Mongolia, it seemed, was a nation of puppeteers — and I’d secured front row seats to their show.

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Me and My Mongol is a post from Trail of Ants.

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I stare at the newspaper. It wasn’t me. I gawp at the television. It wasn’t me. I trawl through the internet. It wasn’t me! I listen to the radio, podcasts, and conversations on the bus. It WASN’T me! At least — I hope it wasn’t me?

I didn’t know much about Asia before I scribbled over her ancient lanes. I thought it was a factory to stock my English necessities. Indeed, my local fish and chip shop, newsagent, petrol station, pizza shop and Chinese takeaway were all owned and operated by cheery Asians.

It’s only now, as I’m sat in as-safe-as-safe-can-be New Zealand, that it’s sunk in. I’ve left a trail of destruction in Asia. I tell myself every day it wasn’t me, but there’s a residual inkling; that it was.

I believe in the butterfly effect — that a butterfly can fart in Blackpool and lift the skirt of a Cornish virgin. So could it actually be possible, that I inadvertently contributed to some of the most iconic headlines of the past two years?

Perhaps the day I fell asleep in Moscow’s Gorky Park, I missed the chance to quell the August 2008 invasion of Georgia? I’ll never know, I’d quickly fallen asleep on a round-city recce because Moscow had swiftly bored me. However it’s not just the invasion of gritty Georgia that has me looking over my shoulder.

In July 2007 I arrived in Mongolia. The Mongols were in full on party mode; it was the annual Nadaam Festival and everywhere I looked small horses jerked fancy young jockeys around the beaten green Gobi. Gers sprang up; a hundred pickpockets tried their luck; I was cruelly threatened in a local nightclub; and I heard of one backpacker being kidnapped, and another who was raped.

Though shocking, none of this deterred me — I was in Mongolia. I was living a dream I’d dreamt for years. A year later — July 2008 — and Ulaanbaator became the stage to escalating violence as protestors rallied against suspected election fraud, and a year later a flood temporarily swallowed the capital. This was amazing; not least because Mongolia is one of the emptiest expanses of land I’ve ever seen. The devil had hit the bull’s-eye.

China’s also suffered. I spent three fascinating months there in late 2007 and ever since it’s been hailing horror. First of all, hundreds of thousands of my beloved Chinamen were affected by the worst snowstorms in decades. Then the warm up to the forthcoming Olympics became the catalyst to a massive anti-China uprising, resulting in my cherished Tibetan skies being splattered with the worst violence in Lhasa for twenty years. As if China hadn’t taken enough of a pounding in my absence, the Sichuan earthquake then culled tens of thousands and not to be outdone, the north-eastern Xinjiang region imploded in another round of ethnic violence. I won’t even mention their milk.

Brimming with innocence, I entered the Kingdom of Nepal. Word had already reached me of the Maoists — a terrorist group — demanding money off stoic foreign hikers in the mystical foothills of the Himalayas. Undeterred, I dodged my way around Kathmandu, spluttered down the river, clambered through bushes looking for tigers and rhino and snuck in and out of Buddha’s old place.

Other than a few spontaneous (yet peaceful) protests, I was confident things were running smoothly. Then I left — and a trio of bombs rippled the terai. Before I knew it the headlines told me the terrorists were in government and soon after they levered the monarchy permanently off their thrown. What had I done? The Kingdom had fallen.

India was never short of controversy during the four months I spent there — that’s one of the reasons I love it so. But nothing of the scale that happened after I left. First off, forty-nine people were slain by a series of bombs in Ahmedabad, and a few months later the sickening news came through that Mumbai had suffered a similar fate, with four times as many losing their lives to hereditary violence.

If all of this wasn’t bad enough, the next country I forayed into was Sri Lanka. I’m almost thankful that when I first stepped foot on the Venerable Island, it was already in the throes of civil war. It meant I couldn’t be the catalyst. The Sinhalese government pulled out of a six-year peace deal the week I arrived. I stayed for two months, fearlessly venturing to the war-torn east coast before looping around and back to India. Then the government accelerated its stance, fuelling the climax to a bloody feud. Maybe my many inquisitive questions were misplaced?

The next country I dared to step foot in, was tiny Singapore. Rumours were strife that a woman in her twenties was brutally cursed for crossing the road without being escorted by a little green man. And then, if that wasn’t shocking enough, I was told off for taking too long to order noodles. I’ve got my eye on Singapore, if only to see if anything interesting ever happens.

From Singa’ to the Indonesian archipelago. A two-month jolly around Sumatra, Java and bountiful Bali proved to be one of the most exhilarating periods of my life. I left full of admiration for a country of simple brilliance. Four months later the government executed the infamous Bali Bombers, which seemingly acted as little deterrent — eight months later, central Jakarta reverberated to the blasts of two of its iconic hotels.

A year in Australia ensued, for the most part I was safe in the haven of Melbourne sipping stubbies and perusing antipodean quirks. Then one Saturday I dropped Reb and her dad at Avalon airport, and the radio began to crackle through the news that became known as Black Saturday; bushfires left 173 dead and levelled lives in the worst natural disaster in Australia’s history.

All of the above lays in my wake. Battered and torn, broken and bruised. Lives inextricably twisted, love curtailed, and communities eternally altered.

Perhaps it’s true, that you only really know a country and its people once you’ve been there — once you’ve spent time laughing with its children. But perhaps it’s also true, that you only get to know a place, once you’ve left?

Trails of the Unexpected is a post from Trail of Ants.

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No Nike rucksack. No TMNT pencil case. No “I Heart Your Mum” scrawled crudely across an exercise book. No crumpled timetable. No line for chips and coke at lunch. No wallsy at break. No hour of “là où est la piscine”, or two hours of trigonometry. This weeks Reprint image is brought to you from the divine Mongolian Gobi.

This young guy is leaning against his education, a camel. It’s his job to walk the tourist-toting camel around in a long, slow (ever so slightly boring) loop and back to the tourist-toting jeep. From what I remember (this shot is from July 2007) he asked for no money, and was a lot more endearing than the Reprint portrays him. His hand holds biscuits we were snacking on and his body is clothed in traditional threads.

Mongolia remains one of the highlights of The Trail, for many reasons. It also remains one of the semi-regrets. I spent only two weeks there – one week at the Naadam and the following week bounding through the Gobi – and this was seriously too short. Mongolia is one of the least densely populated countries on the planet, with wide open spaces splattered with gers housing their charming, strong and resilient inhabitants – Chinggis Khaan’s people; the mighty Mongols. With these people in mind, I wouldn’t revisit for less than one month.

Has this weeks Reprint image hit a cord? Let me know about it via the comments panel, or for more imagery from along The Trail take yourself over to the stills gallery.

The Reprint: ‘A Boyhood Dream’ is a post from Trail of Ants.

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Zoom in a bit, in a bit more, more, more, out a bit, a touch more. Now focus. Slowly does it. Breath. Easy on the trigger. Look around the frame. Zoom in a bit. In a bit. In a bit. Breath. And. Wait for it. Shoot! Snap? Click? Damn it. Turn it on. Refocus. Pan right a bit. Easy on the trigger. Breath in. Breath out. Perfect. Count down from three, two… get out of the way! Three, two, one. Snap. Click. Whirr. You beauty!

And so the beat goes on. Time after time after time. You’ve seen the Taj Mahal a thousand times. There are men who find employment at the Taj by walking you around the fifty or so most photographic angles. You follow them unknowingly. You take the photo. You’re pleased. You pay them. They’re not pleased. You pay them some more. Now their friends not pleased.

The Taj Mahal doesn’t have a bad angle. I don’t honestly believe you can go wrong. This particular shot was taken from a rooftop restaurant and is the epitome how you should view the photographic world – with your eyes wide open.

I should of shot a whole series from up there in hindsight, but my battery was waning and monkeys were gathering around my saag aloo. Man shouldn’t be made to make such decisions; get the shot, lose the food or eat the food then… wait a minute… get the shot? Hindsight is a wonderful thing. But there it is; a big fat clue, to just one unique view.

Has the marvel in marble wet your appetite for a meander through North India? Worry not young ranger, you’ll find a remedy of reminders in my album of imagery from this glorious region.

The Reprint: ‘Taj. You’re It.’ is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.

I’d seen him from a short distance, twelve months previously, he travelled alone aboard a plane to Moscow. He wore a dark tracksuit top zipped over a light t-shirt, and loose pale green shorts covered the knees he cradled by his chest. His hair sprayed out in loose brown curls beneath a khaki cap, highlighted by scribbles of grey. His pale thin lips lined a shallow smile, and his early morning eyes seemed glazed with relief. As his homeland slipped beneath a thin veil of cloud, he lifted his cap and ran his fingers through his hair, his lips parted just once to release his farewell thoughts: Let the journey begin, my friend. Today, he lay upright on the rippled white sheets of a double bed, in a simple, homely room on the island of Bali.

His hair was shorter, still a familiar fiesta of curls and slashed with new grey. His face was slimmer, his pale skin had darkened and his spirit was now windowed by black-framed glasses. His khaki cap lay upturned nearby, a tide of sweat had set a shade in the rim and it was filled with worn foreign coins. His loyal backpack leaned tiredly, resting its bruises and scars against a bamboo table. He lay shirtless, wearing chequered grey shorts between a half empty packet of Marlborough and a swollen blue notebook. Ambient music moulded around his quiet thoughts, and I watched in silence as his eyes circled the motionless ceiling fan. He lay in the path of a mirror, reflecting the figure of a proud and mortal curio. Though he sometimes heard me, I sensed he never saw me.

He recalled how he’d left Moscow, slipping east through Siberia to the rhythmic beat of a Mongolia bound train. It was five days before he set foot in Ulaanbaatar. While he absorbed the strength of the mighty Mongol race, he followed the whispers through the kitsch of their annual games. He described the grace of wrestlers, the poetry of archers and the fear that pecked at the calmness of preteen jockeys. Asia mesmerised him instantaneously. He looked musingly at the ceiling fan, he found its will to spin tremendous. After a short time living with local nomads in their ger and exploding dust clouds with the hooves of horses, he journeyed onward to Beijing. The Mongolians, he declared have a degree in simplicity, their eyes hang like painted canvases in a dusty exhibit of Untold Beauty. His arrival in Beijing was infamous, he writhed in agony for three days. At moments he became so dehydrated he had to use his fingers to pry his swollen tongue from the inner of his cheek. China was kind after this initiation, and even in the cruellest moments he learned patience, compassion and conviction.

He recalled a southwest mountain village where he’d sat and eaten beside a loyal friend, whose name, when he spoke it, started the percussion in his eyes. Following a humble feast they shared cigarettes and baiju with a decade or more excitable locals, who later produced a segment of bee larvae. After a pregnant pause, he swallowed the first of the pale grubs, beginning a long evening of song and dance, laughter and merriment. It says a lot about the Chinese, they’re xenophobes who roll out their welcome mats with a courtesy offered to queens. He shuffled on the bed, and then I listened as he rolled his memory onto the Tibetan plateau. He visited Lhasa, spending two weeks watching the evolution of monks, and the perseverance of pilgrims. He thought highly of the Tibetans. Lhasa radiates beneath a sky so alive, so pure, so blue. It mainlines your veins, and suddenly you’re as wise as the ocean, as blameless as boys, and as boundless as her eyes. He left the Forbidden City in a failing van. He drifted in and around whitewashed monasteries and indigo lakes, vast pale dunes and rich red forts, sought all the while by scores of grubby faced youths. As the traveller’s tale ascended to the base camp of Mount Everest, I picked up the thrill in his tone. He told of being caught out in tumbling temperatures beneath a canopy of curious stars. After a slow 10km hike he recoiled and spent several hours shivering uncontrollably beneath a stack of blankets, his eyes still retained that frozen glaze.

The resilient city of Kathmandu became the stage to a fond farewell, to the girl whose name he chased around the orchards of his mind. He cast his eyes on his cigarettes before confessing it had taken many moons before he realised the feeling seeping from the Kathmandu shadows, was loneliness. The Kingdom of Nepal played stage to my coronation. The day I lost my queen preceded the month I found my Kingdom. It was there, in Nepal, that he first encountered Hinduism. He found sense in aspects of its tradition, Buddha had nudged him on an educational level, but Hinduism and all the myth and colour of its ways and words earned a place in his heart in ways he’d never permitted. He doesn’t believe in mortal gods, or the dictatorship he sees in other religions. The real Hindu takes strength from everything, and gives weakness to nothing. He looped around Nepal, taking to the rivers, roads and jungles before riding on the roofs of buses through the southern terai, stopping by the birthplace of the Indian Prince, Buddha before lowering himself over the border and into the heart of Hindustan, to India.

He smiled, as if trying to expel the gross history of this journey. His first night in India, he told me how drunk he’d gotten, attempting to forget the inward journey that choked him with anger, and drenched him in desperation and blood. I learned later that that aching anger would bind itself with love. He travelled the cities of the north with his parents. Together they took in the holy Hindu city of Varanasi; the glorious Mogul white cliffs of the Taj; the Golden Temple, home of the Sikhs; and the Buddha’s classroom of Sarnath. Between these, they fought with forts and took trains to temples before the three speared their way over rails to the southern, largely Christian city of Pondicherry. North India is crass and callous. You’re soul is robbed, your spirit burned and your destiny is devilishly realigned. Christmas was spent sowing seeds of kisses on that girl, she’d drifted on his whispers to bloom beneath the shadows of festivity and friends. He stopped his story for a moment to sip a sassy smile, though its cause would remain a private pleasure.

He then told me of the month of Janus, who opened a door to new beginnings on the isle of Sri Lanka. The surf and sands of southern Ceylon bore him the fruit of countless new friends, each was true, each loyal and distinct. One day, he fell upon the tragedy of two Sri Lankan brothers, whose family business, a turtle farm was destroyed “the day the sea is coming”, along with almost their entire family. I didn’t have to hear Nimal and Ruwan’s tragedy, I could see it in their eyes and feel it in my heart, and without words I knew she felt the same, we had to help. I listened to his thoughts on Sri Lanka, the gaps he left I figured were small parts of his self that he left in the sands to recover another day. The tea plantations, national parks and holy pilgrimages he spoke so sweetly of, sat beside his firsthand accounts of an island in turmoil, at war.

His return to India was more instinct than desire. He tore himself away from an island he loved and threw himself at the mercy of her southern states. He found shanti the day he rented an Enfield Bullet motorcycle, and found comfort from the loving arms wrapped around his waist. He described the thirty day journey in magnificent stages, from the temple strewn lands of Tamils, up and over the Western Ghats before descending their coats of grit and grim into the green glory of Kerala. All along their way they sipped hot sweet chai and snacked on wadis with a hundred, no a thousand locals. They pinched rice and sweet, spicy curries with their fingers from banana leaves and when their clocks chimed for their ‘hour of need’ it took just a shy passerby, or a hidden onlooker to attract a gaggle of intrigue and set them on their way once more. To thread a passage through India in this way, sweetened bitterness with bliss and spliced cruel with kind. Our path was scribed with poetries of passion, and slow ballads of awe and brilliance. The conclusion however, also brought a sequel to the Toodle-oo of Kathmandu, to his pillion, his equal and his muse. This time born of logic, laced with tears but remembered in gratitude.

He paused, then silently walked barefoot to his porch, as he sat down he drew his knees to his bare chest and lit a cigarette. The plumes of smoke moved thinly through the still, warm air of our Bali night. He stared up into the dim porch light, watching in wonder his self-made spectacle of careless wisps. He extinguished the cigarette slowly, drew a deep breath and continued his memoires, carrying his thoughts over the moss-covered rocks that surrounded a small hidden lawn. He recalled the three weeks of long days that followed her departure when he’d ventured into the state of Andhra Pradesh, going nowhere fast while thinking things over slowly. I knew it was time to leave India, when I was denied entry to a night train. My bribes fell on hollow ears, my begging fell on careless eyes and my will was spirited away on a feather, to a passive plateau. I’d lost the will to fight; I knew right there, right then that my time – for now – was up.

He took to Singapore, a city he knew was a contrast to India, the homeland of humble heroes and fantastic villains. He drank and shopped and laughed and sighed, he ate and walked and talked. Singapore – for the visitor at least – is as neutral as Asia gets with the West. She’s loyal, where others are scheming, and she’s tender where others are tough. He stopped to watch an ant, struggle under a prized crumb of toast, and then from nowhere there were two, then three, and then four to help carry their loot awkwardly away. Touché. He continued, explaining how he flew to Sumatra, an island of Indonesia and one he discovered to be inlaid with treasures. He mounted volcanoes, dipped his weary body in lakes and his finale was attended by the fire-red, pendulous orang-utans. He took an onward flight to Jakarta, capital of the neighbouring island, Java, and en route he lost his prized possessions; his passport, and wallet of critical cards. Corruption in Indonesia was not beautiful, nor welcome. It’s a crime of the coward. If this nation weren’t so soft and sweet in other ways, I’d instil you with its sour side and stench. He spoke of other islands ringed with golden beaches, and cultures descended through lineages of lore.

It was here on Bali that I heard these nibs of his enchanting year in Asia. I listened for over an hour, in awe. I thought I knew the definition of my emotions, I thought I’d felt them all. Though the depths of those in Asia almost reduced my prior sentiments, to mere essence. Even in the shaves of silence I heard the enigmatic echo of his epic. I see his friendships in the constellations of his ebony eyes; I feel his compassion in the warmth of his palms; I feel his excitement in the nape of his neck; I see his astonishment in the furrows of his brow; I sense his caution in the flare of his nostrils; and I’ve heard his story, a thousand glorious times. A thousand glorious times.

A Thousand Glorious Times is a post from Trail of Ants.

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“I’m a Barbie girl, in the Barbie world. Life in plastic, it’s fantastic!”, I’ll never forget these ghastly lyrics. An hour previous, I was sitting in a ger in the Mongolian countryside just to the west of Ulaanbaatar, politely accepting the offer of a bowl of airag (fermented mares milk) from our generous host. Not wanting to cause offence, I acknowledged my 3 Austrian tour-mates, Phillip, Harry and George who observed me swiftly swallow the sharp, milky, fizzy contents of the chipped china bowl.

It’s mild alcohol content soon took hold and after leaving the ger for the minibus I drifted into a much needed snooze, following which the incessant lyrics made their infamous appearance. “I’m a Barbie girl”, with uncanny timing my stomach imploded to a chorus of light rumblings “in the Barbie world”, the rumbles gained momentum. Thankfully, five minutes later we staggered out of the bus, where Tiggy- our overtly flirtatious guide- proclaimed “Ok, now we ride the horse”, my face dropped suddenly as my bowels demanded action. I gingerly replied “Ant no ride horse, Ant need bathroom”. Tiggy looked offended that I wasn’t eager to climb aboard one of Mongolia’s proudest symbols, needless to say I didn’t stick around to explain. I’d spotted a wooden shack in the distance and my streaming eyes were firmly fixed on salvation.

Sometime later I rejoined the group and proceeded to milk a small goat, who I’m sure was smirking at my obvious affliction. From there, the tour gathered pace and the four days I spent with Tiggy & Co firmly cemented Mongolia as one of the most beautifully warm countries I’ve ever had the privilege of being in.

As we bounded along the road from UB, eagles and kites dragged my gaze with faultless fruition.

Stopping intermittently to achieve various activities, we were consistently surrounded by awe inspiring scenery and occasionally the people of this great nation would cross our paths to instill a sense of charm into our journey. Our first night in a ger was beside the Khognokhan mountain, the sky so clear you could wipe your eyes free of dust with the Milky Way, while plucking planets from their orbits. Lest I forget that I was given this opportunity as a consequence of the Chinese Embassy being shut, reaffirming my belief in fate. If I had left Mongolia with Ulaanbaatar as my trophy then I would have missed the magic of the nations existence.

For two of the three nights our gers were filled with an order of live events worthy of the National Theatre. The mystical sounds of Mongolian throat singers, complimented by the traditional horse hair fiddle and on one occasion, a 9 year old contortionist plied her skill beside our hearth with relentless enthusiasm. The look upon her face at the reward of a Wispa bar almost causing the ger to float blissfully away, we came across this vigour in the shadow of every mountain. Despite my original rejection to board the Mongolian horse, I did so with rapture in the following days, looking across the steppe landscape at Harry, Phillip and George I felt the shared excitement roar through us as we galloped uncontrollably toward Ulaan Tsutgalan, the highest waterfall in Mongolia (needless to say, not too high!). In the distance, I could hear Tiggy cheerfully bellow “Yanaaaaa, oshey oshey!” it’s translation made redundant by the surroundings of it’s tenor.

Our final night and day was spent in Kharkhorin, the ancient capital city and home to Erdene Zuu Khiid Buddhist monastery, which I’m sure you know is the first in Mongolia- started in 1586, parts have survived the Manchu invasion and numerous purges by Stalin. If this place sounds magical, I must pull the plug as it is one of the most desolate places you’ll ever see. A ghost town. A shambles. A blister on the landscape, the monastery it’s only appeal. Bewildered, we turned to vodka and Hite beer to gain closure on the tour. Our final night, and once more our ger was blessed with a live concert, followed by our own iPod powered version and yet more alcohol, the Milky Way draped overhead I turned to my Austrian compadres and announced with unequivocal honesty “I could go home now, content”, we raised a glass while Tiggy vibrantly hollered “yanaaa, oshey oshey!” into the night, my stomach faintly rumbled.

A Mongolian Milky Way is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.

Dime dull d’of dold. Achooooooooo, excuse me. Sniff sniff. In England, there is no such thing as the common cold among the male population, we suffer instead from the affliction of ‘Man Flu’; a much more imposing, prolonged and debilitating scourge that requires a lot of love and attention. Unfortunately for me, my fellow hostelliers don’t seem very forthcoming with hugs, head strokes and generous offerings of tea, so I’m going it alone. Wish me luck, sniff sniff.

You’ll be glad to know I’m not wallowing in self pity, instead I have been quite proactive. I’ve struggled through 30c heat, sold my redundant Beijing train ticket, bought another for the following week and even signed up for a swift 4 day tour taking in the Gobi, a couple of gers (Mongolian fur lined tents) and a bit of horse riding with not one, not two but three of those German bloke things. Sniff sniff. It works out remarkably well, I’d wanted to do this from the moment I arrived but couldn’t rearrange my train ticket so had given up hope. I’m a big believer in fate so I think this is it’s way of telling me “where there’s a will, there’s a way”. Did I tell you I had a cold, maybe that’s fate too? Maybe it will cut my overgrown ‘Jungle of Vices’ back down to normal? Achoooooo. I doubt it somehow.

Even if I haven’t- told you that I have a cold that is- I’m going to dwell on the reasons why I think I have one. You see, roll my life back a few weeks and

I was an ’8-pieces-of-fruit-or-veg-a-day’ man, who exercised almost daily, didn’t smoke (too often), drank in moderation(ish) and breathed in the fresh country air at every chance.

Now, I’ve pretty much reversed everything, with the exception of drinking. I repent my sins daily with 40 press ups which usually results in me gasping on the hostel floor reaching for support from the hip flask. Sniff sniff.

From this day forth, I vow to monitor my intake of all things alien to my healthy lifestyle of old and disperse the excuse of “I’m on holiday”. Already today, I have crawled along with a bag full of snot and bought dubious looking fruit from a over-dubious looking stall up the street, devouring the juicy goodness within moments. I’m walking at least 10 miles a day soaking up the sights and sounds of my surroundings, which surely compensates for a 5 mile run? My water intake is definitely up, I wander about in the fresh air every day (albeit it combined with smog right now). So I’m not really that bad, am I? I’m going to consider it now, over a beer and maybe, just maybe a smoke. Sniff sniff. I’m on holiday, right? Aaaaachoooooooo!

ps. While I was writing this one of the German things introduced himself, turns out he’s Austrian. Not sure what the difference is, but I’ll do some investigating and let you know.

Sniffles in the Gobi is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.

There are certain places in the world that make you stand up and consider whether you’ve taken a wrong turning off the trail. Ulaanbaatar granted that feeling the moment I stepped off the Trans-Siberian, stretched my aching limbs and filled my lungs with the obligatory pollution. I sidestepped potholes, drunks and stray dogs as I made my way to Idre’s Guesthouse, my dwelling of choice. Following the formalities I fell into a peaceful sleep, knowing that upon awakening I would be force fed the frenzied hotpot of urban Mongolia.

I had agreed to meet Tony and Eve, my Austrian roommates aboard the Trans-Mongolian, in an Austrian coffee house that evening, so loaded with a fresh map, and sporting my bright blue shoes I walked tentatively out onto the streets. In the hours that had passed while I slept the locals had got even drunker and their vocal offerings of “uhh uhhh uhhhh” in various tones quickened my eager steps. My opinion of this city was rapidly crumbling, with little sign of submission.

Like many major cities the streets are lined with public telephones, but in Mongolia this takes a whole new slant; abandon hopes of a cozy booth, and replace with a middle aged lady sporting a gas mask and holding a satellite telephone, I kid you not. Next to her maybe stands another lady, sitting patiently by a set of weighing scales awaiting a local to realise their sins, quite why I’m still to ascertain. What greenery there is along the dusty streets, is doubled as a cloak for a fallen drunk. Manhole covers are almost non-existent, they are a portal to the forgotten street children of this city. There are projects underway, but naturally they’re under-resourced and the problem seems embedded into the cities culture as much as vodka, meat and chaos.

Three hours after the 7pm meeting time with Tony, I conceded that I couldn’t find Sacher’s and even if I had, they would have long departed. Eventually I found a chain that accepted Visa and proceeded to stuff my face with a grossly over-sized pizza, which once again, failing dismally to finish. As I rounded insistent beggars, chaotic traffic and arrogant yoof, “a week in Ulaanbaatar? God, help me” I muttered.

My saving grace was the very reason for my coming, the Naadam Festival was coming to town and the vibrancy it was bringing slowly lifted my spirits and as the cities dirt covered my body, a strange sensation stirring in my stomach. The public phones appeared charming, the weighing scales seemed delightfully kitsch, the drunks grew souls and the State Department Store became an object of fascination. The missing manhole covers however remained a gateway to reality, a constant reminder of the horror that hid in its shadows.

Come Naadam, I had agreed to join the hostels tour, at $42 it was more expensive than I would of hoped but it did at least ensure I would see the entire array of events; the opening ceremony, wrestling, ankle bone shooting, archery and horse racing. The ceremony, wrestling and archery were in and around the stadium and it unfolded in unsurprisingly comical fashion, you can see the photos here and each one will spare me a thousand words. Traditional nomads sporting mobile phones, or scantily clad wrestlers sipping from a Coca-Cola cup were eventually accepted and I hardly stopped smiling due to the fact that I was sitting in Mongolia, actually watching the coveted Naadam Festival.

While striving to view the ankle bone shooting, I stepped back to see an all familiar face, Tony had crossed my path once again, “we meet tonight?” he suggested after my explanation of the first nights failures. Glady, I accepted. The afternoon took me and my tour 36km out to the top of a scenic hill, adorned with gers (traditional felt tents) and horses while the vibrant event ensued. The race consisted of small boys, around 8 years old, upon stocky Mongolian horses racing 20 or 30km at a time. If Beijing 2008 can muster just half of the tension and character of this event, then the world will tip their hat in recognition.

We left the races and hit the dusty road, honking horns and swerving potholes as we bounced, full of glee aboard our creaking bus. Half an hour later we were the target for an orchestra of horn blowing, our driver had successfully struck another car. I say “successfully” as I’d figured he’d been trying all day. With beads of sweat forming on my brow, I arched my neck to see the victim, an argument ensued and we eventually alighted to fill various taxis, before steaming off in similar fashion to return to the Guesthouse. Upon arrival our senses were treated to a feast of Mongolian ambrosia, including airag (fermented horse milk) and a multitude of airag products. It tasted simply awful, like sour milk, but I slowly chomped away to avoid offence.

I met Tony that evening, and together we enjoyed a spectacular display of fireworks, reminiscing about our mishaps along the way. I smiled once again at the situation I found myself in; with a 40 year old Austrian, in a square adorned with Chinggis Kahn and watching fireworks to the sound of “oooh” and “arrrr” from the thousands of Mongolian fans. We made plans to return the next day to the horse racing, and did so with some success. I’ll spare you the detail of being kicked off a bus, and dragged off by a menacing Mongolian.

Today, the aim was purely to get my Chinese visa. But. The Chinese lady answered the intercom “hu he huuuu hu hu haaaaw Monday hu he haww hu he” she crackled. The worst case scenario had emerged, due to Naadam it was a national holiday. Still, I pushed the button and crackled “Hey HuHeHaw, can you just let me in? I really need to get this visa as my train leaves on Sunday? Can you let me in to speak to Ching Chang Chinaman?” I waited, tapping my blue shoes with increasing impatience. Crackle, crackle “hu he haw, Monday, haw he hu, sorry” she replied “look, can you at least fix me a Kung Po chicken with egg fried rice” I inquired. No response.

So as I write this overtly long post, I am contemplating how I fill another week in Ulaanbaatar, before I board the next train to Beijing a week on Saturday. The lack of manhole covers are in my mind, and I’m craving to understand how this is allowed to happen. I’d like to learn about their plight, and carry this through my journey to raise awareness. On the flip side of this, I’d also like to ride a horse and fly an eagle, so you can see my stranded week is far from a disaster, it’s simply a case of adapting to my situation, and smiling about it.

Uncovered Passion is a post from Trail of Ants.

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Dumdum-De-DUM, dumdum-De-DUM, dumdum-De-DUM. It took me the whole 5 days from Moscow to Ulaanbaatar, to decide how I would portray the drum of the Trans-Mongolian train I alighted this morning. Say it with me, dumdum-De-DUM, softer, dumdum-De-DUM, emphasise the capitals dumdum, De-DUM, one-two, three-four, dumdum-De-DUM. Never has a journey left me so relaxed. To my right are a set of antelope horns, the hostel foyet is filled with lounge music and all I want to do is hug the keyboard, close my eyes and drift off to dreams of faraway places. Dumdum-De-DUM.

It would be nigh on impossible to capture the rolling landscapes, the trivial pleasures and the romantic motion of my Siberian journey in words, even pictures would fail to bring the episode to life. At 7:30am this morning I hauled my backpack off carriage 6 and said goodbye to a smörgåsbord of new friends. In the 5 day spell aboard the Trans-Mongolian route, the train and it’s cattle underwent a mystical transformation. The sturdy carriages gradually lost the raw intrigue and a network formed, that I can only liken to one of a small village. My immediate neighbours consisted of 2 Swedish and 2 Dutch to one side and 4 Italians to the other while my housemates took the form of Austrians, Tony & Eveline and Erdenebaatar of Mongolia (seemingly the only Mongol in the village). Life it seemed, couldn’t be better.

At the top of the street lived Lancastrians, Gavin and Les and together with our extended community we rolled through 29 stations, exchanging jokes and learning about our different quirks, cultures and goals. The social highlights of the day were pulling up at a station and alighting to stretch our legs, maybe meeting a new neighbour and watching with admiration as the network filtered out and undertook their desired task. Along the daytime stations, there were usually 10 or so local ladies selling their produce; dried fish, beer, bread, fruit, ramin noodles etc, which meant there was always a feast to be had with my housemates when we returned to our home in the period after.

It’s hard to fathom where time went, for one I still shun the opportunity to join the watch-wearing masses. Days were candidly filled with long breakfasts, followed by a stroll down to the local cafe, where Victor would afford us a scowl and a few slams upon the table should we dare request a top up. We new he laughed inside. Following the morning coffee, I took pleasure in hanging out by an open window, just watching the world roll consistently by. Dumdum-De-DUM.

There was a phenomenon occurring upon Train 4, time outside was quite obviously changing but time within it’s steel frame, curiously remained the same. I slept when I was tired, ate when I was hungry and drank whenever I felt like it. A little too often, perhaps, as I nursed my pounding head under the sheet seemingly missing the “best station along route”, according to Eveline. One day I popped down the street to Gav’s place, purely to discuss topics of choice over a game or two of chess. Another day I chose to stay in my home for a few hours, making sign language with Erdenebaatar and Tony over a bottle of exceedingly strong vodka, while enjoying some Mongolian pop music on his laptop. Overtime Tony, Eveline and I became accustomed with the national sport of the Trans-Siberian, ‘hunting’. To those outside of the Trans-Mongolian world, this was simply taking photos, but with Tony’s colourful spin on the English language bringing a whole new slant to it. As with all good neighbours, I saved farts for the first-class carriage and always opened our, freshly smelling home to passing strangers.

Along the route I battled with three dilemmas. The first being the feeling of “oh go on, you’re on holiday” while I removed the 5th Marlborough Light of the day from it’s cardboard casket. I’m not sure I can compare a 2 year jaunt to a holiday, on the subject of vices at least. The second dilemma being the urge to take photos at every opportunity. I always fall into this trap, and I’m glad I nipped this one in the bud early. I find much more pleasure in selfishly keeping moments to myself, while only capturing a premium selection of what a scenario had to offer. The third dilemma was my realisation of failing to register my Russian visa in Moscow, this is an old Communist hang up, but a rule all the same. Aboard the train, there was nothing I could do but bury the dilemma to the back of my head and await my fate at the border town, Sukhbaatar. Ironically my meal at Sukhbaatar was the quintessential last supper; one of dried fish, bread and water. We made jokes to lighten the mood, and it was with a hearty sigh of relief that I took back my passport from the overtly stern official. Mongolia, here I come.

Arriving in Ulaanbaatar today, I reminisced over the reasons for my coming here. Initially it had been purely a wind up to a former girlfriend, Laura. I knew she’d never consider Mongolia in our feeble attempts to plan a duel RTW trip, but as I stubbornly argued it’s case against the backpacking heavyweights of Australia and Thailand I became intrigued. Sitting here now, paints a Gobi Glow upon my face that even Genghis Kahn would struggle to eradicate.

This week is the Naadam Festival, my primary goal along The Trail while all other time will be spent absorbing the Mongolian culture while looking forward, and planning my next destination, China. But before then, I’ll grab a coffee, light up a Marlborough and reflect upon my first week along The Trail while humming it’s inevitable theme tune; “dumdum-De-DUM, dumdum-De-DUM, dumdum-De-DUM”.

Trans-Mongolian; it’s right down my street. is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.