First Dispatch from UB

Ulaanbaatar is a loosely packed, dry and dusty town. It keeps low to the ground, with scarcely a building taller than 15 stories. The mountains around it keep the morning light undirected and the city stays cooler longer as a result.I find the place and its people to be extremely likeable and would normally be lamenting the fact we have to leave in a day, were it not for the awful air quality, which, coupled with jet lag, exhausts me within an hour of starting a walk. The diesel fumes are most concentrated at dusk. But by the early hours of morning, the streets are emptied of traffic and the fumes drift away until just the sweet smell of wood fire hangs in the air. UB is a place of contradictions. A stout monk in traditional garb walks around screaming into his cell phone. Dilapidated temples, in the shadows of new construction. Many cars have the steering wheels on the opposite side as American ones do, yet the traffic direction follows the U.S. system. Women in full length, traditional del robes wait for buses next to women with skirts so mini they look like belts.The Mongolian language can fall strong on the ears of westerners at first. But grow accustomed to it and you begin to notice that sentences start gruff then drop to an almost-whisper level, a perfect reflection of the extremes of this land and its climate. It is a low, masculine language, designed to travel across steppes and pierce frigid winds and dust storms. But the laughter is light and the songs are wondrous. If you find yourself on a crowded street corner waiting to cross, hope for a lull in the traffic: you just might hear a dozen people singing quietly to themselves.

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