Hoy lloré en el desierto

29/Jul/2018. Hoy lloré en el desierto.

Ongi Monastery.

La vida me ha enseñado que cuando quieres algo chingón hay que talonearle. Las experiencias hasta el momento en Mongolia son muestras vivas de ello. Parece que cada obstáculo se ha visto recompensado por al menos un evento que me ha dejado boquiabierto. Simplemente llegar al desierto del Gobi fue toda una travesía, y vaya que ha valido la pena.

Salimos del campamento 1 alrededor de las 9am, sin jamás volver a ver una carretera construida por el hombre. Si para llegar al campamento 1 me cuestioné cómo hacía Bataa para saber hacia dónde iba, para llegar al campamento 2 me lo pregunté unas 10 veces (y para el campamento 3 y 4 fueron 100 y 1000 veces, respectivamente, aunque ya tengo algunas posibles hipótesis). Decir que íbamos por un *camino* de terracería sería una exageración y posiblemente un halago para la tierra que apenas mostraba algunas huellas de llanta aquí y allá. Claramente nos perdimos varias veces y, aunque no me lo decían abiertamente, las reversas y los más intensos intercambios de ideas entre Bataa y Gaana hacían evidente que no íbamos en la dirección correcta.

Después de unas tres horas, llegamos finalmente a lo que parecía una duna, la cual mantuvimos por otra hora y media a nuestro lado izquierdo. Más tarde me enteraría de que, sí, esa duna era el principio de un desierto blanco de arena y más arena que se extendía a cientos de kilómetros hacia el sur-suroeste. En el camino encontramos, como desde el día anterior, vacas y caballos y cabras pastando, pero ahora también camellos. Claramente pertenecían a alguien porque portaban unos moños distintivos de colores en las orejas. Quizás por eso me llamó la atención que todos estos animales pastaran libremente, sin que hubiera necesariamente algún vestigio de civilización humana cerca. En algún momento nos encontramos con una mezcla de burrito sabanero y cebra que pastaba solo. Nos acercamos para verlo mejor y se dio a la fuga, así que empezó la carrera entre predador y presa hasta que pudimos verlo mejor para luego dejarlo ir. Todo esto duró 3 minutos a lo mucho pero me pareció un episodio completo de algún programa del National Geographic. Nunca supimos bien a bien qué animal era.

Llegamos al campamento 2. Nos recibieron, como ya se va haciendo costumbre, con té de leche, galletitas y terrones de azúcar. Esta familia tiene un niño y una niña de unos 4 y 2 años, muy bonitos, además de simpáticos. No conocí a la mamá pero el papá, el abuelo y la tía eran todos guapos. A pesar de que saben que no hablo mongol, me hacían preguntas en su idioma, que supongo esperaban que de algún modo entendiera o que Gaana tradujera, y todo el tiempo me miraban fijamente a los ojos.

Fui a mi ger a dejar mis cosas. Lloviznaba y hacía mucho viento. En eso llegó una manada de camellos y se estacionaron justo afuera. Los miraba desde mi cama, y me acosté un rato a descansar mientras los veía hacer nada más que rumiar. La cama me quedaba chica, cosa que al día siguiente Gaana contaría al abuelo, por lo cual me pediría disculpas, "sorry, sorry", las únicas dos palabras en inglés que le oí decir. Me preparé para ir a hacer un paseo en camello, aprovechando que tenían que llevarlos a tomar agua. Alguna vez en el Thar había montado a camello, aunque creo que esos eran de una sola joroba, dromedarios, dirá algún necio. En todo caso, no recuerdo que tuvieran la joroba tan caída. Me enteré que en la medida que van consumiendo sus "reservas" de agua y comida, se les van cayendo. Y sí, en cuanto tomaron lo que parecieron 100 litros de agua de un riíto entre las dunas, que parecía apenas agua de lluvia, se endurecieron de nuevo. Hermosas bestias, se veían increíblemente mansas, pero parece que no lo son tanto, más en estos lares en donde el agua y la comida a veces escasea, y por lo mismo les ponen desde pequeños un ganchillo que les atraviesa la parte blanda de la nariz, como un arete, de donde amarran las riendas, lo que ayuda a los jinetes a controlarlos en caso de que se alebresten.

Regresamos al campamento y fui a caminar hacia las dunas escuchando a Ed Sheeran y The Fray y Coldplay y Jason Mraz (hey, andaba de romántico). Y lloré. Me sobrecogieron el viento, la arena en mis ojos, el atardecer, la llovizna. La vista de las dunas y los camellos y los gers, y los pensamientos sobre cómo es la vida del día a día en el desierto. Me sentí chiquitito en esa inmensidad, sobre todo recordando los días que tomó llegar hasta aquí. 

Y el cielo. 

En mis lecturas previas al viaje leí en algún lugar que Mongolia tiene los mejores cielos *del mundo*. Posiblemente no se equivoquen. Todos los días, sean soleados o nublados, de noche y de día, los cielos han sido un espectáculo. Por si fuera poco, regresé al campamento y me recibió un doble arcoiris completo. Qué más se le puede pedir al desierto. A un viaje. A la vida (habiendo cubierto al menos las necesidades básicas, claro está, y sobre esto reflexionaré más adelante).

Planeamos ir a las dunas después de la cena, que consistió en alguna cosa poco memorable, quizás unos fideos con soya y algo de carne de res. Nunca imaginé que “ir a las dunas” significara escalar un monstruo de arena de 300 metros de alto (eso dicen, aunque yo pienso que era un poco menos, no por eso menos imponente); de otro modo habría comido menos porque con el estómago lleno cada paso hacia arriba se dificultaba más. Subimos Gaana y yo el primer tercio con relativa facilidad. Dejamos los zapatos en la base y seguimos descalzos. Corrí. Le propuse jugar unas carreras pero no me hizo mucho caso, quizás porque sabía lo que venía. Fue al empezar el segundo tercio, ya con el pulso acelerado, que aprecié mejor la pendiente. He de confesar que, a partir de entonces, dudé más de una vez si podría llegar, aun cuando veía a otros aparentemente más viejos o en peor condición física que venían ya de regreso (luego pensé que quizás nunca llegaron). Para terminar ese segundo tercio tuve que idear distintas maneras de subir, agazapado y escalando con pies y manos, en zigzag, por las huellas que habían dejado otros, por un camino no transitado que parecía más largo pero menos empinado, solo para darme cuenta de que una vez que llegaba ahí, ahora era el lado de donde venía el que parecía menos empinado. Jadeando, me senté a tomar fotos y recuperar el aliento. Y si ya me regreso, pensé, y veía a un señor de unos 55-60 años que seguía intentando subir aunque tuviera que detenerse por unos segundos cada 3-4 pasos. No es la arena, es el viento, me dijo. Al comenzar el último tercio tuve que hacer eso de dar unos cuantos pasos, 8, 10, y parar. Servía para apreciar el panorama porque hacia dónde miraba habían decenas de posibilidades de fotografías de concurso. Un atardecer es un atardecer, aquí y en China, que está a la vuelta, aun cuando esté nublado, aun cuando la arena y el viento te cieguen parcialmente. Veía la cima tan cerca, y pensé otra vez si llegaría y me vino el recuerdo de aquella vez que Daniela y yo subimos el Nevado de Ruiz, pero nos quedamos a escasos 25-50 metros de alcanzar la punta porque, a más de 5,000 metros sobre el nivel del mar, Daniela sentía que le explotaban los ojos (de por sí) y tuvimos que regresar. Entiendo que todo esto suena a que estábamos escalando el Everest, y en retrospectiva no, no fue tan complicado, pero sí fue más pesado de lo que imaginé y posiblemente ese factor sorpresa (y la copiosa cena) jugaron en contra. Finalmente llegué a un sitio a quizás 10 metros de la cima. Aquí ya estaba seguro de que sí llegaría. Solo tenía que sentarme a descansar y agarrar aire, acomodarme el paliacate y la capucha del impermeable para cubrirme la cara y hacer un último esfuerzo. Fue así de una, dos, tres, y pensar en que no serían más de quince pasos, bueno quizás veinte, un gemido de esfuerzo, y llegué. La cima parecía la más alta de entre las cien mil dunas hacia delante. No podía ver bien porque la arena se me clavaba en los ojos y el viento me volaba los lentes si me los ponía, pero con todo y el viento tumbándome y la arena metiéndoseme en cuanto orificio se dejaba, quería sentarme a contemplar lo que pudiera de esas cien mil dunas y del sol que se ponía entre las nubes. Un atardecer es un atardecer.

El descenso fue muy divertido. Bajaba dando de brincos con un pie y con otro, volando, y la arena me abrazaba en cada brinco. Era como esquiar, pero más suave. No había esfuerzo. De todos modos quise parar varias veces porque la arena dorada y el ocaso me gritaban que los fotografiara, y porque no quería que todo acabara. Chistoso que en el descenso también, la última parte fue la más difícil. Primero, porque en lo planito ya no volaba. Y segundo, porque me daba nostalgia pensar que quizás no volvería a ver nunca más las dunas del Gobi, y menos en tal esplendor. 

Apenas llegamos al campamento empezó a llover durísimo. Llovió sin parar toda la noche, y sopló incesante también el viento. Tuve que levantarme de mi colchón, que puse en el piso para caber bien, cuatro o cinco veces en la madrugada a cerrar la puerta del ger, cada vez intentando, en la oscuridad, alguna manera más sofisticada de trabar la puerta para que no la abriera el aire. En la mañana explicó la familia la bendición que era la lluvia para ellos y su ganado y sus camellos. También explicó Bataa la maldición que podía ser para nosotros la combinación de lluvia y caminos de tierra. Habría que ver.

Chinggis Khan here, there and everywhere

26/Jul/2018. Chinggis Khan here, there and everywhere. 

Somewhere in Omnogovi province, about 60 km out of Dalanzadgad.

Mongolia has so far been way more than I expected. Not so much because of the things I've done and the places I've visited, but rather because of the people I've met and the way they live.

About the things I've done and the places I've visited (the people I've met and the way they live will have to wait):

We landed yesterday around noon. Ogi, the tour operator, picked me up, and she and Tamir, her husband, drove me up north to the relatively new and very impressive 40-meter Chinggis Khan statue. We stopped by some local shop to have some traditional milk tea and lunch, consisting of battered beef+vegetables patties and a dumpling soup (dumplings filled with dried goat meat), and then continued to Terelj National Park. The place was some sort of mountain resort, very green with some interesting rock formations, like some allegedly famous turtle rock, that looks like a turtle (after the hike in the Yol Valley, I realize that these Mongols love to find animal shapes in rocks... today we saw camel rocks, snake rocks, among others). We visited a Buddhist temple where the Dalai Lama has apparently been at least once, and I learned that the Mongols, being such devout Buddhists, are very proud that the DL has visited their country three times. 

We went back to Ulaanbaatar (also known as UB City in Mongolia). I have never been to Russia or any of the former Soviet republics (not sure if Estonia counts) but the city is undoubtedly very Soviet-looking: lots of very utilitarian, colorless multistory buildings. There clearly is a lot of space to build, not precisely in the form of parks or man-made green areas, but in the form of the natural landscape around some isolated 12-story building. This actually seems to be the only greenery around the city as the streets are also there just to serve their purpose, without any trees, flowers or ornaments of any kind decorating them. We finally reached my hotel, and I chose to do nothing but take a hot shower, have a beer, and lie down. I kind of regretted not walking around Chinggis Khan square, which is only about a street away. In these latitudes the sun sets kind of late, past 9pm, so in theory I did have plenty of time. But between the time it took me to answer a few messages, post some photos, and repack my suitcase in a more compact way, the clock chimed 12 times and I realized it was way past my bedtime, as I had to wake up at 4:45am to go to the airport and catch a 6:50am flight.

Chinggis Khan airport (by now it should be clear that everything that's somewhat important is called after the one and only great Mongol leader) looks like a Soviet-era bus station. There are four huge portraits hung in the main hall where you check in for your flight. Like in a bus terminal, there's lots of chairs in the main hall, which I think is unusual for an airport. The security line was relatively short, between 10-15 people, yet it took me about half an hour to get past it. The waiting hall is downstairs, and there's nothing but more chairs and a very western-looking coffee stand, which made great espressos out of this barista-style machine and had the best banana bread. We were only 9 people on the Hunnu Air flight to Dalanzadgad, so it literally took us about 5 minutes to board, and another 5 to take off. I initially thought it was going to take longer as I saw some guy manually turning the propeller helixes, which didn't look very promising, but somehow we did take off.

We reached Dalanzadgad about 1h30 later. My guide and driver for the next several days, Gaana and Bataa, were waiting for me when I landed. We drove through a very small town, which supposedly has about 20,000 people, but that number seems way too high given what I saw: a few houses and shops randomly put together amidst crooked streets and a few lampposts. We drove on a concrete road for about 20-30 minutes, and then at some point Bataa simply veered off road and drove for about another 30 minutes on dirt. Most of the time there were no tracks on the dirt to follow. Sometimes there were tracks together with other 3 sets of tracks that crossed over and intertwined. I couldn't understand how Bataa knew where we were going because for the most part there were no reference points in the horizon, no mountains to follow, no rivers, and no buildings of course. It was only us, a flat landscape, and probably the sun as our only guide... but since it was close to midday, even the sun couldn't be completely trusted. Or so I thought. 

We arrived in our first base camp around 2pm. The camp is nothing but a collection of gers and a few randomly placed items (a latrine and a bunch of loose bricks laid on top of each other where they keep tools and other things. A ger (pronounced "gyr") is the typical Mongolian tent where nomadic families live, round in shape, usually white, with a pointy roof, no windows and just a tiny door. The family welcomed us in their ger, we sat around, and they gave us some milk tea and a bowl of biscuits and sugar cubes. I had asked Ogi the day before how to say a few random things in Mongolian, such as hello (sain ban oo), thank you (bayarlaa), good bye (bayarltee), and you're welcome (zugeree), and I got many brownie points for displaying my basic Mongolian skills. Gaana took me to my ger and I took a nap. 

When I woke up, I inspected the ger. I am so impressed with this mobile construction. Gaana says it takes families about 1 hour to put up a ger, which seems to me like an impressive feat. The construction itself is nothing but two pillars (they call it the mother and the father, since they both hold the whole dwelling together, and apparently every detail of the construction has some symbolic meaning like that) that hold a ring, some curved wooden walls that surround the pillars (Gaana says gers come mainly in 3 different sizes: 3, 4, and 5 walls), and then dozens of cylindrical sticks that link the ring atop the pillars with the walls. Then, on the outside, they put tons of animal fur all around the walls, and on top of the sticks that form the ceiling they put some sort of round-shaped blanket and more fur. Then they put yet more blankets or plastic on top of everything and all around, and they tie everything around the ger with three strings that symbolize the three generations that typically live inside a ger: the grandparents, the parents, and the children. The covers on the rooftop are folded so that they don't cover the ring, and so the inside of the ger is incredibly airy and cool even though it's about 30 Celsius outside. But what's most impressive is the inside: this is no Soviet-looking utilitarian building. Each of the wooden sticks between the top ring and the walls is decorated with some beautiful shapes that seemed to have been burnt on the wood in some way. There are some blankets with some flowery design that cover the wooden walls, so the actual structure that holds the ger standing doesn't show. There's a sink and a metal stove with a metal tube that serves as chimney. There's an empty basket next to the stove that's used to hold whatever they use to light their fire (from what I saw in the main ger, it's manure). There's a little table in the middle of the two pillars and four small chairs. But most impressive to me was the floor: a round-shaped, perfectly-cut-to-fit-the-whole-surface-of-the-ger piece of plastic, whose design mimics wooden planks. All very cute and useful and cozy and practical (to clean for example) at the same time.

We then drove for about 20-30 minutes to the Yol (Vulture) Valley. The place was beautiful, both very green and rocky. Before our hike, we picnicked. Gaana made some pasta with potatoes, carrots, and beef. Everything with soy sauce, of course. Then we started walking. After about 25 minutes, we reached a place that Gaana calls "the no-corner place", and which has some massive pieces of ice on the ground, even in the 30-plus-degree weather. This place gets so cold in the winter and so much snow that the ice never completely melts, even in the middle of the summer. Back at camp, I couldn't help but think about how beautifully simple this life must be (not necessarily here in rural Mongolia, but in this country in general... and this is something that I'll definitely write about later). For example, some Mongolian tourists are staying in one of the other 5 gers here, and their kids--probably 4 and 6--were playing outside by themselves for at least an hour, and I think their mom must have come out to check on them only about once. They fell and stood up by themselves. They didn't throw tantrums. They had no phones or iPads. They were just running and jumping and throwing rocks and playing in the dirt. I watched all that while I washed some clothes by hand in a metal bucket, sitting on a small bench that was definitely not the most comfortable for my back, but I can say I never enjoyed washing clothes more than today.

After dinner, Gaana and I had a couple of beers, and then I went for a walk. Night had fallen but there was so much light outside thanks to the full moon that lights up the sky  tonight. I honestly don't remember ever seeing such a bright moon--probably because of the full moon and because of how isolated this place is. I went up a nearby hill and there were two girls at the top, Emily and Lynn (US-Australia, I think), who invited me to sit down with them. They're now living in Korea and Thailand as teachers in international schools, living as expats, roaming around Asia, living the life. Whenever I meet these kinds of people, I get so jealous and can't help but think of the what-ifs. But as a friend said, they probably don't have stable friendships or a pension plan. Neither did Chinggis Khan and look how well he did. Ha.

On the joys and woes of globalization

25/Jul/2018. On the joys and woes of globalization.

PEK-ULN flight no. OM224. 

55 hours. Four separate flights, an overnight stay in one of those utilitarian airport hotels and several overly-salted, extra-saucy airplane/airport meals later, I'm finally about to arrive in Ulaanbaatar. I feel as though I've been traveling for over a week already, which has made me feel at the same time both very tired and disconnected from work and my Mexico City rut.

14 years. Last time I was in Shanghai, in 2004, the city was a mix of colonialist glamour--most represented by the buildings on the Bund and the expats wandering around the French quarter--, hopes of a prosperous tomorrow brought about by the new money--reflected in the Pearl Tower and the new constructions of the Putong area--, and hoards of people not partaking in and probably not caring about the business/policy decisions being made to ensure that such prosperous tomorrow ever took place. All those things have now changed. The city has gone full-fledged shine and spark and glitz. Nanjing road, the most famous street in Shanghai, has replaced its street vendors and food stalls with massive shopping malls full of Omega and Bottega Veneta signs. The expats have left the French concession and now roam around the plethora of Starbucks and Haagen Dazs around town. The many locals that loitered on People's Square and in the many city parks now greet you from the other other side of the counter in all those foreign-named businesses, even if they still can't pronounce them.

China, and particularly a place like Shanghai, is in many ways your typical globalization story. New businesses seem to have thrived and are a reflection of the world-famous double-digit economic growth rates the country has enjoyed over the last 15 years. China's insertion into the global economy has nourished its citizens, enlarged its middle class, and made the locals take the Maglev (express train that connects downtown Shanghai with the airport in about 8 minutes, reaching a speed of 431 kph) instead of the metro, even if it's 7-8 times more expensive. 

But at what cost? One cannot help but wonder how many McDonald's, Pizza Huts and KFCs are acceptable in the name of economic improvement before they begin to erase a country's cultural identity. As a Mexican, how comfortable am I as a local having yet another 7-eleven around the corner while Dona Juquilita's street stand disappears into oblivion together with its tlayudas and its soft-drinks-in-plastic-bags-with-a-straw. As a tourist, how many Starbucks stores would it take for me to feel comfortable enough that I can drink a frappuccino in the Shanghai summer heat any time I want instead of a cup of green tea?

Of course, Shanghai men still walk around with their shirts half up, their bellies balking in the burning sun. The women still carry their umbrellas everywhere and wear separate flowery, lace sleeves along their t-shirts to protect their arms. People spit here and there and cut the line. The smell of fried noodles and steamed dumpling are ubiquitous. I wonder if such things ever change.