May 2003: on a train from Irkutsk to Ulaanbaatar, sharing a cabin with a Russian steelworker who ate nothing but sunflower seeds for two days, and a Mongolian wrestler called Boldbaatar.
For five hours, we sit at the border; Mongolians lift the carpet and floor-panels to fill the carriage's innards with Russian booty: vodka with labels of every colour, blankets, pans, and huge net-bags of rainbow footballs vanish as customs officers board the train; outside a grey sky spits grey rain onto a grey platform.
After several cans of lager, Boldbaatar pulls a bottle of vodka from his bag and and offers it to me. We soon finish it, so I pull another from my bag; while we're tucking into that, the border guards reach our carriage.
For five hours, we sit at the border; Mongolians lift the carpet and floor-panels to fill the carriage's innards with Russian booty: vodka with labels of every colour, blankets, pans, and huge net-bags of rainbow footballs vanish as customs officers board the train; outside a grey sky spits grey rain onto a grey platform.
After several cans of lager, Boldbaatar pulls a bottle of vodka from his bag and and offers it to me. We soon finish it, so I pull another from my bag; while we're tucking into that, the border guards reach our carriage.
I'm drunk, but feel in control. Boldbaatar, however, is a mess. The sight of uniforms has panicked him: feverish sweat bubbling on his forehead, cheeks flushed with alcoholic rosacea, grabbing my hand, slurring his words, believing that if he keeps repeating the same Mongolian phrase, it will somehow begin to make sense to me. Then he starts an argument with a Ukrainian that results in hand-slapping and snatching customs forms from one another like small boys fighting over football cards.
Suddenly he starts beating his chest with both hands and holding them out to me; he leans over, grasping my elbow in a huge, clammy, vice of flesh, pulling me close and barking something in my face. Some emotion is being conveyed, but I've no idea what. His eyes are almost swollen shut by booze. Then, my elbow still gripped in his hand, he reaches into his pocket and begins pulling out crumpled banknotes, tossing them at me across the table. 'Oh Christ...' I think, instantaneously seized by alcoholic paranoia, 'he wants to have sex with me.' I wrench my arm free and fall into the corridor, the wet air from the window dissipating the fear.
Suddenly he starts beating his chest with both hands and holding them out to me; he leans over, grasping my elbow in a huge, clammy, vice of flesh, pulling me close and barking something in my face. Some emotion is being conveyed, but I've no idea what. His eyes are almost swollen shut by booze. Then, my elbow still gripped in his hand, he reaches into his pocket and begins pulling out crumpled banknotes, tossing them at me across the table. 'Oh Christ...' I think, instantaneously seized by alcoholic paranoia, 'he wants to have sex with me.' I wrench my arm free and fall into the corridor, the wet air from the window dissipating the fear.
At three o'clock the next morning he woke me up to have breakfast with him. I politely declined, and two hours later was woken again to find him sucking the head off a large glass of beer.
The English translation of Boldbaatar is "Steel Hero".
The English translation of Boldbaatar is "Steel Hero".
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