Pickpockets

(Photos of the diary entry can be found at the end of the text).

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At night, the neighborhood’s dogs bark as if they were trying to kill them by the second. The noise of the street, the wailing of a few sirens and the roaring of drunks combine to create a staccato of weird sounds that rise up to the roof of Gana’s guesthouse and penetrate the felt walls of our yurt. I lie there tired and try to escape into the world of dreams without success. The journey through the traffic madness keeps going through my head. Especially the bad air, which is as clean as in an Alpine health resort compared to winter. In the colder months, we were told, the air pollution is so dramatic that you can hardly see the other side of the street because of the smog. Scientific studies have long been alarming, as they show that the bones of modern city dwellers contain forty to a hundred times more lead than those of the mummified Egyptian pharaohs. It is assumed that the heavy metals circulating in the bloodstream of people living today are often a hidden cause of physical and mental illnesses. Because the felt walls of a yurt do not store the sun’s heat like the stone or concrete walls of a modern building, we are fortunately not baked in our Mongolian dwelling and spend a pleasant night despite the constant background noise.

In the morning, we sit around the table with other travelers from Algeria, Germany, England, France, Holland, Spain, Russia, Switzerland, Italy and other nations, swapping stories and having breakfast together. Because our type of travel means that we usually travel off the beaten track, we meet the traveler scene for the first time in a long time. We share stories and experiences. Everyone present has something to tell. Some want to cross a part of the country on horseback, others want to rent a moped to explore the country, while many join together in small groups and rent a jeep with a driver to visit the most important sights.

Because our one-month residence permit is not sufficient, we have to go to the immigration office first thing in the morning to extend our visa. As we leave the house, the owner says: “Take care of your things. There are a lot of pickpockets in the city.” “Yes, yes, we’re aware of that,” I reply gratefully. At the bus stop, I film the people waiting and the buses arriving. In the corner of my eye, I notice a boy staring at me the whole time. When I look up, he looks away and pretends I’m completely uninteresting. A gust of wind sweeps across the street and covers the people with the dust it stirs up. Some hold a cloth over their face, others cough. Plastic bags whirl through the air and smack against the broken glass of the dilapidated bus shelter. Next to me, a large, round hole yawns in the cracked sidewalk. The manhole cover is missing. Perhaps someone had a use for it. Whether it’s a small child falling to their death or a person breaking their leg or neck, these dangerous holes in the sidewalks are numerous in this city. Apparently no one at the city administration is responsible for this. “But maybe there’s no money for it or the official in question is embezzling the money to build a house for himself and his family?” I say, taking a picture of such a yawning black man. “Here comes number 25!” calls Tanja. As soon as the bus stops, we rush inside with a crowd of people. I instinctively reach into my trouser pockets to feel for my smartphone. “It’s gone!” I shout. “What?” asks Tanja. “My smartphone is gone!” I say excitedly. Tanja immediately picks up her phone and calls me. “Nothing,” she says as the bus sets off. “I can’t believe it,” I curse. It must have happened when I was boarding. The guy is now out there while we are standing in here. A perfect, very well-timed pickpocketing. “Bloody hell,” I continue to curse, feeling somehow exposed. Meanwhile, Tanja continues to try to reach my phone. “He switched it off,” she says after the connection can no longer be established. “I simply don’t believe that something like that will happen to me. And Gana warned me about it,” I say meekly. “It can happen to anyone,” Tanja comforts me. “And I was so careful. It was only seconds,” I say thoughtfully. “We’ll buy you a new smartphone. A better one. One that also takes decent pictures. You’ve wanted one of those for a long time,” she reassures me. “Hm, that’s right. Costs a lot of money again. And who knows if there’s even such a thing in Ulan Bator? And all the apps I had on it, such as the remote control for our cameras. And when I think about how we are supposed to reinstall the accesses for our email account, it makes my head spin. For a specialist or someone who does this all the time, it’s certainly not a problem, but for us?” I ask, looking out of the window at the dusty outskirts of the city with its torn-up streets and dilapidated houses and thinking about how the ugliness has already greeted us on our first day.

The visa extension goes smoothly. We have to pay 110.000 Tugrik (45,- €) per person, write a short letter why we want to stay one month longer, fill in a form and hand in our passports. “Come back tomorrow afternoon. Then you’ll get your visa,” says the official in broken English. Back on the bus, we head back into the city center to our new quirky home. This time I watch every Mongol suspiciously and wonder which of them could be a thief. I hold my camera bag in front of my chest and cross my arms over it. The only way someone can take that away from me is if they pull out a gun, I think grimly.

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