I have not been able to determine whether the border between China and Mongolia was closed in an effort to contain the H1N1 virus.  By the time I crossed the border, the virus had spread through both countries. Uyanga, who had helped with my visa problems, suggested that workers at the international ticket office may have spread a false rumor in order to cash in by scalping tickets.  

But Isaac, here on a Fulbright Research Grant, who is at the Economics School, said he was told that the border had in fact been closed, that it was getting difficult to get shipping containers across, and that he should stock up on imported goods that he might need. Since then, I’ve looked for gaps on the grocery store shelves, but haven’t noticed any.

The Mongolian government has, however, taken a number of very public measures in an attempt to control the virus’s spread.   All the primary and secondary schools in Ulanbaataar have been closed for about a month, as have large marketplaces.  All bus service has been halted between UB and the countryside.  The day before yesterday, I learned that a conference that I was slated to participate in had been postponed, or perhaps canceled, due to a government order preventing the convening of conferences.    

All of this has led me to wonder whether such policies are necessary or even useful.  On the one hand, it’s important to keep in mind that Mongolia is a poor country, and it has not had access to vaccines at the same level as places like the U.S.  On the other hand, closing a national border between two countries to which the infection has already spread strikes me as an exercise in futility…if that did, in fact, occur. 

I actually did a fair amount of research into the history of quarantines when writing my book, Notorious HIV.  My take is that they haven’t worked against pandemics.  Italian city states, for example, instituted quarantines to prevent the spread of plague with little success. But public authorities lose little through establishing them.  The state looks active, responsive, and perhaps powerful to an apprehensive citizenry.  Commercial interests hate quarantines, though, and are often able to avoid or undermine them.

According to the UB Post, about 1000 H1N1 infections (out of a 2.8 million population) have been reported in Mongolia. (I’m pretty sure I had a case myself, which went unreported.) Twelve deaths have been attributed to it.  Mongolia’s death rate of approximately .1% is thus consistent with other places to which the virus has spread. This also turns out to be the same death rate as from any average seasonal flu outbreak.

I’m old enough to remember the swine flu scare of the 1970's.  Deja vu?

Friday afternoon I went to international train ticket office, across from the main station, to see about a ticket back to UB.  The place was empty.  I was told that I could only buy tickets for the day’s train.   According to a posting on the Lonely Planet website, the ticket office would be very crowded in the early morning, but would soon thin.  And there were plenty of seats.

I went back in the morning a little before nine.  By the time the office opened at around 9:20, a line of at least a hundred people had formed. When the door opened, people ran like crazy, practically, trampling one another, to get to the window.  I didn’t hurry, given what I’d read on the website.  In fact, I only stayed for a few minutes, and decided to return later when the lines had decreased.

A little after 10, when I returned, the doors were locked.  When they opened, there was again a frantic charge into the building.  This time I moved a little faster and decided to stay in line until I got a ticket.  The crush of people was unnerving. Two guards seemed either unwilling or unable to control those that kept pushing their way to the front.  After about 30 minutes, the guards began yelling and cleared the building, pushing about 50 people, including myself, outside.

I walked back to my hotel flummoxed.  It was all very strange. As I turned the corner and walked up the street, a young Chinese woman walked up next to me and showed me her ticket.  Then, in very broken English, and via pointing, she indicated that I should go back at 3 pm.

After lunch, I returned to find no line and locked doors.  I loitered in front of the building until around 3:15, not sure what to do.  Then I decided to walk across the street to the main station.  In the parking lot, a man approached and asked me if I wanted to buy a ticket to Mongolia.  It was three times the normal price (or about $30), but I jumped on the opportunity.  I ran to the hotel, got my stuff, and got unto the train.

The ride back, with its various border stops, took almost 20 hours. I shared a berth with a Mongolian woman, her son, and a teenage Korean girl.  We exchanged English, Korean, and Mongolian vocabulary to pass the time and got along quite well.  

Looking out the aisle window as we approached UB, I struck up a conversation with a graduate student in linguistics at Mongolian National University.  She said that this was the last train across for ten days, due to H1N1. That’s why everyone was so desperate.  Usually the train was almost empty.  

Thirty dollars well-spent it seems.

Erlian is the first city that I have been to in China.  Apart from my unfortunate experience at the Mongolian Consulate, I have to say that my impressions were extremely positive.

The sense that you often get from the numerous labor and environmental documentaries about China (many of which I have had a hand in programming for the Finger Lakes Environmental Film Festival), is that it is a land of unregulated pollution, teaming sweatshops, and the Three Gorges Dam.  What a pleasant surprise then to encounter Erlian, a city that appears to be very clean, well-planned, and prosperous, moving at a nice relaxed pace.  

I left the Mongolian Consulate on Friday at around 2:30 and walked into the first hotel that I encountered on the way back into the center of town.  I took a room, shared bath, for $5 for the night.  The room was small and basic, but with a clean comfortable bed, which is all that I needed. Given that most of the rooms were empty, I had the large communal shower room all to myself. 

I hadn’t eaten all day, so I went out in search of food and was pleased to find an ATM that honored my bankcard. Now I would have enough yuan for a good meal with enough left over for the train ticket back to UB.  It was still early in the day, so many restaurants were closed before the dinner hour. I finally found a Korean place and had a bowl of hot steamy cow’s meat soup and a lukewarm bottle of Tsingtao beer.  Delicious.

After dinner,  I walked around town and found a nice outdoor market with piles of bok choi, tubs of carp, and racks of clothing, including the long green heavy wool coats worn by the members of the Chinese People’s Army. These struck me as a potential fashion statement, but I didn’t cave into my consumer impulse.  The salespeople were not pushy.  In fact, the calm atmosphere of Erlian presented an appealing contrast to the hustle and bustle of the Ulaanbaatar, where everyone seems to be in a hurry.

The streets of Erlian are wide and all have bike lanes to accommodate, not just bicycles, but rickshaws, and small motorbikes. Traffic moves slowly, and caution is exercised at the intersections. People are friendly.  Many looked up as I walked by and said hello. Some bicyclists waved to me as I walked down the street.  Perhaps I shouldn't admit this, but the term "utopian" entered my head more than once.

At any rate, if you are headed from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar or Moscow, I would recommend a stop in Erlian.  Unfortunately, trying to get out of the city, due to unusual circumstances, turned out, for me, to be a nearly complete disaster.   

I left for Erlian to get my visa on Thursday evening on a Mongolian Railways train.  I shared the berth with three Chinese guys.  Two were in the coal business and offered to give me a ride to the Mongolian Consulate when we reached town. It’s a long trip.  Eleven hours overnight riding, then two hours sitting at the border, and then a delay as public health officials took everyone’s temperature, checking for H1N1.

I was told by the university that everything was all set.  I just had to show up. I had checked several times to be sure. But things started immediately to go awry. The consulate official wanted a visa application with photo. Luckily, I had a couple of photos in my wallet, left over from my trip to the Chinese consulate. Then the bombshell:  I owed 2600 yuan, or roughly $400. I didn’t have it. The official said the invitation letter from the Ministry of Education was for three years. I said, I only wanted one. “Why three?” she asked. “It was a mistake,” I said. What was she to do?

I called Uyanga, who works at the U.S. Embassy, and who had given me her phone number just in case.  She talked to the official. I listened as vociferous words were exchanged.  Uyanga then said they only wanted $70 in yuan.  I had brought $200 in case of an emergency.  The official said to return with the money at 2:00.  I walked half a mile down to the Bank of China, changed the money, went back, and waited out front.

Back at the window, the woman smiled and handed me my passport. I asked how much $70 was in yuan. But some miscommunication had occurred. It wasn’t $70, but $393 as she had said. Now she was really mad.  She instructed me to return my passport.  I refused, and realized that she had pasted the visa into it. I briefly considered bolting.  I didn’t, but it dawned on me that she had screwed up and I now had some leverage.

I called Uyanga again.  Phone conversations went back and forth for ninety minutes: me, the official, Uyanga, the visa person at the university.  I was furious at the office that put me in this situation and let Uyanga know it.  At one point I was certain I wouldn’t get the visa.  I was preparing myself for a return to the U.S.  I was also worried that my cell phone battery was going to die, leaving me stranded.

But Uyanga got a hold of someone in the Minister of Education’s office.  They sent a fax: I would be in Mongolia for only one year.  The official “was satisfied” (or maybe just sick of me).  She’d take $131 in yuan.  I handed it to her. I could, she said, keep the three year visa.  “Thanks,” I said, and left to check out the city.

Juana walked into Mongolian language class one day.  She had just gotten a visa for her daughter to go to China.   I also needed to go to China, so I asked about it.  “It’s easy she said.  It’ll take you five minutes.” 

After I committed to teaching here, I looked into the visa issue and was advised that it would be best to arrive on a tourist visa and obtain something more permanent once here. But I might be required to leave the country.

Okay, I thought, no problem.

I got things ironed out on the Mongolian end, but I needed a visa into China.  I went to the consulate on a Friday and found a guard who pointed me to a door. I should go there after 4 pm, he said. I got there at 5. No one was there. A sign said that visas would be available MWF, 9:30-12:30. 

Monday I went back. A line of people stood waiting. The official was on break.  I filled out an application and waited 45 minutes.  I thought I’d go for a multiple entry visa, since the cost was the same.  Listening to the exchanges while in line, it became clear that I wouldn’t get one.  Multiple entry visas were only for business.  For a tourist visa, I learned, you needed a ticket with entry and exist dates.  I wasn’t worried. I wasn’t going as a tourist, but to get my visa.  I’d only be in China for a day or two.

When I apprised the official of my situation, he informed me that I would need my university contract with an official stamp. But I wasn’t paid by the university and had no contract with them. Could I use my Fulbright contract?  Maybe.  I was getting worried.

I spent time over three days getting a letter from the university and made a copy of my ten page single-spaced Fulbright contract.

Standing in line on my next trip, I noticed four of the five people in front of me being denied visas. Fortunately, my letter and contract were acceptable. I could return on Friday.

Friday I returned. I thought the pickup window would be easier than the approval window, but various arguments erupted as visas were denied. Mine, it seemed, hadn’t been completed. I could return at 4:00  pm.

I got to the door at 3:50 and succeeded in being first in line.  The door opened at 4:00.  I handed the official my pickup receipt and fee. She smiled. She pasted the visa into my passport and handed it to me. 

As I walked out, I checked my watch:  exactly 4:05 pm.