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.