Attack of the backpack (another Emma moment)

No bad karma this time. Just Emma being plain clumsy, once again.

To be fair, we did know it was a risk loading her up with a backpack double her size, which stood at least a foot above her head. And we did predict that at some point or another she was going to do something stupid or injure herself, or both.

Picture this.

We leave ourselves an hour to get to UB train station for the train to Beijing. Should be no problem, right? It's a Monday night and only a 15 minute taxi ride away. Wrong.

We step out onto the street and the main drag, Peace Avenue, is heaving with traffic. And this is no ordinary traffic. This is Mongolian traffic. So it's chaos, and crazy driving. And accidents. (We joke that when we get back to Oz we are going to make bumper stickers which say 'I'm not a bad driver, I'm Mongolian'.)

We try in vain to hail a cab. The police try in vain to keep the traffic moving. There are four of us - each with a backpack on front and back, plus groceries for the 30+ hour train ride ahead of us. Even if we did manage to get a cab, we realise, we won't make it in time.

A brief consultation. A quick look at the map. We decide our best chance is on foot. We have 30 minutes, so we hotfoot it. There is no pavement, just dirt and rocks. And there a people everywhere. We dodge, we swerve, we bang into people.

Then, all of a sudden, Emma hits a rock. She flies through the air, propelled by the weight of her backpack. She doesn't stand a chance and we can't catch her. She skids along the dirt and finally come to a halt, arms and legs flailing, unable to get herself of the ground. In fact, it takes two of us to haul her upright again. She's covered in dirt and has a graze on her hand. Her pride is bruised again, but otherwise she's unhurt. Saved, it seems, by the day pack she was wearing on her front. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for my phone. She smashed it up. Still it was amusing ...

Back in the comfort of the hostel in Ulan Bataar and in one piece

So we made it back to UB in one piece. And we think the bad karma may be gone - or at least we hope it is.

The rest of our trip went fantastically well and was well worth that crazy first day on the road. We spent two nights chilling in the gers at the white lake, rode big stocky (and slightly coco) Mongolian horses around the area and hiked to the top of a volcano.

Carl at the top of the volcano

We drank Mongolian wine (definitely not something to look for next time you feel like a drop of red) in the evenings and feasted on rice or noodles, indiscriminate meat and, of course, some trusty potatoes. One night we even went Mongolian gourmet and ate vegetable dumplings. We finally tried Mongolia's national dish, fried mutton pancakes - and they weren't bad if you like your meat meaty and your arteries nice and blocked.

We visited the Erdenne Zuu Monastery, watched a German straddle 'penis' rock (less said about that the better), had the best shower in the world at a local bathhouse in the middle of nowhere, and froze our butts off in the mini Gobi.

I even think that, by the end of the trip, Moshi had forgiven us for the incident on the buddhist shrine. It seems a shot of vodka fixes everything, even in these parts.

The White Lake, Western Mongolia

Finally we arrive at the White Lake! Watch the video ...

Bad karma, four breakdowns, lost for 150kms, and no white lake to be seen

It's fair to say our western Mongolian adventure didn't get off to the best start. At 11am on the first morning, our driver was already annoyed. We were meant to leave at 9am but had spent an hour and a half trying to re-arrange our tickets to Beijing.

"Must go," said Moshi, our driver and, according to the hostel, the Mongolian super mechanic. "Very long drive today, 400kms".

We'd eyed the car suspiciously. It looked tough, that's for sure. A relic soviet van, it was apparently the only car equipped to tackle Mongolian roads (note: the term 'roads' should be used loosely in Mongolia). We piled in.

At about 12pm, after bouncing through the Ulan Bataar traffic, Moshi stopped the car and got out to go to the toilet. Nearby was a large pile of rocks with a piece of wood sticking out of it. The wood was wrapped loosely in blue ribbon. Crutches, rubbish and all manner of crap scattered the bottom of the pile. For the girls, it seemed like the perfect spot for a quick squat.

When Moshi got back to the car and realised Natalie and Yvonne were missing, he looked even more annoyed. When they appeared from behind the pile of rocks, bladders empty and ready to hit the road, we sensed that we had really messed up.

"No toilet. Buddhist spot," glowered Moshi. "Make Mongolian people very angry." They'd peed on a Buddhist monument.

Problem #1
A couple of hours later, Moshi stopped the car on a bridge. A herd of sheep were blocking the road. We thought he'd stopped to let us take pictures. We were wrong.

Turns out, Moshi the supermechanic and the soviet beasty van were 'one'. He'd sensed that something was wrong and he was right. The van was leaking oil. So, while we scurried out of the van like paparazzi to take photos, he got comfortable under the van and set about blocking the leaky oil tank ... with a tire tube. Sure enough, an hour or so later, we had our photos and the car was ready to roll. We piled in again and went on our merry way.

Problem #2
The engine cut out and the van sputtered to a stop. We'd only been back on the road for an hour or so. Moshi lifted the engine cover and got to work. We piled out of the car again and started to wonder if this was bad luck or bad karma. It was a problem with the distributor, but thankfully nothing that Moshi couldn't fix. Half an hour or so later we hit the road again. This time, according to Moshi, it was dirt road all the way. And I'm not talking smooth dirt road, our path was covered with potholes, rocks, dead-end tracks. In fact, it no longer even resembled a road.

Problem #3
Moshi slammed on the brakes. Oh no, surely not another problem. Moshi inspected the tyres and found the problem. The rim of one of the tyres had snapped. He looked concerned but set to work immediately, armed only with a couple of metal levers and a bicycle pump. It was getting dark and it was certainly getting cold. He jacked up the car and removed the broken tyre. He pulled the bladder out and removed the rim. He fished the spare tyre from the boot and removed the rim. Within minutes, he'd swapped the rims and was jimmying the bladder back in. Moshi worked at a furious pace. We took turns pumping up the bladder. Eventually, the tyre was fixed and we were back on the road. Phew. We looked at each other, relieved. Surely nothing else could go wrong.

"How long?" we asked Moshi. "Very bad day," he said. And scanned the dirt tracks in front of him. We wondered whether he was lost.

Problem #4
It was now pitch black outside. We were definitely lost. Moshi stopped sporadically at gers and asked directions, but we sensed he was getting very little help. A little while earlier, we'd stopped to help another van that was bogged in mud. Apparently, we weren't far from a village. Every car light we saw (and there weren't many) we hoped was the village.

Eventually, we saw it up ahead.

Problem #5
BANG. Moshi slammed on the brakes again. This really didn't sound good. We got out of the car. It was freezing. Moshi checked the tyres. They were fine. He got under the car and started rummaging around. We discussed whether we should walk to the village or sleep in the car. Another large bang. Moshi flung the drive shaft into the dirt. "Very bad day," he mumbled. A big round disc followed. We wondered again about bad karma ...

After a few minutes, Moshi got back in the car. We scurried in after him and didn't ask any questions. As it turns out, we'd left the 4WD shaft behind and continued towards the lights. We tensed at every bump.

11 hours after leaving Ulan Bataar, we stopped in front of a small hotel. Moshi sorted a room and some food. The boys opened a beer. We had driven 150kms out of our way in search of the right track. We'd insulted the Mongolians, lost car parts, and were still no closer to our destination. We wondered what tomorrow would hold.

Arrival in Ulan Bataar

Finally made it to Ulan Bataar this morning at about 5am. We'd pre-booked our hostel so for the first time we were treated to a train pick-up. Bliss. We met a couple of Aussies, Natalie and Mark, on the train while we were waiting to pass through the border. Turns out that they were booked at the same hostel, and had planned to meet another couple here (a Canadian and a German). We've all decided to delay our train to Beijing and head out into Western Mongolia for six days in search of gers, the white lake, horses, the Erdenne Zuu monastary and the mini Gobi.

Border boredom

Took seven hours to get through Russian customs. Now we are sitting at Sukbataar, waiting to pass through Mongolian customs. Border crossings are a painful affair to say the least - carriage searches, bag searches, customs forms, and no access to a toilet since 3pm.

The number of people in our cabin has bulged to five, not including the man who ate dinner here and then left or the drunk guy who delivered pickled cucumbers to Jargal in exchange for a bottle of vodka. It's chaos ... but it is certainly keeping us entertained.

Irkustk to Ulan Bataar

Our three days in Irkutsk were pretty uneventful. Not much to see there - and unfortunately, we didn't have enough time to head to Olkhon Island for some R&R before boarding the train to Ulan Bataar. We did, however, manage to squeeze in some football (much to Carl's delight). We watched the Russkies spank the English in a pub called Liverpool (again, to Carl's delight), with an English guy we met at our hostel (so we even got a little of our own back after the rugby world cup). We also managed a day trip to a little village called Listvyanka on the banks of Lake Baikal, where we ran into the Aussie women we'd met on the Moscow to Irkustk train.

They'd organised a boat trip on Lake Baikal and let us join in the fun, which made the crazy minibus ride to and from Irkutsk worthwhile. Lake Baikal is 636km from north to south, although it's only 60km wide. It's the world's deepest lake (1637m at its deepest point) and contains a fifth of the world's fresh, unfrozen water. It was formed by a rift between tectonic plates and will apparently form the earth's fifth ocean, splitting the Asian continent. We spent two hours on the lake, surrounded by mountains and checking out the little villages that dot the shoreline. Not a bad way to kill an afternoon!

But now, we are relaxing on the train the Ulan Bataar. We boarded at about 8pm last night and have just worked out where we are. We are passing along the western shore of Gusinoye Ozero (Goose Lake), and are about halfway between Ulan Ude and the Russian border post, Nauski. Outside, the environment is much the same. We are surrounded by long, low mountain ranges and yellowy-brown grassy plains. Occasionally there is a little wooden house or an isolated village.

Inside, things are completely different from the previous legs of our journey. The miserable unsmiling Russian provodnitsas (who are in charge of each carriage) have been replaced by Mongolian provodnitsas. Because this is a Mongolian train now, everyone is smiling and laughing. The carriage is a buzz of activity - the cabin is full of young Mongolian men who never sit still. They wander the carriage, saying hello to everyone in Mongolian, Russian, German, and English - basically, whichever language they think works.

Our cabin comes complete with chintzy gold tasselled upholstery and our new Mongolian friend, Jargal. He speaks little to know English, but we have managed to work out that he's from Ulan Bataar, rides horses like all good Mongolian men, and we think he may have been a tailor, butcher, hairdresser or all of the above.

At the moment, he's trying to teach Carl another weird card game. I sense he wants to play for money, which could spell disaster for us.

Vodka, beer, smoked fish, kangaroo and a cabin full of Ruskies

The mad russkies!

So we got lucky with Victor and Gallia, then amazingly had the cabin to ourselves for two gloriously relaxing nights.

All that changed at 10am this morning though, with the arrival of Alec and Alexander, two young fireman from Norilsk (which is not that far from the artic) heading to Irkutsk for training.

Within minutes, the little table in our cabin (which for the past two days had played host to the Moscow-Irkustk 'Shithead' World Series) was piled high with vodka, beer, smoked fish, cheese and ham (although the Ruskies tried to tell us it was kangaroo). By 11am, the cabin was full, the fish had been gutted (using carl's leatherman), and the first round of vodka had been drunk. We'd been joined by two more fireman - andre and another alexander - and a lawyer, Irene, who was dragged in because she could speak English and quickly became known as 'the translator'. By 2pm, three bottles of vodka had disappeared, Em was struggling to speak English as well as Russian, and we were comparing Russian techno with Western techno. At 3pm, we begged to be let out of the cabin for a toilet stop and headed for the refuge of the restaurant car. Along the way, we ran into an English guy we'd met in Moscow who introduced us to three Aussie women, all in their 50s, on their annual 'girls' trip. We chatted to them for a couple of hours and shared some potato/donut delights that Carl had bought from the platform at one of our stops. We were joined briefly by some weird Russian man (we think he was mafia). Em spoke to him in Russian (meaning she repeated all the Russian phrases she knew, ending nicely with das vadanya, and he wandered off looking extremely confused).

Finally, we made it to the restaurant car. We settled in with a drink and our trusty cards, and hoped for some peace and quiet to sober up! No luck. A skinhead, tattooed russky clocked our cards, pulled up a chair and insisted we play durec. New rules again - carl was baffled, we lost and Em just laughed and laughed. Eventually, we were allowed to escape ... we skulked back to the cabin, desperately hoping that it was empty or our russian friends had passed out.

We should have known better. More beer, more vodka and more durec (with different rules again). Some magic tricks, a stop at Tayshet - once an infamous transit point for Gulag prisoners - and a chance to stretch our legs on the platform for half an hour.

Now at 11pm, alec is snoring like a trooper and we can't sleep. Bring on Irkutsk.

Ahhhh, quiet ...

Having breakfast with Victor and Gallia

Victor and Gallia - our first cabin mates for the journey from Moscow to Irkutsk in Siberia - have just got off the train at their home town, Kirov, about 10 hours from Moscow.

Hilarilously, they work for Amway and had just been in Sardinia for an international Amway conference. Like all good Amway-ers, it took them all of five seconds to start pulling all kinds of Amway gear from their bags. Not surprisingly, the Russian demonstrations failed to impress us ... luckily, they didn't seem upset.

They spoke very little English - in fact, Gallia spoke none at all. But we managed to get by. They fed us crazy Russian food (like horrible salty dried shrimps), left us food when they got off the train and Victor taught us a Russian card game called Durec ... or tried to. Carl remains baffled and we both lost every game I think. Now we have the cabin to ourselves, although probably not for long.

The Red Square, Moscow

Carl in the Red Square, Moscow

Moscow metro madness

We read on the train from St Petersburg to Moscow that the Moscow metro takes more passengers every day than the London and New York metros combined. Undeterred and determined not to spend 700 rubles on a cab, we headed straight there steeling ourselves for a bit of push and shove. We bought our tickets, walked through the doors and were greeted by the biggest scrum of people we have ever seen. Hundreds of people scrumming their way onto one escalator. We looked at each other. Then back at the scrum. Then back at each other. I thought about the size of my pack and the potential disaster if I was pushed forward a little too far. "Hell no," I said. "Let's get coffee and come back after peak hour."

Our eight hour train journey on the Red Arrow from St Petersburg to Moscow had passed without incident. We'd shared our cabin with two russky businessmen, both on their way to Moscow for meetings, and managed some sleep but not enough to face the metro without caffeine in our veins.

One hour later ...

We looked at the scrum. Then at each other. Then back at the scrum. It was a little smaller, but not much. "To hell with it," I said. "If we get split up I'll see you at the next station." We pushed our way in. My feet left the ground and I was swept to the top of the escalator. Carl was lost in the crowd.

I waited at the bottom of the escalator. When Carl finally made it, we stopped and stared again. Then steeled ourselves. London tubes were nothing like this. Again, I got swept onto the train. Carl squeezed in. Our packs were pressed against people's faces. But to hell with it. The train spat us out at our stop, we breathed a sigh of relief. We made it.

Alcohol concept bars?

We saw one of these bars when we were wandering around last night and had a little chuckle to ourselves. After three days in St Petersburg, we are pretty confident that alcohol is not just a concept for the old ruskies, but a social and business imperative. Or maybe it's a fashion accessory. Whatever the reason, everyone everywhere is drinking booze. Workmen, business people, kids, old babushkas ... everyone. Not that it's a bad thing. It's just odd. And it makes it bloody hard to navigate the streets.

At first, we were wondering why St Petersburgers couldn't walk in a straight line. Then we realised it's because they're all drunk. But they seem happy (except for the miserable sods working in restaurants and cafes but maybe they're not allowed to drink on the job?), so I suppose that's all that matters. Plus six months of freezing temperatures is enough to drive anyone to drink. At least, that's the impression we get from the lady who manages our hotel.

Still it's a pretty cool city. Very European, although on a much grander scale than most European cities we've been to. The buildings are huge, the churches are huge, the monuments are huge, the streets are huge. Even most of the cars are pretty darn big.

We had a pretty relaxing few days. We've done a few of the sights. The Hermitage took us two hours, which is possibly some kind of record but we're really not that into art. The one museum we did want to visit - the Blockade museum, which covers the siege of Leningrad in which more than 1 million russians were killed or starved to death - was closed when we got there. But we did visit the naval ship, Aurora, which apparently started the Russian revolution, so that was pretty cool.

To be honest though, we are looking forward to jumping on the train to Moscow tonight. It's the first leg of our train journey. We leave St Petersburg at 11:55pm on the Red Arrow and get into Moscow at about 9am. Rumour has it 1st class on the Red Arrow is a pretty comfortable way to travel. But we're in 2nd class. At half the price, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Five things we've already learnt about the Russkys

1. Public drinking is not just legal, it's compulsory regardless of age. No need to head to the local boozer. Your nearest park or metro station will do.
2. All that glitters is gold. This is the motto of the new Russkys, dressed to impress at all times (even when walking the dog) in gold, silver, sequins, and killer stiletto knee high boots.
3. Thou shalt always carry your wife/girlfriend's handbag. Either that or Russky males also like to add a bit of bling to their winter wardrobe.
4. Thou shalt always greet wife/girlfriend with bouquet of roses or leaves that you have picked up from the gutter. I am waiting, but somehow I don't think Carlosky is going to oblige.
5. Serving customers is serious business. Do not smile and do not speak.

Our first night in St Petersburg (and the only evidence I have left of my new beanie, lost forever at the Hermitage)

On the road again ...

One Aussie. One Kiwi. One plane ticket around the world.
We're off on our next big adventure so its time to get the blog kicking. Check in regular to find out where we are and what mischief we are up to.