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The High-Flying Life of an International Journalist/Adventure Traveler
Or, the sweet smell of raw sewage, and other pleasures of the road
The early morning Mongolian sun is rising beyond the helter-skelter towers that have popped up like butt-ugly mushrooms against the skies here in Ulaan Bataar, the capital. At barely 6:30 am, the traffic is just a few minutes before insanity. Anyone who has traveled here can speak to that piece of UB life, but I digress for now.
My Outdoor Research pants, newly washed in the bathroom sink and dried with all the towels I could find in the bathroom (please don’t wash your clothing in our sinks) are drying in the morning air. My problem is that I am leaving very early tomorrow morning, long after the local laundress will be done with them and all my Icebreaker socks, so sink it is. In this waning summer, the dry air will take care of business swiftly, for which I am most grateful.
There’s no hot water in this hotel room. Or, let’s just say that what does come out out is so tepid that it’s little more than a sun-warmed stream, which in all frankness I’d prefer.
Because at least out in the countryside, the air is so fresh and clean you think you’re on a different planet. And you get this: