Note: See my posts Getting a Mongolian visa in Erlian and Crossing the China-Mongolia border in Erlian for a full run down of how to get out of China and into Mongolia.
I’d stayed the night, or what was left of it, in a cheap hotel somewhere in town that the driver had found after our late night/early morning drive from Hohhot. It cost Y100 and I was too tired to haggle. Tomorrow I needed to get my Mongolian visa, negotiate the Erlian border crossing, and get on to Zamyn-Uud. I took a quick look at the directions I’d printed to get to the Mongolian consulate, and there, at the top, were the opening hours: M-F; 8-12. Today was Saturday. Tomorrow was Sunday. Shit!
I could scarcely believe that after all my planning I’d failed to realize the consulate would be closed when I arrived. I felt hopeless and somewhat doomed. How would I get to Ulaanbaatar in time if I had to spend another day in this desert wasteland? I had my Hong Kong ID card. Hong Kong citizens were Mongolian visa exempt. Was I a Hong Kong citizen or just a resident? I was a resident, with a British passport. But if I wasn’t in Zamyn-Uud and on my way to Ulaanbaatar within the next 24 hours, my whole Hong Kong to UK journey was pretty much over before I’d even left China. I’d sleep first, then tomorrow, I’d try it.
There was a fleet of jeeps waiting at the border when I got there after the five minute taxi ride from my hotel. I transferred to one a short distance from the rainbow arch that spans the road at the vehicle checkpoint. It would cost me Y80 to get across and through to Zamyn-Uud with a Y5 exit fee.
The jeep was loaded with boxes and luggage. There were two Mongolian women in the back when I squeezed in to sit on top of a box of some sort, my head pressing against the roof, my bags on my lap. The driver and his front passenger made us five. He handed us our departure cards to fill out, and when we’d driven through the checkpoint, we piled out and into the passport control building on the Chinese side. On the other side, formalities done, we were back in the jeep and driving the 500 metres through no man’s land towards the Mongolian border.
Chinese exit cancellation. Whoops!
The reports I’d read regarding my Hong Kong ID were conflicting, but even so, though in my desperation I’d convinced myself of the possibility of making it, common sense told me that it couldn’t be done. My passport was British, not Hong Kong, and that was that. I showed it to the woman at the booth. She took little time in extinguishing what little hope I had by leafing through the pages once, twice, three times a failure, before she looked up at me with a “what the hell’s this?” look, as if I’d just handed her a birthday card, and said: “Mongolian visa?”
I was escorted to an office where the official in charge looked me and my visaless passport over. He was the type of guy that looked like he took great pleasure in denying entry to idiots like me, sitting behind his desk, passing judgement Nero-fashion. He had a face like a slab of Yak meat. He told me I needed to cross back over the border, re-enter China and get myself a Mongolian visa. The only problem now was that I’d used my lastChinese visa when I entered from Hong Kong on Monday. He shrugged as if to say “that ain’t my problem, son.” Then he led me back through the queue of those waiting to get into China, from where I was able to find another jeep for another Y80 to take me back to Erlian.
Since I now had no Chinese visa, despite my predicament, the Chinese were reluctant to let me back in without a thorough checking of my circumstances. It took about forty minutes of questions on their part and just-adequate-enough Chinese explanations on mine before they were satisfied enough to stamp my previous exit stamp with one reading “cancelled” and allow me to cross back over to where my jeep had already left. I got myself on a bus that was going back into town and waited until it was full enough to finally leave – doors open, people almost falling out – for Erlian bus station, ten minutes down the road.
Was this a deportation? Maybe it’s best to think of it as an annulment, a capricious mistake fueled by desperation. But I figured it was worth a try. The worst that could happen, I reasoned, was that I’d be sent back to try again with only the consternation of two countrys’ border guards to contend with. I needed to be in Zamyn-Uud, not in Erlian, and if there was a chance I could get out of China, I was prepared to take the risk. Yet I was still in Erlian. And I wasn’t getting out any time soon.
Note: See my posts Getting a Mongolian visa in Erlian and Crossing the China-Mongolia border in Erlian for a full run down of how to get out of China and into Mongolia.
I’d stayed the night, or what was left of it, in a cheap hotel somewhere in town that the driver had found after our late night/early morning drive from Hohhot. It cost Y100 and I was too tired to haggle. Tomorrow I needed to get my Mongolian visa, negotiate the Erlian border crossing, and get on to Zamyn-Uud. I took a quick look at the directions I’d printed to get to the Mongolian consulate, and there, at the top, were the opening hours: M-F; 8-12. Today was Saturday. Tomorrow was Sunday. Shit!
I could scarcely believe that after all my planning I’d failed to realize the consulate would be closed when I arrived. I felt hopeless and somewhat doomed. How would I get to Ulaanbaatar in time if I had to spend another day in this desert wasteland? I had my Hong Kong ID card. Hong Kong citizens were Mongolian visa exempt. Was I a Hong Kong citizen or just a resident? I was a resident, with a British passport. But if I wasn’t in Zamyn-Uud and on my way to Ulaanbaatar within the next 24 hours, my whole Hong Kong to UK journey was pretty much over before I’d even left China. I’d sleep first, then tomorrow, I’d try it.
There was a fleet of jeeps waiting at the border when I got there after the five minute taxi ride from my hotel. I transferred to one a short distance from the rainbow arch that spans the road at the vehicle checkpoint. It would cost me Y80 to get across and through to Zamyn-Uud with a Y5 exit fee.
The jeep was loaded with boxes and luggage. There were two Mongolian women in the back when I squeezed in to sit on top of a box of some sort, my head pressing against the roof, my bags on my lap. The driver and his front passenger made us five. He handed us our departure cards to fill out, and when we’d driven through the checkpoint, we piled out and into the passport control building on the Chinese side. On the other side, formalities done, we were back in the jeep and driving the 500 metres through no man’s land towards the Mongolian border.
Chinese exit cancellation. Whoops!
The reports I’d read regarding my Hong Kong ID were conflicting, but even so, though in my desperation I’d convinced myself of the possibility of making it, common sense told me that it couldn’t be done. My passport was British, not Hong Kong, and that was that. I showed it to the woman at the booth. She took little time in extinguishing what little hope I had by leafing through the pages once, twice, three times a failure, before she looked up at me with a “what the hell’s this?” look, as if I’d just handed her a birthday card, and said: “Mongolian visa?”
I was escorted to an office where the official in charge looked me and my visaless passport over. He was the type of guy that looked like he took great pleasure in denying entry to idiots like me, sitting behind his desk, passing judgement Nero-fashion. He had a face like a slab of Yak meat. He told me I needed to cross back over the border, re-enter China and get myself a Mongolian visa. The only problem now was that I’d used my lastChinese visa when I entered from Hong Kong on Monday. He shrugged as if to say “that ain’t my problem, son.” Then he led me back through the queue of those waiting to get into China, from where I was able to find another jeep for another Y80 to take me back to Erlian.
Since I now had no Chinese visa, despite my predicament, the Chinese were reluctant to let me back in without a thorough checking of my circumstances. It took about forty minutes of questions on their part and just-adequate-enough Chinese explanations on mine before they were satisfied enough to stamp my previous exit stamp with one reading “cancelled” and allow me to cross back over to where my jeep had already left. I got myself on a bus that was going back into town and waited until it was full enough to finally leave – doors open, people almost falling out – for Erlian bus station, ten minutes down the road.
Was this a deportation? Maybe it’s best to think of it as an annulment, a capricious mistake fueled by desperation. But I figured it was worth a try. The worst that could happen, I reasoned, was that I’d be sent back to try again with only the consternation of two countrys’ border guards to contend with. I needed to be in Zamyn-Uud, not in Erlian, and if there was a chance I could get out of China, I was prepared to take the risk. Yet I was still in Erlian. And I wasn’t getting out any time soon.