Mongolia
MongoliaApril/May 2003
It was an early start on April 26th to get the 7.40am train from Beijing Central Train Station to Ulaan Bataar, Mongolia. The concourse was packed with thousands of people camped outside with their luggage. Once through security, I was ushered to the International Departure Lounge with comfy sofas. There were a handful of westerners, mostly on an organised tour. A sign on the train said “Visit Mongolia 2003” (That tourist campaign would probably die a death due to SARS mania). I boarded Carriage 10, bed 5, hard sleeper class, and found myself sharing with a Mongolian woman who was a ‘country journalist’ and two Mongolian teenage sisters who looked like they were attempting to live the American Dream and had the brand names and luggage to prove it. This included cell phone and skateboard. The berth was comfortable and I had a lower bed. We left on time. The carriage was sealed off, so no one bothered us. It would be my home for the next 37 hours. No buffet car on this Mongolian train, so it was a good thing that I brought all my supplies with me. Snoozing, reading, snacking. We soon rolled through dusty dry areas with long low lying hills. We pulled into a few stations, but settlements were few and far between. Every time I looked out of the window it was the same view.
We arrived at the Chinese border around 9.30pm in the dark. Our entire carriage was lifted up by hydraulic lifts and the wheels were removed and replaced (different gauge?). Chinese Immigration checked passports and under our bunks for stowaways. Then all hell broke loose. Doctors dressed head to foot in long white smocks, surgeons’ face masks and caps, rubber goggles and rubber boots came on board and started handing out health forms to complete. Were we suffering from “Fever, Vomiting, AIDS, Cough, Diarrhoea, STD, Mental Psychosis, Active Pulmonary Tuberculosis, Others”. No, just boredom. They started to take people’s temperatures, handing out a thermometer to stick under your armpit for 3 minutes. I didn’t get asked at this point. They discovered one Chinese woman on our carriage with a temperature and sealed us off. We were stuck there for hours as the whole train got checked.
Crossing over into SARS free Mongolia, the authorities had been alerted about the possible SARS case and the carriage filled up with more fully covered doctors, more health forms to complete and Immigration officials all wearing face masks and gloves. Everyone had their temperature taken. Hey, 11 days in China and I don’t have SARS! The train didn’t move for hours, but constant interruptions made it impossible to sleep. The train finally got going at 5.30am. We had taken 8 hours to cross the border (usually 3). It took so long, I ran out of beer! And bear in mind, that they locked the toilets throughout the delay! I heard later that they shut down the border. We were the last train to arrive from China for the foreseeable future (A week later, they opened it up to International trains but local ones were shut out)
Since everyone had been kept up all night, we all dozed through the morning. I got my first glimpses of Mongolia as we crossed the Gobi Desert. A god forsaken barren flat nothingness of parched yellowish brown grasslands… no towns, no roads, no people. I saw herds of horses, sheep, goats and the indigenous two humped Bactrian camels trying to survive on the landscape. The only signs of civilisation were the telegraph poles that stretched to the horizon and a small wooden fence on either side of the railroad track. The telegraph poles were strange. The wooden pole was actually above the ground secured to two concrete posts. I saw them all over Mongolia and never discovered why they were constructed this way (to bend with the strong winds?). Looking out of the window was like watching the same 10 seconds of a movie ad nuseum. Groundhog Day!
We pulled into the capital, Ulaan Bataar around 6.30pm. Noone was allowed to move. Mongolian health officials boarded the train dressed like mummies wearing dark goggles. Every inch of their body (except the rubber boots) was covered with rolls of scruffy cotton. They went through the entire train and took our temperatures again. Hey, I still haven’t got SARS! My Mongolian ladies informed me that everyone was being confined to their houses for 2 weeks. I don’t think so, love. I only have a 14 day visa. We sat at the station for 2 hours and peered out of the windows at the relatives who had all come to meet them. I saw someone with a sign “Bob Jack”. It was the UB Guesthouse. I had emailed them from Beijing and they said they would collect me (they had been waiting since 1pm). When I finally got off, my backpack and daypack was sprayed down with disinfectant. Welcome to Mongolia! Country 84 for me.
Mongolia calls itself “Land of the Blue Sky”. It “has always stirred up visions of the exotic; Genghis Khan, camels wandering the Gobi desert and wild horses galloping across the Steppes” (LP). Even today, Mongolia, like Tibet, seems like the end of the world. Crushed between Russia and China, it has managed to remain an autonomous country and is now free, democratic and very dusty. The collapse of the Russian empire in the early 90s, removed most of its financial support and it is broke. It “remains one of the last unspoilt travel destinations in Asia” (LP). With which, I would definitely concur.
Brief History; Mongolia has a glorious past (looking at it now, I wonder how it ever had one). Genghis (Chenggis) Khan was a young king in the 13th Century who united the warring clans and gave Mongolia a sense of direction. Well, it turned out to be every direction. He launched his cavalry against China and Russia (“come on, if you think you’re hard enough” was his battlecry, er, Not!) and by his death in 1227 he had kicked ass from Beijing to the Caspian Sea. His son, Odedei, continued the military conquest as far west as Hungary. They would have gone further, but he died (as you do) and Mongolian tradition dictated that all noble descendants of Genghis, return to Mongolia to elect a new king (bugger!).
Khan’s grandson, Kublai (1216 to 1294) took over the reins (ho ho), completed the invasion of China, and started to take on the Egyptians, Indonesians and Japanese. The Tasmanian Devils of humanity, they were some bad ass mothers. If a city surrendered, they left it alone. Any city that attempted to defend themselves, got wiped out, Big Time. There are tales of hundreds of thousands of decapitations, just to make sure they got the, er, point. I have heard it said that if YOU rode hundreds of miles for days on a horse and a hard saddle, YOU’D want to kill something too.
At its zenith, the Mongolian empire stretched from Korea to Hungary and as far south as Vietnam, making it the largest empire the world has ever known. By the 1350s, their rule began to disintegrate and they have been shrinking ever since. The Chinese took over in the 17th Century for 300 years.
Mongolia is a huge landlocked country, about 3x size of France, and 2x Texas. It was double that until the Chinese snatched half of it in the 20th Century (Inner Mongolia). It has desert, desert steppe, mountains and forests. The average elevation is around 1580m with the highest peak at 4374m. It is so far inland that there is no effect from the oceans. Zero humidity. And very dry. Hence the dust. The southern third is dominated by the Gobi Desert. Much of the country is covered in sparse grasslands which support the millions of livestock.
They call themselves “the people of five animals”; 3m horses (smaller than western breeds), cattle (yaks), sheep, goats and camels. Half of Mongolia’s 2.3m population (1.4 per sq km!) lives on the land, raising livestock and many are still nomadic. Sheep are the most important stock and mutton is the national diet. Less than 1% of the land is under (wheat) cultivation. Timber, coal and copper mining and cashmere wool make up the rest of the GDP. Buddhism is the major religion. “The Mongolian way of life is laid back, patient, tolerant of hardship and intimately connected with the ways of animals” (LP). I’d also agree with that statement.
I holed up at the UB Guesthouse, run by Mr Kim, a Korean, married to a Mongolian woman. Very warm, comfortable and a formidable DVD collection. When I awoke on my first morning, it was snowing! Undeterred, I went exploring.
Ulaan Bataar is Mongolia’s largest city with one quarter of its population. As the industrial and transport centre, it has the look and feel of a neglected European city from the 1950s. Surrounded by (snow capped today) mountains, it’s a dusty, windy place, dominated by ugly high rise Soviet style apartment blocks and surrounded by Ger tent suburbs (see later). Despite its small town feel, the dust drove me nuts. Sukhbaatar Square lies in the centre with a statue of Damdiny Sukhbaatar on his horse. The “hero of the 1921 Revolution” that helped gain final independence from China. The State Parliament House took up one complete side. It was a typical Russian square.
Gandantegchinlen Khild “the great place of complete joy” is the largest and most important monastery in Mongolia. Started in 1838, it is dominated by the magnificent (well not in Tibet’s league) white Migjid Janraisig Sum. Inside, stood a 1997, 25m high, 20 tonne statue of the “lord who looks in every direction” (not from this place; it doesn’t have any windows). Monks pottered about, and pigeons shat on everything including the locals who had come to pray.
Photo of Gandantegchinlen Khild Monastery, Ulaan Bataar
The Winter Palace of Bogd Khaan (1893, where the last Mongolian king lived until his death in 1924) and Monastery Museum of Choijan Lama (home of the king’s brother around same time) had extortionate $7 photo entries so I didn’t bother paying and just walked around outside. Both, are nothing special. Believe me.
I visited the Chinese Embassy and applied for yet another visa and booked a flight back to Beijing. It may have cost 3 times the train fare, but I couldn’t face another rerun of that hellish border crossing. The State Department Store (the old communist type store catering for tourists) and Mongolian Airways wouldn’t let me in without a facemask. I didn’t have one and they didn’t get my money. As I walked around the dusty streets, noone bothered me except around the posh shops (small kids pretending to be hungry and low key souvenir sells). Gaggles of women held large portable satellite phones. I didn’t see many cell phones and it was strange to watch people standing in the street talking into a receiver while a woman held the phone next to them. The local women were all dressed in tight jeans and platform shoes (like any other ex Communist country you visit).
At the guesthouse, some backpackers were planning a tour and I joined them. The party comprised of an rather earnest American woman and Belgium woman, (they did everything by the Lonely Planet or not at all) and a friendly couple, Phillippe and Sofia, from Quebec in Canada. They set the itinerary which would take in the sights I wanted to see plus a lot more. Our driver, Ecumay, was a jovial chappy of 40. He looked 50 but it wasn’t surprising since he had 5 kids aged between 16 and 2. Minimal English, so softly spoken, it sounded like syrup coming out but he was good company for me, along with Ama, a 22 year old trainee driver. Split between 5 of us, it was a cheap trip. $49 each for a week in the “machine” plus petrol. Petrol costs about 22p a litre in Mongolia. The “tourists” as I called them, stocked up at the Central Market with as much western food as possible, and I just bought Mars bars and biscuits. I intended eating Mongolian food for better or worse.
The following day, we packed the old Russian 4x4 minivan (called “machines”) with all their camping gear and food. It was spacious enough to hold 7 people comfortably and a shit load of gear. As soon as we left the outskirts of UB, it was deserted. Low lying, bare rolling hills, steppe landscape. Lines of telegraph poles. Herds of horses everywhere, some being driven along by shepherds on horseback clutching a long pole with a noose. The saddles were wooden with raised front and back ends and a blanket over them. Herds of hairy cattle, sheep, goats. I’d never seen so many horses, wild looking with long manes that covered their faces and tails that almost reached the ground. Smaller than the western breeds, but obviously used to the elements. At one point there were horses stretching in every direction. It looked like the “Buffalo scene” from the “Dances With Wolves” movie.
Stunning desolate scenery which was starting to turn green after recent rain, but Mongolia never really turns green… just stays a deserty yellowish/brown colour. We spotted a couple of camels which didn’t run away as we approached. Their legs had been shackled. They were hairy, moth eaten specimens. Wild dogs roamed around; huge beasts with bloodshot eyes. Huge eagles, buzzards and hawks hovered silently in the valleys. Some horse and cattle skeletons. Bleached bones and skulls by the side of the road. Little traffic; a few motorbikes, machines and jeeps. No cars. No rivers. No water, just dry gullies. But I never got bored at looking at the livestock, especially after Japan and Korea where you see none.
Typical Mongolian Scenery
1st Typical Horse Scenery
2nd Typical Horse Scenery
3rd Typical Horse Scenery
4th Typical Horse Scenery
5th Typical Horse Scenery
6th Typical Horse Scenery
Typical Yak Scenery
Another sight you see are “ovoos”; a pyramid shaped collection of stones, wood, empty vodka bottles, old wooden crutches (seriously) and bright blue scarves decked over it. They are placed on top of a hill or mountain in traditional shamanistic offering to the gods. You were supposed to walk around them 3 times in a clockwise direction, though sometimes we drove around them 3 times. I assume the people on crutches hobbled around before yelling “I’m cured” and dumping the crutches.
The road was mostly sealed during the first day (luxury!) of 6 hours driving, though we’d do detours over gravel tracks. Its difficult to describe how desolate and empty Mongolia is. Even more so than Tibet. Tiny dusty wooden settlements of rundown one story stone houses and ger tents appeared out of nowhere and ended just as abruptly. We were driving through the “aimag” (province) of Tov. 81,000 sq. km with 111,000 people surviving at 1500m. There were no signposts so you never knew where you were. Only my compass told me we were headed southwest.
When we pulled in for a late lunch at Lun at a “guanze” (Mongolian canteen), I ate with the drivers; greasy glass noodles, slivers of mutton, some potato/veg, washed down by salty milk tea. The “tourists” took one look and passed. Meat and noodles/rice seems to be the staple diet. Vegetables are very rare. The Mongolian attitude is that they don’t need vegetables because the animals feed on vegetables and they get all the benefits through eating the meat (which was an interesting attitude). As we approached the border of Ovorkhangai aimag, we stopped to view the Mongol Eels, which were spreading sanddunes. Apparently, they are 800m high, 12km wide and 100km long but I found them nothing spectacular.
We arrived at Kharkorin for the night. Wide dusty alleyways with long stretches of timber fences protecting the houses or ger tents. At a compound, the “tourists” camped in their tents, while I shared a ger tent with two English guys and a cool Israeli guy (not many of those) on a different tour. Together, we bought up all the beer and cheap bottles of vodka in the only stall in town selling it. Vodka is embarrassingly cheap here. About $2 for a bottle of local hooch. Part of the Russian legacy. One thing that was disorientating was that it didn’t get dark until 10pm.
Gers are large white round robust felt tents, probably the most identifiable symbol of Mongolia. The outer and innermost material is usually canvas, with an insulating layer of felt sandwiched in between, all supported by a collapsible wooden frame (weighing about 500kg and easily moved by trucks or yak powered wooden carts). There is normally a stove in the middle for heating/cooking with a chimney sticking out of the top central part of the roof which are circular glass panels to let the light in. Wooden furniture/beds are set around the inside rim, leaving a clear space in the centre. They have a thick wooden door for security. Pit toilets are dug away from the Ger. All water is carried in from streams in milk churns or plastic buckets.
Since there were about 15 tourists in the compound, a local man organised a small show of traditional music. A pair of old men turned up, wearing traditional dress. The “del” is a simple type of garment, a long one piece gown made from wool and padded. High collar and colourful sash. Worn by both men and women. Away from UB, at least 50% of people were still wearing them.
Photo of Typical "Del" Costume
The music involved a couple of instruments played by one guy; Mongolian lute and the “Morin Khuur”, the horse head fiddle; Two strings made from horse hair with a distinctive and decorative carving of a horses head on top. He accompanied the other man who did “Khoomi” (throat) singing. It is one strange sound. The air came up from his lungs and he used his throat to produce a whole harmony of notes, giving the impression of several notes all coming out of one mouth. It was absolutely spellbinding (the vodka helped). It sounded like a Stephen Hawking voice sound box after he’d taken some mellow drugs. I’d never heard throat singing before; it was mesmerising and hypnotic. I felt as if I was in another world. Back in our warm ger with a wooden fire in the stove. One of my mates loved punk music and he had a minidisc player with speakers. It was a surreal experience to be in Mongolia, sitting in a ger tent in the middle of nowhere at 3am, the vodka supplies being depleted, the wild dogs howling outside as the “Sex Pistols” boomed out. A night I will never forget. $1 for the show. $2 for the ger tent and breakfast.
It is amazing how little water there is in Mongolia. While my ger mates slumbered, I used the pit toilet and washed my hair using a jam jar of water (I’ve had worse like using toilet water in the Dominican Republic). Ekumay ushered me in for breakfast; rice and sliced boiled egg and salty white tea. I wandered around the dusty town, kids posing for photos and loving it, not asking for anything. By the time we left at 10am, my ger mates hadn’t stirred (lightweights).
Kharkhorin Background; In 1220, Genghis Khan decided to build the capital of his vast Mongolian empire at Kharkorin, 373km SW of Ulaan Bataar. It only lasted 40 years, before rapid expansion forced Beijing to become the capital. Marco Polo visited here and reported a huge Palace of Worldly Peace. The city was later abandoned and destroyed by the Chinese.
The reason to visit Kharkhorin is to see the Erdene Zuu Monastery (“Hundred Treasures”) on the outskirts. Started in the 16th Century, they didn’t finish it for 300 years and need not have bothered because Stalin’s purges destroyed most of it (thanks Uncle Joe). All but 4 temples remain of the original 100. The mostly empty deserted compound is enclosed by an immense wall; spaced evenly along it, every 15m, are 108 stupas (lucky number for the Buddhists). The main temple “Zuu of Buddha” was lovely; whitewashed walls, golden Buddhist insignia and stone skulls on pillars on the roof, but not a patch on Tibetan equivalents. An old monk came up and gave me his card. He was an “Honoured Doctor of Ghost Research at the Academy of Astrologists Association”. We didn’t bother trying to find the “Phallic Rock” hidden in a small valley overlooking the monastery. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.
Exit Kharkhorin. Unsealed roads, rivers frozen with a foot of ice, slowly thawing. Dust storms (“shork”) on the horizon and visibility of 10m. I spotted a newly dead horse on its knees, by the side of the track, the flies just starting to attack the eyeballs. The dust in Mongolia is incredible. The wind just rips it up and spirals of dust crawl across the track. Even with the machine windows closed, it seeps in everywhere. I was wiping a thin layer of dust off my glasses every 20 minutes during the week.
We headed northwest into the province of Arkhangai (55,000sq km, 103,000 pop). Astounding scenery; wide rivers full of fish, forests and well watered pastures and volcanoes/volcanic lakes. Long haired Central Asian yak started to appear. Much of Arkhangai is on the northern slope of Mongolia’s spectacular Khangai Nuruu range, the second highest in the country.
A three hour drive took us on to the provincial capital, Tsetserleg {“garden”). The town was ringed by scenic mountains, some tree lined streets, and a statue of a famous Mongolian 100m sprinter (they seem to lack modern national heroes). Retrospectively, this was the most pleasant town I visited in Mongolia. At the busy Central Market, the locals all stared and laughed at my shorts. We partook of lunch at the “Fairfield” cafe. This was run by a friendly English couple from Dorset. They had been here for 7 years on a church project to help the unemployed youth. They had brought a small part of England with them (“Woman’s Weekly” and “Rugby” magazines) and taught their Mongolian staff to cook lasagne, chocolate covered shortbread and pastries. I slummed it on proper vegetable soup and a steak sandwich. The “tourists” bought up most of the cakes. I chatted to the owner who told me that Mongolia was scared shitless of SARS. “They don’t have the medical facilities to deal with it”. The couple had survived 7 years in the middle of nowhere. Other Church families had come and gone but they were still here.
There is little running water in the isolated Mongolian towns, so communal shower/bath houses have been established for the great unwashed to have a wash now and then. For 35p, in Tsetseleg, you got your own stall and 20 minutes to enjoy a piping hot shower. Afterwards, the “tourists” camped outside town by a river with Ama sleeping in the machine on guard. I holed up with Ekcumay at a local hotel. $3 got us a triple room, ensuite western toilet and sink (no showers in local hotels). Beneath us was a “disco”, playing Abba and god forbid, John Denver’s “Country Roads”. I provided a bottle of vodka and before we knew it, everyone else in the hotel came to check me out. I discovered that “Jack” in Mongolian means “crazy” so I was called “Mr Crazy”. I enjoyed the laid back Mongolian friendliness that I came across during my stay. Inquisitive but not over bearing. Of course, it helped to have Ekumay giving me a good reputation beforehand unlike the “Tourists” whose elitism, he gradually started to hate as the week wore on. “Tourists!” he exclaim and draw his finger across his throat.
We had a long day’s drive. The sealed road completely disappeared into a dusty track. Some muddy stretches, bumpy, slow going. Following the valleys, the pine forests appeared on the slopes to change the scenery. Snow capped mountains in the distance. Very windy. After four hours, we pulled in at “Taikhar Chuluu”, an isolated 20m tall steep sided rock that sticks out of the ground. Covered in Mongolian graffiti at the lower levels. Too steep to climb. Legend has it that this enormous rock was carried to the current spot by a rather strong wrestler in an attempt to kill a huge and dangerous snake. Whatever. It was not exactly Ayers Rock.
More greasy noodles and mutton (“Tsuivan”) at a guanze for lunch. A truck load of absolutely pissed out their minds, uniformed soldiers rolled up into the dusty hamlet and invaded our canteen. It was 1.30pm and they could hardly stand, so god knows when they started drinking. They comically kidnapped the two women cooks and dragged them outside and staggered around until the sober driver rounded them up and got them back on board.
Marmots appeared. These are rat/squirrel/gopher type critters that live in holes and stand up to look around and then dive into their holes as you pass by. I loved them. So do the Mongolians. A summer delicacy is to make marmot noises, get them out of their holes, shoot them, gut them and fill the bodies with hot coals and cook them from the inside out, fur still on them. We stopped at a famous ‘ovoo’ (see above) where marmots poked out of the rubble and vodka bottles and nibbled on thrown biscuits before I shot one, gutted it etc.
The “tourists” spent the long hours reading books, sleeping or listening to minidisc players. I always looked out of the windows, taking in everything about this very special country. Passing through a river valley with an ice covered river, I spotted a convoy (“10-4”) over on the far left and Ekumay drove us over the scrub. Leading the convoy in front, were around 200 cattle/yaks, a few goats, sheep and horses. A couple of men walked with the animals. Dogs walked on point on either side. Behind them, were a dozen old wooden carts with long handles, pulled by pairs of lumbering hairy yaks. The carts were packed with collapsed ger tents, luggage, a couple of grubby looking kids with the mother walking nearby. Further down between the carts, another teenager, dressed in traditional costume (as they all were) rode a horse. It was a wonderful sight. Nomads. It was like going back in time to see how people used to move around before trucks and motorbikes. I think this is the sight that I will always remember about Mongolia. I felt as if I had seen some real culture.
Excellent series of Photos on Mongolian nomads (gers etc)
After pulling into another two horse hamlet, we hit the volcanic area where the track was a slow bumpy crawl over sharp rocks (and reminded me of driving to Everest Base Camp on the Tibetan side). We drove to Khorgo Uul volcano (2969m) about 900m above the majestic Terkhiin Tsagaan lake. It was only a 10 minute hike to the dry crater rim. I walked around the rim with spectacular views over the surrounding mountains, and had my bare legs ripped to shreds by the rough volcanic rock attempting to descend into the crater. A small ovoo had a horse’s skull covered in a bright blue scarf.
Terkhiin Tsagaan Nuur is the “Great White Lake” and they weren’t kidding. It was frozen over with a metre thick ice covering. It is freshwater and one of the best in the country. Now a National park, it is surrounded by extinct volcanoes. It is also completely undeveloped. Absolutely nothing. I’d never heard of the place until Mr Kim told me about it and it was the highlight of my trip. The area was brilliant.
We holed up at a family ger. They were nomadic and had only moved into the area a month before, when the snow melted off the mountains. A traditional ger (see above for details). There seemed to be two families with 4 ger tents in a small compound (they must have dragged the fences/animal shelters with them). The wooden carts stood outside. A solitary pit toilet stood 50 metres away.
Water was carried from a freezing ice covered stream off to the right at about the same distance. As dusk approached, I watched the livestock getting rounded up. Someone on a motorbike brought in the yaks from the upper mountain slopes roaring around the contours, a 6 year old boy (his feet didn’t reach the stirrups) rounded up the herd of horses, and two teenage girls rounded up the sheep and goats on foot. They were corralled into fenced area next to our ger tent, jumping and springing about. The female yaks were also corralled next to the sheep.
Our ger tent was very warm and comfortable and mostly carpeted. A family shrine stood at one end. Lots of photos around it. Three inbuilt beds, which the girls took. The men slept on the floor. The “tourists” insisted on cooking their own meals on their stove; curry and a host of western goodies, including chocolate and beer. I was both disgusted and embarressed by their attitude. We were invited into someone’s home and they paraded a selection of goodies that these people never see. They didn’t even let the family try any of their meals or offer anything. It appeared to be an extended family. The male head (half his teeth missing, tanned weather beaten face) seemed to sit around and chainsmoked rollups and chat to Ekumay while his smiling wife spent all her time cooking on the stove. One teenage daughter had jeans and platform shoes and was obviously aware of western culture. For someone living in such primitive surroundings she really made an effort to look good. She’d stare at the “women tourists” as if to say “Is this right? Am I trendy?”. And they ignored her. The other family would pop in and I lost touch of which girls/boys belonged to which family. The small boys hauled in water in milk churns from the stream. I ate with the family; yak cream/cheese pudding on freshly cooked bread, fresh noodles (made by the teenage daughter) and boiled mutton, washed down by salty milk tea.
It was a freezing cold night. I heard a woman crying for hours from the next ger. Early the next morning, the youngish husband stinking of booze (who I hadn’t seem until then or his wife) appeared and asked if I had any vodka. It was 8am! Domestic violence seems endemic in the desolate wastelands. The stream was covered in ice. I cracked the ice and splashed freezing water over my head. So cold, I got a headache. In the pit toilet (no door, but a marvellous view down to the lake), two yaks stuck their heads in. I helped a boy drive the yaks up in to the hills past the horses which were already grazing. The goats and sheep were also let out. I helped the kids drive the yaks into the hills and then watched two women milking the female yaks in the corral. The results were breakfast; yak yoghurt on bread with sprinkled sugar, and more salty tea which actually grows on you.
We were off horse riding for the day ($8). The five horses were saddled up, and while the tourists cooked their own breakfast, I climbed aboard one with the wooden saddle padded by a blanket and went for a ride. No helmet. Just a short rein and a long strap to whip the flanks. I took off over the meadows, getting used to the short strides and despite my size, the fiery little horse really moved. I was trotting and then cantering downhill. Hey! I’m riding again after a long layoff. Then the horse, suddenly pulled up and I went flying over its head. At least the ground was spongy and dusty. Climbing back on, I trotted back to the Mongolian family who had seen me, er, dismount. I was given a larger slower horse, who I named “Gluestick”. It was still the fastest horse of our group. To get the horse to speed up, you yelled “Choll”. Gluestick was very responsive. Our guide, with his beaten, weathered face and half his life on a horse did not seem to rise or sink with his horse’s steps (as I’d been taught. You just seem to hang on).
Excellent Set Of Mongolian Horseman Photos (saddles, typical life etc)
We spent five gorgeous hours riding around the lake area and over the strange lava fields to explore lava caves; one had a frozen pond inside, the ice a metre thick. It only melts in August. Around the lake, over the hills and back down to our ger. Such a beautiful horse riding area. No civilisation whatsoever apart from the occasional ger camp. We had a couple of the family’s dogs escorting us all day. They knawed on yak bones or skeletons they came across. There was one comical moment. I’d given Phillippe my camera so he could take a photo of me rounding up some yaks (a take off of ‘City Slickers” movie). His horse suddenly took off. He had the reins in one hand trying to control it and my camera in the other. Eventually the horse did two circles and Phillippe fell off still clutching my camera. “I do not believe you wanted to do that”, I added in Harry Enfield (English comedian) tone. But his horse liked to canter with my horse and we made a fine team of amateurs. It was the best horse riding and the best horse riding scenery I’d ever ridden.
Back at the ger, we had tea and fresh bread with runny yak butter and then used the “Machine”, loaded up with 5 family members to head down to the lake to do some (illegal) ice fishing. The lake had about a metre of ice, which had melted by the sandy beach. A pair of large rubber waders was handed around. Someone would put them on, walk across the water onto the ice and throw them back. The Mongolian men sought out previous ice holes which had re frozen and it took an age to dig down with a long metal spike and scooped out the ice with bare hands (the ice water was freezing). Three holes were dug, less than a foot wide. The fishing rods were a branch with some line wrapped around it and a spanner for a weight and small lumps of lambs brains for bait.
We strolled around between the trio of ice holes for 90 minutes but nothing was biting. Just as well. Having seen some of families’ photos of some of the size of the fish getting pulled up from this lake, we’ have had to dig out some seriously large holes. I walked out across the frozen lake. It felt strange to be surrounded by ice and mountains in the middle of nowhere. No fish. While the rest donned the boots to cross the water, I tried to jump. First attempt, the ice gave way and my right foot slashed into freezing water. Successful at the second attempt, the Belgium girl exclaimed “That was spectacular”. No autographs please.
Back at the camp, it was a repeat of the previous evening, watching/helping to round up the livestock. Inside the ger, the wife had a large iron pot full of water over the stove. More freshly made noodles and slivers of mutton. The “tourists” cooked their own meals on their stoves inside the ger, away from the wind. The family seemed to enjoy the fact that I ate what they did, even if it was the same meal everytime. Those “Mongolian” restaurants you visit in England are a Chinese fabrication from Inner Mongolia (the Chinese side). Such delightful food does not exist in real Mongolia. Its mutton and noodles. That’s it. I wasn’t even charged for the food. It was included in the $2 charge. Further embarrassed by the “tourists” gourmet, I secretly handed out my Mars bars supplies to the kids and women.
Two lambs were born overnight and in the morning, I watched the skinny, scraggly creations getting licked down by the mother. Another freezing wash, another breakfast of noodles and mutton. These people led a really hard life. I never saw any of them take off their clothes (but they probably heated water and did it when we were out of the tent).
We set off for a hard 350km drive over unmade roads, around by the frozen lake, heading west and then turning north. From Arkhangai province, we moved into Khovagal province. The trail turned into a rocky assault on our backsides; in and out of rivers and then flat dusty stretches through the valleys. The trees disappeared, to be replaced by endless low lying rolling hills under blue skies. Groups of vultures squatted down by the side of the track or eagles soared around above. Nothing on the road. I’d see a jeep or a motorbike, once an hour.
We saw our first settlement after 4 hours, then another an hour away. In between were isolated ger camps and wooden shelters for the animals. Herds of yaks/horses/sheep grazing by the side of the trail would run in all directions, including in front of the “machine”, as we speeded past. I spotted another convoy of wooden carts getting hauled across the landscape by yaks with no accompanying livestock. Dust enveloped us throughout. The van filled with it. Despite the dust, there were still patches of ice everywhere.
The “tourists” demanded a lunch stop in between the two settlements. They fired up their stoves while I went walking the hills for a marvellous view down both ends of the valleys. Eckumay had been trying to reach the second settlement before the local cafes shut down. By the time, we got there, they had, and he and Ama were forced to eat tinned sardines. Boy, was he pissed. As I sat in the front seat next to him (we all took turns over the days), he looked at me and winked. And then drove hell for leather over the bumpiest trail. So rough that the “tourists” couldn’t read as their heads bounced off the inside roof. I think at that point he just gave up on them. His mood improved as we approached Moron. Great name for somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
My friendship with Eckumay had been sealed with me putting out for the $3 room and the bottle of vodka back in Tsetserleg. He was a conscientious driver, not a big drinker and he just couldn’t work out the psychology of the “tourists”. It was costing them the same to camp as stay at the gers or hotels, and he secretly indicated his disgust at having to find them places to camp and watch them cook up their western meals. I guess he wasn’t used to campers. Maybe it was just the obvious display of western wealth (the food and technological toys that they brought with them). At least, by eating the normal food and going through the normal hardships, I felt as if I was getting a “Mongolian experience” for better or worse, and I had the benefit of having a Mongolian who looked after me at local prices.
Moron (28,000 pop) at 1300m, was another scruffy aimag capital. A wooden town with few ger tents. I failed miserably to buy yak cheese at the Central Market (butter pats as far as the eye could see, but they didn’t understand “cheese”). The market was a “container market”; that is, the stall were housed in shipping containers, though I have no idea how they were dragged in so far from the sea. The stalls offered everything; nuts and bolts and metal work, anything to keep the equipment going, plus dried food stuffs. The place was filled with Russian motorbikes and sidecars.
Photo of Typical Cafe (Guanze) in Mongolia (old train carriages)
Photo of Shopkeeper at Market
Nearby, we partook of the communal hot showers, the first decent wash in 3 days. The “tourists” demanded camping and got dropped in a sandy compound behind wooden fences with a pit toilet. Eckumay drove me to a local hotel and for $3.5 I got a double room with western toilet and sink. Mongolian food certainly causes constipation. I had my first crap in 3 days!. I offered to pay for Eckumay and Ama, but they shook their heads and shook my hand. They could crash for free at the owners of the camping compound.
Khovsgol (101,000 sq km, 125,000 pop), is Mongolia’s northern most aimag and “with the possible exception of Arkhangai, the most scenic” (LP). It was a land of tall taiga forest, crystal clear lakes, icy streams and lush grass. It is dominated by the magnificent Khousgol Nuur lake, surrounded by several peaks over 3000m in height.
After a nice quiet night (no howling dogs), I walked back to the “tourists” and we headed for Hatgal. It was a short (3 hours) but dull drive through nothing spectacular; rolling hills and occasional forests. The only excitement was when a dog chased us for a kilometre. We were doing 40kph but the dumb dog kept it up for a full kilometre.
Photo En Route To Khousgol Nuur Lake
“Try and imagine a 2760 sq km lake with water so pure you can drink it. Then add dozens of mountains 2000m high or more, thick pine forests and lush meadows with grazing yaks and horses and you have a vague impression of Khousgol Nuur”. It is Mongolia’s second largest lake and top scenic attraction. It is also the deepest lake in Central Asia (up to 262m) and the 14th largest source of freshwater in the world. Entering Hatgal, by the lake side, try imaging a place where towns come to die.
Every old Russian one storey concrete building was a shattered shell. It was really ugly. In between the ruins, Mongolians had built their timber fences surrounding either ger tents or brick buildings. Dust blew everywhere. We are not talking scenic.
After late lunch at a “guanze” (the food, mutton pasties and rice was good enough for even the “tourists to follow Eckumay and my selections), we set up camp at Gambar’s Ger. I moved into the ger, the others camped outside. Gambar was a 20 something Mongolian with good English. The “tourists” debated their following days and how cheap they could do it. I wasn’t involved. I did a 3 hour hike by the frozen lake instead.
Initially, I wasn’t enthralled. The lakeside was surrounded by scrap yards and ruins of Russian buildings. The swampy meadows were covered in horse/yak skeletons and I broke out large molar teeth of both varieties using a rock. A cheap souvenir of Mongolia; yak/horse teeth. On the frozen lake, about 200m out, I spotted a horse and cart. The local was pulling up freshwater from an ice hole. The lake freezes so thickly that trucks can drive across it. I crossed over the ice to watch him doing it. I saw a surreal sight of ice bound ships by a small harbour with locals on motorbikes potter across the ice behind them. Past the tiny pier was an ugly decrepit Russian oil depot. Just ruins. The downfall of the Russian economy had led to the downfall of the local economy. Past this, I walked past forests by the lake side and the vista improved, ice and forests as far as I could see. A few kilometres outside town, I returned inland, climbing a steep forested hill, the tallest in the area for a marvellous lookout point over the town and southern most stretches of the frozen lake.
Back at the ger, the “tourists” had decided to camp in the dusty compound. It was a really windy place and I didn’t envy them. Eckumay had picked up some large smoked local fish (Zeveg) which I gorged on while Gambar cooked us mutton and noodles on the ger stove. While the tourists slummed it outside, Gambar, Ama, Eckumay and I holed up in the warm ger. Eckumay had returned the favour and got a bottle of vodka which we drank, laughing at the tourists. How can you turn down $3 for a warm ger tent with a wooden fire?
Photo of Local Kids At Hatsgal
It was a freezing cold night, (how I laughed) and early the next morning, I grabbed plastic water containers and walked to the lake 200m away and dragged back the water. I started a fire, heated a large pan of water and had a warm water wash up. I chewed over the remains of the smoked fish. The “tourists” had decided to hike along the lakeside for the next two nights, getting their camping gear brought up by Eckumay along a terrible unmade road.
Time was running out for me. I accompanied the tourists along a wonderful forested trail by the lake, with a few lookouts. We hiked for about 15km and met Eckumay and “machine” at an agreed point so that they could cook lunch. I turned around and walked back to Hatgal across the icy lake. A wonderful experience. I knew the ice was thick, but hearing it crack beneath my boots did get adrenaline going. It was melting from underneath, so I never knew where the ice was thinnest. It was windy, but sunny. Walking back in only shorts and boots, I picked up one hell of a suntan.
Back in Hatgal, at the local “guanze”, they had yak pizza as the sole dish. It has to be, all things considered, after all the mutton/noodles I’d eaten over the previous days, one of the best pizzas I’ve ever eaten. Yak cheese, topped with grinded yak meat. Later that evening, Eckumay and Gambar returned from leaving the “tourists” camped somewhere. Eckumay had bought a farewell bottle of vodka for us to share. He indicated in bad English (via Gambar), that for him I’d been the best thing about the trip, open to Mongolian ways, no complaints about anything, sharing the Mongolian way and basically bugger the tourists who he still had another 4 days with. It was nice to feel appreciated for doing what every traveller should do. Cope with the shit, enjoy the uniqueness of a country and just get on with it.
I had talked to Eckumay over the evenings. For the 7 day trip, (extended to 11 by the tourists) he was getting $50 (20% of what 5 of us paid for the trip). He’d been a truck driver before to both Russia and China and knew Mongolia like the back of his hand. I tried to tell him to get hold of a “machine” and do the trips himself, I’d help him with the English posters. He shrugged his shoulders. What could he do? He had a regular job that supported his family.
The next morning, I had to head back to UB. It would take 27 hours non stop travelling. I had a fire going, a hot wash and coffee ready for Eckumay, before a jeep picked me around 10.30am (organised by Gambar). Horses were grazing around the ger tent. 10 of us were packed into the jeep. 6 of us in the back and 4 in the front. It was a little squashed. At the “petrol station”, someone had to hand crank the pump like an old car. That was a first. It was a cramped but dull journey, 2 hours back to Moron, but I did see my first camel herd grazing on the scrubland.
Near Central Market in Moron, we were dumped, by a pile of rubbish with a dead dog laying on it. I was led to a “machine” headed for UB later and dumped my pack. A middle aged Mongolian woman (Tux) walked up. She was a school teacher on her lunch break. She took me to a café for a chat and Mongolian stew and then around the market as I hunted, dismally, for an affordable traditional costume (c’mon people, everyone is wearing this stuff. They don’t pay $50).
Back on the “machine”, I spent 3 hours trawling around Moron for passengers. They were literally driving up to houses and knocking on the fences and asking in Mongolian “I thought you wanted to go to UB”?). We went round and round in circles and I saw the dead dog a dozen time (why not ask him? He’s not busy). Somewhere, they screwed in another bench into the back of the minivan which was my downfall.
Finally, at 4.30pm (3 hours after boarding), we set off on one of those nightmare journeys from hell. The minibus was packed with 17 people. Front seats of driver/relief driver and mother and a cabbage patch lookalike daughter in front. 13 others squeezed into the other 3 rows. I was cramped in the corner of the back row (5 people on 4 seats) on top of the wheel hump, and couldn’t move my legs. An old man sat over the other one. One seat in the middle row was missing, 2 guys sat on luggage in the space. After 3 hours at the first stop, suffering from complete cramp down one side of my body, I couldn’t move. I made it rather evident (a loud voice always helps) and I was moved into middle section by the door with the step allowing my legs to stretch. This was ok until the guy who had been sitting between the legs of a big bastard sitting on the bags in between the seats moved across to our row. Yet again, 5 people on 4 seats. It got cramped again, but at least I could stretch my legs. A bumpy, unsurfaced road, impossible to read, I just stared out at the scenery of rolling hills, dust, herds of horses grazing.
Darkness fell around 10pm. We stopped at a cafe for mutton and noodles. By 2am at the next stop the old man at the back had to be dragged out and massaged. He was moved into the front seat. People moved around and the mother/cabbage patch kid sat across from me. She was probably under 6 but she dealt with the journey as well as the rest of us, especially lying across her mother’s lap. I think I finally fell asleep around 4.30am.
Not for long. When I awoke around 7am, inside the van, it looked like a pile of dead people had been propped up in the seats and left to fall over. It looked like plane crash of sprawling victims all sleeping on other shoulders. More dust/horses/unmade roads. There were lots of horse skeletons in various states of depreciation. Vultures and eagles squatted over the bones with meat still on them. Truck drivers and passengers threw their empty plastic water bottles out into the dust. None seemed to give a shit. Another meal stop for mutton ravioli and the final rampage into town over sealed roads. Just outside the toll road entrance to UB, 4 men departed. We were carrying over the legal limit. Tell me about it. Once past the checkpoint, they climbed back on board. 23 hours after leaving Moron, we arrived in UB. I was shattered. One of the longest journeys I could remember. The trip from hell. It was such a relief to catch a local bus to the UB Guesthouse for a hot shower and DVD movies.
I spent my final two days being very lazy. Watching movies, chatting with the US Peace Corp volunteers and other travellers holed up at my hostel, walking around town, picking up my passport from the Chinese embassy, discovering internet cafes, drinking cheap beer. On my final day, the streets were awash with colour. It was Graduation Day for students. The girls were all dressed in very smart long skirts (posh ‘dels”) and clutching bouquets of flowers. They lined the college courtyards with relatives behind them, while officials made speeches, bands played or they lined up for class photos. The men wore three piece grey suits. The dust blew around the streets. I guess they just get used to it.
I popped into the Mongolian History Museum near the main square. It was a well presented collection (some English labels) of three floors of Mongolian artefacts from the Stone Age, through Genghis Khan and to the Chinese domination in the 17th Century. There were lots of colourful costumes representing the minor ethnic groups of Mongolia, horse gear, saddles, archery, animal husbandry implements, musical instruments, a full sized furnished ger set up, and even the small Mongolian flag that an US Apollo 15 astronaut took to the moon in 1971. I suppose he had dozens of countries flags in his pockets.
Last morning. Saturday May 15th. Day 421 since I left England. Up at 5am to get to the airport for a 7.30am flight to Beijing. I found myself locked in the hostel. The staff had padlocked the doors and gone home to return at 6am. I discovered a small cupboard with an outside door and managed an escape. In the dark, I flagged down an illegal taxi (the local buses to the airport didn’t start running that early) and he accepted the discounted $4 fare. The airport lay 40 mins outside town. Inevitably, I had chosen a driver who didn’t know where the airport was! He got lost and had to ask for directions. I’m not kidding. In his defence, there were no traffic signs anywhere. But here’a tip for him. Knowing where the airport is without getting lost is probably a good career move for a Mongolian taxi driver.
The small UB airport was deserted. SARS signs everywhere and health forms to complete but no temperature test. The plane was also deserted; 6 westerners and a few Mongolians. The 1 hour 40 min flight passed in silence. At Beijing Airport, at immigration, I saw 200 Chinese arrivals from somewhere get rounded up and told to stand in a corner while they were processed for SARS. I was back in China for a 4th time and by now China had gone ballistic on SARS. It would make for a unique time to visit China.
In conclusion, I won’t deny that travelling around Mongolia is harder than your average trip with the lack of washing facilities/toilets and long distances over terrible roads. And your backside certainly takes a beating but no worse than Tibet or Cambodia. But you are compensated by vast, desolate, spectacular scenery. A country where tradition is still deep and with more horses than you will see in any other country. The people are friendly and relaxed and enjoy meeting visitors. Cost wise, it was dirt cheap. Embarrassingly so. You can organise your own cheap personalised tours to see what you want over what time period but it is a vast country and I only took in the mainstream stuff. You have to fly to anything out on the edges.
Personally, I thought it was the most interesting place I’d visited since Tibet; really out there in the wilderness without a western tourist infrastructure (UB has one but even that is still developing, like Lhasa, Tibet, McDonalds etc has not arrived). The spectacular sights are all natural, whereas, the historical stuff like the monasteries etc are so so. It will take them years to seal the roads so you still have time to experience the endless dust. Its an enlightening experience and I really think Mongolia is a tourist destination of the fututre. Its just that you’d be better to see it now while it is still relatively primitive.
Travel - £180.53 (inc Plane fare to Beijing £157)
Accommodation - £22.71
Food - £21
Other - £38.62 (inc £20 Chinese visa)
Total - £262.86
Grand Total - £1064.50
Maps courtesy of www.theodora.com/maps used with permission.
