Mongolia - All the Rest

The remoteness of Khar Balgas is well-illustrated by the fact that we get lost trying to find it. We wind up hemmed in by a river that the driver is clearly not certain we can successfully cross. To get even here we had to make a water crossing and negotiate the perils of three very bad tempered dogs which chased the car, barking aggressively at it. Eventually, having got out and looked around a bit, the driver decides we can’t cross here, and so we go back the way we came, giving the hounds another chance to demonstrate how much they would like to devour us all. When we’ve gone a bit further, he decides this isn’t right either, and takes us back towards the river again. For the slavering dogs, who we are now passing a third time, this must be like Christmas – they probably haven’t had this much fun chasing cars for weeks. It’s beginning to feel like we will never see Khar Balgas, but finally the driver finds a place to ford the waters, and not long afterwards, the ruins appear on a wide, empty plain.

Built in 751, and flourishing until 840, the city originally covered 25 square kilometres, although there is now little left of Khar Balgas, save the crumbling remains of the central walls, and a hillock of mud brick in the middle of the complex. Still, it’s an awesome place if only for its isolated remoteness; the fact that it stands here in a place where 1300 year old ruins can gently crumble away in the wind, with no admission fees, or ticket booths, or postcard sellers, or indeed infrastructure of any kind whatsoever. It’s how you would expect to see an historical site that no-one had discovered yet. While we explore (incidentally coming across more animal skeletons in the grass – ‘Mongolia, where animals come to die.’), Hishte prepares lunch. The veggie spaghetti Bolognese and salad arrives at about 4.30pm, and as we eat, I ask her if she’s ever had vegetarian tourists before. She smiles a little conspiratorially, before admitting that this is the first time she’s ever done this job. Apparently she’s on vacation from her regular work at a power plant, and the LG called her (she’s the sister of one of the cooks there) because they had no idea how they were going to cook for two vegetarians! If she wasn’t so nice, and seemingly knowledgeable about culture, if not history (she gets a lot of information from the driver), and if she wasn’t such a good cook, I might object to the fact that we paid $30 a day for a professional guide and got a rank amateur.  As it is, I’d never have known if she hadn’t said anything, so I’m not going to complain; guide or no guide, she’s worth it for the food!

About 5.30pm, we set off in the direction of Tsetserleg, the capital of Arkhangai Province. We’re told it’s a three hour journey, so it may well be after dark when we arrive. Stopping in a tiny settlement en route, we find a small grocery shop, which bizarrely, sells Korean beer, Korean noodles, and Korean soybean paste. We buy wine. Back on the road the usual display of jaw-dropping scenery sees us to an improbably lovely sunset, which illuminates a small river, and casts a romantic glow over the herd of yaks grazing next to its banks. Dusk is nearing its end when Tsetserleg comes into view, a collection of modest houses and ger compounds, perched on rolling hills beneath low, craggy cliffs. The journey here was pleasantly brief. For once, something has taken less time than anticipated.

We try three hotels before securing rooms at a place with a Russian name, and of Russian quality.  Our room is big, and comes with a small swarm of bluebottles, kitsch wallpaper, a fridge that is also wired into a lamp (the whole setup looks as though the merest touch would prove fatal), a window propped open by a stool, and no hot water for the first two hours. Still, there’s another socket at least, which means we can charge cameras without having to mess with the fridge/lamp hazard, and we have a bottle of Bordeaux, so all is not lost. I fashion two glasses from a water bottle (a la Varanasi) and we open it up.  It’s…drinkable. Some time is then spent killing flies.  Following a very welcome shower once the hot water comes on, it’s an early night. Hishte told us we’ll be leaving early tomorrow, although she said that yesterday.

Wednesday 22^nd September

   I’m up at 7am, to more flies. They seem to be materializing out of thin air. However many one kills, there are always more. Around 8 o’clock, there’s a knock on the door, which we assume to be breakfast. Unfortunately, we are totally unable to unlock the damn thing due to fact that the key refuses to do anything useful in the lock. By the time we figure out that it must be turned no less than three times, towards the door frame, whoever was outside, has gone. Moments later, as I’m standing in the corridor fiddling with the key, a Mongolian man in a baseball cap appears. I take him at a glance to be the driver, so smile, and give him a wave and a thumbs up to indicate that we know they knocked. It transpires not to be the driver at all, and the random Mongolian gentleman greets my gestures with a look of abject bewilderment. Breakfast finally arrives about 8.30am, so the identity of our early morning caller will forever remain a mystery. By the time we get underway, leaving the strange, semi-functional Russianness of the hotel, it’s close to ten o’clock. Leaving early today are we?

   It’s another sunny day on the steppe, and I am thoroughly enjoying being driven through this stunning country. My only responsibility is to get comfortable, and gaze out of the windows. I’ll confess it makes a pleasant change to the usual crowded stations, uncomfortable buses, and general hassle of trying to get around a place. I wouldn’t want to travel this way all the time, but right now, it’s a nice treat. Our first stop today is Taikhur Rock, a large natural monolith standing incongruously in the middle of flat, featureless grassland. Local legend tells that a hero placed the rock there to trap a giant snake that had been devouring people. It’s easy to see why a story like that would arise, so bizarrely out of place does the thing seem. Up close, Taikhur is covered in graffiti, some in seemingly unreachable places. People have obviously somehow climbed all the way to the top, some fifty to sixty feet or so, just to paint their names. I suppose this shows dedication, if not a particular attachment to life and limb.

   Having passed through a couple of hours of predictably rugged scenery, we arrive at a river gorge. The name of the river itself apparently translates to Rocky River, and one hopes the reasons for it being called so, do not require explanation. The gorge meanwhile plunges about two hundred feet to the river below, and is quite stunning. Yaks are grazing the less precipitous slopes, and it turns out that sustenance is also why we are here; this is where we are to take lunch. While Hishte makes herself busy with her usual industriousness, we explore. There are few clambering or rock hopping opportunities that don’t come with the promise of almost certain death, so I spend time simply enjoying the view and the surroundings. It’s as I’m relaxing, and soaking up some sun on a flat, comfortable rock, that I hear a loud pop, followed by laughter, coming from the direction of the car. I make a note to enquire later. There’s also a sighting of what for a few brief and tantalising moments, looks like a bear. It’s making its way along the top of the gorge on the opposite side, but soon emerges from behind a collection of rocks and proves to be, rather disappointingly, a yak.  Austin, some distance away, apparently thought exactly the same thing when he saw it. When we are called over for lunch (salad, and pasta in sauce) I discover that the aforementioned pop was a can of meat the driver had placed on the stove unopened, exploding. Apparently it showered Hishte, and the inside of the car, with lardy projectiles. He may be a very good driver, but he clearly hasn’t spent much time in a kitchen.

   Back on the ‘road’ we make for Khorgo Terkin Tsagaan Nuur National Park.  I settle in with the Mongolia playlist on the MP3, and my mind drifts happily as dramatic mountains, reminiscent of the Red Sea Coast in Egypt, pass by under vast, cloudless skies. Sometime later,  I realise we are nearing the national park, when the landscape changes and we find ourselves driving through a huge field of black volcanic rock, studded with thousands of pine trees.  As we progress, stark formations appear, and then the volcano itself - Khorgo Uul. It’s a modest dome of black rock rising from the plain, and we’ll be seeing more of it a little later. The Landcruiser (and indeed the driver) are forced to prove their worth as we negotiate some testing terrain, but once through we get our first glimpse of the Great White Lake, for which the national park gets its name. In another geographical parallel, it bears an immediate and obvious resemblance to Lake Titicaca. It has the same rich blue colour, and the bright, piercing sunlight that glints on its surface has a quality much like that in the High Andes. When we stop at our ger camp, we are quite close to its shores.  Almost immediately, indeed before we’ve even had a chance to check out the ger, horses are organized to take us up to the volcano. Apparently it’s a three hour round trip, but it’s already 5pm, so we ask if there’s a shorter route we can take. The guide says we can do it in two hours, so we agree. Austin, myself, and a local horseman will head off to the volcano, while Hishte and the driver stay at camp to organize the gers and dinner.

Once mounted up and away, it becomes painfully obvious (and I don’t mean that figuratively) that three hours has been reduced to two by the simple expedient of riding a lot faster. These diminutive Mongolian horses come with tiny saddles that rise steeply to the front and back, and which have the regrettable effect of impacting either one’s genitals, or one’s coccyx, with a heavy and apparently unavoidable thump every time the horse completes a stride. We’re told that uttering a forceful, “Chu!” will make the beasts go faster, but I’m not entirely sure that I want mine to, as speed and discomfort seem to be directly proportional. Sadly, I’m left with little choice, since anytime I’m caught ‘chu’-ing with less than regulation frequency or zeal, the horseman rides up behind me, strikes my horse in the flanks with a rope, and shouts it anyway. There are a few alarming moments when I am actually galloping, which considering I’ve only ever ridden a horse once before, and that it did nothing more dynamic than amble lazily, is somewhat disconcerting. Most of the ride is taken at a fast canter, although I am sure even this is enough to ensure a bruised arse and almost certain infertility. Arriving at the start of the walking trail up to the crater, we tether the horses next to the car park (I suspect I’d be in less pain had we simply driven here) and continue on foot. It’s a brief walk up to the large and impressive crater of Khorgo Uul, although this is an extinct volcano, so nothing dramatic is going on within. Perhaps more striking, is the view back from the crater rim to the lake, and the immense lava field stretching away for mile after mile. We don’t linger for long, as the sun is beginning to think about setting, and we should be back before it gets dark. Back at ground level, I mount up with a feeling of mild foreboding, and sure enough, the levels of discomfort are even more pronounced than before, particularly as we are riding even faster on the way back, a good chunk of which is done at a gallop, with more, “Chu!” than ever.  If I want to avoid being battered about the nether regions, I have to basically stand in the saddle, but this causes my thigh muscles to burn after a while, and also means that my calves are bitten into by the rough rope of the stirrups. In short, I am completely unable to avoid pain of some manner, whatever I do. Despite this, and the fact that I could very happily not be on this horse, there is still a thrill and a pleasure to be had, partly from the realization that I’m galloping, but mostly from the realization that I’m galloping across the Mongolian steppe. If one were able to achieve this comfortably (by whatever arcane skill that is actually possible) it would be nothing short of magnificent.  To add to the thrill, our approach to the camp is greeted by the start of a beautiful sunset over the lake, which itself is millpond calm such that the surrounding mountains are reflected mirror-like on its waters. Back at the camp, I dismount with no reluctance whatsoever, and am comforted to learn that Austin is in almost as much pain as I am. I’m not sure that sitting down will be an option for some time to come.

Our ger, now that we actually have a chance to see inside it, is lovely. It’s wonderfully warm with the stove going, and has painted beds, wall hangings, carpets, and even electricity. Somewhere en route to the lake, Austin picked up a bottle of Mongolian merlot, and it’s with this, and lingering memories of all the “Chu!” that we see out the evening and await dinner. As per usual there are a number of dogs around, two of which linger near our open door. Once of them is clearly only interested in one thing, while the other spends her time trying, ever so casually, to get inside. She sits by the door, trying to edge in a body part at a time. She seems a friendly old thing actually, and I’m sure I’d want a nice warm ger if I was in her position, as there’s a distinct chill in the air outside.  When dinner arrives, Hishte stays to have a bowl of soup with us, and confesses that her parents don’t understand the veggie thing at all. I can’t say I’m surprised. Moments later I look round to find the two dogs shagging vigorously on our doorstep.

Thursday 23^rd September

   It’s going to be a long day of driving today (well, a long day of being driven to be more accurate), and for once, breakfast does actually arrive early.  Afterwards I step outside into another perfect morning, to see a man preparing horses nearby. I wonder which poor souls have committed themselves to hours of pain and torment today. It’s probably the Koreans who arrived last night to occupy the ger next door. They came in a Russian mini-van, so they must be well-accustomed to discomfort by now. For ourselves, once the driver has apparently obtained directions, scratched into the dirt by the Koreans’ driver (that’s comforting) we leave the Great White Lake behind and head out on the same road we came in on yesterday.  I was expecting to go a different way, since the lake was the western extreme of our circuit, and we should be heading north from here, but Hishte explains that the direct road to Ogii Lake, where we’ll spend tonight, has a bridge down, and thus we have to return to Tsetserleg and make our way north from there. I suspect this is what the drivers were discussing before we left.

   We are, fortuitously, very close to a small assemblage of gers sometime later, when the Landcruiser gets a puncture in the rear, right side. While the driver changes the tyre, Hishte manages to get some dried milk biscuits from the nomads. The sensation is one of eating solidified Greek yoghurt. They are not perhaps, something I’d actively search out, but are interesting to try as another product derived from horse milk.  It would seem in fact, that the Mongolian nomad diet consists largely of nothing but mutton and a variety of things derived from milk (predominantly airag by all accounts). Having said that, I haven’t seen a single sheep anywhere, so where the mutton comes from is anyone’s guess.

We’ve been on the move for another hour or so, on ‘natural road’ when suddenly we are passed by three cars in the space of about a minute. I remark to Austin, “Where has all this bloody traffic come from?” and it’s not until a few minutes later that I begin to think about what I have just said. One has clearly been in Mongolia for a while when three cars constitute “…all this bloody traffic…”  I doze for a while and wake up in a tiny, dust-blown town. Actually, town is probably misleading – it’s more a collection of shacks really. We’re about thirty kilometres from Tsetserleg, and we’re stopping here for lunch while the driver gets the tyre fixed. There’s very little activity, other than the flies that buzz over and around everything, but curiously there are a number of young, attractive women who keep poking their heads out of a nearby building, so I suppose it’s conceivable that this is some kind of house of ill-repute; vices are vices after all, even in the middle of nowhere. I discover, while swatting away the flies and waiting for lunch, that my mobile phone has a signal, and so take the opportunity to call my friend Steve in Korea, who is looking after my cat while I’m gone.  All is well, although apparently two typhoons have hit the peninsula while we’ve been gone!  I look up at the cloudless blue sky with renewed satisfaction. Very soon after we get going following lunch, I’m asleep again.

I wake up in Tsetserleg. Hishte wants to buy a plastic container, so asks us if we’d like to accompany her to the market.  We would.  It proves to be a fairly standard backwater street market – rows of stalls and small, more permanent shops, set up along dusty streets. There’s the usual assortment of clothes, house wares, and random oddments, although here in the land of horsemen, there are also a large number of places selling lassos, bridles, stirrups, boots, and other horse-related paraphernalia. Austin purchases a long red nomad robe, with orange sash belt, and then we head to the indoor area for the plastic container. Here, row upon row of stalls sell vegetables and an array of milk products – biscuits, clotted cream, cheese, and so on, which come variously from cows, horses, or yaks. We buy wine.

Having left Tsetserleg behind, and with late afternoon giving way to the first glimmers of early evening, we pass through an area of classic grassland. At this time of year, the grasses have dried and yellowed, and the effect is one of transporting me right back to the African plains. I have to remind myself that this is not the Serengeti; a herd of zebra or wildebeest would not look in the least out of place here.  Zebra we may not have, but there are eagles everywhere. I believe they are steppe eagles, but whatever they are, they’re large, quite majestic, and have a penchant for sitting in the grass right next to the road. We send at least six of them flapping their huge wings skywards in about five minutes of driving.  Sadly, if somewhat predictably, they all head aloft at the merest hint of a camera being readied.  Even one that sits there nonchalantly while the driver stops next to it, and while I wind down the electric window, and while I turn the camera on, makes for the sky as soon as I point the thing at it.  We’ve passed nothing more than even less gers than usual for hours when, just before the approach of sunset, we pull up to a single-pump petrol station on the edge of a small wind-swept settlement.  The driver beeps the horn, and then beeps it again, before getting out to look around. There’s nobody here, and as soon becomes clear, there’s no power either.  It’s at this point that he turns to us and says, “Gas low, water low.” Short of the Sahara desert, one could scarcely think of a less opportune place in which to find oneself low on petrol and water, but still. About forty five minutes later, still moving despite the low fuel, and at the tail end of a truly glorious sunset, we reach Ogii Lake. We have a place to sleep, even if we may have no way of getting anywhere tomorrow!

Ogii Lake is considerably smaller than the Great White Lake, but is, in the dusk light, extremely peaceful and serene. We stop, some way round the lakeshore, at a small camp consisting of a little house and two gers.  There are about six other circles of concrete, where in busier times other gers must’ve stood; we are clearly at the end of the season.  Once settled, there’s just enough time for some nice sunset photography to the west, and some moon on the water photos to the east, before it gets too dark. The only appropriate course of action now is to open the wine. This ger, like the last one, is very nice. It’s well decorated, warm, and has electric light. Outside a little later, we can hear the swans and geese on the lake, and other wetland birds in the distance. More bizarrely, we can see the lights of a settlement on the eastern edge of the lake, until the entire thing spontaneously goes out and disappears. Dinner arrives at about 9.30pm, and is lovely – vegetable khuushuur, salad, and soup. Since we’ve got another (apparently) early start tomorrow, we get an early night. When we go to turn the light off, there appears to be no way of doing so, and we are thus forced to achieve darkness by taking out the light bulb.

Friday 24^th September

   We’re on the road by 8.30am, which is a new record. An hour or so later, we stop next to a few gers, and spend some time watching the local nomads wrangling their herd of horses. The effortlessness with which they ride around is a matter of amazement to me after the pain of my horse riding experience the other day. After a while we are invited in for airag (well, it is 9.30am after all. I suppose the sun is over the yard arm somewhere). I’m given a large bowl, and after Austin and Hishte have partaken, I’m given another, and another. I manage to keep up appearances, but after three bowls of airag, early in the morning, in the space of about ten minutes, the feeling I have is akin to that of having had about three pints and a large curry. We do manage some conversational interaction nonetheless, and are able to establish that on average, these nomads will move about four times during summer, but not at all during winter. This ger incidentally, has a LCD TV, an in-car (or in-ger) MP3 player, and a cellphone. I can only assume that while I’ve been getting drunk in the ger, the driver has been procuring fuel for the car, although I can in no way state this categorically.  Once back on the road, I’m out like a light for quite some time.

   I awake as we descend thorough pine-clad hills on the outskirts of Erdenet (pop.74,000). This is Mongolia’s second city, but would be a small town in most other places.  It’s been built in the depressing communist style – lots of soulless, sad, functional buildings. The only redeeming feature of the city is a scattering of small, almost Swiss chalet-like houses on the edges of town that cling to the hillsides in an odd chalet ghetto kind of arrangement.  According to Hishte, Erdenet was built by the Russians (no surprise there) purely and simply because this is the location of massive copper deposits. Indeed, just outside town is the world’s tenth largest copper mine, a mammoth facility that can be seen belching clouds of dust, and yellow, sulphurous fumes into the air. We stop for lunch at what must, for lack of appreciable competition, be one of Erdenet’s best hotels. They agree to let us eat our own food in their restaurant. Lunch today is a bizarre fusion involving potatoes, left over khuushuur, salad, and Korean style gimbap. The driver, evidently totally unwilling to eat anything that doesn’t involve at least one dead animal, orders something meaty from the hotel’s menu.

   I’m not sorry to leave Erdenet, despite the good lunch and the hot running water in the hotel toilets. It’s a place of no soul, and an atmosphere of lingering soviet unpleasantness. For miles out of town the road is flanked by pipelines, leading I assume from the mine to the processing plants. It’s all rather bleak and industrial. We’re headed north-east towards the last main stop on our tour, Amarbayasgalant, an 18^th Century monastery, and one of the very few to at least partially escape the destructive attentions of the communists.  The road is a mixture of tarmac and wildness. In the late afternoon, on one of the wilder stretches, we’re overtaken by a white SUV going at a speed that seems, given the nature of the road, rather reckless. Moments later we crest the hill and find it lying on its side. The passenger’s door is being pushed upwards and open as we pull up next to them. We’ve missed the actual crash by mere seconds. Everyone relaxes once it’s established that all three of the occupants are uninjured, but my god, have they chosen a shitty place to roll their car! We are on an exposed hillside overlooking a barren plain, and there is a battering wind screaming all around and hurling painful quantities of dust and grit all over us. It’s impossible to face into it, so everyone shuffles sideways, hiding their faces from the full blast. An attempt is made to push the vehicle back onto its wheels, but there are too few of us, and it’s far too heavy. We thus hatch a plan to take one of the guys down to the plains with us in search of help. At a collection of gers, we manage to secure a length of strong rope from an old nomad, and then head back up to the crash site. When we get back there, the car is already righted. Apparently two other vehicles passed while we were gone, and a collective effort got the thing back the right way up. It’s remarkably unscathed considering, suffering only a broken wing mirror and some damaged body work on the side that was on the ground. The guys were lucky, for the car and for themselves.

   When we are on our way again across the plain, the blue skies and sunshine we’ve been blessed with for most of this trip have been replaced by low cloud and a general atmosphere of Scotland in November. It’s only amplified as a series of low, bleak hills rise up on either side of us. We’re very close to Amarbayasgalant now, and so start searching for a place to stay. The first ger camp we try (this whole trip seems to have been arranged, or rather not arranged, on the fly so to speak) is already closed for winter, so we end up at a couple of slightly worse for wear gers very close to the monastery itself. Fortunately there is a tiny general store, where we able to purchase two litres of Mongolian beer.  Unfortunately, the gers are less than expertly constructed, and thus ours has about an inch of empty space at the bottom, open to the ever gathering winds. The stove, once lit, does a good job of heating the place up nonetheless, so hopefully the night won’t be too uncomfortable. We also have electricity, although it’s a touch on the temperamental side, and the light can only be persuaded to stay lit when the cable is wrapped over itself such that the bulb hangs at a forty five degree angle. We spend some time outside taking in the bleak, remote surroundings, and this, plus the beer, leads to an exchange in which we indulge ourselves in the personas of a fictional 1930’s couple – Geoffrey and Madeleine:

“Oh Geoffrey, I can’t bear it, I simply can’t!”

“Come on now you sweet, fragile, helpless little darling.  I’ll take care of you.  It’ll be alright, you’ll see”

“But Geoffrey, where is the bridge club, and the women’s institute? I can’t even see the promenade!”

“Don’t worry Madeleine, Just be brave my sweet. Think of Elspeth – remember when you went rambling on the South Downs together?”

“Geoffrey, I don’t care about Elspeth anymore, I want to go home!  Look!  There are beasts everywhere, and those people…they’re all so….grubby. Why don’t they wash Geoffrey??”

   Not long after we have settled into the ger, the electricity goes off. I break out the tea lights that I’ve learned to travel with for just this kind of occasion, and we soon have the place looking very cosy. The driver comes in moments later with a candle, and seems surprised and impressed to find that we are not shivering in total darkness. Do these people think we are amateurs or something?! Not long afterwards the power comes on again, and then goes off, and then comes on, and then goes off again. We’re best sticking to candles I think. A game of rummy is interrupted by dinner, but then it’s ‘Guess the Film Quote’, charades, and finally a round of ‘The Bridge’ (which I’ve mentioned and explained before, so I’m not going to do so again here).  Approaching bedtime, I step outside and find that it’s snowing. This is lovely, and atmospheric, but I hope it doesn’t get too heavy, because we have to make it back to Ulan Baatar tomorrow! 

Saturday 25^th September

    I woke up for a pee no less than three times in the night. The first and second times I got the stove stoked and burning again, and the third time it was totally dead. I did get a lovely view of the moon and a glorious starlit sky though, so all was not lost.  I also managed to establish that the snow had stopped, so hopes for leaving unimpeded remain high.

    Once the morning proper begins, I am up at 7am, to a four degrees Celsius ger. The plan is to eat, and then be at the monastery for 9am, so as to leave us enough time to get back to Ulan Baatar before the day is out. Once we’ve eaten, the pair of us are ready, with all our stuff packed up, but Hishte is preparing lunch in advance. It’s close to 10 o’clock when we eventually leave the gers to actually see something. We make our way first up a long staircase to the left of the monastery itself.  It leads up to a stupa on top of the hill, very reminiscent of Swayambunath in Kathmandu, if slightly smaller. The same painted eyes gaze out across the landscape, and if anything, the spiritual intensity here is far more pronounced, due to the fact that those eyes are looking upon a scene of unsullied natural beauty, rather than one of urban sprawl. We cross the hill and join another staircase, lined with prayer wheels, which runs up to the right of the monastery. At the top of this, is a giant, golden statue of Buddha, surrounded by other assorted statuary. Hishte says that the golden statue has only been here for a month! However old it may or may not be, it is certainly very photogenic, and when I turn round to look back down, I find myself looking at something truly remarkable. The monastery of Amarbayasgalant stands below us in splendid and serene isolation, and in all directions around and beyond it, the wild plains stretch away, sometimes towards rugged hills, and sometimes toward endless, empty grassland. The effect is to emphasise the isolation of this place, and to make clearer the reason why, in this far-flung corner of Mongolia, it may have escaped the ravages of the communists. Inside the monastery itself, which apart from ourselves and the child-monk who shows us around is utterly deserted, the forgotten, middle of nowhere atmosphere merely heightens. Thick, old, wooden doors squeak on their hinges, and floorboards creak with age whenever we take a step. The complex consists of a large, central temple, and about fifteen other smaller buildings – some shrines, some temples, and some accommodation for the monks (most of whom are apparently away today). The whole thing is surrounded by a low wall of red brick. Around the eaves of many of the buildings, chicken wire has been placed in an effort to stop birds from landing or nesting. Sadly, things don’t seem to have quite gone to plan. There is a grisly collection of dead birds behind the wire – I can only assume they found a way in but couldn’t get back out again. I harbour fears of a similar fate for three sparrows perched cheerfully on a statue inside a glass cabinet in the last shrine we look round.  All in all, even in this land where pretty much everything is out in the wilds, Amarbayasgalant feels like the one of the most remote places I’ve been.

   As we are getting packed up and ready to leave, the woman who owns the tiny shop (and one presumes the gers too) invites us in for a cup of Mongolian tea. It tastes like warm milk with salt in it, and nowhere can I detect the slightest hint of any actual tea. She insists it contains some however, and even shows me the tea leaves. Having provided refreshment, she requests that we give her a lift to her home some sixty five kilometres away, since she’s closing up for the winter. Usually when I finish a trip, I have to deal with the fact that while I’ve returned to normality, other people are still enjoying the place I’ve just left. This time, it looks like Mongolia is battening down the hatches right behind us. Once we’ve gone, only the landscape and the nomads will be left. I like that feeling.  We leave Amarbayasgalant heavier to the tune of a middle-aged Mongolian woman. I sleep almost immediately.

   We are in a sizeable, but particularly unattractive town when I wake up, and are bidding farewell to our passenger. We then stop for lunch at a vegan cafe, located with utter incongruity on the ground floor of a shabby soviet style apartment building, in an area full of other similarly shabby soviet style apartment buildings. We’re dining from our own menu, which today includes more gimbap, and the leftovers of yesterdays potatoes, curried. The cafe, like almost every interior we’ve been in here, is a fly magnet, but lunch is nice nevertheless.

   The rest of the journey back to Ulan Baatar, is on tarmac roads that look as though Top Gear should be road testing super cars on them.  Much of last night’s snow still clings to the hillsides, and serves to make this part of Mongolia resemble the Yorkshire Moors.  It also adds to the feeling that winter is beginning, and we are getting out just in time.

We approach the edges of the capital at about 5pm, and near the LG, get involved in a traffic snarl up. A bus driver has simply abandoned his vehicle at a stop, and thus the bus behind it, halfway to pulling in, is blocking the carriageway. Horns are beeped furiously and from all directions. Eventually, the driver of the second bus gets into the first and moves it, before returning to his own vehicle and clearing the way. Where the other driver disappeared to, or indeed whether he ever returns, we do not find out.

Back at the LG, and back in the same room, showers and beers serve to refresh, before we head out to the State Department Store for the shopping spree. A great many weird and wonderful things are purchased, including vodka, masks, bags, and cushion covers. From here we repair to the Great Khaan, which is heaving. There is only one spare table, and that has a ‘Reserved’ sign on it, but the staff don’t seem to care. Our last evening is whiled away with a few Chinggis, a final cocktail, and the musical accompaniment of a Mongolian live band, most of the members of which look decidedly Bolivian.

We reach the LG, after a surprisingly quiet and inebriate-free walk, at about 11 o’clock, however upon ringing the bell, we are greeted by nothing but silence and a resolutely locked door. We ring again, and again.  Nothing.  We bang on the door.  No success.  Austin tries the front, but that’s all shuttered up. He then goes to try the hotel next door to see if they can somehow make contact.  While he’s gone, a head pokes out of a window above me. It belongs to a member of staff who we’ve previously noticed to be deaf. Once I’m in, another girl appears to ask if I just called from next door. Austin is let in a few moments later. I am left with the feeling that putting the deaf girl on duty to attend the door bell, which (we now learn) isn’t working anyway, is a strategy doomed to failure. We’ve got about three hours to sleep before our pick up for the airport tomorrow.

On the plane, I’m surprised to be offered wine with breakfast at 7.30am. Austin declines, but is given a glass anyway. Reflecting on the last nine days, Mongolia has lived up to, and far exceeded all of my expectations. It was bigger, wilder, grander, bleaker, more beautiful, less developed, friendlier, more vegetarian, and simply more epic than I’d imagined. There’s plenty of room for returning too, as the Gobi Desert is still out there to be explored.  An awesome trip – thank you Mongolia. 

Gyeongju

A Short Trip to Gyeongju

Wednesday 29^th April

 With my students suffering a week of mid-term exam hell, I decide to put my spare time to good use, and go somewhere.  It doesn’t take a great deal of consideration to decide that somewhere will be Gyeongju, the ancient capital of the Silla Dynasty, which ruled the Korean Peninsula from 668 to 918 AD. It’s been said many times that this city is like an open-air museum, so numerous are the tombs, temples, pagodas and pavilions that still survive after almost 1500 years. The fact that much of this ‘survival’ is actually the result of extensive and relatively recent restoration makes the place no less remarkable, and it boasts the added draw of being a stone’s throw from the Bulguksa Temple, a complex I’ve been meaning to visit since I arrived in this country. Lying only a four hour bus journey from Seoul, Gyeongju is also readily accessible.

   It’s a sunny, cheerful morning, as befits the start of a journey, although with the exception of a one-stop stretch between Seokgye and Taereung, the entire 70 minute subway ride to Express Bus Terminal is less cheerful, being as it is completely rammed. Ideal conditions for picking up a bit of swine flu.

    Having arrived, I suffer some confusion, since I can find signs directing me to ticket offices for what must amount to every town and city in Korea, although not unfortunately the very one I wish to go to. I do locate the boarding gate (or at least a sign pointing to it) but then a boarding gate with no ticket is only marginally more useful than no boarding gate at all.  After significant back tracking, and in a tucked-away corner, I finally stumble upon the ticket booth for Gyeongju and Busan.  Why the two major tourist centres in the south of the country, one of which is Korea’s second city, should be hidden with such professionalism is a mystery.  Nonetheless, as luck would have it the ‘Deluxe Non-Stop’ bus for Gyeongju departs in a mere ten minutes, so no further relationship need be built with the inconveniences of the Express Bus Terminal.

   Rather than being one of the countries prime historical and tourist sites, one would more likely imagine, from the four people that make up the entire passenger roster, that Gyeongju was the centre of a contagious disease outbreak. Perhaps it’s just Wednesday.  I’m already sleepy as we pull out into the busy streets of Gangnam in the south of the city, and have progressed effortlessly from sleepy to asleep long before we leave the environs of Seoul.  Indeed, I only wake up at the half-way rest stop, taken at a pleasant little place nestled among green hills somewhere in Chungcheongbuk-Do, a province in the centre of South Korea.

   It’s just after 1pm when we pull off the highway along with a worryingly large number of tour buses, and proceed through a large, fake, ornamental gate bearing the name Gyeongju in Korean, Chinese, and English. Mere minutes later we’re approaching the bus terminal.  My first observation is that Gyeongju has many more traditional, tiled roofs than I’ve seen anywhere else in the country. Whether these are original, or have been converted in order to enhance the city’s charm is a matter of uncertainty.

   The first order of business, as always, is lodging. There’s no shortage; around the bus terminal it seems every other building is a yeogwan (cheap Korean guesthouse) a hotel, or a motel, and I’m greeted with names such as ‘Icarus Motel’, ‘Hotel Royal’, and ‘Magic Motel’, which almost certainly, judging from the look of it, isn’t.  I settle for Hanjin Hostel, mentioned in the LP as being cheap and cheerful, with a roof terrace.  The owner, as is often the way of things where Korean places of lodging are concerned, is about 75 years old, and I find him lying on the floor in a vest and pyjama bottoms. It takes him quite a while to shuffle out of his little office, although not as long as it takes him to shuffle up the stairs to the second floor.  Still, to his credit, he speaks a respectable smattering of English, and seems quite friendly and helpful. Once installed in room 203, for the stately sum of \20,000 (10USD) a night, I’m given a map, and directions to such things as ‘very big supermarket’, ‘ATM’ and perhaps pessimistically, ‘police station’.  He then asks me how much I weigh, and informs me that I’m, “Very healthy.”

   Buoyed up by this encouraging medical assessment, I head out to see what Gyeongju town centre has to offer.  My first stop, having passed and noted the location of the aforementioned ‘very big supermarket’ is the Noseo-Dong Tombs, one of many collections of Silla Dynasty burial mounds, or tumuli as I prefer to call them, in Gyeongju. This particular group contains the largest remaining Silla tumulus in the country. Bonghwadae as it’s known, is over 22 metres high, and has a circumference of over 250 metres. All the tombs date from the 4^th and 5^th centuries AD, and many are of quite some size, although in all honesty, how spectacular a mound of dirt can ever be I’m not sure.

   Across the road the tumuli continue in the not inexplicably-named Tumuli Park.  Here it’s possible to actually enter one of them, the fancifully named, ‘Heavenly Horse Tomb’.  Inside are displayed many of the artefacts recovered from within, and one can also see the spot where the inhabitant (if that’s the right word) was originally placed. More interesting to me though is the chance to observe the mound in cross-section. Basically, the tombs were created thus – atop a layer of gravel and stone slabs was placed, centrally, a wooden chamber into which the deceased (plus artefacts) was inserted.  Once sealed, this chamber was covered all around with more stones, to create a large mound.  This was then covered in clay, and once dried a layer of dirt was added, and then planted with grass.  All of this effort produced the large, grassy hillocks that abound throughout Gyeongju today.  I enjoy exploring the inside of Heavenly Horse Tomb, until a horde of loud Elementary School children come flooding in like a barbarian invasion force. I retreat to more civilized climes.

   A short distance away is Wolseong Park, in which can be found East Asia’s oldest observatory – Cheomseongdae.  It looks like a small castle turret although apparently is a work of not inconsiderable technical skill, its various layers corresponding to days, weeks, and months of the year, and its orientation aligned to certain stars.  Sadly, once again my enjoyment is cut short by the arrival of vast numbers of screaming schoolchildren, this time all wearing identical blue shirts.  It seems actually that visiting Gyeongju is as much about avoiding school parties as it is about visiting historical sites. I move on.

   En route to Anapji Pond, King Munmu’s 7^th century pleasure garden, I pass the edges of Banweolseong, an ancient fortress and royal palace. Unfortunately this once great edifice is now reduced to some stones sticking up through the grass, and I am unable to get the imagination sufficiently fired even to begin contemplating its former glory. At the pleasure garden too regrettably, the passage of time has not gone unmarked.  Only three small pavilions remain of what was once a sprawling complex of buildings constructed round a large ornamental pond flanked by forest.  Most of what used to stand here ended up in the pond itself by all accounts. Still, it’s a very pleasant place if one is skilled in one’s efforts to evade school parties, and it’s clear that in its original form it would indeed have been spectacularly beautiful, particularly with the addition of a liberal number of concubines.

   With the various wonders of central Gyeongju now visited, I find myself rapaciously hungry, and head back towards to hostel for a bite to eat.  On the way, I stop off at ‘very big supermarket’ for a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, which I hope will compliment early evening on the roof terrace perfectly. A half hour or so later finds me beneath cloudless skies as the sun hangs above the western mountains.  The roof terrace is really more accurately described as simply a roof, and there’s nobody else up there (in fact I’m not sure there’s anybody else in the hostel at all) but no matter. Sunset, wine, journal, and a new city; I have all I require.

   It’s odd actually; I realise that after almost six years in this country, this is the first time I’ve visited another part of Korea alone. I visited Jeju Island, Seoraksan National Park, and Deokjeokdo with Jung-ok, Daecheon with William, and Busan with my friend Chuckie, but this is a first. It feels rather weird – I’m in Korea, but I’m travelling. I’m surrounded by the familiar, but I’m somewhere new. It’s particularly strange to be staying in a hostel, but to know that Jung-Ok is a text message away.

With a spectacular sunset over, and the standard Korean neon adornments beginning to flash, pulse, and sparkle, it’s time to find some entertainment. There’s a bar mentioned in the guidebook, but after about half an hour of grid searching every street near its apparent location, I can only conclude that neither it, nor the road it is supposed to be on, actually exist. In fact, I begin to think that, in a worrying parallel to Taipei, Gyeongju has no drinking establishments whatsoever. It abounds with clothing stores, electrical shops, cosmetics boutiques, hairdressers, and other such superfluences, but no bars. This is Korea for goodness sake! A lot more searching and I finally find a place.  It’s called Oolie Boolie Bar, and inside are two barmaids, and three middle-aged Korean men. The music is dire.  Nevertheless, it’s my only option, so I order a Long Island Ice Tea and hope for the best. Neither of the barmaids speaks more than a word or two of English, but they’re friendly, and we get by in broken Korean.  By the time I’ve been there a while, and especially after the other customers have left, we’re getting on quite well, and I’m actually enjoying myself.  Hui Young and Ji Suk are their names, and the latter astounds me with the revelation that she’s a 38 year-old mother of two. She looks like a student!  I leave just before midnight, with the promise that if I return tomorrow, I’ll be given a whiskey and coke on the house.

Thursday 30^th April

   I am inexplicably wide awake at 6am, but after a visit to the loo I return to bed, and by the time the alarm goes off at 7.30, I’m exhausted. Even at 9 o’clock when I finally rise, I have to drag myself out of the bed. I hit the streets soon enough though, for today I am heading out of town to Bulguksa Temple, and then Seokguram Grotto, both some distance to the south-east.  The no.11 bus for Bulguksa arrives promptly, and it’s not long before Gyeongju gives way to hills and rice fields, punctuated by the inevitable resorts and hotels, plus the very uninevitable enormous glass tower with the shape of a giant pagoda cut out of the middle of it (?!) I have no explanation. The onboard announcements about which stops we’re approaching are at a volume only audible through the use of sophisticated sound equipment, but I’m not too worried, as Bulguksa is apparently the last stop anyway. As we’re pulling away from a large car park, at which we were only stationary for about five seconds, two Korean girls suddenly get up saying, “Wasn’t that Bulguksa?” to each other. It turns out it was, the driver just didn’t bother to inform any of the bus load of tourists he was carrying. He seemingly thought it quite normal that a bunch of people would ride all the way out here just to stay on the bus as it began its return circuit to Gyeongju; not especially helpful.  Anyway, he pulls up again one hundred or so yards later, and everyone gets off.

   From the car park it’s a short walk to the ticket booth on the slopes of Mt.Toham, where a large sign displays a map of the complex. It certainly looks impressive. Once though the gate, a pleasant, forested track leads upwards, and it’s now that I hear the awful sound of very large numbers of children echoing down through the woods from somewhere up ahead.  I immediately regret not having got up earlier. I regret it even more when I reach the complex itself. It is swarming, and that isn’t an overstatement. Clearly the only way this will even be tolerable, let alone enjoyable, is by shutting the world out as much as possible.  It’s therefore on with the dark shades and in with the earphones. I select some suitably atmospheric oriental music, and turn it to a volume that mostly drowns out the cacophony around me.

   Bulguksa (Temple of the Buddha Land) was originally constructed in 528 by King Beop Heung, and then later enlarged to its current size by King Gyeong Deok in 751. It survived the next 800 years until the Japanese invasion in the 16^th century, when it was burnt to the ground. For four centuries it lay in ruin, and it wasn’t until the 1960s that renovations began to restore it to its original glory. It’s now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

   In the main courtyard, I’m greeted by National Treasures Nos. 22 and 23. The former is the combined structure of Lotus Flower Bridge and Seven Treasures Bridge, which form a staircase leading to Peace Enhancing Gate. The stairs were originally carved with delicate lotus flowers, although 1200 years of pilgrim footfalls have worn these away entirely. A little to the east, National Treasure No. 23 is another pair of bridge staircases, Blue Cloud Bridge and White Cloud Bridge. Built in 750, these are larger than their counterparts, and contain 33 steps, corresponding to the 33 stages of enlightenment. Access is now forbidden, but if it wasn’t, the 33 steps could be followed up to Purple Mist Gate, beyond which lies the Hall of Great Enlightenment. This is the largest hall in the complex, and contains two stone pagodas. Dabotap, the larger of the two stands 10.4 metres tall, but is presently under restoration, so is surrounded by scaffolding, with only the topmost section visible. I seem indeed to have a habit of arriving at places of historical interest to find them shrouded in scaffolding. Seokgatap is smaller, at just over 8 metres, although does bear the distinction not only of being visible, but also of having a more impressive name. Its full title is Sakyamuni Yeoraesangjuseolbeoptap, or The Shadowless Pagoda. The story tells that both pagodas were constructed by a mason known as Asadal of Baekje. He became so consumed by the long work, that he neglected his wife, who was turned away whenever she tried to visit, as women could not enter the temple. Eventually, when she became rather distraught, she was directed to Shadow Pond, where she would be able to see her husband’s reflection in the water as he worked on the top of the pagoda. When she gazed into the water, all she could see was the completed Dabotap, and her husband was nowhere in sight. In what I consider to be somewhat of an overreaction, in light of the fact that he could well have been on his lunch break, or using the conveniences, she threw herself in the pond and drowned. Asadal apparently, as it turns out, had recently finished Dabotap, and was now working on Seokgatap, which is why it gets the name Shadowless Pagoda, because his wife was unable to see it in the waters of Shadow Pond.

   Interestingly, in 1966, thieves dynamited Seokgatap in order to steal the treasures within it. They were thwarted by the monks, but their efforts exposed what they were looking for. Inside the pagoda the monks found various reliquaries, as well as the oldest woodblock printed material in the world – a copy of the Mugujeongwang Great Dharani Sutra, which has since become National Treasure No. 126. In fact, without going into too much detail, Bulguksa it seems is home not only to National Treasures 22, 23, and 126, but also 20, 21, 26, 27, and 61.

   From the highest point in the complex, a shrine containing an image of Avalokitesvara, the Bodhisattva of Compassion, I look down across a sea of tiled roofs and courtyards, surrounded by forest in its spring glory. This single view alone is enough to have made this trip worthwhile, and despite a few doubts, Bulguksa has not disappointed me. I had feared after six years, that my expectations might have outdone reality, but happily it’s every bit as beautiful as I’d hoped. The craftsmanship of the buildings is exquisite, particularly the carpentry and painting of the eaves, which demonstrate the Asian penchant for expressing religious devotion through intricacy and complexity. It’s easy to see how Bulguksa could have taken twenty-three years to complete.

For much of my time at Bulguksa, I’m in the middle of a sea of school children, although I mostly scowl at them to dissuade attempts at communication. Nonetheless, it’s possible to avoid the school parties in some of the more remote corners of the complex, and only one particularly persistent child really makes an effort to get my attention. He shouts, “Hey!” at me three times, then pulls on my sleeve and tries to take my photo. Since I’m feeling rather unlike a curiosity in a zoo, museum, or freak show, I say, “No thank you” and make a swift tangent through the nearest ornamental gate.

   More peaceful, is Shadow Pond (of the aforementioned feminine overreaction). Here a weeping willow sheds its tears into the water next to an elegant oriental three-arched bridge, while the heights of Mt. Toham rise behind them. It’s an idyllic spot, and just the sort of thing oriental wall hangings are made of. I sit by the still water, absorbing the atmosphere of this place, which has somehow managed to retain its spiritual calm even in the face of a thousand children rampaging nearby. I’d like to remember Bulguksa this way, so I decide to take my leave.

Back in the car park, I jump on a bus to Seokguram, which lies about fifteen minutes further up the mountainside. The journey takes us along a steep, winding mountain road, with deep, plunging, forested gullies and ravines to our right.  The driver, fortunately, is a careful soul, but even so there are a few quite bracing moments as we swing round particularly tight hairpins with nothing but a fate you wouldn’t want to contemplate beyond their edges.  Climbing higher, sweeping mountainscapes open up beneath the vastness of a sky as clear as any I’ve ever seen.  I’m glad I came up here even if only for the journey. Entering another car park I notice a pleasing lack of tour buses and children. Perhaps they’re all in Bulguksa, and there are none left in the whole province.  The peace and quiet remain as I stroll along the winding track that leads through dense forests on the mountainside and then on to the grotto itself.

A Joseon Dynasty style pavilion has been built over the entrance to the artificially made cave that is Seokguram.  Completed in 774, the grotto houses a 3.5 metre statue of the Sakyamuni Buddha, along with forty or so other carvings and reliefs, depicting Bodhisattvas, saints, disciples, and the faithful. All are considered to be exquisite examples of Buddhist art. There is a heavy Indian influence to the work, and there are even carvings of two Hindu gods, Brahma and Indra, on the wall behind the Buddha himself. All of this sounds wonderful, but the realities and necessities of preservation are such that the whole of the grotto itself is now behind glass, and it’s almost impossible to make out any small detail, particularly of the carvings behind the statue in the main rotunda. To make matters worse, the cave is badly lit and heavy reflections of the sunlight outside play on the glass, so that one has to lean against it and shield the eyes in order to see anything much at all. Just outside the entrance to the grotto is a sign the purpose of which I can only assume, was to explain the need for these inconveniences, however it succeeds merely in adding its own perplexities to the situation by way of a wonderful sentence stating that “…the glass is placed between the visitor and the grotto in order to keep the inside outside.”

Having returned to Bulguksa, I’m soon on my way back to Gyeongju, and dinner. I dine this evening on dolsot bibimbap, one of my favourite Korean dishes, which consists of a bed of rice, covered with mixed vegetables, a fried egg, and a generous dollop of gochujang, or hot pepper paste, all served in a piping hot stone bowl that is brushed with sesame oil before the rice is added so that the grains around the edge turn crispy and golden brown. Once served, the whole thing is mixed together before being eaten. Indeed, the word bibimbap means ‘Mixed Rice’. Thoroughly satiated, I return to the roof to catch up with the journal. Sunset is a cloudy and unremarkable affair this evening, but it’s still nice to take the time out just to sit and watch it.

When night has descended, I return to Oolie Boolie bar, where I am, as promised, given a free whiskey and coke. I follow it with a few beers and a bit of a chat, before heading back around 11.45, tired, but happy with the day and the trip as a whole. It’s been great to see another part of Korea; I spend so much time in and around Seoul that it’s sometimes easy to forget there’s anything more to this country. Also nice to finally get out on my own here after six years. It’s hard to believe I haven’t done it before.  Tomorrow I bid farewell to the ancient Silla capital, and return home to Seoul, the very bustling modern one.

 

   

Mongolia 1

Mongolia

Saturday 18^th September.

The approximately one thousand six hundred kilometres that separate South Korea from Mongolia, apparently make the world of difference to the weather, for while September is the hot tail-end of summer on the peninsula, it’s the cool leading edge of winter in the vast, landlocked North East Asian country in which I’ll be spending the next nine days. Preparing to leave, I try to dress so as to be neither too warm for the journey to the airport at this end, nor too cold for the journey into Ulaan Baatar at the other end.  Sadly, after twenty minutes in the hot sun, waiting for the airport bus, I’m already quite damp from sweat. Bring on cooler climes.

In the pleasant air-conditioning of Incheon International Airport, I rendezvous with my best friend and travelling companion, Austin.  This will be the first time we have really travelled together, aside from a weekend in Amsterdam and a few brief meetings in further flung parts, despite fifteen years of friendship.  Mongolia is a place that’s new and unfamiliar to us both, so there’s a great deal of excitement in the air this afternoon. Regrettably, there’s also a great deal of appalling fashion, although most of that is waiting to get into the air. At check-in we are a few places behind a woman who looks Mongolian, but clearly has Russian blood; there can be no other explanation for her decision to wear pink, stiletto-heeled boots and a shell suit, much less the perm she’s sporting, which looks like it was crafted by a hairdresser with a bramble fixation. On the other side of immigration, the sartorial oddities continue. Bizarrely there’s a Choseon Dynasty wedding parade, complete with spears and swords (how they passed security with them I’ll never know), and also large numbers of young, lady travellers who seem to have dressed for a nightclub, rather than for international travel. Personally, I’d prefer not to cross the globe in seven inch stilettos and a mini-skirt the size of a leopard print handkerchief, but that’s just me.

A brief wait at the gate sees us board a small MIAT (the Mongolian national airline) plane, which, after a short delay, whisks us away from the Land of the Morning Calm, towards the Land of Blue Sky. Soon after take-off, soft drinks are served. We enquire as to the availability of wine, and are told that we can get some during the meal, but not now.  Austin asks whether beer is available, but is ignored completely. Minutes later we notice the people across the aisle enjoying a couple of cans, and so once again we nab the stewardess, and ask her if what they are drinking is beer. She says, “Yes.” and then walks off, apparently oblivious to our inference. Thankfully, a few minutes later she returns with two cans of some kind of Mongolian beer, although my command of the Cyrillic alphabet is too woeful for me to be able to say what it’s called. It’s good though, and compliments the start of the trip very nicely. The meal, which is surprisingly palatable, is accompanied by red wine, and followed by a semi-successful attempt to sleep. I’m roused with news of our impending descent, and look out of the window for any sign of Mongolia below us. There is none, only a large expanse of utter darkness. But then perhaps that in itself is a sign of Mongolia.  As we approach Ulaan Baatar, it becomes obvious just how small the city really is.  I expect capitals to stretch below me almost to the horizon – sprawling and enormous; this one has clearly defined boundaries of darkness on all sides of it, resembling a large town more than a capital city.

It’s been raining, and it’s still damp as we taxi to the gate. As ever, frustratingly little can be gleaned about the destination from a view of the airport tarmac, but at least we’re told that it’s 10 degrees outside. We are fortunate to get to a rather slow and inefficient passport control before the bulk of the other passengers, but still things take a while. Proceedings are enlivened by a serial sneezer, for whom I would feel sympathy if his condition didn’t provide such amusement. Once we’ve been allowed in, baggage reclaim is swift, and then it’s through the masses at arrivals, until, loitering near the back of the throng, we find ‘our man in Ulaan Baatar’, or less romantically, the hotel pick-up driver. There’s something wonderfully reassuring about landing in a new and unfamiliar city at night, and being greeted by a man holding a sign with your name on it. He escorts us to a Korean car, whereupon we are briefly trapped by bad parking, but are soon able to make way onto roads that are, basic. This is the main highway from the country’s only international airport, to its capital, but it’s rough, and ridden with potholes. Low-rise buildings flank the road, all appearing functional and somewhat bleak. I’m cheered by the appearance of the ‘Sod Oil’ petrol station, but in general the journey is rather like driving through a declining English town whose roads have been lightly bombarded by shellfire. The driver is a friendly, chatty sort, and conversation covers topics including the shift from communism to democracy, vodka, North Korea, the weather, economic migration, and strip clubs.  Interestingly, he tells us that before communism, most Mongolians drank traditional alcohol, based on horses’ milk. Now, Russian vodka has become the drink of choice, but it’s nasty stuff, and has caused a great deal of alcoholism in Mongolia. Whenever we pass an obvious roadside inebriate, he proclaims, “Ah, a good Mongolian boy!”  After about forty minutes, having passed one of the aforementioned strip clubs, which the driver says used to be a good one, but has gone downhill of late, we pass the front of the LG Guesthouse, our residence in Ulaan Baatar, and then go round the block to the back. Here we enter a world that I’m not sure either of us are entirely prepared for. I cannot help but feel that I’ve just been thrust into an alcohol-fuelled Stalinist nightmare.  We are surrounded by soulless, depressing, run-down apartment blocks that owe equal amounts to Salford and Moscow. Various enormously inebriated youths are either staggering around, or prowling menacingly. One of them is bare-chested, so obviously Russian vodka, while destroying Mongol society, does at least negate the effects of temperature. The first thing we see upon actually exiting the vehicle, is a skip, next to which is a smashed up minivan containing a couple of people who seem to be living in it. In a state of mild shock, we’re led inside and up to reception.     

Our room is actually very nice, with a great bathroom, a TV, and most importantly, a balcony commanding spectacular views of the urban wasteland below.  Both of us are in need of a beer to cushion the blow, and so head down to the deserted restaurant, where a woman of large proportions and decidedly Russian appearance, waits to serve us two bottles of Chinggis. A child I assume to be her son amuses himself by alternately staring at us and playing with a pink inflatable ball. The restaurant is decorated with a variety of paintings and holographic oddities, most of which seem to depict snarling wolves. It seems somehow appropriate given what’s going on outside. As the restaurant closes, we take our drinks back to the room, and spend an hour or so on the balcony, observing the prowling drunkards, and being thankful that, despite our mutually extensive travel experience, neither of us are here alone; safety in numbers. Having said all this, both of us are actually having a great time enjoying the shock. This is what going to a new country is all about, however startling it may be.  Much entertainment is gleaned from the sporadic, monosyllabic exclamations emanating from dark corners of the car park, most of which would not sound out of place in a documentary about Neanderthal man.  Equally amusing is the repeated sounding, over a prolonged period of time, of a car horn that seems to be permanently in the same spot. We theorize that a drunk Mongolian has driven his vehicle into a brick wall in a vodka-fuelled frenzy, and is now attempting to beep the bricks off his car.

We retire from the madness around midnight, entirely unsure of what tomorrow will bring, but certain that whatever happens it won’t be dull, and happy that we are here. I fall asleep repeating four simple words to myself; words that are enough to ensure that sleep comes quickly and contentedly, “I am in Mongolia.”

Sunday 19^th September

   A good night’s sleep was punctuated by bizarre dreams, which included being chased through the streets of Ulaan Baatar, and eating a carrier bag while a Mongolian hotel receptionist called Austin “Stronzo” (which means ‘excrement’ in Italian).  A piping hot shower is followed by a bit of Mongolian TV, the best description of which would be ‘Channel 9’, while I sew up the four inch rent that has spontaneously and without evident cause, appeared at the bottom of one of my trouser legs.  The hotel breakfast, taken beneath the same snarling wolves from last night, consists disappointingly of stale white bread, jam, chocolate spread, and Nescafe.

   Soon afterwards we make our acquaintance with the Manager, Tseggi.  She’s a petite, cheerful woman, who strikes me immediately as being genuinely honest and helpful. With her and Gana – last night’s driver who turns out to be the owner of the hotel, we sit down and begin thrashing out the details of a five night, six day tour into Arkhangai, one of the central provinces. It became obvious even in the early planning stages of this trip, that with our limited time, the even more limited availability of public transport, and the approaching onset of winter, our only real option if we didn’t want to spend most of our time here waiting by the side of deserted roads with our thumbs in the air, would be organizing a tour.  We’d envisioned trawling round UB’s travel agencies today, but the hotel offers a wide range of reasonably-priced itineraries, and as they seem to be good, reliable people, concerned with their reputation, there’s no reason not to see what they can do for us. We manage to work out something that will take in sand dunes, lakes, national parks, monasteries, ruined monasteries, large rocks, and very importantly, sleeping in a variety of gers, the traditional nomadic dwellings, common to various parts of Central Asia. Calculations based on accommodation, food, and fuel, bring everything to $605 each all inclusive, which is very reasonable, and gets us a guide into the bargain. It would be cheaper if we travelled by ‘Russian Minivan’, but since these very words conjure images of severe discomfort, we plump for a Landcruiser instead. Easy – job done.  We depart tomorrow morning. Gana even offers us a lift into the centre of town thirty minutes hence, which we accept gratefully.

We’re dropped off in bright sunshine and beneath utterly cloudless skies, near Sukhbaatar Square, and thus begins our first exploration of Ulaan Baatar. The place has a far more favourable air in daylight, when it isn’t populated entirely by drunkards. Oddly enough, one of the first things we see is a garden containing a Korean pavilion, and with gates that have a Korean inscription. We are at one end of Seoul Street, an area apparently heavily influenced by the sizeable Korean ex-pat community.  At Sukhbaatar Square itself, we find the kind of wide open expanse that communists seem to have a passion for. It was clearly designed by the sort of minds that gave the world Red, and Tiananmen Squares. At its northern end, is a grand, columned edifice that plays host to a large statue of a seated Chinggis Khan.  He was clearly an expansive gentleman, and if this monument is to be believed, had knees the size of a small family car. He’s flanked by two mounted warriors, Mukhlai and Boruchu, two of his finest generals, and further to the left and right, by statues of Ogedei (his third son) and Kublai (his grandson). Taking in the rest of the vista, it’s clear that UB is an architectural oddity. It is composed of a mixture of bland communist nastiness, grand ornamental splendour, shiny modernity, and gently-crumbling dilapidation. Equally clear is its size; only a few kilometres away in every direction lie the green hills that mark the edges of the city.  If that were not evidence enough, the lack of people and cars make the point with equal clarity. Peace Avenue for example, which is to UB what Oxford Street is to London, or what Jongno is to Seoul, bears more relation traffic-wise, to a small Scottish town on a Tuesday afternoon.  It is as modest a capital city as I’ve ever seen, and with a population of just over a million people, well represents the country with the lowest population density of any in the world. The people themselves bear stark resemblance to the Koreans in some cases, and the Tibetans in others, and seem generally cheerful and good-spirited. The streets also have a friendly air, which is a very pleasant revelation in light of last night’s expectations.

From the square, we make our way along Peace Avenue to the State Department Store, an enormous place selling, it would seem, everything from TVs, to kitchenware, to zodiacs, to bows and arrows. It’s the fifth floor that we’re interested in however, as it is apparently the best place in the country to purchase souvenirs. It’s immediately obvious that there is an awful lot of very nice stuff available, including footwear, clothes, masks, bags, cushion covers, ornaments, rugs, vodka, and the aforementioned archery equipment. We leave with jackets, waistcoats, and every intention of returning at the end of the trip for a more comprehensive retail spree. Thoughts turn to lunch, and a short distance down a sunny, and very pleasantly warm Peace Avenue, we come across Richy’s Restaurant and Pub, where we are the only customers, and where we are shocked and delighted to find Mongolian vegetarian food. We’d been rather concerned that this trip would see us surviving on instant noodles, since everything one sees and reads about Mongolia tells of a nation where vegetarianism is virtually impossible. It had appeared the closest we’d get to veggie food would be picking the onions out of a mutton stew. Nonetheless, Richy’s seems to deliver the goods. We order soya-meat goulash, and soya-meat noodles, both of which are very nice indeed, and nicer still washed down as they are with pints of Chinggis beer, and people-watching out of the large bay windows. Forgive the observation, but Ulaan Baatar has more than its fair share of very attractive women, at least some of whom one presumes, get their hair done at the salon across the street – the magnificently-named ‘Destroy Hair and Beauty’.

Following lunch, we attempt to locate the Museum of National History, but are scuppered firstly by the utter uselessness of the LP Map of Central Ulaan Baatar (no great surprise there), and secondly by the fact that when we do eventually find the place, it turns out to be closed on Sundays and Mondays. Denied our rightful share of historical wonders, we elect to return to the hotel for an equally rightful share of downtime, as the afternoon is now getting on. On paper, the walk back appears simple – down Seoul Street, turn left, turn right, enter hotel. Paper however, is notoriously unreliable, particularly when it’s bound between two covers of a Lonely Planet, and has a map printed on it.  Things don’t begin well. We’re making our way to Seoul Street, down the same road we walked up this morning after being dropped off, when we pass a large pile of rubble which I’m fairly sure we didn’t pass earlier, and then a ger, which we’re both absolutely sure we didn’t pass earlier. We have, and it’s only fair to say, through nothing but our own distractedness, gone right past the end of Seoul Street.  A little later, and back on what we believe to be the right track, we make our way past ‘Kenny Rogers Fried Chicken’ and make our left turn. This doesn’t look promising either. Having gone a bit further, we are forced to admit that we’re lost. We ask for directions at a hotel, and although the guy seems to recognize neither the name of our hotel, nor the name of the road it’s on (perhaps not a great sign) he points us down the street regardless. We find ourselves in an area of suburban apartment blocks. Everything is slightly overgrown, and grass is forcing its way up through the paving stones, such that the whole place resembles one of those towns deserted after the Chernobyl disaster. Time for more directions, these from a middle-aged woman who appears to have absolutely no idea where our hotel is, and little more idea where she is herself.  Finally, we ask an attractive young woman outside a pizza joint, who very kindly calls the LG for us, and establishes that we are only about two minutes away.  As we eventually turn onto the right street, we see Tseggi coming down the road to meet us! In hindsight, the route was actually very simple, provided one didn’t get it wrong.

The delay has caused our chillage window to close slightly, but there’s enough time to get a bit of journal done before heading out for the evening’s merriments. We’re going to take in a Mongolian cultural performance at the nearby Tsuki House theatre. It promises throat singing, music, dance, and even a contortionist, something the Mongols seem to have a peculiar talent for. En route we make use of the inspiringly wise Mongolian concept that is the 24 hour bank (not just the cash machines – the whole bank) and then having found the theatre without navigational hiccups, enter the small auditorium.  We are the only people here, aside from a large group of vodka-swilling Japanese tourists in business suits, and so are able to get front row seats. Actually it’s more of a front row booth, the kind of thing that wouldn’t look out of place in an East End strip club circa 1965. Two large glasses of Chinggis set us up nicely as we await the darkening of lights, and the raising of curtains.

Things get underway with some traditional folk dancing, performed by two men wearing long, green skirts, and a woman with a magnificent headdress shaped like ram’s horns, and sleeves that hang down to her knees. This is followed by a female singer accompanied on the horse fiddle, a horse fiddle solo, and then the much-anticipated throat singing. For anyone unfamiliar with this most bizarre and inimitable vocal talent, throat singing is achieved by means of the singer controlling the shape of the mouth, larynx, and pharynx, so as to produce two entirely separate, but harmonious pitches simultaneously. The result is a low, guttural sound, accompanied by a higher pitched, warbling whistle, and the whole effect sounds so unlike anything that could possibly emanate from a human being, that it’s an absolute marvel to behold. We’re treated to a good twenty minutes of it, in various styles. Just when it seems things can get neither better, nor more extraordinary, the contortionist appears. She begins with various staples such as doing the splits, bending over backwards and touching the floor, and hugging her own head with her feet. While all this is certainly impressive, it in no way prepares us for what she does next, which is something, having witnessed it, that I can’t quite believe I’ve actually seen. She is kneeling up with her back to the audience, but then begins to rotate her torso, and continues rotating it until she is looking right at us. Her legs are still facing the other way.  She has, very simply, rotated her spine and entire upper body 180 degrees. Were it not so mind-bogglingly improbable, it would be quite grotesque. Austin and I share a look that says clearly, “Did she really just do that?!” I’ve never seen anything like it. Following this, the rest of her act, consisting even as it does of folding herself double, balancing by one hand on a tiny pole, and bending her legs backwards over her head while supporting herself by her mouth, seems relatively tame.  After the rubber-boned enigma has moved on, there’s more singing, and then an ensemble, who perform some wonderful Mongolian folk music, and an entirely incongruous rendition of the Andean classic ‘El Condor Pasa’. The evening is rounded off with another folk dance, and a shamanist ritual dance. We are both buzzing when it’s all over, mostly from the exquisite talents of the throat singers, and the unfathomable skills of the contortionist.  The whole performance was great though, and something that certainly won’t be forgotten in a hurry.

Ulaan Baatar has developed a notable chill now that darkness has descended, but fortunately it’s a short walk to the Great Khaan Irish Pub, an enormous establishment with a clientele that seems to be composed of a healthy mix of Mongolians and ex-pats. Vegetable Khushuur (a crepe-like local option) fills the food gap, while Chinggis helps to make short work of any remaining chill. We are seated at a table by the windows, and should therefore, be able to scan at out leisure, all the goings on in the rest of the pub.  Unfortunately, the very first time a glance that way, I catch the eye of a middle-aged Mongolian strumpet at the next table, who smiles at me in a coquettish, and entirely worrying manner. Her drinking partner does the very same thing to Austin moments later. The potential perils of offering even the tiniest seed of encouragement to these two, are such that we now feel entirely unable to look anywhere but straight ahead, or out of the windows. Happily, an American man lures them to his table about thirty minutes later, and thus the vista of the Great Khaan is finally ours to enjoy. Cocktails seem the ideal way to accompany the view, and so I progress to a Long Island Iced Tea, while Austin plumps for a Great Khaan Summer Punch, complete with orange, lemon, and about half a kilo of blueberries.  After a few more, and now reasonably well-oiled, we make our way back to the hotel. Tomorrow, the real adventure begins!

Monday 20^th September

   Clouds. This is a minor disappointment after the sunny loveliness of yesterday, but on the bright side, I am largely free of any lingering residue from last night’s merriment, so my head is clear, if not the sky.  After a breakfast at which we’re forced to listen to two Japanese men slurping noodles very loudly, we move outside to see our swanky green Landcruiser being packed with food, water, cooking equipment, and camel hair sleeping bags. Parked nearby is the ‘Russian Minivan’ whose services we declined. Seeing it in person only makes our decision seem wiser. I’m not sure I’d want to travel even one kilometre in it, let alone the sixteen hundred we have planned. Gana introduces us to Hishte, our guide. She’s a bubbly sort, with short hair, glasses, and a ready smile. Of far more import to us however, she’s also vegetarian, and the cook for this expedition. As I mentioned, food had been a major concern, especially once we got outside the city. Knowing that we are in no danger of being served anything untoward is a real comfort.

We’re soon heading out of Ulaan Baatar, and after passing the ‘Sod Hotel’ we’re leaving concrete behind as we hit the ger suburbs. One of the most remarkable things about UB is the fact that most of the housing on its outskirts is still composed of these nomadic dwellings – tens of thousands of them. As we get out into the hills, it actually starts to snow, which gives the landscape a rather bleak appearance. Even here, not far from the capital, Mongolia has taken on a middle of nowhere feel, and it’s not long before the asphalt gives way to what Gana euphemistically referred to yesterday as ‘natural roads’. Of course this merely adds to the fun, as one of the best things one can do is be bumped around on dirt tracks in the wilderness.

Our first stop, an hour or so further on to the southwest , is the 50,000 hectare Hustai National Park, home to a sizeable population of the quite unpronounceable Przewalski’s Horse, as well as gazelles, lynx, deer, marmots, and wolves. There’s a small museum near the entrance, which has as its centrepiece, a rather forlorn-looking stuffed foal.  We’ve acquired another guide for the park. Her name is Ganga, and she exudes a surly air from behind her enormous sunglasses. She squeezes into the back seat with us, and we head up into the hills. The track is steep and winding, but it’s only about five minutes before we glimpse a large group of horses grazing on a hillside. This is, I think, the first time I’ve ever actually seen wild horses, and to do so here, in this awesome landscape (it’s like Patagonia meets Derbyshire, on steroids) is quite something. We take a walk to get a little closer, and even catch sight of a marmot on the way.  Obviously the horses don’t let us get anywhere near them, but we do manage to get a few photos before heading back to the vehicle.

Back on the road, I’m asleep quickly, and wake up sometime later in bright sunshine, as we stop for lunch.  We are in a dusty, windswept, flyblown little settlement, very far from anything much else. Hishte and the driver go into the small roadside cafe to prepare the food, while we get the look of the place. There’s not a great deal to see. Two large Russian lorries that could quite easily have been on the Eastern Front in 1943 are parked nearby, heavily loaded with bales of hay, and there’s also a large pack of dogs, which, when not wandering around threateningly, spend most of their time scavenging through the piles of rubbish stacked next to the rather foul outhouse. The long wait for lunch is enlivened by some pigs eating litter, a slanging match between the waitress and the cafe cook, in-fighting amongst the dogs, and the appearance of a well-dressed and attractive woman who seems less that enthralled at the prospect of using a rancid toilet surrounded by beasts. It’s just as well there’s some entertainment, because our food takes an age to appear. It’s almost four o’clock before ‘lunch’ is finally served. Clearly Gana’s warnings about ‘Mongolian Time’ were not entirely in jest. Still, it’s worth the wait; Hishte does us proud - Tsuivan (noodles with vegetables) and an olive and sweet corn salad. It shouldn’t really have taken almost two hours to produce, but then ours is not to reason why.

We leave the nameless dustbowl and get back on the road in crisp, bright sunshine, and the vistas through which we pass become ever more spectacular to the point of ridiculousness. Sweeping plains stretch off to the horizon, punctuated by dramatic rock outcrops, cliffs, and mountains; epic simply isn’t a big enough word. Here, Mongolia is a truly vast and awe-inspiring land that stirs the emotions as only places blessed with this level of grandeur can. It far out-does my expectations. I’d imagined rolling grassland, but there’s far more variety and relief, and no matter how far we travel, it never seems to end. What there isn’t, is people. The occasional cluster of gers is the only evidence of human life. No towns, no villages, just scattered bands of nomads. It’s almost incredible that such a place can still exist in the 21^st Century.  A brief roadside stop sees me take a pee in what must qualify as one of the most desolate locations in which I’ve ever done so, and oddly, I find a cassette lying on the ground, which I take, resolving to hear what randomness is on it once I get home. The music in the car is now complimenting the scenery perfectly. We have a six CD selection, and we’ve hit the traditional Mongolian folk music option. Throat singing and horse fiddles as the wilderness surrounds us. Regrettably, this delightful audio-visual ambience is not to last. The next CD is something akin to ‘Now That’s What I Call Music’, and begins with a number by someone called Marvellous Eddie (Rodriguez). It’s a pseudo-Latin nightmare, containing the lines, “Maria, why won’t you talk to me? You ignore all my calls. Maria, instead of making love to me, you just kicked into my balls.” Charming.

Continuing on to our first overnight stop, we make a diversion off the ‘road’ to a large, isolated outcrop of rocks, and having clambered up its boulder-strewn flanks to the very top, we’re greeted by a simply phenomenal view of indescribable scale. Massive emptiness, rugged mountains, and the early evening sun casting vivid light and shadows over everything, make this one of the most beautiful sights I’ve seen. I take photos, and even video, but I know neither of them will do it justice. Having descended, we drive only a short distance before Hishte asks if we’d like to try airag – fermented mare’s milk. This is the traditional tipple of the Mongolian nomad, and unsurprisingly we respond with an immediate, “Yes.”  Moments later we’re pulling up next to a group of gers, and are ushered into one of them.  This is a totally unexpected surprise. I knew we’d get to sleep in tourist gers, but I had no idea we’d get the chance to enter a ‘real’ one; the home of a group of true nomads. Inside, the ger is cosy and colourful. A decorated latticework structure runs around the edge, and the wooden supports rising to the conical apex of the roof are also painted brightly. The family, consisting of husband, wife, and three children, have a stove, a TV run from daisy chained car batteries fed by solar panels, electric light, two beds, numerous cabinets, and a very sleepy cat. Horse wrangling equipment hangs all around, as do strips of drying mutton. The airag is served from a large plastic drum, via a kettle, by the man of the house. He’s in his mid thirties (or so it appears, although he could easily be younger, such are the rigours of nomad life) and is dressed in splendid maroon robes.  The driver, perhaps worryingly, is the first to partake of the booze, and after he’s drained the bowl, it’s refilled and passed to Austin. Emptied again, it comes to me, and then Hishte.  She polishes hers off in about a tenth of the time it took either of us to. It’s actually very nice stuff once you get used to it. I think the best description would be alcoholic liquid natural yoghurt, with a hint of goat’s cheese.  Among other things in our time with the nomads, we learn that it takes about two hours to erect a ger, that the family have ten horses and a Toyota, and that the aforementioned horses are never tethered, so when they wander off in the middle of the night, one has no option but to go in search of them, a process than can sometimes take days. Camels apparently, are much worse. Just before we leave, a few more family members come in (I assume them to be uncles and grandparents) so I ask if I can take a photo of the family. They agree happily, and seem to approve of the results. Having taken delivery of a few more litres of airag, we say our farewells, and set off into a nearby valley, where we ourselves will be spending the night.

At the end of the valley, we stop next to a ger, a small shack, and a collection of modest temples and stupas. There’s a fabulous view back down to the plains we’ve just left, and the ever reddening sun is illuminating the surrounding hills and cliffs with a deep red glow, even as the moon rises above them, giving us another in the acclaimed series of ‘Grand Mongolian Vistas’.  A short distance behind the temples is a ruined monastery from the Manchu Dynasty, apparently destroyed by the communists.  All in all it’s a wonderful place in which to spend our first night in the wilds. Hishte and the driver turn to preparing the evening meal and getting the fire going in our ger, while we take in the atmosphere. Once the sun has begun to set in earnest, it gets quickly chillier, and we’re invited into the shack for airag and conversation. The place is run by an old woman who lives here alone. Well, that’s not entirely accurate – she has a dog, although it seems to spend all of its time outside, barking forlornly in a vain attempt to muster some company, and she shares her house with a disturbingly large number of flies, many of which are trying to get a piece of our approaching dinner. It seems a harsh and lonely existence here for someone of her advanced years, and conversation turns to practicalities. Where, for example, does she buy replacement light bulbs, or for that matter, food? Apparently the nearest place is twenty five kilometres away. Perhaps she rides the dog, as she seems to have no other means of transport. We also learn with some satisfaction, that we are almost certainly the last tourists of the year. I like the idea that after we leave, no-one will stay in this ger until sometime next April.  Dinner, when it comes, is an enormous stew, of such vast proportions that delicious as it is, neither of us can finish what we’re given.  Austin requests smaller portions for the rest of the trip. After a bit more airag, we retreat to the ger, now much warmed by its own stove. The camel hair sleeping bags are a bit of a mind bender however, consisting of multiple layers that appear only to close properly if one is willing to be trussed up like a mummy in a sarcophagus. Once installed, I realise that I can either lie sideways with a decidedly chilly shoulder, or lie on my back and be entirely warm but without the ability to move. Surprisingly, I still manage to sleep quite well until about 4am, at which point I have to go outside to use the facilities (the ground in this case) and then get the stove going again. After this I’m largely incapable of getting back to sleep, due in part to the slope of my bed, which has me perpetually rolling towards the wall, and in part to the dog, which barks grumblingly until well after dawn.

Tuesday 21^st September

   Up at 7.30 and into a crisp, clear morning on the steppe. I venture to the toilet proper, a rickety shed a hundred metres away, and find planks over a very ominous hole in the ground, and no door of any kind. The results of losing one’s footing do not bear consideration. Awaiting breakfast, Austin makes friends with the dog, and such is its enthusiasm for a little bit of attention, that its endless barking, which last night I found terribly irritating, now becomes poignantly sad, with the lonely air of a creature calling out every day and night, but hearing no reply from his kin. Breakfast in the fly-infested shack consists of severe Russian bread, veggie sausages, boiled eggs, and the now standard assortment of sugary condiments. We make sandwiches, but so appalling is their appearance (fashioned as they are using nothing but forks) that Austin feels compelled to photograph mine before I start eating it. Satiated, we spend a bit more time with the dog, whose still continuing cries lead us to the distraction, “There’s nothing for you here, this is a local steppe for local people.”

   Hishte and the old woman show us into some of the little temples dotted around, and there’s some nice stuff within – statuary, some nice thangkas, and lots of pretty prayer flags. At the second one we’re taken to, a small, roundish construction, we’re told that if one enters, bows, reverses out, and then walks round clockwise three times, one’s karma will be entirely cleansed. This seems like a bargain, and an opportunity not to be missed. I’m not sure what kind of deficit my karma has, but I’ll happily cleanse it all the same. Leaving the old woman behind, Hishte and the two of us move up into another valley, laden with rocks and boulders, and walled in by the kind of hills one could quite easily imagine concealing an Apache ambush party, towards another ruined monastery a few kilometres away. It’s a fun hike, and as we ascend the valley, through large groves of dead birch trees and the occasional animal skeleton, the view back in the direction of camp becomes ever more attractive. As we near the monastery, a group of horses appear, and provide a wonderful photo opportunity against the background of rugged hills behind us.  There isn’t a great deal left of the monastery, built about six hundred years ago, but what remains is thought-provoking, as another example of the needless waste and destruction wrought upon this country by the communist regime.

   Back at camp, we make final checks, thank our host, and then get ready to make way under utterly clear skies and yet more bright sunshine. Actually, it’s a little too bright if truth be told.  I have a travel mirror with a UV sensor, and when I put it out on the ground, it turns a deep purple, the maximum on the scale; sun cream may be in order. It’s gone 11am by the time we get moving, but we’re in gorgeous sunshine, moving through gorgeous landscapes, so no-one really cares. We stop off at yesterday’s gers to return the large container in which we bought the airag, and what remains is decanted into empty water bottles, which Hishte then hands to us with a mischievous smile, probably due to the fact that it’s not yet midday, and yet she’s already plying us with more horse milk alcohol. Ah well, when in Mongolia.

   Sometime later we pull up to another set of gers, on the promise of riding Bactrian camels. Unfortunately, or possibly not, they have all just left bearing another group of tourists. Rather than wait an hour for them to return, we elect to forego whatever pleasures we may have gleaned from spending sixty minutes astride bad-tempered, flea-bitten beasts, and go on our way.

Sooner than anticipated we are approaching the outskirts (although that term perhaps suggests a rather larger size than is realistic) of Kharkorin, nee Karakorum, the ancient capital of the Mongol Empire. We’re in Ovorkhangai Province, and today, where once there stood a magnificent city, one finds a depressing, bleak, communist inspired hole, dominated by a gargantuan flour factory. Indeed, one of the only remaining points of interest is Erdene Zuu Khiid, one of Mongolia’s first Buddhist monasteries, which lies just outside the town.  I say one of the remaining points of interest because on a hilltop nearby is a twenty foot stone phallus, adorned with blue ribbons, and rising (obviously) with abandon into the clear blue sky. This apparently, is a replacement for the old one, which is now broken and crumbling nearby. Originally, it was erected (excuse the term) to discourage monks from the monastery from going up into the hills to misbehave with local girls. I’m not entirely convinced that the sight of a giant erect penis would discourage anyone from anything, but there you go. In fact the hills themselves, when viewed from a distance, do by all accounts bear an uncanny resemblance to a vagina. I can’t help but think that if one wished to encourage abstinence, this would seem about the worst possible location in which to build a monastery.  A short walk from the giant phallus, is an Ovoo, a sacred pile of rocks bedecked with blue prayer flags. This particular one is also flanked by a row of skulls, and will, if walked around three times, apparently bring luck.  I make the required circuits, thereby securing both luck and karmic purity in a single day.

Down at the monastery, we park just across the road from two enormous golden eagles, perched on small wooden stands. They look oddly out of place amongst people and passing cars. Hishte accompanies us into Erdene Zuu Khiid while the driver waits behind and does, well, whatever it is he does at times like these.  It’s a remarkable place, covering a very large area here on the wide flat plain, and surrounded by a white-washed wall incorporating one hundred and eight stupas. The monastery was built in 1585, using stone from the remains of Karakorum itself. In 1939 the communists ruined it, leaving only nineteen of the original sixty temples. Satisfactorily denuded, they then turned it into a museum. Happily, since the fall of the communist regime, Erdene Zuu has once again become an active place of worship.  We’re shown around some of the temples by a local guide who speaks only Mongolian, so Hishte translates everything. There are some beautiful ancient thangkas and statues, and since this monastery was largely devoted to Vajrayana, or Tantric Buddhism, there are also many objects and pieces of artwork that fall into the ‘wrath, punishment and pain’ school. Interesting relics include cups made from human skulls, and musical instruments fashioned from human bones. In the only remaining temple that is actually used for spiritual practices, Hishte purchases a small zip lock bag of holy water, and another of herbs, for each of us. Apparently we can drink the water (it’s brown) and burn the herbs for spiritual cleansing.  I’m not honestly sure what I’m going to do with either of them, but it is a very, very nice gesture on her part in any case. I find much of Erdene Zuu very reminiscent of the Buddhist architecture in the Himalayas, which I suppose is not surprising as the religion spread here from Tibet in the first place. What is unique about this place however, is its atmosphere of remoteness and age. Here in the middle of the vast Mongolian emptiness, Erdene Zuu really feels like a relic lost in time, a glimpse into something long gone.

We get moving in the direction of Khar Balgas, the now ruined former capital of the 8^th Century Uighur Khaganate. It’s quite a way off, and we’ll be stopping there for lunch, which is a novel idea in itself.