Mongolia
Saturday 18th 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 19th 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 20th 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 21st 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 21st 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 8th Century Uighur Khaganate. It’s quite a way off, and we’ll be stopping there for lunch, which is a novel idea in itself.
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