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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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a note from Paddy -
thought you all would enjoy the following diary entries, I have been enjoying this blokes trek through Mongolia... you will reconize some of the pics from his site 
In June 2004 I hope to set out by horse, and a touch of Camel, from Mongolia to Hungary ‘In the footsteps of Ghengis Khan.’ The steppe that spreads out like an ocean from the orient to Europe has long been home to mounted nomads and is still one of the most legendary, yet murkily understood regions of the world. From some of the highest peaks in the world in the Tien Shan, to the bone-dry deserts and lush forests and steppe of Mongolia it is a place of superlatives. Read on below for an introductory account.
‘The edge of the earth.’ ‘An ocean of grassy plains.’ ‘Realm of the Barbarians.’ ‘Where lofty mountains bridge heaven and earth.’ ‘Deserts that dry men to a crisp.’ These have been the murmurings of Europeans for millennia about the vast steppe of central Asia, a region that has always been on the very fringes of western consciousness. Indefinable, mysterious, a middle earth tucked between the taiga of the north and the world’s greatest mountain chains in the south, it continues to stir imagination. It was from somewhere beyond its ‘shores’ that fearsome Mongolian horse-riding warriors, living in round felt tents appeared conquering all in their path. Then, like the tide, they receded beyond the wide horizons of the steppe. Their lifestyle on the move- carrying minimal possessions, having no desire to lay roots for longer than a single season- has always remained as alien, frightening, and curious to those living sedentary lives.
In 2004, pursuing his passion for adventure and curiosity about people and their lives, Tim Cope will set off from Mongolia to Hungary by horse. A testing journey of 10,000km it will take him into the lives of the nomads still living today, and in the footsteps of those passed into legend. In particular it will follow the Khan Empire – the largest in history- that stretched as far as Hungary. What better way to understand this region than to experience it from the saddle, among the locals, intoxicated by the borderless steppe and taste of fermented mare’s milk?
From Mongolia’s majestic Altai Mountains Tim will cross into the plains of Kazakhstan, the high alpine pastures of the Tien Shan in Kyrgyzstan, then head westward on the fringes of the Kyzylkum desert to the dying Aral Sea where horses may be traded for camels. From here it will be across the steppe out of the wilderness into Russia where a horse and cart will be used onward into the Ukraine along the fertile coastland of the Black sea. Finally he will cross the Carpathian mountains into Hungary. From nomad heartland of Mongolia to civilized Europe where eight lane highways and cities abound it will be a unique look at the surviving legacies of the Mongols, the stories and issues of the current-day descendants, and how it must have felt as a steppe-dweller arriving at the end of his world and observing the oddity of sedentary life. Mingled with this will be Tim’s personal story as he strives to live a dream in the face of an epic challenge…for starters he has to learn to ride a horse.
- http://www.timcopejourneys.com
Last edited by Paddy the Scot on 05-05-2005 at 10:47
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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Well, things have finally started to move. On Monday after a sleepless night I bundled everything into Mum and Dad's commodore and we set off to the airport (and we needed the station wagon for the room!). I had my last glimpses of Australia between moments of nodding off to sleep in exhaustion.
The Qantas check-in attendant almost had a heart attack when she weighed my bag- 42 kg....and that was only one of three! Fortunately Qantas baggage had earlier agreed to free excess luggage- without that I would probably have to finish up the journey half way on my budget.
After a stop over in Hong Kong I flew direct to Beijing to be met with sweltering heat and the smoggy skies that are routine for this city. With about 15 million people or so all cramped together into this one place its about as far away from the open steppe as you could imagine. Ironic then to think that the Mongols once ruled over all of China.....in fact Kublai Khan (Ghengis' grandson) moved his capital to what is now Beijing- the Mongols founded this place!
Despite wanting to head to Mongolia ASAP, life is never that easy. The Kazakstan and Mongolian embassies have been dramas in themselves. After three days of trying, I have gone around and aorund in circles- funny opening times, no one answering phones, and mistakes made by foreign affairs in both countries who failed to send in the correct information.
For the moment I have my fingers crossed that I will successfully apply for my 12 month Kazak visa on Monday, my Mongolian visa on Tuesday, and be gone on the train by Wednesday..that is if everythinbg works.
The past few weeks have been unbelievably hectic as everything finally came together. There are many people who helped in invaluable ways, including sponsors who have put in fantastic committment. The list now includes Iridium, Mountain Designs, Internetrix, Saxton Speaking Bureau, Odyssey Adventures, Australian Geographic, Fuji, Baffin, Equip, Mobile Power, Dick Smith Foods, Reflex Sports, Leatherman Australia, MSR, Inspired Orthotic Solutions, Mountain Horse, Lonely Planet, Magellan, Bogong Horseback Adventure, Horses and Horsemen, Nungar Knots, and Ortlieb. Thanks also to John and Alison Kearney, David Clarkson, Steve Milner (for that great bag to lug my saddle around in!), Qantas and Cathay Pacific, Mum and Dad, Get Lost Camping, and remote repairs who put in some valuable support and help to get me over the finish line.
I guess I just have to wait it out here for a little longer. Be sure to keep tabs on progress as things unfold in the next few weeks.
Tim Cope
Last edited by Paddy the Scot on 05-05-2005 at 10:04
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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I sit here at an internet Cafe feeling really rather hungry. My appetite has come back with a vengeance after a rather tough introduction last week- a bit of the compulsory traveller's gastro.
I am still in Ulaan Baater 10 days after arriving in this fascinating city. 60 percent of the population live in 'ger' suburbs- basically huge sprawling suburbs of fenced in tents. Downtown you pass by a mix opf new landcruisers, and elderly herders wearing the traditional buddhust dele. Pot holes are big enough to swallow cars whole, and when it rains they literally do! The elections are coming up and so you can find campaign 'gers' in between apartment blocks sporting free billard tables for the public and every now and then the odd cheap pop concert.
I have been staying with a family that i have come to know during my previous visits here. Jarantai, a 30 year old Deaf man, actually visited Australia in 2002- I will never forget how he had his head out the window for and hour when i picked him up from melbourne airport in the car.
Much of the past week has been about meeting the family and trying to overcome more visa troubles. Despite being told one thing in Australia and Beijing, I am told another here. After 10 days of traipsing from offce to office, phone call after phonecall the miracle happened yesterday and I had my visa extended out to four months!
Yesterday was cause for celebration for more than one reason. Bayara, Jarantai's sister had her final graduation exam after 4 years full time studying fashion design. The day began in classic style. Her brother's old 1980 mercedes had broken down again and the streets were flooded from rains and broken water pipes. For an hour or so we pushed started the car, jumped in, and would wait for it to again conk out. At 10 am we were late for her exam, covered in mud, and I had my arm in a puddle up to my elbow searching for a spanner that had just fallen off the towbar of the car pulling us out of a rather huge pond in the road. Due to there being no hot water in the city no one had washed for a day or so, and Bayara had been up half the night sick due to eating a bad egg. Considering this I was amazed at how calm Bayara was. Everything was going wrong and yet she just took everything in her stride.
A few hours later I had my visa and she was dressed up in front of parading models displaying her designs to a panel of judges.
Its easy to look and be astonished by how people cope in countries not so wealthy as our own....but it is another to truly understand what it must be like to strive and live dreams in the midst of living conditions that pit the odds against you. Makes so much of our problems in the west seem petty, especially when people here just seem to get on with things with little complaint.
One of the highlights of the past week was visiting the black market so seek out some more horse gear. There were stalls after stalls with hundreds of different raw hide products hanging up. Three legged hobbles, whips, sweat sticks- and all smelling like dead animals. The horse bits all come in one universal size here, and the Mongolian saddles are wooden models with metal decorations placed to dig into the inner thigh.
This shopping exercise made the trip feel a bit more real and the forested mountains surrounding Ulaan Baatar all the more alluring.
With luck, I will actually get to try everything out tomorrow with a young horse trainer/guide/historian called 'Gansukh.' We will head out of town and try all the gear on a horse or two. On Friday myself, Bayara and Gansukh will then go to Kharkorin, 400km from here, and find some herders willing to sell horses. After a few days of living with them and training the horses the journey will finally get underway good and proper! (I just hope the trip will be easier than it has been to get this far!).
Have to Run,
Tim.
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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I sit in the midst of a thunderstorm in a ger. Outside hail falls like small golf balls. Preceding the storm was the ever-present dust clouds filling the sky and turning it a murky brown. I am actually in Kharkorin, the ancient capital of the Mongol empire. Ghengis Khan himself chose to move the capital here. Building began after his death by his son. This was once a bustling place with diplomats, traders, and different herders from places stretching the breadth of the Mongol empire and further. Today it is a village of about 12,000. The only real remnants of its glorious past today are a few stone turtles- that fittingly represent eternity.
Last Saturday morning I set off from Ulaan Baatar with all of my gear jammed into the back of a Russian 4WD van. As I left the apartment where I had been staying, Agaa, the babushka filled me with confidence: ‘Tim! You need a camel
for your gear, not a horse!” Outside I turned to see her throw milk from a cup from the third story – a gesture of good luck. Gansukh, who I had met earlier at the UK embassy had offered to help me find good ‘hero’s’ horses so that I would have the best chance at getting off to a good start. Gansukh was also passionate about Mongolian history and culture- particularly horses. He had grown up in the city but had come to appreciate the nomad way of life. At 26 years of age he had become a revered guide, and set up
his own company offering unique tours. We got on well together and I felt lucky to have met him- I understood that having personal connections, and being able to communicate were just as important as riding a horse if I was ever going to
get this trip off the ground.
The van bucked and swayed its way south west of Ulaan Baatar, much like a yacht on the high seas. Eventually a dry valley bordered by sands dunes and sharp, rocky mountains drifted into view. The herder couple that were in the van with
us pointed out the window with a look of excitement. “Look, that is our home!” A couple of white specs could be seen in the
all-consuming space before us. In fact ‘Damba’ and ‘Saraa’ and their son would be my hosts for the next week.
Soon after arrival I was sitting in a Ger (the mobile tent home of the Mongolians) marvelling at the colour and space inside, and chewing on a healthy piece of dried yoghurt. A few hours later, the elder of the camp rounded up some horses and came galloping back in cloud of dust. I watched from the sand
dunes, overlooking this valley and the endless rolling mountains and steppe beyond. The sight of horses at once made me feel on edge, frightened, and quietly excited. After 12 months of preparation, it all came down to these next
crucial few days. Watching the mastery of the elder on his horse made me feel somewhat uneasy- did they know that I was still a beginner?
The extended family and neighbouring nomads all came out to check my gear and try it out. My lessons in ‘introduce a horse slowly and carefully to new things’ went out the door. Two guys held onto the horse, attached my saddle, and then someone jumped off and galloped away. Everyone took turns, all agreeing that it was a very comfortable seat. Despite being quite positive about my saddle there was a general feeling that a ‘white man’ didn’t have much of a chance at such a journey. And to be honest, watching these masters work with the horses I wasn’t so sure I was up
to it either. Gansukh was having trouble convincing them that I was serious, let alone capable.
The head of the camp, and elder herder ‘Ochirbat’ called a kind of conference- all the local herders slouched over my saddle in the dust. Orchibat was a large guy with a broad, kind face that showed as many ripples and lines as the steppe
itself.
‘And so how far do you want to travel per day?’
‘Why don’t you take a camel?’
‘What about wolves?’
‘Do you have a gun?’
‘What will you do in the rain?’
‘What if someone steals your horses?’
After each answer was translated all men turned and eyed me in poised silence. Amazingly there was a general positive nodding after my every answer. I had at least passed the first test.
‘Now it time to drink tea!’ Orchibat eventually commanded.
We retired to a Ger where we all sat back, each finding a comfortable position- whether it be against the wall of the tent, a piece of furniture, or just the floor. A cup of vodka was passed around, and again through Gansukh I began to ask and answer questions. Then I went outside where I was invited to wrestle with ‘Damba’ my host herder. I almost had him over until he lifted me off the ground and threatened to pummel me into the sand. The vodka hadn’t helped my
efforts. As the sun set and the goats were herded in close to the gers I set about opening a kind of local cinema. Gansukh was very keen for the herders to see my cycling documentary. Eventually about 20 people crowded into the
tent, and for one hour sat glued to the computer screen.
By the end they at least understood that this was a ‘white man’ who had been in very difficult weather. Many were a bit confused about why you would take off on such a trip, but it didn’t really matter. The next day things got underway, that is after the rain stopped. It had been a drought in this area for a long time and so the herders believed that I was a guest that had brought good luck. It was also a good sign for the horses-more grass for them to eat along the way! A few herders crowded into a ger where a large manual sewing machine
was set up. My Australian bridles were worked on first- they took off half of the straps until it resembled the basic Mongolian model. My halters were ruled out and so
they stitched up some new ones. Mongolian horses are so used to being approached from the left that even the halters have the lead rope clip on the left side of the face. Hobbles were made by stitching up some material that I had bought at the market and attaching pieces of wood to create basic locks for tying three legs. At night it is very important for me to tether and hobble the horses so that they don’t run away.
Meanwhile Saraa worked on pulverising some dried beef. Gansukh had been adamant that I take this dried beef, just like the Mongols during Ghengis Khan’s time. The atmosphere in Mongolia is so dry that everything can easily be dried, and
this was one of the many secrets that lead to the Mongolian empire success. You only need about half a handful for a very tasty meal. The Mongolians could even live for a week without food- just by drawing a few cups of blood from the neck
vein of a horse and sewing it up each time. They also had no need to take food for the horses meaning they travelled a lot faster and light weight than any other army at the time. The day was broken by a trip into the local village for voting- it was the national election day. Despite voting being voluntary there is a 95 percent turn out in the countryside- for herders it is a chance to dress up and ride their best horses into town and meet with others. Gansukh’s idea was to announce to the herders at the polling booth that he was interested in buying
horses. Initially the herder’s near us had been reluctant to give horses or good prices when they discovered that I was a foreigner. Gansukh did not return until late evening- it turned out he had visited six different families to inspect the horses. They had found at least two that were quiet in nature, and the right character for my kind of trip. Some herders 40km away would be riding them to our camp the next day for negotiations of price.
The next day was scorching hot and so most people in the camp snoozed the day away in their ger tents. Late in the afternoon Damba took out his binoculars and said that the herders had arrived with the horses. Gansukh left for a few
hours with Damba and returned finally with a deal. He had agreed to buy two horses for about 150,000 tugrik each (about $140). There was no time to waste and so we jumped in Gansukh’s van and hurtled across the steppe to the ger camp in the distance where the horses were waiting. Along the way we made a detour to a ger where we purchased a bottle of vodka. We pulled up at the ger where our two horses were tied up- a relatively large white gelding that had been a racehorse at some point in its life, and a dark brown gelding. The large white one was for me, whilst the dark brown was to be the packhorse. Inside the tent Gansukh presented the vodka and payment ceremonially. The two herders parked on stools had dark weathered faces that were as rough as the desert-steppe outside. After a while the atmosphere relaxed and vodka was passed around in a communal cup. The herders were keen to know what I thought about their horses and conditions in Australia. I could tell that this was a very serious sale for the herders. It was a lot of money for them and they were some of their better horses. For them Gansukh explained, selling good horses was like selling their favourite pet dog. It was important for them to know that the horses were going to a good owner. Eventually the deal was approved and our meeting was over. In the evening the son of the herders brought the horses down to our ger where everyone took turns testing them out. Ochirbat came out to watch. ‘Yes, it’s a great horse! Look at the walk on it. That gait means that your horse will not depreciate in value!’ A rather large herder from a nearby camp jumped on and said that ‘oh yes, this must be my saddle and my horse.’ Eventually they willed me on to have a go. Taking a big breath I jumped on. I was unsteady at first until I found my feet in the stirrups. When I looked up again I was motoring out into the steppe, the horses’ feet and legs pounding
away beneath me. Amazingly, it was not only comfortable but I held on without any problems as the pace raised to a canter. When I turned back to the group of herders all looking on in curiosity I could not hide the grin that split across my face. Somehow, things were working. With evening came a scarlet sunset that merged with the sea of brown and green.
The sound of children playing in a nearby stream floated on the breeze and a hundred goats’ feet pattered the earth as they made their way back to camp for the night. Gansukh and I rode the horses bareback down to a lush patch of green
where we tied them up with my metal stakes and ropes. I wandered back feeling light and dreamy. The months and months of stressful preparation in Melbourne were beginning to wash away revealing the fresh sweet taste of living a dream.
In the morning it was time to say goodbye to Gansukh and Bayara. They had both helped me immeasurably and in return I could only offer my gratitude. They had
given me the best start I could imagine. Now it was up to me. I waved goodbye realising that I would have to get by from now on with my poor Mongolian.
I spent the day with Damba herding his goats and horses. It was a clear summer’s day and we lay in meadows with the horse lead ropes loosely in our hands, the horses munching the grass around our feet, our skin warmed by the sun. A couple of storms later rushed across the steppe and we took shelter in gers to drink tea. I went to bed with images of horses galloping across plains and the sense of freedom that this wide, open land gives you. In the morning the expedition was to begin.
By midday we were packed. I bought a third horse from Damba’s herd- for Kathrin who would join me for two months. Damba would guide me for the next three days 80km to Kharkorin where he would return home and I would meet with
Kathrin.
With a ladle of mare’s milk thrown into the air by Saraa for good luck we mounted and began to move forward. The first few steps were confusing for the horse. I had my video camera out and accidently pulled the reins to one
side. The first few metres of the expedition were going around in tight circles. The locals were amused as they wished us the best of luck. Then we lumbered off towards the sand dunes and the ger camp was soon out of sight. Everything moved slowly for me as I tried to take it all in. These were the first incremental metres of a journey that would end 10,000km away in a land that I couldn’t comprehend.
We made a path along the sand dunes and then over to some grassy plains. Behind us rocky peaks rose with jagged edges into the sky. In front of me Damba ‘towed’ the packhorse towards green hills on the horizon. The going was slow for the first few hours and we were constantly stopping to adjust the pack-horse. I was very aware that injuring the pack-horse
early on would be a disaster. By late afternoon we reached a pass in the hills from where we overlooked a valley that would mark our path for the rest of the day. A cold wind
brought rain and it set in for most of the afternoon.
Late in the evening we made camp having covered about 35km and sat back to watch the last hues of the sky fade out as the dried meat cooked over my MSR. Damba refused to sleep in the tent and instead slept outside on his coat. During
the night he woke several times to check on the horses. Having the horses escape or being stolen would be one of my biggest risks according to all back at his home.
The following day revealed a wide blue sky and we made easy progress over the hills. We rode to a high peak for lunch where Damba overdosed on cigarettes and sleep in the shade of my pack boxes. We had a funny way of communicating- he
would speak in Mongolian, and I would speak mainly Russian and English. Neither of us understood the words but we always seemed to come to an understanding. If in doubt, Damba would just smile, roll another ‘Tabak’ and keep going.
After lunch we passed by a herd of camels and by late afternoon were rising to a high saddle where we overlooked the wide plains. Far in the distance glinting in the evening sun was Kharkorin- this town that was once capital to the largest land empire that has ever been.
It was the last night I would spend with Damba and I spent most of the time learning as many knots as possible. The Mongolians tend to be experts dealing with loose rope because buckles and the like are few and far between.
Eventually Damba pointed to the clear sky ‘it will rain tonight. I will sleep in tent.’
Morning went just as smoothly as the last two days and we trotted across the plains to Kharkorin, a ramshackle looking village with forested mountains rising sharply on the southern side. Erdene Zuu was our first stop. This was Mongolia’s first Buddhist monastery and built with the remnants of materials
left from Kharkorin’s glory days. Here I felt as if my journey was to truly begin.
A bit later this morning Damba left to return home and I came to stay at a ger in wait for Kathrin. She is due to arrive within an hour or two. Then we will take the horses to graze inside the monastery where the grass is getting a bit long- that is according to the curator.
Lets see how things go without a guide from here on in.
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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The last three or four days have been a challenge but gradually Kathrin and I have been adjusting to this routine. It leaves you exhausted enough to fall asleep in your clothes every night even before you get a chance to crawl into the sleeping bag. We have been making about 20km a day but packing is taking a long time and the horses have been reflecting some of our own nervous state of mind.
Anyway, on Tuesday night we finished a fantastic day of following a valley from the village of Khotont on the way to Tsetserleg. As usual we pegged the horses out around the tent with my stakes, ropes, and hobbles. I fell asleep
in my clothes…again. At about 2am I was woken by the horses neighing. I didn’t think much of it but got up to go to the toilet. It was pitch black outside and it was hard to see anything. The first thing that worried me was that I could not hear the bell on the pack-horse- an alarm system of sorts. I wandered further and found my horse, but in the dark the other two could not be seen. My heart pounded, I fell to my knees in disbelief and then hurried back to the tent for a torch. My horse was still neighing and trying to break free. Out in the dark I could hear my horses!! But how far were they? Probably 300-400m. I searched desperately
for any clues. What I found by torch light made me squirm. The bell, hobbles and lead rope were all neatly lying on the ground. ‘Kathrin, the horses are gone! Two of them have been stolen!’ Kathrin leaped out of the tent but it was hopeless. We were blinded by the darkness and in no position to give chase. My mind raced- what could we do? How could we recover them? I just can’t believe it!!!!
I rang Tseren in Ulaan Baatar to get her opinion and spent the next few hours with Kathrin trying to learn phrases from the dictionary: ‘Two of my horses have been stolen’
‘Have you seen my horse?’
‘Where is the police station’
‘Thief.’
At 5.30am as the sky lightened I saddled up, grabbed a back pack with a few essentials and cantered away to the nearest ger. In the morning light herders were just getting up to tend to their animals. I approached the first Ger at speed. It must have been someone we had met or someone closeby who had carried out this crime. I was met with faces of disbelief (after I had made my Mongolian intelligible), and cantered from ger to ger with the same response. By now the sun was up and it began to occur to me just how many horses there
were in the area- hundreds upon hundreds. The chances of finding them seemed very remote. My idea was to tell as many locals as possible then make for Khotont police station 20km further up the valley.
I was motoring around a swamp at speed when someone waved me to their
ger.
‘Hello, how are you!’ the lady shouted as she tended to some goats.
Taken aback by her English I approached and told my tale. Soon later I had tied my horse and taken up her offer to go by motorbike to Khotont. Twenty minutes later I was on the Iridium satellite phone to Tseren when I looked up the hill
in disbelief. There they were. My two horses galloping over the crest!!!! They came running with a herd of about 70 horses that happened to belong to the family with whom this lady was staying with! I couldn’t believe it. Here I was eight kilometres from our camp in one of many ger camps just at the right moment.
What happened over the next few hours was a bit confusing but the important thing was that we had found the horses. At first the family said that the horses had run away due to my bad rope tying. I knew this to be false, and to prove the point, somehow the halters and lead ropes that were attached
to the horses were missing. The herder was adamant that they had just come to his herd that morning, and without any halters, or bridles. The story changed several times until it was concluded that it must have been children who stole the
animals because they wanted our halters and ropes. We paid a visit the Ger closest to our camp but once again they were adamant that they knew nothing. I spent the whole day with the family drinking airag (fermented mare’s milk), catching our horses, making new halters and eventually bringing the
horses back to our campsite where poor Kathrin had been waiting all day.
We feel extremely lucky to have the horses back, and that we have learnt a valuable lesson. It’s hard to know how to prevent it happening again apart from sleeping outside or tying the horses to our feet! Horse rustling is very common
across Mongolia and at 1-2am in the morning it’s the best time to strike. One solution could be to take turns at watch, or to befriend herders most nights and camp close to gers.
Anyway we have been held up by at least a day, but the horses needed to graze anyway and the weather today is rain, rain and more rain. We will begin later this afternoon wiser than when we first arrived.
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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It’s been a week of ups and downs, from the freedom of the green open steppe to the reality of having horses stolen. Right now I lie by a campfire and listen to the flurry of rapids on a nearby river. The moon is on its way up and stars are blinking on in an incandescent sky. Kathrin is fiddling away in the tent and the horses are resting after a big couple of days of eating. We are camped about four kilometres out of the town of Tseteserleg. It is a beautiful town nestled into some particularly rocky and steep mountains.
It has been the Nadaam festival for the last two days. Nadaam is the annual Mongolian celebration of the three manly sports- horse racing, wrestling and archery. All are a throwback to the skills that made the Mongols the most successful nomads in history. Tsetserleg was awash with horses and four wheel drives. Outside the cafes and bars rows and rows of horses could be seen tethered. There was even a make-do cinema to treat the nomads with about 30 horses tied up outside.
In total we lost two days due to the horse stealing incident, but eventually we left with new halters and a set of hobbles. I must admit that I haven’t had a decent sleep since then- waking every hour or less with heart beating, head out the tent peering into the darkness.
From our camp we headed up into some lofty green mountains breathing in the crisp alpine air. In the evening shadows caressed the curves of the landscape that folded out like a crumpled green blanket as far as the eye could see. Out of sight I could hear the distant drum of hooves and echo of a herders evening singing.
The following day we crossed a high pass and descended into a valley that we followed all day. In the late afternoon families dressed in colourful Deles and carrying plentiful fermented mare’s milk came across the land from distant camps for Nadaam. Kids could be seen training for horse racing- galloping, screaming, bolting without saddles at frightening pace. We made camp next to a ger and staked out the horses in the calm of sunset. Herders were rounding up horses and geese and swans were coming and going from a nearby lake.
To get to Tstetserleg the following day we covered 35km and for the first time encouraged the horses to trot for a considerable time. We followed a river valley that was lined by rugged mountains, steppe and forest. Numerous times we were invited in for fermented mares milk and vodka…in the late afternoon we gave in and sat about in all this lush green and downed each and every glass that was passed to us. The horses always seem to settle into a calm rhythm when the sun is lower and cooler and so we settled in for a long, sleepy plod into late evening where we crossed a river near Tseteserleg.
Since beginning we are both becoming to tune into the horses and the environment around us. I cannot stop marvelling at the experience- six months ago I had almost never been on a horse! Despite being from different herds the horses are forming a close knit group. Even if we take one horse for a drink to the river the others whinny and desperately try to follow despite being hobbled.
Its an exhaustive routine, and in some ways these animals are like children- you have to constantly watch and care for them. Getting into town for essentials can be one of the most complicated things. Where to leave the horses? How to get into town? I doubt I will be staying in anything other than a tent for a long, long time. But its all worth it. The feeling of being able to pick a point on the horizon and go for it, the unpredictability, the companionship, the feeling of meeting the locals on a level footing. I just have to constantly pinch myself.
This week we will be heading further west through Arkhangai province. Hope all is well wherever you are. Time to sleep.
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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Its one in the morning and I write as bugs patter the tent like rain. The light from this computer must be attracting all the bugs from a kilometre radius! In three hours I have to get up and begin to prepare the horses for another day.
The past week has run somewhat smoothly. Having left the roads all together Kathrin and I have been following the map, choosing different mountain passes and valleys every day.
To get to this camp we had a fantastic 40km day rising from a lush river valley over a high pass from where the mountains looked more like islands stranded on the open steppe. A thunderstorm rushed across the land and soon we were being pelted with raindrops that felt the size of buckets. Later as the rain cleared we waded through herds of yaks, goats, sheep and horses. Ahead the only sign of inhabitants the familiar white spec- a ger. Late in the evening we arrived at a canyon where the last rays of golden light were just catching the cliffs, steppe and mountains beyond. Unfortunately the grass was not good however so we followed a couple of herders returning from hunting back to their camp.
For two days we have been resting the horses and entertaining the local families. At 9am they arrive at the tent and we do not have a second to ourselves until midnight. The boomerang and my platypus hydration bladder are favourite toys! We were almost out of food and so bought some fermented mare’s milk, yoghurt, dried yoghurt, yak butter and flour.
At the moment my head is heavy and I need to sleep. We are adjusting well to the horses and are currently near Tariat. We have covered about 330km and hope that we can improve on our pace during the next week. The biggest problem in the past week has just been too many invitations into gers for Vodka and fermented mare’s milk (Airag).
We have also come up with names for our three horses: the packhorse is ‘Pupser’ which means ‘farter’ in German (he tends to break wind as often as we break the trail), my horse is ‘Corolla’ (because it is white like my 1984 pride and joy, is efficient, responsive, low maintenance and pretty cheap as far as horses go), and Kathrin’s horse is ‘Schnecke’ (snail) because it has possibly the slowest walk of any horse on this earth.
Distance is hard to gauge here with such long, wide horizons with nothing to give it a sense of scale. Every now and then when I see Kathrin in the distance inching her way along I get a sense that Hungary is still a bloody long way…..and the exciting thing is that I don’t really know what is going to happen between here and there.
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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I awoke in brisk cold and checked my watch- 5.30am. Next I crawled out of my nice warm cocoon and unzipped the tent door. My heart raced as my eyes adjusted to the dim morning light. Eventually, one…… two…..three, ‘phew’ all horses still there. It was the sixth and last time I would get up during the night to check on them.
I packed my things and headed up a nearby hill to survey the morning scene. We had camped on the far western shore of Tsaagan Nuur (lake) and an orange glow on the horizon warned of the sun that would eventually breath warmth back into the freezing air. Below our tent was dwarfed by the mountains to the north and the lake that spread out like a sea to the west. Pegged out around our tent were the horses all still munching away steadily at lush grass. The sound of swans and seagulls echoing across the water sounded eerie in this land of dry deserts and open steppe. The horizon was as tempting as ever and I was happy that we would be able to get a good early start before the searing heat of day.
As we packed the sun breached the mountains and sent splinters of light across the land. In places it peeled away the shadows to reveal golden tinged grass and rock, and on the lake it sent mist curling towards the sky.
By 7.30am we were packing the horses when a couple of herders came into view. With no objects to give a sense of scale, they ‘enlarged’ so to speak until they were true human size to the eye and parked their horses next to us. They both wore blue deles, the traditional coat or dress worn by Mongolians. Slung over their backs were a couple of rifles for hunting marmot and wolf. We had barely greeted them when one of their horses ripped its stake out of the ground and bolted. It ran straight to a nearby herd. One of the men, (later we knew him as Davajargalan) jumped on his horse and galloped off. It was not so simple though. The herd caught wind and stampeded over the hill and out of sight. ‘Nerga’ the younger of the two ran off after them. We were left in silence with just their rifles lying by our camp. Over the next half hour we watched them come in and out of sight, in and out of earshot with no success. We decided to lend Nerga Kathrin’s horse and my climbing rope and off they went again.
An hour passed. Nothing. Kathrin climbed to the top of the hill and saw only the open steppe. After and hour and a half I was getting worried, and disappointed that it would not be an early start. I jumped on my horse and cantered off in the vague direction we had last seen them. I found them soon later walking slowly back. I approached with a smile ‘Got him!’ But something was up. They looked down at the ground sheepishly.
‘We do not have your rope.’
In pursuit of the horse Nerga had accidently thrown my rope out into the lake and lost it. Any kind of ‘rope’ in the countryside was extremely rare here, and I wondered how I would peg out our three horses from now on. Not convinced it was a lost cause we all rode back to the approximate place where it had been lost. For Mongolians who are famous for their inability to swim and fear of water, the rope was already a foregone conclusion. We arrived at the sandy peninsula jutting out into the glassy water and Nerga swung his arm out in a big arc ‘somewhere out there’ I assumed he meant. Much to the surprise of the Mongolians I stripped off to my undies and left my clothes in a pile on the pebbles. They all shook their heads, laughed, and sat down to watch the show. It must have been quite a sight- an Aussie with dark tanned arms and face and a milky white body sauntering off into the water as if it was the most normal thing in the world. For the next hour I waded around up to my waist feeling the bottom with my feet and scanning the mud and sand below. The herders smoked cigarettes and threw pebbles out to suspect locations. One moment it was fifteen metres out, the next five metres out and ten metres to the right. A couple of other herders had spotted the fiasco from miles off with their binoculars (or more accurately monoculars) and came to join the fun. I was about to give up and retreat when I caught something in my toe. I pulled it up. There it was! The herders stopped laughing, and their sheepish looks vanished. I dressed, jumped back on my horse and we all trotted back to the camp where Kathrin had been left to wonder what on earth was going on. ‘A good story at least’ I tried to explain to the men. I was happy to have had a wash as well.
At camp we communicated for a while- that is long pauses of silence and looks of curiosity, then a few understandable words (and a lot of unintelligible ones as well). Nevertheless we had a good understanding by the time we all headed off.
We had only just said goodbye when we looked up to the sky to be met with a wall of black clouds gushing over the mountains and quickly enveloping the view. Thunder sounded and soon a rushing wind came hurtling towards us. We stopped and dressed in Goretex, just in time to turn our backs into a tirade of hail. In the space of a few minutes it went from hot to freezing. I held onto the lead ropes and felt my hands go numb. We had not even had time to hobble the horses and they were threatening to run in this wild weather. For an hour we stood like the horses- looking miserable with our behinds into the wind and rain, hoping and waiting for it to pass.
Then pass, it did. The wind halted abruptly and relative silence reigned. The wall of black gave way to blue and before too long we were baking hot and I was searching for the relief that the odd cloud brings.
By the time we really got moving it was 2pm. We wound our way around rocky peaks where eagles and falcons circled majestically. In the distance on hillsides the silhouettes of riders could be seen, herding sheep and goats. The animals moved like schools of fish across the ocean-like steppe.
Another storm broke the day and we took an invitation to a ger where we welcomed fresh Yak cheese and dried goat’s yoghurt (Aral).
The sky cleared and as usual for the end of the day we took the glare of the sun on the face for a few hours until we all felt a bit dizzy and exhausted. A wide open plain ringed by olive-green mountains opened up to our right and even from a distance we could see that the grass was good. We were all looking forward to the end of another day.
Unpacking- heaving off the saddles and boxes, letting the blankets dry before the arrival of dew, hobbling the horses and watching them munch greedily. The sun goes down and I lie next to the MSR stove and cook up another enticing meal of dried beef and macaroni. The warmth evaporates and the cold sets in. Staking out the horses, checking the knots, securing the hobbles.
It’s the end of another day. There are over 500 days remaining. I feel exhausted, yet again intoxicated by the routines of riding and another horizon elapsing.
That day was four days ago. Since then we have made our way up several valleys, and finally we have followed a challenging mountain route. Yesterday we wound our way up a narrow valley reaching higher towards some 3000m peaks. The last ger was in a remote patch of grass in the shadow of the mountains. An old almost toothless herder in a shredded dele warned us of terrain. We spent the afternoon climbing to the saddle where we arrived last night to be met with another even more violent storm. Up here there is a sound in the wind and a feeling to the land that here is quite wild. We are at 2500m and it is more of an arctic landscape. A few trees stand up to the wind, rising from permafrost-like earth. We are camped near a small alpine lake called ‘Davaa Nuur’ and overlook the valley we spent all yesterday meandering through. From here mountain peaks to the south rise up like crests on a stormy sea. The route to the north-west is still veiled in mist and cloud. Today we have not moved, ambushed by the weather. I am curious to know what it will be like over this pass. The next few days will be through relatively remote terrain. No doubt we will descend into yet another different part of Mongolia shortly.
Lastly, its seems fitting to put in a quote from Henning Haslund’s book about his extraordinary adventures in Mongolia in the 1920’s. He captured the spirit of Mongolia better than anyone else I have read. I am envious of the land he entered by horse and camel train- before the days of trains and four-wheel drives. Even in Mongolia today if you take a route away from the main roads and tourist destinations, then I think you can still find that spirit; in the people, the land, and the history that is ever present. When I sat outside last night cooking up the dried beef, taking cover from the wind, peering into the depths of the mountains beyond and at the way my horse stood -tail blowing in the wind- I felt that life here is timeless.
“Before us now stretched Mongolia with deserts trembling in the mirages, with endless steppes covered with emeral-green grass and multitudes of wild flowers, with nameless snow peaks, limitless forests, thundering rivers and swift mountain streams. The way that we had travelled with such toil had disappeared behind us among gorges and ravines. We could not have dreamed of a more captivating entrance to a new country, and when the sun sank upon that day, we felt as though born into a new life- a life which had the strength of the hills, the depth of the heavens and the beauty of the sunrise.” Henning Haslund
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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Somehow we had to get out of this campsite. For two days heavy rain and hail had lashed our tent and shrouded our intended mountain pass in cloud. Diesel for the stove was almost finished, food supplies were low, and the horses looked miserable standing for hours with their tails into the wind. The only other people we had seen were a couple of wandering herders searching for 150 missing yaks. They had sheltered in our tiny tent during one of many hailstorms and took some persuading not to light their cigarettes.
At 5am the air bit hard into my fingers as we began to pack. By 7am the sun was filtering through thick cloud and bringing some relief. We mounted the horses and pressed forward- a huge relief just to move. From the campsite we passed an alpine lake ‘Davaa Nuur’ and then began to ascend to the hidden mountain pass. The landscape reminded me of Arctic Tundra. The surface was boggy due to permafrost below and riddled with tough bushes such as willow and birch. We had left summer behind in the valley. My toes were numb in the stirrups and Kathrin was rugged up in her warmest clothes with the hood drawn tightly shut.
After an hour or so we came to a halt. My horse had just panicked after sinking into bog up to its knees.
“Is this really going to be possible?” I said, turning to Kathrin. The boggy permafrost continued for at least another 8km to the mountain pass that was still beyond view. The alternative was a three or four day ride back down to the valley and around. I surveyed the view again. To my right mist curled of the back of some menacing cliffs. A chill of excitement and fear rushed through me.
“We will just have to try walking I guess.”
The process of walking, stumbling, sinking up to the knees, doubling back, dragging the reluctant horses began. For six hours we trudged on stopping only once to boost sugar levels. The air cooled and every now and then we bowed our heads into sleet and hail.
Then as if in an unlikely dream the silhouette of an ovoo came into sight. It was the pass! An ovoo looks rather like a cairn from a distance. They are made of rocks or branches or both and always bear a silky blue sash. They are offering to the gods as per shamanistic beliefs and the blue sash represents ‘Tengerin’ the god of the sky. We approached with heavy feet and broad grins, and just as we came to a halt it began to snow. We circled the ovoo and offered a few pebbles ourselves. There were a couple of offerings on this ovoo apart from rock- a crushed tea thermos and a broken vodka bottle. Despite it being a lonely and rarely visited ovoo it brought us great comfort as if someone or something was watching over our journey. The ovoo also marked the end of permafrost and the first piece of sturdy ground all day.
As often happens in crossing mountain ranges you descend into a different world. A valley snaked its way down through the mist shouldered by heavy forest. A fire had swept through sometime recently and left only blackened remains. Fireweed had been the first plant to grow back and its vibrant purple colours stood out against the soot and were far brighter than the sky. We lost altitude quickly and soon found ourselves well below the chilling clouds and protected from the high raking winds. I decided to keep on walking and took pleasure in the smell of the plants and the trickle of the stream as it gathered momentum on its downward path. Marmots scurried away from us constantly and the horses took every advantage to snap up a bit of long seeding grass. After a few hours the valley widened and flattened and I got back on the horse. The sun came out and we fell into a rhythm letting the horse choose the path at times, and marvelling at the sense of calm and silence. There were no gers around the next corner or riders on the horizon. The length of the grass alone was a sign that no one had been here for a long time. Perhaps this place had not been re-visited since the fire? I imagined that this was the kind of place where people had come to hide and eek out a living through hunting and fishing- much like Ghengis Khan had done several times during his youth.
Eventually the sun was beginning to scrape the edges of the blackened forest on the high ridges and we made camp next to the stream that was by now ten metres wide with clear fast running water and smooth round pebbles.
We had just finished setting up camp and I was preparing to collapse. I noticed the horses at first- ears twitching, eyes suddenly trained to the south of us. A high pitch howling echoed up the valley. Before we could say anything it became a chorus. My eyes searched desperately, up and down the ridges, into the burnt out forest- nothing. Then came silence. It was wolves, and many of them.
I had always laughed at Mongolian warnings ‘watch out for wolves….do you have a gun?’ I knew that wolves very rarely attacked humans, but alone in this valley I didn’t want to wait to find out if it was true or not. What really scared me was the potential for the wolves to scare the horses, or worse still attack. The horses would break loose and run, and we would be left, stranded in this place far away from help. There was no time to loose.
Two hours later I lay exhausted, and covered in black soot from head to toe. We now had a healthy heap of firewood that I hoped would see us through the night. The horses were staked close to the tent and we had both seen to urinating nearby as an extra precaution in warding off any hungry wolves. Our weapons of last resort were an axe and a couple of hiking poles. Kathrin took her shift at night watch first. I fell into a deep sleep feeling as if we had entered the set of Henning Haslund’s grand adventures in Mongolia in the 1920’s. He wrote very much about encounters with wolves and the importance of keeping a fire going at night. He had always had a gun though!
‘Tim, wake up, its your turn.’ I woke with a start. ‘Are the horses OK?’
‘Yeah, no problems. No wolves, but its extremely cold. You will need your down jacket for sure.’
I crawled out reluctantly and once out of the tent darted over to the warmth of the fire. It was just after 3am and the clouds had drifted away to reveal a sky lit up by an almost full moon and a million stars. The wolves had obviously been scared off by our efforts. I stoked the fire, checked the horses, then hunched up next to the warming coals and shut my eyes.
I don’t know how many minutes passed but I know that I found myself on my feet and with eyes wide open within a skeric of a second. A deep thumping in my chest made it hard to train my hearing into the murky nothingness before me. It came again. A deep, throaty howl cutting through the freezing air like a knife. And it was only one or two hundred metres away! The horses stopped eating, poised.
‘Kathrin, did you hear that!’
It sounded again, and suddenly there were more coming from the other side of the campsite down the valley. It was like a domino effect. The howls went on for a minute or so until it felt that we were completely surrounded. Then came that deathly silence again. Nothing. No sounds, no eyes, just the still silhouettes of burnt trees in the moonlight and the rustle of the river. I checked my watch: 3.30. There was still another three hours before the sun took away the mystery and cover of night. I looked at our meagre remains of firewood and just hoped that I could make it last that long.
For the next few hours I lay in a trance- captured by the fire, alert to any noise, watching as gradually the moon set over the ridge and the black sky turned a dark blue with the sun inching its way back to us. I moved closer and closer to the fire and realised that everything was now covered in icy frost. Our water supplies had frozen.
I never heard the wolves again. When the sun came up I shook the ice crystals off our tent door and slipped inside. ‘Time to get up Kathrin.’ Three hours later I woke up from a slumber in the tent fully clothed. The tent was like a sauna in the glaring sun and I was sweating profusely. It was time for another day.
The valley continued to surprise us. It varied from wide, flat sections to narrow gorges where we followed traces of an abandoned track up steep rocky hillsides. The forest did not change a great deal though- all blackened and burnt with purple fireweed. Just near our camp were reminders of the previous nights adventure- many fresh wolf tracks. We saw other tracks too- of some kind of deer, and also hare. It was as if they had all vanished with the night though. The forest appeared eerily silent and empty. It was hard to imagine how it must have been before the guttered everything.
By late afternoon the river had widened to fifty metres of split channels and we rounded a bend to see the valley open out into a true plain of golden grass. Compared with the permafrost of the day before this was a relative savannah. In the distance there were signs of ‘civilisation’ too. Some boxed shaped winter log huts and animal shelters were built into the hillside. The ground was even and we began to trot. I felt as if the horses were enjoying the opportunity to move freely as well. The sun plodded down and we passed in the shade of some enormous larch trees, preserved from the fire by their close proximity to the river. Through gaps in the foliage I caught the first glimpse of a ger that we had had in days. Next to it was a log house with a tendril of smoke wafting out of the chimney. Kathrin mentioned that it reminded her of something out of the Canadian Rockies. We had reached a bend in the valley where it turned north and headed towards the town of Tosontsengel.
I felt at ease, and excited to be revisiting a place where people lived. It meant that wolves wouldn’t be a problem, the temperature would be warmer, and I looked forward to meeting the locals who lived in such an isolated region. The need to cover distance had also been worrying me and I presumed that we could now cover our aim of 25-30km a day. By late evening we had passed a herd of Yaks and made camp by the river within a couple of hundred metres of a ger. The moon rose and I made a fire thinking to myself how perfect the world was.
The local herder had just come to watch me cook dinner when the headlights of a Russian van came motoring towards us. ‘Kathrin, make sure he doesn’t hit the horses!’ She ran to hold the horses as I lifted the boiling pot of water off the fire and turned into the lights. The van came to an abrupt halt just two or three metres from me. From beyond the glare of the lights a man stumbled into view. He grabbed me and I got a whiff of the rich vodka on his breath.
‘Where! Where! Where!’ he screamed in bad Russian. I refused to understand his question- he was obviously trying to ask where I was from. He started in Mongolian.
‘Do you have whiskey? Vodka? Airag?’
‘No, sorry, I don’t.’ His aggression came across as strong as his alcohol and amplified by his drunkenness. He wore jeans, a cowboy-type hat and a shirt like someone from the town. His mood sloshed around.
‘Hey you! River! Me! You! Come here with me!’ He grabbed my arm and suggested that he wanted to dunk me in the river and give me a good bashing. I resisted, and did not respond to his finger that was digging into my chest and then my face. I didn’t understand what he was on about, and either did Kathrin.
‘I take two of your horses now! They are now mine!’ I pretended not to understand. I looked to the herder who just seemed to be giggling and amused. This went on for half an hour or so, his aggression coming in illogical and unpredictable waves. He spied my knife which I quickly hid in my jacket. He grabbed me and foraged around in my pocket to find my map.
‘Hey you! This map is mine! You give me your knife! I give you your map!’ He ushered me to the car but I resisted. He became more enraged and feigned a punch into my face and chest. I stood still. I knew from experience that reacting would just give him some kind of deluded legitimacy to start a real fight.
Finally he jumped in the van and refused to give the map back. He left me with a throbbing backside, booting me as a last lovely gesture. Then his van jerked forward. We all went running out of the way, herder included, and the lights meandered out of sight. We were left trembling a little, exhausted.
There was silence until the herder mentioned that the man would come back tonight to carry out his threats. It was time to move. I tipped out the dinner water, and we packed with adrenaline and the herder urging us on. The poor horses had only been free for a few hours. We left in the darkness and followed the herder over the river to his ger where dogs barked relentlessly. There we staked out the horses and moved our gear into his ger. It was 1am, and we lay down, shaken, and exhausted. I was dreaming of the wilderness, wolves or no wolves. We were not out of the woods yet though.
I was woken by the thundering of hooves, then the door swinging open in the darkness. Three bodies stumbled in talking loudly, obviously drunk. They almost tripped over Kathrin before I turned my torch on. It was the owners of the ger, and our herder friend refused to wake up and explain how we had come to sleeping on their floor. It was 5.30am before we put head to rest again, and at 6.30am heads were rising with hangovers to prepare for milking the yaks. We were still struggling to explain our situation.
I stumbled out eventually with Kathrin to check the horses. As if it were a bad joke I noticed at once a large swelling at the rear of my horse’s back. I had checked his back every day and night and this was the first sign of anything. It was swollen at a place where he had one of several bad scars from the previous owner. I could not ride him today.
By 2pm we were well and truly ready to leave. We could not afford to take my planned route without a map and would have to take the main valley to Tosontsengel. We were about to set off when two guys suggested that they could get our map back. It had mysteriously ended up at the doctor’s place in a tiny village 10km away. We set off and promised to meet the two guys who would return on horse with our map.
Walking was hard. With a 20kg backpack I lead my horse, motivated by the urge to get as far away as possible from these people. Even the herder who had taken us in was quite strange. He never said a word to us in the morning and hid behind the ger when we left.
An hour or two later the two riders appeared. We all sat on the ground, but I could not see our map.
‘We give you map, and you give us money.’ I knew it would be a problem. We only had a 10,000 tugrik ($10US) note left with no smaller change. The two men asserted that they had no money with them. When they eyed the money it was all over.
’10,000 will be OK. If not we take your map and go now.’ We pleaded with them but in the end it was either 10,000 or nothing and no map. I gave in and parted with enough money to travel about 600km by local transport in Mongolia.
We left at a faster pace, convinced that we had just entered a valley where the people were only interested in our money or equipment. Over the next few hours many people approached on horse and motorbike and without exception they wanted something- either my saddle or money for something. Every herder eyeing us was another potential horse rustler, saddle-stealer, drunken thug. Crossing over the mountains had given us a deceptive sense of remoteness- we had simply re-entered civilisation.
I tried to work out how and why our luck had changed and peered longingly up into the mountains. Then I remembered a tiny little ovoo that we had passed by in the valley the previous afternoon on that big savannah-like plain. It was a tiny ovoo with a few sticks thrown together and a bit of frayed blue sash. It had occurred to me as a funny little gesture in a tame landscape. We had passed on the right hand side without making an offering or even circling it clockwise as tradition dictates. I now recalled that not stopping at an ovoo, or not taking them seriously would bring misfortune. Myth or not, I was not about to make the same mistake if an ovoo stood on our path again.
I walked for about seven hours until our accessible drinking water had finished and both Kathrin and I were complaining about dry, sticky mouthes. My right foot had become wet early on during a river crossing and it was now riddled with blisters. We had covered 30km and finally entered a part of the valley with less gers. I had my eye on a couple of gers in the distance when a sharp pain shot up from my heel. A particularly large blister had finally burst. Kathrin had been eyeing up a camp of five gers to our right where the locals were busily milking yaks. She had a good feeling about the place, so we turned and hoped for the best.
I arrived hobbling, dry-mouthed, and probably not looking terribly savoury. A couple of elderly women stopped milking and some children rushed over. We stopped within a few metres and finally spoke.
‘I am Australian, and she is a German. We are riding horses to Bayan Olgiy……..’
The old lady looked like a Babushka with large rosy cheeks and built like a tractor. Her large features seemed to ooze with friendliness. We were grinning from ear to ear. I handed over a slip of paper with an important sentence in Mongolian: ‘can we please camp near your ger.’ This was our strategy for avoiding night-time raids and horse rustlers.
‘Of course!’
Then suddenly children were leading our horses to a patch of green. There was good grass, a golden sun, our friend the river, and a few minutes later…a pot of drought-breaking Mongolian tea and even some fresh yoghurt!!! The tent was set up in a daze with many helping hands and smiles that were lit up in the last rays of the setting sun. We drank so much yoghurt and tea that it felt as if I could never be thirsty again and eventually collapsed into bed falling into the deep grip of sleep. How things could turn around.
Even before we had discussed it Kathrin and I decided that this place would be ideal for our two rest days. The horses needed to rest and eat, and our bodies needed some time for sleep and general recuperation. The next day I got a lift into the town of Tosontsengel by motorbike and replenished our food supplies. Unfortunately though the town was out of diesel and unleaded fuel so we would have to go without our stove for the next week or so. I wanted to charge the phone batteries as well but discovered that Tosontsengel only had electricity for three hours a day- between 8pm and 11pm. I returned to our mini paradise where Kathrin was basically being force fed with yak butter and intestines filled with meat and blood.
Over the next day or so we were constantly warmed and fascinated by these families. During the day the many children- about 15- played about whilst the mothers, fathers, and older brothers and sisters worked on and off. There was fish to be caught, leather to be made, wood to be chopped, sheep to be slaughtered, yaks to be milked, and sheep stomachs to be cleaned and filled with yak butter for the winter. Every couple of hours a grinning face would come to us and ask questioningly:
‘Drink milk? Drink Yoghurt? Eat butter? Have Aral (dried yoghurt)?’ There was always a pot of salty Mongolian tea nearby and someone genuinely interested in us and what we were doing- not our gear or money. The grandfather of one family, a 78 year old man wandered out very now and then to carry out a Buddhist ceremony of some kind. Laughter abounded between work, and every now and then people would break into rounds of singing.
The network of people between the five gers was confusing and took us several hours of questioning to work out. The little baby for example wrapped in a ‘baby dele’ was passed around constantly from little girl to old grandmother, to younger brother so that it was impossible to work out who the mother was and which ger she lived in. We visited most of the five gers and there was always people coming and going. The old Babushka was married to a man with gold-rimmed glasses (noticeable because he was the first herder we had seen with glasses!), and together they had had eight children. Three of them now lived within this ger camp, two girls and a boy. They all had children of their own, accounting for some of the many little faces.
A man that we came to refer to between us as ‘Russian speaking, no teeth’ was the brother of the woman who had married the Babushka’s son. And so on, and so on we eventually understood the tangle of people. The way that everyone came and went, that there were always people around to help gave the camp an air of friendliness and support that I had rarely encountered. During summer it must be a paradise for children to have so many other children around. Playing by the river, with the horses, with old wagons, or with nothing at all was more addictive than video games could ever be. The rest of the year must have been different though. ‘Russian, no teeth’ explained to us that the children went away to town for school for two-three months at a time, often only returning for weekends, and every now and then two week breaks.
During winter the river would be frozen, and the families would move to another location and hope that most of their livestock would see it through the bitter cold.
It was with a pinch of sadness that we eventually left, but once again a relief to feel movement. Over the last three days we have left our river all together and crossed into some semi-desert. We camped on a wide plain far from any gers and made our way eventually to the shores of Telmen Nuur (lake) where the horses drank greedily. We have been walking at least 12 km each day to rest the horses a little and carrying backpacks to keep as much weight off them as possible. I am worried about my horse. He has always had terribly scarring on his back and the swelling that came up is probably an indicator of how sensitive those areas of his skin are. I have treated it and the swelling has gone down, but it is still sore. Luckily though it is in a place that is not actually touching the saddle- it’s further to the rear. One option now to save our legs and my horse would be to get a fourth ‘spare’ horse. Not sure what we will do at this stage, see how things go over the next couple of days.
By GPS we have now covered about 570km (probably well over 600km in reality when you take into consideration all the meandering). There is almost the same distance to Ulaangom where Kathrin will have to leave back to Germany. From there another 300km or so to Olgiy where the Mongolian leg will finish. It all seems a long, long way ahead.
Tim.
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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We were watering the horses down by the lake. Clouds were rolling in over the mountains and a herd of bactrian (two-humped) camels watched on in interest. We were due to leave in the morning but the more I thought about it, the more I worried. We were barely half way across Mongolia, and the swelling on my horse’s back was still sensitive. My decision had been brewing for weeks, but it was time.
‘Kathrin, we will have to buy a fourth horse, and get it here.”
It made sense- it meant that we could always rest a horse and rotate duties and still keep moving. There was the problems involved though- could we really handle four horses? How could we be assured of not being ripped off? Our Mongolian was poor to say the least. Still, we had been staying with a family for a day and had come to know them well. This was our chance. What’s more, they had a large herd and made most of there money in the summer by selling airag (fermented mare’s milk).
After plucking up a bit of courage we entered one of the three gers in the camp and asked whether they had a tame, quiet horse available for sale.
‘So, how much?’ the family eventually asked. I gave them a range between 100-150,000 Tugrik ($100-150) which is the going rate for good horses in Mongolia. Bata, the man we had come to know best smiled and went silent. For about ten minutes nothing was said. He flicked the crappy little television on (powered by 12V car battery) and became entranced by a long-haired Mongolian pop-star singing about Ghengis Khan. The woman in the Ger continued boiling Yak milk. I wasn’t sure if they had understood me at all. At some indeterminable point he spun around, a grin splitting across his weathered face.
‘Do you drink Vodka!…..We do have a horse.’
There was a sense of celebration among the Gers. Although there was three families, the horses were owned collectively and so everyone would benefit. With all the men dressed in there Dele’s in the evening cold we wandered over to a large, sedate looking horse with rusty red markings on its legs, ears, and rump. They gave it a few whacks on the behind, and the kid demonstrated that it was indeed a gelding by grabbing its penis. The horse barely moved. As a ‘Taivan, Nomkhon’ horse (quiet, tame) it was used by the young children, and for us this was important- most Mongolian horses are terrified of everything foreign- saddles, clothes, people, even bridles. The sun was setting but they were sure we had a deal. We would test it out in the morning.
Early the next morning I spoke with Sheila, an Equine vet based in Margaret River (Western Australia). She was visiting the Watsons, who had helped me considerable before departing Australia with the basics of horsemanship. She was her normal chirpy, positive self and had determined that the most likely cause of the swelling on my horses back of the warble fly- a parasite that travels through the body from the legs and eventually rises beneath the skin on the spine. Then the skin breaks open and the flies exit. This explained the sudden swelling, and the fact that the swelling was not actually under the saddle or anything else that could have caused such a problem. In terms of treatment, the best thing was to keep the horse’s back free from anything for a week. Buying the fourth horse was the perfect solution for us.
As it turned out, our morning test turned into a midday horse-test. Bata’s family was actually moving six kilometres to a spot under some mountains in the distance. In the space of about three hours their Ger was packed away into the back of a Russian truck/utility and the departed, leaving just a ring of dead grass where their home had just been. I was amazed by their efficiency. Here they were moving their home in a few hours when it was taking us 2-3 hours just to get moving each morning!
The horse was much bigger than ours and in comparison it felt like I was sitting on a truck. He was neighing and whinnying towards his herd and wanted desperately to ignore my attempts at riding. We tested our all of our gear, including a crupper (around the tail- never used in Mongolia!) and the pack saddle and boxes. To our amazement it barely moved. Not only did we have an extra riding horse, but a second pack-horse as well! He was not perfect. Like most Mongolian horses his back sloped down towards the shoulders and he had a few fairly fresh wounds from fights with other horses. But he was tame, and the next Ger was a tiny spec on the horizon. Our afternoon departure was delayed until morning by the time we had tried everything.
In the evening we were served with bowls and bowls of sweet yoghurt and invited into the two remaining gers for double rounds of everything. Late into the night one of the herders made a pair of hobbles for us, making the locking pieces from sawn off goats horns. As a last gesture before we paid, he plucked a handful of hair out of the horse’s tail and mane and hung it on a rope dangling from the circular opening inside his Ger. Every Ger has this and you find everything from horse manure to hair tied to it. All things horse are good luck, especially a good long serving horse that has just been sold. We thanked them for the horse, and they thanked us- it was very rare to make such a sale and the money would go a long way.
The next morning we set off. It took a couple of hours to stop the new horse from turning its head back to its herd, but by late afternoon we had our first trot. It took a few frustrating tries, but eventually there were six of us, rushing, flying, floating over the grass and open steppe. I felt as if we were complete, and lucky. We camped on the remote western edge of Telmen lake and watched white swans in the distance and let the horses munch into some healthy grass. Before we went to sleep, Kathrin had decided on the name for the new member of the team- ‘rusty.’
From the lake we left the security of water and headed into a dry valley past a large collection of Kurgans- circular piles of rocks, bordered by stones pointing to the north, south, east and west. These are the ancient graves of the early nomads of the steppe, several of thousands of years old. Horses were buried along with the dead. Today you see them with goats climbing all over, or right next to a Ger, or even in a town centre.
The village of Nomrog was the next stop. A tiny place where the shops sold sweets, biscuits, cigarettes……and polish-made hair dye. Sheila had given us a handy tip the morning earlier. To prevent horse-stealing we could dye the horses with a ridiculous colour to make them look conspicuous and a little ridiculous.
The following morning I was putting hobbles on Rusty when he went crazy. He tried to kick them off, and then fell to the ground, giving up. When I rushed over to take the hobbles of I discovered that the hobbles had cut into his skin giving a bad rope burn. I swore. I couldn’t believe it. He might have been a tame horse, but he certainly had not been trained to use hobbles. Why hadn’t the family told us this! All horses I had come across in Mongolia were accustomed to hobbles, and whats more they had even given us hobbles for him. As I would later discover, Rusty was not the perfect 12-year old horse either- the nomad at the next ger estimated that he was about 16- a grandpa!
Nevertheless he is a strong horse, and has since been travelling extremely well. I was onto Sheila the next morning and treated him with anti-inflammatory, anti-biotic cream, and half an hour standing in a cold stream. I rested him for a day and rode the other horse and things have been looking up. We don’t put hobbles on him now though and so the risk of him breaking free at night is very high.
Quickly now (battery is almost dead). We have spent time with more families- watched and experienced how they cook and eat the feet, head, intestines, and lips of goats- and experienced our first major frosts. It has been dropping down to minus five or ten at night and the green grass is quickly turning brown. We have been through scorched desert valleys, lush larch forest, and some extremely dry terrain. Our last day we travelled 40km without water, the last few kilometres at a canter to reach the river. We are camped near the town of Tes, 45km from the border with Russia. We have done about 750km or more, and with the changing of seasons it becomes more important to make distance. The winter in Kazakstan is not waiting for anyone. Loving it. Every day is vivid and striking, a new challenge. Have learnt a lot. It’s the kind of experience where it is hard to plan past lunchtime- each day is so surprising.
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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We left the village of Tes and headed into pouring rain. The day before it had been in the mid thirties and we had stood in the river cooling off while washing horse blankets. Locals meanwhile were swimming and collecting wood and berries in the forest. Now we rugged up in our coats and shivered, hoping that the sun would again come out. Ahead lay 130km to the next village of Baruunturuun. Our route would take us between the most northern desert in the world, the Borig Del Els, and the Hanhoi Mountain range.
Later that evening the clouds peeled back and we found ourselves plodding through sun-burnt grasslands. To our left mountains rose, topped with twisted rock formations. To our right looking south sand dunes were lit up looking like an ocean in mid-storm. Beyond them the Tes river could be seen bordered by a strip of lush Taiga forest. The horizon melted away into endless sand and distant mountains. Russia lay somewhere beyond. We made camp as the light turned golden. The horses grazed in waist-high grass and we climbed a stack of granite nearby and gazed silently for a luxurious hour or so. Birds of prey circled above and as the breeze slowed to nil, there was an abounding silence. I had to look and look again to believe the very contrasts and contradictions we were seeing all at one time. To complete this picture a few specs in the far, far distance caught the light for a few seconds- Gers.
Morning came, and with it a searing heat. The sand-dunes were soon wobbling in the liquid-looking mirage. A hard day passed. No sign of Gers, or water apart from a puddle that the horses greedily drank from. We rounded a hill and huge largely abandoned wheat crops came into view extending right up to the border of the sand. A flat plain lay ahead and what seemed like a few hours away was actually a day’s ride away. Plodding, plodding, the sun moving from our backs to our shoulders, then to our eyes in the evening. No matter what time we leave it is a long day. At 4km an hour on average 30km means about 8 hours in the saddle. A longer day for the horses no doubt. Just before we make camp an eagle swoops on us aiming for a bird that our horses have disturbed in the grass. The swishing noise, the chirp as the little bird escapes. He survives. The Eagle returns to is high circling above.
Dawn and we are greeted by the deep neighing of the horses. Each morning as soon as there is movement in the tent they talk to us. Sometimes it is because they are out of grass and need to be moved, but usually it just seems like a ‘good morning’ gesture.
Another hot day was guaranteed. After an early start we fortunately found a spring and a couple of Gers. The horses drank greedily, but still surprisingly little. It is well known that Mongolian horses are very tough- they are always left to their devices. They always find grass themselves, often drink no more than once a day (especially in desert regions) and in winter do not drink at all and get by digging up grass under the snow with their hooves. Later we reached the next river marked on the map. It was a well hidden stream in a gully surrounded by rocky dry ground. We took advantage and of the shade, grass and water for several hours.
Baruunturuun came into view the following afternoon through some rusty old iron arches. ‘Welcome to Baruunturuun.’ The town itself was a collection of gers surrounded by ramshackle fences, a few abandoned factories and an some poorly built wooden homes. There was no electricity and few signs of traffic. It is a strange sensation to travel for four days or so and see no more than one car a day, then arrive in a village. The only sign of contact with the outside world in the village was the local government office. It had several huge solar panels on the roof and a satellite dish.
While the horses drank and rested by the local river I wandered into town for shopping. Each ‘Delguur’ (shop) had basically the same standard goods bar a few items. I discovered that one shop had the luxury of bread, another had semolina, and one even had some carab spread and Russian butter! Shop-hopping seemed to be the done thing here. An irritated looking guy in a Russian truck followed me, stopping at each shopfront with the engine going, running in and running out until finally he found what he was looking for.
We left Baruunturuun late in the cool of evening and soon it was eclipsed by the horizon. The river we aimed for turned out to be dry, but by then it was getting dark. We headed to the only Ger in view in hope that they knew where the nearest spring was. It was time for a day or two of rest and water was essential. After setting the tent up we were invited into one of the Gers. Inside in the low light a couple of fresh sheep carcasses were gleaming, hung up on the inside wall. Steam flooded the air, thick with the smell of mutton. Eventually a bowl was laid out. Steaming, brown, slippery chunks. Liver, intestines, bones, heart, stomach. Seven children crowded around, armed with three knives between them. “Ma!” said one of the two women in the Ger. It is time to eat. Slurping, cutting, chewing. A five year old boy lies back and stares up at the ceiling of the tent gnawing on a bone that is half the size of his own body. Later the children all lie asleep on the floor looking like dead, but content starfish.
Inevitably the smells and taste were with us when we finally retired to the tent.
Our hosts, two Gers (two families) had shifted to this dry place down from the mountains several years earlier. They had become frustrated by the constant harassment of wolves and decided that life down in this dry land was better.
As it turned out, we were not the only guests. A motorbike turned up with the passengers the next morning rolling drunk, singing endlessly. We watched sheepishly from the tent. The drunks slurred voices rose and fell. They limped from one Ger to another, yelling, demanding. We dared not get involved. After an hour or so our hosts seemed to be trying to get rid of them. One of the drunks tried to grab the motorbike (which was owned by our host) which then fell to the ground. The younger brother of our host swung a punch and soon a fight was on. Soon later the very two people who were fighting got on the motorbike together. We understood that one drunk was being driven home.
When all was calm we visited the family again. We were surprised to find one of the drunks lying dead asleep on the floor. Later he awoke and I discovered that he spoke fluent Russian. He was actually a good friend of these families and had just flown in from Ulaan Baatar. The scrawny looking horse tied up outside was his and to our amazement he had paid 1000,000 Tugrik for it ($1000US). It was a race-horse and would earn him a lot of money apparently.
He explained to me that the horses in this region were well known to be of good quality. The prices here were higher too because of the demand for contraband trade of horses across the border in Russia. In fact ‘Baaya’’ as we knew him explained that there was a lot of illegal trade across the border and that you could literally walk straight into Russia across the sand-dunes. There were tales of hunters who routinely went on month-long trips as far as Kyzyl in Russia where they had a drink and set off home- all without a passport.
As evening set in it occurred to Kathrin and I that if possible, here would be a good place to trade-in ‘Tsaga’ my horse who had the problems with the warble flies on his back. We had not been able to ride him since buying the fourth horse despite 15 days of rest. These families owned 80 horses and after questioning Baaya explained that it would be possible.
Morning did not go as planned. I woke feeling as if someone was squeezing my stomach and bowels. Sitting up and I was overcome with nausea- too much meat. The sun came out with a vengeance and the day drifted into a daze. For a few hours I lay in one of the Gers trying not to move. I watched everything from ‘ground level.’ A truck had broken down on the road nearby and an entire family arrived to take cover from the heat. Hours passed in extreme heat, everyone just sitting, barely moving. A glass of vodka passed to me as a treatment and things only get worse. Both families get through the heat by dozing. Through a curtain of dried meat hanging under one of the beds I can see one of the mothers and her child lying in the dirt in the shade of the Ger outside. Little naked children wander in and out. Others lie snoring. Other herders arrive and leave by horse and motorbike, stopping for a cup of salty tea or just to say hello. Beginning to have the feeling that most herders have to play host on a daily basis to whoever drifts in across the steppe.
Lying, watching I am also aware more than usual how closely the Mongolians have to live with the rhythms of the weather. There is nothing separating them from the elements apart from felt and a bit of canvas. It is confronting to think that all you see is what they own. There is now winter home to return to, or a garage, full of gear. Basically as nomads they carry what they need. They do not have bank accounts but a herd of horses and sheep and goats. Historically they have been the enemy of settled peoples because they often came to raid them for goods- goods that to the nomads would have seemed like surplus anyway.
By late evening it was finally cooling down. I woke from my part-delirium to discover that the broken down truck had moved on, the Russian speaker had disappeared, and everyone was up and working again. The women were milking cows, the boys herding the sheep and goats, the toddlers playing outside. There was no mention of the horse-trading. We understood that it would happen elsewhere.
We said goodbye to the family by the flicker of candlelight. We presented them with a boomerang, two koalas, a packet of cigarettes, some AA batteries, and a photo from Australia. We planned to leave at 4am to avoid the heat the following day.
Another campsite, another encounter with locals. 30 km further west we reached some gers not far from the village of Zuungov. Here we found six Gers in a row and discovered that there were at least as many people who wanted to help set up the tent and pull apart our gear. One of difficult things about Mongolia for us sometimes is the sense of personal space. At one time we have had up to five people in our two man tent- they all just crawl in after zipping up the door. This can happen at any time. They like to test out our saddles by putting them in the sand or dirt and sitting on them. When we pack, they like to unpack everything and sprawl everything across the steppe. When you need to write diary or write on the computer you will have a crowd around the tent. Hands meanwhile come into the tent and every little minute thing is examined. Sometimes you will have people putting their hands into your pockets and taking everything out just to satisfy curiosity. They want to know the price of everything- even the sweets we bought in the local shop! And whats more they will wake you up at any time, and of course always ask that you give them your saddle, or bridle, or tent, or knife, or shoes to them as a gift, or as a trade with their own. We understand that there is an open hospitable culture. We are welcome at any ger at almost any time and greatly appreciate it. I do my best at trying to view each situation within the context of the Mongolian culture- the very culture we are enjoying and privileged to experience. But sometimes there is a certain fever about the herders, an amazement, astonishment and it can sometimes become intoxicating and turn to greed. And when you are tired and you feel like you are being treated like entertainment 24/7 it can be frustrating to say the least.
That said, this particular family were of course extremely friendly and we soon found ourselves in a Ger drinking tea. An old woman as creased and thin as a sheet appeared from a bed and quickly took up the horse-hair violin in her hand. She began to play the long drawn out tones while her husband smoked a long pipe and offered us to sniff his snuff bottle. Beyond him on the wall hung the jaws of a wolf. In Mongolia wolves are seen as very smart and lucky animals. If you see a wolf you are as smart and lucky as a wolf. If you kill a wolf you are smarter and more lucky than a wolf. Some home-made vodka (from fermented yoghurt) was passed around ceremoniously and the conversation started. This old couple had eight children- seven of them boys. Five of these boys lived in this Ger camp each with their own family. They collectively owned 18 camels of which they were very proud, and a large herd of sheep, goats, and of course horses.
That evening I checked our horses thoroughly as usual. Poopser, our brilliant packhorse had been developing some kind of soreness on his shoulders since Tes. The hair was rubbing away in some places, and a small scab had developed. We concluded that it must have been due to carrying the load with wet blankets for two days- firstly we hadn’t been able to dry them properly after washing them in Tes, and then there had been the one day of rain. I had always imagined that Poopser would be with me to the end. He was a deep chestnut colour with a quiet and friendly nature. He had never kicked, bitten, or done anything unfriendly to us and worked hard with little complaint despite a heavy load. It was like a bad dream to see these sores now- he had travelled over 40 days with no sign of problems until now. Firstly I did not want to hurt him, and although the sores were not at all bad, they would inevitably get worse if we continued further with him- we did not have the time to spare, or an extra horse for him to recover. In the morning I checked him again. He had been rolling and the scab had come off and with it some hair. I made my decision- despite losing a lot of money we would offer both Tsaga (my white horse) and Poopser to this family in return for one tame, fresh horse. Soon later I was on the phone to Gansukh, my Mongolian friend in Ulaan Baatar. He had personally chosen and found my horses originally and had a deep interest and care in the fate of them. I put him on the phone to one of the men so he could explain in detail where the horses were from, and why I wanted to trade. One man eyes lit up at the idea and he suggested to Gansukh that he liked our horses and had a horse he could give us. Gansukh was excited. I was extremely sad and in disbelief that our companions were on the verge of being handed over.
‘I am happy Tim. And I will tell you the reason later’ said Gansukh before I ended the call.
Our buyer was one of the seven sons of the elderly couple and he was soon boasting about the idea to his brothers. He sent is son off to fetch a few horses from the herd and we spent the next few hours choosing horses. The first one was tame- they put six kids on its back and it didn’t move but they discovered it had an injured leg. The second horse bolted when I tried to check its back. The third horse looked wild, and definitely Mongoolian. It had dredlocks in its mane, an untamed look in its eyes and sturdy little legs. It was however a very tame and quiet horse who let me touch and check it all over. Despite being small, its back fitted my saddle better than most Mongolian horses, and soon I was riding him, cantering over the hill, remembering the great feeling of being able to ride without baggage.
He was no doubt not worth as much as either of our horses, which were from a famous race-horse breeding area called Badingol. I had come to understand that our horses were indeed rare in Mongolia. Their colours, shape, and nature was the envy of many nomads we had met. This family was getting the deal of their life, and despite losing out financially, we could rest in the knowledge that the horses had gone to a nice family. We would not have to worry about hurting them, and they would be together- important since they were originally from the same herd.
The deal was done. After spending the afternoon saying goodbye to our friends and filming and photographing them their halters were taken off and Mongolian bridles put on. We pulled some hair out of their tails and manes and several members of the family took some hair out of our new horse as well. I shook hands and he explained that the name of this new horse was ‘Bokus.’ The fact that this family took this so seriously seemed positive to me- perhaps we did have a good horse at least.
I went to sleep with the image of the horses on my mind. I had woken with them for over fifty days and they had become an integral part of the journey. Their presence had crept up on me and now I looked ahead with a sense of sadness. It wouldn’t be the same without our herd from Badingol. Our third horse originally from that area, Schneke, neighed desperately for a couple of hours into the night and eventually fell silent. The bond between the horses had become so strong that even if you took one to the water the others would follow desperately unwilling to be separated.
It was dark when we awoke and set about packing the horses. One of the men came to us with his little boy by the hand. They visited the horse and he explained to him why the horse was going. It was the boy’s horse of course and he probably had a stronger bond with it than we had with our own horses. He sat on it for one last time looking confused on my strange Australian saddle. Then without words the father unravelled a small bone to me and tied it around my wrist. It was the ankle bone of a wolf.
After some hot milk in the Ger, it was time to say goodbye. Tsaga and Poopser already seemed at home here, making the most of their new found freedom, eating grass heartily. We had made the right decision. The little boy cried as we rode off, but by the time we crossed the nearby river they were already just getting back into the routine of another day on the steppe. The camels were released and a little boy chased them on his horse. A woman was wandering down to collect water and a sheep was being slaughtered in the morning cool. With a herd that no longer felt like ours we rode off into another day.
Late in the evening I called Gansukh. I was curious as to why he was so happy that the horses were sold.
“Tim, I have spoken at length with Damba about the horses (Damba was the herdsman who had guided me at the start and who had sold us the last remaining horse- Schneke). We are very happy that you have taken great care of them. We are happy that you have trade those two horses now. In Bayan Olgiy it is very, very likely that if you sell the horses there they will be eaten as meat this winter. The Kazakhs have different traditions to our own……and no matter what, if any of the horses survive the winter they will escape and run home in Spring.”
He went on to say that Dama was proud that Schneke was the last remaining horse but sad that his horse was so far away.
Now I sit in the tent just 30km away from the family where we traded the horses. How quickly things change. From here we have a tough route- 100km of semi desert without water. We will try to cover it in two days by travelling at night to avoid the heat. Gansukh has warned us about wolves.
Then within another day or so we will arrive in Ulaangom, the capital of Uvs Aimag. We will have covered more than 1000km, and it will be time for another big change……Kathrin will be leaving and I will be dealing with everything on my own. I wonder what state of mind I will be in next time I write.
Tim.
(PS Unfortunately there are no new photos at the moment because I did not realize that you cannot buy good AA batteries in any town apart from Ulaan Baatar. The cheap AA batteries here are not even powerful enough to turn the camera on. Apologies.)
PPS Tent suffered first major damage. A goat put its head through the door (when it wasn’t open)! Plus, seen our first nomads on the move- an entire Ger being moved by camel train.
PPPS Thanks to the students at Mill Park Secondary college in Melbourne and Guildford Grammar in Perth for asking me such interesting questions over the Iridium satellite phone. It’s a fantastic experience to be able to talk straight from the experience here.
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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This text is like a Russian Babushka doll, you open one (text) and you find something that has been written earlier and so on.
Right now I’m living in a “movie”, back in Germany at my parents’ place, being offered all the advantages of Western civilization (yes, I’ve been driving my car again today for the first time after more than a year, the computer is working without me worrying about battery power, I can just open the fridge if I’m hungry and the washing machine is almost collapsing with all the dirty stuff I brought back) and in total stress about starting a new job on Friday on one hand (back to school, moving houses, health check, German bureaucracy and paperwork here kills me) and quite sad and wanting to go back and have this journey never stop on the other.
My almost illegible scribbling from two days ago will be “published” here.
I’m sitting on the plane from Beijing to Frankfurt with very mixed feelings and have a look at what I wrote four days ago when I had to leave Tim and the horses and return from Ulaangom to Ulaanbataaar. Knowing that Tim has no battery power left and how hard it is to keep everything updated this time it’s my turn to tell you a little bit about Mongolia, more a revue than an update – maybe from a different and female perspective, maybe with some repetition of what Tim has already told.
[But just one warning in advance: I tend to write VERY, VERY long texts in my beautiful German English  so reading might take a little while!]
So that’s it?! Two months on horseback in Mongolia, more than 1000km (1380km according to the road map) from Kharkhorin (Karakorum) to Ulaangom in the far North West, many sleepless nights and exciting days – already September.
It feels like a movie and I can’t realise yet that my time is over, no more waking up and being greeted by the neighing of the horses.
When Tim and I first talked about the vague possibility of me joining him for a little while we were living in Melbourne, Australia, in a flat with all necessary and unnecessary luxuries around. As he planned this big journey to be one he would do on his own the idea of having me come even for a little while had to develop slowly, be thought through well and it required some changes, of course.
But after travelling through Australia for another few weeks I finally went back to Germany for only a week (that’s enough to kiss parents “Hello” and “Goodbye”, do some washing and repack) and had my flight ticket to Ulaanbataar as well as – with good luck – a 3 month visa for Mongolia. By the way Tim was very upset about the easiness I got my visa after all his dramas.
On my way to meet Tim
The adventure could begin. And it did indeed with an uncomfortable, very long and bumpy but funny ride in a private minibus from UB to Kharkhorin. The “deal” Gansukh made for me with the driver was not more than 8 people and that we would leave within the next 1,5 hours. Don’t believe these fairy tales, it’s Mongolia!: We picked up another three boys and an enormous amount of luggage, everyone and everyhting was squeezed in and hours later we were finally on the move. But not for long. So the first Mongolian experience was being patient: the breaks and stops, often in the middle of nowhere, didn’t make sense to me but just don’t question it. Anyway I was lucky not to sit in one of the many vehicles that break down and the people were really nice. One poor little fellow had to vomit every half hour – out of the window – while the other boys, three brothers travelling home with their father, just threw crisps and soft drinks into themselves right next to him.
The second experience I got used to on the way pretty quickly was using the toilet which means “Just take the big one”: squat down somewhere in the plain wide open, if you’re lucky you can hide behind s single grass halm or find a ditch.
Still I felt very excited and relieved when we finally arrived. Seeing Tim after more than a month in this new environment felt somehow strange. His face was tanned, his hair had grown, he smiled, obviously a bit nervous and insecure as well. But it also felt really good and we both knew we were not alone in this new situation.
The horses
We stayed in a guest ger where I saw the horses that would be our companions for the next weeks for the first time. There they were, tied to a fence, standing in the rain, a white horse, a reddish brown one and a dark brown one: Tsaga (aka Corolla the racehorse), Schnecke and Pupser. We chose their names a bit later after watching them carefully and I must admit we made the right choice.
“Tsaga” simply means “white horse” in Mongolian.
“Schnecke” is the German word for “snail” and it’s true that my horse had an extremely slow walk. You could have picked flowers on the way if there had been some which was a bit frustrating at times. Tim was usually riding ahead and during the first days I had a sore throat from shouting “chu” every few seconds, that is the typical Mongolian exclamation to make horses move. This horse obviously did not understand any Mongolian or my German accent was too strong?!
“Pupser” is the nice German name (i.e. a worse expression does exist but I use it for someone else once in a while) for someone who lets off some winds. As this guy was the packhorse I developed the not so serious explanation that the reason was being squeezed inbetween two boxes and therefore the need to release some of the pressure. Anyway you were better off not riding too close behind him.
Some time later on the way we bought our fourth horse “Rusty”, a really big and strong and funny-looking white horse with little rusty-coloured spots and legs that gave me the impression that his owners had left him standing for too long in the nearby lake.
Later we decided to swop our two good but tired horses Tsaga and Pupser for one new horse, Pokus or Bogus, the first Mongolian horse that already had a name. The bonbon (sweet) I gave to the little boy the early morning we left with his horse didn’t make it much easier for him. But also for us the farewell was hard.
The decision to leave them was not easy but the right one: the horses’ health and well-being has been first priority in every single moment and in all we’ve been doing. Checking them constantly, making sure they don’t get sores or suffer in any kind, trying to find the best grass and water every day at lunch or for camp and asking the vet back in Australia (Thank you, Sheila!) if there was any doubt has been our major aim.
That’s why sometimes you have to say “Goodbye” to a horse or find another one. Personally I was just happy that Tsaga and Pupser could stay together as they originally came from the same herde.
So Schnecke had to bond with Rusty and Pokus which was a bit hard in the beginning. I reckon Schnecke would have preferred to follow Pupser’s elegant behind instead.
Learning on the way – in many kinds
Daily tasks
The first days were really hard for both of us until we had developed a certain routine and also got more confident with horses. Tim had learned some things from the Mongolian guide Damba within the three days before I arrived.
Before this trip I’ve been “sitting on a horse” for a few hours, been on a wonderful 5-day packhorse trip in the Victorian Alps (Steve and Cath Baird, Bogong Horseback) and had the chance to learn more about developing a safe riding horse during five days with Sascha and Sam Watson (Horses and Horsemanship)
But now this was reality, there were no fences, no paddock, nonw to tell you what to do, it was just Tim and me and the horses.
The daily routine of packing up, saddling the horses, planning the route, riding, lunch break, finding a good campsite, setting it up, watering and staking the horses out in the evening etc. has soon become familiar. Tim is much better with knots [ ] and more efficient and faster – I must have somehow adjusted to Schnecke’s speed in doing certain things.
Our relationship
I had to laugh when Tim was asked in a classroom chat via satellite phone by one of the Perth students about our relationship because he described it in the possibly best way:
“It is more like a business relationship: There’s so much work to do and you have to rely on each other, there’s not much time for each other or privacy (explanation see also later). But it’s good to know that you’re not alone and that you have someone with you who can help, you can trust and share everything with.”
That’s simply true. The image of a loving couple cantering over the fields, holding hands and eventually kissing as in the Czech fairy tale movie I loved as a kid just doesn’t work with two “grass-greedy” horses on the sides and something else on our minds. Anyway poor Schnecke would have been too slow to keep up. In the evening we were just tired and on alert anyway after the horses had been stolen once.
Sure we had our difficulties, seeing each other 24/7 non stop for two months, sometimes in stressful situations. We had our bad moods and had been grumpy – especially me (SORRY TIM!). if grumpiness was an Olympic discipline I’m sure I’d have won the gold medal. But at the end of the day we’ve managed to find ways and compromises most of the time and made it without any dead or injured up to here.
The two months have been ups and downs, the future is a big question mark but the love is there and real. I miss Tim already incredibly, words are just not good enough and probably this is not the right place anyway but maybe it gives a “belated” answer to the students’ question.
One thing that influenced my mood - which was not Tim’s fault at all – were the painfully cracked fingers during the first weeks. I don’t mind about not washing for ages (we both distributed more or less the same smell anyway) and being sweat or filthy, ripping out too much hair or losing skin but small wounds are just annoying: everything was open flesh wounds and just terribly hurt whatever I was doing. Especially hobbling the horses, holding reigns and ropes, doing and undoing yippers and finally the slightest touch made me want to cry out loud. And instead of doing that I often yelled at Tim or overreacted easily. On a trip like this hands are just the most important tool, always black and dirty and somehow injured.
My hands healed, approximately the third layer of sundried skin and permanent dirt make them look 20 years older and much more beautiful to me because it felt really good to work with my hands again.
But of course, I wouldn’t have been grumpy old Kathrin if I hadn’t found another reason to be angry with Tim. One thing he could have avoided was annoying me with his horrible “singing”:
First of all he was singing the same songs over and over again, usually Christmas songs. The heat must have reminded him of Aussie Christmas (it’s summer then) or simply burnt his brain after he had lost his sunhat but for my ears it was just too much. After a while, very desperate, I even suggested “Jingle Bells” but without much success. His absolute favourite though was “Frostie the Snowman” changing names and lyrics. This song will be stuck forever in my head (we call it “Ohrwurm” =“earworm” in German, a song you can’t get out of your head anymore). THANK YOU, Tim!
Secondly the problem with his so-called singing is that he tries to sing horribly on purpose with a strange voice that cracked as if it was still breaking. And if you have to ride close to this performance for about 8 or 9 hours, every day, for two months you just have to protect yourself somehow (= being grumpy or refusing to give him more of the sweets out of the lunch bag!).
The Mongolian people
“Pop Stars” everywhere
Music and singing is a good way of finally writing about the local people instead of Tim and myself.
Most of them have beautiful voices and love to sing. The herders here – from little boys to old men – very often sing riding on the steppe and the women and girls when they’re getting water or cooking, for example. I was very impressed and didn’t dare to shock them with my own voice.
One young father of a family we stayed with one night performed for us, playing the guitar, his family joining him after a while. One could have recorded his singing in a studio straight away. Some older people also played traditional instruments and showed us the throat singing.
Thank God right now the Mongolians have this one particular famous folk pop song simply everybody sings or whistles – from little girl to old grandfather – everywhere – from town to the remotest area – which almost extinct Tim’s “Frostie”. Almost.
Among the deepest impressions I will keep in my heart and mind are, of course, the extremes: good and bad experience with people.
“Be our guest” and food stories
The hospitality of people was overwhelming to me but is also just part of their culture and therefore pretty normal for them. The door of their ger not only points towards South but is also open and one can just enter.
We’ve been invited very often for salty milked tea, dried yoghurt and other Mongolian food and quickly found our favourites amongst these delicacies: Tim had fallen in love (!) with the fermented mares’ milk and I usually tried at least to behave and not eat too much of the bread-like “Borzug”. One thing Tim had to help me with was meat and lumps of chewy fat. When it came to eating the intestines, parts of the head and other non-destinctable body parts I stuck with a tiny bit of liver – at least I knew what it was – and Tim saved my life by having a fabulous idea: “Why don’t you go and get the camera and film this so you don’t have to eat?” I think I never enjoyed filming more than then.
The lack of fresh fruit and vegetables was sad but I liked the many milk products. When we left from a ger most women gave us bags filled with dried yoghurt or sometimes hard cheese crumbs. Unfortunately it used to be more than we could eat before it got mouldy.
Daily nomad life and their home
What struck me were the similarities in the people’s life. Talking of food before it starts with the women’s tasks.
There is always the same pattern of milking, boiling the milk and making tea in the morning, cooking food later. Every little movement is identical to that of another woman in a ger maybe 50km away.
Of course, also the men’s work follows a certain schedule. They’re more responsible for herding, bringing the herdes to the steppe and later back to the ger. But in general my impression was that the women – together with the children – do most of the work, constantly busy.
If I stay with cooking: from the order where oven, kitchen desk or cupboard, pots and buckets are put to the things themselves (certain cooking pots, water carrier etc.), everything is almost identical from one ger to the next. Also the way the rest of the colourful furniture and few belongings are arranged.
I’ve always been interested in their “foto wall(s)” slightly left opposite the entrance. But the political party poster honestly every single ger had put up looked a bit out of place and somehow destroyed the atmosphere created by beautiful colours amd patterns, typical tools and decoration.
The gers can be put up and down within
The children have their tasks but also a lot of freedom. There is a strong bond between different families and everyone takes care of each other looking after the babies, feeding the children and helping out with food or tools. Physically it is normal that e.g. a teenage boy cuddles the neighbour’s little baby, an aunt gives the breast to a two-year-old or two teenage boys sit close to each other, arms around or hands on each other’s knees. But you hardly see any affection between husband and wife.
On the other hand the culture of having an “open door” also means no privacy and everything is being lived openly in front of others.
Some less enjoyable moments, not so nice encounters, even bad experience
Especially for me the lack of privacy in combination with being careful that nothing gets stolen was not easy to get used to. The unpredictability when another herder might turn up and didn’t mind staring at you when you just jumped into the icy cold river to enjoy your first “full body wash” after a week, or the kids crawling into the tent when you had just made the important decision to put on clean underwear, or another two herders pulling out every little thing, changing the buckles (no, there is no sense and reason behind the fact why we put it into the sixth hole instead of the fourth, so why not change the whole buckle and knot system so that we have more fun later figuring out how it was before and changing it back to safety?!?), making a big mess and unpacking when we were in a hurry to pack up and leave before it got too hot, for example.
I do know that it is not meant badly and in 99% it’s just pure curiosity but after a while even Tim got really angry because we explained to them and showed them how important it is that our gear (saddle and blankets to prevent sores) is not to be used in the wrong way and thrown in the dirt or grass with sticky seeds (after I had spent 1 hour the night before to get them all out of the blankets) and they would still do it. At times our patience almopst ran out– and you need a lot of patience and million eyes to make sure everything is still there, we couldn’t afford losing any rope or strap, and these curious examinations by sometimes up to ten people usually happened when we arrived or worse when we wanted to leave and had to pack the horses.
One family fed us over three days in rotating system and helped wherever they could, e.g. taking horses to the water, organising lifts into the next village for shopping, repairing horse gear etc. None of the families refused to let us stay next to their ger – for safety reasons – when we asked. But that always involved entertainment of the whole family non-stop, we had no time for ourselves which primarily meant for doing really important things like repairing stuff, washing clothes and horse blankets and maybe ourselves, writing diary, updates and making important phone calls (Tim) or even going to the “big loo”. Not to mention just resting for a minute, sleeping enough or even being alone. Therefore the so-called “rest days” we usually stayed with families– in my interpretation - were rest days for the horses and for us trying to do “all the rest” we couldn’t do while we were sitting on horseback. No rest for us. Sometimes it felt as if we were in the circus or zoo but on the other side (animals).
Unfortunately there were many Mongolians who turned out to be quite greedy (more closer to towns), not appreciating our gifts, wanting more, (more) money, our gear. Be it just herders on the way who were approaching us and riding along for a while or be it also people we stayed with, we heard “I want, I want, I want!”, “Give me, give me, give me!” and “I need, I need, I need!” just too often. We tried not to take it too serious and just smiled but they did which was the problem at times. No matter how often we explained to them how important our gear is for us, especially for Tim being on horses for 18 months, and that we’re not giving our saddles, bridles, halters, ropes, knives or even horses away for free they wouldn’t accept it and sometimes seriously asked over and over again or just grabbed it. My motto I tortured Tim with every day (“Put your knife away”, “Don’t spread out that stuff!”, “Close the pack boxes immediately when you got out what you need!” etc.) was simply “OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND!”.
So we’ve seen many suspicious looks that made us become more careful. Some small things got stolen and there were severall encounters with drunk Mongolians that unfortunately made me dislike a part of their mentality. These drunk were no exception, I’m afraid it is very common and they can get quite unpredictable. Most of them even ride a motorbike or steer a car.
One example is the guy who almost ran over our horses (I was standing inbetween and holding them so he would have to knock me over first) and tent and was quite aggressive from the very beginning threatening to drown Tim in the nearby river and punching and beating him, stealing our map because he wanted Tim’s knife (“Out of sight…”). He was the only one who got physically violent.
Another really big and strong horse rider obviously didn’t know where you’re not supposed to touch a woman at all and when he grabbed between my legs I made my point very clear. But usually we tried to avoid these (night) experiences by camping close to gers (which sometimes was no help either because the Mogolians rather stay away or watch and don’t intervene unless you ask them for help which I did once later) or to stay calm and patient in a situation like before and not to give them any reason for a fight.
I must point out that out of many days and nights theses were only a few and extreme situations that don’t reflect the majority of people. But of course they’re stuck in my memory, especially the night when two of our horses were stolen. This was in the very beginning and I’m honest if I say that since then there was no single night when we were sleeping non-stop without waking up several times, checking the horses, having strange dreams, listening sensitively to every little noise, being suspicious all the time. The adrenaline shock when you wake up and can’t see the correct number of horses is not a very nice feeling at all.
Even if this sounds like a very negative part and I’d like to end it soon to write about the majority of the country’s beauty there is one more thing I felt was really unfair: from my personal point of view the Mongolian tradition of hospitality in combination with alcohol makes it incredibly hard for women: we’ve seen it so often that, for example, a young mother is home alone with her five little children, and in the middle of the night total strangers, two drunk men, turn up on a motorbike, make a lot of noise, run into the ger, wake them all up and require more alcohol, food, a place to sleep and maybe more, I don’t know. Just the fact that this poor woman is alone and not safe at all, the children have to watch or accept what is going on was a very dangerous and rude situation in my opinion. I don’t want to judge here, it was just what I felt when I saw it and it made me very angry. Obviously the women are used to it and play their role but when I talked to a very smart Mongolian lady later about my experience she agreed that it’s a bad thing.
Nature
Animals, plants, weather, climate, landscape,…
As a biology teacher I was especially fascinated by the different animals (and sometimes plants) we saw (or heard) on our way: the majestic eagles and other birds of prey, little birds living in holes, marmots, mice and hamster-like looking rodents, some rabbits, the cows, yaks, yows (as I called the mixed breed of them), goats and sheep, camels and horses, of course.
I just could not get enough of watching the birds of prey circling over our heads and aiming for “victims”, but somehow always relieved when they didn’t catch the poor little bird or mouse. They are incredibly huge with a Kathrin-estimated two to four meters wingspan. And water birds like some ducks, geese and especially grey herons were beautiful. After having been in Australia for some time now back in the Northern hemisphere I could see the connection to species I know from Europe.
I was as fascinated by but less nice towards the insects: in dryer areas there were bugs I called scorpion bugs because they had a long sting at the back of their abdomen. I was even so cruel to catch one alive and let him die in an empty jar, carrying him over the next 100km, dried him but somehow couldn’t preserve him properly so he dissolved and got kicked out again. The next bug of this kind was crawling in the front of our tent and I magnanimously (looked that up in the dictionary!) decided to let him live – just to be so stupid to step onto him the next morning when I rushed out of the tent and he still sat there. Tim gave it the final squeeze because it was still alive when he got up some time later. I felt really bad all day, no kidding.
The plants were changing with the changing landscapes and heights of the terrain we crossed. Some familiar flowering plants and trees but usually a lot of grass and herbs could be seen. I enjoyed more the lush forests and green vegetation with some shade and rivers and when we were riding across the dry steppe for a whole day in burning heat I started little games like “bug chasing”, which is easier on a track than on the grass, in combination with statistic calculations how likely it is that it would survive, i.e.: I was making out a bug that was sitting in the distance on the way, Tim was riding ahead (four hooves) with the packhorse (another four hooves) and I was folowing (four hooves), later with the spare horse (plus another four hooves). It was interesting to see how these little creatures survived in all but one case 12 to 16 hooves walking by extremely close. None got squashed and none ran away in panic. Usually it was towards the end of the day and my brain had already had too much sun when I started this game. It’s more insider humour you develop while riding. Tim probably had his own way of enjoying nature.
What I found amazing and overwhelming was the variety and changes of landscapes. We’ve probably been walking and riding through and past all of them: mountains, steppe, desert, swamps, forests, sandy and dry parts, rocky, steep and flat areas, we’ve had river crossings, streams, creeks and freshwater and salt lakes.
Also the weather could change within seconds: when you were riding in heat suddenly a rainstorm could come up and rain and wind in combination made it very cold. We had sand and hail storms, a lot of wind, even snow but most often a terrible heat. So it was dressing and undressing several times a day, having the rain gear and beanies always handy although it looked ridiculous when we were starting the day in 30°C with sun hats.
Very often we were just riding along (Schnecke and myself in an appropriate distance, of course) and Tim would exclaim every now and then “How amazing!”, “How beautiful!”… whereas I’m more the person who knows how to enjoy everything in my own quite way. I appreciated every single moment without many words or much feedback which might have confused Tim sometimes.
To compensate for this there are (too) many words here and now.
I definitely enjoyed the whole journey with all its ups and downs and miss every single part of it a lot.
I would like to apologise for not contacting anyone then (I couldn’t check emails for more than two months) or now during the next couple of weeks (I’ll be really busy)!
I would like to thank all the nice people who sent us messages and gave us support and help on the way (family, friends, more or less strangers, and sponsors, they all know who I mean), we had incredible support so far and I hope for Tim that it will be like this in the future!
I would like to thank especially the Mongolians who were really nice and helpful and made this part of the journey an unforgetful experience. I will keep up my promise to send them the required photos, skin powder, cigarettes and socks.
A special “Thank you!” goes to Tseren who helped us with her advice, translation and calm way of support in several occasions and to Gansukh.
And a VERY SPECIAL “Thank you!” goes to TIM who “jumped over his shadow” as we Germans say and let me come and join him on this part of the journey. I know it was not easy for him, but he can also be a bit of a bastard . I (still) love him and try to support him from the far distance as good as I can, think of him and wish him all the best and more incredible experiences during the next months! He’s really doing a good job and I’m curious to know how the journey will go on. It will become harder but I’m sure he’ll make it!!!
I’m a bit jealous when I just heard from him about the mountain pass he crossed and I couldn’t make it so far. But that just means that we can all be looking forward to HIS next update.
You can wake up now , I’ve finished writing and better go before even more comes to my mind.
Unfortunately German reality has caught most of me back (have to go and spend a lot of money I don’t have on a new mobile phone in a minute so that I can receive satellite phone calls from far away!) but it will never take my Mongolian impressions and memories off me.
JUST AMAZING AND BEAUTIFUL!
Kathrin Nienhaus, Mongolia, China, airplane and Germany: Sep 2-9, 2004
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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We arrived in the village of Tarialan at 7am just as the sun was peeking over the mountains above. Taralian was about 40km from Ulaangom at the foot of the Kharkiraa range. The houses in the village were typically Mongolian- constructed with anything and everything available. Oil drum lids, bits of wood, rusty pieces of wrecked cars, stones from the river bed, and pieces of throw-away gers were standard building materials. Some homes were just normal gers barricaded with a fence made of this instead.
We made our way to the home of a man who had promised to drive Kathrin to Ulaangom airport- the 2km patch of dirt just south of the town. It was all over in a flash. She unsaddled, put her belongings in the back of the beaten up old van, gave me a kiss and a hug and jumped in. The driver cranked the engine over and rushed to the steering wheel. I watched the van putt away and was soon left with an empty third horse and three locals staring on in curiosity. Only the vague sweat marks on Schneke’s back were left as evidence that Kathrin had been there. I felt numb but it was time to get moving. My plan was to find a local guide named Dashnim and with the aid of a camel cross the Kharkiraa mountain range. I had been gazing up to its glacier-encrusted peaks for days and felt drawn to the mountain air and the hidden valleys that were so removed from the flats near Uvs lake. It felt like a new chapter of the journey was beginning.
Dashnim had worked for Tseren- my Mongolian friend who had supported me so much from Ulaan Baatar. With the help of a local I found his ger a little way up the Kharkiraa river, parked on a patch of green between several shallow channels. Only after some tea and ‘borzog’ (dough dipped in animal fat) did we begin to talk. I liked Dashnim at once. He had a grin on his face that betrayed a sense of simpleness and curiosity. His eyes were large, his cheeks round and polished by the wind. The lines on his face, and thick, callused fingers told a tale of a hard physical life. He was the kind of man I thought who would work extremely hard and expect little. His ger was very poor. He had a dirt floor and just a couple of beds. All of his children’s clothes were stowed away in old shopping bags. I watched as one little girl came in and opened her bag with the care that one would normally only afford a nice expensive set of drawers. As a herder he was one of the poorest I had met. He owned 17 goats in total and one old horse. His pride and joy was a rusty Belarussian tractor that was probably handed out after the collapse of the soviet union’s collective farm system. For a herder with few animals cash was required to survive. This unexpected arrival of an Australian was a welcome surprise. He was excited by my plan.
‘When do you want to leave? Today? Tomorrow? I need to fetch a camel.’
We looked over my map and agreed that seven days would be required to reach the far side of the mountains. He helped me unpack and set up my tent and then we wandered into the village. I felt at ease around him- he may have been amazed by my saddle and equipment but had not so much as touched it, let alone asked for it. As Tseren had told me, he was a listener.
It was the first day of school in this village and as we made our way to the shop we passed children dressed up like dolls. The girls wore black dresses and white pretty decorations in their hair, the boys little suits and ties. After buying goods, he sent me back with a note for his wife to bake some bread for our journey. He trotted off on his horse to find a camel.
I spent the day preparing things, getting to know Dashnim’s family, and using the rare time to rest and write diary. Just on dark Dashnim arrived with a camel. He had travelled about 30km to find it. His five children rushed out to greet him in the dying light. I waited for Dashnim to stake the camel before approaching. A plan of mine had been brewing all day and it was time to tell him. Schneke, Kathrin’s horse, was starting to show signs of fatigue, and what’s more he had always hated rocks. The next section was to be particularly rough terrain. I wouldn’t ride him again, so it was time to say goodbye.
Through a satellite phone call with Tseren, she translated that I would like to give the horse to Dashnim for the equivalent of two days work (about $27). Dashnim was over the moon, and after I said goodnight I listened to him tell the news to his family in the ger. Schneke couldn’t have found a nicer home.
I woke in the morning with a sense of new and excitement. After some tea and bread in Dashnim’s ger we packed the camel and discovered that with some little adjustment my pack-saddle fitted this Bactrian breed of camel perfectly! The camel let out a melancholy cry as we tightened the straps and I got a whiff of its rotten breath. Its eyes and feet seemed enormous and overall made my packhorse, Rusty, seem tiny.
Then with the swing of the legs over the saddle we were off. The first part of the day we weaved our way up a canyon, criss-crossing the icy cold Kharkiraa river. It came rushing down the over smooth stones and boulders, a translucent blue. Leafy aspen trees grew along the banks just beginning to turn yellow. A few hours brought us into a wide rocky valley where we paused for lunch. Around us peaks rose blocking out much of the sky.
Soon there appeared a camel train. There were about ten camels in all, each packed with around 250kg of gear steadily making their path downwards. It was a family of Khotont people migrating to the plains for Winter. The Khotont people are a tribe numbering about one or two thousand and live primarily in the Kharkiraa. Their history is very murky. No one really knows where they came from or when. They have adopted many Mongolian customs, but their language is different, and their facial features differ from Mongolians. The color of the train was dazzling. The women leading on horseback wore silky deles and colourful headscarves. Sitting in the cane baskets on the first camel were two small children, their eyes peering out between pots and pans and pieces of Ger tent. When they stopped to greet us the camel went to its knees, and the women pointed at one of the cane baskets laiden with rugs. It wasn’t until some sheepskin was taken away that I realised that deep within this cocoon was a newborn baby. Just its face was visible, eyes gazing up through a frame of fur to the sky. I was taken by its calm, captured expression. What a world it had been born into.
A little further up this deep valley the pyramid peaks of the Kharkiraa cut into the sky. High above, glaciers clung to almost vertical slopes. The air cooled and in the afternoon light the dark shapes of ancient ‘Kurgans’ and ‘Turkic’ grave markers dotted the otherwise wind-cleaned steppe. Dashnim suggested that in one Kurgan about 45 people would have been buried along with horses. Around these ancient sites I always had the sense that the people of today are aware of their history but do not understand it. The history of people in Mongolia lives on in the clothes, songs, expressions and way of life. Nomads live from day to day, with the changing of the winds, and looking into the future, let alone the past is largely irrelevant. This valley had obviously been populated for thousands of years, but how much had really changed in that time?
We camped in a remote gully with a family of nomads tending to a large herd of camels. I spent a couple of hours repairing Dashnim’s basic tent. The zippers were broken and he had been using safety pins to keep the snowstorms from blasting inside (without success). He was euphoric once it had been fixed, and then pointed to the huge holes in the floor- burnt by a misused gas stove on a previous trip. He would have to cope with that. Throughout the night I was woken by the howling of wolves, movement of animals, and inevitably the sound of gunshots. Hunting wolves, marmot, fox, and even snow leopard are standard practice despite Kharkiraa’s status as a national park.
Morning came biting and fresh, and soon the camel was packed and we were moving gradually upwards. The river made a turn and we entered a deep valley from which peaks rose almost vertically. The snow line was just visible, and every now and then the glaciers above came into sight. The valley itself was largely abandoned but a few gers still remained. Herds of woolly yaks could be seen grazing, dwarfed by the scale of the environment. Every now and then I would also notice black dots in the distance, sometimes half way up a mountain on a precarious ledge: hunters. They would lie in wait for hours with their spyglasses and Russian rifles. These hardened looking men would sometimes come galloping over the rise, marmot tied to their saddle, gun slung over their back, dele flapping like a sail in the wind.
Despite making it only a short distance, Dashnim was keen to stay at the last ger we passed by. He greeted the elder of the family with the traditional swapping of Tibetan-style snuff bottles, and sharing of a long oriental tobacco pipe. I was grateful for a large chunk of dried Yak yoghurt, the bitter taste satisfying after a day in the saddle. Their daughter, a lady with a kind face and endless smile was my age, and I soon understood that she was blind. I watched the way she still managed to cook over the fire, feel her way around the ger, and even gather dried animal dung outside for firewood. In the evening she was lead out to the yaks where she did the milking. She loved to listen to everything, and sometimes I watched her sitting outside with a smile, listening to the animals, the wind, and of course my strange accent. She was curious just to touch my tent, and saddle. For her sounds and feel were everything and I had the impression that she was far more aware of the rhythms and beauty of this place than us.
The valley turned more to the west again the next morning and gradually the high range of the Kharkiraa seemed to slide into view. Glaciers paused in mid tumble shone a brilliant white in the light. A cloud of wind-whipped snow hovered above. I was surprised by the sheer drama of this landscape that had been largely hidden until now. Soon we came across some hunters that blended in with the dirt after several nights out in the mountains. We paused to share some black tea. They lay alongside the discarded innards of marmots and fresh skins.
Then we began to rise abruptly. Below us the lower end of a glacier twisted its way down a valley. The climb became very steep and the sounds of slipping rocks and cries of the camel cut through the mountain air. A fox darted out from a hole in front of us, soon consumed by the detail of the land. To both the north and the south these mountains rose riddled with ice-choked gullies and glaciers. Some peaks were razor sharp, while others were snow-capped domes. The Kharkirra rise to about 4100m and are actually part of the greater Altai range. The Altai are geographically at the very heart of Asia and are split between Russia, Mongolia, China, and Kazakstan. It was from these mountains that nomads are thought to originate from. The Turks, Mongols, Kazaks, Hungarians, and even Iranians trace their history to a people who came out of these mountains a few thousand years ago and at some stage tamed wild horses, yaks, and camels.
Our route lay ahead via a high pass between the main peaks. After a couple of hours we arrived as if into the clouds, suddenly above the many valleys and looking straight on at the peaks. The saddle was more of a wide, open alpine plain squeezed between these mountains at about 3000m. As we crested the highest point the distant Sayan mountains in Russia could just be seen to the west beyond a myriad of glittering lakes. I was struck by the image of Dashnim on his horse, leading the camel. I had never associated camels with such mountains, yet here we were plodding on with glaciers that almost seemed to be tumbling down upon us.
We made camp just to the western edge of the saddle and rested in the glow of sunset. The mountains were a peach orange and revealing many of the details that were washed out in the harsh daylight. I shared tea with Dashnim who I was beginning to come to know better. He couldn’t stop telling me how good the grass was up here for the animals, and how I was good for not smoking. He said he had picked up the habit of smoking 15 years earlier. In the Mongol fashion he often rolled a cigarette in old newspaper, and spent half the time spitting out the pieces of paper and tobacco that made it into his mouth.
All day I had been gazing up at the peaks, and the various ridges that angled towards the alluring ice. A plan had been brewing to spend a day climbing to the northern side. Dashnim agreed that it was a good spot to give the animals a rest and so after dinner I packed my things.
By morning I was sure my plan had been crushed. Snow had been falling for several hours, and with it came a terribly cold wind rushing down from the mountains. However by the time I had boiled some water and warmed my hands the clouds were parting. I shouldered my backpack and gave Dashnim my spyglass, instructing him to check on me each hour.
I felt a shiver of excitement to finally be alone. The wind cut through my thermals like a knife, but the effort of pushing up the rock made my skin a tingly warm. Loose rock skittled away from under my boots, and I drew in deep, cold breaths. With each step I rose above the pass and the mountains to the south came clearly into view. By the time I had reached about 3700m a series of crystal blue lakes appeared, sunken into the rock just beneath the tongue of glaciers. I aimed for the sliver of white at the top of the rise before me, and passed the tongue of a small glacier with freshly formed icicles dangling over the edge of crevasses. The wind blew colder, and up here the clouds seemed to race. The campsite below was now just another spec, almost impossible to find. On the hour I paused and waved down, knowing that Dashnim would be looking up with a grin on his face, probably muttering something like: ‘Ahaaa!’ He always said this when something positive was happening- like when I gave him a cup of tea, a piece of bread, or some horse blankets at night to keep him warm. Funnily enough he used this same expression when telling the camel to stop.
At last I reached the sliver of snow, expecting it to be a false summit. As I stepped into the crusty white however there suddenly came blue sky. A little further, and like in a dream a rugged skyline of peaks suddenly appeared. A little further and I was standing on a saddle. Dropping down in front of me and from all the peaks were glaciers, forming a spectacular ice bowl below. The wind roared, yet nothing as much as shivered, all frozen into place. It was a view that I had never expected and I couldn’t help but throw my hands into the air and giggle. I spun around to see the southern range, and Kharkirra peak itself. Below the steppe panned out in a murky brown sea, dotted with lakes. I spent a couple of hours making my way along this high ridge, reaching a mini summit. In every direction there was a mountain or horizon that intoxicated my senses. I forgot about the pain in my legs and began to imagine the original peoples of the Altai migrating down from its many valleys, eventually becoming the nomads who would rule the steppe for millennia. By late afternoon it was time to head down and after a few hours I found Dashnim cooking up some tea over a fire of dried animal dung. He met me with his partly toothless grin. I smiled and put my thumb into the air. It was enough for him to understand.
Heading down from the pass, we entered a new environment: a land of hills, pock marked with a thousand little lakes. By late afternoon we had slipped into a river valley and the high peaks were erased from view. We arrived ravenously hungry to our evening camp and sat, eyes glued to the stive waiting eagerly for the water to boil.
The following day the 7am start was abandoned with the onset of a heavy snowfall, and by 11am we decided to take the day off. Apart from anything, the camel would struggle to keep its footing on snow and ice. That was also one of the reasons for the nomads migrating out of the mountains by September when the colder weather started to set in.
At around midday there suddenly came the typical clearing of the throat noise. Herders always seemed to do this when warning of their approach. Up went the zipper on my tent and I came face to face with the hardened face of a hunter. In fact there were three of them, all peering in, their deles dusted white, rifles over their shoulders. Dashnim soon appeared and beckoned them to his tent. I joined them and we sat for a couple of hours holding up the walls as the wind and snow beat down outside. I cooked some tea and we ate a few pieces of borzog (dough deep fried in fat). When the weather finally cleared in the afternoon I followed the hunters a few hundred metres up the mountains to their hide-out. It wasn’t so much as a cave as a very poor rock shelter. Laid out in the dirt were about 15 marmots. A blackened pot was brimming with greasy, boiled meat. They had been living here for six or seven days and planned to stay another week. They had no sleeping bags, just their deles for protection from the weather. It was such a poor shelter that the snow easily drifted in.
Soon a feast got underway. A communal knife was passed around and pieces of meat were sifted out of the fatty water. I watched one of the men slurping on the jaw of a marmot. They sucked the grease off their fingers and chewed heartily on every little piece of meat possible. I preferred to munch on the dried yoghurt that they offered. Many Mongolians refuse to eat marmot because they are known at times to carry the plague. Despite this I met people every day of my trip who routinely feasted on marmot. Along with the meat, some Mongolian vodka was passed around. It is made from fermented yoghurt and is actually only about 12-15 percent alcohol. It went straight to my head and for a time I watched this scene wondering whether much had changed since the time of Ghengis Khaan. Ghengis himself had spent many years in hiding, living off the land in the Khentii region of Mongolia. Then when Ghengis formed his formidable armies of mounted nomads they honed their skills during exhaustive hunting expeditions. Their methods of ambush, false retreat, and stunning speed were also used in their terrifying raids on settled communities.
We woke the following morning to a crisp blue sky and a hard frost. Dashnim had of course predicted as such. Soon we were on the move again. The river that had began as a trickle eventually became a raging torrent in a canyon far below. We followed the flats above and at lunch descended to a forested little valley. The leaves were ablaze orange and red. A river gushed down over rocks, tumbling in some mini-waterfalls. I had the feeling that we had descended into the land of the living. The scent of the forest was sweet.
As we sat next to the river I offered Dashnim some vegemite. He had seen it in my lunch bag and assumed that it was facial cream. Another thing that had made me laugh was that Dashnim had been wearing my backpack upside down for a couple of days. I didn’t have the heart to tell him. I spread the vegemite nice and thick onto a piece of borzog. It seemed only fair after all the lips and ears, innards, and marmot that I had been offered and forced to try. I could see him struggling to swallow, but in typical style he just grinned and put his thumb into the air. ‘Delicious!’ He then went on to thank me, and say how proud he was to be part of the journey. It was classic Dashnim.
We crossed the river via the first bridge I had seen since we began, and then followed the edge of a slope. The camel struggled here, its feet often slipping, threatening to tumble down into the gorge. It always righted itself though, and it was sobering to think that nomads made this journey every year with 250kg on each animal, children included. For seven or eight hours we rode on. Gradually the brown turned to green, the rocks to grass, and the air thick and warm. At each turn I was surprised. Eventually we descended into a land of countless valleys, ridges, and gullies. I felt like a bird hovering above then making a dive and becoming lost in the mystery below. It all felt very surreal. Just as the sun was fading we arrived in the abandoned summer camp of Khovd brigad. Only a few old shoes, and round circles of yellow grass indicated that the nomads had even been here. Hundreds dot this valley in summer. We unpacked the camel and set up camp. Dashnim was to return in the morning and from here I would continue alone.
I was looking forward to our last evening together when all of a sudden the sound of a motorbike cut through the air. I turned to see two men steaming towards us in the murky light of late evening. They crossed the river and plonked themselves next to our tent. They both wore colourful deles and the traditional hats with the golden spire on top. They had been riding all day and had arrived without food or shelter.
I cooked them tea over my stove, but was reluctant to continue with dinner. Since we took the unscheduled day off my food supplies were very low, and I still had to give Dashnim enough for the trip back. What’s more my petrol was almost finished. We were both ravenous, and the thought of halving our rations again was heart-breaking. Eventually however it became clear that these men would stay the night with us. I cooked up some rice and dried meat, and inevitably we shared it. All went to bed hungry.
At dawn the next morning the men simply stood up from the earth, dusted the frost off, and jumped on their motorbike. I was always astounded with the way that Mongolians just took hardship in their stride and never complained. Conditions in Russia were pretty tough too, but the Russians will let you know about it from day one. It’s almost frustrating when you can be in the most dire of situations and Mongolians will carry on as if nothing is wrong.
Dashnim and I surfaced as well and began to take down our tents. Although the journey had taken us seven days to get here, Dashnim planned to make it home to his family in just two and a half. I still don’t really understand how it could have been possible.
We had our last pot of semolina, and of course Dashnim licked his meal down like a cat. He had not even thought to bring a spoon, or perhaps he just thought it unnecessary. I gave him a packet of Russian cigarettes and paid him an extra couple of days as a gift. He then presented me with a packet of ‘kangaroo brand matches.’ I accepted it with two hands and rose it to my forehead in respect, but it hit my head-torch and went tumbling to the ground.
Then I split our meagre rations and it was time to say goodbye. He swung his arm in an arc to the north-west indicating which way I was to travel- it was typically vague. It only took him about ten minutes to saddle up and pack. I was struck by his lack of equipment- just a potato sack with his old tent, one pot, his tobacco and brick tea. I felt embarrassed by my clutter of heavy equipment that took me two hours to prepare, and envious of Dashnim. It is true that one of the main reasons for the mounted warrior’s success was the fact that they travelled so light-weight and were such hardened people. Both they and their horses survived on very little. The armies of settled people were weighed down with gear and food rations for both man and horse. I was just carrying on the tradition.
We said goodbye, and then I was left watching he and the camel shrink into the distance. The camel cried out a few times- the melancholy sound echoing up the valley.
Then they disappeared beyond a ridge and I was truly alone.
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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(this follows the entry 'Crossing the Kharkiraa with three horses and a camel (posted 3/10/04) )
Just as the sun was taking the cold pinch out of the air I sat on Bokus, gave the lead rope in my hand a tug, and we were off. I always liked those first few moments of movement. Leaving no trace of camp and moving towards the horizon inspired in me a sense of freedom.
After more than two months on these animals they were beginning to feel like my own legs. Getting up on the saddle and gliding above the landscape was like snapping back into the dream. There was something so different about this morning though. I spun around. There was nothing but the mountains behind, and a tangle of rocks and hills in front of me. I was alone. There lay at least two days travel to the next village of Khovd sum.
I aimed for a low mountain pass and soon found myself in a sea of salt-bush and sand. Red cliffs bore down over my right shoulder while this dry steppe extended into a murky sea to my left. A distant salt lake wobbled in the mirage. I rose over another pass and followed a narrow valley sunken between barren, red rocky peaks. A few birds of prey circled above, and every now and then a hare or marmot would scuttle away from under a salt-bush, scaring the horses. There were no traces of roads or gers- just a few horse tracks in the sand being erased by the wind.
It was just before lunch that I was jolted out of my daze. My eyes as usual had been scanning the landscape for alternate routes and any unusual detail. High up on a precipitous-looking pass there suddenly appeared a tiny black figure. I stopped in surprise. Could it really be a human? I watched carefully. My eyes had become very accustomed to identifying details. Even from a far distance I could tell the difference between a camel, horse, and Yak, even if they were mere specs. The way the spec moved made me believe it could only be human. The figure seemed to pause just like me and so I raced for my spy-glass. However by the time I had it in my hand it had disappeared behind some rock. It was as if this person had seen me and had raced to hiding. Usually a hunter or herder would stop for considerable time to watch. I always found it ironic that in the wilderness of Mongolia it was not the remoteness or animals that frightened me but people. I expected to meet this lonesome figure sometime later in the day but it never happened. Furthermore, when I rounded the far side of these peaks I realized that this figure could not have reached such a pass on a horse. It left me a little mystified.
After lunch the cluster of mountains to my left gave way to the western horizon. It was a view that had been hidden by the Kharkirraa mountains until now. Far below, the Khovd river meandered, shouldered by thick forest. Green steppe rose above the river to arid mountains, and from there the summit of Tsaast Uul (over 4000m) rose like a brilliant white cloud. Like I had experienced in Mongolia so often, everything before me was slightly blurred by sheer distance. Getting a sense of scale was difficult- much like looking out the window of a plane at altitude.
Despite being told that this route would be rock-free I descended into a wide river valley (a tributary of the Khovd river) to find myself among rocks as far as the eye could see. My poor horses slowed to a halt searching for a softer route but never found it. The next few hours were frustrating. My map seemed to be wrong, and the landscape lied again and again. I cursed myself for not scanning the land for a good route earlier. I wasted time heading along the wrong compass bearing and became angry with the horses. Worst of all I lost my GPS and spent a good couple of hours re-tracing my route until it was found. Just as the sun was getting close to the horizon I reached a set of telegraph lines and decided to follow them. They were heading in the direction of Khovd Sum and I hoped that they would lead me to a good river-crossing point.
It wasn’t until I was within the scrub and forest along the river that realised I had reached a small nomad community. At first I noticed a couple of men standing up above the trees, scanning the land with their spy-glasses. They were actually standing on the rooves of their gers and checking on their herds. There were even a few semi-permanent huts that were obviously places for storing winter supplies. I crossed a few channels of the river along a route used by tractors and four-wheel drives and met a herd of camels plodding their way back to where I had just come from. Then I pushed through some scrub to find myself just fifty metres away from a couple of gers. Two men on horseback in mid-conversation paused to stare. I was too exhausted to look surprised and just approached.
It wasn’t long before I had a captive audience. As often happened the women from the ger brought out their young children to watch. I had planned to keep moving but when they invited me to camp next to their ger I could only accept.
For once I thoroughly appreciated the help that the family gave me in setting up the tent and unsaddling- usually when nomads did this it was more work than if I did it on my own. Everyone grabbed a peg, and a pole, and after some instructions managed to get everything set up. A five-year old boy led my horses away and hobbled them, while his mother carefully folded my horse blankets. The children’s eyes lit up once it was finished and they all crawled inside the tent, and of course the adults soon followed. “An Australian Ger!” they laughed.
Dinner was also a communal affair. Some local families came to watch, and taste my very basic rice with dried meat, but most were just fascinated by my petrol stove. This community was also Khotont (read my previous story about the Kharkirraa to find out more about them), and had recently migrated down from the Kharkirraa mountains. This location along the riverbank was their autumn home, whilst their winter home was back up in the hills. Everyone seemed to know each other intimately and I had the sense that their bond was strengthened by the need to migrate together. This was one big travelling community. A clear difference between this community and others I had met in Mongolia was the absence of mechanical transport. I was beginning to think that roads these days were like disease spreaders, bringing in foreign concepts, mechanics, and culture that did not really fit to this land. Not once did the Khotont people ask for gifts or money, or treat me as if I was an overly rich foreigner. Perhaps the sheer ruggedness of this landscape would preserve this lifestyle and culture of hospitality for some time to come.
It was a pleasure to hand out some small gifts later on- some toys for the children, and some bits and pieces of horse tack from Ulaan Baatar. I always did this when I could, but sometimes had the feeling among other Mongols that this was simply expected, and that they were disappointed that I did not give them something that they really wanted- like my tent, knife, saddle, torch, or even horse. I tried not to offer money as gifts most of the time, however in some situations would offer generous payment for some borzog (dough dipped in animal fat), flour, or dried meat. Every now and then I would also offer a nomad family who had helped me considerably to call from my satellite phone. This was always a big event, calling back to relatives in the city (Ulaan Baatar).
After dinner a man with an infectious smile turned up and sat quietly near my tent. His name was ‘Nergu.’ In his arms was his three-year old daughter rugged up in a little dele. They both had the same sparkling, kind eyes. After some time we spoke. Unlike many people who were just interested in my entertainment value he was genuinely interested in my journey.
The following morning after packing up he invited me to his ger where we drank the obligatory salty milk tea. In line with custom I floated some borzog in my cup and spread some yak butter on a piece of dried yoghurt. They had been expecting me and many elderly men and women were crammed into the ger watching my every move with curiosity. It wasn’t until I was saying goodbye that I understood that Nergu wanted to help guide me all the way to Khovd Sum, a good 15km away.
We waved goodbye and soon I was following the swift pace of Nergu through the scrub and across the many channels of the river. My horses were still struggling due to the rocks. I couldn’t understand how Nergu’s horse seemed to be unaffected until I had a closer look and realised that his horse was shod. Apart from Dashnim’s horse in the Kharkirraa, this was the first time I had come across horseshoes in Mongolia. Mongols know almost nothing of this practice, and it would be fair to say that in most parts of Mongolia horseshoes are simply unnecessary. I asked Nergu about it.
“Yes, we all get our horses shod by a Kazak who lives across the river. The kazaks, they know about horse shoes very well.”
It took four hours to reach Khovd sum- three hours of riding, and one hour of chatting with the herders who would come galloping over to find out what was going on. Each time a rider came Nergu would get off the horse and squat down on the ground for a cigarette. Once the cigarette was almost done they would start to talk. We also met a camel train along the way, each animal carrying 250kg of gear, children being rocked about among the equipment in the cane carrying baskets. As not to scare the camels we dismounted 100m from these nomads and waited for them to approach us.
Eventually we arrived in the village, a collection of ramshackle huts and homes, and made our way to the centre. There was a small medical clinic in the centre with horses tied up outside. Every now and then a nurse would come out, chatting to a herder wearing a blinding white overcoat and hat. We didn’t make it far before being surrounded by spectators. One man who spoke Russian knew all about my route because he had seen me through his binoculars two days earlier. He had apparently been out shooting marmot. His wife was one of the doctors from the clinic and soon they were both inviting me to their home for lunch.
By late afternoon I was getting worried that poor Nergu felt obliged to stay with me. However over some food, the Russian speaker explained that he wanted to help me over the Khovd river, because without him I would probably drown. Furthermore, Nergu wanted to deliver me to his good Kazak friend who would happily put horse shoes on my animals. Over a nourishing meal of carrots, potato, and noodles I learnt that the doctor’s son was my age, and worked in Ulaan Baatar as a Russian/English translator. He was planning to get a visa to Canada and find work there as a taxi driver. There was a look in his parent’s eyes that betrayed a naivety about the west, and excitement at the prospect of a healthy income. I couldn’t help thinking that it would probably prove to be a path to disillusionment.
The river crossing was indeed serious. Khovd river is one of the largest in Mongolia, beginning high up in the Altai bordering Russia and China. The main channel was about sixty metres wide, and there were countless others to cross. Nergu gathered three of his friends together and at once they told me it would be impossible on my horse, Bokus. He was too short, and did not walk fast enough. Instead I was given one of their horses and sat high up on the Mongolian saddle. The stirrup leathers were so short that my heels just about reached up to my bum. This proved to be a good thing, as soon I was following one of the men deep into the current. We moved at a slight angle towards the far bank, the water rushing at our sides. Soon, even with short stirrups the water was up to my shins, and the horse’s throat. I was glad that I had taken the camera gear off Bokus because when I turned around the water was just about flowing over his back. The men following behind had cheerful grins on their faces for the entire crossing.
On the far side we paused for a group photo, before all but one of Nergu’s friends left. There was a certain joy and excitement among the three of us now. The sun was gliding down, and its rays angled through the forest of birch trees in slender golden shafts. Soon we were cantering through this lush growth, ducking and weaving, breathing in the sweet scent in the air that spoke of the mingling between summer and autumn. There were hundreds of gers scattered along the valley, and yet almost all were well hidden. We would break through some more scrub and trees to find another family camped, the smoke exiting their ger in wispy tendrils. Nergu and his friend were proud to be travelling with me and met all locals with grins and giggles. They would also shout out “Which way to the Kazaks?!” We would then dart off in a very approximate direction until the next ger came into sight. We must have crossed another six or seven channels of the river when suddenly Nergu and his friend came to a halt. They sat down on the ground and began to roll cigarettes. I was worried that they were expecting some payment or something from me. However as I stepped off the horse Nergu’s friend produced a bottle of beer that had been hiding in his dele. He ripped the cap off with his teeth and raised the bottle into the air with a grin:
“Here’s to our friendship!!! We will soon deliver you to our good friend, the kazak farrier.” In the glow of sunset the beer tasted like honey.
Half an hour later the sun had gone and a blanket of cold was falling, visible by the mist that was beginning to gather. We were stuck in some swampy forest, and Nergu was arguing with his friend about which way it was to the Kazaks. It seemed to me that we were lost, but I never saw even a hint of worry in the men’s faces.
Eventually we broke through the trees to find the last channel of the river. On the far side we could make out the sound of a barking dog. Soon we met the shadowy figure of a man on his horse. He spoke in soft tones with a very strange accent. I caught only a glimpse of his face as we left and was struck by his strong features, and wide, pale eyes. It seemed to me that somewhere within that deep, marshy forest we had passed an age-old dividing line. Perhaps this is how borders would have once been- without the bureaucracy and guards. Only later did I discover that in this area, the Khovd river is the border between Uvs province and Bayan Olgiy. Bayan Olgiy is really a part of Kazakhstan that happens to be in Mongolia. Ninety percent of the population are Kazak, and unlike the Mongols they are mostly Muslim.
It was just about pitch black by the time we raced towards a camp of gers. Even in the dark they looked immediately different to the Mongolian variety- much taller, and wider. As we approached several dogs came running and took flying leaps at my horse’s throat. I was used to this though and proud of Bokus who didn’t even as much as flinch. The family surfaced and Nergu sooned jumped off his horse and grabbed one young man with an arm around the neck, almost knocking him off his feet.
“My friend! The Kazak! This is my friend, Tim, an Australian!” He shouted it almost euphorically before ordering the Kazak to look after me well, and put shoes on my horse. The Kazak was a little shocked, but eventually he relaxed, and even in the dark I could sense his smile. He was an odd looking character- very skinny with a small head, and big ears and eyes like saucers. I was later struck by the size of his forearms that were huge in proportion to the rest of his body. He must have been hard working , and I sensed that I could trust him.
It wasn’t long before we were all sipping hot salty tea. I sat inside the ger, overwhelmed by its sheer size and beauty. It seemed more like the size of a circus tent to me and far more lavishly decorated than a Mongol ger. The ceiling was woven with red, brown, pink and green motifs, and around the walls were reeds woven with wool. Everything from the rolling pin to the suit-cases were draped in colourful decoration. The beds were the centrepieces, draped in silk curtains, with bird feathers and jewellery dangling from above. Felt-carpets on the floor added to the cosy atmosphere.
Almost without warning Nergu stood up and said goodbye. He walked out of the ger with the same abruptness with which he had chosen to help me. Only afterwards as I sat alone in the ger with my new Kazak friend did I realise that it had probably been my final goodbye to true Mongolia as well. I wondered what the light of day would reveal.
(Look our for the following entry coming soon: 'Khovd River to Tsengel' (Among the Kazaks in Bayan Olgiy to the end of the Mongolian leg of the journey))
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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 05-05-2005 10:34
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#17
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Khovd River- Tsengel(Among Kazaks in Bayan Olgiy, end of the Mongolian leg) 9/10/04
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This following entry follows the entry posted on the 8/10/04 entitled "Kharkirra – Bayan Olgiy Province. "Down from the mtns, across the Khovd river. a new land."
This entry was written in a great hurry Ust-Kamenogorsk, Kazakhstan, so apologies for errors and poor writing!
"A new day, a new country, a lot to learn.
I knew a little about horseshoeing, but nothing could have prepared me for the Kazak style of farrier work. For starters, the horseshoes were nothing more than concrete reinforcement rods banged and cut into shape. The nails fitted approximately, but at the end of the day the heads of the nails stuck out at least a centimetre, leaving the horses with what looked like crampons on their hooves. To put the shoes on in the first place my new Kazak friend (apologies, I have forgotten his name- wrote it in my diary which I have since sent to Australia) bound all four of Rusty’s legs together - Rusty being my biggest horse originally bought at Telmen Nuur. Rusty struggled to break free while we then tried to push him over. After some time he went down with a heavy thud. Once on the ground he was rolled onto his back while two children kneeled on his neck. With all four legs bound together and sticking vertically up, the Kazak brought out an axe and a hammer and began to bash the nails in. Several times Rusty tried to break free, throwing the two kids to the ground and sending nails flying. Everyone just laughed and went on with the job. Poor Rusty was an old horse, about 16, and he had certainly never come across horseshoes during his years. I was sure he would never walk again, or at worst have a heart attack before this whole process was over
Amazingly, the last nail was whacked in, the rope was untied, and Rusty just stood up and began to eat grass. He seemed a bit unsure about what the hell had just happened but apart from that he was just fine. The same process went ahead for Bokus. All said and done it took about an hour before the Kazak put his thumb up in the air and grinned:
“That will last you at least 500km. You can walk on any rocks you like now!”
I paid him the standard fee of $1.80US per horse and that was that, my horses were as good as new.
I spent the rest of the morning with the Kazak family, eating, showing them photographs, and asking about all the different decorations in the ger. None of the women or children spoke Mongolian and so the farrier had to translate everything I said- or at least try to interpret what I was trying to say. Meanwhile I was astonished to watch the way that the farrier’s wife ordered him around. He actually did much of the cooking, peeled the onions, and washed some potatoes. It was one of the first times I had seen a male cooking at all in any ger. A big change for me was also the mere presence of vegetables. Here they ate a lot of onions, carrots, potatoes and even turnip. I found it interesting to learn that these Kazaks spent their summer high up in the mountains on this side of the river. Like the Khotont people, they drifted down to the Khovd river valley for Autum. That meant that it was only at this time of year that they lived in such close contact with the Khotont and Mongol people. The river was truly a dividing border- it would have been near impossible to ever get a ger across the river.
In the early afternoon all the local families assembled to say goodbye. As I had become accustomed to everyone pointed in a different direction when I asked where I should be going. I picked the mean-average of all the arm-swinging, jumped on my horse and set off.
It was a relief to be out on my own again. Soon the gers had disappeared beyond the horizon and the lush forest had become empty desert sand. Ahead I aimed for some desert hills and rock that rose abruptly from the flats. Every now and then I turned around to see the distant ice-capped peaks of the Kharkhiraa. I wondered how Dashnim was getting on- whether his food rations had lasted, what condition the camel was in, and if he had made it home yet. Earlier that morning the peaks had been shrouded in storm clouds. Mostly my thoughts were fairly blank though. For a few hours I just fell into a muse, lulled by the steady rhythm of the horses. They were obviously suffering sore feet from yesterday’s trauma but seemed to be getting on ok. I was grateful for the shoes because the sand below was littered with rocks, and the landscape ahead only looked worse. Gone were those dreamy, green, ocean-like expanses of steppe.
The thoughts that did come to me in the saddle revolved around these people, and their way of life. In many parts of the world this empty, rugged, dry land before me would be considered an intimidating wilderness. But here, it was merely the back yard of the nomads. They lived out here, survived with and by this nature. I recalled the day we had driven out of Ulaan Baatar with Gansukh to find my horses. I was shocked by the dryness, the open expanse, the confusing tangle of hills. Where the hell would I find water? How could I orientate myself out here? Where would I find grass for the horses? And yet now I felt comfortable and in my element. Although there were no gers in sight, and no water, I knew the horse’s limits, and that eventually I would round the mountains and scan the landscape for a ger, a good route, and water. And, it would be there.
I pressed on for a good six hours until the sun was threatening to sink away all together. I rounded the high point of the hills and one single ger came into sight. The valley below was hidden behind yet more hills. I decided to make camp, and went to bed with the image of a starlit sky on the back of my eyelids, and the sound of the wind whistling through the desert grass.
I knew something was wrong with Bokus, even in the darkness of pre-dawn. I put on my down jacket and hobbled over to where I had staked him out. I found him lying almost on his back, unmoving. For a moment I even thought he might be dead. As I took a closer look I understood what had happened. Poor Bokus had tried to scratch his face with his back hoof, but the end of the horseshoe had become caught in his halter. The more he kicked and struggled the more the halter became wedged between the horsehoe and hoof. The horseshoe was no doubt fairly poorly fitting. So Bokus had been trapped, his back leg permanently attached to his face. It must have been incredibly uncomfortable, especially since all horses are claustrophobics. I managed to rip it free eventually and Bokus stood up out of the sand and began to eat again. I hoped he hadn’t been stuck for too long or he would be hungry all day.
I decided to cook breakfast and prepare for an early start. All said and done it still took three hours before I was ready to go. Since Kathrin left I had still not worked out a smooth routine of packing up. Saddling and packing the horses in particular took much longer without her help. Eventually we were moving. It was not pleasant though. A freezing wind had surfaced, blowing clouds of sand and dust across the land. After a couple of hours I found water, rounded some hills and headed for the next village on the map- Tsaagantungi. All day the sand blew into my face. For minutes at a time I would just cover my eyes with my hat. It was so strong that when the packhorse turned side on he would momentarily loose his footing. The horses’ natural instinct was just to turn their tails to the wind, but we had to keep moving if we were to find decent grass and water by evening. The horizon came into focus incredibly slowly, but gradually we climbed up to the rocky mountain pass that had been in view all day. There at the top I was almost blown off the horse by the wind. Down below was the Khovd Gol yet again (I had basically cut across a huge arm of the river), and beyond it Tsaast Uul, rising into snow looked even more impressive than two days earlier when I had first seen it. An hour or two later just before sunset I descended to this valley that was a relative paradise. I dropped from the barren rock and sand into waist-high grass. The horses sped up immediately. Up the valley clusters of gers, all puffing out smoke hugged the bends of the river. Horsemen tended to their herds, goats were being rounded up for milking, and some older men just sat in pairs chatting in the evening light. As I drew closer to the gers it struck me that I didn’t really know what to expect from these Kazaks. For starters, unlike the Mongols no one had come rushing up to me, or spied me through their monocular. What were the customs and traditions here? Would I be invited in or not?
I decided to make my way to the river to water the horses, and along the way a young man came bounding over on his horse. He wore a black vest over a checked shirt, baggy cotton pants, and a funny looking hat. His face was far longer and flatter than his Mongolian counterpart, and his nose less flush with his cheeks. He was my age, and like the other Kazaks I had met he seemed to have a very soft voice. He spoke some Mongolian and soon he had invited me to stay.
(sorry have to hurry with the writing now, computer battery is dying)
This was just the beginning of two days with his extended family. The food was especially different to the Mongols. A huge communal plate would be served up with potato, meat, and carrot. Their meat eating habits were a little different too- they would not eat blood (being muslims), but everyone sucked out the marrow from the bones, and horse-meat was served up at almost every meal. I will never forget the image of their one-year old baby chewing on a bone that was half the size of herself. They tended to eat late too, and rise much later than the Mongols. Their main feast seemed to be at about 11pm, and they would not surface until about nine.
I was shocked to hear how much this one family consumed in one year- 35-40 sheep and goats, two cows or yaks, one horse, and perhaps one camel. No wonder it was such a devastating problem when a particularly cold winter killed off their herds (like the winter of 1999-2000.)
Many of the men wore the Kazak skullcap that looked particularly central-asian, and I realised that almost none of them spoke about Ulaan Baatar. When I offered them to use my phone they took the opportunity to ring long lost relatives in Kazakhstan. A huge number of Mongol Kazaks immigrated to Kazakhstan after the break up of the Soviet Union, and many still commute back and forth. I later met many Kazaks who spoke Russian since they had lived in Kazakhstan. And in fact from Olgiy, there were more cars and jeeps going across the border through Russia to Kazakhstan than there were to Ulaan Baatar!! I could only wonder what it must have been like for the Kazakhs as a people, who, since the 1930’s have been split between Russia, Mongolia, China, and Kazakhstan.
From this valley it was a two day ride into Olgiy, the town which had forever seemed like a distant, almost impossible destination. It struck me as different to any place I had been in Mongolia. The little huts, Muslim Mosques, and even the Kazak body language spoke of a different culture.
Olgiy was also the first big town that I would have to take the horses through since I needed to cross the bridge in the middle of town. It did not begin well. A little boy who had helped me across a shallow arm of the river invited me in for tea. He lived in a little impoverished hut that gave me a bad feeling. I left quickly but soon realized something was wrong…..my GPS was gone. I couldn’t believe it. It had been strapped to my backpack, and I had only taken my backpack off for a few minutes in the hut. I went racing back, but as I did the boy’s father came galloping home as well. He was wildly drunk. He wore huge soviet glasses and had foul yellow teeth. Even before he spoke I knew he was just plain mad. I followed the boy into the home asking him if he had seen the GPS. Soon the father was raving, yelling wildly in Russian:
“You! I will bloody shoot you! You are terrorist! You are Stasi! Where is your bomb? You came across that river didn’t you? That is forbidden! What kind of a person are you! If you are good I will kiss you, if you are bad I will kill you!”
I tried to explain to this man what I was looking for but I knew it was useless. Nothing was penetrating his deluded brain. Still, the value of that GPS was worth hanging around for, at least for a while. After an hour the man was threatening to get violent though and there was still no sign of the GPS. I asked the boy repeatedly but he just looked up innocently. Eventually I went to get on my horse when the old man yelled something vaguely comprehensible:
“How much will you give me if I find it?”
We settled on 10,000 Tugrik (about 8-9 dollars). Then the little kid went around the back of the house and came back with my device. I couldn’t believe it. What’s more I was stupid enough to pay them. I rode off swearing back loudly in Russian.
I still had the major part of the town ahead of me. The bridge was busy with afternoon traffic and hordes of pedestrians. I felt totally out of place, and just as frightened as the animals. Eventually I dragged the two horses up onto the side-walk of the bridge and lead them across. Cars and truck flew past and at the end I had to cross over the road. Rusty and Bokus chose a good time to freeze, and only with the help of some locals did we avoid a nasty collision. After a quick stop at a petrol station for fuel I raced away, forcing the animals to canter until the town was safely behind me. I was desperate for the familiarity of the ger, and open spaces once more.
My aim was the village of Tsengel, one of the most westerly villages on the map. To go much further beyond Tsengel would require a border permit, which I didn’t have. I liked the idea of selling the horses in a region with many herders, and not too close to the border where the culture is often corrupted and it might be hard to find a buyer.
I travelled about 12 kilometres out of Olgiy before I was waved over to a lone ger. I was a little suspicious at first after the experiences earlier in the day, but soon felt I could trust this family. I began to set my tent up as I always did when the young father of the family stopped me.
“Would you like to sleep in our ger?”
I was astonished. For the entire journey since Kharkorin I had not actually been invited in to sleep, and much of the time it was easier just to set up camp. On this occasion though I couldn’t have been more appreciative. My face lit up.
“If its OK, I would love to…thankyou!”
I fell to sleep in a cocoon of warmth. The wind was barely audible through the thick felt, and the decorations around me gave me a sense of homeliness. Two young families lived in this ger with young babies that were rocked back and forth in hand made wooden cribs. The grandmother of the family that she herself had 13 children. Large families in these communities are the norm, and sometimes I was surprised to find that the three year old was actually not a grandson/daughter but the son/daughter.
I left in the morning feeling much better and made for the empty hills. The further I went the more rugged and rocky it became until it felt like I was travelling through enormous mountains made of gravel. Nothing but camels and birds of prey cast shadows onto the land in the light of day. As usual I came across many carcasses of horses and yaks. Some had been slaughtered but many had simply died. I made camp alone, and started early, passing through the tiny village of Ulaan Khuus. Here I met once again the Khovd river and this time I decided to cross it on my own. I chose a point that looked shallow and went for it, the horses struggling against the current, pushing on, the water up above my boots. But then we climbed up the other side…..and into the next channel. Eventually I came through the other side proud and excited. I had certainly come a long way since getting on the horses- I was no longer frightened of them, and understood far better what I could and couldn’t do.
All day I rose up, and up, passing a few lone herders coming down with camels packed with supplies. Every now and then a Russian truck would also come flying over the rocky steppe with all their possessions (and family) on the back. Usually they had at least one sheep tied down as well- probably to be sold or slaughtered that evening. This was the modern Mongol/Kazak nomad that largely done away with using camels.
As I reached the top of the pass I decided to aim for a high peak instead. I urged the horses up, and up, their hooves slipping, the air getting cooler. Eventually we rose to the top and I stopped, the horses panting heavily. Here among the rocks lay sand that had come in the winds. Below me the land gave way to a myriad of valleys, and mountains and hills. Standing out like a surreal paper cut out was Tsengel Uul, rising to about 4000m. On the far west horizon was Tavanbogd, the mountain where the borders of China, Russia, and Mongolia meet. It was an uplifting view, and a special moment. Here I was looking ahead into the countries that the Kazaks had been free to roam into. Beyond Tavanbogd lay Kazakstan, only 40km over the top- my next destination. There was something about the unknown that beckoned and filled me up. I had no bloody idea what would happen over the next 8000km or so. I had the feeling that it was right to end the trip now, on a high note. This was it.
In the morning I descended to discover that I was one day ahead of schedule- I had already reached Tsengel. A horrible day of selling ensued. I discovered that the kazaks in the village only looked at my horses in terms of kilograms of meat. After some strife with one of them who seemed bent on buying them for a terrible price just to eat them over winter, I headed off up the valley. Eventually I found a Tuvan who was interested and deep into the night we negotiated. Then at the terrible price of 155,000 tugrik (Ihad bought them each for 150,000 originally!) I sold them both. At least they went to a nice owner, and they wouldn’t be eaten…this winter at least. By the time the deal was done it was too late to return to the village where I had left my gear. So I slept in his ger, for the first time horse-less in 77 days. I went through each day of the trip since day one in my head before falling deep into sleep.
The next week is full of unpleasantness for me- returning to ulaan Baatar by a jam-paked van, being stuck in Olgiy, the feeling of having no horses. But I liked to remember that last evening when I gazed down feeling part of everything around me, and feeling as if the horses were with me in spirit. There is one thing that I concluded on that last night too- the Mongols, no matter how hard their lives were, simply never complained…..so maybe I would try to hold to the same attitude over the next 15 months or so."
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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For the first time in about 75 days I woke this morning without the horses. At first I jumped up to make sure that Rusty and Bokus hadn’t been stolen. My heart raced. What were the sounds outside? Was that a car coming to my tent? My knee crashed into the corner of the toilet in my hotel room before I remembered.
I am in Olgiy, the capital of Bayan Olgiy province in far western Mongolia. It is a small Muslim orientated town of about 50,000. I can hardly believe it, but the Mongolian leg of the journey is over. Two days ago I reached the village of Tsengel and spent a day selling the horses. The price was bad, at almost half what I paid, but I didn’t have time to search for another buyer. Tsengel is just about the most western village in Mongolia, squeezed into a valley of the Altai mountains near the borders of Russia, China, and Kazakstan. I decided to end the leg of the trip there, in the heart of Kazak country, rather than at a border town. Border towns are generally seedy, and their culture corrupted, and I didn’t like the idea of selling the horses there. What’s more it is likely that I will not be able to pass through any borders here anyway. So, 1400km from the start in Kharkorin it all came to an end.
Here is Bayan Olgiy province the population is 90 percent Kazak, and their culture here is far more in tact than in Russified Kazakhstan. Until the 1930s Kazaks used to freely travel between Bayan Olgiy, Xingjang in China, and Kazakstan until the borders were drawn up. Today Kazaks travel by plane, or car through Russia to get to their ‘motherland.’ The borders have done a good job of disunifying the kazaks (split between four countries!) and also making my journey difficult. I now have to return to Ulaan Baatar- a 1650km trek by jeep (three or four days). The ridiculous thing is that I have to get an ‘exit’ visa from the foreign ministry because I have a press/media visa. I also need a Russian visa. Technically there is really only one border open to real foreigners like me- in the north by train to Irkutsk. I will try to get special permission to cross from Bayan Olgiy into either Russia or China and travel to Kazakstan. I was only about 150km or so from the border of Kazakstan when I ended but I may have to make a two our three thousand kilometre detour to get there!
Due to battery problems I haven’t been able to update the website for about three weeks or more. Apologies. Here in Olgiy there is electricity for two hours or so a day so that has enabled me to charge the computer up. The problem in the countryside is that there are few herders that own 12 volt batteries, and usually the video camera batteries or phone batteries are the first priority……and whats more, one charge of my external computer battery seems to totally flatten any 12 volt battery leaving the poor herders with no power! Lets hope I will be more successful in Kazakstan.
So, to start where I left off from my last entry, Kathrin and I were just about to head across a very dry region towards Uvs lake with possibly two days with no water. Our plan was to try and cover about 55km a day by riding right through the night……………….
24/8/04 – 30/8/04 Zuungov – Ulaangom
‘‘S**t! Kathrin! Help!’ I screamed. In the torchlight I watched in horror as Rusty, our big packhorse laiden with gear jumped across the stream into the swamp. He sank immediately up to his chest in mud, the heavy load pushing him down further. He had a wild look in his eyes, his nose dilated. He jumped up. Mud went flying, and he went down again. It was 12.30pm and pitch black. Stupidly we had tried to navigate through the marshlands to the river one last time before starting our long, dry night trek. Now we were lost and I wondered if this was it. I had heard many stories of horses sinking and dying in mud.
I pulled the lead rope and screamed at the horse who seemed to be resigning himself to an untimely end. Then one last time he tried to move. His front legs came bounding out and I jumped out of the way. The next thing I knew he was standing next to me, trembling, covered in mud up to his neck. Our trek to Uvs lake had not begun well. ‘Lets just get out of here.’
I had looked forward to the idea of riding at night, but I soon discovered that the feeling of riding in the cold with no moonlight under heavy cloud just made me feel nauseas and extremely tired. We found a couple of wheel tracks that seemed to be going in the right direction and decided to get off and walk. The next six or seven hours of walking are a blur. Kathrin was beginning to hallucinate and at one stage I lost my compass and spent an hour or two searching for it. The chinese batteries in my GPS died in the cold and we ended up having no real idea where we were. All in all we had probably only covered a handful of kilometres. I felt like I had made more mistakes in the space of one night than in the past month or so.
With the coming of the sun on the horizon I began to wake up. There was just the sound of the wind in the grass, my footsteps, the horses plodding along, poor Kathrin behind me looking like she was sleep walking. Ahead a dark lonely plain stretched into a blur of sky and clouds. Unexpectedly there were mountains rising up to the south of us. We had obviously come a lot further south than planned. Gradually the black faded and gave way to visible shapes and detail. It seemed to be colder than before sunrise. The mountains were decapitated by wind-whipped clouds. Mist had gathered on the plain where we walked and the moisture added to the feeling of cold. We decided to start riding again, and soon discovered that you can indeed ride while sleeping. Again and again I would wake myself up and point the horse in the right direction. Sometimes I would look around and see Kathrin drifting off as well. Gradually the eyes would close, the soft rocking, movement of the horse inducing a sense of warm and calm. Then, bang, you head would rise and you would remember where you were. As a result I didn’t so much watch the landscape go by, but saw everything in short glimpses between short sleeps and long stretches of time when I would hide my nose below my collar and just stare blankly down at the reins. It was bloody cold, and distance passed excruciatingly slowly.
We were both forced to wake up at about 10am when a couple of riders came bounding over dressed in their winter deles. I looked around me without sleep in my eyes and it seemed we had reached a totally new world. The mountains to our left (to the south) stretched westwardly as far as the eye could see. Snow had fallen overnight and their peaks were painted a dusty, fresh white. Far to the north east of us we could make out Uvs lake, an enormous body of salt water home to an astounding number of migrating birds. After a chat, the riders galloped off proudly shrinking in the enormity of the landscape.
We had lunch at about 11pm in a dry gully to escape the wind, then continued our plod. By afternoon we were both tired and frustrated. It was too hot to wear a jacket when the sun was out, but when a cloud came it was too cold to go without. We perfected the art of sleep riding and continued along this endless flat until about 7pm when finally we made camp about 12 km from the edge of the lake. We had covered a mere 50km despite such a long trek. It seemed ridiculous that there was all this water close by, and yet it was undrinkable salt water. We had asked all herders along the way, even the two who we had seen earlier in the morning and they were all adamant that there was no drinkable water for the horses until about 18km out of Ulaangom. There was another 60km to go before the next drink. We collapsed into sleep at 10 or 11pm. We had not slept in over 36 hours, and our plan was to get up at 1am and keep going. That didn’t happen. We were both too exhausted and didn’t rise until six or seven o’clock. It didn’t seem to matter anyway because it seemed to be cold during the night and day here- we would be doing no service to the horses to ride through the night again.
With the coming of the sun we realised that far in the distance there were gers along the edge of the lake. Where there were gers, there surely had to be drinkable water? Time and time again I had been frustrated by the lack of knowledge of herders beyond their immediate area, but this was ridiculous. As we made our way to the lake it seemed that there were many families living here, yet all herders, told us there were no gers and no water.
After a long trek we arrived and were pointed to a small pond separate to the lake. It was still salty but obviously drinkable. We decided to rest the horses and start again the next day. In the morning our confusion was compounded when we discovered that the locals all had fresh water wells from which they fed their animals, yet we had been directed to the salty pond. When we were finally offered some water from a well we were asked to pay for it. I became angry, just shook the man’s hand and we rode off. Of course he came bounding over asking me if I could give him my saddle, or bridle, or rope, or book, or knife, or tent, or horse as a gift. Some things in Mongolia were hard to understand, and this sequence of events was just one of hundreds.
We rode close to the lake shore, the sound of the ripples lapping the waters edge, the smell of salt in the air, the sound of birds. The earth was sandy, yet to our south the mountains rose to brilliant white snow. Another day took us to a family of herders who owned an astounding 1000 goats and sheep, one hundred horses, and god only knew how many cows and camels. Our night stay there was interrupted however by a drunk who wanted my horse. He refused to leave and pretended to pass out next to our tent. Kathrin fetched our friend from the ger and eventually we dragged the man away through the grass, and sat him on his horse. It turned out that he lived here in a neighbouring ger despite telling us that he had to sleep at our tent because his home was 50km away. Another sleep deprived night passed and we pressed onward towards Ulaangom.
In the depression next to the lake we passed through a strange marshy land of salt encrusted earth fresh water springs, and swampy land lush with tall grass. This was being harvested by the locals. We passed by men and women out with their scythes working away at the grass and loading it onto trailers behind tractors. It was a strange meeting point of dry, wet, and mountain environment. As a result you could see herds of horses, camels, yaks, cows, sheep and goats all mingling and grazing together. This place had a totally different feel about it, and it soon became clear that we had crossed into an ethnically quite different region. A man came rushing over on his horse, as usual suggesting he would like to swap horses or saddles. His words went straight past me as I was totally captured by his face. He had blue eyes, a large European nose, and a strange beard growing down under his chin. At the same time his eyes were slanted and his cheeks were round and large. He spoke a strange sounding Mongolian and unlike most Mongols had terrible, Russian-type teeth. His body language and mentality was clearly Mongol, as was his dress and saddle. A few you boys joined us too. They all had pale skin, fair hair, and yet very Mongolian faces. Soon later we passed two women herding goats on horses. This was extremely rare, in fact we had only seen women herding on horses a few times throughout the entire trip. They had large faces, meaty bodies, and wore colourful scarves and large dangling earrings. They came over to us to take a look, then went galloping back to their herds. They looked somehow more southern, central Asian, yet Russian, Mongolian, and even a tad Gypsy. We stopped at a ger about 25km from Ulaangom as night drew near. Women draped in scarves with pale brown eyes and light brown hair greeted us. Inside the ger we were offered salty tea alongside a bowl of flour. In this region they would put a few spoonfuls of flour in with the tea to drink. There was a beautiful picture on the wall of an elderly couple with strange triangular looking silk hats. The man had a grey beard flowing down from under his chin and blue eyes. The woman had a long narrow face and almond eyes. Behind them in the painting were horses tied up to a line, and snowcapped mountains. It took me some time to realise that the woman in the painting was the elderly woman lying down in the bed. She lay there breathing heavily and looking very unwell. Eventually the family presented me a bottle of natural oils. The instructions were written in English and Russian. It was a herbal medicine for treating cancer of the lungs and throat. The family waited for my translation which was poor to say the least in Mongolian. They clearly believed that after six weeks of this medicine she would be better again. It seemed to me that she was dying, and I felt that there was a certain look in her eyes that she knew it well.
We camped next to their ger and had our horses almost run over by the tractor coming back in the evening with hay. In the morning I spoke to my friend Gansukh in Ulaan Baatar on the phone and learnt that in fact this region was populated by Oirats. These are a fascinating tribe of Mongols who were at one stage deeply opposed to Ghengis Khaan’s tribes until they were badly beaten. At some point they all decided to leave Mongolia and settle around the Black Sea in the Ukraine, then relatively recently (this century) they all moved back again. Some settled here next to Uvs lake, while others ended up in Xinjang province in China. It was no wonder that their faces told such a story.
That evening we climbed over some mountains to see the buildings of Ulaangom glittering in the last rays of light. Ulaangom had been a distant, almost impossible destination, and suddenly there it was. Just on dark we were invited to stay by a family of Oirat herders, and we fell to sleep exhausted knowing that finally we could give ourselves and the horses a rest. At the same time there was a strange feeling of completion and disorientation. It was from here that Kathrin would fly out and leave me. It seemed fitting that we had basically reached the edge of Mongolia. Ahead of me lay Bayan Olgiy, 90 percent Kazak, and the Kharkiraa Mountains with the small minority group of Khotont people. Things were about to change.
Tim Cope
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Paddy the Scot
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Hordeland
Mar 2001
time: 14:20
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I always find the stories from my good Mongolian friend 'Gansukh' fascinating. I just had to put this email of his up in regards to how Mongolians bury their dead. Kathrin and I were fascinated by the way of life of the nomad. All of their rituals point to the transcience of life on the steppe.
"Hi Tim
You asked me about nomads how they bury the bodies.
I just want to tell you about that.
In Mongolia traditionally we have many different ways
to do that, almost all different types known in other
cultures.
Originally Mongols were shamans, and since 16th
centuries been Buddhist.
So through Buddism, Mongols have few more different
ways to bury the dead bodies.
I don't know right words about those, sorry.
The most common way today is digging ground and bury
them, because the most people live in towns today.(65%
population)
Before strong comunist influens, 1950's The Mongols
mostly did sky buriels like Tibetians.
It's originally Tibetan tradition came to Mongolia
with Buddhism.
The difference is Tibetians cut the dead body in to
pieces and feed Vulture's.
But Mongols just leave the bodies on the top of the
hills.
We belive if the body is eaten by fox, wolf and birds
in three days is very good.
Then that person had innocent life, if that guy had a
lot's of sins and wasn't good person the body stays
longer in bad condition and smell, which is very sad.
Also Mongols have a tradition to make Mummy, this is
only for very high ranked Princes or Buddhist Monks.
There are kind of Mouselems (temple) with mummies in
Erdenezuu monastery in Kharakhorum, Choijinlama temple
in Ulanbator.
Also Mongols burn the bodies like Hindu's, this
tradition also came with Buddhism.
Only very high ranked Monks are done with this.
Some parts in Mongolia there is a tradition called
LOSING.
They put the body in a bag with clothes, food and
other things belong to dead person.
Then hung that from the horse or yak wagon, and go for
the small journey till it fells to the ground.
And they explain that spirit chooses the buriel land
itself.
Usually this is belong to small children.
Let me tell you a story.
Which is quite common.
Two truck drivers were driving to the far western
Mongolia, and found a big bag.
It wasn't break time, so they had very short stop,
took the bag and put it on the truck.
After few hours drive, they stopped for meals, they
had a fire, hot tea and meals with vodka.
After the meals they opened the bag, first they found
sweets, some biscuits and other snacky food.
They had a some, and they guy put the arm down,
suddenly shouted, he just pulled the arm out.
And other guy took everythings out,in the bottom there
was dead 2 year old kid.
They both vomited, and very quickly drove away."
Tim Cope
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