 |
| Old ladies & ice cream - Ulaanbaatar |
The
Trans-Mongolian railway route follows the classic Trans-Siberian tracks from
Moscow about halfway across the vast Siberian plains until reaching the
Mongol-Buddhist enclave of Ulan-Ude, nestled beneath the lower shore of Lake
Baikal. From here, the carriages sweep southward, abandoning the never-ending taiga landscapes of Siberia and
transitioning to the green rolling hills of northern Mongolia.
We decided
to take this option for our trip as it offers a wider variety of countries, cultures
and countryside. Crossing the vague Europe/Asia border along the Ural Mountains, traversing the mind-bending expanses of forest in Russia, trekking through
the barren, arid Gobi Desert occupying vast swathes of land around the China/Mongolia
border, and stopping at three vastly different capital cities; Moscow, Ulaanbaatar
and Beijing.
Mongolia
was the country in which we had the least time to explore – a grand total of three days. Keen to make the most of this time, and finding Ulaanbaatar a bit suffocating (it recently took the un-prestigious title of most-polluted capital from the
grasps of Beijing and Delhi) we jumped at the chance to join young Dutchman Diederik
on a two-day tour into nearby Terelj National Park, including an overnight stay
with a traditional nomadic family.
 |
| Turtle Rock |
Our journey
to join the family was a leisurely one as our driver battled high-speed,
dust-flinging winds to show us a few of the main places of interest in Terelj
park. This included the appropriately named Turtle Rock – a hulking lump of
granite that looms over the side of the road and whose shape is uncannily
reminiscent of a turtle – and another eponymously titled formation called Old
Man Reading a Book – you can guess what that one looks like.
We also had
time to snoop around the Buddhist meditation centre of Aryapala. A picturesque
retreat snugly located on a spectacular rocky hillside and open to the
prying eyes of day-trippers and the open minds of long-term students (we were firmly
in the former category). Steep steps up to the temple are accompanied by a
multitude of wooden boards each displaying a different Buddhist proverb. These veered wildly from
deeply profound to deeply depressing to deeply nonsensical. The essence of the
majority seemed to be: None of this means anything, you fool, but still be nice
to other people. Which I suppose is as fine a motto to live by as any other.
The awkward sense of ennui from the bleakest of the aphorisms we’d read on
the way up was soon shifted when we met the temple's elderly caretaker. Dressed
in a wide variety of jackets, his head inexplicably festooned with a
 |
| The Caretaker |
Chicago
Bulls baseball cap, he swiftly grabbed us by the elbow and enthusiastically
jabbed his finger at a particular scene that made up one of many decorative
paintings covering the building. We couldn’t quite see what he was pointing at
and were more distracted by the way he was smiling slightly manically, growling
like a dog and intermittently pointing at his genitals. As we swiftly
approached the conclusion it was time to make a rapid exit... finally; realisation as to what he was trying to show us. One of the temple’s wooden
roof planks was decorated with artistic depictions of hell and the fate that
would meet anyone who ended up there. Along with people being sawed in half and
skewered up the bum with hot pokers, was a small design that showed a pair of
dogs biting off men’s genitals. Relieved that we had finally realised what was
going on, we couldn’t help but laugh. As did the old man, before spanking us
all on the bum one by one. I liked him.
 |
| It is quite funny... |
With
twilight slowly drawing in, our driver dropped left us with some locals to
pile into an insufficiently-sized and over-aged hatchback for the final journey
to our nomadic hosts. The car was woefully unsuitable for the terrain – juddering across practically non-existent mud tracks, clattering
through oversized streams, spluttering up steep mountains before hurtling down
the other side. I’ve no idea how the vehicle survived the journey – the
dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree with every warning light blinking frantically – but somehow it did and I’ve no doubt it has made the same journey
again many times since.
Off-roading in a hatchback
 |
| Nomadic Gers (yurts) |
We were
definitely off-the-beaten track by the time we reached the family’s dwelling –
a trio of traditional Mongolian Gers
(yurts) with a small stable attached and a low wooden fence running around the
periphery of the property. There were no other signs of human life in all directions
we looked, just striking tree-topped rocky hillsides sliding down to barren
grasslands. Plenty of animals could be spotted though – the horses, cows,
chickens and dog owned by the family and wandering herds of bleating sheep
scattered across the hillsides. It was only when we climbed to the top of one
of these hills that we could make out a couple of other small nomadic dwellings
in the distance.
 |
| Spot our yurts (white spots on the right) |
You could
almost picture Genghis Khan uniting the nomadic tribes of Mongolia and
launching his impressively successful campaign for world domination from these sturdy heartlands in the 13th Century. No
doubt he was a brutal and genocidal conqueror, reducing the total world population
by 11% as his armies wiped out up to 40 million people, but also a progressive
ruler in many ways; practicing meritocracy and encouraging trade and religious
tolerance in his empire. And quite an empire it was: Genghis conquered more
than twice as much land as any other person previously or since, resulting in the largest
contiguous empire in history. He is hugely revered by Mongolians up to this
present day; they perceive him to be the founding father of their country.
Our host
family comprised a friendly mother and father along with their impossibly cute
one year old daughter. They spoke no English but welcomed us heartily with the
standard Mongolian fare of warm sheep milk, hardened biscuits and mutton stew.
The daughter provided the necessary human link between us all without the need
for a common language – giggling, toddling around and most definitely playing
up to the strange visitors. Heading to our Ger and turning in for the night, it
had already been an incredible, eye-opening experience. Little did we know what
the next day had in store….
 |
| Statue of Mongol warriors |
Horses play
a hugely important role in the lives of Mongolians, and have done for as long
as the recorded history of the country. The equine population actually outnumbers
that of the human. Like Wales and sheep. But way, way cooler. The national
beverage is fermented mare’s milk and horses occasionally provide food too.
Primarily, though, they are used for riding – sometimes in racing, but mostly as
working animals for the nomads. Mongolian nomads are unquestionably among the
best horsemen on the planet. Such skills played a vital part in the success of
Genghis Khan and the international conquest of his ‘Mongol hordes’. The warrior archers
were capable of incredible feats while riding; such as sliding down the side of
their horse to shield themselves from enemy arrows, while simultaneously
holding their bow under the horse's chin and returning fire, all at full
gallop.
Considering
this, we could hardly say no when our host dad offered us the chance to go
riding in the morning. There was a little apprehension, as the tour agency had
told us ‘don’t worry, the horses are
quite small…. But also half-wild, so hold on tight’, which wasn’t exactly
reassuring. These niggling concerns dissipated almost immediately once we set
off into the wide open Mongolian plains. The landscapes took on a vast biblical
scale. Everything seemed bigger than it should be. Bold, blue skies. Beaming
sunshine. Bright green flat grasslands, strewn with intermittent pebbles, mobs
of sheep, herds of wild horses. The world framed by rolling hillsides and
clustered groves of pine trees. Perfection. Serene Nature. Horse pace
increasing to a canter….. really sore balls.
(Remember that last point – we did feel a bit
sorry for ourselves, but not for long)
 |
| Riding under giant skies |
After
nearly an hour, our guide halted the convoy at another small nomad dwelling.
Half a dozen stocky, weather-beaten Mongolian men were at work in the horse
paddock. At least 12 wild-looking stallions were in the pen with them; running around, bucking violently, as the locals attempted to lasso one. No one
spoke any English, so we weren’t quite sure what was going on, but assumed the
animals were being broken in for riding.
A horse was
finally snagged, then led outside the gate into the open plains and subdued by the men. They tied
 |
| Bracing against the stallion |
one of its forelegs to a backleg, causing the animal to fall over its
own hooves and onto the ground where it was promptly sat on and held down. This
was quite distressing to watch, but we trusted in the Mongolian’s knowledge and
world-renowned love for their animals to believe that this was all part of the
breaking-in process. The first indication that there might be something else
going on came when a long knife was produced, along with a bucket of boiling
water and a large silver plate. As one of the older men took the knife, cleaned
it in the water, and crouched down behind the hind quarters of the prone
animal, it finally dawned on us…. The stallion was about to be castrated.
Half-repulsed,
half-fascinated, we half-watched as the knife was used to slice open the outer
sack and each testicle was popped out and cut off in turn. Obviously, no anaesthetic was used and the technique is the same as it has been for centuries –
a sharp knife, a swift operation, and the wound rinsed with mare’s milk which
is believed to encourage healing. It might sound barbaric to our unaccustomed ears,
but having witnessed it first hand, it was remarkable how quickly the whole
process was over and how little pain and distress the horse seemed to go
through. The worst part being once the horse was allowed to get back up and began to rub its upper legs together, looking confused as it searched for
something that used to be there – ‘This
doesn’t seem quite right’. No longer a stallion, now a gelding, his mane
also clipped short (adding insult to injury!). Quite a sad sight watching him
trot awkwardly off to unenthusiastically nibble at a small patch of grass.
 |
| Preparing to make the cut |
Amazed by
what we’d seen, but still totally unprepared for what we’d see next. Geraint
nudged me and said, ‘What’s that guy
eating?’. Turning around, a double-take or three, one of the younger men
was eating the horse testicle raw. Blood smeared his hands and face. He caught
my eye and my first idiot-tourist instinct was to raise my camera. He smiled
and happily posed for the picture.
By the time
we’d seen three horses go through the castration process and six testicles quickly
consumed by different members of the tribe, our initial knee-jerk misgivings had
faded away remarkably rapidly and it was truly fascinating to witness and feel
a part of this ritual. It turned out that one of the younger lads could
actually speak a bit of English and he explained it was an ancient belief that whoever ate the testicles of the horse was meant to acquire the strength of
that stallion. To be fair, I would not have fancied my chances in a wrestle
with any of the blokes there.
Our host
family comprised a friendly mother and father along with their impossibly cute
one year old daughter. They spoke no English but welcomed us heartily with the
standard Mongolian fare of warm sheep milk, hardened biscuits and mutton stew.
The daughter provided the necessary human link between us all without the need
for a common language – giggling, toddling around and most definitely playing
up to the strange visitors. Heading to our Ger and turning in for the night, it
had already been an incredible, eye-opening experience. Little did we know what
the next day had in store….
