A Modern Nomad in Mongolia, written by Matthew Hilton-Dennis following his holiday as an eco-tourist in 2009.
Those few who decide to travel to Mongolia have a rare opportunity to experience a nomadic way of life that has continued unchanged for centuries.
Ghengis Khan may have conquered most of the known world, and even though his noble features are carved into one of the hillsides that look down upon the capital, Ulaanbaatar, the most enduring symbol of Mongolia is that of the humble ‘ger’, with its familiar and reassuring white rotundness that punctuates the vastness. It is at the very centre of nomadic life. It sustains life. In rational, practical terms, and that is how Mongolians see most things, it is a simple circular structure built around a wooden frame. Splayed spokes support the roof, and the outer covering comprises felt made from sheep wool, in turn draped with heavy white tarpaulin, and then all braced by ropes lashed over and around. From its top, a narrow metallic chimney smokes as fires, fuelled by wood in winter and dried sheep dung in summer, warm the cauldron inside. The uniform design has been the same for centuries and every aspect can be quickly dismantled and transported when it becomes necessary to move, either with the arrival of winter and sub-zero temperatures, or when a well dries up and new water has to be found.
It symbolises survival; it is a place where any stranger can expect immediate and unquestioning kindness. Those strangers now include intrepid travellers - modern nomads - who come with a backpack, good hiking boots, an easy acceptance of simplicity and a mind as open as the Gobi. Yet tourism must tread sensitively in Mongolia. There is simply not the infrastructure for mass-tourism, and with few tarmac roads outside of the capital, travel is rough and slow. It is an industry that needs careful management. While there is no doubting its capacity to increase revenue and create employment, the danger is of meddling with a delicately poised local culture and its systems. Sudden exposure to Western eyes and money can lead to economic imbalance and dependence, resentment, the creation of caricature and the loss of what makes a community so good to visit in the first place.
One tour company intensely aware of this is ‘Ger to Ger’. Their idea is that small numbers of tourists simply travel from one ger to another within a single province, staying with nomads and experiencing their way of life as they live it. Tours can last from two to twelve days, and with no English-speaking tour guide to facilitate things, it is just you and the nomads. They will welcome you, share whatever they have, instruct you in aspects of their livelihood and then lead you onto the next ger the following day by whatever jeep, camel, horse or instinct available.
Director of Ger-to-Ger, Alaskan-born Zanjan Fromer, has a clear vision. He firmly believes in ‘Social Enterprise’ as the best model for sustainable development, with the nomads themselves eventually running the entire business. ‘The first thing you notice when you get out there,’ he says from the office in Ulaanbaatar, ‘is that we’re not there’. His mantra for nomad entrepreneurs - ‘knowledge equals power; which equals responsibility; which equals liability’ - may be verging on technicolour, but four years down the track and the company is expanding to new provinces, getting the attention of corporate sponsorship and interested charities.
UK-based CAMDA (The Cambridge Mongolia Development Appeal) is one such entity, who having set up mobile horse inoculation clinics and well-digging programs, is now looking to support Ger to Ger as a way of generating an additional income for the nomadic herders - with good reason too. A succession of severe winters from 1999, followed by drought, made grazing impossible in many areas of Mongolia: a state of affairs known bleakly as ‘zud’. The effects on livestock were catastrophic and forced many herders to give up their traditional livelihoods and migrate to the cities. Enter carefully-managed tourism, providing an extra means of revenue to help stem this exodus, improve access to better education and healthcare, and relieve the consequent pressures placed on urban centres like Ulaanbaatar, which is still finding its feet as a city.
Equipped with this information, lessons in nomadic etiquette, our own tent and a desire for the desert, my photographer friend and myself arrived early one morning at Dragon Bus Station, with tickets for Mandalgobi six hours to the south.. At all costs, avoid seats positioned above the back wheels where one’s knees and ears can end up in a lengthy embrace. Journey time is best left up to the local shaman to decide, given that there is no such thing as an exact distance in Mongolia. Passing sacred sites often means moments of pause and reflection.
After lunch and the necessary ‘comfort stop’ in the nearby field, the gradual change from green steppe-land to desertification was marked. The grass became thinner and more sporadic, making way for dusty oranges and yellows and the beginning of endless pebbles that 200 million years ago lay at the bottom of a vast inland sea. As well as sheep, goats and horses, bactrian camels joined the desert pastoral.
Mandalgobi, the provincial capital of Dundgobi, looks like it should: a frontier town in the middle of the desert. Rows of low ramshackle houses line the way into the centre where a monument of Lenin stands, dedicated to the ‘everlasting friendship’ between Mongolia and Soviet Union. But even here, there are gems to be unearthed. The natural history museum is one, a place where you are likely to find yourself the only visitor that day. However, that does not deter the gruffly keen curator from giving you a brisk tour of the exhibits: prehistoric fossils, a surprisingly large range of stuffed fauna from the Gobi and a full armoury dating back to Ghengis Khan. The delivery comes in a mixture of Mongolian and Russian and he expects you to keep up; in a peculiar way it works.
Our stay there was brief, however, once the Ger to Ger representative had met us, arranged for our return bus journey to Ulaanbaatar in six days’ time and provided a driver and jeep with its unnervingly padded roof. This was to take us to the first ger of the trip, first port of call in the Gobi, and then leave us in the desert. In preparation, we bought extra water rations and a cheerful looking packet of boiled sweets. The bigger the bump, the bigger the laugh in Mongolia and we became thankful of that soft cushion above our heads as we sped across a landscape whose features, once out of town, retreated to the horizon and distant hills.
The idea of falling upon someone’s hospitality is particularly true of the Gobi, when your jeep and driver have disappeared into the wild yellow yonder and you are left holding your bags. But there in front of us were two homely gers, their chimneys popping out of their roofs in defiance of the odds that the desert places against the existence of life. And there was Mrs Munh-Od, our first hostess, emerging from one and holding an infant in her arms, a smile spreading across her weathered face in such a way to put disorientated westerners at ease.
Entering into our first ger, we urgently tried to remember all that we had been told on our induction session in Ulaanbaatar. Careful not to stumble over the threshold, for this brings bad luck, we headed to the left of the ger in a clockwise direction and sat promptly, otherwise the nomads begin to feel awkward, on whatever part of bed, milking stool or section of matted floor we could find. No whistling inside either - bad luck too. As our hostess poured a jug of milk into the huge cooking pot at the centre of all gers, we took stock of our surroundings. Behind us was a collection of household gods: Buddha made an appearance but so did a shamanic mix of doll deities dressed in fabulous manner and with dark eyes surveying the scene.
Tea was ready and we received with both hands - never with the left - the first hot bowl of this salty brew that was to become our staple drink throughout the trip. Accompanying this came a plate of aarul, or curd made from goat’s milk that is left to dry for many hours in the sun. Apparently it is the secret of the nation’s excellent teeth, but to soft western molars, it takes some eating and merely to chip off a small segment is a minor achievement. The sharp taste also takes a lot of getting used to and tales among the travelling community of clever secretions of the stuff into pockets, shirts and socks to avoid rudeness are not uncommon.
Before dinner we pitched our tents with help from the family, as is their custom, grinding pegs through dust and rock, converting iron stakes into further pegs to ensure we didn’t blow away in a sandstorm. While some may think that the more authentic experience would be to sleep in the ger with the family, the tent offers important space and privacy for both you and the nomads and lessens any feeling of intrusion into their lives. Also, to be in the ger is to be constantly sociable, which even for the most gregarious can become quite exhausting.
Even as the strips of mutton lay simmering in a noodle stew, Mrs Munh-Od led us to the nearby crags that offered fine views of the land. From this height the gers seem on the verge of being consumed by the landscape, barely pimples on the vast cheek of the Gobi. At sunset, the shadows are long here, stretching all the way to wind-rippled hills and collecting in pools of valleys and overhangs. Then the desert features can take on a human profile, more mysterious then endless now, even futuristic, like something out of a Frank Herbert novel. In the distance, the ragged shapes of giant rock formations, known together as Ikh Gazriin Chuluu and our final goal, could quite credibly form part of a desert stronghold.
Amazingly, all kinds of life do exist here, and in the colossal stillness come the busy sounds of activity. The twitter of dune birds mixes with the pop-hop action of the desert mouse, who scuttles furtively and intently among the pebbles. He knows something of survival. While looking out from jagged granite, a hopeful layer of green gossamer spreads over the land, giving the illusion of fertility and telling of the presence of water, however fathom deep. Life endures in pure form, here on the edge, shedding all things extraneous; only the essential remains.
The mutton was good. Very fatty and tough, there was no doubt it came from an animal that had lived a long and strenuous life on the desert steppes of Central Asia. But fat is vital for the nomads who have to endure the bitter cold of winter in Mongolia’s extreme seasonal climate. The absence of any fruit or vegetables, however, is another matter and never before have I craved my five-a-day in quite the same way. The reason for this is that they simply do not grow here. In fact, only a couple of provinces in the whole country are able to produce cereal crops and the bulk of foodstuff is imported from China. Fish too, although prevalent across Mongolia’s huge freshwater lakes and rivers, is rarely eaten, considered a low status food and a last resort.
So, like them, you make do without and instead familiarise yourself to a diet that consists almost solely of meat and dairy. Mutton comes in three basic variations - in noodle soup, in dumplings (buuz), or layered within hugely greasy and filling pancakes. Another regular, the ubiquitous urum, or white-butter, is made by pouring off the thick layer of skin that forms on top of boiled milk, before it is cooled, dried and best eaten smeared over bread: don’t count the calories.
It was as we began slurping all this up, declaring ‘amttai!’ - delicious! - that we heard the rumble of motorbikes that signalled the return of the men from a day’s work and the arrival of Mr Munh - Od with his flock of sheep and goats. The first thing you noticed about him as he appeared in the flap of the ger was the darkness of his face. Covered in dirt and grime, here was a man who worked and lived hard. Sure-footed and wiry, with a quick and expressive face, he looked every inch the desert shepherd. He acknowledged us with a nod before sitting on the opposite bed and drawing out a fistful of cigarettes that he passed around his companions. Meanwhile, outside, the goats snuffled beneath the canvas.
Here too was a man who lived for his family. Almost immediately upon arrival, he had swept his baby daughter into his arms, tenderly cocooning her and giving rise to conversation all about her, which he responded to with pride. The next morning as we opened up the tent to let in a desert dawn, there he was not far away crouching down thoughtfully, with his daughter blissfully still in his lap, as he surveyed the herd and the morning’s milking. Here were all the colours of the Gobi and its people: his work-blackened face pressing against a child’s marble cheek, to a backdrop of shaggy brown goats and nascent oranges that had yet to assume the heat of the day.
Before we left, there was important business to attend to. Volleyball. Few would have thought it, but no ger community would be without its court marked out by stones and a net strung between two high wooden poles. What the nomads lack in teamwork, they make up for in speed and agility and a multitude of games were hotly and thirstily contested with the mighty Gobi in attendance .With honour satisfied on both sides, a cooling toast would have gone down a treat. Instead we had to make do with the freshly boiled water to take the dust from our mouths. All packed, our bags were lashed onto what seemed a preposterously loaded motorbike, but Mr Munh-Od seemed unconcerned with the additional weight and reached down to swing his daughter in front of him on the saddle. Mrs Munh-Od was to be our guide for our journey on foot to the lunchtime ger, leading the way as her husband motored over the hills on his precarious steed and we hoped not very far away After lunch with our new hostess, Mrs Munk-hochir, we were introduced to the game of ‘shagai’, a nomadic favourite involving luck, dice and sheep ankle-bones. We thought our luck was in too, for waiting outside patiently in the sun, tethered to a cart, was our next means of transport.
Like all camels, this one was far happier when left to ruminate, and only after much whinging did the animal awkwardly climb to its feet, its burden loaded with baggage and westerners. However, all was not well - with the camel that is. The warning signs were there, for one of its two humps that should have been proudly erect was listing loosely to one side and heralded trouble.
Enough was enough. After an hour in the hot seat, spattered with green sticky camel poo, I decided to jump ship and walk alongside the invalid creature. Despite the best efforts of the driver to shield us with a sheet of tarpaulin, such was the flick of the camel’s tail every time it expelled a new stream of grimness, that quickly my clothes and hair were becoming matted with the stuff. In haphazard manner then, we rocked up to our next overnight ger, where following bucket showers behind the dunes, we were in for a treat.
Mr Gundsambu’s family love having guests to entertain and over the course of the evening we found ourselves both audience and performers, discovering that the Gobi’s got talent in abundance. Promptly with dinner finished, the youngest of the two brothers began singing a popular love melody. his voice filling the ger with such clarity and joy. Such a sensation, however, was not to be repeated during our reply of, ‘Stand by Me’, and even though the family looked happy in anticipation as we began, ‘When the night has come…’, there was soon a quiet consensus that everyone would be happier still when the end had come.
Games and tricks followed, culminating in the two of us utterly tangled and twisted in rope much to the amusement of our guests, who kept the secret of release until contortion reached paralysis. But it was their turn to be confounded by card-tricks taught to me many years ago by an English teacher who loved magic and distraction. After one denouement that saw cards paired impossibly together, the mother, full of delight and laughter, asked for the phrasebook, which she leafed through intently. She smiled when she found the word that described her reaction, and showed it to me: ‘gaihaltai’ - fantastic.
The next morning, Mr Gundsambu, a professional carpenter, invited us to a lesson on wood engraving. Both his sons were present too, watching carefully, like us, as their father skilfully drew a slender blade over a thin rectangle of wood and began a neat spiral pattern that each of us in turn would continue. My attention was divided, however, between watching his easy mastery over the wood and observing his face, whose deep corduroy lines formed a portrait of patient care and concentration. Such indiscipline, of course, would cost me later when it came to my turn to carve out a spiral and my gouging efforts quickly had to be rescued by teacher.
This day was to be our first in the saddle. Two small horses were provided, to our eyes not much bigger than ponies, but more sturdy and, like all horses in Mongolia, semi-wild. We were reassured that these were suitably placid for our purposes but we were still instructed always to mount from the left side to avoid getting off to a bad start. Mongolian saddles are made of wood and even with softening blankets, things can become sore very quickly, and padded shorts or trousers are advisable. But this is a minor distraction, however, to the thrill of steering your steed in true nomadic fashion across the badlands of Asia.
Thrill was too large a word for my particular mount, who took little interest in the way I touched its flanks or my commands of ‘Chu! Chu!’ to make it go a tad faster than its preferred ambling gait. It seemed like it hadn’t eaten in months, either, the way it continually ducked its head to pluck at clumps of desiccated grass throughout the journey. The midday sun was up, hot and high above perfect rows of flat-bottomed clouds. Ahead my companion trotted on his obedient mare with our guide, the elder son, who was busy perfecting his latest rope trick. In the distance lay the rocks of Ikh Gazriin Chuluu, which had never seemed so far away as I pointed my desert hoover in their vague direction and shouted ‘Chu!’ once more. And chew he did. It is strange how the eye looks for features to cling onto and without which the mind begins to panic. A vast plain of seeming nothingness is a daunting prospect. It can be coldly beautiful too, a page of creation wiped clean, whose beguiling allure is in its capacity to absorb the individual and disintegrate; there is a subtle voice that calls you away from the path and into the void. Such is the Gobi’s invitation to reside truly in your mind - and only then if you fall too far behind the others. ‘Chu! Chu!’
There is something wonderful about the colour green after it has been deprived you. For there in front of us was a patch of long green grasses that seemed to grow miraculously from the dust. A stream had once run here and maybe yet some moisture lingered, enough anyway to drench our parched senses. From this oasis, we knew that the haven of our lunch ger could not be far away, and as soon as Mrs Tsogtsaihan took one look at us, she understood that all we needed was rest and water. Offering cooling shelter, rugs and beds, she withdrew in silent hospitality.
Fortified by sleep, mutton and salt tea, our next journey was to be by horse and cart, altogether more comfortable than by ailing camel. Wedged between our bags, we let the land drift by at a leisurely trot, humming and guessing soundtracks to epic movies. Occasionally, small herds of wild horses would appear over a ridge at tremendous speed, check their pace at the sight of us, and then continue across our path, whinnying to each other over the plains. At other times, we would see them resting in the cool of the evening, one often hanging its head affectionately over the back of another. More than any other animal, the horse is a symbol of wealth and pride to the nomad.
And proudly sat the ger of Mr Chimeddorj, seated handsomely upon a hill that surveyed a magnificent panorama of nearby Ikh Gazriin Chuluu and further distant ranges. Pitching tents became a battle against the growing winds and harbingers of the storm that brooded over the abyss of rock and desert that lay between us. Everything that could act as weight or peg was found to keep us pinned to the earth. Our little homes complete, we made our way inside the ger to gather around the warmth of the cooking pot into which Mrs Chimeddorj was cracking noodle sticks and adding salt. Airag helped insulate our insides, while lumps of aarul and white butter stuck to them. Snuff made us dizzy and games of shagai were lost and won. All the while, Mr Chimeddorj pulled on cigarettes beneath his Stetson like a chiselled Marlborough man and wondered if the satellite dish outside would offer any television reception in the storm.
But we were to be spared any serious wrath and by the time we crawled into our tents, it was possible to leave the flap open and watch, all wrapped in sleeping bags, an extraordinary lightening show being performed faraway over a mountain stage. At sudden intervals, piercing the ethereal darkness, terrific forks of electricity would silently illumine heavenly vaults, as if the gods were hailing each other across the welkin.
Ghenghis Khan’s face gets around Mongolia, most commonly found on bank notes and on the label of Chinggis Khan vodka bottles. Here too in the middle of Ikh Gaziin Chuluu, amidst 12 km of the most precarious of formations, some it seems held in a perpetual scene of collapse like a massive game of Jenga, is a rock that supposedly bears his profile. But the next day I was struggling to see it, no matter what the angle or shadow. More striking was the picture of Mrs Chimmedorj sitting upon a colossus formed million of years ago trying to find mobile phone reception. Nearby, her husband reclined in bold poses straight from Mr Gobi calendar 2009.
Unearthly, lunar, shattered, the place feels like it was once the arena for a titanic struggle. The way the rocks emerge portentously from the ground, all at staggered heights, calls to mind the pipes of some huge subterranean organ that lies waiting to be played by a dread organist. Until then, a tomb-like silence locks this land in rigid repose. By contrast, pale butterflies flutter - flickflick - across petrified giants. Here we found our final ger.
Sitting on a rock that overlooked a single small ger, a satellite dish, sonar panels and a regimented pile of sheep dung bricks, we waited for the old man of these noble rocks. But he was out when we arrived, so there was time yet to be spent in the company of Mr Chimmedorj, who every now and again would take out a pocket-sized telescope from the folds of his robes and look for signs of arrival. Like a young apprentice trying to imitate his master in a manly silence, I imagined myself the nomad peering through the glass, searching for stray goats. No chance. Moving slowly and walking with stick, the frail figure of a man came into view. Mr Tsembeldorj is a recognised expert on the rocks of Ikh Gaziin Chuluu after a lifetime spent in their sober company. However, he leaves the exploring now to his teenage son, Artingle, who was to be our guide through the dark places of the earth. He it was who led me on an early foray down into secret caves and then on a breathless scramble to a summit that gave stadium views of rock and dustbowl.
Here we conversed and by drawing in the sand he told me of his ambition to become an architect. A fan of football that had never heard of David Beckham, Artingle was a rarity, and a sharp customer on the chessboard, twice my vanquisher that evening beneath the glow of the television and hum of the generator. He was a frustratingly good musician too, for after a novelty dinner of sticky rice he took up his horse fiddle; pulling the bow across the two strings of this horse-head crested violin, he began an enchanting air. As he played, his elderly father exhaled plumes of smoke with pleasure and a gently familiar smile appeared on his mother’s face. Tucked into the rafters above their heads were fading photographs of them in their prime as a young and distinguished looking couple; and a painting of him posing next to a motorcycle. Among nomads, it’s all about how you move.
Mrs Tsembeldorj was to teach us the art of ger making the following morning, beginning with how to create felt from sheep’s wool. Soaking a hide in water, it is then folded, squeezed and wrung until the arms ache, and then left to dry and harden in the sun. Given the time and effort taken to make only a small piece, the thought of encasing a whole ger in the material… no wonder the women here are held in such high respect.
Outside, all the equipment for constructing a miniature ger was being assembled. From a box of goodies came a concertina frame, slender wooden spokes, tufts of felt, a roll of tarpaulin and string to bind everything together. Even a working dwarf chimney was provided and cupboards and furniture for the inside. Habitable perhaps, but the roof spokes had a habit of coming loose and crashing in, much to the chagrin of any Lilliputian nomad inside. Still, a match and paper were thrown into the stove and soon small and satisfying puffs of smoke issued forth to make the heart glad.
For our final Gobi adventure, Artingle led us along a daring path. In the most unlikely of places, he showed us geometric patterns drawn onto rocks by shamans long ago and piles of rocks that marked the final resting place of mighty warriors, buried with all the treasure won in their earthly lives. High up, we came upon the narrowest of defiles that revealed a tiny Buddhist shrine, filled with gifts of money and food.
Most surprising was the discovery of a huge open-air theatre, spread across a vast stone stage. It was built by the daughter of Mrs Delgermaa, to commemorate the life of one of Mongolia’s most famous singers of the long-song. So named because these epic pastoral songs, celebrating the magnificence of the country’s landscape, take several days to perform. The voice of an adept is said to billow and gust like the wind across the wide-open plains, breaking the formidable silence of Ikh Gaziin Chuluu.
The best story of all came from the unassuming drawing of a Mongolian wrestler, etched into a rock, his arms spread wide in defiance. No ordinary wrestler, this was mythical local hero, Khur Khartsaga, a poor man of prodigious strength who was thrown out of the province by the governor of Dundgobi for defeating his brother in a wrestling match. As he left, carrying both ger and ancient mother on his back, Khur muttered a curse, saying that never again would the province produce any victorious wrestlers. For many years now, Dundgobi has yet to triumph at the national Naadam wrestling tournament and the locals recently decided to erect a statue to Khur in the hope of appeasing his lingering ire.
I wondered why these nomads have chosen such an exceptionally difficult place in which to live. In the lush water-fat centre of Mongolia, their counterparts have it much easier. The answer is straightforward: this is their land. Like the sheep and goats they herd, for generations they have adapted to the vicissitudes of the desert. They also know that hardship brings its own special rewards, in the form of fellowship and community. It is what makes them unique among nomads in Mongolia and most true to the old ways. To spend a few days in the company of these humble, noble people makes unusual demands on the traveller. Like them, you must travel light, free of luxury and prejudice. And like all wanderers of these parts, you must put your entire faith in strangers.
Fortunately, among the rocks and the sands and in the gers of the Gobi, you will only find perfect strangers.
(A selection of Matthew's pictures can be seen at this link) ( Return to previous page)
Those few who decide to travel to Mongolia have a rare opportunity to experience a nomadic way of life that has continued unchanged for centuries.
Ghengis Khan may have conquered most of the known world, and even though his noble features are carved into one of the hillsides that look down upon the capital, Ulaanbaatar, the most enduring symbol of Mongolia is that of the humble ‘ger’, with its familiar and reassuring white rotundness that punctuates the vastness. It is at the very centre of nomadic life. It sustains life. In rational, practical terms, and that is how Mongolians see most things, it is a simple circular structure built around a wooden frame. Splayed spokes support the roof, and the outer covering comprises felt made from sheep wool, in turn draped with heavy white tarpaulin, and then all braced by ropes lashed over and around. From its top, a narrow metallic chimney smokes as fires, fuelled by wood in winter and dried sheep dung in summer, warm the cauldron inside. The uniform design has been the same for centuries and every aspect can be quickly dismantled and transported when it becomes necessary to move, either with the arrival of winter and sub-zero temperatures, or when a well dries up and new water has to be found.
It symbolises survival; it is a place where any stranger can expect immediate and unquestioning kindness. Those strangers now include intrepid travellers - modern nomads - who come with a backpack, good hiking boots, an easy acceptance of simplicity and a mind as open as the Gobi. Yet tourism must tread sensitively in Mongolia. There is simply not the infrastructure for mass-tourism, and with few tarmac roads outside of the capital, travel is rough and slow. It is an industry that needs careful management. While there is no doubting its capacity to increase revenue and create employment, the danger is of meddling with a delicately poised local culture and its systems. Sudden exposure to Western eyes and money can lead to economic imbalance and dependence, resentment, the creation of caricature and the loss of what makes a community so good to visit in the first place.
One tour company intensely aware of this is ‘Ger to Ger’. Their idea is that small numbers of tourists simply travel from one ger to another within a single province, staying with nomads and experiencing their way of life as they live it. Tours can last from two to twelve days, and with no English-speaking tour guide to facilitate things, it is just you and the nomads. They will welcome you, share whatever they have, instruct you in aspects of their livelihood and then lead you onto the next ger the following day by whatever jeep, camel, horse or instinct available.
Director of Ger-to-Ger, Alaskan-born Zanjan Fromer, has a clear vision. He firmly believes in ‘Social Enterprise’ as the best model for sustainable development, with the nomads themselves eventually running the entire business. ‘The first thing you notice when you get out there,’ he says from the office in Ulaanbaatar, ‘is that we’re not there’. His mantra for nomad entrepreneurs - ‘knowledge equals power; which equals responsibility; which equals liability’ - may be verging on technicolour, but four years down the track and the company is expanding to new provinces, getting the attention of corporate sponsorship and interested charities.
UK-based CAMDA (The Cambridge Mongolia Development Appeal) is one such entity, who having set up mobile horse inoculation clinics and well-digging programs, is now looking to support Ger to Ger as a way of generating an additional income for the nomadic herders - with good reason too. A succession of severe winters from 1999, followed by drought, made grazing impossible in many areas of Mongolia: a state of affairs known bleakly as ‘zud’. The effects on livestock were catastrophic and forced many herders to give up their traditional livelihoods and migrate to the cities. Enter carefully-managed tourism, providing an extra means of revenue to help stem this exodus, improve access to better education and healthcare, and relieve the consequent pressures placed on urban centres like Ulaanbaatar, which is still finding its feet as a city.
Equipped with this information, lessons in nomadic etiquette, our own tent and a desire for the desert, my photographer friend and myself arrived early one morning at Dragon Bus Station, with tickets for Mandalgobi six hours to the south.. At all costs, avoid seats positioned above the back wheels where one’s knees and ears can end up in a lengthy embrace. Journey time is best left up to the local shaman to decide, given that there is no such thing as an exact distance in Mongolia. Passing sacred sites often means moments of pause and reflection.
After lunch and the necessary ‘comfort stop’ in the nearby field, the gradual change from green steppe-land to desertification was marked. The grass became thinner and more sporadic, making way for dusty oranges and yellows and the beginning of endless pebbles that 200 million years ago lay at the bottom of a vast inland sea. As well as sheep, goats and horses, bactrian camels joined the desert pastoral.
Mandalgobi, the provincial capital of Dundgobi, looks like it should: a frontier town in the middle of the desert. Rows of low ramshackle houses line the way into the centre where a monument of Lenin stands, dedicated to the ‘everlasting friendship’ between Mongolia and Soviet Union. But even here, there are gems to be unearthed. The natural history museum is one, a place where you are likely to find yourself the only visitor that day. However, that does not deter the gruffly keen curator from giving you a brisk tour of the exhibits: prehistoric fossils, a surprisingly large range of stuffed fauna from the Gobi and a full armoury dating back to Ghengis Khan. The delivery comes in a mixture of Mongolian and Russian and he expects you to keep up; in a peculiar way it works.
Our stay there was brief, however, once the Ger to Ger representative had met us, arranged for our return bus journey to Ulaanbaatar in six days’ time and provided a driver and jeep with its unnervingly padded roof. This was to take us to the first ger of the trip, first port of call in the Gobi, and then leave us in the desert. In preparation, we bought extra water rations and a cheerful looking packet of boiled sweets. The bigger the bump, the bigger the laugh in Mongolia and we became thankful of that soft cushion above our heads as we sped across a landscape whose features, once out of town, retreated to the horizon and distant hills.
The idea of falling upon someone’s hospitality is particularly true of the Gobi, when your jeep and driver have disappeared into the wild yellow yonder and you are left holding your bags. But there in front of us were two homely gers, their chimneys popping out of their roofs in defiance of the odds that the desert places against the existence of life. And there was Mrs Munh-Od, our first hostess, emerging from one and holding an infant in her arms, a smile spreading across her weathered face in such a way to put disorientated westerners at ease.
Entering into our first ger, we urgently tried to remember all that we had been told on our induction session in Ulaanbaatar. Careful not to stumble over the threshold, for this brings bad luck, we headed to the left of the ger in a clockwise direction and sat promptly, otherwise the nomads begin to feel awkward, on whatever part of bed, milking stool or section of matted floor we could find. No whistling inside either - bad luck too. As our hostess poured a jug of milk into the huge cooking pot at the centre of all gers, we took stock of our surroundings. Behind us was a collection of household gods: Buddha made an appearance but so did a shamanic mix of doll deities dressed in fabulous manner and with dark eyes surveying the scene.
Tea was ready and we received with both hands - never with the left - the first hot bowl of this salty brew that was to become our staple drink throughout the trip. Accompanying this came a plate of aarul, or curd made from goat’s milk that is left to dry for many hours in the sun. Apparently it is the secret of the nation’s excellent teeth, but to soft western molars, it takes some eating and merely to chip off a small segment is a minor achievement. The sharp taste also takes a lot of getting used to and tales among the travelling community of clever secretions of the stuff into pockets, shirts and socks to avoid rudeness are not uncommon.
Before dinner we pitched our tents with help from the family, as is their custom, grinding pegs through dust and rock, converting iron stakes into further pegs to ensure we didn’t blow away in a sandstorm. While some may think that the more authentic experience would be to sleep in the ger with the family, the tent offers important space and privacy for both you and the nomads and lessens any feeling of intrusion into their lives. Also, to be in the ger is to be constantly sociable, which even for the most gregarious can become quite exhausting.
Even as the strips of mutton lay simmering in a noodle stew, Mrs Munh-Od led us to the nearby crags that offered fine views of the land. From this height the gers seem on the verge of being consumed by the landscape, barely pimples on the vast cheek of the Gobi. At sunset, the shadows are long here, stretching all the way to wind-rippled hills and collecting in pools of valleys and overhangs. Then the desert features can take on a human profile, more mysterious then endless now, even futuristic, like something out of a Frank Herbert novel. In the distance, the ragged shapes of giant rock formations, known together as Ikh Gazriin Chuluu and our final goal, could quite credibly form part of a desert stronghold.
Amazingly, all kinds of life do exist here, and in the colossal stillness come the busy sounds of activity. The twitter of dune birds mixes with the pop-hop action of the desert mouse, who scuttles furtively and intently among the pebbles. He knows something of survival. While looking out from jagged granite, a hopeful layer of green gossamer spreads over the land, giving the illusion of fertility and telling of the presence of water, however fathom deep. Life endures in pure form, here on the edge, shedding all things extraneous; only the essential remains.
The mutton was good. Very fatty and tough, there was no doubt it came from an animal that had lived a long and strenuous life on the desert steppes of Central Asia. But fat is vital for the nomads who have to endure the bitter cold of winter in Mongolia’s extreme seasonal climate. The absence of any fruit or vegetables, however, is another matter and never before have I craved my five-a-day in quite the same way. The reason for this is that they simply do not grow here. In fact, only a couple of provinces in the whole country are able to produce cereal crops and the bulk of foodstuff is imported from China. Fish too, although prevalent across Mongolia’s huge freshwater lakes and rivers, is rarely eaten, considered a low status food and a last resort.
So, like them, you make do without and instead familiarise yourself to a diet that consists almost solely of meat and dairy. Mutton comes in three basic variations - in noodle soup, in dumplings (buuz), or layered within hugely greasy and filling pancakes. Another regular, the ubiquitous urum, or white-butter, is made by pouring off the thick layer of skin that forms on top of boiled milk, before it is cooled, dried and best eaten smeared over bread: don’t count the calories.
It was as we began slurping all this up, declaring ‘amttai!’ - delicious! - that we heard the rumble of motorbikes that signalled the return of the men from a day’s work and the arrival of Mr Munh - Od with his flock of sheep and goats. The first thing you noticed about him as he appeared in the flap of the ger was the darkness of his face. Covered in dirt and grime, here was a man who worked and lived hard. Sure-footed and wiry, with a quick and expressive face, he looked every inch the desert shepherd. He acknowledged us with a nod before sitting on the opposite bed and drawing out a fistful of cigarettes that he passed around his companions. Meanwhile, outside, the goats snuffled beneath the canvas.
Here too was a man who lived for his family. Almost immediately upon arrival, he had swept his baby daughter into his arms, tenderly cocooning her and giving rise to conversation all about her, which he responded to with pride. The next morning as we opened up the tent to let in a desert dawn, there he was not far away crouching down thoughtfully, with his daughter blissfully still in his lap, as he surveyed the herd and the morning’s milking. Here were all the colours of the Gobi and its people: his work-blackened face pressing against a child’s marble cheek, to a backdrop of shaggy brown goats and nascent oranges that had yet to assume the heat of the day.
Before we left, there was important business to attend to. Volleyball. Few would have thought it, but no ger community would be without its court marked out by stones and a net strung between two high wooden poles. What the nomads lack in teamwork, they make up for in speed and agility and a multitude of games were hotly and thirstily contested with the mighty Gobi in attendance .With honour satisfied on both sides, a cooling toast would have gone down a treat. Instead we had to make do with the freshly boiled water to take the dust from our mouths. All packed, our bags were lashed onto what seemed a preposterously loaded motorbike, but Mr Munh-Od seemed unconcerned with the additional weight and reached down to swing his daughter in front of him on the saddle. Mrs Munh-Od was to be our guide for our journey on foot to the lunchtime ger, leading the way as her husband motored over the hills on his precarious steed and we hoped not very far away After lunch with our new hostess, Mrs Munk-hochir, we were introduced to the game of ‘shagai’, a nomadic favourite involving luck, dice and sheep ankle-bones. We thought our luck was in too, for waiting outside patiently in the sun, tethered to a cart, was our next means of transport.
Like all camels, this one was far happier when left to ruminate, and only after much whinging did the animal awkwardly climb to its feet, its burden loaded with baggage and westerners. However, all was not well - with the camel that is. The warning signs were there, for one of its two humps that should have been proudly erect was listing loosely to one side and heralded trouble.
Enough was enough. After an hour in the hot seat, spattered with green sticky camel poo, I decided to jump ship and walk alongside the invalid creature. Despite the best efforts of the driver to shield us with a sheet of tarpaulin, such was the flick of the camel’s tail every time it expelled a new stream of grimness, that quickly my clothes and hair were becoming matted with the stuff. In haphazard manner then, we rocked up to our next overnight ger, where following bucket showers behind the dunes, we were in for a treat.
Mr Gundsambu’s family love having guests to entertain and over the course of the evening we found ourselves both audience and performers, discovering that the Gobi’s got talent in abundance. Promptly with dinner finished, the youngest of the two brothers began singing a popular love melody. his voice filling the ger with such clarity and joy. Such a sensation, however, was not to be repeated during our reply of, ‘Stand by Me’, and even though the family looked happy in anticipation as we began, ‘When the night has come…’, there was soon a quiet consensus that everyone would be happier still when the end had come.
Games and tricks followed, culminating in the two of us utterly tangled and twisted in rope much to the amusement of our guests, who kept the secret of release until contortion reached paralysis. But it was their turn to be confounded by card-tricks taught to me many years ago by an English teacher who loved magic and distraction. After one denouement that saw cards paired impossibly together, the mother, full of delight and laughter, asked for the phrasebook, which she leafed through intently. She smiled when she found the word that described her reaction, and showed it to me: ‘gaihaltai’ - fantastic.
The next morning, Mr Gundsambu, a professional carpenter, invited us to a lesson on wood engraving. Both his sons were present too, watching carefully, like us, as their father skilfully drew a slender blade over a thin rectangle of wood and began a neat spiral pattern that each of us in turn would continue. My attention was divided, however, between watching his easy mastery over the wood and observing his face, whose deep corduroy lines formed a portrait of patient care and concentration. Such indiscipline, of course, would cost me later when it came to my turn to carve out a spiral and my gouging efforts quickly had to be rescued by teacher.
This day was to be our first in the saddle. Two small horses were provided, to our eyes not much bigger than ponies, but more sturdy and, like all horses in Mongolia, semi-wild. We were reassured that these were suitably placid for our purposes but we were still instructed always to mount from the left side to avoid getting off to a bad start. Mongolian saddles are made of wood and even with softening blankets, things can become sore very quickly, and padded shorts or trousers are advisable. But this is a minor distraction, however, to the thrill of steering your steed in true nomadic fashion across the badlands of Asia.
Thrill was too large a word for my particular mount, who took little interest in the way I touched its flanks or my commands of ‘Chu! Chu!’ to make it go a tad faster than its preferred ambling gait. It seemed like it hadn’t eaten in months, either, the way it continually ducked its head to pluck at clumps of desiccated grass throughout the journey. The midday sun was up, hot and high above perfect rows of flat-bottomed clouds. Ahead my companion trotted on his obedient mare with our guide, the elder son, who was busy perfecting his latest rope trick. In the distance lay the rocks of Ikh Gazriin Chuluu, which had never seemed so far away as I pointed my desert hoover in their vague direction and shouted ‘Chu!’ once more. And chew he did. It is strange how the eye looks for features to cling onto and without which the mind begins to panic. A vast plain of seeming nothingness is a daunting prospect. It can be coldly beautiful too, a page of creation wiped clean, whose beguiling allure is in its capacity to absorb the individual and disintegrate; there is a subtle voice that calls you away from the path and into the void. Such is the Gobi’s invitation to reside truly in your mind - and only then if you fall too far behind the others. ‘Chu! Chu!’
There is something wonderful about the colour green after it has been deprived you. For there in front of us was a patch of long green grasses that seemed to grow miraculously from the dust. A stream had once run here and maybe yet some moisture lingered, enough anyway to drench our parched senses. From this oasis, we knew that the haven of our lunch ger could not be far away, and as soon as Mrs Tsogtsaihan took one look at us, she understood that all we needed was rest and water. Offering cooling shelter, rugs and beds, she withdrew in silent hospitality.
Fortified by sleep, mutton and salt tea, our next journey was to be by horse and cart, altogether more comfortable than by ailing camel. Wedged between our bags, we let the land drift by at a leisurely trot, humming and guessing soundtracks to epic movies. Occasionally, small herds of wild horses would appear over a ridge at tremendous speed, check their pace at the sight of us, and then continue across our path, whinnying to each other over the plains. At other times, we would see them resting in the cool of the evening, one often hanging its head affectionately over the back of another. More than any other animal, the horse is a symbol of wealth and pride to the nomad.
And proudly sat the ger of Mr Chimeddorj, seated handsomely upon a hill that surveyed a magnificent panorama of nearby Ikh Gazriin Chuluu and further distant ranges. Pitching tents became a battle against the growing winds and harbingers of the storm that brooded over the abyss of rock and desert that lay between us. Everything that could act as weight or peg was found to keep us pinned to the earth. Our little homes complete, we made our way inside the ger to gather around the warmth of the cooking pot into which Mrs Chimeddorj was cracking noodle sticks and adding salt. Airag helped insulate our insides, while lumps of aarul and white butter stuck to them. Snuff made us dizzy and games of shagai were lost and won. All the while, Mr Chimeddorj pulled on cigarettes beneath his Stetson like a chiselled Marlborough man and wondered if the satellite dish outside would offer any television reception in the storm.
But we were to be spared any serious wrath and by the time we crawled into our tents, it was possible to leave the flap open and watch, all wrapped in sleeping bags, an extraordinary lightening show being performed faraway over a mountain stage. At sudden intervals, piercing the ethereal darkness, terrific forks of electricity would silently illumine heavenly vaults, as if the gods were hailing each other across the welkin.
Ghenghis Khan’s face gets around Mongolia, most commonly found on bank notes and on the label of Chinggis Khan vodka bottles. Here too in the middle of Ikh Gaziin Chuluu, amidst 12 km of the most precarious of formations, some it seems held in a perpetual scene of collapse like a massive game of Jenga, is a rock that supposedly bears his profile. But the next day I was struggling to see it, no matter what the angle or shadow. More striking was the picture of Mrs Chimmedorj sitting upon a colossus formed million of years ago trying to find mobile phone reception. Nearby, her husband reclined in bold poses straight from Mr Gobi calendar 2009.
Unearthly, lunar, shattered, the place feels like it was once the arena for a titanic struggle. The way the rocks emerge portentously from the ground, all at staggered heights, calls to mind the pipes of some huge subterranean organ that lies waiting to be played by a dread organist. Until then, a tomb-like silence locks this land in rigid repose. By contrast, pale butterflies flutter - flickflick - across petrified giants. Here we found our final ger.
Sitting on a rock that overlooked a single small ger, a satellite dish, sonar panels and a regimented pile of sheep dung bricks, we waited for the old man of these noble rocks. But he was out when we arrived, so there was time yet to be spent in the company of Mr Chimmedorj, who every now and again would take out a pocket-sized telescope from the folds of his robes and look for signs of arrival. Like a young apprentice trying to imitate his master in a manly silence, I imagined myself the nomad peering through the glass, searching for stray goats. No chance. Moving slowly and walking with stick, the frail figure of a man came into view. Mr Tsembeldorj is a recognised expert on the rocks of Ikh Gaziin Chuluu after a lifetime spent in their sober company. However, he leaves the exploring now to his teenage son, Artingle, who was to be our guide through the dark places of the earth. He it was who led me on an early foray down into secret caves and then on a breathless scramble to a summit that gave stadium views of rock and dustbowl.
Here we conversed and by drawing in the sand he told me of his ambition to become an architect. A fan of football that had never heard of David Beckham, Artingle was a rarity, and a sharp customer on the chessboard, twice my vanquisher that evening beneath the glow of the television and hum of the generator. He was a frustratingly good musician too, for after a novelty dinner of sticky rice he took up his horse fiddle; pulling the bow across the two strings of this horse-head crested violin, he began an enchanting air. As he played, his elderly father exhaled plumes of smoke with pleasure and a gently familiar smile appeared on his mother’s face. Tucked into the rafters above their heads were fading photographs of them in their prime as a young and distinguished looking couple; and a painting of him posing next to a motorcycle. Among nomads, it’s all about how you move.
Mrs Tsembeldorj was to teach us the art of ger making the following morning, beginning with how to create felt from sheep’s wool. Soaking a hide in water, it is then folded, squeezed and wrung until the arms ache, and then left to dry and harden in the sun. Given the time and effort taken to make only a small piece, the thought of encasing a whole ger in the material… no wonder the women here are held in such high respect.
Outside, all the equipment for constructing a miniature ger was being assembled. From a box of goodies came a concertina frame, slender wooden spokes, tufts of felt, a roll of tarpaulin and string to bind everything together. Even a working dwarf chimney was provided and cupboards and furniture for the inside. Habitable perhaps, but the roof spokes had a habit of coming loose and crashing in, much to the chagrin of any Lilliputian nomad inside. Still, a match and paper were thrown into the stove and soon small and satisfying puffs of smoke issued forth to make the heart glad.
For our final Gobi adventure, Artingle led us along a daring path. In the most unlikely of places, he showed us geometric patterns drawn onto rocks by shamans long ago and piles of rocks that marked the final resting place of mighty warriors, buried with all the treasure won in their earthly lives. High up, we came upon the narrowest of defiles that revealed a tiny Buddhist shrine, filled with gifts of money and food.
Most surprising was the discovery of a huge open-air theatre, spread across a vast stone stage. It was built by the daughter of Mrs Delgermaa, to commemorate the life of one of Mongolia’s most famous singers of the long-song. So named because these epic pastoral songs, celebrating the magnificence of the country’s landscape, take several days to perform. The voice of an adept is said to billow and gust like the wind across the wide-open plains, breaking the formidable silence of Ikh Gaziin Chuluu.
The best story of all came from the unassuming drawing of a Mongolian wrestler, etched into a rock, his arms spread wide in defiance. No ordinary wrestler, this was mythical local hero, Khur Khartsaga, a poor man of prodigious strength who was thrown out of the province by the governor of Dundgobi for defeating his brother in a wrestling match. As he left, carrying both ger and ancient mother on his back, Khur muttered a curse, saying that never again would the province produce any victorious wrestlers. For many years now, Dundgobi has yet to triumph at the national Naadam wrestling tournament and the locals recently decided to erect a statue to Khur in the hope of appeasing his lingering ire.
I wondered why these nomads have chosen such an exceptionally difficult place in which to live. In the lush water-fat centre of Mongolia, their counterparts have it much easier. The answer is straightforward: this is their land. Like the sheep and goats they herd, for generations they have adapted to the vicissitudes of the desert. They also know that hardship brings its own special rewards, in the form of fellowship and community. It is what makes them unique among nomads in Mongolia and most true to the old ways. To spend a few days in the company of these humble, noble people makes unusual demands on the traveller. Like them, you must travel light, free of luxury and prejudice. And like all wanderers of these parts, you must put your entire faith in strangers.
Fortunately, among the rocks and the sands and in the gers of the Gobi, you will only find perfect strangers.
(A selection of Matthew's pictures can be seen at this link) ( Return to previous page)
