Carol's diary Days 15 16 and 17

Day 15, Wednesday, July 11th, Ulaanbaatar.

Mongolia and its raining!

I woke with an urgent need for the toilet. I climbed off the top bunk in the dark, trying to remove myself quietly from the hot, stuffy cubicle. Out in the corridor the sun was breaking! And there, from the window of the train, was Mongolia in all its glory. Well, as I imagined it would be, rolling grassland, hill after hill, a vast empty place. The train slowly, heavily, trundling along, mile after mile, horses, some houses, more horses. And then as the sky glowed with gold and pink, camp sites in all directions, as far as the eye could see, small groups of Gers on the hills, with smoking camp fires, horses with their riders lying asleep in sleeping bags next to them and across the slopes, distant cars slowly kicking up the dust.
In between even more visits to the toilet, I stood with my head at the open window, enjoying the cool air. Excited, I tried to wake the others who were pretty indignant about it so I left them. The Spanish families rose noisily and packed. We were due to arrive in Ulaanbaatar at some ungodly hour, though no one seemed quite sure when, or could even agree as to what the time was right now. I asked the Providnista and she told me we would be arriving in 20 minutes. The others were still fast asleep in their hot nest and ready to lynch me when I woke them again but they leapt up and started dressing wildly and throwing things into bags. We were just about ready when we drew into the rather drab Ulaanbaatar station.

We’re staying in the Soviet Ulan Bator Hotel, Lenin’s statue standing heroically in front. It’s the most expensive place that we stay in on our trip but we’re ready for a treat. 7.30 am and our rooms were ready! Yes! And we showered off all the dirt and smells from the train, breakfasted like we hadn’t seen food for a week and headed off to find the stadium where the official opening ceremony of Naadam is held.
Map in hand, we strode off up the main road, pavement of potholes and sand, past a derelict house strewn with banners and protest placards, belting out loud Mongolian rap music. Ulaanbaatar appears to be one huge building site. A crowd was gathering and as we turned to look, a host of silk and fur clad horseman were riding in procession towards us. The crowd ran alongside and behind, so we joined them, crossing roads full of traffic controlled by whistle blowing policemen waving small lollypops. Old ladies dressed in silk with their best hats on held hands with tiny children wearing pointed hats, The pavement is dirty grey sand and rubble, sandals and high heels alike were a uniform dusty grey.
Finally we reached the stadium and Tom ran off to buy tickets from the black market touts while I joined a queue of ladies for yet another nationality of toilet. It’s going to be that sort of a day….
The toilet was delightful. Tom was successful in his quest for tickets and we entered the stadium in good spirits, found some seats surprisingly near the front of the vast crowd and breathed a sigh of relief. And then it rained…. But not for long!

Out came the parade. Horses and riders and archers and women dressed in traditional costume, mythical figures and then the New Rich sporting suits and dark sunglasses, more horses, Dragon figures with enormous heads and finally the Bikers. A group of Hells Angels on Harley s followed by a group of brightly coloured Japanese bikes. This to the strains of the Mongolian equivalent to Mick Jagger, bouncing around with his microphone, an old rocker who everyone still loves, we were reliably informed by the man next to us.
Naadam is a celebration of three sports, Wrestling, archery and of course horse racing.
I asked the man next to us what his favourite sport is.
“Football” he says quickly,
I wasn’t expecting that answer.
“Oh…What’s your team?”
“Liverpool”
We spend a few minutes discussing the finer talents of Stephen Gerrard while wrestlers of various shapes, sizes and stages of undress enter the arena.
Mongolian wrestling appears to the ignorant eye to be a casual form of Sumo. The pairs of men grab each other when they are both ready, lock on in crab position, and slowly scuttle about until one gains the upper hand and squashes the other beneath him in a satisfying thunk.
The stadium starts to empty, Most are heading out of the city to the place where the horse riding will take place. We wander through the crowded market area. It all feels relaxed and friendly. Ulaanbaatar has got to be one of the ugliest cities I have ever visited but somehow it feels good to be here.

Day 16, Thursday, July 12th, Hustai National Park,

Przewalski Horses.

Munguu is to be our guide for the next two days. She is a small, gentle, smiling woman and we immediately warm to her. Our driver is called Zhorrihgtor and tells us proudly he is the exact look alike of the Mongolian president. He produces photographs of himself in newspaper cuttings, one with him shaking hands with the president himself! He tells me later how he was chosen to drive in the cavalcade of George Bush… and his wife…. and also Hilary Clinton!
We head off into the steppe, south west of the city. We are going to spend a night in a Ger, to see the reintroduced Przewalski horses in the wild. Half an hour out of the city we pass the horse racing site. It’s the camp that I had seen from the train the day before. In the distance we suddenly see a line of horses galloping down the hill, and Zhorrihgtor turns the car down a sandy track towards the finishing line. The riders are small children, boys and girls of four to ten. But they are incredibly strong riders and very excited to compete. We arrive near the finishing line as the last half of the riders struggle in. Emotions are high and no one wants to be the last. Munguu tells us the words of the song that is sung to the child who is last:

Because of foolish owner, the reins were too short,
The rider was too young and the whip was too short.
Too many sand dunes happened on the way,
As well as many hills and ravines.
As always there were obstacles
And though the jockeys tried hard to overcome,
All of them, still too many remained.
The young colt lagged behind all.
But the next year, the rider will be leader of 10,000 horses.

Continuing on our journey, Munguu tells us a little about Mongolian history. How Mongolia became part of the Soviet Union in 1920 and how when the Russians moved out in 1990 no one knew how to operate the power stations. Mongolia is a vast area of untapped resources, oil and minerals and the government of the new democracy sold the mining rights to foreign companies who can exploit and damage the land of the traditional Nomads with little benefit to Mongolia. Interestingly the main companies are Canadian and Australian. But who knows what George Bush was doing here. Independent Mongolia is in its infancy, struggling to find its way but the majority of the population are Nomadic people and it’s hard for their voice to be heard.

At the Hustai National park we are shown to our Ger, traditional Nomadic Tent. Our Ger turns out to be the Ghenggis Khan version with an enormous bed and chairs like thrones. They obviously saw Tom coming!
Over a beer Munguu explains the way the Ger is traditionally divided. The door always faces south - the prevailing winds come from the north. The north is reserved for objects of respect, the altar and visitors, the west is the man’s domain, his bed and all the riding equipment and the east the woman’s domain, her bed and the kitchen. The two upright poles symbolise the father and the mother, the three ropes around the outside of the felt awning symbolise continuity, past, present and future. Even the hole in the centre of the roof is divided into 8 so that the sun acts as a sundial to tell the time. The nomads are wary of corners believing that bad spirits reside in them. The round shape formed by panels of wooden latticework spreads good energy and spirits. It is remarkably comfortable and pleasant. The wooden furniture is painted orange the colour of fire and blue the colour of sky.

As the day draws to a close we set off to see the wild Przewalski horses who gather at a nearby stream every evening to graze and drink. The last wild horse in Mongolia was seen in 1964 but in 1992, 84 horses from European zoos were reintroduced. The horses are the colour of the land, sandy brown with darker manes, well camouflaged. It’s a thrill when we spot them galloping down a nearby hill. We spend an hour or more quietly watching them at a respectful distance, spotting the odd marmot and large insect with a spike on its tail. The horses are happily doing their evening thing ignoring us watching.
Driving back in the half light along the valley over the potholed sandy track I see an incongruous 30 km hour road sign at the side of the road. There is nothing here!

Day 17, Friday, July 13th, Back to Ulaanbaatar,

Mare’s milk and young colts.

Munguu suggests that we call in on a Nomadic family on the way back to Ulaan Baatar. We pass a couple of Gers with a small enclosure of horses up on the hill.
Zhorihgtorr suddenly pulls his well looked after and spotlessly clean Mercedes van off the road and drives up to them over the hard scrub. We arrive completely unexpectedly and uninvited, tumble out of the van and hover uncomfortably wondering what to do next. None of us look like Julia Roberts! (who spent a week with a whole film crew visiting a Nomadic family!!) Three boys of decreasing size are shoving the small foals out of the enclosure, down the hill, away from their mothers. This is hard work, the foals are digging their heels in. Martin suddenly grabs the other side of one of the foals and the boy and Martin shove push and pull till they have reached a long rope further down the hill and tied the foal to it. The ice is broken and Martin spends the next couple of hours in happy physical activity. We are invited in to the Ger and it is exactly as Munguu described . The North part is filled with medals from their horse racing victories. They are trainers. We are offered hot tea which is like hot salty milk and then some fermented mares milk, Airag, which we were told, ferments in goat skin bottles on the side of the horses, some curdled butter and some hard cheese. This is their main diet, with the goat’s meat that hangs drying at the door. They eat practically no vegetables but survive healthily. Surprisingly the mare’s milk contains a completely balanced intake of nutrients.
Eventually we leave hoping that we have not taken up to much of their time. It’s been great to pop in on them. Sue imagines what she would do if a Mongolian family suddenly turned up unannounced. Hospitality is a huge thing here… And striving to do things well.
In the evening we go to a concert of traditional folk music and dance in the state theatre. It’s fantastic. Every single part of it is perfectly performed, the quality they display is breathtaking. As I watch them I wonder what is this New Mongolia? There is such a sense of strong national identity and pride in every thing we have seen. Two thirds of the people live out in the wilds, families with their horses. The rest live here in the city, a pile of rubble with factories and power stations belching out smoke and new buildings shooting up on every corner. Somehow the city is …booming.
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