A Short Day's Ride to Davaa - Day 4 Solo

A short ride today. Only a couple hours after leaving Otgon and family I stop for an afternoon break. This place is called ly. Nuur means lake, and sure enough, a large lake is a few hundred meters distant. Lots of gers around here to choose from. It is a crap shoot, which ger are you going to stay at? Children are a good sign, and most have kids. The one next to where I am now was the one I first approached. I walked in to find a woman sleeping on the bed. So I turned on my heels and a boy led me to his family's log cabin. The invitation to stay the night came quickly. After two helpings of noodles and mutton, I sit by the outdoor stove where the wood pops and bread bakes.

The man of the house, Davaa, has both his hands heavily bandaged. Somehow he burned them terribly, maybe by grabbing hold of the stove's smoke stack, falling over drunk? With my camera I show the family fotos of Tomor and others I have met on my trek. They know many of them.

Many young boys here. Ganza has taken to me. He helps me with my horse, unsaddling and watering. I show him how to use the compass, and he teaches his friends. North, east, south and west in Mongolian are khoid, züün, omon and baroon. The curiousity here is that left is züün and right is baroon, exactly the opposite of the directions when looking at a map. I have pointed this out to a couple Mongols and they laugh and turn the map upside down!

The horse ride was fine. Max responds better every day to my commands. But he is hungry. The grass is short.

Ganza cuts hay with a scythe. I try my hand at it. Muu! Muu! Bad! He imitates my body motion that gives a rising and lowering to the blade. Better is to let the blade ride smoothly over the earth. Not so easy with my few minutes of practice.

All in all, a beautiful day.

Sunrise at the Ger

I still don't have the consciousness as a photographer to realize that the morning hours are without a doubt the most beautiful of the day. At 5:45 the girls got up, slipped into their boots and jackets and went out to milk the cows. Fog enveloped much of the shallow valley, clung to the lake surface. Gorgeous.



After the girls had finished milking the cows I followed them on a trail northwest, toward a small river. Idyllic scenery as the sun rose over the mountains in the distance. Walking a horse behind the cows, Delger herded them toward the river, while Solongo stood on a few planks of wood and punted herself to the far shore.



Punting across the river



These bucolic scenes were just beautiful to witness. The tranquility was sublime. Hardly a sound out here to be heard. The occasional mooing of a cow, the neighing of a horse, the flapping wings of a bird. The cry of one of the girls, choo! choo! to get a horse moving. The sound of the river flowing, the sun rising echo loudest. Want to get away from it all? Come spend some time on the bank of this river. Such moments will set your soul alight.

Semi-Nomads

The annual schedule of this family: January to May they live in R town, where Otgon is a teacher. June to August they live here and tend their livestock. September to December they move bak to R town and live in their house.
I fetch water from the lake. The girls collect firewood - but from where? The river? Now Tomor is leaving for R town on a friend's motorbike. Otgon and the smallest child, Emüjin, are going, too. They fill a two liter bottle with airag, the slightly alcoholic mare's milk, to sell in town. The friend stays here.

Max got loose. I had staked him near the lake, but the ground there is soft and he pulled himself free. Suddenly I saw a horse galloping across the open expanse, not realizing it was mine. One of the twins took time off from milking the cows to help me catch it. Not much of a problem. Max soon came to a halt and the daughter gave me the lead rope.

An Extra Day in the Ger

Last night Tomor said that we would ride to R town together today. He has some work to do for ten days. That is what I understand. But I haven't a clue what he will be doing. Now the family is all together, girls chatting happily, what looks like school work is laid on the floor. One girl rests her head on the knee of another. Milk heats on the stove. I awoke this morning to the sound of one daughter scraping last night's dinner pot.

Tomor has been waiting for his friend to ride in from R town. It is now 3 pm and no sign of him on the horizon. So what shall I do: leave on my own or wait until tomorrow? Will I offend Tomor if I leave today and ride without him? Will I offend him by hanging around another day?

I would like to video a meal in the ger, the preparation, the eating, the cleaning up. They are heating up the noodles from this morning, cutting slices of bread. Not much to video there.

The girls got a kick out of the flapping bird I showed them how to make with origami.

Solo Trekking - Day 1

I am back at the ger of Tomor and Otgon, where M and I stayed four days ago. The lake looks beautiful.
M left my Lonely Planet phrasebook at this ger, so I have come back to get it. Without that book, the rest of my trek will be all the more difficult. M continued clockwise around the lake and is heading back to Khatgal.
I left Tsagaannuur at 2:40 pm. and went on the wrong path right away. I came to the river and my horse would not cross. I tried a second time at a different location, but had the same result. Max stood motionless on the bank. That was probably a good thing. If the horse cannot see the bottom of the river, he may be hesitant about entering the water.

I doubled back, went around a lake and found a bridge further on. For quite a while Max was neighing, missing his fellow animal companion. He also wanted to turn back to town on his own.

When I tried to mount Max back in T. the saddle slipped. I had put a new, broader cinch on Max that I had received from a Dutchman. I did not have it tied tight enough.

I arrive at the ger of T and O at 7:30. No one is visible. I hitch my horse and see a couple people in the cow corral. I enter the ger local style, without knocking. Mongolia may be one of the only places in the world where you can enter the home of a complete stranger unannounced and be offered sustanance and refuge for the night.



Two boys tag along up the pass

 Riding up to the pass a couple hours north of Tomor's ger I meet two small boys on a horse. They tag along for a few minutes. One shows me his trick: he stands atop of his horse.

Back in Tsagaannuur M and I divvied up the provisions. I told him I wanted the saddle that he had been using these past three weeks. It has better padding on the seat. But he did not want to discuss it. I said I would flip a coin with him for it. The best he could muster, with his 28 years, was "I don't know." M is not really into sharing.

Tonight's dinner: güriltai shöl. Noodle soup with mutton and potatoes. I am beat. Whipping the horse must have tired me. The old leather cinch I had replaced I used for a whip. It worked. Whipping the horse with the lead rope, as E had done, did nothing. The leather whip gets results.

A Couple Days in Tsagaannuur

The weather is bad. We hang out in Tsagaannuur partly to stay dry, partly in the hope of finding another shaman. We tell the guesthouse owner, Gamba, of our disappointment with the first two. He thinks long hard. The best he can do is come up with a sheep-shoulder-bone diviner.

Davaajau is in town. We first thought we would have to go 25 km on motorcycle to find him. But it turns out he is only 10 minutes by foot distant. Gamba gives me the shoulder bone and I pack it away with the vodka and cookies.

I still have not found someone to translate Davaajau's divinations, but I can sort of guess his answers to the same questions I asked Nergui.

Q and A

Nergui flubs the test

Tumee translates our questions into Mongolian. Nergui gives three of us answers. I ask questions about my past.

Q: Tell me what happened to me in my childhood.
A: One of my parents died.

Q: What happened ten years ago to make me angry?
A: An animal made me angry. 

Q: What happened to me 20 years ago?
A: I saw a dead person. My birthplace was shaking.

Q: Let me feel your energy.
A: No, because you are testing me.

Q: What is name of my girlfriend?
A: I don't do names, but it is a combination of sun and moon.

Dreadfully wrong on all counts, except that perhaps there was an earthquake in my birthplace 20 years ago.
The strange thing is, Yves, in his diagnosis, was much closer to the truth.

High Hopes for Nergui

Yves feels the woman's energy

Tumee said she wanted to talk to me about tourism, so I am back at her guesthouse. She has two large rooms in the guesthouse, which in the winter is her family home. Now she lives in a one room log cabin adjacent. Yves and Silvie are in one room of the guesthouse, but now I find myself in the other half, talking to two cyclists: J and C. Both have been touring the planet for the past year. They will join us tonight for Nergui's song and dance. The fact that Yves has been studying with him lends a dollop of credibility to the occasion. J points out the route they took north: Arbulag, Bayanzurkh, Emt, Toom, Ulaan-uul. He recommends I take this route south on my horse.

We pack the russian transport. Yves and Silvie, J and C, H, M and me. Tumee joins us to translate. Nergui squishes in with us and we close the door and drive off to his home. But first a detour.

We stop at another log cabin where his students have gathered. They pay $3,500 for a course that is possible to complete in six days. Here, Nergui plays his Jew's harp, Yves hovers his hand over the back of a couple students, they thank him with a small ceremony, and we head to Nergui's log cabin.

Yves, student of Nergui

Tumee's guesthouse is close to ours. But it is unmarked. H. points it out and I walk on over. I had heard from a Swiss cyclist that a French couple was here and knew about shamans.

Yves and Silvie are at home. I take off my riding boots and Silvie serves me tea. We talk shamanism. In 1992, Yves saw a documentary on TV 5 in France, the subject of which was Nergui. That program motivated Yves, an orthopedist to study with Nergui every two years for over a decade. This would be his last time. It is becoming too touristy.

Yves speaks of feeling Nergui's energy. It is difficult for me to imagine what this means. So I say to Yves: Let me feel your energy.

He has me lay down on the bed. He hovers his right hand a short distance above my torso, all the while staring blankly out the window. He cradles my head in his hands. I feel absolutely nothing. His verdict: On my right side below my ribcage my energy is blocked. Likewise for the left side on the back of my head. Ten years ago, he says, I was angry. But he cannot say why. Apparently, Yves felt my energy. But I didn't feel his.

Tsaagannuur

Balgier told us that Tsaagannuur was a three hour ride away. The Darkhad Depression has a tremendous water system, many rivers and a large lake. One river flows just south of the town. We wonder how to cross it. We see no bridge and cannot see the bottom of it.  Then we spot a cow crossing and it looks easy. M goes first and I follow in his trail. But as I approach the far shore I notice that Max is a meter to the right of where M had gone. Too late. Max sinks to his head and stumbles ashore as I lift my saddle bags up in one hand. I am wet but no harm done.

H, a woman from Israel, is staying at this guest house. I met her back in Khatgal. She has now just returned from a four day horse trek to the northern taiga to see the Tsaatan. She will come with us tonight to witness the song and dance of our second shaman, Nergui. He sits with us now in the guesthouse watching tv with the daughter of Gamba, Anoka, M and me. He is unusually sober. 

Balgier the Shaman

Balgier dances

Balgier is not in the second log cabin. He is in the first. We hitch our horses and enter. A young couple from Moron is there, apparently to get a blessing for their marriage. The woman dons shaman clothes, boots, blue cape, a headdress that covers the face. It is a foto op.

Then Balgier does his song and dance. He plays the Jew's harp, bangs on his drum, twirls in the confined space. The woman from Moron writes down his words for me.

I should make offerings to the mountains in the morning, everything will be OK. Balgier asked his spirits to look after me. if I see a big mountain, lake, I should give thanks. Please take nice fotos, make a nice book. Greetings from Balgier.

Tomor gives Directions to Shaman

Aaryyl drying on the ger's roof

This ger is near a large lake. A kilometer away is the raft ferry that takes passengers across the river. Beyond that is a hill and over that hill is another lake. On the far side of that lake stand three log cabins. In the second one is Balgier, the shaman. Tomor points to the spot on the map. We carry three maps, scale 1: 500,000, taped and folded that we bought back in UB. Good for show and tell. Also good is the Lonely Planet phrasebook, quite popular among travelers here. We communicate by looking up words time and again. It does not always work, but this time it does.

Otgon cooks us rice with mutton. We thought we had missed dinner. The twins are darling. Tomor points out that my bowl is empty and one fills it promptly. And again.

The kids enjoy looking at our maps. The twins and Solongo, 16, two years older than her sisters. All three maps are spread out on the carpet of the ger. But then one twin pulls out their 2007 road map of Mongolia, and that trumps all of ours.

Two to Tsaagannuur

From R town to Tsaagannuur we follow the power lines

We don't depart until 3:30 pm. We buy a few provisions, cookies, raisins, peanuts, and saddle up the horses. E is trying to find transport back to Moron. Now it is just M and me. We mount the horses, Batmong rolls up my deel and hands it to me. I drape it over the metal horn and we ride out of R town towards Tsaagannuur.

M and I disagree on the route. Like everything else he has said, he has told me more than once that he can read a map and use a compass. I had taken a bearing on the mountain peak used by locals as the direction to Tsaagannuur. 300 degrees. But M does not want to go by the compass. He wants to follow the telephone poles. So we do.

It is another beautiful, sunny day. Our two horses are slow at first, but then they seem to pick up the pace when we are on a road.

At 7 pm we stop at the ger of Tomor and Otgon. 24 km shy of Tsaagannuur. We have come only about 16 km today. But it is a good start, and a good ger. Within moments of entering we are invited to spend the night. We accept and eat a meal of bread and butter.

Going Going Gone!

We sold the two females. E's friend came by and saddled up one, took the lead rope of the other and rode off. The money? E told M who told me just before the animals were sold that we would not see the money today. Nor tomorrow. In four days. In Moron. What to do?

Horse Selling Again

I bring four men to view the horses. The animals are staked to the south of the guesthouse. I hitch a ride on the back of one man's motorcycle. Soon E arrives and speaks with them. He was drinking with M and others. As the four ride off on their motorcycles, E calls to me. TJ. You talk, very danger. They think you American, you money have. Maybe they come night time, (throat cutting gesture). I don't know. Now you no talk, you shut up. OK? These people, no want horses. They want money. You let me talk, OK? You American, me Mongolian. I know. OK.

E returns to the guesthouse. He didn't go play poker. He is more drunk than ever. Now he wants me to drink. I was outside, but I come in the guesthouse - a russian train car - to make sure E doesn't mess with my baggage, my computer, my camera. This could be a problem.

Horse Selling

I tried to find buyers for two horses today. The family two houses down is interested. They feed me in their home. Bread, yoghurt, cream and sugar and blackberries. Then they spend the afternoon fixing the blinker on the Toyota. Once that is finished, we sit in the shade of the house and drink vodka. I join in. T. is a shaman. Later M will tell me what E had told him. T told E that his wife left him for another man and that he has a small son. Both are true. T asks me how old I am. Can't he divine it? E tells me to give him 10,000 tg to go play poker. I comply. I won't see that money again.

Neither will he. E is blind drunk. He spent the money on vodka. He has been drinking all day. He lapses into a monologue. TJ, I know, horse going, this one, say no boyfriend, very angry. I know, maybe, I don't know maybe night time he KZZZ (throat cutting gesture). Maybe. I don't know. Bumba, my friend, I know, 10,000 one horse. I don't know, maybe 10 days 200,000. Bumba very angry. TJ, he whispers in my ear, you want fucking mongolian girl? He calls on his cell. Someone has been calling me and texting me in mongolian. TJ, now my child starting school, very big problem. 800,000 tg. You know? I called company boss, please my freind coming, this time, one month, my brother in UB calling you working, my mother, very high, I think, very high, she (slap gesture) yes, you know? Big problem, need maybe one million, children school.

Bumba the Bullshitter

I ask Bumba where my gloves are, the weightlifting gloves. I had given them to him a couple days ago to wear. I had my 30 cent cloth gloves, that miraculously never got a hole. Bumba tells me the gloves are in the sleeping car. I tell him to come and show me. He refuses. I go to look. Not there. I go back and ask him. He has them in his pocket.

M told me this morning that Bumba wants to be paid 10,000 tg ($7) per day for guiding us. M knew this from the get-go. E had told him back in Khatgal. But no one had told me. So I pay my share and let Bumba keep the gloves. He departs, heading back to Khatgal.

French in R town

Back in R town we go for food. We pop into one restaurant, which is associated with White House guest house. My guys go looking for a button for M's deel, so I stay with the French to learn of their travels. One of the women runs an equestrian center in southern France and she has brought a few of her students with her equitrekking in Mongolia.

They had gone to the eastern camp of the Tsaatan, east of Tsaagannuur. But no shaman were to be found. Their horses are nearly western size and look in marvelous condition. We ask their guide how that can be. He suggests that we re-stake the horse at 5 am. or so to give the horse more grass to eat. These horses are only used for this trek and had the opportunity to fatten up for a few months before.

I ask the French about shamanism and their thoughts about it. L, one of the equstrian students, confides in me that she indeed does believe some people have the ability to divine the future, to know things about you without you telling them. We exchange email and I tell her I will let her know how my shaman quest goes.

Change Horses

I rode M's horse today. She was initially troublesome crossing the river, but we soon got acquainted. She kicks, so I had to be careful walking behind her. But that's the way it is with all horses. You have to be careful. Approach her quickly from the left so she does not have time to turn her rear to you. That works.
As we came over the hill we got a grand view of the mountains covered in snow. I took out my camera, donned my camera harness and hoped that I would not have problems with this horse. It is problematic carrying a full sized camera on a horse. Especially if it rains. But luckily it didn't.

I galloped just a bit with this horse, but that is scary with the camera. So I trotted and practiced posting, taking the bump out of the ride. This horse is not so uncontrollable as M has said. Once, though, she started to take off on a run, and I had to rein her in. That is basically it. Take control of your horse.

The reason I changed horses was because once we are back in R town we must decide which horses to sell and which to keep. E and Bumba will return to Moron. M and I will continue with one horse each. No pack horse, thank you.

Rainbow Solongo

We arrive back in R town, and stay at White House. We left camp at 11 and found our beds again at 4. We had an unexpected lunch break. About an hour out of R town we rode up to a log cabin. Two teenage girls came out and spoke to E and B. I thought they wanted to hitch a ride into town, but no. Instead, a moment later, we are inside the cabin and I am helping myself to cup after cup of tarag, the local yoghurt.

Female names often have meanings. Solongo means rainbow. And this Solongo, 16, saw us coming and wanted to practice her English. She is a high school student in Moron. After an hour of pleasantries and email exchanges, we set out. A van is pulling up. Solongo says it is her dad. And we know him - from back at the miners mess camp. We will see him again at White House.

Shaman and Our Future

Back in the teepee M and I discuss our future with the horses. We got a problem. The horses are getting quite lean. Ribs are poking through their sides. Grass will soon be hard to find. E and Bumba say horses need two days of rest for one day of riding. (A week later a Dutchman will tell us, ride four days with one day off). The horses need to fatten up before the winter hits, otherwise they will die. Last's winter was rough, the coldest and longest in decades. Innumerable livestock perished. The WHO paid people to bury the carcasses.

M and I both want to find a shaman. But the weather has changed for the worse. Neither of us wants to search out a shaman in bad weather. M speaks of riding along the eastern shore of Khovsgol Lake, or selling the horses in R town. The future is all but certain.

I singed the sleeved of my orange jacket on the stove last night, trying to dry it out before wearing it to bed. I didn't realize the stove was so hot. I had seen the gold miners throw their foot wrappings directly in the fire, then pull them out again. Maybe I will mend the sleeves in R town. Back in the teepee I taught M to sew. His hat strap had ripped off. I tell him my mom taught me to sew as a child. He tells me his father showed him how to chop wood. M has the habit of repeating himself and in a short time he reminds me of his childhood experience. If an argument can be made for sewing someone's lips closed, I have found it.

Blizzard in High Summer

Incredible! We leave Tsaatan teepee in a blizzard! The Mongols told us to pack our bags, so we did. It is not a white out; I can see my horse from 50 feet. We say good-bye to Otgon, wait for M to show his good faith  in fetching water from the river for teepee, and ride back to the pass. We follow the river for a ways, then slide away from it. I think we are north of the pass but after a couple hours of praying my horse doesn't step in a snow covered bog, we find the awaa.

Adjusting baggage on the pack horse in the blizzard

We walk our horses down the slope from the pass. This is not easy. My horse wants to go faster than I safely can, so I shorten my hold on the lead rope and struggle to stay in front of him. I think of Max, my horse, slipping and tumbling on top of me. At least we have the wind at our backs, and with five layers of clothing on, I get warm. Still, with four pairs of socks on and feet wrapped in plastic bags, my feet are frozen.

Returning is not any easier than it was coming. The trail that two days ago was muddy and slippery is still muddy and slippery. At one point E's horse slips, throwing E out of the saddle. E grabs on to a tree trunk, making a comical scene as he hugs the tree. A minute later M takes the same route. And the same thing happens: his horse slips and M is forced out of his saddle and hugs the same tree.

As we descend the mountain, the snow turns to rain and the wind diminishes. Still, the trail is dangerous. But my horse seems to know how to negotiate the slope and the mud. Trust your horse, a voice says. When Max, my horse, refuses to take the path I direct him to, I pause to let him consider the options.  Thus far, a perfect success rate.

But on a straight and level section of the trail, Max loses his footing in the superficial mud and falls. This is more embarrassing than hurtful. In short time I am up and mount Max.

We arrive at the gold miners' mess camp at 3:30 and stay a couple hours as the cooks prepare their sole meal of noodles and mutton. We sit in a ger. Customers stream in and dry themselves by the stove, turning around to dry their backsides. Deels and jackets hang from the rafters. Socks and gloves are placed near the stove. Boots stand footless.

Downtime in the Teepee

We accept the hospitality of Otgon. She has 6 children, the oldest is 21 years old. But now only a couple live with her. She sits on the right side of the teepee with Sagalma, a young daughter. The social rules of the ger apply here. We sit on the left and drink tea.

Tsaatan herd reindeer and make products from its milk

M. told me this morning that no shaman are living here at the moment. They have already moved on. So will we look for them? It looks like we will spend the day here relaxing.

I ask E how many grams of noodles he is cooking for breakfast. 400 grams? He replies, I know, I know. One of his staple phrases. I get the feeling he wants to establish himself above me in the group hierarchy.

Five girls suddenly appear in the teepee. But they quickly disappear. E tells us they will return with their handicraft and that we must buy something, no matter how small. Reindeer products, I reckon. I need a "buus," or sash for my deel.

Otgon and her family tend about 50 reindeer. I did not see them last night when we arrived. This morning Sagalma let the calves loose to feed. Like our horses, they spend the night tethered, but on lines so short they cannot roam at all.

It is nearly noon, and downtime in the teepee. If these tents have corners, Otgon is lying in one, and is hiding her face with a wall hanging.

I go for a walk. Across the river one teepee has shed its shell, so that only the wooden framework of about 30 wooden poles as thick as your calf remain. I look down to gain sure footing crossing the river and when I glance back up, the framework, too, has disappeared. Now, on this side of the wider river, another family has packed up its teepee and is heading westward.

Otgon told us that the wooden poles are left behind at each camp. I go to see what this family has left behind, and sure enough, lying in a stack are the poles.

The latrine is a group of rocks some 100 meters distant from the teepee. Have you ever seen a dog eat your morning dump? Otgon's dog downed it before I had my pants buckled.

Tsaatan country

A Tsaatan home

Yesterday we rode and rode. Decamped at 11:20, stopped for lunch at the miners' camp, but didn't reach the Tsaatan until just after 9 pm.

Highlights include: nearly taking a mud bath when I steered my horse into a tree trunk which threatened to slice off my leg. So I lost my balance momentarily and nearly plunged into the mud.

E. stopped in the late afternoon to fix his saddle. I took the opportunity to slip on my warm jacket, which proved a lifesaver, because again I did not realize we were headed over a pass, one with a fierce icy wind.

The ride was hard. We went through forested slope, roots jutting out of the ground, mud everywhere from the rains. It was treacherous going for a few hours as we headed up to the pass. Several times did our horses stumble, but not to the ground, and we pressed on, and reached the pass

Other travellers were behind us as we traversed the pass. But we waited for them. they were

three people and eight horses, bringing supplies I imagine to the miners. We rode together, mostly single file, along the southern slope, into the setting sun for a long while.

Way, way off in the distance E pointed and suggested that he could spot a white teepee in the twilight. A river flowed down the valley and we looked into the setting sun to see if we could imagine a teepee far off. M. thought he could. I hoped I might.

We veered northwest down the slope, leaving the caravan of horses and supplies to themselves. We crossed boggy terrain and a river, rode up a slight incline to barking dogs and arrived at the nearest teepee. The long day had come to an end.

Gold Miners' Mess Camp

Today we stopped at a gold miners' camp for lunch. 4,000 tg ($3) for a bowl of noodles and mutton that didn't agree with me. This morning's ride transpired well. I crossed the ties on the back of my saddle to secure the sleeping bag.

This morning Bumba took his cap and placed it on my head. It has a narrow brim. He traded it for mine, which has a broader one. Later he offered to trade back, but I refused.

M. says he really likes the Mongolian attitude towards sharing. I think, easy to say when you are always on the receiving end.

Bridge Crossing - One day west of R town

Batmong, the woman owner of the guesthouse has laid wolf's tongue on my swollen hand. She soaked the leaves in water for a couple minutes before applying them. Wolf's tongue may be dandelion. I wrap my hand with a bandage and after a couple hours the swelling has diminished.

Everyone has been warning us of how cold it will be in the taiga, where we hope to find the Tsaatan people with their reindeer and shaman. So I am considering buying a deel, one of the traditional Mongolian overcoats. It is double-breasted, with extra long sleeves to cover the hands, and hangs to mid-shin. But no pockets. Batmong has called her husband to see if he is willing to sell one of his, which is made with an outer shell of suede. High quality. Most are made of cotton. It is like wearing a bedspread. I buy it.

Giving directions to Tsaatan

Before heading out to the taiga, I decide to leave some items behind at the guesthouse: my netbook, an external hard drive, and a couple other items, in order to lighten the load and so we might ride faster. The Tsaatan are nomadic and we have to find them basically by asking locals where they have moved to. But word now has it they are closer than we had originally heard.

I take the saddle off my horse without asking E. He gets upset with me. A power thing, I guess. He says you just can't take the saddle off the horse if the animal is sweaty. You have to lift the saddle and pads a couple times to let the air circulate and dry the sweat. I guess that is the idea. But E.'s English is too poor to communicate what the deal is.

Bridge one day west of R town

We are at the bridge crossing. Next to the bridge is a ger with an attendant, who charges a nominal fee to cross. He also serves up tea, and puts us up for the night. Bamba makes a kind of fried rice with onions and garlic.

Back in R town, Batmong and I discuss the seasons. I point to the calendar and ask which months are warm. She quickly narrows it down to three: June, July and August. All others are cold, with temperatures reaching minus 30 or more in January, she says.

Renchilkhumbe

Making camp fire is a challenge I want to prove myself equal to. It ain't always easy, especially in the wind. This morning the dinner pot was soaking 200 meters distant near the pool of water where I left it upon washing up last night. So I had to get it, wash it, bring it back and make the fire before someone else beat me to it. You can't very well make the fire first if you don't have a pot to boil on it, because by the time you go get the pot, the fire may go out. But it is not so windy this morning and breakfast is soon ready.

A gorgeous day, sunny and warm. I had left camp prepared for a downpour, rain pants, jacket and knit cap. But by 2 pm. I had shed those items. To our backs was a beautiful view of the jagged peaks of the mountain range.
 
I am beat. We stay in White House guest house in Renchilkhumbe. Somehow I hurt the back of my right hand. It has begun to swell. Maybe from tugging on the reins.

Tonight's dinner: horhog. A man comes by with a sheep and butchers it. Heat stones in a pressure cooker then add the meat and cook for about 40 minutes. It is rather fatty meat.

Over the Pass

Awaa at top of pass bodes well for travelers

Wow, what a day! The weather broke as we decamped. Should have put on my heavy orange jacket and rain pants. I didn't realize we were going over the 2500 meter pass today. First we had a bit of rain. But further on, we hit a hail storm. I wore my cloth gloves, but my hands froze.

At the top of the pass we got off our horses. I couldn't unzip my pants to pee, my hands were so cold. We walked down the other side, the weather warming with every stride. Soon we reached the beginnings of the Darkhad Depression, where we made camp along side a wide dry riverbed.

Vehicles use the riverbed as a road, and as dusk fell we were visited by three motorcycles, each with two riders. They were goldminers returning home. It was our turn to play host, serve tea and a little food.

I told the man with the antlers that I was in the market to buy a deel, the traditional Mongolian overcoat. He offered to sell his to me for 25,000 tg, or about $17. The next morning the price came down to 20,000, but I declined the offer, because the buttons were missing. His demonstration of using a twig as a substitute for a button had little impact.

Official's Ger

Mutton hanging from ger rafters

Day 2. Left camp at 10:20. Made camp at 4:30. Stopped an hour to repack the packhorse. This will be a recurring problem. Also, I fell off my horse when trying to mount. The cinches were loose.

I woke at 7 and made fire. Not easy to even light the candle in the wind. I made noodles with dried meat, which we will eat often.

I had to stop to retie my sleeping bag on my saddle. Rule: when you are sure you have tied your knots as tiight as possible, tighten them some more.

The official rode out to meet us as Bamba retied the baggage. Nearby was a river where we watered the horses, then we rode to the official's ger, where he lived with his wife and two daughters. M mused how they would ever find husbands in such a remote location.

This official logged the passing of people headed north along this route. We signed in, ate bread and curds, fotoed all we wanted and rode on.

Today I rode with my camera sitting in my chest harness. This worked well.

Three of the horses all got that bouncy, jerky head movement during today's ride. I wonder what causes that. It's annoying.

Yesterday I finished mending the tent bag. It was severely torn by the frightened pack horse the second day out of Khatgal.

Horse bite! I held the pack horse steady as B. and E. readied the baggage. I talked to her the whole while, more to ease my tension than hers. All was going fine until the end, when she suddenly turned her head and nipped my inner thigh. But no skin broken.

I show the map to B. As the crow flies today's distance looks much shorter than that of yesterday. But E. says we made about 30 km today.

Out of Khatgal

Finally made it out of Khatgal. We left on our horses at 11:30 and rode for four hours, looked for water to make camp, but found none, then rode on for another five minutes. Found a bog as our water source and made camp.

Events along the trail: met an Israeli who was returning from Tsaatan country. The Tsaatan are a reindeer herding people who live in teepees and are shamanists. They are the reason many travellers make the trek further into the taiga, the forested area of this region. It is our reason, too. The Israeli rode north along the western bank of Khovsgol Lake, where lots of tourist gers are located. He rode 10 days in, 6 days back on a shorter route through the mountains, known as the logging route. This is the route are taking. I would have preferred to ride along the lake, and I thought that is where we were headed, but Bamba, our guide, never veered back towards the lake.

Another Mongol in for the Ride

Still in Khatgal. E has recruited a Mongolian friend to ride with us. The great fear here is of horse thieves, and those two stand a much better chance of warding of thieves since they speak the language.

But we could not depart today as expected. E's friend had work to do with rounding up his horses and returned late in the day. So we will set out north tomorrow.

Good and Better News

E and M, my riding partners arrived in Khatgal on Monday evening. They were tired, cold at night, ran out of provisions, but relied on the hospitality of the ger and other riders to make it here.

The better news is that miraculously they found by accident the tent poles. The extra tent I had ordered from Moron I was able to sell to a Dutch couple who had lost theirs. Their tent fell unseen from their packhorse.

Khatgal Day Four

Still in Khatgal waiting for E and M to join me with the four horses.

Yesterday ordered a tent from Moron, but it arrived without the flycover and far too few stakes.

A second ordered tent arrived today. It too was missing a dozen stakes, but it looks like I have no other options. The guesthouse has offered many 5 inch nails as a substitute.

But the find of the day was an authentic English riding helmet. Ask and ye shall find. One man had two, and one of them happened to be a perfect fit.

I ve met others who have fallen from their horses and lost equipment that has fallen from the packhorse. Rider beware.

Khatgal

Khatgal lies at the southern tip of a large lake, the name of which just might be Khovsgol Lake. This is the destination of Mongols and foreign tourists alike.

As I left the guesthouse this morning I met a man I knew from a guesthouse in UB. Michael had been going on a 12 day horse trek to the Darkhad region with two other tourists and a guide when they had the same fate as we had. Three times their baggage had fallen from the horse. Then, their pack horse was spooked for some reason, which set off the other horses. One woman fell to the ground and bruised her leg so as not to be able to continue the trek. So Michael was back in Khatgal making plans.

I went shopping. On my list: tent, stove, tarp, poncho and hand cream. In the first store I walked into, I found four of those items, but the tent was not satisfactory. It was one of those pop-up tents, which are nearly impossible to fold back up (any hints on how to do so?). It did not have a fly cover, so I continued to look elsewhere.

Michael and I took a three hour boat tour on the lake. This is quite popular with the Mongolian tourists. An animateur kept the crowd entertained with karaoke and a running monologue, interspersed with disco beats. A couple guys climbed up on the railing of the bow for a photo-op. No safety regulation against that one. And a drunk walked up to me and punched my water bottle. Watch out for drunks.

I ordered a tent from Moron, but it arrived with no flycover and improvised stakes. So I did not buy it. Instead, I called a contact in Moron to have another one and a stove shipped up the next day.

Second Day out of Moron

Today the horse dung hit the fan.

We had difficulty packing our bags on the horse, so E asked a local man to help us. He tied our big backpacks vertically instead of horizontally to the sides of the horse and the the provisions and a couple smaller bags on top. That was quite an improvement and we rode of confident that our bags would hold.

But barely 15 minutes later our bags lay scattered on the good earth. Several dirt tracks lead from Moron to Khatgal, and we were riding on the one less traveled. But that did not keep a motorcycle from heading towards us, spooking our packhorse. That horse's frenzy spooked the other three horses. Our bags went flying. Provisions lay scattered on the ground along with the smaller bags. No one was injured. Our big backpacks remained tied to the animal, which stopped back at camp.

In the process we lost the tent poles and the stove was damaged.

We decided that I would ride with the baggage to Khatgal while E and M would ride the four horses up to that town.

In the meantime, E's family car approached, filling E with embarrassment. His horseman and mother and a couple kids piled out, discussed the matter, and took me back to Moron. Our three hour horse trek took 22 minutes in the Toyota Land Cruiser.

From Moron I found transport to Khatgal, a squished 3 hour ride in a minivan, paying double the rate due to the large amount of baggage I had.

Horse Buying in Moron

Today we bought four horses from our contact, E. E. will ride with us for the adventure. He has been to Darkhad region by jeep, but not by horse. Like us, he wants the adenture, so we bought him a horse.

We rode out of Moron at 2:30. My riding partner M. had some trouble with his horse. When he tried to mount her, a couple times she started off. This could be a problem.

We stopped by a well to water the horses at about 4:30 and made camp at about 6 pm at another watering spot about 15 km. from Moron. That was about three hours riding.

We cooked rice with dried beef for dinner, pitched our tent, and staked the horses for the night. We had in mind to do horse watch of three hours each because we have heard too many stories about horse thieves. But E., who took the first watch, promptly fell asleep. But in the morning the four horses were still staked in place.

Border Permit in Moron

It is Naadam in Moron, but the Border Office is open.

Our horse contact took us there. We needed only the hand written letter from UB stating our plans, and a copy of our passports incuding the Mongolian visa. We asked for a month of travel in the Darkhad region, and got it, for a fee of 5,000 each, instead of 2,000 tg. for a three week period.

The official warned us about heavy rains and rising rivers, shook our hands and wished us luck.Couldnt have been easier.

Time to jettison that tie.

Bus Trip to Moron

The tix cost 25,000 tg for reserved seating in the bus, which ended up with nearly 50 passengers, including aisle seaters.

We departed at 2:30, stopped for lunch at 5:15, befor which the paved road ended. It returned briefly at around 10 pm for 15 minutes and then the driver veered north, I guess, and that was the end of the pavement.

The twilight hours were splendid. Traditional Mongolian folk music playing loudly, with a couple crooners adding their personal touches. If the concert wasnt enough to make you think you were in Vegas, a fist fight soon broke out in the back of the bus between a couple of drunks. The other passengers decided the loser by seating him in the aisle next to me. I lost.

We had plenty of pit stops, with passengers crying out to the driver when needed. A breakfast stop came at about 7 am. and we arrived in Moron at 9:30, when I called our horse contact.

Border Permit in UB

Lonely Planet 2008 says about getting the border permiit in UB

1. have a mongol apply for you
2. have copies of your passport and
3 a map of your route.

What LP doesnt say is that

1. you must type a letter in mongolian about the details of your itinerary
2. the mongol who applies best wear a shirt and tie and
3. the documents must not be folded!

With all that in mind, we called the branch office in Moron, which put a much rosier light on the process.
The owner of the guest house wrote us a letter by hand in mongolian, and we took the nearly 20 hour bus ride to Moron.