a Dziggetai Cat. Asia 2011

Horsepower 09/July - 13/July

As we stepped off the train in Ulaanbataar we were swallowed by the crowd of jostling, over-burdened Mongolians all come to the capital for the Nadaam national holiday. We few bewildered foreigners floated through the surge, bobbing through the press like pale, befuddled icebergs. PB and I were rescued by our San Franciscan friend yet again, as she convinced her hostel shuttle driver to drop us off near the Irish pub where we were to meet our tour guide. Why is there an Irish pub in the middle of Ulaanbataar? That's a great question. We were told it was due to the Mongol Rally, although apparently the rally departs from England, not Ireland.

At any rate, we arrived at the pub around 11 am, having completed our journey with about 3 hours to spare. Our ride was actually an hour late and begged the excuse of traffic when they did arrive; once we got into the car and underway we understood why. Driving in the capital city of Mongolia is an exercise in patience, problem solving, and sheer bloody-mindedness. The city, which at the time of our visit had recently celebrated reaching a population of a million, was caught in an intense bout of growing pains as the burgeoning mining economy demanded more infrastructure, mobility, culinary choice, and corporate luxury than the traditionally livestock-centric, recently post-Soviet culture was gracefully able to provide.

The result of the tension between these 2 forces was a city fabric unevenly woven, with some parts bulging and robust, and others fraying, stretched thin, and snarled. Roads were well laid out and intuitive in 4-block radius's that didn't align with one another, accompanied by sidewalks that appeared and disappeared at random in an astonishing spectrum of building materials and states of repair. The road itself showcased all possible levels of being, varying from asphalt to gravel and all evolutionary stops in between. Traffic lights and street signs were like shooting stars - rare, valuable, and sporadically catastrophic for those affected by them. Still, after a couple hours we managed to escape the city and made it to the Stepperiders camp.


Actual journal entry for that day:

~Later~ So, yeah, as planned got picked up by Stepperiders in Ulaanbataar and were taken to their camp. I was still mildly sick by that point, though luckily the brunt of it had passed. Good thing, too; the next day saw us on a 40 km ride across the steppe to where the Nadaam camp is, a total of 7 hours in the saddle, with maybe one cumulative hour's worth of breaks thrown in. (Editor’s Note: There was almost definitely far more breaks than that, but if certainly didn’t feel like it at the time.) I originally named my horse, a dark male, "Curmudgeon", as it seemed he mostly wanted to stand still. I later shortened this to Curmy, after he’d proven his worth by trotting, cantering, galloping, and even jumping (twice!) with seemingly great pleasure. It was the first time in my life I’d ever been above a trot. At first it was glorious. Even being, as I know I am, basically a jouncing sack of potatoes in the saddle, the feeling you get in a full gallop across the open steppe is truly wonderful. By the end of the day, however, I was so exhausted, and in so much pain, I was almost crying out in disappointment every time we saw a ger (a Mongolian yurt) that turned out to not be ours.

Eventually we reached camp, however, and were well fed. With the aid of hot food and a mixture of vodka and airag - neither of which, if truth be told, I particularly enjoy - I slept both soundly and well, despite our ger’s floor being drenched by the rain that followed us in. The next morning (this morning) we again rode out, this time to see a Nadaam race. These are done by children on young horses and are anywhere from 10 to 20 km. The ride to and from the race track is no more than about 45 minutes, which was nice as we trekked out again in the afternoon. The weather has thankfully been clear, I am dreadfully sore but not as much as I was yesterday, our companions are pleasant and the food has proved palatable. PB and I have just hiked to the top of the nearby hill, where I am writing now; the sun is setting over the steppe and it is time for dinner. So far, so good.

13/07/2011 (I think) It’s been a good couple days. After last writing we had a day which was much the same, but livened in the evening by a game one of the other guests, Julian [french; with Irish Penn], brought called Jungle Fever. This was played, originally, by Julian, Max [American; WHO; hipster], Andreas [Norwegian; with Janet], Erika [American - Japanese; translator; funny], PB, and myself. It’s a brilliant game, I will try to remember to buy it back in Canada. Eventually Andreas & Janet had to leave to return to Norway after 19 months of travelling; shortly after that Jungle Fever was turned into a drinking game and we included Niumka, our smiling Mongolian guide, and Ryan, a bearded, kerchiefed American, in the mix and drew a small crowd of bemused Mongolians, including Puche, god of horses in a white fedora, and his singing, tough-as-nails wife Ganaa. Eventually the game ended, and after watching some Mongolians wrestle, it was further expanded and moved inside the ger. PB was already out for a walk and night had fallen; the game was less interesting with so many people and I went for a ramble in the hills as well.

The moonlight was stunningly beautiful on the mountains, almost bright enough to read by - which I suppose makes sense, it’s been near a month since the beach at Hong Kong. I rambled around, ostensibly in search of PB, mostly just walking and looking. Although the moonlight drowns out much of the stars, it limns the hills in silver, the light and shadow looking for all the world like gilt and velvet. I was offered a ride by a man in a pickup driving on no road that I could see, but walked on until I’d come half circle around our Nadaam camp and then headed back.

Next morning we rode back from whence we came. I had a different saddle, and my stirrups were much shortened; when we galloped it was all I could do to stay on. Eventually I got off and lengthened the stirrups myself (Editor's Note: This is notable because I did it poorly and inefficiently while dropping far, far, behind the others), which helped somewhat. Unfortunately I was still leaning too far back in the saddle and had a bad time of it for awhile. I smartened up after lunch and leaned more forward and found it much better and easier to keep my seat. We galloped almost all the way home. [Editor's Note: This meant we fulfilled the major goal of the Mongolian excursion, galloping across the steppe into the sunset. Boo-ya]

That evening Ryan apparently missed his guitar and, subsequently, a vocal guitar was created, consisting of Erica, Max, Andre [New York but in HK; with bald Marco], and Cat [British; speaks Russian, head band]. It was pretty excellent. After dinner was wrestling again. I beat Erika twice and Cat once, and was beaten twice by Penn. We also invented horse racing, basically running uphill while carrying someone in piggyback. It was very popular, as was its variation which had the horses and riders switch at a half-way point. Erika, Max, PB & I shared a ger and made fun of Max for a while and went to sleep. When I woke up, I found my lower lip had swollen overnight to about twice its normal size, apparently having been sunburned the day before. I actually napped most of the morning, after seeing the remarkable way Mongolians kill and butcher a goat, and woke up in time to eat it. The killing and butchering were very interesting though; everything was very clean and efficient. What will stay with me the most, however, was how Sina, the slightly sleazy camp helper, was holding the head and forelegs of the dead goat as its insides were being scooped out into a basin, reached out a gnarled hand and very gently stroked the eyes of the goat closed.

It is only mid afternoon now, or perhaps late evening. We have been treated to more wrestling, this time in the traditional uniforms, and got to see competitors of all ages and skill levels duke it out. I smell of grease and apparently we are also having blowtorched marmot. As long as Erika can stop pretending she’s drunk and we can save Cat (not me; other, British, Cat) from sleazy Russian-speaking Mongolians, it promises to be an interesting last night here.