#nalaikh

[travelella]

Chinggis Khaan Statue Complex, Ulaanbaatar, Nalaikh, Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

Patrick Schneider

[radio505]

[mongolie]

90 years of Nalaikh by Nicholas J. on Flickr.

Via Flickr: Concert in Nalaikh Center Palace, for the 90th anniversary of the city.

[travel-wildly]

Wandering with nomads under the eternal blue sky of Mongolia.

For years I’d felt the call of Mongolia, dreamt of racing horseback across the wide open grassy steppes of Mongolia, the wind whipping through my hair, my heart racing in time to the pounding of hooves on earth. So when I finally touch down on Mongolian soil and breathed in the crisp cool air,  I feel as if I am returning home -  to a country I have never visited but for in the wild places of my imagination.

After a crash course at Ger to Ger, on nomadic customs, language and some basic survival skills which include how to avoid being hit by lightning, and how to correctly roll off a moving horse (?!) I was ready to head off to Terelj National Park to spend a week on horseback traveling from nomadic family ger to ger (known in the west as a yurt - a name the Russians gave the circular felt dwellings of the nomads). The principal aim of gertoger.org is preserving the nomadic lifestyle in a way that is sustainable, as Mongolia steps or rather jumps headlong into the 21st century. With the fastest growing economy in the world, thanks to large mineral deposits found in the Gobi desert, and it’s close proximity to China, Mongolia is rushing headlong into a new age of growth and possible prosperity if managed well. However all this growth threatens the very nomadic lifestyle that has served Mongolia well, and preserved much of the land for so long; as the young men of herding families are tempted into ramshackle ger districts on the outskirts of Ulaanbaatar, looking for work in the ongoing construction industry; the nomadic lifestyle itself is under threat. Through a program of trips staying with nomadic families, as well as community development programs, Ger to Ger hopes to help balance and preserve a way of life that is facing an uncertain future. The loss of one of the world’s last nomadic people may be inevitable, however it would be a great loss indeed, as it strikes at the very heart of what makes Mongolia so unique, the unmatched freedom of living in harmony with nature, in one of the harshest lands on earth. 

Utilizing public transport wherever possible means riding the state bus out to nearby Nalaikh, then switching to a microbus (small van) which is full to bursting of people, groceries and luggage, for the bumpy journey to Terelj village. Not too sure if I've arrived or not, I’m never the less greeted by a shy teenage boy and two horses; as the last time I rode a horse was over 10 years ago when I was thrown by a slightly wild horse, resulting in a fractured wrist, I decide to play it safe and vehemently shake my head when asked if I’m a good rider. These Mongolian horses, they maybe smaller but from what I’ve heard are slightly wild after spending the long harsh winters fending for themselves. The boy yanks strongly on the reins and growls menacingly at the two horses, as he brings one over for me. Cautiously I slide one boot into the circular Mongolian style stirrups, and pull myself up into the small wooden saddle which seems quite minimal compared to the larger western saddles I’ve used before. Memories of my earlier instructions on how to roll off a running horse flash through my mind as I eye the distance to the earth below; not so high after all. Somewhat relieved we make our way down to the river at a gentle walk, and cross the river Terelj, crunching our way across smooth rounded stones that line the clear, fast running river.

Upon arrival at the Chuluunhuus family ger, I am led to my very own ger, complete with pot belly stove and chimney at the center, and 5 beds placed around the edges of the curtained walls, the floors covered by a myriad of colourful carpets and throws.  I enter in a clockwise direction, making sure not to step on the threshold, and take my seat in the western part of the ger which is where guests of honor are required to sit; the eastern side is reserved for the females of the family, and as such all the cooking utensils and cupboards are located on this side, the western side is for the males and is where the saddles and riding equipment are stored. The very back of the ger, or the northern end (at the opposite of the entrance) is where the eldest members of the household will sit as a place of honor; it is also where the families Buddhist shrine is located, as well as all the treasures of the family. Here you will find boards filled with photo’s of family members, as well as offerings of tea and bread to the various Buddhist deities.

I am offered my first suutei tsai (salty milk tea) on arrival as well as some deep fried dough rolls to snack on. As part of nomadic culture, hospitality is offered to all visitors who call in and as it is not known how long this weary traveler may have been on the road or when they last ate, the first thing every family will do is to offer them a warm drink and some food.  I make sure that I accept the round bowl of tea with both hands and raise it straight to my lips to take a sip, as it would be insulting to my host if I were to put any drink or food offered down without tasting it first. It is said that nomads will sit like this in silence for quite some time until, their guest has finished their tea and recovered from their journey; then they will say, “Oh, NOW you recognise me!”, as only after eating that conversation will begin to flow.

In the ger staring solemnly at me is a 2 year old baby girl, with her freshly shaven head. Like some grave little Buddha she just stares me down, as I attempt to make her smile; so I start chatting with her older sister (although the term sister is used loosely in the large and sprawling networks of family ties in nomadic families), and learn that she studies English at boarding school in Ulaanbaatar. Photo albums and iPhones are pulled out as we try our best to share the stories of our lives in hand gestures, miming and a mix of Mongolian and English.

Not easily deterred I offer them both some peanuts and I’ve soon won over little Batutsi, and before long she is jumping all over me with wild abandon, dissolving into hysterical giggles or looking earnestly at me and chatting away in Mongolian, to which I respond equally earnestly in English. Luckily I will come to learn, horses and children speak a universal language that needs no translation.  

Her freshly shaved head marks her as having just turned two, as that is when girls will have their first haircut; their hair will be cut by someone of a corresponding or harmonious birth year or by a local shaman. The hair is then burnt as fire is considered sacred, which is why rubbish is never burnt, or one must never point the bottom of their feet or back towards the hearth. Young boys have their first haircut at the age of 3, which is why so many little boys are running around with long flowing locks of hair, which so confused me at first.

The next morning, having slept cozily in my little ger, whilst a severe thunderstorm rolled through the open valley the night before, I head over to the family ger for a breakfast of fresh cream, bortzig (fried unleavened bread) and tea. I ask if I can practice riding today, so after breakfast we saddle up and head into town. Feeling much more comfortable in the saddle already, we mosey into town, tie our trusty steeds against the horse rails in front of the café, and head in for a nice warm salty milk tea, and some delicious khuushuur (fried mutton pancakes). As the dark clouds being to gather once again, we decide to head back home.  Having now mastered the Mongolian horse word for ‘go!’(chuuum!), it’s not long before I’m racing back at a fair gallop feeling as wild and free as the landscape unfolding before me.

The next day, I’m saddled up and ready to head to my next families ger; the Bolortogoo family live around 22 km away, and so with the eldest son, Arumbya, as my guide, we ride off down the valley which opens up into the wide steppe lands Mongolian is renown for. Gentle waves of smooth green mountains scattered with small stands of pine trees, surround us on either side, while the Terelj river continues to flow alongside us.

Upon arrival, we go through the welcome routine, automatically taking my seat to the west of the ger, and sipping on my salty milk tea. Making myself comfortable in my new ger, I decide to head off into the hills for a walk before dinner to see what the surrounding areas will reveal. A few hours later, I’m at the summit and looking down the open green valley below, dotted by groups of 3 or 4 gers, known as ails; anymore would be too much of a burden on the fragile ecosystem of the grasslands. On the other side of the mountain, I can see down a lush green valley, that seems uninhabited, due to the fact that there is no river and thus no water supply.

As the sun sets, I make my way back into camp, and am greeted by Amra who has been making buuz (steamed mutton dumplings), which we quickly down while a few drunk friends who have dropped by practice their English and Russian on us. After dinner I sneak out of my ger wrapped tightly in my sleeping back to stargaze; an hour or so later a slightly worried Boggy (the head of the family) comes out to make sure I’m okay and that I will sleep in my ger tonight. This area is known to have wolves which will sometimes seek out herds of sheep and goats, which is why each ger camp has at least two guard dogs. Slightly wild themselves, with thick matted coats to keep them warm during the freezing winter months, these guard dogs seem sleepy and docile during the day, however as the sun sets their temperament changes as they begin their night shift guarding the precious herds of goats and sheep from any threatening wolf packs. The nomads don’t play with or give these guard dogs any attention in the way that we do in the west, they are treated purely as guard dogs and trained from birth to live outside the gers, fending for themselves while ferociously defending the family and livestock.

The next morning I’m greeted by a shy young nomad, in traditional del (traditional long coat), tied at the waist with a golden sash. He can barely make eye contact with me and smiles shyly as we saddle up and head off down the valley; at first reluctant to let me ride solo he keeps a firm hand of the reigns. However after a few exasperated looks from me, he relents, riding alongside me and checking my form, giving me a few tips here and there before looking satisfied that I wasn’t going to break my neck and with a whispered ‘chuum!’ bolts off into the horizon. I quickly give chase and before long we are racing across wide open plains, and meadows full of wildflowers bursting with spring colour; rocky outcrops of pink granite start to appear on the horizon, as we slow down to a walk, making our way through boggy swamp land. The constant buzzing of flies and the louder drone of horse flies have both me and my horse flicking our heads in annoyance, as we finally pass the marshlands and make our ways through a wonderfully cool pine forest towards our final destination of Gunj Som (Princess Temple).  Once a part of a much larger complex, all that remains now of this remote burial temple for a Manchu princess, is a small white temple, and a few walls; history says that she was originally sent to be a spy for the Manchu, but when she switched her allegiance to the Mongols she was assassinated by her former Manchu Khan.

That night we camp nearby in our tents, helping each other set up in the nomadic way. Dinner is once again mutton and potato soup, but after my long ride today I devour it and ask for more, I’m definitely feeling the effects of the days of riding now in my legs, knees and especially my rear end. The night is spent by a fragrant pine bonfire pouring over our English-Mongolian dictionaries and trying to converse. Tsokwatra and Chokha are brothers, the younger one being 15 years old and on holiday from boarding school. I ask where they spend their winters, and he points south and explains that their winter camp is around 5km south, in a valley protected by mountains from the howling winter winds. The winters out here drop to around -40C, but with wind chill it can feel much colder not to mention the fact that they are still essentially camping. The animals are sheltered in huts they tell me, which explains some of the wooden animal shelters I’ve seen along the way which are abandoned during summer.

The following days and nights follow in much the same way; riding to my next family’s ger, drinking milk tea, playing with the adorable and wild children, and bathing in icy cold clear rivers; I even get to try my hand at archery, and sewing traditional Mongolian patterns. My last night is spent with the Batbold family, who’s matriarch is an inherited shaman; her mother was a shaman, and her son is too. She explains to me that I mustn’t take any photos of her or her shamanic costumes and tools which line the ger wall. Shamans are able to heal sicknesses where the soul has has strayed, as they are intermediaries between the spirit world and the living. Shamanic beliefs have shaped Mongolian culture for centuries, and the lack of permanent structures found in Mongolia has it’s roots in the shamanic beliefs of living in balance with the natural world; this means not digging up the earth, as a ger uses no tent pegs and leaves no holes. Also flicking vodka first to the sky (male) and then to the earth (female) before taking a drink is common practice. Sky worship is integral to Mongolian culture, and we pass many ovoos (rock piles) decorated with blue scarves which represent the sky. Chinggis Khan (known Genghis Khan), prayed at the sacred mountain Burkhan Khaldun, before he undertook any war; he worshiped the mighty eternal blue sky designing to unite all those under it into the Great Mongol Nation.

My last night on the steppe, a cold wind blows, and I raise giggles from the family as I emerge from my ger with my woolen beanie on tight. But that night upon returning, I see a warm glow coming from my ger, and the silhouettes of the two small boys stoking up my little pot bellied stove. I ruffle their hair, and say ‘bayalalaa’ (thank you), thinking to myself there really is nothing so cozy as returning from the cold windy steppes into a dark, warm carpet lined ger.