Mongolia

After a good five days of driving without the assistance of a tarmac road we finally popped out of the wilderness and cruised along a well-maintained highway for 300 metres before our driver abruptly turned off, bounced along some grassland, and parked up outside a shipping container that had been conveniently turned into a roadside café. After lunch, the highway soon became a distant memory as we trundled up and over rolling grassland and down through valleys and streams in search of a nomad family who had stupidly agreed to host us for a couple of nights. By definition nomads are difficult to find, and despite the fact that our host had not yet moved from their winter location it still took a combination of asking neighbours and sheer good luck before we found ourselves heading in a direction that the drivers gut instinct was happy with. A final push up a hill took us past several vultures attempting to fly but so large they reminded me of an A380 clumsily trying to take-off. We peaked the hill to be greeted with some of the best views Mongolia had yet to offer; picture Mongolia in your mind, that of people on horseback with eagles perched on their arm overlooking vast areas of steppe, only replace the horses with motorbikes and the eagles with sheep (perched on grass, not arms). We descended the hill and pulled up next to two gers, a couple of old wooden sheds, some wooden corrals, and the kind of windbreak you would see on an English beach suspiciously located far from the main camp. Solar panels and a satellite dish sat outside one of the yurts, a flock of goats and sheep grazed nearby.

On arrival we were invited into the ger with the satellite dish which was the main family home with two beds either side, a small kitchen, a central stove, and a few bits of furniture to store whatever possessions they deemed necessary. A battery and the solar panels kept the tv and mobile phones working but water was brought by bucket from a stream a kilometre away. The old lady whose ger it was served up yoghurt straight out of a large plastic bucket and being good guests, we politely tucked in. I have always been very clear on my feelings surrounding local living experiences and how I disdain them, partly out of my own discomfort having to interact with complete strangers but also because no matter how it’s dressed up, I will still be a tourist. Put me with a nomad family for a month in winter and then yes, we could maybe call that a local living experience. The last thing I wanted was a 36-hour local living experience that involved food poisoning after eating some dodgy yoghurt. Undoubtedly this is my privileged western paranoia gremlin trying to play tricks, and as you can well imagine the yoghurt was damn delicious and probably far better than any manufactured probiotic. The usual drink offered in Mongolia is salty tea although I didn’t realise it was tea to begin with for it simply looks and tastes like warm salty milk; it is surprisingly nice. Fermented mare’s milk is the jazzier delicacy on offer, yet that was unfortunately out of season during our stay. 

Tents would be our sleeping quarters for the next two nights and as we pitched camp and got comfy a worried looking sheep appeared on the shoulders of one of our drivers. One of the highlights of the nomad stay was a Mongolian BBQ which of course requires meat, which naturally involves something being killed. The BBQ wasn’t scheduled until the following day but apparently slaughter can only happen on certain days and so unfortunately for this sheep, she was robbed an extra day of life. Laid on her back and stretched out by the two drivers, one of them made a cut under the sheep’s armpit, grabbed an artery and severed it causing rapid internal bleeding that allowed the whole animal to be utilised once it came to butchering. Credit to the group, they all watched and understood the process, all but one, me! I can’t deal with the killing bit; I couldn’t care less once it’s dead but that transition from life to death always makes me feel guilty. No vegan, and only hardy vegetarians can travel Mongolia I reckon. Unlike rural Europe, Mongolia is the perfect example where livestock can convert limited vegetation in a harsh environment into produce that can sustain and keep humans alive. The steppe doesn’t exactly allow the freedom to grow a varied diet without animals and thus they are essential to the survival of a culture. And so it was I found myself sat back in the family ger with a sheep’s head and an assortment of unidentifiable body parts that had been cooked up and put out for an entrée. Apparently, the tail is a delicacy and our enthusiastic drivers sliced off some samples for the less than enthusiastic diners. A couple of us carried the team and tucked in as much out of politeness than curiosity. A bit of fatty tail, a bit of cheek, some tongue and kidney were enough for me and although the cheek and tail weren’t anything bad, I feel no need to rush back to it. The more traditional cuts would have to wait for the following day.

I woke around 1am as the tent had attempted to smother me in my sleep. Outside, the wind was blowing hard enough to cause my tent to collapse, such is the strength of a popup tent, and I was left to lie there and contemplate what to do. I concluded that doing nothing was the best course of action and so I rolled over in an attempt to get back to sleep. Afterall, what was the point of going outside to try and rectify any problems, my tent was still keeping me warm and dry, only in a more distorted fashion, and if I left, I had the distinct impression my tent would have been blown to China. There was one problem to worry about. Toilet time. My alarm was set for 5am so I could wonder off to the windbreak shielded toilet and enjoy a bit of quality time alone without the worry of someone disturbing me. Now I was awake with thoughts ranging from rain making the whole experience miserable to the possibility that the toilet had blown away. My alarm finally went off and I vacated the warmth of my sleeping bag and headed out into the dawn where finally the wind had subsided and only a little drizzle remained. The sturdy windbreak had done its job and I could take my place on a plastic toilet seat that sat precariously over a freshy dug pit. You don’t need to know this but then I figured its probably the number one question put to astronauts and so why not explain such necessities?

After all the events of the previous night I finally began my day around 7.30am and was met with sunny skies and a brisk wind. Our host was milking the cows but appeared to have no inclination in letting us participate which was fine by me. Cows here give between 0.5-2.0 litres of milk depending on the time of year compared to an average of 28 litres in the UK. All that was left to do was to have a bit of breakfast and bugger off for a hike. From the nearest peak that I summited I was greeted to incredible views, a desert like silence, and huge flocks of goats, sheep, cows, and horses roaming the grasslands below. It dawned on me that the view looked distressingly like that of rural Wales, but I managed to savour the moment telling myself that Mongolia offered superior vastness, epicness, and far less people complaining about tourists bringing money to the area. After three hours of hiking I was back at camp in time to see the boys fire up the BBQ. A stove was brought outside, stones were heated up inside the fire, and a large pot was filled with the pieces of mutton from the day before, potatoes, carrots, cabbage, and the hot stones from the fire. A little water was added, and the pot was sealed. Ninety minutes later we were sat under darkening skies chewing on steamed lamb and veg, washed down with cherry wine and proper nice vodka. Being mutton, it was chewy and messy, but certainly a meal not to forget for all the right reasons.

Our second night under canvas was free of wind but provided plenty of rain, however I had already made the decision to give the poo pit a miss and hold on until arriving at our next camp around midday. I rolled out of the tent at 7.30am and limped off in complete agony thanks to rolling my ankle the afternoon before that produced a definite cracking sound and had filled me with fear that my travels were over (melodramatic to say the least). The rain had eased, and the clouds had cleared just enough to reveal fresh snow lying on the highest hills as I stood there in the open having a pee and lost in wonder and amazement as to how anything can survive out here during the winter months. My experience had been far from living a nomad’s life as that advertised, but realistically no one can make such a claim in just 36 hours, especially someone who feels guilty killing an animal, can’t walk properly, and doesn’t like taking a crap outdoors.