Farewell Tour

For my last week in Mongolia, I was determined to get out to the hoodoo (countryside) and do some camping. And on that tour, what better area to explore than Khenti aimag, birthplace and historical stomping grounds of Chinggis Khan.

Now one important thing to understand about Chinggis is that MOngolians regard him as a national hero (and modern-day marketing phenomenon). From their perspective, he is the guy who created the Mongolian nation. He's also the guy whose military prowess and calvary troops were so unstoppable that in 25 years he created an empire bigger than the one it took the Romans 400 years to cobble together. His name is successfully used to market everything from beer (Chinggis beer is a very nice lager) to hotels (the Chinggis Khan hotel is a very fancy one in UB).

Somehow, I managed to recruit two friends who also thought it might be fun to freeze our butts off and experience windstorms in tents on the Mongolian steppe in April. These wild women were Amy (Alaska wilderness guide and outdoorswoman), and Matilda (intrepid archeologist--a female "Indiana Jones"). The three of us then managed to convince an otherwise perfectly reasonable Mongolian friend to be our driver on our little escapade.

So off we went. Some highlights included the archeology (Bronze Age deer stones and older tombs). We experienced all the different types of precipitation (rain, snow and hail). We ate s'mores around the campfire (this was the hardest ordeal for our British companion. When we explained what they were, she almost gagged.) We picked ticks off our clothing and (eew) off our skin. We rode horses and went for long runs. We visited a partially restored monastery (destroyed by Stalin's thugs in the 1930s).

We got stuck in the snow (without shovels) and I jogged to a nearby ger for help from the family who lived there. They pulled us out with their Russian Jeep, but before they could come to help us we had to wait for the end of the Korean soap opera that they were all watching via satellite dish. Here's M. using a sleeping bag in an unsuccessful attempt to attract the attention of the soap-opera-watching nomads.

And finally, we made it to Binder, the location at which Chinggis was proclaimed Great Khan of all the Monoglian tribes in 1206. Here's a monument honoring that historical event.

Throughout the week, it was interesting to consider the different ways that Mongolians versus Americans (and British) think about wilderness. Our driver could not understand why we wanted to camp out in tents in the snow when we could be so much more confortable in the company of a family in their ger. He worried that wild animals might bother us, when in truth any wild animals remaining in Mongolia are alive only because they have learned to poach livestock and avoid humans.

My idea of wilderness is a place with natural beauty where people only visit, and I think signs of human use or habitation detract from the value and aesthetic beauty of that place. For me, human-created impacts that degrade the natural habitat should be avoided or minimized. But I think our Mongolian friend would have disagreed with my definition. I don't think he would have seen the value, or the point, of preserving natural places for non-human use. He would have agreed that the steppe is a beautiful place, but would not have shared my feeling that it would be better without all the vehicle tracks and litter. For him, human activities that drive out wild animals would be a positive thing, because the area would then be safer and more valuable for herding and other human uses. It's a perspective that makes sense in the developing world, and I can't say I would disagree with him. But it made me value even more the wild places of my home.

Millie's Espresso

Millie’s Espresso is an American-style diner in the heart of UB founded by a woman from Ethiopia and now partly owned by a man from Cuba. Although Mongolians occasionally eat here, the clientele is mostly ex pats looking for comfort food, or just looking for company.

Some people complain that it is too much of a “scene,” but the fact of the matter is that almost everyone who comes here for any length of time has at least one lunch or breakfast at Millie’s.



A tip if you ever come: Tuesday is roast pork day, and the lemon ice box pie is as good as any I ever had in Tennessee.

Spring (khavar)

Although the thermometer still dips close to zero each night, I can feel that winter has lost its bite. There’s enough light to go running outside after work (finally, I am released from the prison of the treadmill!). And the Hash has started up again, which means there’s always someone to run with on Tuesday evenings.

Yet spring is Mongolians’ least favorite season. The main complaint is that the weather is unpredictable. In the winter, everyone knows that each day will be the same: sunny and very cold. But in spring, the weather can be cloudy, snowing, or clear. One minute it’s jacket-off, and the next it’s hat and scarf. Another bad thing about spring is that it’s the windy time of year. In the city, garbage flies all over and airborne grit lodges in my eyes and works its way into my hair on my walk to work. Dust devils appear suddenly and careen crazily around before vanishing. Listening to the wind moan, I find myself making excuses not to go outside, even though I walked outside every day in the winter.

But who can be unhappy about the spring hiking season? Yesterday some friends decided we should walk from UB to Manshir. It’s around 13 miles through the mountains, with some tricky route finding and a highpoint of about 2200 m. Although no one had done it this early in the season before, we thought optimism was justified by the sunny and warm weather. Such impertinence! Here we are all fresh and optimistic at the start.

Here's a view of UB from the top of the first ridge.







After three hours of breaking trail through the new snow that you can see in the above photo, two of the group turned back (smart ones, they). For some reason, M. and I continued on, only to encounter deeper snow and knarly boulder fields. We spent the next 5 hours post holing through 1-3 feet of wet snow covered by breakable crust.

When we finally reached the high point, we had about two and a half hours of daylight left to get down—plenty of time provided we could find the downtrail. At this point, M’s GPS died, there was no cell phone coverage, the wind came up, and the sun disappeared behind clouds that almost certainly held more snow. And where was that downtrail? After about an hour of thrashing around in the snow without success, we were starting to consider ridiculous options like navigating down by compass (in the dark). Having made their point, the mountain god now let us find the down trail, and we made the trail head just before dark. I awoke the next morning to see the mountains covered in fresh snow.

For my last hike in UB, it certainly was a memorable one. And it was a good reminder about the unpredictability of the weather, the conditions, and life in general. I see now why the Mongolians value the predictability of winter weather—they live in a country where almost nothing can be counted on. If you live in the city, you can’t count on the power or the water being on, you can’t count on finding what you want at the store (even though you just saw it there yesterday), you can’t count on appointments being kept or cars stopping for pedestrians. In the country, you pretty much can’t count on anything but yourself and your neighbors. If that sounds overly negative, it’s only because of where I come from. The Mongolians seem to handle it all just fine.

Wild Horses

Last weekend I visited Hustai National Park, where the tahki horses live. The tahki are genetically distinct from modern horses, apparently having wandered off on a different evolutionary path in prehistoric times (sort of like the Neanderthals of the horse world). Some years ago a foreign wildlife biologist working in Mongolia recognized their uniqueness and warned that they were being hunted to extinction. Once everyone realized what they were, an effort was started to preserve them, and eventually the park was created and populated.

When we arrived, we were thrilled to see that no other tourists had thought to come in the off season. (The only other people at the ger camp were Mongolian wildlife biologists studying the parks’ animals). We immediately set out hiking in hopes of sighting some horses, although with only about 130 in the whole park I wasn’t too optimistic. These photos give an idea of the terrain. We didn’t find horses that day, although we did see a group of about 20 Manchurian red deer run up and over a saddle right in front of us.

The next morning, acting on a tip from one of the wildlife biologists, we headed out on foot to a valley about 10K from our camp. And there they were, right by the road. They didn’t spook or even seem very concerned by our proximity. Apparently, they’ve gotten used to the hordes of tourists ogling them. So despite the fact that they weren’t exactly acting like wild animals, it was fun to watch them carrying on with their normal horsy activities. We couldn’t have asked for a better show.