How the West (of Mongolia) was Won

All of our available sources of information were unanimous (for once).  The LP, the book written by Peace Corps kids, the internet travel sites, and especially the guesthouse tour operators insisted that it is not possible to travel independently in Western Mongolia.  “In other parts of the world, like South America, things just seem to work out.  But in Western Mongolia, you won’t be able to find a car, there’s no travel infrastructure, no one speaks English, and drivers won’t understand what tourists want.”  The one exception seemed to be the town of Bayan-Olgii, where there are a few tour operators.

So naturally, we bought tickets for a flight to Khovd, the other western town.

Western Mongolia

Even before we started this leg of the trip, everything got much easier.  It looked like we might need to take a “particularly arduous” 3-4 day bus ride to get there, as the airline websites showed no availability.  Just to double check, we walked into one of the airline ticketing offices that are on virtually every street corner in UB.  Ten minutes and just over $200 later, we had flights for the next day.  (Alas, the western airport runways have been paved, denying me the hoped-for experience of landing on a grass strip).  A short walk got us a set of the detailed topo maps I’d been craving and a pair of sim cards for our phones.

The three western provinces (“Aimags”) bordering China and Russia are Khovd, Olgii, and Uvs.  From what I’d read, Uvs roughly translates to “Land blanketed by swarms of mosquitoes in August,” so we figured we’d drop into Khovd, see what we could make happen in the area, and take the bus back from Olgii.

The Khovd Sum greater metropolitan area (from Google)

[Mongolian geography is a bit different, challenging foreign mapmakers.   Since people are mostly nomadic, it’s not really organized around cities.  Instead, the land is divided up into provinces, with each province divided into districts (“sums”).   Each of these districts is drawn with one village in it, and each province has one town.  The towns and villages each have their own name, but no one uses them, referring to them by the name of the province or district they are in, so there’s a lot of ambiguity.  The villages themselves aren’t really centers of anything, they serve mostly as navigational waypoints – fixed positions that make it possible to tell someone where you want to go in a place where even the roads themselves are nomadic.]

We arrived at the Khovd airport groggy from the early morning flight, having done virtually no reading or planning, and with no idea how close the city was or how to get there.  I flipped through the LP quickly while we waited for our bags to find out how much a taxi should cost.  When we stepped outside, there was exactly one car at the entire airport, who asked us for $10 but agreed to accept $2 with no hesitation.  Once in the city center it took a bit of wandering around to find a hotel, but we ended up in the Hotel Minj – the newest, nicest place in town – for $30 a night.  Throughout the day, the only English anyone spoke to us was informing us of the amenities of the hotel: “Douche is! Breakfast is! Wi-fi is!”  (This turns out to be the primary English grammatical construction in the west.)

Rollerblading in Khovd town square

We wandered down to the local market for some lunch and exploration.  The market itself is atmospheric and distinctive: most shops are in shipping containers, interspersed with others built out of old oil tanks and anything else someone could find that was vaguely box-shaped and big enough to walk in to.  They are arranged to form a maze of alleys, and when the shops are open most of the items are brought out in front of the containers leaving almost no space to walk down the aisles.  The first area sells mostly housewares – everything we’d seen and would see in use in the Gers (yurts) around the country.  More interesting was the section selling Ger parts: the accordion-folding lattice walls, the small dome for the center, ceiling poles, doors; felt for the walls and roof, and rolls of the wood-grain print vinyl sheeting everyone uses for a floor.

Ger parts for sale in a more open area of the market

On the back side of the market was the billiard area.  Rows and rows of – maybe 50 – old pool tables, shaded by a patchwork of threadbare sheets suspended above them, with most tables in use.  Where there are pool cues there is liquor and gambling, so we didn’t linger or take pictures, but strolled slowly through absorbing the ambiance and hoping not to get challenged to a game.

A buuz-y brunch

This brought us to the food court – another warren, this time of low, mud brick buildings, whitewashed once in the distant past, each with a few tables and a counter with a woman behind it making dumplings.  For a dollar or so you get a bowl of milk tea and a plate of “buuz” – large mutton dumplings, boiled in broth, that squirt when cut into like a Mongolian Chicken Kiev.  Very tasty, though occasionally a bit chewy (no great distinction is made between the meat and the other parts of a mutton – it all goes in together).

A Western Mongolian food court

As we walked out with full bellies, past the melon stands (this area is famous for melons, having some of the only agriculture in the country, and August is peak season), it occurred to us that we could never have spent a day like this on our “tour.”  The freedom to explore a market, grab a bite of whatever looked good, spend the time we wanted – in short, the essence of travel – it was clear now what had been missing from our time in Mongolia so far.

…and you think you’ve got a problem with deer eating your hostas

We knew at some point we’d need to find a way to get to the next city, and eventually back to UB within a couple of weeks, so we went to check out the jeep stand.  Each town has a dirt lot, surrounded by a corral, where any entrepreneur with a set of wheels hangs out to find passengers to neighboring towns and villages.  This was where we were told it would all fall apart – we won’t be able to communicate, no one will help us, and we’ll be stuck for days trying to find a way out of town.

It was about 10 minutes before we found the area where the vans to Olgii were parked.  Once the drivers figured out we weren’t planning on leaving that day, one of the guys got excited and started saying “Land Cruiser!” He started reciting the names of all the hotels in town, trying to figure out which one we were staying in, and with a bunch of pointing to watches we agreed to meet him there that evening to check out his vehicle.  Later that night, after more pointing at my new maps and a quick call to his English-speaking brother in another city, we agreed on an excursion for the next day and had a tentative plan for the day after that.  $60 a day for driver and car, we pay the gas.

The view from the car on our first day’s drive

And it was an actual, honest to god Landcruiser.  No snorkel, and not the newest model, but my first thought riding around was, “hey, where did all the bumps go?”  We started at Khar Us Nuur (Black Water Lake) National Park, which holds some kind of spiritual/nationalist significance for the locals who insist you see it, but is otherwise just a big marsh-encircled lake and sanctuary for small birds.  What I was most looking forward to was Tsenkheriin Agui, a large cave reported to have ochre pictographs from 13000 BCE, including several of species like elephants and tigers that could only have been seen by people in the area when the climate was significantly different.

An orchre camel on the cave wall

We climbed the steep hill up to the entrance, lights in hand, and once our eyes adjusted, found ourselves in a huge cavern hollowed out of the marble hillside.  We were prepared for the modern graffiti in the cave – almost nothing here is protected in any meaningful sense – and thought we were prepared for the amount of guano in the cave, but nothing can prepare you for that much bird crap.  Although the dust formed a thick coating on most of the walls, an overhanging area up to the left hid a series of alcoves where we found several clear drawings once we learned to recognize them.  The camel was a highlight, though the real thrill was actually finding these things and seeing them in situ, and not behind glass or lit up.  It was no Lascaux, but then neither is Lascaux – in France you are only allowed into a replica of the cave.  Several other drawings were harder to identify: the elephant is looking at you head on, and something that looked dragon-like to us was later described to us as a kangaroo – though that came from someone who spoke no English.

Kangaroo? Dragon? Ancient Mongolian Nessie?

Ethan climbing deeper into the cave

Ethan and I continued deeper into the cave, past a downclimb in the back of the cavern and through a few small squeezes, until we reached the point where it was becoming real caving.Suzie and Aaron were waiting outside, we didn’t want to get filthy, and only had two lights between us, so we turned around at that point.  And, naturally, once outside, climbed further up the hill to a second cave.  This one was devoid of any pictographs, but the walls were made of long crystals.  The thick mud and guano coating muted the effect at first, but once we got a bit further in Ethan thought we were actually inside a giant geode.   Once again, the going got technical, and we retreated back to the valley where our car and driver were waiting to take us to our next plate of buuz and milk tea.

Petroglyphs in their native habitat

But the LP reported a set of petroglyphs a little further up the valley.  Two weeks earlier I was denied a hunt for petroglyphs in the Gobi by our guide; this time I heard what would become a familiar refrain from our driver: “No Problem.”  (His English consisted largely of the phrases “No Problem” and “Problem Is.”)  Again, the thrill was less in the petroglyphs themselves, and more in being able to find them just sitting there in the open, without signs, trails, or barriers.

The scenery in the West is much more appealing (or as Aaron put it, “sceneric”) than what we had seen elsewhere in Mongolia.  It turns out that we were still in the Gobi desert geographically; politically (and touristically) the Gobi is just the provinces that have -gobi in their name.  But here, instead of flat gravel and scrub to the horizon, we were surrounded by craggy mountains which became snow-capped the further north and west we travelled.

Definitely more “sceneric” than Central Mongolia

We ended this first day with “Taku” (our driver) at his mother’s house, which was back in Khovd but in the Ger (yurt) district across the wide, braided river from the main part of the city.  As with most of the older generation, his mother was conversant in Russian.  Not only did this triple our working vocabulary, but combined with a passable cell signal and the miracle that is google translate, something resembling a conversation became possible.  Over milk tea, dried cheese and stale bread, we sat in the Ger and learned about their family distributed between Kazakhstan and Western Mongolia, which have a complicated political and ethnographic relationship we would learn more about later in the purely Kazakh areas to the north.   As the sun set, we agreed to a second day of travel, even though we couldn’t quite tell where we were going to go or what we might see.

Ger camps on the outskirts of town

We started out heading south, visiting a number of minor sites (including a large mysterious pile of stones surrounded by a wagon-wheel shaped arrangement of smaller stones; the only word we could understand was “wolfram” (ie, tungsten), but never could figure out if the site was religious, archaeological, or commercial).

Our Mongolian-Kazakh sons

We found ourselves in a small town in the countryside where Taku’s mother used to teach elementary school when suddenly, and with great urgency, we were ushered into the car, another guy jumped in, and we started bounding off across the countryside, kicking up a plume of dust, while Taku kept exclaiming “Mongolia Naadam!”

The Naadam festival is Mongolia’s national celebration of its heritage.  Across the country, everything stops for the three traditional sports: wrestling, archery, and horse racing; while everyone gathers to eat deep fried mutton pancakes and watch the competitions.  It is the #1 “must see” or “can’t miss” in all the guidebooks, and essentially defines the tourist season in Mongolia.  It is also in July, when we were busy scuba diving in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Part 1 of the feast, inside a traditionally decorated Kazakh-style ger

But time moves slower out west, where today was the day.  We arrived at the makeshift fairground where a crowd larger than the population of the surrounding towns formed a ring around the wrestling area, with a generator-powered PA system on the back of an old Russian truck amplifying an announcer in a bright blue suit.  Though matches were underway, we were whisked instead into a nearby Ger, where several low tables were filled with an array of light foods: salads, cookies, candies, breads and spreads.  Starving, we dug in as soon as the milk tea was served.

Time to wash hands between courses

Just as we were sated and ready to watch the games, we were pulled out and ushered into another building where we were seated on benches around another table, this time with several others.  Two knives were placed on the table, immediately picked up by two of the men; as a huge platter of roasted meat appeared the two men set about cutting chunks off for the rest of us to reach in and start eating.  One side was surprisingly tender mutton (or, perhaps, goat?) while the other had a four foot long misshapen sausage: kaz, made from big chunks of horse rib meat and fat stuffed into a natural horse casing.  I was then presented with another specialty by one of the carvers: the soft fat from the sheep’s tail.  Bordering on liquid, it is nearly impossible to pick up and eat with your fingers, but the effort is rewarded as it literally melts in your mouth in a burst of flavor.  (Evidently, there are special breeds of sheep that store a large amount of fat in their tails that are favored here).

Enjoying a digestif of fermented horse milk with Taku (center) and a “cousin” over the remains of our mutton-goat-horse feast

The feast complete, it was time for a couple of bowls of fermented horse milk (Airag in Mongolia, Koumiss elsewhere) before finally heading back out to watch the wrestling.  A wedding was also taking place that day; in between bouts the happy couple came out to center ring for a dance.  The elders, both male and female, some with a chest full of medals, gave speeches.  And then it was time for the horse race.

The VIPs near the MC’s stage

It begins with the official leading a parade of the racers through a few ciruits of the wrestling ring, then out to the field where they take off.  The jockeys are all young boys, maybe 6 or 7 years old, and ride bareback, with just a bit and a whip.

Coming into the finish…

At the end of each match, the combatants circle each other like this before the final ceremonial pat on the bottom

The wrestlers are probably the most evocative.  They wear what is basically a brightly colored speedo, embroidered boots, a “shirt” which is really just sleeves connected across the back, and a matching velvet hat with a soft spike on top.  The hat comes off and is held by an assistant during the match; the shirt pays homage to a legend where the most powerful warrior was a woman – the open front demonstrates that no one has that advantage (though with some of the more sumo-like physiques it can be a bit ambiguous in practice).

They start in a crouch at the edge of the ring while they are announced, then smack their inner thighs and march onto the field.  Arms outstretched, they turn in slow circles acknowledging the crowd, then begin flapping their arms like birds before squaring off.  There doesn’t seem to be much in the way of rules, but if your shoulders hit the ground you lose, and the winner holds his arms up and circles once again (but without the flapping).  The matches themselves can be surprisingly engrossing – when something happens, it happens suddenly.

The Victor!

A day which started out somewhat unpromising (though not unpleasant) turned out to give us some of the most unique and culturally interactive experiences we’ve had here.  Yes, the driver took us to his sister’s house so she could sell us some of her Kazakh eboridery (over milk tea and watermelon).  And yes, he did syphon the gas out of the car some nights, so we could be sure to buy a full tank the next day.  But that’s to be expected; we were giddy with our success after our experience in the Gobi.  So it was decided: we’d keep Taku and his Landcruiser, and see what other magic we could create.