Mongolia July 09
Mongolia, once ruled over half the known world. A nomadic boy named Temujin became the legendary Genghis Khan. From the most basic of upbringing he became the most powerful and feared man on earth. At an early age he was betrothed to a young girl named Borte from the same clan as his own mother. Unfortunately a raid on his clan had the family fleeing for their lives but the raiders spotted the beautiful girl and stole her away. In the mean time Temujin fled to the hills and lived off the land but this injustice didn’t sit well with the young fellow. By this stage his father had been poisoned by a another clan the Tanguts and what was already a tough lifestyle became even harder without a father and protector. He vowed revenge. His ruthlessness had already shown it’s devilish hand, forged by the harshness of their existence. When he was just a pup about 13 years old he snuck up on his half brother with his younger sibling and plugged him full of arrows after a bit of power play between the two over hunting spoils. This set the stage for this young buck to annihilate anyone who threatened or challenged his power.
But Genghis or as he’s known in Mongolia Chinggiis Khan was not entirely a megalomaniac with a thirst for blood and wholesale destruction. He did allow some societies to continue but only if they capitulated completely to his will without hesitation. He was also very tolerant of religious beliefs never using these differences as the reason for eradication, rather he incorporated various different kinds in to his own. Through the areas he conquered he took the arts and artisans, the engineers, the astronomers, the writers and the poets, the priests and the shaman and learnt from their varied skills. He was also partial to taking all the beautiful women too.
But uniting the clans of Mongolia as one under the Mandate of Heaven was his main purpose. Genghis was the chosen one. The hordes swelled in numbers as they razed the territories they swept through. The ranks of his army expanded exponentially as Genghis and his troops took slaves and foe became friends or at least fearful consorts. But the armies sweeping across Mongolia in the 12th century were nomadic warriors with no need for cities and towns so absolute destruction, rape and pillage was the modus operandi and if a rival didn’t acquiesce to his wishes it was so long, farewell and thanks for all the fish.
In the grand scheme of things Genghis Khan is the most infamous mass murderer of human kind. He is responsible for killing over a million people, men, women, children the elderly - anyone and everyone, then destroying just about everything in his quest for world domination. This is when the earth’s population was relatively small compared to today’s figures.
The fields of Mongolia are oceans of grass at this time of year (July) and the green mountains are waves surging up out of the endless sea. The days are warm and the nights cool with sporadic heavy rain. The rolling emerald is capped by bare rock, like breaking crests. This sea of green, like an ocean, is boundless and limitless with crests rising up in any direction ready to swamp our convoy of Land Cruisers barrelling through the swell.
Traditional gers (traditional white felt circular tents) appear randomly like white dollops on the rumpled sea of grass or like dribbled toothpaste on a new green T-shirt, scattered often tens of kilometres apart, sometimes hundreds. Remoteness is a way of life for Mongolians where horses, cows, dzaos (a cross between a cow and a yak) and sheep maybe a blokes only companion.
I have come to the conclusion that this isolation affects the locals in ways they maybe unaware of.
I have a theory about Mongolians and it goes like this.
Throughout history Mongolians have lived in a harsh climate, minus 40 degrees during the dead of winter and scorching hot days in summer. Usually, folk would be pretty content with their lot toiling a way with their animals and moving the ger from the summer pastures to elsewhere for the winter. This lifestyle I imagine, hasn’t changed much for a substantial part of the populace over the years. Half the Mongol inhabitants live in Ulaan Baatar the nations capital, a place that has about as much charm as a car smash or a fist fight, a place where the best view of it is in the rear view mirror as you flee to somewhere/anywhere else. The pavements are cracked, crumpled and diabolical to walk along without falling in to the sewer system. This serious pedestrian hazard is due to the fact that all the manhole covers are stolen for scrap. Puddles abound swallowing small and occasionally mid sized children in to their bottomless maw and steps protrude from shops in a chaotic fashion as they appear out of nowhere, like some kind of Mongolian booby trap.
Then there is the traffic. 4WDs and trucks hammer through each and every intersection like they are on the way to a fire or fleeing from the cops. The vehicles are the most clapped out pieces of junk left on earth yet the 4WDs can be modern, geared up and purposeful, that is if the main function is to obliterate any pedestrian that may happen to stumble on to a road or dare to try and cross at traffic lights or a crossing. The guidebooks even warn you that drivers will speed up and steer at you when you try to cross the road.
Brilliant system.
The buildings are mainly Soviet style monstrosities that have decayed to the point of needing complete destruction, removal and replacement and the city’s layout makes as much sense as American sport.
The inhabitants, if not trying to plough you down in a Hyundai held together with baling twine and duct tape are likely to bail you up and remove your personal belongings in a violent fashion. Muggings, bag snatching and pick pocketing are other traps for the new player when coming to the affectionately named UB which I am sure really stands for Under Belly or Unusual Bile.
Whilst in UB I stayed in a hotel that was situated between a karaoke joint a night club (that was never open) and massage parlour, in a back street where I was afraid of being shot at by snipers or maybe taken out by a Soviet RPG. Yet the hotel itself was quite pleasant and the staff, lovely. Yet I was perplexed by the fact that every time I went past reception there was a different girl holding down the fort.
I digress, back to my theory.
It seems, and I wasn’t the only one to notice, that in any available space where Mongolians might gather they clump together, not in a pleasant “I like you and want to be close to you coz I live in the middle of nowhere and haven’t had contact with anything but a large furry cow for months” kind of way. It’s more of a let’s push and shove past each other when it’s completely unnecessary. Let’s smack into each other in doorways or on the street in an aggressive manner. At the Naadam Festival it was a case of being surrounded by millions of hectares of land and everyone cramming in to the same space and crushing one another to the point arguments erupted and a fight broke out where I was standing. I may have had something to do with the punch up endeavouring to protect my little patch of ground as I waited for a couple of hours for the horses to barrel by. In the end I conceded defeat and retreated from the melee and watched things unfold from a safe distance.
Whilst sitting alone at a bar in downtown UB with bar stools on either side of me stretching away over to the horizon, four guys stood around me bumping in to me and constantly giving me surly looks as if I was in their space. I wouldn’t rate the Mongolians high on the friendly scale either. Though the young girls are quite beautiful the men are often giants - vodka drinking giants. Smiling is hard to come by no matter what I do and in UB there seems to be an underlying menace and certainly no joy in meeting Westerners.
But let’s have a quick look at the famous Mongolian Naadam Festival, the celebration of the three manly sports, wrestling, horse racing and archery. Wrestling is performed by very large men in riding boots, speedos and a lovely little over the shoulder number. At the Naadam there should be 512 wrestlers at the start. If not, soldiers are roped in to make up the numbers. Small wiry guys get to wrangle with 6’7” 200 kg gorillas. Then there’s the horse racing where kids about 10 years old ride horses depending on the horse’s age over a course that will be anywhere between 17 to 30 kilometres. The sweat from the winners horse is slathered over the adoring crowd and the last horse has songs sung to it to make it feel better about being 5 kilometres behind the winner. Horses die during this event.
Archery is the domain of men - and women. Arrows are fired at a range of about 100 metres at small things on the ground that represent ground squirrels and marmots. The men fire over the women’s heads.
Therefore the three manly sports are blokes scantily clad endeavouring to give each other an atomic wedgie, the horse racing is done by kids and women shoot arrows.
And then this takes me to the countryside. Our convoy was made up of five Toyota Land Cruisers travelling across Mongolia. Sometimes we drove for hours with out seeing another vehicle but when we did happen to come across one or two it caused a traffic jam. This completely astounds me in a country as vast as this. This isn’t just a once off coincidence, it’s the norm from what I have gleaned over the past week out on the steppes. Vehicles approaching can be seen from kilometres away and there are a myriad of tracks to follow, no actual roads as such. The area is enormous and you can drive anywhere yet they still manage to get caught behind slow moving vehicles or come to a grinding halt at a bridge.
If you have ever watched ants you’d notice that they seem to follow a similar path, a scent trail. And when two ants meet they waggle antennas at each other before meandering on. If space invaders were watching from the comfort of their flying saucer the inhabitants of Mongolia traversing the open plains, I’m sure they would see them as ants. The difference is that Mongolian drivers out in the middle of nowhere never acknowledge each others existence.
But Gengghis and his Mongol Hordes weren’t striving for world domination they were just lonely and just happened to have a violent disposition and a bit of a drinking problem.
They never meant to hurt anybody.
Did you know that out there in the vastness is a town called Moron? Apparently it’s pronounced Morruun but that hasn’t stopped me from coming up with a million bumper stickers and T-shirt slogans.
I am absolutely positive that the town of Moron could be a firm favourite on the tourist trail if they didn’t mind having a bit of a laugh at their own expense and lightened up a lot. Travellers would come from far and wide to buy a Mongolian souvenir from Moron. Here are some of my suggestions for designs.
My boy/girlfriend is a Moron
Morons make better lovers
Everyone who worked at the hotel I stayed at were Morons
Drive like a Moron
My best friend is a Moron
The cops in this town are Morons
And then there are all the other options for naming everything around town from businesses to sporting teams.
Of course there would be the Moron Hospital, the gaol would be the Moronic Compound, the secret service would be Moron Intelligence and the basketball team would definitely be The Dribbling Morons.
Boundless marketing opportunities are waiting for the entrepreneur with the courage to take it to the people. The bank manager is waiting and I’m sure he’ll give you the green light for a hefty business loan coz he’s a Moron through and through.
Interesting fact: You cannot buy deodorant in Mongolia as far as I can tell.
As we travel hundreds of kilometres across the rippled green felt that is Mongolia, along some of the bumpiest and most jarring roads ever created one can’t help but marvel at the immensity of the space. The sky stretches from horizon to distant horizon and clouds billow and skitter in an infinite variety of shapes. Zany cloud animals scamper across the azure heavens if you are the type of imaginative soul who conjures up these things in one’s minds eye.
I, on the other hand are content watching the ground squirrels flee for their tiny little lives as ten tonnes of Toyotas come bearing down ahead of an ominous cloud of dust like the Mongol hordes from hell. I snicker gleefully as sheep and goats awake to the rolling thunder of five V8 Cruisers charging headlong across the steppe, startled, they panic and slam in to each other like woolly skittles. I laugh maniacally as we careen on the verge of control towards a herd of yak like dzaos, grinning insanely we bear down on their large, yet stunned countenance. Oh, how I envision myself riding tall in the saddle by the side of Genghis as we lay to waste everything in our path.
Yet fantasy and reality are often like a married couple now separted. Sure, they can still share some of the same ideals, likes and dislikes - that’s what brought them together in the first place but they can also disagree like polar opposites.
Yesterday I threw my leg over a Mongolian steed and prepared to canter off across the steppes. Mongol horses aren’t tall but they are solid masses of muscle built in a similar fashion to a Land Cruiser - sturdy, hardy and they both have a lot of nasty emissions and little or no respect for human life. There I sat high in the traditional wooden saddle, ergonomically designed to provide the least element of comfort. For no apparent reason I was given the flighty stallion so I knew I was in for some fun as he tossed his head up and down and side to side, raring to go.
But this is where fantasy and reality parted company as the leading horseman grabbed the tether firmly and led me at walking speed for the duration of the ride. On no account was he going to set me free. Though my horse skills are at best limited I was keen to take my stallion for a spin across the steppe. By the time we rode to the ger camp we were visiting, a mere 1 kilometre from the ride’s beginning I was in agony from the waste down and bored beyond belief so I walked back to our camp in the pouring rain.
I have since resigned from the Hordes and have contented myself as a mere persecuted subject.
Whilst staying for two days at Khovsgol Lake we ventured to the camp of the “reindeer people”. These folk usually spend their time further north but have decided that the lucrative tourist dollar is worth bringing some reindeer down to the lake area. The reindeer people don’t live in gers they use teepees just like north American Indians. Rudimentary structures made of reindeer hides and wooden poles they looked right at home in the grassy space amongst the fir trees.
On the second afternoon I decided to walk over the hills through the forest to come out above the reindeer camp. Reindeer lounged around and smoke snaked out the tops of the teepees. A young horseman no older than ten arrived and sparked up a conversation with an elderly woman. I was content taking photographs from about 400 metres away in the treeline. But suddenly one of their guard dogs either saw, heard or smelled me and started barking ferociously. Within seconds he was on his way in my direction with four others joining in from the flanks. Five large dogs, ears flattened and snarling coming at me at full tilt got me to thinking about death by savage guard dogs. Trying to remain calm so they couldn’t sense my fear I picked up a log and prepared for the onslaught. Closer and closer they came, my heart was racing and the adrenaline was blasting through my system. Fifty metres, twenty metres, all eyes on me they came charging towards me then in a blur the pack went brushing past me to a tree about 3 metres beyond to gather under with apparent joy. It wasn’t me they were after, after all. I went over to the mob as they were going ballistic, clawing at the base of the tree and jumping up barking excitedly but couldn’t see what they were looking at. After about five minutes they all calmed down and one wandered over for a good belly rub. A few minutes later they all vanished back to whence they came leaving me feeling relieved and perplexed. Then completely out of nowhere one of the “reindeer people” appeared and asked for money.
That was enough for me I high tailed it back to camp.
Out there in the rolling hills studded with extinct volcanoes and immense lakes, the occasional town pops up out of nowhere. Unlike the city, the towns have character and hark back to the wild west. The streets are dusty and wide, the houses slab sided log cabins and horsemen wearing their traditional outfit called a "del or deel" tie up to hitching posts. Dogs roam the wastelands but rather than the ferocious slathering guard dogs that you read about most of the furry giants are timid beyond belief and once befriended, they will follow you everywhere.
If I wasn’t day-dreaming of being one of the hordes, enjoying a spate of raping and pillaging I was imagining myself as Lawrence of Mongolia astride a burly Bactrian camel strolling across the expanse of the Gobi Desert. Every now and again camels could be seen in the distance, heads held high and I was excited knowing that at some stage I would be driving one myself for the first time. When we arrived at our ger camp in the Bayan Gobi camels appeared out of nowhere and before too long we had secured a bunch of them for our own caravan out in to the dunes. Mine however was a bit of a disappointment, and she was in desperate need of some Listerine and something to subdue the smell emanating from her nether regions. Also, her two humps flopped to the left, silicone hump implants wouldn’t have gone astray. Mind you, she did have lovely eyelashes and beguiling brown eyes.
But in to the dunes we did ride as the sun was sinking in to the west. No one seemed to understand when I started yelling “No prisoners, no prisoners!” from a top of the sand dune.
Mongolia is place of immense space with views that go forever. The light is so sharp it’s very similar to the Australian bush, non polluted and crystal clear.The stars smatter themselves across the heavens beginning from just before dusk which was about 9.00pm. We even had the pleasure of watching an eclipse out on the steppes.
Overall we travelled hundreds of kilometres and stayed in some amazing places, by lakes, next to rivers and under the lee of mountains. Gers are wonderfully warm and very comfortable but Ulaan Baatar’s only redeeming feature is that you can eat something other than mutton.
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