Up North

Northern Mongolia was a refreshing change of pace from Ulaanbaatar, with green rolling hills, blankets of red, yellow, and purple wildflowers, and no honking vehicles.  We took the Trans-Mongolian railroad up to the city of Erdenet, the nation’s copper mining hub, and then drove for a grueling eight hours to our ger camp.  I’m usually a huge fan of road trips, but I’m also a pavement snob.  

The “roads” in the Mongolian countryside are more suggestions than true infrastructure, and our minivan driver parked facing downhill in order to jumpstart the van after each stop.  When a hill was not readily available, we all piled out of the van and started pushing.  Our driver didn’t speak English, but I sensed that our cheering embarrassed him when the minivan engine finally roared after each stop.

Our ger camp host was a well-renowned Mongolian violinist named Chinbat who has performed for dignitaries across Asia and Europe.  He and his wife run the small camp in the summer and return to Ulaanbaatar where he teaches music in autumn. 

Chinbat took us to visit a local nomadic herding family in the next valley over from our camp.  I was nervous to find out that the family didn’t know we were coming, but it’s not exactly like we could phone ahead first.  I recognized my Western cultural norms coming through. 

The family was warm and welcoming, as they invited us into their ger.  The patriarch of the family was the grandfather lighting his cigarette below.  He was a kind, entertaining man who passed around the Chinggis vodka constantly and chain-smoked throughout our visit, but tried to tell me through hand motions that smoking is bad for your health.  It doesn’t matter what part of the world you are in, grandpas will always tell you to do what they say, not what they do.

The grandfather has been raising racehorses for over 30 years and brought out the medals he has acquired from years of winning horses.  It seemed ironic to be eating the horse liver he offered, while hearing (through our translator) about his winning horses.  I wondered if I was eating the slow one in the herd.

The grandfather sent over a few horses for us to ride later in the day.  Chinbat asked him to please send his tamest ones; his concern turned out to be warranted. 

I can ride a horse comfortably with a western saddle, but these were not the kind of horses you ride on a trail in the mountains, nor the saddles made for my American buttocks.  Within seconds of jumping into the saddle, we were off running.  Mongolian horses know the word “choo” as a command for them to run.  There is no “whoa” in their vocabulary.

My confidence in my riding abilities quickly vanished when I attempted to slow the horse using all my upper body strength to pull back the reins.  He didn’t care.  My horse only slowed when a Mongolian man riding along side me at a full gallop pulled back on my reins with me.  By that time, I had already hit a tree, busted my knuckle on the saddle’s silver embellishment, and severely bruised my thighs on the uniquely shaped saddle.  I enjoy a good adrenaline rush, but not seeing my life flash before my eyes.

Our Mongolian guides could see the fear in my face and laughed hysterically.  Somehow them laughing at me calmed my nerves.  I don’t really mind when people talk smack about me when I don’t understand the language.  I gave my horse’s lead rope to a guide and motioned for us to walk instead of run.  The guide smiled as he took the rope and then began instructing my horse to “choo.”  It would have been a good time to have my Mongolian phrasebook handy.  He finally understood my intent for my horse to walk the rest of the trip when I repeatedly stated, “no choo, no choo.”   

With my blood pressure back down to a safe level, I was able to enjoy the breathtaking scenery – with grassy hills as far as the eye can see and not a single person in sight. 

A girl in our group was raised around horses and felt confident in her racing abilities.  She challenged one of our Mongolian guides, and they set off running.  I watched, as if in slow motion, her horse thinking for himself and deciding to change course without any regard for his rider.  She flew off the side of his saddle, landing on her hip and knocking her head against the ground.  Our guides panicked.  Two men went after the loose horse, pursuing it over the hills.  My guide and another tended to the rider.  Without a translator with us, there was a lot of pointing to clearly identify her injuries.    After her hearing in one ear returned and she could stand, she jumped back on her reclaimed horse for the journey back to camp.  I was impressed and I think our guides were too.

On the way back to camp, we helped a herder move his sheep and goats along the hillside.  It was the most spectacular ending to an adrenaline-filled afternoon.

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