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Crossing the Kharkiraa with Three Horses and a Camel
Article courtesy of Tim Cope – www.timcopejourneys.com
Reintroduction to the Wild
Heading down from the pass, we entered a new environment: a land of hills, pock marked with a thousand little lakes. By late afternoon we had slipped into a river valley and the high peaks were erased from view. We arrived ravenously hungry to our evening camp and sat, eyes glued to the stive waiting eagerly for the water to boil.
The following day the 7am start was abandoned with the onset of a heavy snowfall, and by 11am we decided to take the day off. Apart from anything, the camel would struggle to keep its footing on snow and ice. That was also one of the reasons for the nomads migrating out of the mountains by September when the colder weather started to set in.
At around midday there suddenly came the typical clearing of the throat noise. Herders always seemed to do this when warning of their approach. Up went the zipper on my tent and I came face to face with the hardened face of a hunter. In fact there were three of them, all peering in, their deles dusted white, rifles over their shoulders. Dashnim soon appeared and beckoned them to his tent. I joined them and we sat for a couple of hours holding up the walls as the wind and snow beat down outside. I cooked some tea and we ate a few pieces of borzog (dough deep fried in fat). When the weather finally cleared in the afternoon I followed the hunters a few hundred metres up the mountains to their hide-out. It wasn’t so much as a cave as a very poor rock shelter. Laid out in the dirt were about 15 marmots. A blackened pot was brimming with greasy, boiled meat. They had been living here for six or seven days and planned to stay another week. They had no sleeping bags, just their deles for protection from the weather. It was such a poor shelter that the snow easily drifted in.
Soon a feast got underway. A communal knife was passed around and pieces of meat were sifted out of the fatty water. I watched one of the men slurping on the jaw of a marmot. They sucked the grease off their fingers and chewed heartily on every little piece of meat possible. I preferred to munch on the dried yoghurt that they offered. Many Mongolians refuse to eat marmot because they are known at times to carry the plague. Despite this I met people every day of my trip who routinely feasted on marmot. Along with the meat, some Mongolian vodka was passed around. It is made from fermented yoghurt and is actually only about 12-15 percent alcohol. It went straight to my head and for a time I watched this scene wondering whether much had changed since the time of Ghengis Khaan. Ghengis himself had spent many years in hiding, living off the land in the Khentii region of Mongolia. Then when Ghengis formed his formidable armies of mounted nomads they honed their skills during exhaustive hunting expeditions. Their methods of ambush, false retreat, and stunning speed were also used in their terrifying raids on settled communities.
We woke the following morning to a crisp blue sky and a hard frost. Dashnim had of course predicted as such. Soon we were on the move again. The river that had began as a trickle eventually became a raging torrent in a canyon far below. We followed the flats above and at lunch descended to a forested little valley. The leaves were ablaze orange and red. A river gushed down over rocks, tumbling in some mini-waterfalls. I had the feeling that we had descended into the land of the living. The scent of the forest was sweet.
As we sat next to the river I offered Dashnim some vegemite. He had seen it in my lunch bag and assumed that it was facial cream. Another thing that had made me laugh was that Dashnim had been wearing my backpack upside down for a couple of days. I didn’t have the heart to tell him. I spread the vegemite nice and thick onto a piece of borzog. It seemed only fair after all the lips and ears, innards, and marmot that I had been offered and forced to try. I could see him struggling to swallow, but in typical style he just grinned and put his thumb into the air. ‘Delicious!’ He then went on to thank me, and say how proud he was to be part of the journey. It was classic Dashnim.
PHOTO INTO THE KARIKIRA MOUNTAINS HERE
We crossed the river via the first bridge I had seen since we began, and then followed the edge of a slope. The camel struggled here, its feet often slipping, threatening to tumble down into the gorge. It always righted itself though, and it was sobering to think that nomads made this journey every year with 250kg on each animal, children included. For seven or eight hours we rode on. Gradually the brown turned to green, the rocks to grass, and the air thick and warm. At each turn I was surprised. Eventually we descended into a land of countless valleys, ridges, and gullies. I felt like a bird hovering above then making a dive and becoming lost in the mystery below. It all felt very surreal. Just as the sun was fading we arrived in the abandoned summer camp of Khovd brigad. Only a few old shoes, and round circles of yellow grass indicated that the nomads had even been here. Hundreds dot this valley in summer. We unpacked the camel and set up camp. Dashnim was to return in the morning and from here I would continue alone.
I was looking forward to our last evening together when all of a sudden the sound of a motorbike cut through the air. I turned to see two men steaming towards us in the murky light of late evening. They crossed the river and plonked themselves next to our tent. They both wore colourful deles and the traditional hats with the golden spire on top. They had been riding all day and had arrived without food or shelter.
I cooked them tea over my stove, but was reluctant to continue with dinner. Since we took the unscheduled day off my food supplies were very low, and I still had to give Dashnim enough for the trip back. What’s more my petrol was almost finished. We were both ravenous, and the thought of halving our rations again was heart-breaking. Eventually however it became clear that these men would stay the night with us. I cooked up some rice and dried meat, and inevitably we shared it. All went to bed hungry.
At dawn the next morning the men simply stood up from the earth, dusted the frost off, and jumped on their motorbike. I was always astounded with the way that Mongolians just took hardship in their stride and never complained. Conditions in Russia were pretty tough too, but the Russians will let you know about it from day one. It’s almost frustrating when you can be in the most dire of situations and Mongolians will carry on as if nothing is wrong.
Dashnim and I surfaced as well and began to take down our tents. Although the journey had taken us seven days to get here, Dashnim planned to make it home to his family in just two and a half. I still don’t really understand how it could have been possible.
We had our last pot of semolina, and of course Dashnim licked his meal down like a cat. He had not even thought to bring a spoon, or perhaps he just thought it unnecessary. I gave him a packet of Russian cigarettes and paid him an extra couple of days as a gift. He then presented me with a packet of ‘kangaroo brand matches.’ I accepted it with two hands and rose it to my forehead in respect, but it hit my head-torch and went tumbling to the ground.
PHOTO KHOTONT ELDER HERE
Then I split our meagre rations and it was time to say goodbye. He swung his arm in an arc to the north-west indicating which way I was to travel- it was typically vague. It only took him about ten minutes to saddle up and pack. I was struck by his lack of equipment- just a potato sack with his old tent, one pot, his tobacco and brick tea. I felt embarrassed by my clutter of heavy equipment that took me two hours to prepare, and envious of Dashnim. It is true that one of the main reasons for the mounted warrior’s success was the fact that they travelled so light-weight and were such hardened people. Both they and their horses survived on very little. The armies of settled people were weighed down with gear and food rations for both man and horse. I was just carrying on the tradition.
We said goodbye, and then I was left watching he and the camel shrink into the distance. The camel cried out a few times- the melancholy sound echoing up the valley.
Then they disappeared beyond a ridge and I was truly alone.
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