Davashtavar had arranged to meet us at six AM, to go fishing. Out of the dark morning, the sun had emerged from behind the gnarled willows and he was nowhere to be found. Not only was he missing, but our biggest lure had disappeared as well. We had searched for it for hours and although Bill was still holding out for the old man, Ian and I were cursing him up and down. "I can't believe he was bold enough to promise to meet us here and he takes the damn lure. That's why he's not here" I was angry but mostly at us- we had been so careless of our gear, leaving it around camp and even sometimes showing it off! It was such a temptation to see a Mongolian nomad play with our head lamps, our Swiss army knives and other gadgets we call "essential" The lure was brightly colored and semi-detached in the middle so it swam like a fish when it was pulled in. Almost everything we brought for our canoe trip in northern Mongolia was brightly colored. It set us apart. From a distance, they could tell we were not herds people and so they arrived on horseback at our campsites almost every night, eager to find out what, in fact, we were up to. We would share cigarettes and tea, poring over the phrase book and dictionary, finding out where they lived, how large their families and herds of goats, sheep, camels, cows and horses are. On a September evening, we had set camp on a grassy site surrounded by gnarled willows. The bank was muddy as the river and was dropping by the day, drying up towards the impending winter. The night before, we had been sitting by the fire when an older Mongol man had come to sit with us. He was a herdsman and a patriarch with a weathered, brown face and fine features. We sat around the fire talking for a while and he seemed very interested in the plastic fishing lure. We arranged to go fishing at six the next morning so he could try it out . He got up to leave and began to straighten up our camp -- folding lifejackets and piling them. We were ashamed that we came across as slobs and asked him to stop but he moved in the darkness until he got on his horse and rode off shouting "zorga, zorga !" (six) Mongols don't usually carry bags or sacs. Instead, the keep everything they need inside their del. (dark colored wool coats) It is like a magicians sac -- often they have more things in there than you would think - rope, knife, thermos of airik (fermented horse milk), fishing line and hook, dried cheese, tobacco... I pictured our lure easily stuffed into the mystery pocket as Davashtavar tidied up our campsite . As we drank our morning coffee, we lamented our fate. That was our last lure, the others had been lost on logs in the river. We had lost our last chance at catching the fish that would supplement our diet of millet and wilting cabbage. It was coming on winter and we needed the fat from the fish which we much preferred to the ubiquitous Mongolian mutton. It didn't take me long to realize that this lure was a metaphorical tool for me to understand the deeper interaction between Mongols and us. Sure, we can sit around the fire, smoking and sharing food, but there is an undeniable dynamic here between the Westerners who take ourselves out camping in exotic and far-reaching lands, and the Mongols who live as true nomads, with few possessions, intimately connected to their landscape. We had been tricked. The lure was the lure, the inducement for pleasure or gain, the luminous structure on the head of pediculate fishes that is used to attract predators. Our brightly colored clothing and boats would register in any mammal as stupidly screaming out to the world. Mongols knew that Americans had more toys than them, less physical work in their daily lives and what was a plastic lure to us? We live in a world of plastic tools designed to increase and enhance our leisure time. He must have wanted that lur I was surprised to see Davashtavar arrive on horseback with his two sons around 10 AM. To our stupidity, he pulled the lure nonchalantly out of the woodpile and took Bill up the river. They weren't gone more than a few minutes when they returned with a Northern Pike two feet long. As his youngest son cleaned the fish, Davashtavar sorted the entrails. He handed each of us a portion of the spine to keep and propped the fish head on a log with it's mouth open towards the sky. He pointed to the word, "light ray" in our English-Mongolian dictionary and underlined the importance of letting the sun pass through the skull of the fish. This man was a local shaman, a person who practices the ancient beliefs. Different regions have different rituals that have been passed on through the ages. He was passing his on to us. I couldn't help but wonder if he had tricked me into the theory I had made that morning about the nature of the lure and our relationship. I had gone on an entire mental voyage only to be proved completely wrong. This shaman had inadvertently taught me about making assumptions. Along the Selenge River, beautiful brown, dry mountains were dotted with trees in their fall fashions. A fine mist or smoke in the air (far away forest fires) gave the mountain scenery a dreamy quality. Sometimes the mountains opened into long plains that rolled into the horizon, other times they confronted the river boldly. The liquid jade of the river was bejeweled by the coruscating sun as we paddled by goat herds, gers (Mongolian for Yurt, a large, white, felt and canvastent), astonished Mongols and a group of fat Russian fishermen smoking cigars in their underwear. Mongolia is not a wilderness as we know it. It is an ancient land that has been traveled for thousands of years. Out of a total population of 2 million, 800 000 Mongols are herds people. They live hardy lives with minimal comforts and deserve a great amount of respect for the effort their endurance requires. These hard working families and family groups move their homes with the seasons in search of grassland to feed 28 million head of livestock. There is evidence of domestic animals almost everywhere but the land retains a wildness in its openness. The only fences are the night pens for the sheep and goats. Aside from the beauty of the land, a large part of the attraction of canoeing in Mongolia is the chance to meet up with the nomads, to visit their homes, to look into their lives. The canoe is the perfect vehicle with which to slide through noiselessly, to introduce ourselves with, to be a part of the magic wide-openness which is uninterrupted by highway roar. Before an overly romantic portrait is drawn of the Nomads, it must be said that they will surprise you with their worldliness, sporting Chicago Bulls hats or asking about Bill Clinton. Most of them are sedentary for a few months at a time until they pile their ger into a truck to drive to their next settlement. As human embodiments of the geography which stretches around them, they are wide open, bold, gentle and hard people, quick and lively yet relaxed. One English word (besides "hello!") that many Mongols seemed to know was "empty". A few times I would be pondering the land with a Mongol who would turn to me and say "empty". There is a peace to this vacant landscape which only gives up to the boundless Mongolian Blue Sky. It seemed that much of Mongolian folk culture has been systematically erased by almost 100 years of Soviet domination. It was rare to see folk art or music outside the established tourist venues in Ulaan Baatar. Americans have had a visible impact, and pop culture has created the "Michael Trinity" -- Jordan, Jackson and Tyson. Graffiti on city walls portrayed a strong attachment to rap music. One can only hope that growing numbers of tourists will create a market for disappearing handicrafts and folk customs. Although they are proud of their heritage, Mongolian society is going through some difficult changes, attempting to enter the 20th century global free market after generations of communism. Young, beautiful and ultra hip Mongols can be seen in downtown Ulaan Baatar with their cell phones and SUV's. They are like flags for the new culture which wants to replace the old communist society. Still on shaky ground, the process of privatization has thrown the economy into chaos while in the remote regions, the nomadic people continue their traditional way of life.
We paddled the placid Selenge River for two and a half weeks. Mongolia's largest waterway flows all the way into Lake Baikal and although the full journey sounded exciting, we had no Russian visas and lacked the funds with which to bribe officials. After two weeks of paddling, we stopped at a large bridge and hitchhiked on an old blue grain truck to the wealthy copper-mining town of Erdenet. From there, we caught the last leg of the trans-Siberian Railway from Erdenet(pictured here) to the capital city of Ulaan Bataar.
PART II The Orkhon River
Despite warnings in the city newspaper describing impending winter winds and snow in the next week, we were determined to explore the Orkhon River in Central Mongolia. As it was October, we were in a hurry to get to the river before it became too shallow to paddle. I was frightened of getting stranded in a storm but Bill in his perpetual state of adventure-seeking convinced me we could remain safe. It was Bill who had the idea to wing it in Mongolia. While I wanted to plan shuttles, worried about not having a plan or a map, Bill saw these obstacles as a vital ingredient in a real expedition. I began to learn to trust in the fact that we could easily hitch a ride from anywhere providing we were willing to wait. Oceans have tides, and the waters of lakes rise and fall but the character of a river changes dramatically during the seasons. Wild and powerful with snow melt in the spring, she mellows through summer, becoming increasingly quiet by winter when her old age catches up with her. We were hoping to paddle the last of the Orkhon's flow before winter. The Orkhon Gol is located in Ovorkhangi Province. It is born in the Gyatruu Nuruu (Mountain Range) and flows 1124 km's north to meet the Selenge Gol .s A well known waterfall marks the beginning of the Orkhon's journey through the steppe where it has rived its way through lava rock, creating a deep canyon less than 2 km's long. After a long journey by bus and hired truck, we arrived at this section of the Orkhon where we were to start paddling. During the next two days, we hiked up the river to explore the unique lava rock formations that, from a distance, looked like ruins of an ancient city. In this area, the land opens up into sky, offering electric sunsets. Snowcapped peaks in the distance are contrasted by rolling brown mountains in the foreground. As the river splashed around boulders and rocks, we stood in the canyon, fantasizing about class III holes and waves come spring runoff. During the first days of this trip, we decided to remain in the area of the lava canyon to do some hiking. A few towering hilltops in the distance offer the possibility of a view of the river. Boulder hopping in the canyon, it was so sunny that despite the wind, we had the urge to immerses ourselves. I peeled off the multi layers and gripped the submerged rocks with my white and shriveled feet. We dunked our bodies in the icy waters and quickly reshelled. Later in the afternoon, an older Mongol man in a del approached us. We greeted him with the Mongolian "Sain Bainuu!" and he described high water with shwooshing arms and a worried yet amazed face. Smoking his pipe he keeps wrapped in bright patterned silk, he gestured into the mountains where the river is born. His family was living in three gers across the river so close to the banks that we knew he planned to move again before spring. The Mongolian gers are solid structures of layers of felt over a wooden skeleton covered in canvas. Ancient gers were moved on horse-pulled carts but today, the collapsible models make relocation much easier. The friendly old man invited us to his home but we had plans to climb a nearby peak. Once you commit to spending time in a Mongol ger, you are involved for at least a day. These friendly and welcoming people are always happy to have visitors. They bring out the salty tsai (tea), homemade arkhi (alcohol distilled from horses milk) and cook up dishes of mutton and homemade noodles which are eaten with the hand. The guests are encouraged to drink, sing and wrestle with their hosts as we did following our fish feast with the mysterious Davashtavar. After climbing the hilltop, we walked down into the lava rock canyon. Rising out of bare grasslands, lava formations created a set of corridors on each side of the river. Towards the end of the day, I spotted what looked like a pictograph of a horse on a rock jutting out of the soil. Scanning the surrounding rocks, I found intricate scenes of elk, horse, goat and other animals. The next day, I returned with a camera but was initially unable to locate the pictographs. Wandering around the same area though, I encountered hundreds of others! Without a guide book or any documentation, I couldn' t tell how old the pictures were, or who had created them but it was like finding a treasure, a rare connection to the colorful past of a nation rich with history. The earliest known inhabitants of Mongolia lived on the steppe nearly 500 000 years ago. Dominated by Turkic people until 840 AD, the name Mongol emerged in Chinese texts during the Tang Dynasty (618-907 AD). A loose confederation of rival clans was united by Ghengis Khan towards the end of the 12th century creating a vast empire that encompassed the area from modern day Moscow into Arabia, and China. The empire began it's decline after the death of Genghis' grandson, Kublai in 1294. After Mongolia gained independence from China in 1911, a Buddhist government was declared. Caught between the Chinese and White Russians, they appealed to the Bolsheviks for help. In 1924, the Mongolian People's Republic was declared and Mongolia became the world's second communist country. Rural Mongols are people of the land who depend on their livestock for food. As an inland country, far from the sea, their only knowledge of water is the lakes and almost 4 000 rivers that wind though this vast land. The Gobi desert has many lakes and a rich supply of groundwater for drinking. The rural people believe water is a sacred element and imbue it with powers of life and death. Even those who live by the river do not immerse themselves in it. To wash, they bring buckets up to their gers rather than pollute the water with their bodies. They were curious about our boats and could not believe that we don't capsize and drown on the rivers. A few local people asked us to take them for rides and this we did with pleasure, showing them the stability of the boats and the beauty of floating. The next afternoon as we paddled, we were followed down the river by a group of children on horseback. With 60% of the population under 16, we encountered many children, most of whom are educated in state-supported boarding schools located in the aimag (provincial) capitals. When we stopped for the night, the young brothers helped us set up the tents and gather firewood. As the sky blazed with evening colors, we took them out in the boat for a ride. At first, they gripped the sides of the canoe as if a whisper could tip them but within minutes, they relaxed and urged Ian in the stern to paddle them farther down river. Later, a womans voice shot across the plain and the boys headed off on their horses. The next morning, they were back again and followed us down the river on horseback. The possibilities of river travel were forever planted in their minds but like most Mongols, they are much more comfortable with their traditional mode of transportation -- the hardy Mongolian horse. After paddling the winding Orkhon for a week, we arrived a few kilometers outside the old capital of Kharakhorum. It had been a clear, warm day and Ian and Bill had decided to hike a nearby peak to get a view of the city. Kharakorum was built in the 13th century as Ghengis Kahn's capital of the largest land empire the world has ever known. After 40 years it was moved to Beijing by Ghengis' grandson, Kublai Khan. Now, a dreary town of Soviet style apartments, the city's majesty was short lived. In the years of the Empire's decline, the town was abandoned, then destroyed by invading Manchurians and random vandals . I had volunteered to stay in camp and was enjoying my solitude when two young Mongol men appeared on the horizon and were approaching. I had no reason to fear them, all of our interactions had been friendly and easy. As they got off their horses and approached me, I did not feel so secure. I showed them around but they wanted to hold everything and made "you should give this to me" gestures. I made Mongolian small talk, asking about their echner(wife) and hukhed (kids). They laughed at me and asked for cigarettes. They were small and unthreatening as they walked around the campsite but one of them got on his horse and rode over to the boats and began to bang them with a stick. Preoccupied with him, I only just caught his friend grabbing for the camera. They deluded and tricked me, as I raced around trying to get headlamps, knives and camera back from them. As quickly as they had arrived, they were off again, our filet knife tucked into their del. I was relieved to see Ian and Bill return a few hours later and it was still sunny and warm. We began to get things ready for dinner - rice and goop- and had just put the pot on the fire when a brown blur manifested on the horizon. We watched it curiously for a moment until we realized it was a powerful dust storm which was rapidly closing in on the Orkhon Valley. As we ran to zip the tent, the storm was expanding to encompass us. The air was rising quickly and seconds after the wind hit, we realized that we hadn't secured our boats. I struggled with the tent zippers as Bill and Ian ran down the shore chasing the canoes, so light that they were flying in the air. Dust was blowing so violently that it hurt the skin and melted in eyes. When we caught up with them, the solo boat had become lodged in a fallen tree and the tandem was sinking in an eddy on the other side of the river. As if from a dream, out of the tempest appeared a Mongol on his horse. As the dust continued to blow in the high speed winds, he tied a rope from his horse to our boat, lead his horse into the water, belly deep, and pulled the swamped vessel to shore. Less than ten minutes later, the wind had escaped with the sun and with a temperature drop of over fifty degrees, a light snow began to fall. Winter had arrived in Mongolia. The next morning in our parkas, we shared breakfast with the kind man that had rescued our boats. Bataar arrived at our snowy campsite with a large thermos of airick . This ubiquitous drink of fermented horse milk was offered to us consistently, and it was something I never enjoyed. The pressure of being served this drink was difficult to deal with as the host would watch expectantly for the "mmmm delicious" reaction. To my taste, the sour milk has a strong, fetid flavor which makes you feel as if you are in the midst of a large herd of livestock. Unlike American milk, airick really tastes like animal. Our friend Bataar was no more impressed with our burnt rice and beans from the night before. The one thing we all enjoyed were the cigarettes and coffee. Thank God for universal tastes. We aroused a certain amount of curiosity as we portaged the boats and gear through the town of Kharakhorum and took apart the abused canoes in front of Erdene Zuu Khid. The Tibetan Buddhist monastery sits on the edge of town in the midst of large scale repairs. The Stalinist purges of the late 1920's and early 1930's forced over 17 000 monks into disappearance and almost 700 monasteries destroyed. Erdene Zuu Khid is one of four that were preserved as museums. The collapse of communism in 1990 reestablished religious freedom and restoring this 16th century center of Lamaism is now a top cultural priority. Unfortunately, lack of funds leave the project understaffed and slow going. We visited the dilapidated buildings inside the walled compound which at one time housed up to 1000 monks. Laughing and talking with the workers, we wondered at the fading temples and crumbling walls being given a slow rebirth. As testament to the peicemeal nature of the work, a woman worker was occupied the entire day bringing water for the concrete from a nearby canal. After their shift, a group of bricklayers came to our campsite in the nearby field and sipped hot chocolate with us in the freezing wind. They invited us to their homes but after a full day portage, we could not bring ourselves to pack up and schlepp our gear again. It makes me wonder why we even brought a tent to this hospitable country since almost everyone we met was eager to have us spend the night at their ger. There is a popular story of two Mongolian boys who traveled across Russia with nothing more than small shoulder bags . They hitched a boat ride across the Aleutians and in Anchorage, someone bought them plane tickets to Seattle, their final destination, the birth place and grave of Jimi Hendrix. Nomadic Mongolians are used to living minimally and they take care of each other. It is the perfect place to set yourself adrift on the goodness of the people since there is almost always a ger or horse and rider in view. After having morning coffee and watching the sun rise from behind the ancient monastery, we hitched a ride on a mini van on one of the few stretches of paved road in this country twice the size of Texas. Although winter had arrived, we were headed south to paddle the Tuul Gol, a river which runs through the capital city, Ulaan Baatar. We spent three days on that river until we were stopped by an ice jam. There was no denying that it was the end of paddling season in Mongolia The canoe is a gentle vessel in which to explore a land that is wide open and virtually roadless. In our boats, we could float noiselessly into another world, and experience it's peace and hardship. To travel by canoe in a foreign country is an integrated, peaceful and independent way to experience people and land otherwise inaccessible. We plan to return.
© 1997 margotblack@usa.net
Get your own Free Home Page