by Tim Severin
We kept up this speed all morning and well into the afternoon, and if anything the pace was faster than anything we had attempted during the trail ride in the Hentei. I began to be suspicious, and sure enough during a rest break Ariunbold admitted that he was trying to catch up time. He had learned nothing from our similar experience in the Hentei, when we had nearly ruined the horses by going too fast on our second day of riding. Now, because we were two days behind schedule, he intended to put in a double day’s distance to catch up. There was no use pointing out that, once again, we risked damaging the horses, particularly as the animals were unfit at the start of this sector. Ariunbold was stubbornly determined to press ahead, and for the time being the herdsmen-guides followed his lead. We got back into the saddles and rode forward, but not until I had found a chance to take Ariunbold on one side and tell him privately that unless he acted more sensibly I could not see the expedition living up to his high-flown public announcements that he would ride all the way to France. For the moment, I warned him, the venture seemed very unprofessional, and it would be better to slow down and take matters more thoughtfully.
We reached a place where a spur of land thrust out into the narrow valley and deflected the course of the river, making a precipice at the water’s edge that forced us to turn away from the river. We chivvied the herd up a steep hill, and then slithered down the far slope in a clattering avalanche of shale. Whenever we came to a patch of flat land by the river, however small the area, a ger had been pitched on the little meadow and we needed to deflect the thundering rush of our horse-herd to keep a safe distance so that we did not disturb the daily routine of the nomads. Nevertheless the guard dogs would rush out, barking and snarling, soon to be followed by the occupants of the ger, who would emerge from the door and stand there shading their eyes and watching the unusual spectacle of 100 horses streaming past. At first I thought that in our headlong passage we would inevitably pick up stray horses, attracted from the local gers by the excited herd. But like shoals of fish passing and intermingling in the sea, our animals and the local horses seemed to have a sense of identity. The local animals would be swept up in our herd, run for a few hundred yards with us, and then disentangle themselves and go trotting back to their customary pasture. Only the local stallion would maintain his defiance. Racing up to defend his territory as we first arrived, he would challenge our horses, and finally chase along behind us, convincing himself that he was driving off the intruders.
As we penetrated deeper into the hills of the Hangay, we came across signs that showed how this central Mongolian massif had nurtured nomad empires long before the rise of Genghis Khan. In one pass, placed so that it could be seen clearly against the skyline from a great distance, was a grey stone pillar. It was a standing stone, a weather-beaten and indecipherable shaft which most likely dated from the era of Turkish nomads who had once wandered this land. Breeders of cattle and horses like the Mongols, Turks and Huns had raised their herds in this remote land until, for reasons not clearly understood, they had felt the urge to migrate outwards, and burst violently upon the settled lands of the perimeter. The valley of the Orhon river which we were following had been a cradle for such movements, and nothing had altered the landscape in 2000 years. It was still a nomad’s paradise of open land, lush pasture and sweet water, and we rode by the monuments left by the nomadic tribes just as they had wanted them to be seen. There were the whale-backed burial mounds of Turkish tribal chiefs rising from the valley floor, and in a side valley we caught sight of a complete graveyard of some forgotten Central Asian tribe. Turning aside to investigate, we found that the grave builders had employed the natural slabs of rock which had tumbled off the nearby cliff, sledged them to the site, and then set them on edge to mark the graves. There were at least forty tombs, and grave robbers had been at work, for there were signs of digging and many tombstones had fallen to the ground or been overthrown. But the classic, 2000-year-old Central Asian patterns of antlers and interlocking fronds could still be seen etched into the gritty rock.
It was half-past 3 in the afternoon, and we must have come at least 30 miles at the scrambling, ill-advised pace when we came in sight of what I supposed to be our destination. A small cluster of tents and gers had been erected close to the spot where the river Orhon ran down over some rapids and turned a sharp corner. On the far bank a tributary joined, and the resulting headland made a theatrical setting. The tents were very different from anything we had encountered before. There were six tents of an old-fashioned square design, rather like miniature marquees. Some were blue and white, others striped in yellow. In two lines they led up to a brand new ger, much larger and finer than usual, its white felt roof decorated with a bold red pattern. The eaves of all the tents were fancifully scalloped and these fringes rippled in the breeze. At each corner of this flamboyant ensemble had been planted staffs bearing crimson banners which waved jauntily. In a remote and virtually uninhabited valley, it looked as if someone had been preparing the pavilions for a medieval tournament.
Thankfully we rode our horses the last few hundred yards, tied them to a low fence, and removed their saddles. Horses and riders were totally exhausted.
The exotic encampment turned out to be organised by the local agricultural cooperative. It seemed that the region was famous for the manufacture of tents, and so a local committee had decided to set up a display. They had certainly picked a wonderful location, but the chances of attracting a potential customer were virtually nil. It was hard to imagine more than a dozen passers-by in a week. Nevertheless the local committee had appointed a local family to act as guardians, brought in a tiny selection of tourist souvenirs, and equipped the big ger as a hospitality centre. The floor was covered with hand-embroidered rugs, the walls hung with antique saddles and harness, and a low table was ready set with hand-crafted bowls for drinking mare’s milk. The young man who had the job of guardian got over his surprise at seeing us and invited us to come in to rest and refresh ourselves. He appeared with his wife, after hastily putting on full traditional costume, and handed us bowls of sour mare’s milk and sweets. Then all of the expedition riders stretched out flat on the rugs and fell asleep from sheer exhaustion in these strangely opulent surroundings. Only our three herdsmen-guides, as matter of fact as ever, kept apart watching over the horse-herd.
We were awakened after about two hours by the arrival of two jeeps, bringing Bayar, Doc, Gerel’s family, Ariunbold’s mistress and various hangers-on. There followed some rather incoherent discussions, and then the jeeps disappeared. Doc explained to me that Ariunbold had failed to arrange for any food supplies, so the jeeps had gone to the nearest settlement to see what could be obtained. They returned after another hour to announce that there was no food to be had, but Gerel’s sister-in-law, who lived in the next settlement about 10 miles away, was waiting for us. Thereupon Ariunbold announced that we should saddle our horses again and ride on.
I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. Only a fool would have ignored the fact that horses and riders were worn out. On the first day of riding we had already come much too far. To continue any further was doubly stupid. Any horses that had sore backs would be ruined; weak horses would need extra time to recover. I suggested to Ariunbold that it would be better to send the jeeps to bring back a supply of food from Gerel’s sister-in-law. Then the team could rest at the hospitality ger and ride on in the morning. Ariunbold was stubborn. We were to ride on. Those who did not want to or felt unable to do so could go forward in the jeep. Neither Paul nor I were prepared to give Ariunbold the satisfaction of saying that we had held back. Gerel, however, had had enough. He scowled with irritation and then strode off, looking disgusted. He left with the others in the jeeps.
Ariunbold then summoned the herdsmen, who had been noticeably absent from the discussion, and ordered them to ride forward. They looked angry and began to mutter amongst themselves. Ariunbold mounted his horse and rode out. Paul and I grimly followed, leaving a decent interval be
tween ourselves and our fatuous leader. Ariunbold kept glancing over his shoulder, and then stopped. We rode past him and turned to see him galloping back towards the herders, gesturing frantically that they were to mount up and follow him. They did nothing of the sort, but turned their backs. It was quite evident that they had mutinied. They were setting up their own camp and turning out their horses to pasture for the night. As far as they were concerned, they had gone far enough. In the context of the Mongolian arat’s easy-going nature and his usual willingness to fall in with whatever plan is put to him, this was dissatisfaction of a very high order. It was quite apparent that they had no further time for Ariunbold, and though he shouted and waved at them to come forward, they studiously ignored him.
Paul, Ariunbold and I rode on. Our horses were so tired that it was another two hours’ slow ride to the somon centre, and Paul was seething with anger. I was merely intent on finishing the extra distance without too much pain. Halfway to the somon centre, we came to another small tributary of the main river. It was in flood, and Ariunbold, who was still riding in the lead, urged his horse into the stream. It was largely a matter of guesswork, because the dirty brown water concealed any deep holes, and first Ariunbold’s horse and then mine floundered across safely. By now Paul’s mount was so worn out and moving so slowly that he was riding some distance behind. When he reached the riverbank, Paul decided to turn upstream to try to find a more shallow crossing. He rode up the bank to where the water looked less dangerous and rode in. The current caught the exhausted horse and began to carry it diagonally downstream. The animal was too tired to resist and swam feebly. By the time it reached the far bank, the horse had been carried past the low section of bank on the opposite side and no longer had the strength to climb out unaided on the steeper shore. It began to flail weakly at the bank with its front legs. Paul slid out of the saddle and literally threw himself on the grass on the far side, keeping hold of the reins. Then, walking downstream with the exhausted animal, he managed to find a spot where he could coax it out of the water. The wretched horse stood there, head hanging, soaking wet and a picture of misery.
At that point Ariunbold rode back to enquire what was the matter, and to tell Paul that we had 5 or 6 miles to ride. Paul lost his temper and yelled abuse. Couldn’t Ariunbold see that the horses were half-dead on their feet? That he had pushed the animals until they were suffering? It was impossible to imagine a worse-organised first day. Ariunbold flinched and then pretended to have difficulty understanding. Slowly Paul simmered down, but he bellowed at Ariunbold to clear off and said that he preferred to walk the rest of the way, leading his horse. Ariunbold rode off looking sheepish, and I had to admit that he had managed to achieve the almost impossible. With record speed and during his first day as team leader, he had lost the respect of the herdsmen, who would travel no further with him; he had forfeited the enthusiasm of his Mongol companions, who had gone on ahead; and he had reduced his travelling party down to two foreigners, one of whom was in a towering rage. In short, Ariunbold had lost all credibility. I wondered if all graduates of the Higher Party School, selected for their family connections, were quite as worthless and ineffectual. But I knew we were stuck with him. It was Ariunbold who had allegedly organised the chain of relay stations with the remounts ahead of us, and it was Ariunbold who had been assigned by the Mongolian Silk Roads Committee to conduct this sector of the ride. If the expedition were to continue westward, all that could be done was to keep calm, go along with the unhappy team, and hope that matters improved. This was still a Mongol project on Mongolian territory, and Paul and I were observers who would have to make the best of it.
But one did not need be a foreigner to have misgivings. Next morning Gerel, too, expressed his opinion of Ariunbold’s managerial skills. Standing in front of his sister-in-law’s ger he gave vent to a very public display of anger. He abused his co-leader roundly, telling Ariunbold that he was lazy, selfish and incompetent. To no one’s surprise it had turned out that the supply of fresh horses which Ariunbold was supposed to have arranged in advance with the local authorities had not been organised properly, and we would have to wait. Gerel turned on his heel and stalked off, fuming.
9 - Crossing the Hangay Massif
This awkward situation was relieved, temporarily at least, by Ariunbold’s personal political ambition and his sense of self-importance. When two new herdsmen arrived shortly before noon with a change of horses, he was nowhere to be seen. He had gone off, Doc told us, to follow up a rumour that a roving correspondent from the Russian news-agency Tass was in the vicinity. Ariunbold wanted to locate the journalist and provide him with an interview about the expedition. ‘It will give him a chance to promote himself,’ sniffed Doc, whose hay fever had been aroused by the huge amounts of pollen from the wild flowers, ‘and I suggest that we get on without him.’ In his competent fashion Gerel, who seemed equally glad to be rid of Ariunbold for the time being, helped to sort out the saddles and equipment. Gerel was obliged to leave us that day and return to his studio in Ulaan Baatar, where he had to complete a major state commission on the much-photographed equestrian statue of Mongolia’s revolutionary hero, Sukhebaatar the herdsman-solider, who had smuggled documents of the communist revolution across the Soviet border in the handle of his whip. His statue on its prancing horse was the centrepiece of Ulaan Baatar’s main square but it had been hastily made in such shoddy material that it was crumbling to pieces. Gerel and a team of sculptors were replacing it with a more durable copy in stone. I was sorry to see Gerel leave because he had shown his worth in the Hentei ride and he might have had enough official authority, if matters under Ariunbold got any worse, to replace or restrain him. Doc was powerless, as he had no formal standing in the group and was coming along merely to help Paul and myself as our interpreter, while Bayar was on assignment from his bosses at the Mongolian TV Film Studio and had no choice in the matter. Optimistically, I began to look forward to the time when, with our little group properly under way in the open countryside, without distractions like the journalist from Tass, everything would settle down and our circumstances would improve.
Before Gerel left, he introduced us to our two new guides. They were respectively the Drunk and the Quiet Man.
The Quiet Man very rarely said a word but he watched everything with sharp eyes that constantly flicked from one person to the next, and he never missed anything. He had a friendly, rather pointed face like an engaging fox, very dark brown and deeply lined, and he was totally self-effacing. He kept shyly in the background and dressed inconspicuously too, in an old khaki del and with a khaki beret worn flat across the top of his head. He was to reveal that he was by trade a master maker of gers, and normally led a work team of four men who shaped the lattice sides, door, roof poles and all the wooden fittings, painted and ready to order, along with the felt covering. The management committee of the local somon centre had asked him to provide sufficient horses and guide us over the next sector of the Hangay route.
His companion, the Drunk, was the exact opposite in character. He was noisy, cheerful, rough and extrovert, and the local committee sent a veiled warning that we would be wise to see that he kept away from the bottle. He arrived in high good humour, grinning cheerfully and equipped with a large radio-cassette player stuffed into the front of his del. We set out with the Quiet Man trotting out along discreetly in the rear, and the Drunk in the lead, ambling along with the distorted music blaring out from his chest as he swayed very slightly in the saddle. The music stopped, but only briefly, when all the batteries were jolted free and cascaded to the ground. These were recovered and held firmly back in place with yellow camera tape provided by Paul. Then the genial Drunk managed to snap his riding crop, which, too, needed a yellow tape splint. Finally he requested an extra strap to tie on his rain cape and borrowed a length of brightly striped coloured webbing, also from Paul. Thus, highlighted in multi-colours, he jogged on, tunelessly howling Mongol songs. Theoretically it was all wrong for a se
rious cross-country expedition, but the pace was wonderful after the previous day’s excess - a gentle amble that spared the horses and covered the ground perfectly adequately. The sun shone, the Hangay scenery was lovely, and of Ariunbold there was no sign. It was the happiest, most carefree sector so far.
We camped that evening at the Falls of the Orhon, where the river plunges over a 60-foot cliff and drops into a rock gorge with much noise and white foam and the changing colours of a little rainbow shimmering in the spray. It was one of Mongolia’s most famous beauty spots, and a natural phenomenon that could not help evoke the deep-rooted Mongolian shamanistic reverence for the spirits of water, rocks and sky. A rickety post-and-rope had been stretched round the lip of the chasm to prevent visitors falling into the abyss, but sure enough, right at the best vantage point to view the Falls, there was a large, flat-topped boulder, and in a hollow on top of it lay a scattering of offerings left for the deities of the place. Looking across to the opposite rim of the chasm, seen through the mist of the falls, was the characteristic cone of another obo rock cairn, and when I had clambered down to view the falls from below I found a third obo, a large tree branch that had been propped against the cliff at the foot of the cascade. From every bleached branch hung the same array of strips and rags of cloth offerings which we had seen at the wigwam obo at the base of Burkhan Khaldun, and as I looked back upward to the lip of the gorge I saw a solitary Mongol standing on the rim facing the Falls. He was a stranger, probably a tourist. As I watched, he put his hands together and bowed his head in reverence.
