The wind of last evening promised, and the weather this morning delivers. We leave camp in a light rain, the first we've seen while in country. Luckily, we follow a surfaced road for most of the journey. I pass the time by finding interesting-looking mountains out on the horizon, and wait for the inevitable roadside ovoo that honor them. We pass through a series of little towns, each one more wild, wild west than the last. Buzzards perch lined up along the fence surrounding a rubbish tip. The built-in joke that all the petrol stations are called "MT."
The rain stops. We eventually turn off the tarmac onto a dirt path, no doubt surprising a western woman squatting nearby to pee. It is a rough track out to the ger camp, where we're to have lunch. I don't know it yet but by morning it will become my least favorite of the trip. I was thinking how much I was going to miss this ger glamping, but a noisy trio of drivers talking half the night make me appreciate the upcoming hotel bed. Not to mention that there are a good number of unsavoury looking characters simply hanging about. There are plenty of tourists too, including one bitchy Englishwoman who is particular nasty to me while in the queue for the buffet. Despite the hardships, I find myself missing the desert.
After lunch we trace the river through an elongated series of hills. We stop suddenly, for eagle-eyed Tulga has somehow spotted a small group of horses nudging their way along the cliffs that overhang the valley. These are the famed Takhi wild horses, the only true wild horses left on earth. My color blind eyes have a little trouble distinguishing their coats from the brown hills behind.
We move onward, crossing a stream whose length is foretold by the long line of trees adjacent. The mountains above take on the fantastic conical shapes of extinct volcanoes. It truly is a dramatic yet peaceful place, and it's easy to see why the ancient Turkic people settled here long long ago. Their graves remain, a long line of stones mimicked the earlier trees in the way they stretch away toward the horizon.
We meander back toward camp on the other side of the mountains that had shaded us on the way in. A young deer has fallen into a ravine and seems unable to move, but we leave it be, so as not to make worse the situation. Then we spot the horses, closer than before, and we drive up toward them. They graze oblivious to us, still a safe distance away. There appear to two groups, following the lead of their respective alphas. Suddenly we notice another male, a massive elk with magnificent horns. He too is leading a group of his own. Amazing how this entire menagerie appeared out of what had seemed to be empty space.
We get another even closer look at two other groups during the drive out. They are just off road, and we quietly stalk them to get good photos. Like the other night, the horses are moving single file toward somewhere, but being wild, every place is home. We watch them a long while, until the fading light tells us that we too best move.
The number of tourists at the camp hinted that Ulaanbaatar is close, and the land grows more and more cluttered until we are indeed in town. By good luck, the International Horseback Archery Championships are the following weekend, so we drop by the watch the riders train. It is a strange setting, just above a cluster of ger that look puny beside what had been a film set for a recent Chingiss Khan biopic. The Mongolian horsemen look relaxed, almost as if they have no horse beneath them and are merely gliding bowlegged across the land. A trio of bowmen practice in front of a group of targets, even spinning around to fire backwards. It is easy to see how their forefathers conquered the world. Many of the foreigners by contrast look big and clumsy. In their demeanor too. Due to his English skills, Tulga is corralled into interpreting for the organizers, and some of the Europeans attempt to rebut this and assert their own will. The Asians in turn have said nothing, and look more favorable for it. The highlight of course is when we, all the while standing in our matching polo shirts and commenting on the proceedings, are asked by one German women who we were.
We head toward city center, for our last afternoon as a group. Midway there, we drop into a traffic jams as bad as any I've ever seen. Apparently the city's 1.7 million inhabitants have one million cars. The city is trying to curb their use by restricting say, those whose license plate ends in "1" from driving on Monday, those with "2" from driving on Tuesday, and so on. Residents get around this by simply changing plates. Quite crafty, these Mongolians.
We eventually arrive at the Winter Palace of the Bogd Khan, and wander awhile through the temple and grounds. The Russian-style house is the highlight though, filled with exquisite furnishings and decor. As we go, I wonder which room housed the 13th Dalai Lama, who took exile here after fleeing the British invasion of Tibet in 1903.
As the traffic jam made us miss lunch, we decide to simply do dinner early. I'm pleased that Veranda is the venue, as I'd wanted to at least grab a coffee there, in this funky little jazz and Euro-themed cafe overlooking the Chojin Lama temple. After a fortnight with the diet we've had, we all go a little overboard with the ordering, the wine in particular. Thus it is in high spirits we thanked our team, and part officially as a group.
Thus freed, LYL and I dart over to buy my horse-head fiddle, then rest awhile. Our number is down to four when we meet for a farewell drink on the rooftop restaurant of our hotel. The owner is a funny fellow, almost Russian in his demeanor. He takes us to the helipad above, and we admire the lights of the city. He tells us that a few days before, he'd been angered to find an array of snipers lying along one edge, acting as security for Putin's visit in the city square below. He told them, "I don't give a shit who is coming, this is my roof! You need to ask my permission!"
The Spirit of the Mongol lives on...
On the turntable: Hank Mobley, "The Best of..."
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