In Ulaanbaatar, and indeed throughout the country, the name of Genghis Khan is honored and perpetuated in various forms. It seems that the spirit of the great ancestor still hovers over this land. His slightly elongated face with a reddish-gray beard can be seen on banknotes, vodka labels, signs, and postcards... In the first week of your stay in the country, you realize that such images of the commander are nothing other than a mark of quality for a particular product. So, do not be alarmed if, for example, you are told that Genghis Khan really packs a punch - it's about the brand of the most popular vodka in Mongolia.
Red Bogatyr - Lord of the Steppes
The capital of Mongolia, the city of Ulaanbaatar, means "Red Hero" in Mongolian; the city was given this name in 1924 not without the help of the Red Army.
Today in Ulaanbaatar, modern large-panel high-rises and gleaming mirror-glass office buildings stand alongside shabby Khrushchev-era buildings and mansions of the "new Mongols," but ordinary people still prefer snow-white yurts to standard housing.
On the streets, the basis of traffic chaos is made up of nimble taxi drivers and minibus drivers. The blood of steppe horsemen clearly boils in them. In the latter's overcrowded cabins, loud boys-hawkers stand their watch, informing citizens of the upcoming route. While the minibus is moving, they either virtuously balance themselves by leaning out the side window, or sit by the door, bent double.
Of great interest for a tourist, besides the revered Buddhist monasteries, is the Museum of Natural History. This is perhaps one of the most important places to visit in Ulaanbaatar. The museum's exposition includes over 12,000 exhibits, some of which have a history of tens of millions of years. The heart of the collection is two perfectly preserved complete skeletons of a Tarbosaurus from the Mesozoic era, for which a separate hall is allocated.
To Live Life - To Cross the Steppes...
The half-empty train cars, striking with their European cleanliness and silent calm, began with a slight metallic crackling at the moment of departure. The slow progress of the locomotive, and within a few minutes Ulaanbaatar is left behind, and the train emerges into the open steppe expanses.
The neat and friendly Mongolian female conductors, instead of traditional tea, for some reason offer beer. The train, in keeping with the provincial rhythm, moves slowly throughout its journey, and after a few hours reaches the Orkhon aimag (district) and its capital Erdenet.
Early in the morning as I stepped off the car, I was met by my future guide Mazhinbu, and the entire second half of the day was spent preparing for the trip. First of all, the route to Lake Khövsgöl was finally confirmed. We decided to move in a northwestern direction, parallel to the Khangai Range. Sleeping bags rated for low temperatures, tents, fishing gear, a portable stove, metal water canisters, and some provisions were prepared in advance.
For moving across the steppe, only reliable equipment is needed. Endless boulders and depressions prevent the car from accelerating above 20-30 km/h. The not-too-great distance (300 km) from Erdenet to Khatgal (the southern tip of Khövsgöl) took us about two days to traverse. Having installed a roof rack for a UAZ 469 and loaded it with our belongings, we set off. The UAZ would either climb up elevations, dive into foothill ravine lowlands, skirt endless hillocks, or get stuck in tight sandy quicksands.
During the day it is hot in the steppe. Its flowing landscape makes you hold your gaze on it endlessly long. The shadows of rare clouds, projected by the rays of the hot sun onto the sparse scorched vegetation, are reflected on the surface of the earth as contrasting ripples.
Occasionally on the road we meet passing SUVs. Seeming from afar like small colorful dots, they raise behind them clouds of a sandy plume many times their size.
Stone Monuments
During the journey through the khudon (countryside), we had several unscheduled stops for roadside rest. Already the first one provided an introduction to the culture of steppe burial grounds.
Our driver stopped the car on a hill a couple of kilometers from the vent of a volcano that fell asleep millennia ago. The ground within a diameter of several kilometers from it was completely strewn with porous stones of lead-coal hue, clearly of lava origin. We reached a place where these stones, half-buried in the ground, formed circles and squares.
Such systematic arrangement of geometric figures began to be used by the ancient inhabitants of Kazakhstan, Altai, Tuva, Transbaikalia, and Mongolia at the end of the Bronze Age (2nd-1st millennium BC) and was something like tombstones for mass burials. Stone slabs embedded in this way can be found in most regions of Mongolia. They are called khereksurs and are usually located near bodies of water.
The sun slowly crawled to the horizon. The crimson sunset colored the hills, mountains, and steppe vegetation in Roerichian colors with an endless palette of shades - from pale green to purple-violet. Twilight brought coolness.
Hospitable Yurt
The guide ordered the car to be directed to a summer camp of shepherds, hoping to find shelter for the coming night.
The family that stayed here owned three yurts, which in Mongolia are called gers. All three were located in a place sheltered from winds - on the north side they were covered by spruce plantings, and on the south and west the camp was bordered by a rocky ridge with an arched slope. The ridge hid behind it the Selenga, a fairly long Mongolian-Russian river. In this place, its banks rose up, becoming steeper and more rugged.
In the courtyard, not a single face of the arats hosting us could be made out. In the darkness, only their quiet speech, the stomping of horses shifting at the hitching post, and the bleating of sheep in the pen were audible.
The hosts gave us the right half of one of their gers. On warm nights, Mongolians slightly roll up the side felt walls of their dwellings for ventilation, exposing the lattice frame. But after lying down, I realized that one still needs to get used to sleeping in a ger—covering yourself with a blanket makes you suffer from heat, throwing it off exposes you to mosquito attacks.
By morning, the drowsy khudon slowly woke up. The head of the family was already lighting dung on the stove outside and placing a cauldron of water on metal stands; his wife was turning the handle of a hand separator with freshly milked cow's milk, while their sons and daughters were letting the cloven-hoofed animals out of the pens.
I was eager to see the morning Selenga, so I climbed a rocky hill, moving a hundred meters away from the camp.
Natural faults and crevices in the ridge let me squeeze through and emerge onto a narrow path leading to an open panorama of the river. In the morning haze, the winding Selenga seemed like the Amazon—the dense greenery of its banks followed the course of its current, hanging over the gentle slopes with branches.
Everyone had already gathered for breakfast when I descended from the hill to the camp and entered the ger. First, the hostess Naran brought to the table a deep copper tray filled with boiled lamb ribs, emitting aromatic steam. In khudons, boiled meat is usually eaten by hand, occasionally cutting tendons with a knife. Then, Naran took about a dozen blue and red bowls decorated with national patterns from a wooden obdar chest and filled them with foamy white-green tea.
In Mongolian provinces, the usual food to accompany fatty milk tea is either sliced byaslag—a brownish hard cheese with a lamb fat taste, or aaruul—also a hard fermented milk product made from goat's milk. It is dried in small slabs directly on the felt mat of the ger.
During breakfast, I gladly examined the interior of the nomadic felt house. The northern part of the yurt, with an organized altar, was illuminated by light from the upper smoke hole. The western part of the yurt is considered the men's half. Here, on small wooden beams, hang the attributes of a horse leader, shepherd, and hunter all in one: several knives, a rifle, a whip, coarse leather reins, stirrups, and a pair of horse saddles.
The rather harsh climatic conditions and minimal population density of Mongolia have largely defined the national spirit and established an unwritten code of moral rules. For example, it is not customary here to vent anger with curses, to enter a yurt without letting an elder go first, to kill an animal unnecessarily, to tear plants, or to deliberately spill tea or other drinks on the ground.
Digging the earth is considered a great sin for Mongolians. Incidentally, for this same reason, the national footwear of Mongolians—gutuls—has upturned pointed toes, so as not to accidentally scrape the ground with a foot. Mongolians dislike, and are truly offended, if a guest does not try the treats! And moreover, they do not understand a guest who leaves remnants of its contents at the bottom of the bowl.
The hospitality of the locals was further confirmed during our departure from the camp—the hosts presented us with a plastic bag of aaruul for the road.
Water of the North
"Khövsgöl is the most beautiful lake in the land of the Mongols..." — it is with this quote from the renowned orientalist scholar E. Murzaev that descriptions of this natural wonder usually begin.
Khövsgöl is sometimes called the younger brother of Lake Baikal—both lakes are located in the same rift zone, separated by no more than 200 kilometers of land. Although Khövsgöl is significantly smaller than its "northern brother," it surpasses it in elevation, rising over 1,100 meters higher. For this reason, the water in the lake always seems bitingly icy, and depending on the depth, changes colors from light turquoise to deep iridescent blue.
Spits of land, as if taken from the shore by the water, cut into the surface of Khövsgöl, forming shallows, silty backwaters, and islands of green meadows. These areas are a favorable habitat for yaks, goats, and sheep. Children—shepherds from gers standing a little away from the water—drive them here. Both children and herbivores create a unique flavor of these places, especially since both are constantly chewing something. The woolly cloven-hoofed animals chew grass, and the grimy children chew juniper resin—davirkhai.
For our camp, we chose a spot a hundred meters from the western shore of the lake. While we were setting up the tent, we got quite chilled; the cold taiga breath and wind from the lake constantly reminded us of themselves. Mongolians consider the energy from meat food to be the best way to warm up on a hike, valuing its effectiveness above the heat of a fire. The exotic culinary opus with which my guide intended to warm me soon proved this. To prepare khorkhog, as the planned dish was called, we still had to light a fire. The specifics of the recipe required a twenty-liter aluminum self-sealing canister, large lake stones, meat, and speed of sequential actions.
The stones were placed in the fire for half an hour, and when they were red-hot, they were thrown into the canister, the bottom of which had been previously filled with water. The water in the canister instantly began hissing. At that moment, several pieces of lamb were hastily thrown inside. Then came another layer of hot stones. A handful of salt, and another layer of meat. So, alternating layers, four kilograms of lamb, about 10 kilograms of stones, and also several onions and potatoes ended up in the canister, topping off this meat-stone pile.
After laying it down, the can was moved onto dull coals, tightly closed and left to cook for 15 minutes. When it was finally uncorked, the space filled with the spirit of khorkhog - boiled, baked, fried, and stewed meat all at once! The golden crust of the tender pieces gleamed and burned the palms. Perhaps this would have been the most delicious and warming dinner of my life, if not for the following days when we were to probe Khövsgöl for fish with fishing rods. But, whether due to their genuine love of meat or religious beliefs (fish is one of the most revered Buddhist symbols, representing happiness and unity), Mongolians rarely serve fish at the table.
Every evening, local herders came with their families to our fish barbecue. They were curious not so much to dine as to talk with visitors from afar.
When the fish was ready, the coals were blown again, the fire flared up, arkhi appeared in bowls, and all diners sat around the night fire for a leisurely conversation.
Interestingly, it took me a total of a week to get to the fishing spot. For the first time, the road to fishing turned out to be so full of events and interesting encounters. How long this winding path was, how hospitable the distant Mongolian steppe turned out to be...