Crushed between two eras
Mongolia | Anno 2013
Friday 12 July | Ulaanbaatar – Mörön – Toilogt
Saturday 13 July | Lake Khövsgöl
Sunday 14 July | Toilogt – Ulaanbaatar
Friday 12 July | Ulaanbaatar – Mörön – Toilogt
The Fokker 50 of Aero Mongolia flies relatively low in a northwestern direction over the undulating green landscape, just above the solitary clouds. White specks marking the presence of gers, the typical round tents of Mongolian nomads, are rather rare. Fields of rapeseed are in bloom.
To Toilogt
Herringbone patterns on the slopes of the hills reveal how rainwater makes its way down. Further north, the landscape becomes more forested. Only the northern slopes are covered with trees, while the southern slopes are completely bare. This is due to permafrost, explains our guide Batmunkh. On the northern slopes, permafrost retains moisture, whereas on the southern slopes, the summer sun thaws the ground, causing the little moisture to evaporate.
Herringbone patterns on the ridges
Gradually, the provincial capital Mörön comes into view, a large, colourful spot in the green steppe. From the air, the monotonous pattern of unpaved, parallel streets with small, rectangular plots surrounded by person-high fences stands out. Usually, there is a house, sometimes a ger, and occasionally both. The colourful roofs – green, red, blue – give the town a distinctive character. Just before one o'clock, we land under a radiant blue, nearly cloudless sky. It's 22 °C (72 °F).
The region has more in common with the Siberian taiga than with the Mongolian steppes
Mörön has more than 40,000 residents, which is quite significant for a provincial Mongolian town. The population is still growing, largely due to the fact that every tourist on their way to Lake Khövsgöl passes through here. The province also boasts the largest livestock population in Mongolia and, apart from Ulaanbaatar, the largest population overall.
The name Mörön literally means river. The town sits at an altitude of 1,710 meters on the banks of the Delgermörön River, which flows into the Selenga River, supplying much of the water for Lake Baikal. Just 220 km north lies the Russian border. The region has more in common with the Siberian taiga than with the Mongolian steppes. Among the local population, you'll mostly find Darkhads and Khalchas. However, the ethnic group that interests us the most are the Tsaatan, the reindeer people.
The horse rears up on its hind legs, indicating that the rider died in battle – and what a battle it was
Mörön – Suburb with gers |
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Equestrian Statue of Chingünzhav |
Four Toyota Land Cruisers are waiting for us at the small airport. They immediately take us to the restaurant 50° – 100°. Mörön is said to lie precisely at the intersection of 50°N latitude and 100°E longitude, which explains the peculiar name. In reality, that point is about 44 km north of the city, but no one seems to care much about that. On the menu is buuz, steamed dumplings filled with minced mutton and onions, one of the most popular dishes among Mongolians.
Mörön may be a small, nondescript provincial town, but according to Batmunkh, the statue of Chingünjav is something we absolutely must see. A name unfamiliar to us, but for the local population, he is a true hero. In the centre of a lifeless square, the kind that only communist regimes seem to design, stands the equestrian statue erected in 2010 to commemorate the 300th birthday of Chingünjav. The horse rears up on its hind legs, indicating that the rider died in battle – and what a battle it was.
In his right hand, Chingünzjav holds a declaration of independence. For three years, he fought against the Manchus, who were then ruling China at the height of their power. However, his rebellion was doomed, and in 1758 the Chinese captured him. Emperor Qianlong sought to make an example of him and had him tortured to death in front of his supporters.
[Sensitive readers may consider skipping this paragraph] Batmunkh is more than willing to elaborate on what exactly happened. At that time, the Chinese authorities had nine torture methods at their disposal. In Chingünjav's case, they opted for the method involving a coin. This gruesome process entailed heating a metal coin with a hole in the centre until it was red-hot. The burning coin was then placed on the victim's skin, where it would sear deeply into the flesh. Tissue would bulge through the hole in the coin, and this bulging flesh was then cut away with a knife. This process could be repeated as often as needed, as long as there was untouched skin, potentially continuing until death ensued. According to Batmunkh, the Chinese needed three hundred coins before Chingünjav succumbed.
After this not-so-feel-good story, we definitively set course northward. An excellent, very un-Mongolian asphalt road guides us through a vast, majestic landscape. It seems that the people of Mörön have figured out how to give the region a tourism boost. We could be completely relaxed, soaking in the delightful scenery, were it not for the fact that the jeep's steering wheel is on the right side. This encourages the driver to keep to the left – especially on curves – unless, of course, oncoming traffic interrupts the calm.
As we drive upstream through the valley of the Egiin Gol, we ascend toward Khatgal, 92 km from Mörön, and enter the national park. This is the southernmost point of Lake Khövsgöl, where the Egiin Gol originates from the lake.
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Lake Khövsgöl |
Suddenly, we veer left onto an unpaved road. Now heading north through the mountains, we travel along the western side of the lake. Not a single drop of the lake is in sight – until, all at once, we glimpse it from a ridge, spread out in all its glory.
We then descend toward the shore. Gers and vacation homes occasionally appear among the trees, silently enduring the clouds of dust stirred up by our little convoy. At a pebbled beach, we even spot a swimmer in the water.
Toilogt Camp
Finally, a narrow isthmus between the lake and a lagoon leads us to Toilogt Camp at half past five, about 30 kilometres from Khatgal. Around twenty gers are set up on a gently sloping open space among the trees, offering a stunning view of the lake, safely away from the dust clouds kicked up by the gravel road.
The layout of the gers feels familiar. This time, a fluorescent lamp hangs from the centre, just below a faint collection of cobwebs. An impressive stockpile of firewood lies ready for use. Will it be cold tonight? We’re at roughly the same latitude as Brussels, but at an altitude of 1,645 meters above sea level.
Lagoon
For now, we won't let it bother us. In the restaurant, they have warm food and cold beer ready for us. Afterwards, the beach along the blue lake invites us to take a stroll. The concept of a mountain lake surrounded by peaks reaching up to 3,100 meters immediately reminds us of Swiss or Austrian scenery – mountains rising steeply above the water, culminating in rocky, partly snow-covered peaks. But that's certainly not the case here. No steep peaks, but rather the familiar green, rolling steppe landscape continues along the shores of the lake.
Lagoon
Half past eleven. Time to get between the sheets. But what do we hear? Is someone fiddling with the door of our ger? Indeed, a lovely girl’s voice asks if she can come in to light our fire. Come on baby, light my fire, would be the response from Jim Morrison. But we remain polite and kindly decline the offer. That was a miscalculation. An awkward conversation unfolds through the closed door, with the main theme being the average nighttime temperature in Toilogt. Eventually, we relent. The door opens.
Is someone fiddling with the door of our ger?
Ertene Zaja enters our ger with a broad smile. It becomes a bit more crowded, as she has brought along Bartaar Singlis, whom she introduces as our house assistant. The inclusion of a house assistant in the rental of a ger is completely new to us. To be fully prepared, Bartaar has even brought a supply of wood, even though we thought we had more than enough, but apparently excessive wood on hand is not a problem.
Ertene insists. Our stove needs to be lit because it can get quite cold at night at this altitude. Lighting the stove worries us. What about carbon monoxide poisoning due to incomplete combustion in an enclosed space? Ertene can hardly suppress a chuckle. Mongolians have been using stoves in their gers for over a thousand years. No one has ever died from it, she reassures us. The opposite – dying from the cold – is the real danger. That doesn’t sound particularly convincing. But Ertene stands her ground. Once again, we relent. The stove is opened.
Ger – Interior |
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Lighting the stove |
Routine goes smoothly as Bartaar gets to work. For a moment, a solitary puff of smoke rises up, causing our unease to flare up again. The lid of the stove doesn’t close properly, is our premature diagnosis. Don’t worry, you won’t die, Ertene reassures us rather firmly. In a blink, the fire crackles cheerfully in the stove.
Don’t worry, you won’t die, Ertene reassures us rather firmly
And what’s next? Very simple, Ertene explains almost casually before closing the door behind her and disappearing into the night with Bartaar. Add wood at one o’clock, three o’clock, five o’clock. For a moment we are perplexed. Briefly, malicious thoughts flicker through our minds. Just for a moment. They’re lovely people, and they surely mean well.
At a quarter past eleven, the electricity goes off. Then there is only the sound of the wind through the trees, the gentle crackling of the stove, and the glow of the fire – so strong that we have to shield ourselves from the heat with a blanket.
Saturday 13 July | Lake Khövsgöl
Slowly, camp life begins to stir. Deep in the night, the fire in our stove must have gone out, but we didn't lift a finger. We didn't notice anything from the Siberian cold that should have set in under our duvet.
Lagoon
Today, it is mainly the Tsaatan who demand our attention. They are sometimes referred to as reindeer people. To place them in context, Batmunkh goes back in time. In the past, three major nomadic peoples tried to build a livelihood in Central Asia – Mongols, Manchus, and Turks. Among the latter, you can count the Uyghurs, Kazakhs, Uzbeks, Kyrgyz, and Turkmen. And the Tsaatan.
Originally, the Tsaatan lived in the Siberian part of the Soviet Union, but Stalinist repression caused some to migrate to Mongolia – about three hundred, according to Batmunkh. Their language is Tuva; they do not understand Mongolian. They marry among themselves, which does not benefit the gene pool. Diseases are, therefore, more the rule than the exception. Returning to Russia is not an option, as the border police are vigilant. Russia is not looking for a new problematic ethnic minority.
Not the ger, but the ortz is the traditional dwelling of the Tsaatan. Animal skins are stretched over pointed wooden poles, like the tipis we know from American prairie Indians. When they move, they leave the wooden poles standing so they can reuse them later.
On average, they stay in one place for only about ten days. Reindeer are quite picky, and their favourite dish is lichens that only grow at high altitudes.
More than for the Mongols, the herd is the alpha and omega of the Tsaatan's existence. From the milk, they make yogurt, cream, cheese, and curds. They carve utensils and ornaments from the antlers. But above all, they use the reindeer as pack animals for transport. A Tsaatan would never think of slaughtering a reindeer; they prefer to satisfy their hunger for meat with deer, elk, and wild boar.
A Tsaatan would never think of slaughtering a reindeer
But what applies to the people also applies to the livestock – the reindeer population is too small. Inbreeding is the norm, leading to disease and degeneration. The reindeers' resistance is decreasing, their bodies are becoming small and frail, and the hairs of their coats are getting shorter.
Since 2000, the Mongolian government has been working on a policy for this ethnic minority. Young people are receiving scholarships to study. Tourism is expected to bring in some revenue. Artificial insemination using sperm from healthy reindeer from Siberia and Finland aims to upgrade the herd.
Socially, changes are also taking place. More and more young Tsaatan are marrying Darkhads or Chalchas. Perhaps this is the fate of the reindeer people – to gradually be absorbed by other peoples. Not without reason do they fear that their culture and traditions will then disappear.
Not without reason do they fear that their culture and traditions will then disappear
In this northern corner of Mongolia, shamanism is very strong. Buddhism has never taken root here. This is largely due to the area's almost inaccessibility.
The shamans of the reindeer people are also very powerful, according to Batmunkh. Their curse is incredibly strong. It's better not to cross paths with someone from this province. If they involve a local shaman, he will burn a dog's head, wrap it in cloth, and throw it into your yard – the thought alone makes us shrink back in fear.
Wooden skeleton of an ortz |
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Demoiselle crane |
Slightly irritated by our blatant expressions of scepticism, Batmunkh cites two cases with tragic outcomes, from his immediate surroundings no less. There is the patient who continues to suffer after a doctor has removed his appendix. He calls in a shaman, who curses the doctor. Immediately, the doctor begins to exhibit periods of madness. The same goes for a divorce case. The woman calls in a shaman, and the man is cursed. He promptly loses his job and starts drinking. We have the feeling that we in the West do not need shamans to achieve similar results.
Horses
Meanwhile, we have reached the spot where the Tsaatan were last seen. The poles of their ortz are still standing, and here and there are signs of a fire pit in the grass. But the Tsaatan are gone. Inquiring further reveals that they have moved to a location 17 km south.
Yak
We continue our search. Startled by our jeeps, two demoiselle cranes take flight from the edge of the forest. A herd of horses stands peacefully grazing among the trees.
Yak |
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A large herd of yaks crosses our path. One of the calves has a stick through its nose, from which a plastic bottle dangles. This prevents the calf from drinking from its mother, as that milk is intended for the farmer.
Yak with calf. A plastic bottle prevents the calf from drinking its mother's milk
At this altitude, yaks are a better investment than cows. Yak milk is very nutritious, but if you’re not a fan of hair in your milk, it’s best to strain it beforehand. The meat of the yak is also very nutritious, but tough.
We have little trouble finding the Tsaatan's new location. They have indeed chosen a safer spot and set up next to a market where skilled locals are trying to sell their artisanal products.
Artisanal products of the Tsaatan |
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Bracelets |
Felt horses |
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Bracelets |
The Tsaatan don't mince words. Four days ago, they moved their ortz to this location because they were too isolated in the north – particularly, they weren't seeing any tourists. And tourists are, after all, their primary, if not their only, source of income.
Boys at their ortz
He is 50, she is 48. They have six children, three of whom are married. Officially, they have no occupation, so they are not allowed to work. The poverty in the ortz is appalling. A few animal skins cover part of the ground. Dried sheep meat hangs from a rope.
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These Tsaatan are mercilessly crushed between two eras
They have more than twenty reindeer. They brought six for show. Only six, because it’s actually too warm for the animals here. Photography is allowed, but it costs us five thousand tugrik – about 2.70 euros. This is also the only source of income these animals generate. They are too weak for regular work.
Reindeer
We are more than willing to pay that amount, even though we know that it won’t solve any problems. These Tsaatan are mercilessly crushed between two eras.
Whether this people has a long future in Mongolia seems highly doubtful
Drying meat |
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Ovoo with blue pennants |
In the second ortz lives the man's sister-in-law. She is a shaman, healing through the mediation of ancient spirits. With a cigarette in hand, she greets us with a warm smile. Shamans seem to do well here, as her ortz is noticeably larger and better equipped than the previous one.
Apparently on the shaman's orders, a woman is performing a sort of laying on of hands on another woman while standing. On the ground, three eager French women sit in full adoration next to the shaman.
If the reindeer people ever go extinct, it certainly won’t be because of this shaman. She has thirteen children. Five of them are married to Darkhads and are building a nomadic life in the steppe. Three are married within the tribe and are trying to make a living with their reindeer. Four attend school in Khatgal and live in a boarding school. The thirteenth, the youngest, is somewhere around here.
A bit sombre, we continue our trip. As far as the reindeer people are still able to establish a traditional existence, it happens in the highlands behind the mountains, far beyond the reach of our jeeps. Fortunately. However, whether this people has a long future in Mongolia seems highly doubtful.
The jeeps make their way up via a forest road. At an ovoo, a shamanistic structure made of stacked stones, a splendid view of the deep blue lake and the surrounding area unfolds. Here, we truly understand why they call this lake the Blue Pearl of Mongolia.
An ovoo overlooks Lake Khövsgöl
The same tectonic forces that shaped Lake Baikal also moulded Lake Khövsgöl. In fact, Lake Khövsgöl is the 23 million-year-younger sister of Lake Baikal. Officially, it is 262 m deep, but it could also be 270 m, according to recent Japanese research. With a length of 137 km and a width of 34 km, Lake Khövsgöl ranks quite high on the international list of large lakes. Batmunkh immediately runs out of superlatives. In Mongolia, this is the deepest lake, and you won’t find a lake with a larger volume of water. Globally, it is even considered the second purest lake – after Lake Vostok, which is located four kilometres deep beneath the ice of Antarctica.
Each winter, a layer of ice up to 1.2 m thick settles on the water. In February, they even hold an ice festival there. It is not until June that the ice completely disappears. In the past, trucks used to drive over it, but that is now prohibited. At least forty wrecks of trucks are said to lie on the bottom of the lake, including a handful of leaking tanker trucks – not exactly a plus for a lake that prides itself on its purity.
Leaking tanker trucks do not really add value to a lake that prides itself on its purity
Lake Khövsgöl with lagoon in the foreground
In the 1990s, when fossil fuels were detected underground, Mongolia couldn't wait to start extracting them. Comrade Russia saw potential in the project and was willing to extend a railway line from Siberia. With great effort, the local population managed to put a stop to it. A journalist who wrote articles opposing the railway supposedly died under suspicious circumstances in a sauna – it's surprising Hollywood hasn’t made a movie about it yet.
From the sauna to water scarcity, it's just a small step for Batmunkh. A Mongolian city dweller consumes up to 150 liters of water daily, while Mongolians living in gers use only 35 litres. Yet city residents pay less per litre than their rural counterparts. To reduce water consumption, the authorities are attempting to install individual water meters in cities. Suddenly, raindrops drive us back into our jeeps, as if to challenge the claims about the shortage of clean water.
A man without a horse is like a bird without wings
Horse master |
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On horseback around the lagoon |
A man without a horse is like a bird without wings, a Mongolian proverb teaches us. Who are we to argue with that? So, in the afternoon, we gather for the long-awaited horseback ride. The instructions are easy to grasp. Never walk behind a horse, as it could result in a hefty kick. Mount and dismount from the left side of the horse – just like with a bicycle. Falling off, however, is permitted on both sides. Once you've mounted, you should look in the same direction as the horse; if not, you have to start over. And never let go of the reins.
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It takes us barely ten minutes to put on our helmets and shin guards – some of us maybe even backwards. Another fifteen minutes later, we're all seated in the saddle, facing the right direction. The ride around the lagoon is a leisurely one, lasting just under an hour.
Lake Khövsgöl
In the early evening, Batmunkh has a short walk planned for us. We head north along the pebble beach by the lake. The blue water gently ripples under the radiant sun. When the rocks become too large to navigate, we move away from the shore and continue our journey. Amid blooming wildflowers, we walk along the edge of the forest.
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From the ridge, we gaze down at the azure-blue water. A blissful calm envelops the surroundings, only occasionally interrupted by the honking of a megaphone from a small tourist boat on the lake.
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In the distance, Batmunkh points out Khadan Khui, one of the four islands in the lake. The name literally means rocky place. For birds, it can be either a paradise or a nightmare. If it becomes too crowded, seagulls won't hesitate to kill their own kind to secure their territory. Even the chicks of the spot-billed duck sometimes ensure their survival by pushing a sibling out of the nest.
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Just before six o'clock, we return to the camp. Twilight lingers between the trees until late in the evening. At half past nine, the generators hum to life, and the fluorescent lights flicker on in our gers.
Ertene and Bartaar are nowhere to be seen around our ger. Our wood supply remains untouched, so there's no need to worry about our stove. Snugly, we pull the duvet up over our shoulders and drift off into the night.
Sunday 14 July | Toilogt – Ulaanbaatar
Under a wide, blue sky, the sun generously casts its rays over Lake Khövsgöl. Only the wind brings a hint of chill.
At exactly nine o'clock, we bid farewell to Toilogt Camp. About forty-five minutes later, we reach the paved road in Khatgal, where we stop to refuel. From there, we continue south on the smooth asphalt, travelling through a sun-drenched, vast, and majestic landscape.
Bactrian camels |
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A brief encounter with three camels tempts us into a photo stop. These are real Bactrian camels, with two humps, of course. Probably a preview of what awaits us in the Gobi in a few days.
By half past eleven, we reach Mörön Airport. Thick clouds hang over Ulaanbaatar as Aero Mongolia’s Fokker 50 touches down at Chinggis Khan International Airport just before three o’clock.
Jaak Palmans
© 2024 | Version 2024-10-17 15:00
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