horses, home

Over a rise and around a corner Ulaan Baatar surprised me, literally, and I finished my cycling a day earlier than expected. There were none of the indicators I've come to expect of a metropolis. It's rare to meet a capital city without ringroads, that creeping sprawl or even signage; just suddenly there amongst all the space. Apparently the city's history involves about 28 relocations so perhaps no wonder the siting feels arbitrary (the central square finally settled where a general's horse took a lucky piss). I found a hostel and wondered how I'd spend a fortnight without plan or destination. A Portuguese man accosted me to see if I'd join his tour group for nine fifty-dollar days of 4x4s, lakes, horses and festivals. I thought on that but was soon poached by a larger group for eleven days of similar. In turn I recruited the Portuguese fella. I was anxious about being so organised but excited for the group dynamic, having missed that stuff. I left the bicycle uncoupled and debagged in the hostel cupboard, a little ambivalent about having finished with it for now.

Land is not owned in Mongolia. Routes are improvised, roads divergent, fences almost completely absent. There is a special joy in that kind of unfettered space and passage. I'll leave the views to the photographs, and my Portuguese friend, Luís. There are over ten horses to each person. As a tourist I was given four, daily faster, and discovered an unexpected equestrian enthusiasm; quickly finding my peace at gallop and, slowly, my taste for mare's milk. On the third horse day my wrestling-champion driver bestowed me the honour of his robe, just for a bit. I felt lucky with the group, especially blessed by the English couple; one soon misses irony. We rode around and above the Khovsgol lake - sistered to Baikal, pristine and drinking-clean - slept in gers and played inane games throughout the four van-days. A nice time, happily distracted. I've never been on such a tour with itineraries, guides, three daily meals... It occurred to me that I've been producing my own experiences for ages, often without a clue as to what ought go in them, so a welcome change to instead consume some well-informed, packaged ones. We were lucky to catch the annual Naadam festival, celebration of those Mongolian masculine imperatives, wrestling and riding. Any sense I'd garnered of the natural horseman quickly quashed while watching a five year-old (obviously brotherless) girl winning a fifteen mile bareback race.

Now a couple of days back in the capital to find a box for my bicycle and a present for my mother. I'll try to avoid recourse to the cliché and statistic that seem to be the temptation when ending such a document.... So, thank you for reading along. If you've been touched or inspired, as I've been, by the boundless hospitality and care shown me in the last 15 months, please consider making a donation to the Julian Trust Night Shelter in Bristol; they work entirely on donations and voluntary time to provide food and beds for those without.

we were all a bit in awe of driver Dawa

and all charmed by guide Baska

5 year old winner

wrestlers