if you want to read the beginning of the story, click here for Part 1 ...
I dismantle the tent, I pack up my bag, I untie Minimor (That's the name I gave to my horse) and I start walking towards an unknown land formed by huge spaces and where the man doesn't have a hold over it. I climb the mound on my left and compare the relief with the drawn one on my map. My only need will be to find water for the next days. I walk down the hill and head for the north. The green moor invites to walk and gives my horse an appetite. The ground is flat, immense, sometimes shapes by a stream whose waters run to the lake. A stream forces me to take my shoes off and a nice Mongolian helps me to cross it.
Behind the hill that thwarts the flat nature of the place, the steppe plunges into the horizon for about ten kilometers. A lot of animals graze. Every family possesses herds of sheep, goats, yaks and horses which wander freely on these pastures. The green carpet which unrolls under my feet seems endless and each of my step breaks the serenity of innumerable grasshoppers.
On my left, a stream splits the meadow and will be my water supplier for the next two days. It's only at the end of the day the steppe dies on the foothill. This wood-topped hill will shelter me for the night.
Then, the course goes uphill following a gentle slope, before going down to the valley. I walk along the bush-flanked stream in this rougher scenario thant the day before. At the bottom of the valley, the ground is half-marshy, bikers and 4x4 cars encourage me and stay puzzled about the roles of each one in our duet. The horse seems relaxed when I'm weighed down with the bag. I see children who ride their horses with a stunning ease. As their motorized kind, they are intrigued by our strange duet.
The river shapes gorgeous landscapes which would make the happiness of several campsites.
I opt for a small clearing on the right bank. The slide of the water invigorates me. Before the nightfall, a bunch of friends stop on the other bank and invite me to share a bottle of vodka. One of them is a wrestler and will compete in the Naadam festival, the next 11th and 12th of july. These two days will be the national holiday.
He kindly threatens me to throw me into the river if I don't down the vodka in one gulp. I soak the lips and grimace. In front of my face, his girlfriend grabs the bottle and knocks back a glassful of vodka. When the bottle is empty, the cheerful team mounts the motos and disappears in the darkness.
The third day, I cross the village of Jagarlant which is the beginning of my walk alongside the main Ider Gol river. I make the mistake to cross the river without taking off my shoes and walk on for several hours with the wet feet. Nothing worst to have blisters. As soon as I stop, I delight in looking at the horse greedily grazing the thick grass we walk on. In the evening, each one has his meal, green grass for the quadruped and freeze-dried food for me.
From the fourth day, the hills which mark out the river become more and more lifeless and monotonous, two only green strips frame the river twists.
A little bit tired and thinking I better know my horse, I try to sit astride it with my bag on the shoulders. It just doesn't want and escapes. A Mongolian horseman brings it back to me and I reach the conclusion that this horse won't be another thing than a companion for the rest of the trek, what is still a marvellous experience. In the evening, I stop in a Mongolian ger for the first time. In exchange for their hospitality composed of salted tea and very hard goat cheese, I take photos. Some people don their most beautiful clothes for the ceremony.
Just before the nightfall, I start walking again, declining their offer to stay here for the night, I say the way is still long as an excuse. Before setting up the tent, a moto stops and despite the difficulty to communicate, one of the biker explains to me he remembers me. He saw me a few days before wandering about the lake with my horse and my heavy backpack. Hard to pass unnoticed!
My trek carries on alongside the river. I make my mind to leave the saddle behind a rock and start again my slow pace eastwards. Where I put up the tent, takhis (Przewalski horses) drink. I broke the calmness and they disappear behind the mound looking for a more peaceful place.
click here to read Part 3 ...
Keyword - emotions -
Tuesday 10 July 2007
adventures in the Mongolian nature (part 2)
By dorian on Tuesday 10 July 2007, 11:20 - RTW-Mongolia
Friday 6 July 2007
adventures in the Mongolian nature (part 1)
By dorian on Friday 6 July 2007, 11:18 - RTW-Mongolia
In the morning, I leave the Fairfield Guesthouse to head to the market square which is also the departure point towards the white lake (Terhyin tsaagan nuur), about 150km westwards. The main activity is the sale of sheep skin and wool. In the middle of this lucrative activity, I tackle a mongolian saying "Tariat" (name of the village close to the lake I want to go), this one takes me to a driver but he only leaves at 18 o'clock. Finally, I arrange the journey with the next one that leaves at 13. He's not really specialized in public transport, his business is rather the furniture removal but for 10€ the journey, he keeps the best seat for me. We try to start talking and I tell him my wish of buying a horse. The piece of information seems to spread quickly when a mongolian tackles me and gives me a phone. It's Tunga, the only English teacher in the province. She has a gers camp near the lake and can help me to find a horse. Here it is what we can call "to be lucky". Rendez-vous tonight at Tariat.
When the 4x4 minivan is full, we leave Tsetserleg. The pace is sustained and the only stops are for adding water in the radiator or for spending some moments in silence close to a strangely decorated tree. Out of respect for chamanist beliefs, we go three times around the tree. Then, it's time for sharing a bottle of airag (fermented mare's milk). Without forgetting the last drops offering for the sacred tree.
In the end of the afternoon, after delivering the furniture, we arrive in Tariat. Tunga warmly welcomes me and houses me for the night. Her gers camp is located at 12km from the village and we'll only go there tomorrow morning.
The next day, in the morning, with her husband and their daughter we leave to the lake. Her husband is not a typical mongolian since his antipathy and the absence of positive features on his face have no equal. Tunga interprets and on the way we talk about the horse sale. Her husband stays inflexible on the price : 400000 Tögrögs (260€), when the average price is between 2000000 and 250000 T. He talks up the merits of his horses ; listening to him, he breeds the best horses in Mongolia, and each one could win the grand prix d'Amérique (famous horse race) ! When we arrive, I immerse myself in the Emile Brager's book "manual to travel with a horse" which gives some important advice. But, I have to accept the obvious, it's not after reading a few pages I can proclaim myself "horse specialist". I do some tests and reply that the price is still too high. He brings me a horse coming from the neighbouring ger. This one is cheaper but it seems less docile. At the same time, I test all my camping gears, from the stove to the water filter pump. I think a lot about the horse buying and despite its price, I make up my mind to take it and tomorrow, I'll start my trip.
But the next day, the horses of this guy are not on sale any more. He changed his mind and says he's attached to his horses. Let's just hope he has more friendship for the animals than for his kind. Irritated by this reversal, I finally buy the horse of the neighbouring ger which one didn't really convince me the day before. The owner firmly stows my rucksack on the back of the horse and I clear off as fast as possible to dispel the irritation which abides in me.
My plan is to walk along the south shore of the lake and to head to the north up to a tiny village, Jagarlant, then to follow the Ider Gol, a horseshoe-shaped river up to Möron, capital of the Khövsgöl province. I warm up my legs and little by little, my morning gloomy thoughts scatter. As I walk, I learn to know my new travelling companion I hold at rope's length. I often look back, I get the different signs of its behaviour and try to analyse them. Wandering about next to this massive animal brings a special feeling.
I step on these broad green lands that form the lake outline when I hear a creaking. I suddenly look back, the horse fidgets and I see my bag falling from its back, the strap broke. I can't contain the animal strength and drop the rope. I'm powerless in the face of this scene. The horse accelerates, afraid of this load it's pulling. But after a few meters, the strap breaks again and the horse runs away. A deep gash on my dusty backpack testifies this incident. I load this one onto my shouders and leave to pick up my horse in the other way of my trip. But it's impossible to approach the animal. Two young Mongolian girls grab the horse and bring it back to me. At that moment, my mind is confused, it's out of the question to load the horse again with the bag and I didn't plan to carry the rucksack. I sort nothing, what is 25kg on the shoulder. However, I haven't other choice than carrying it and getting over this event.
A little bit farther, I tie the horse to an eletricity pole and as soon as I take the backpack off the shoulders, in a violent back movement, the horse frees itself again. A mongolian grandfather captures it and holds out the rope a hundred meters from here. That's enough for today, I think about walking back to the gers camp and giving the horse back to its owner. I finally decide to settle in the heights of the lake, near a wood.
I tie the horse to a tree with a stronger rope this time and set up the tent a few meters away. I have the blues, I feel like freeing the horse, taking a public transport and moving away from this cursed place.
The next day, the night brought me some advice, I decide to stay here the whole day, to cheer me up on an emotionnal level and to try to tame the animal. I dispel the negative thoughts and the blues of the day before. The rules changed and from now on, I must carry the backpack but, tomorrow, I'll leave northwards with my capricious companion.
click here to read Part 2 ...
Tuesday 26 June 2007
the crystal-clear waters of the Baykal lake
By dorian on Tuesday 26 June 2007, 19:48 - RTW-Russia
Going out from the Irkutsk station, a nice girl from the Est'capade travel agency welcomes me to give me the Listvianka bus ticket and the voucher of the guesthouse I'll sleep in the next 3 nights.
Here, You have to put the watch forward by 5h compared to Moscow. But to avoid time zone problems, every station and every ticket have the Moscow time. Thereby, for my next ticket which it's written departure at 15h45 on, I'll go to the station at 20h45, local time...
I put down my rucksack at the hotel reception where the agency is and leave to the town center to stretch my legs before taking the bus to the small village of Listvianska. Coming from Moscow, Irkutsk looks like a village, few cars, quiet streets and no skyscrapers. The walking is short but enough, and at 14h30, I take the public transport to go to the Baykal lake, 70 km away. I meet 2 australians who travel in the other way by transsiberian train.
As I disembark, a great surprise waits for me, I bump into the 4 dutch people I left a few hours before! Our story wasn't finished yet. We walk to a pub to celebrate that. Just a moment later, we see Hugh, the English boy, walking a few meters from here. He comes and completes the team. We enjoy this bonus the fate is giving us and we take good time together. We have the impression we shared something magical in this train and to be old friends. Dutch people go back to Irkutsk with the 18-o-clock bus and I head towards my guesthouse walking alongside the Baykal banks. My room has a clear view on the lake.
The next day, I leave my room and walk to the tiny village center of Listvianka, 15 minutes away. We're on Sunday and the Russians came in large numbers. A lot of wealthy Russians possess datchas, secondary houses in the countryside or near the lake. The Irkustk inhabitants leave the town for the weekend to invigorate next to the lake. Others simply come here to indulge in the local speciality, the omuls (endemic fish of the Baykal lake) sampling, shared with the family on the white-pebbled beaches of Listvianka. Some intrepid people swim in the 5°C water, at this time of the year.The legend says you can win 25 years in your life expectancy if you take a bath in the waters of this mythical lake.
The lake is revered by a lot of native people, and with good reasons! It contains 20% of the non-frozen freshwater reserves in the world. It reaches 1632m in its deepest part. In spite of a relative surface area for a huge lake, it holds more water than the 5 five american great lakes together. In the wintertime, the clear water is transformed into an iced road the cars goes on. The lake area is the habitat for several endemic species like the nerpa, the only freshwater seal in the world.
In the small harbour of Listvianka, some boats offer trips on the lake. From the deck, we see the pine tree forests and the green mounds of the bank. Looking at northwards, the lake stretches out of sight. The quiet, serene water contrasts with the lively, noisy beaches of the village. This mini-cruise gave me some ideas of hiking for tomorrow. I spend the evening in a pub with 3 English people (Hugh, John, Georgina) and 1 South-African (Dodge) and the conversation often centred on travel.
The next day morning, I visit the museum dedicated to the lake and its eco-system. The museum offers a few aquariums, one with strange crustaceans, one with omuls and one with the famous nerpas.
In the beginning of the afternoon, I head towards the end of the village, the road turns on the left and skirts an enclosure. A little bit further, a fence blocks the road, whoever wants to park the car beyond this line must pay the entrance fee. I walk down the path on the right which leads into the beach, I walk on to go far away from the village. Numerous paths start, intertwine and get lost in the forest. I get down to follow the nearest trail of the bank. The rough path meanders according to the natural obstacles' wishes. I pass some dangerous parts carved in the tumultuous coast. Sometimes, softer pace, I walk on in the forest before leading into green moors strewn with a lot of flowers. The undergrowth is also marvellous with beautiful tufts of pink lily of the valley.
One of the path ramifications goes down to a long white-pebbled beach. There isn't a living soul around me, the ideal place to stop and to take a nap, rocked by the wind which strokes the crystal-clear waters of the lake. These waters inspire me and it's from this beach I'm writing to you.
I walk back to Listvianka for my last night before taking the bus back to Irkutsk the next day morning. Waiting for the train, I spend the afternoon with John, a nice English man who will take the Vladivostok train tomorrow. He walks with me up to the station where I get on the Transmongolian train.
« previous entries - page 9 of 10 - next entries »
