(1/125s, f/5, ISO200, 115mm)

Our team started this year with two articles in Hungarian travel magazines, Világjáró Magazin – Roads of the Altai and Földgömb Magazin – The Mosquito coast. Also, a series of articles are published in Over Magazin about travel photography, starting in May.

Our summer trips to Mongolia: Mounted expedition with reindeer herders and Gobi Desert Overland Expedition were a huge success, we will be posting photos soon.

The 2010/11 winter season arrives with new and exciting trips, organized through our travel partner, iKaland (the links are in Hungarian):

October 8 – 25 The millennium of the Maya: Discovering history and nature in Guatemala
October 16 – 23 El Mirador: the largest pyramids on Earth
October 30 – November 11 Cuchumatánes Expedition: researching equestrian traditions in the Maya Highlands
November 15 – 28 Wild Mexico: from the Caribbean to the Pacific
December 2 – 15 Río Azul Expedition: in search of lost Maya cities
December 22 – January 6 Cuba on two wheels: expedition to an enchanted land
January 30 – February 12 Río San Pedro Expedition: Following Maya trade routes with canoes
February 19 – March 10 Honduras: the Mosquito-coast in a pipante

(1/15s, f/2.8, ISO100, 200mm)

Mongolia is the last country in the world where the nomadic lifestyle of regular migration to new pastures survived till the 21st century. In the past decades this ancient existence started to disappear at an alarming rate; the photo above commemorates this process. The picture, although shot in 2009 using digital technology, still radiates a historical sensation. Due to the slow shutter speed the movements are a bit blurred, but at the same time the whole photo is well over exposed. This was compensated by a strong darkening effect during RAW processing, which together with zero saturation produced this interesting, archive effect.

(1/400s, f/4, ISO100, 190mm)

After giving birth, the cow carefully licks the newborn calf, then both lean on each other and rest for a while on the sun. In Mongolia many nomads keep cows too besides their yak herds, the two species can interbreed in many varieties.

1/512s, f/8, ISO100, 70mm

In the northern provinces of Mongolia nomads do not use the traditional lasso-pole (urgaa) to catch their horses. Instead, they drive the herd into a pen, and throw a lasso at them made from leather. After this comes the saddling part, not always a success at first try. On the photo the horse is towing its future rider across the steppe, and neither of them plan on giving up.

We are proud to announce that on the National Day of Mongolia there will be a photo exhibition titled “On the steppe” in Budapest. The photos were taken by the major of Budapest, Dr. Gábor Demszky and the team of bedouin.hu about the people, landscape and culture of Mongolia.

The only female member of the Mongolian expedition, Boglárka Vajda, has submitted her hilarious observations, which we have posted with her permission, below.

It is necessary for an expedition-hearted woman to seek out a Caatan-Mongolian horse adventure for herself. First of all, it is important to make sure that she is the only one representative of the fairer sex. Thus, whenever her peers of the opposite sex feel inclined towards chivalrous behavior, she has made sure, that she is the only one round to receive it. When strapping kit onto horseback, it’s worth asking a man, not otherwise occupied, to assist in this, while doing one’s best to look flustered and flattered while counting one’s lucky stars. Also, reconsider the fairness of equal task and burden alignment.

The expedition-hearted female notes with great joy, at the airport, that hers is not the bulkiest backpack of all. So, she can feel herself considerably ready for things to come. What’s more, she can pocket her first success when managing to pitch her tent all alone, for there are some for whom this represents a challenge in itself. Again there are some others who have unintentionally made their lives more difficult by purchasing too complicated equipment.

An expedition spirited, although office trained woman should expect her soft and sensitive hands to cry for ointments and a nail file after as much as the second day, but to no avail. What’s more, she wins an opportunity to put the auto-cleaning functions of the human hair under serious scientific examination, even going as far as consulting with experts on the matter.

An expedition-hearted woman will find her match in the expedition-hearted Mongolian horses. Supplemented with internal pace controller and attached packhorse control panel. Extra gears such as dusty-lazy canter and pace bisector such as rapid or slow stumbling. In order to fall into the rhythm of a distressed sewing machine it is highly recommended that the female comrade attires herself with good quality-high performance sport lingerie as the Mongolian team leader will prefer to hold pace-interval-modification drills: five seconds of light trot, five seconds of slow cadence and vice versa. Vocal prompt: chu!

The expeditional woman will arrive to the conclusion that her horse is a being above all others, and should be taken back home, but an inkling suspicion arises: all other comrades regard their horses in the very same manner. Upon arriving back home though, the local horses appear gigantic compared to the Mongolian ones.

A woman of an expeditional kind will only be mildly frustrated when encountering low quality gear and will promptly begin speculations on how many pieces of string should suffice in keeping the bit safe and sound in the horse’s mouth. Wisely, she leaves the transition from theory to practice to the locals or to her chivalrous peers, in the well-known manner (see above). Should she find herself in want of equipment (i.e. saddle) she will bend a listening ear to the advice of her fellow travelers and embark upon a search spree in the Mongolian forest, while taking the constant interrogation as to the exact whereabouts of the afore mentioned saddle, well in her stride.

If a woman, born to a life of expedition, is a bit clumsy at times, then she should always use both her hands upon entering a tepee as a guest, thus she will not commit any embarrassing faux pas. On the other hand, when camping wild she will think even the stem of a spoon as unnecessary luxury regardless whether she uses it with her left or her right hand. The expeditional female will remember the creaminess of fresh yoghurt and the home smoked taimens in her dreams once back home, even if she doesn’t much care to remember the taste of airag (traditional Mongolian drink made of mare milk) or the spiceless boiled mutton. The next time, she notes, she must remember to keep odd packets of assorted gifts and offerings at hand in her saddlebag as this greatly improves her chances of reaching her destination successfully.

Having to go without a day of rest the expeditional woman will snatch a few minutes of sleep here and there by shifting her horse into autopilot mode. She has no trouble in adapting to the Mongolian mentality that is even worse than the Latin manana-existential experience, where not only the question of when is constantly reinvented but the question of what seems to form an additional, incessantly changing entity, irrespective of any previous discussions or agreements. Here a smiling djaa can mean agreement and refusal at the same time, regardless of the fact that the afore mentioned string of sounds might not even make sense in the given context. She is well aware of her vulnerable and dependant position, though, for if a Mongolian horse decides to break loose then it is only the Mongolian guide who is able to bring it back from the vast and uninhabited plains

A woman of expedition is dazzled by the Mongolian distances, the intensive colors of dreams around her, the grandiose formations of nature all around, the slow, heavy flight of predator birds in the sky, the strange dance of the cranes, the endlessly rolling silk of Edelweiss, the green, the blue, the sky the waters, and the land as far as the eye can see. Even the group of riders, making their way across this landscape, represents an additional aesthetic experience.

The expedition-woman will note that even the initial phase of the trip feels like an expedition on its own. The 30-hour-long UAZ drive is a wonderful opportunity for indoor teambuilding, turned into an outdoor experience as soon as the tents are up and standing. An amazing treasure trove of opportunities for the organization-development and communication experts back home. Prompt problem solving exercises on the mirror-flat steppe: how to discard the product of our kidneys, undetected, in expeditively feminine manner?

The woman of expeditions is greatly disappointed that she cannot try riding a reindeer Catan-style, due to lack of time and she is saddened by the fact that she has not encountered shamanic ceremonies, but she keeps it in mind that the program is an outline and not hardcore prediction. Even under the influence of an impressive dose of cramp-relief while stumbling over marshy-rocky trails she is able to appreciate the uniqueness of the taiga-tundra border zone and on the way back enjoys the invention of horse-canyoning immensely.

A woman, whose very being spells expedition, upon returning to Hatgal, can try her hand at trip and expedition management while later she hopes for a slightly more spacious limb-movement zone; for the closely marching squad of a group thus does not prove very efficient in shopping. She is exceptionally pleased with the bonus outing in Peking, as well as with the theory and practice of photo filing and sharing.

It warms my heart to have been part of such a great team.
You were sweethearts, it was a whopping trip, and I miss you all, already!!
xxx,
Bogi

Early in the morning we go into town, visiting a couple of travel agencies, internet cafes, map shops and money exchange offices. The first and foremost task is to find horses around the Baikal Lake. Although the organization of the trip had already begun this spring, all we have is promises and given word. We mustn’t forget that this is, indeed, Asia. Our curiosity is piqued to see whether the future here is treated the same way as it is in Mongolia. Can we count on promises here, or is it only hard facts that count? The population of this part of Siberia consist of a Mongolian ethnic minority: the Buryats. Majority of the population is similar to the Mongolians in appearance, the usual blond, fine, Slavic faces of Western Russia are relatively rare here. The travel agencies have not much to offer, perhaps they could organize 16 horses for us for two weeks, but this would come up to 2000 USD\head plus extra costs. At this point we call the contacts that we had acquired through facebook.com and couchsurfing.com during our initial pre-planning phase. They meet us all enthusiasm and kindness in a local coffee shop and promise to aid us in organizing the journey. Even two university lecturers appear. According to them they have quiet a few students whose families live up north in the vicinity of Barguzin and Kurumkhan. Most of these families have horses, we ought to go up there and talk to them they are sure that there we would find what we’re looking for. In the evening we join a few university student in the local brewery and they are surprised to hear that we intent to travel the countryside on horseback. They have been thriving all their lives to study at the university in Moscow. Although they come to the Baikal Lake every summer for a holiday, on these occasions they spend all their savings on 200 USD hotel rooms and posh, tourist restaurants and bars. In their eyes the countryside and pheasants working with horses represents poverty, ignorance and lowliness. Obviously the West-European eco- and adventure tourism is yet unknown and unexplored in this region. They enthusiastically tell us about relatives married and living in Brussels and about dreams to once live in a country part of the Schengen Agreement. When asked about their cultural identities a stark contradiction becomes visible, immediately. For, although they are extremely proud of their Buryat-Mongol heritage and origins they speak less Mongolian than we do and try changing the topic in embarrassment when we ask them about their relationship to Mongolia. Yes, they had been there through a travel agency, but no, they don’t know much about it. Eventually one of them admits that the contemporary, urban youth does not speak the language of their ancestors any more, only the countryside keeps the linguistic heritage alive. They are enthusiastic political debaters and we proceed with care over the thin ice, especially in regards to the just recently erupted Osetian conflict. According to them, the Soviet system and Russia had never supported the Buryat language and culture, this we can relate to from our own, Hungarian experience thinking of the 50 years’ worth of Soviet oppression, but it’s a bit harder to agree with their sentiments that the current war was sparked by the United States, that Saakasvili is an American secret agent, and that Russia is backed into a corner and has a right to protect itself against the invaders. We, in turn, sip our beers in silence.

From Ulaanbaatar the Russian border is less than a few hundred miles, but the following morning we are still stuck on a Mongolian side track but nobody seems particularly perturbed by this. The compartments are crowded with Chinese traders, Mongolian families, a few unshaven tourists and heaps of various sacks and packs. At the end of each corridor stands a huge boiling vat and everyone helps themselves to hot water from it preparing tea and coffee from ingredients brought from home. A uniformed figure appears occasionally otherwise the landscape is devoid of human figures, apart from an odd street sweeper leaning on his broom and wandering, stray dogs. Around nine in the morning the Mongolian border control collects our passports. Our careful planning was to no avail: due to the 12 hour delay, our visa had just about expired. They order us off the train with grim satisfaction, following which they commence to explain to us in Mongolian-Russian that this has indeed made it necessary that we apply for an exit visa. We shrug in nonchalance, bring it on mates! That will be 200 dollars, the official eventually concludes. He watches our reaction hawk-eyed. Our grin grows even wider. Pretending to be overjoyed to have struck such a great bargain we wreck his day and deprive him of the satisfaction of seeing us in distress. Two hours later we stand on the very same corridor, this time on the Russian side and watch as the Russian border control turns the compartment upside-down. They are looking for smuggled goods under the pillow covers, in discarded shoes, behind the metal grid of the ventilation fan and god knows where else while our Mongolian fellow travelers mill around them. While pretending to be helpful they are actually trying to divert their attention with feverish packing and bustling. These „smigglers” had previously begged us to put away a few white shirts, about a dozen of silk jogging pants, two lacquered handbags and more than ten pounds of candles. Nobody seems to find it strange that two tourists should need to carry such items with them across the border. Perhaps there is a maximum quota per head, who knows? Those caught take their bundle dejectedly to the platform, where after another hour or so of heated discussions the secret transaction takes place: money, gifts, anything is covertly handed over as a bribe and the train is ready for departure, finally on Russian ground. It’s late at night when we arrive to Ulan-Ude. As we leave the train station a couple of figures start following us a few steps behind. We immediately turn on our heels and head straight for them. Startled, they turn back and disappear. A foreigner is easily detected around here, we have to be on our guard. We speedily search for a hotel, soak our dirty clothes for the morning laundry, eat the remains of the smoked fish that we have been carrying around since Hatgal, and after two months, for the first time we fall asleep in a bed.

We don’t have too much time to analyse the iKaland Expedition, but we wish to make a few notes while the experience is still fresh in our memories. The information packet of this trip had been even more detailed and realistic than the previous one had been. While the general reaction during the first trip had been: „Ohmygod, I thought you were joking” the feedback of the second one was more like „I was expecting much worse”. Perhaps this was because we had used harsher language in the second guide pack in order to stress the expedition, rather than adventure-like quality of the tour. Who is to tell? In our opinion we had done our utmost in both cases to be clear and exact in our briefing. The difference seems to have been in the copmprehension of it. The first group had been just as well equiped, and prepeared. Everyone had meticulously purchased the required equipment the first time round alhtough this cannot be quite said of the second. Although who is to blame if they purchase guaranteed rainproof pants in a professional riding shop that then fails to deliver. The solution seems to lie in giving the exact brand and shop names where the participants can purchase the necessary and working equipment. Nowdays, even the most experienced traveller is lead astray by the deceptiveness of advertisments. Not to mention the fact that nobody had in their posessions a 2×2 cubic capacity non-cylinder canteen☺ Of course, sometimes even the exact description of the product proves futile because we can hardly sent the guset home when they unpack their useless, but expensive and top-designer gear. It’s possible, that in the future we will have to run a preliminary check on everyones’s gear before they leave their home country to join the expedition. Of course this needs to be done before the flight tickets are purchased and the fee of the expedition paid. But, who on earth buys their stuff before having even purchased the tickets? A tough one, that is.
The other objection seems to have been about the composition of the group. It’s quite obvious that it is impossible to create a coherent team when it is done through an agency or organisation, like ours. Yet, given the circumstances we had managed it relatively well on both ocasions. Still many members remarked that it would have been constructive to meet the other members beforehand. The catch in this is that members are only created after having paid the fee. And who is going to cancel after having gone so far? The only solution is for the team members to belong to the same group of friends. In any other case we will just have to rely on our flexibility, our willingness to accept and adopt, an inteligent attitude and team spirit. As our expedition groups have shown a fine example of this.
We regreted not one of the trips and as oposed to our initial paranoid worries, both where extremely successful journeys. We had met many wonderful people which is an extra bonus as nowdays it has become more and more difficult to find likeminded friends, all in one place. We thank every single participant for the wonderful experience!

We never managed to sleep this night, after all. After a couple of beers at Anar’s place it turns out that all my stuff (clean clothes and passport included) that I had left at his place after the first expedition had been moved to one of his mother’s relatives and we would be going to pick my stuff up at three in in morning. Nothing to be done, so we start sorting through, making lists and selecting the equipment at 11 pm. Then we turn to the personal stuff. What to leave behind, what to take with us to Russia the following day. By 3am we are done with the packing and about eight double espressos. Then we leave to get the rest of the stuff and bt 4.30 we manage to dig down to the bottom of the tepee full of junk, locate the items and head for the Hostel zaya. On the way there we manage to resurrect our laptop with the help of a car phone charger and commence to hastily write three DVDs with the complete picture material of the expedition. This is a small parting gift to the participants. By four we are at the hostel, the others are just waking. Logistically event management as follows: DVD burning launched in the car, shaving at the hostel. Second DVD pop in, then a quick shower. We burn the last two DVDs en route to the airport. Here the home truth hits us that this group of people: guests, acquaintances, clients and business partners had become friends to us. We feel their loss already on the way back from the airport. This is the psychological rock-bottom of the expedition. Luckily we have to time to dwell on these sad thoughts for long. At Anar’s place we start organizing and editing the information of the Russian trip. We burn him a DVD too, sort out the finances with him too. We close the balance of the trip with drooping eyelids: a math exam would seem easier at this point. The day before Anar had hosted a wonderful dinner for the whole team, there is still plenty left for us from his wife’s wonderful dishes. And off we go to the train station. Two hours till departure, which is a minimum add-on in Mongolia. The conductor eyes our tickets and shakes his head disapprovingly: no good, come back tomorrow. No we almost explode. We had specifically made sure to buy the tickets one month ahead, what on earth could be wrong with it, now?! He points his finger at the date, the ticket is valid till the 11th of July. We only now realize that the ticket office had sold us the tickets on the 8th of July for the 11th, instead of the 11th of August. All our plans come crashing down around us. We rush to the ticket office and yes, we have to purchase the ticket again. Luckily there is a train that night but the price is the double of what the original had been. Never mind, we are on track again and have no intention of budging from the train station. We sit in the waiting lounge, order one coffee per hour and catch up with the administrative tasks on our laptop. Hopefully, by this time tomorrow we will be sitting on the shores of the Bajkal Sea under the Burjat sun, getting ready for the next expedition, similarly on horseback across the East-Siberian wilderness.

The rest of the team has no idea about what has been happening, they are still feeling sorry for us because of the long bus journey when we appear at the airport. But they take it all in their stride: they are gradually becoming used to the Mongolian ways. In the end the vile methods of Nature’s Door had gotten the upper hand. They had made the unsuspecting group pay ten dollars per head for the two nights that we had spent sleeping on the ground of our equipment tent and in addition they had to pay up almost double of the official price (120 USD) for the two hour long journey from Hatgal to Murun. End of story. There is nothing we can do at this point but we vow to seek out the European owner for there is still a slight chance that he is unaware of these lowly dealings that go on behind his back. We sleep through the flight and arrive to the capital. We head straight for our accommodation (the well known Zaya Hostel from our previous turn) where we are told that since we had arrived a day late we would be put up in another, more austere building. Never mind that we had paid for the two rooms three weeks beforehand. The owner still has no scruples about shouting at us for keeping two of his employees up till such late hours. And he does this under the “24 hour reception” notice. We nod our heads, wordless. No one wants to spend the night on the streets. We are for a moment whisked back to the Soviet era of the eighties Hungary. After all this we head for the local black market where we purchase saddles and traditional Mongolian robes. Of course we also pay a visit to the grand government-run souvenir shop where we buy horse themed trinkets, camelhair doublets and prayer shawls. We deserve this much. One of the team members invites all of us for dinner and drinks to celebrate this day and the two wonderful weeks we had spent together. Following, we all retire for tomorrow we have to get up at 4 am to escort our guest to the airport in time for their 6 am flight to Beijing.

Due to booking and financial difficulties Anar and I are unable to secure a flight for ourselves back to Ulaanbaatar. In the morning we try one last time, but no, the travel agency informs us that there is definitely no place on the flight. Thus we have to get to Murun where we hope to catch the afternoon bus to the capital and then to arrive before noon the following day, hopefully just about masking it for the arrival of the team. But first and foremost we have to sort out our payment with Nature’s Door, the company from whom we had been renting our horses. The following had been agreed, put into contract and signed both by Orkhon, the manager of the local camping, and the manager of the Ulaanbaatar branch: big kitbags, quality, serviceable equipment, only one tour escort, we choose the preferred route, and so on and so forth. Needless to say, that none of the above had been provided and they intend to charge us more than the agreed amount claiming that the horses are “tired”. Orkhon calls the manager of the other camp who plainly denies that the company would belong to a British individual (later a member of our groups speak to the owner personally but we hear of this when it’s already too late). She also threatens Orkhon that she might loose her job if she isn’t able to make us pay up. The final sum includes the pack and riding horses of our escorts plus those days on which we practically hadn’t even been riding. But what can be done? Even though we have our doubts, our European conscience wins over, we pay for the non-existing kit bags and the days when we hadn’t even been near a horse. Of course it’s not just Orkhon that we are concerned about: we don’t want the team to “miss” the flight from Ulaanbaatar and then from Peking as a result of the travel agency’s revenge. So we pay up, quickly pack our bags and by noon we are in Murun. At the bus stop we are informed that there is place for only one of us and no luggage. (This consists of the complete camping kit, remaining supplies and all our own saddles.) Cul-de-sac, so to speak. In our desperation, we go to the offices of EZ Nis where lo and behold the Mongolian miracle is performed: there actually are flight tickets to Ulaanbaatar. When we stand there amazed and with a questioning look in our eyes they tell us with expressionless faces that things had changed since this morning. Our cab is unwilling to take us back to Hatgal so we opt to stay. We find a cheap hostel and start sorting through the equipment. The pictures on this post are a selection from previous days.

It was uncertain till the last moment that we would manage to reach Hatgal before nightfall yet when by the afternoon the steep valleys turned milder and the first red pines appeared on the mountain tops we knew, without doubt, that come what may we would be having a pint of lager in the local pub tonight. Exhausted and filthy, full of wounds but charged from the experience of the past few days we perk up and speedily cover the last few miles. At the campsite we hand over the horses, stroll downtown to have dinner and buy a 2.5-pint Bordjo lager in a plastic, screw-topped bottle. We animatedly discuss our adventures and it makes one proud to look over the team: these people have indeed enjoyed every single moment of the expedition. And that is the best payment in the world. Some of us even manage to muster enough energy for a shower, but most just faint into our tepee, bags and clothes included.

What we have been suspecting for days now becomes reality: if we want to reach our flight back home we have to travel over the mountains from Rinchenbulm to Hatgal in no more than two days. Airborne, this means around 100 miles. Not an impossible feat, we have trained hard enough for it, but it certainly wasn’t going to be easy. We are unable to start early enough so we drive the horses for all they’re worth till we reach the mountains but here we are forced to slow our pace, having to cross streams, navigate riverbeds, trash through thick forests, descend into deep valleys and clumber up slippery cliffs. Fortunately we are by now greatly experienced in securing our gear so we need hardly stop for adjustments. By afternoon we cross over the biggest mountain pass and wearily ride on till dusk hoping to cover half the distance by nightfall. We set camp among barren mountains and in freezing temperatures. Some are unable to stay awake and wait for dinner and we still have to bake buns for the following day. But the sceneries of the day compensate us for the hardships. We had passed gushing, crystal clear stream, laced mountain peaks and among emerald green pine trees.

Today hasn’t been the most popular one. Upon leaving Cagannur we turn southeast, in steady rain and under grey clouds and head for Rinchenbulm. The massive valley stretches monotonously ahead, and the trials and excitements of the last few days begin to take their toll on us. We trot along in a resigned manner, even the horses seem to feel a bit depressed. By nightfall we reach the city and erect camp in the grey dusk further on.

The family (parents and two children) sleep with us in the tent. The mom breastfeeds the smaller child, while making breakfast-tea, without any sign of embarrassment. Slowly we crawl out of our sleeping bags too and chat to them about our lives and theirs, about the contrasting differences and about the similarities. We eat fresh bread with the remaining tins of food, walk around the camp a few more times and finally manage to get ready with difficulties. Half way we are once more surrounded by clouds of mosquitoes and flies and as Monh had not spent the night with us but had gone back to base camp (apparently the Mongolians are forbidden to spend the night with Catans) we choose a different root. We cut across a narrow rift, prance around for a few hours next to the riverbed. The horses are seriously put to trial by the difficulties. They have to perform incredible feats in the metre high brush and over sharp rocks and madly gushing water. Here one of our previous jokes, sprung up amongst us during the ominous 30 hours minivan ride: “what an expeditional experience!”, finally takes on a real meaning. In the afternoon we return from our mad roaming, we pack our stuff and late at night we reach Cagannur. We find the rest of our team and fall into our tents like so many logs.

The sunrise greets us in a globe of fiery terracotta as the mist of dawn cascades over the nearby river. We pack and set out in a hasty manner. By early afternoon we are at one of Monh’s friends were we drink tea and set out to erect base camp. Nothing mind-blowing; just to be able to leave the pack horses with most of the heavy equipment behind. We pack the sleeping bags, two tents and two days’ worth provision on our horses and head for the snow-capped mountains. The landscape around us soon changes. Blueberries and alpine willows grow under the massive pines. Eventually even this peters out and all we are surrounded by are gigantic rocks, marshes, moss and lichen. We must be way over 2000 metres (how many feet??) by now and the 3000metres peaks in the distance have acquired snow caps over the last few days. By nightfall when nobody believes any more that humans have ever lived here, over the very last mountain pass we glimpse the outlines of a tepee, children run to greet us while we joyously take note of the fact that we have finally arrived. We have reached the final destination of our expedition: we are among the Catan peoples. Monh orchestrates the necessary introductory and tribute paying ceremonies and we are ushered into one of the tents were we are offered hot tea and bread baked in hot ashes. We unpack all our provisions, offer food around to the two-dozen kids crowding the entrance of the tent and get ready to cook dinner around the family fire. The first stars are up in the sky when the reindeers arrive from the mountains. The families all emerge from their tents, each reindeer is lead away milked and secured for the night. The reindeers are much more friendly here than the horses. They come after us, lick our hands and faces in curiosity, follow us around and fix us with their slightly dumb yet friendly, moist, brown gaze. Unfortunately modern times have reached even the Catan peoples: most tepees have satellite parabolas and sun batteries. Inside the tents we see plastic buckets and western style clothes. The tents are not made of reindeer’s skin anymore but from green military canvas. But why should this bother us? The landscape and the people are wonderful, the family invites us to sleep with them in the tee-pee that night rather than out in the freezing cold. We wander around between the peaceful deer and friendly children. We drink our teas with reindeer milk and gaze at the bleak, sombre mountains surrounding us. What a haven!

By dawn the bright stars had faded, a wind picked up and by the time daylight arrives a sad, ice-cold rain shimmers over the landscape. The wind grows stormy and the meticulously dried equipment is soon soggy again. We stumble about 120 metres and retire to a shelter house. With this equipment most of us would not survive the day under these weather conditions. It must be around 5 Celsius, the rain pours down vertically. The family welcomes us with fresh warm bread and home churned butter. Everyone crowds around glowing hearth. We soon set out again and by the afternoon we reach the Bank of the Sarga River (in Mongolian sarga means mud) where we cross over on a ferry. Horses included, of course. The ferry is built Mongolian style: wooden planks fixed onto a few rusty metal barrels and we navigate across the river with by hauling ourselves with our hands using a wire rope stretched from one bank to the other. The rope does not quite reach the shore so we have to coax the horses the jump half a metre aboard from chest-deep water. We all stand disbelieving as the Mongolians make the horses jump onto the ferry and watch in amazement as the horses stand motionless across the waters where they repeat the same jumping ceremony without any difficulties. Pat Parelli would swoon at the sight, we joke. But the show is not quite over. There is no time to put all horses aboard so as the ferry simply starts off the horses are dragged into the water and then they are let loose. In a few minutes the swimming team overtakes the ferry and clambers out on the other side. Following the crossing our tem splits into two. Two of us head for the town of Cagannur to rehabilitate themselves in the wake of the trials and tribulations of the two previous days while the others grit their teeth, expelling thoughts of soggy socks and aching wounds from their minds and turn their horses towards the northern pass where they intend to find the Catan tribes.

Early in the morning we have to walk down to the valley for the horses, by the time we get back and pack our kit, already four hours have passed. Later on we arrive to the unpronounceable town of Rinchnbulm, we buy a few odd things in the local shop and have a cup of tea to alleviate the mild symptoms of dehydration, digestive difficulties or simply exhaustion from the many difficult miles covered the day before. Soon we gather our belongings and head for the huge Darkat Valley. As we ride north soon dark clouds gather over our heads, screaming winds and thundering hail scours the landscape, it is impossible to ride on. We have to stop, turning our backs to the wind and wait for the storm to abide. Our equipment and provisions emerge greatly battered after twenty minutes of mad wind and rain, most of us slouch on our horses shivering and chilled to the bone. But to the credit of the group no one demands to stop and find a sheltered place to dry. “Let’s ride till it’s over”, we say, and canter on. Water sloshes around in the 400 US$ worth Goretex boots and the waterproof riding pants, purchased for a bit less, feel like wet knickers now. Regardless of how brave we feel its not worth catching our death out in the cold, so we soon stop at a small wooden lodge, are offered yoghurt, warm tea and plenty of kindness and we warm our numb arms and legs and soon continue our journey. By eight in the evening we find a relatively high meadow, set camp and gaze at the mountains, still glowing from the afternoon sun, the amber sunset and the milky star dusted sky till late in the night.

In the morning one of our pack horses breaks loose and gallops away. Although we manage to approach it on a few occasions it still manages to get away, and its rider returns unsuccessfully. We mount our horses and together with the Mongolians we ride off in pursuit. Eventually we find it in the middle of the forest and as by now it has calmed down we manage to catch it and heave a sigh a relief. On the way back we never break our speedy gallop until one of the Mongolians falls over so badly that he and his horse slide many feet across the muddy surface.
The guy and his friend just laugh, we tighten the straps and the friendly race continues. This crowd is not easily perturbed. Another hour on horseback and we head west in a canyon towards the mountains. By noon we are up in the Dzsiglegin Pass and continue our way across marshes, muddy fields and ravines down to the Darkat Basin. We snack on blackberries and pine nuts and ride long miles warmed by the afternoon sunlight across a carpet of flowering wild garlic and edelweiss.
Around us rise peaks over 6500 feet high and in some places we cross deep ravines the size of valleys scattered with stones and dead tree trunks. According to our estimate we must have covered around 45 miles today: our longest distance so far. In theory today is the day here for the total eclipse of the sun. We only catch glimpse of the end of it but are not bothered about it: we are here to see other sights. We set camp in a woodland area, while our Mongolians take the horses further where, according to them, they would be able to graze under better conditions. The water has to be hauled up from the valley, which takes an hour and not many of us are still awake when finally the dinner gong is sounded.