(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.

In the southern part of Guatemala, from East to West stretches a volcanic mountain range that can be found in whole of Central America. These volcanoes, after erupting, covered most of the Pacific coast with black volcanic ash. This is the reason why the beaches here are black, as if a huge fire had burnt it all a few days ago (more…)

As we pass Livingston, we are told about the upcoming Garifuna-festival, so why not, we think, let’s stay a bit. The atlantic shores of Guatemala were also settled by the Garinagu way back, which makes Livingston the only town in the country where every window plays reggae, the majority of the population is black and everyone is a musical talent. This became obvious at once when the small girl, busy frying potatoes in the street gave us such a improvisation of a well-known song that every non-local person turned around to look where does this voice come from.
This festival is the Garifuna Settlement Day here, a different day at every Garifuna village along the coast. The program is similar everywhere, a group of locals decorate some canoes and re-enact the flight, arrival and first years of life of their ancestors. (more…)

Black bodies glitter in the white foam, reggae fills the air, a huge local woman is busy working on her Saturday “chickin” barbecue; the waves push gently against the heaps of turf under the coconut palms, everything is still, only a few frigate birds sail in the air above the reef. On board the sailboat everyone is asleep, only one of us holds a fishing-rod lazily, we hardly make any way in the calm air as the graffiti of seagulls and pelicans follows us along bright-blue piers. (more…)

Although according to some the word Garifuna is not a word for the language itself, but a plural of Garinagu, the Garinagu themselves couldn’t care less.
- Yo man -, they nod from behind their dreadlocks, – Garinagu, yessss, Garifuna!
The Garifuna culture, tracing it’s routes back to only a couple of centuries, is the most prominent along the coast of Belize. (more…)

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.

Belize is just so different to Guatemala. The roads are mostly litter-free, the gardens around local homes are neat and tended, the majority of the population is African, people are mostly honest and no one wants to cheat you just because you are a foreigner. (more…)

From the icy mountains we descend to Lake Atitlan. After a brief rest we make it to the city, then Coban, and Semuc Champey. (more…)

The party began yesterday, with video game machines and Disneyworld-swings ruling the main square. The painfully loud marimba music filled the air while costumed people danced in masks. We are up early, headed for the village outskirts where a closed field waits for the stars of the day: the jockeys. (more…)

Leaving the hot, suntanned coast of Mexico, we arrive overnight to Guatemala, the home of chicken buses, breathtaking curves and the Chuchumatanes range of the ancient Maya. (more…)

Since the famous movie, the name of Puerto Escondido is familiar with every traveler in the world. Although the atmosphere of hammock-slinging and barefoot walking is long gone, anyone looking for a peaceful, but “civilized” retreat should come here with their family. (more…)

Just like in Rome the thing with that fountain, Oaxaca also has its own legend: anyone eating from the fried, hot grasshoppers available at the central market is sure to return in the future. (more…)

We pay for our stay so far (At 300 roubles per head, this is the cheapest and best stay so far.) We all pile into the Volga again; apparently Tola had prepared an interesting outing for us for today. We head north, leaving Barguzin and eventually stop in front of a Datsaan (Buryatian Buddhist temple). This too, is a hyper-holy place. (more…)

The day before had drained all our remaining strength and although today we had planned to visit the famous Baikal seal colony we are unable to wake up before seven in the morning. We rather go for a walk in town, sort out the budget of the trip and we ask our kind hosts about the local tourist possibilities. (more…)

At the spur of the moment we had arranged a light hike for today the night before. It would have been a shame to spend the day basking in the warm autumn sunshine on the patio of our house. It’s a three-hour car ride to the Isle of Svety Nos (Holy Nose) that stretches from East to West in the middle of the Baikal Sea. (more…)

The bus that takes us from Kuchiger to Kurumkan leaves at seven every morning given that there are passengers who book seats the night before. The ticket costs 100 roubles per head and per luggage and after a three hours journey we arrive at our destination. There we find a local driver who agrees to take us to Ulan-Ude. (more…)

Everyone calms down a bit; the steam baths and mud masks work their tranquilizing effects on us. What amazing comfort and luxury! And this is no five star hotel! No horses appear as yet and one of us embarks on an illegal hunting trip. For a few thousand roubles he is escorted in the company of a 0.22 to try his skills at deer hunting. Eventually five horses show up so part of the team is able to set out. The scenery is beautiful but unfortunately as we proceed, we keep having to avoid gates and fences of all kind. But finally we are able to gallop at full speed with total abandonment. In the evening we visit the bath again and afterwards the director invites us to join him for a local Buryatian dinner. He seems convinced that we are the ones who will promote the bath abroad. No problems with that, the waters are truly special (our wounds from riding heal unusually fast), the surroundings are peaceful and beautiful, customer service and hospitality are above average and most importantly we don’t have the constant nagging feeling that we are being taken for dickybirds. The only catch in all this is the knowledge that when the tour buses arrive then they will need shops and discos, temperature control systems and tiled showers. And that will be the end of the magic. Dinner is amazing: they serve us pozi. This is a dish similar to the Mongolian buz. It consists of beef mince rolled in steamed puff pastry and accompanied by carrot and cabbage pickles, tea and of course, vodka. Everyone is expected to make a speech before toasting to the mutual co-operation. Our dear host gets tipsy very soon and after tapping the next bottle he directs us all to the “dance floor”. Now we all have to dance, no excuse accepted. The CD player on the floor crackles out popularized buryatian folk songs and Russian DNB. Just three more songs, he enthusiastically proposes. And then we can all sit down. Around midnight we make our polite exit; we need to get up at six the next morning to catch the one and only bus to Kurumkan.

We all stand around the fire ready to leave when Djargal arrives amidst great engine revving and inform us that there would be no horses, we can all bugger off and leave him alone. “Dasvidania”, he bellows. Somebody must have pissed the poor guy off big time. (more…)