A meeting with Mongolian nomads

Rob, Misha and the neverending Mongolian plains. Photo / Rob Gray

Two days west of Ulan Bator, we reach the end of the road. Between us and the border town of Tashanta, 2000 kilometres away, stretch only tracks and trails, spreading their way across the steppes like a river delta.

This is a land of horses and, more recently, four-wheel drives. We saw several smaller cars bogged down, wheels submerged in thick mud.

Winding along the rutted tracks and potholed trails, it is easy to be distracted. Nomads sit proudly on their horses, herding patchwork flocks of goats, sheep and yaks. Camels lumber awkwardly past.

We climb higher and higher, until ice and snow appear, winter reluctant to give up its grasp even though it is officially summer.

I am entranced by the rusty folds of hills and the ancient, wizened faces of mountains - mountains the colour of flame, of charcoal, of sunlight. Everything is naked: trees are rare in this region.

The weather is proud and unpredictable. Clouds are ever-present and familiar, marking the land below with their shadows.

We turn off the frayed series of tracks, over a rise and down into a valley, looking for a campsite. The broad expanse is washed with spring green, while the surrounding peaks have not yet shaken their coating of snow. A river plays its way through the valley, and we set up our tents within earshot of its gurgling laughter.

A family soon appears: two young boys with dirty faces, a woman with wavy black hair, wind-burned cheeks and horse-riding boots, her husband and the husband's mother, who is clothed in a traditional gown, with a face that has seen many summers.

The man is instantly inquisitive, as all Mongolian men seem to be. Eager to learn, and freed from the sense of "that's mine, and that's yours" that we have in the Western world, he handles everything, examining our bikes and gear with innocence.

We take photos of the family, and then present them with a gift: a photo of the five of us, standing next to our motorbikes on the shores of Lake Baikal.

The present is passed around with keen hands, grasping at their new prize. The man then points to the camera, to his family, and mimes pulling a photo out of the bottom of the camera. He would like a copy of the photos we have just taken, photos which he has seen on the digital screen of our camera.

Explaining that the process is not 'camera to paper', but rather 'camera to computer to processing shop to paper', proves futile.

Our new friends stare with blank expressions. Naively, I try a long shot: "Email?" I ask.

"We can send you a copy of the photos to your email address - do you have one?"

Understanding seems to spark from the young woman's eyes, and she takes the pen and paper I offer.

When she returns it, I realise that she has simply written the names of each member of her family. She proceeds to introduce each one in turn, pointing at the paper and then at the person.

Although I am unable to explain why I cannot produce the photos, the nomads are gracious and allow us to accompany them back to their yurt, located on the other side of a rare stand of saplings.

Emerging into the sunlight again, the only indication that we are in the 21st century is a solar panel suspended on a long pole. Yaks graze around us, the grass fresh and bright. Two yurts stand before us, the brilliance of their white domes amplified by the afternoon sun.

We are welcomed into a yurt that is surprisingly neat, clean and orderly. Shuffling respectfully to the handmade wooden stools we are offered, we take in the surroundings.

Above us, the circular skeleton of the yurt is exposed, the long thin wooden poles of the roof spreading evenly like bicycle spokes. A hole in the top provides light and ventilation, with a chimney rising from the ancient iron hearth.

The framework is fastened by metal pins, crudely twisted, and leather straps. Richly carpeted walls surround us, providing insulation from the harsh seasons. On closer inspection, the carpets are made from a motley collection of floor rugs and old clothes stitched together.

The yurt is furnished with two metal beds, a small shrine, some trinkets and cheap plastic toys on a shelf, and a small wooden bench for preparing food. Grass creeps in the edges around the blue-squared linoleum that covers the floor.

Within minutes, our host, the young lady we had been communicating with, brings us soft bread with sugar sprinkled on top. This is followed by thick, natural yoghurt, lumpy and hinting of lemon. We eat this with a large spoonful of sugar mixed in. Finally we are given a milky tea, drawn from a bucket and heated in a rusty pan over the hearth. Smelling like black tea, it tastes mildly salty, like porridge-water.

Neighbours are called, and soon we are surrounded by curious herdsmen and their families. The children are fascinated by our cameras, learning to take photos and screaming with excitement each time they see a new image on the digital screen.

We leave the yurt as sunset colours the river, snowy mountains and mist with vivid oranges and pinks.

The next morning, as we depart from the valley, we are farewelled by the lady's husband and her brother, who watch us from horseback.

Memories of the yurt stay with me throughout that day and the rest of the week, as we continue to ride deeper into central Mongolia.

The lifestyle and warm welcome of the nomads moves me. I realise how different their existence is from their fellow Mongolians in Ulan Bator, who dress in Western clothing, drive expensive Western cars and are dominated by the Western obsession to hurry, hurry, hurry.

I realise, too, how different these herdsmen are from the men we meet in small towns along our route, men who are constantly drunk and swarm like flies around our bikes, towns that smell, as Climo bluntly observed, "of urine and broken dreams".

As we travel west, we see roadworks and activity along our route. A giant new highway is being created, a huge gouge across an otherwise untouched landscape.

In a year or two, it will be possible to travel across Mongolia with ease, not feeling the impact of each pothole and slippery rut.

I can't help but think of our nomadic friends and wonder whether this new highway will shatter their sheltered existence and isolation.

What benefit will the new road bring them? Will the new opportunities be worth the loss of innocence and oblivion?

* To help Rob and his mates reach their fundraising target for the Living Hope charitable organisation in Vladivostok and for more information on their journey, click here.