Horses and Khatgal

“When I was 17,” Ganbaa explains, “I was a wrestler. And a group of us went to Russia, wrestling. There were no tall buildings in Ulaanbaatar at the time, and so, when we stayed in this Russian hotel, the lift was a new thing on us.”

We had intended to spend one night at Ganbaa’s ger camp in Khatgal, but within seconds of arriving we’ve decided to stay longer. Partly, this is because we have our very own ger, complete with central stove and that Tardis-like effect that means it easily fits three beds plus other stuff.

Partly, this is because Ganbaa has two delightful daughters, one a baby, one a little younger than Zac, and guys are at work building a log cabin out the back, which provides ample opportunity for climbing and general child stuff, when poor Zac’s not getting his arse whipped at chess…

“We didn’t know what to do at all!” Ganbaa continues, miming the action of a man desperately trying to close lift doors manually. “We tried and we tried to close the doors, all of us pulling on them. We called some guys from the adult wrestling team, and they couldn’t move the doors either. So we talked and talked about it, and in the end we thought: ‘It’s just a button – it’s not going to kill us, right?’ And we pressed the button for the ninth floor and the doors closed.”

Mongolia has come a long way in Ganbaa’s lifetime. When he was a child, potatoes were a rare treat. Today, his wife cooks with fresh ingredients daily, and his older daughter, though still a child, is already approaching him in height.

There are few better places in the world to do a long horse ride than Mongolia, the least densely populated country on earth, where cowboys still herd their flocks on horseback and presidential candidates pose astride a galloping horse.

We are in Khatgal, of course, because we want to do a long horseback trip across Mongolia. There are few better places in the world to do a long horse ride than Mongolia, the least densely populated country on earth, where cowboys still herd their flocks on horseback and presidential candidates pose atop a galloping horse.

And Ganbaa can arrange this for us. We’re going to head along the shores of Khovsgol Nuur, cut through a mountain pass, then work our way across the plains to the taiga, where the Tsaatan (“reindeer people”), a group of the Tuva minority, stranded by geopolitics on the wrong side of the Russian border, live in tepees herding reindeer. A night or two with the reindeer people, and we’ll wend our way back by a different route.

It will take at the very least more than two weeks, quite possibly over three.

Ganbaa and I sit down with the map, and discuss prices. A horse for me, a horse for Zac, a packhorse and a guide on his own horse will work out under £45 per day; we have our sleeping bags from Everest Base Camp; Ganbaa will throw in a decent tent, helmets plus cooking and eating utensils; and we can leave whatever we’re not taking at his place.

If Zac decides he doesn’t like it within the first five days, we can turn round and come back.

“Also,” says Ganbaa sternly. “Be sure to take a bottle of vodka. Just a small one. It’s good for emergencies. It can snow on the pass.”

I spend the big end of a day trawling around the various tiny shops in Khatgal, looking for essentials such as vegetables, garlic, spices and fresh meat — and, of course, coffee — small gifts for our hosts such as notebooks, pens and sweets, working out what I can get where, and then lugging back vast quantities of food.

Garlic, it appears, is almost as hard to find as mosquito nets in Ternate, Indonesia. Green stuff? Fuhgeddabodit.

“The meat will be good for four days, maybe five,” says Ganbaa. “Just ask your guide to look after it. He’ll cut it up for you.”

“Really?!” I say.

I’m not hung up on food hygiene, but British meat does not last five days sans refrigeration, though of course these guys are the heirs of Genghis Khan, and steak tartare was named for the Mongolian (“Tartar”) habit of tenderising meat under the saddles of their horses.

“Also,” says Ganbaa solemnly. “Be sure to take a bottle of vodka. Just a small one. It’s good for emergencies. It can snow on the pass.”

Baatar, who will be our guide, arrives on an evil-tempered black stallion in a haze of vodka fumes, a fantabulous traditional del in shades of brown and gold, and a Mongolian stetson, trailing three horses and two teenage sons.

And, lo, it’s time to go. Baatar, who will be our guide, arrives on an evil-tempered black stallion in a haze of vodka fumes, a fantabulous traditional del in shades of brown and gold, and a Mongolian stetson, trailing three horses and two teenage sons.

The boys, very much in the manner of someone taking someone’s new car for a spin, demonstrate the mettle of our steeds, bringing them to a gallop from a standing start and round in a painfully tight circle, eyes rolling.

Wow.

These aren’t, I realise, a little belatedly, the type of relatively stodgy mountain horses that we rode on our three-day horseback trip through the snow in Songpan, China. Nor are they the kind of tourist horses that we rode for a couple of days in Guatemala when Zac was barely six.

Nor are they well-behaved British riding school horses, like the type I rode as a child.

Nope. These are serious-ass horses, used to people who can really, really ride.

On the small side, sure, particularly Zac’s, but spirited as hell.

Baatar expertly packs and repacks our gear, and, with his sons’ help, loads it onto the packhorse.

“You mount them always from the left, never from the right. They don’t like being approached from the right.” I instinctively approach mine from the right. He rears up on his back legs and whinnies.

“So,” says Ganbaa, as we look rather nervously at our steeds. “Some things you need to know about Mongolian horses. You mount them always from the left, never from the right. They don’t like being approached from the right.”

I instinctively approach mine from the right. He rears up on his back legs and whinnies.

Jesus!

“You watching this, Zac?” I ask.

“Always from the left, check!” responds my spawn.

“You ride with the left hand on the reins, the right hand on the lead reins,” Ganbaa says. “And you steer like this…”

He demonstrates the hold, knuckles skyward, moving his left hand smoothly from left to right across the top of the horse’s neck.

OK, I think. That sounds doable. I try it. Zac tries it.

Baatar’s horse lets rip gigantically, as if a giant were unzipping a duvet cover somewhere in the heavens. “That was Baatar’s horse!” exclaims Zac. “That no horse! That Baatar!” Baatar yells back.

We mount, and then we’re off, trotting through low log cabins towards larch forest, the horses farting exuberantly under our weight, Zac sniggering happily.

Baatar’s horse lets rip gigantically, as if a giant were unzipping a duvet cover somewhere in the heavens.

“That was Baatar’s horse!” exclaims Zac.

“That no horse! That Baatar!” Baatar yells back.

There is something about horseback trekking that brings out the tween boy in all of us.

“That’s why Mongolians don’t eat vegetables!” I yell.

Baatar bellows with laughter.

I feel an immense sense of relief. We’re going to be stuck with this guy for the next two or three weeks, cooking with him, eating with him, camping with him, riding with him.

And it looks like we’re all going to get on OK.

You can read the next post in this series on riding to see the reindeer people here.

You can contact Ganbaa on lake_hovsgol@yahoo.com. He runs MS Guesthouse, which is the first guesthouse you see as you go into Khatgal, and arranged our permits for the border region around Tsaggannuur.