Burning horse dung doesn’t smell as bad
as you might think — a thought I’d never
expected to ponder, I realise, as I watch our
Mongolian host pour another bucket of hard
droppings into the stove.
I’m the unexpected guest of a typically
hospitable nomadic family in Khövsgöl, a vast
and rugged province in Northern Mongolia.
The journey had been relentlessly thwarted
by appalling spring weather: howling winds
strengthened over hundreds of miles, snow
storms that dumped drits across roads.
My guide and I had spent ive hard hours
spinning and sliding through knee-high
powder in a draughty Russian van. Having
spotted crystallised goats packed together,
we prayed to every god that we’d also ind
the nomads they belonged to. Eventually,
blessedly, the scufed white of a traditional
Mongolian ger emerged through the
blizzard. Unexpected visitors in the midst
of a snowstorm seemed not to phase the
family inside in the slightest. We were switly
ushered to the let of the ger — the visitors’
side — and told to sit on the narrow wooden
bed, before being furnished with a bucket
of boortsog (dough fried in mutton fat), aarul
(rock-hard goat’s curd), and steaming bowls of
salty milk tea.
Cheeks stinging from the shock of the heat
charging out of the stove, we glow pink from
chin to forehead. Warmth pulses from centre
to circumference as lurries of snowlakes
fall through a gap in the roof, hissing as they
hit hot metal.
Khövsgöl lies on the border of Russia,
sharing the same somewhat chilly Siberian
climate. It habitually hits -50C in January,
for which nomads are typically prepared.
But snowstorms in spring are a particularly
unwelcome surprise. The family, who migrate
each season, have only recently moved here,and in between them ofering us more tea,
more bread, more sweets, there are rapid,
agitated phone calls. More than 15 of their
lambs have already died in the cold and
30 goats are lost in the blizzard. Several
brothers, uncles and sons are out attempting
to ind them.
The goat search team registers only the
mildest surprise at our presence as they
return. As the inal man stoops through the
door, he shakes his head. No luck, they tell
us. They’ll try again in the morning.
In the meantime, there’s always vodka.
A jar of clear, slightly viscous liquor,
distilled from fermented tarag (a type of
yoghurt), is conjured from a locked cabinet.
A single glass is passed between each of
us and repeatedly returned to be reilled.
There’s no sign of abating. A pack of cards is
produced and dealt for durak, a game known
across Mongolia that’s played with much
strategy, patience, and vigorous throwing
down of cards. I lose dismally; it must have
been the vodka.
We eat a dinner of dried meat and
handmade noodles before rolling out
blankets — custom dictating that our feet
face the door. Crocodile clips are removed
from a car battery and the light lickers
of. Only irelight remains, picking out the
ger’s central struts in gold; the last few
snowlakes drit lazily down between them. IMAGES: GETTYRUNNER-UPMONGOLIA: GOATS & A GER
A TRADITIONAL MONGOLIAN TENT PROVIDES REFUGE IN A STORM FOR ALL
BUT THE FURRY MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. WORDS: STEPHANIE TURNBULLGers in the snow in
Ulgii, Mongolia192 nationalgeographic.co.uk/travel
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