Mongolia Rainbows and reindeer, part 2.

Dateline Mongolia, just north of Moron.

June 2026

Mongolia Series 1 Instalment 2.

 

After battering our poor bodies almost into submission over some of the worst roads imaginable for something like nine hours over two days we find ourselves standing at what amounts to the gateway to another world. A world so alien and forbidden that the twenty first century is only now starting to impose itself. This is the world of the Tsaatan, perhaps the last true nomadic tribe in all of Asia.

At a tiny cabin at the end of the road we meet Battulga who mounts his horse and rounds up our reindeer to bring them to us. As they approach we realize that they are all sporting a variety of saddles and random bits of harness as these are to be our transport for the last seven or eight km to the actual Tsaatan village. Reindeer are not that big, only a few inches taller than a Shetland pony so mounting up requires that one must kind of spring up and swing the right leg over the saddle.

Easier said than done for stiff jointed oldies like me. Once mounted it is immediately apparent that reindeer have a peculiar loose, rolling skin not unlike a merino sheep. Now, I have been able to ride a horse since my dad stuck me on the saddle of an ancient stock horse at the age of four , slapped it on the rump and told me to hang on and quit complaining. I have subsequently spent many hundreds of hours, including a period of earning a living riding horses and only ever been unseated twice so it was with huge embarrassment that I found myself being assisted up off the ground where my reindeer had unceremoniously dumped me by the simple expedient of stepping sharply to the right, the saddle rolled to the left and gravity did it’s thing. It was immediately suggested that I might be more comfortable on a  horse, a suggestion I was more than happy to accept. This however was no Mongolian race horse and I spend the next hour and a half cajoling the reluctant and clumsy beast to keep up.

Those reindeer however, set a cracking pace, not once faltering under their burdens which must have been at least one third of their own body weight.

 

As we prepared to set out, a near new, Russian made copy of a WWII Jeep loaded down with five government officials and supplies turned up, determined to drive in to the village, despite all advice to the contrary. Their task apparently, was to conduct an annual census of livestock numbers, ie count the reindeer. They set out ahead of us only to have us pass them sometime later as they tried valiantly to extricate their vehicle from the swampy mire that was steadily swallowing it. As we passed by a very powerful looking guy in military fatigues and holding an axe came struggling out of the forest with about seven metres of larch tree over his shoulder, no doubt to be applied as a lever under the stricken “Jeep”. Much later that afternoon they did eventually arrive at the village and were immediately given, food drink and lodging. They also spent many hours repairing the vehicle that appeared to have collapsed it’s rear suspension among other issues.

The village itself is located in a gorgeous valley of low bush with a trickling stream through the centre and flanked on both sides by forested mountains rising to bare rocky peaks with snow on the tops to the north. Bernie and I are immediately drawn to the prospect of hiking at least to the snow line on this northern range but Zaya suggests we might prefer the southern range as there are bears to the north! Brown bears!! Closely related to the grizzly. She claims that the bears would be more afraid of us of than us of them but we know that is absolutely a lie. I would do what bears are reputed to do. If confronted by a bear I would definitely shit in the woods! Especially after Zaya regales us with a story of Olsen and a group of village men, out on a hunt, being attacked by a crazed and starving bear in the middle of a winter night. It had not gained enough weight during the summer to successfully go into hibernation so wandered the forest desperate to find any food it could, even humans. They fended it off once but it was only wounded, making it even more enraged. The men built up their fire to deter it only to have it return again where upon Olsen was able to shoot it. Hunting, by the way, is expressly banned in the taiga to protect the wild populations of moose, elk, bears, foxes and others but the Tsaatan depend on game meat to survive and have managed to successfully sustainably manage wild populations for centuries. So it seems there is a kind of don’t ask don’t tell attitude taken by the government. Unfortunately this means only the meat can be used, not the skins as these would be a very obvious indication that rules had been broken.

Quickly we settle into daily life in the village, following the time worn routines of the people and their animals. Adult reindeer are allowed to roam free during the day, into the forest to graze on the wild vegetation including their favourite, moss which grows in abundance on the forest floor. Meanwhile the babies are tethered to poles in the village to prevent them from wandering off and being taken by wolves, wolverines or bears which roam nearby. Then the adults are brought back to camp before sunset and tied up for the night. The females are milked for human consumption being sure to leave sufficient for the babies (calves) who are then released for the night and given a snack of moss, gathered from the forest.

After eating and drinking their fill the calves are free to frolic around the village for the evening. They can be heard galloping about and pawing at the teepees like mischievous children all night long. They never stray far from their mothers and there are several large dogs who roam around the camp to deter the predators. Next morning the calves are tied up, the adults released again and so the cycle continues for several months until the calves are mature enough to fend for themselves.

During the day Zaya takes us around to meet the various families at their teepees. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the villagers live in teepees, exactly as you would see on the great plains of North America before European colonisation. In fact these people are closely genetically linked to native Americans, giving rise to all sorts of theories about ancient migrations across the Bering Sea.

At every teepee we visit we are immediately invited in and given tea and bread or biscuits. An elder even demonstrates the traditional art of bread making and prepares a fresh loaf, not unlike a damper which she cooks directly in the coals of her fire. It is delicious. The same woman, proudly proclaims that each of her nine children have a different father and that she has raised them all by herself. This level of what we might call promiscuity is not uncommon here. Monogamy and matrimony are clearly not as important here as in the west.

 

At another teepee we meet the village Shaman, in this case, a woman in her mid sixties. The Shaman is akin to a tribal spiritual leader. Several times a year she will perform ceremonies where, with the accompaniment of a mouth harp, a drum, a ceremonial head dress and much chanting/singing she will enter a trance like state. Once suitably entranced, she will communicate with the spirit world and glean information about what lies in the future of her people. These ceremonies can last up to six hours. Her position within the tribe is greatly respected and revered. A Shaman can be either a male or a female depending on which village he/she serves. In this case she is female and all previous and future Shamans in this village will be female and always from the same family. No one seems to know if it will be the daughter or grand daughter who will inherit the role when “Auntie” (she is Olsen’s aunt) finally passes to the spirit world herself.

On our arrival at the camp we were allocated two guest teepees so Sally and Ella claim one while Bernie and I take the other. On the second night Sally and Ella face an emergency which might have been catastrophic if it weren’t so comical. As Sally tells it, she was in that half asleep dream state when she dreamed she could smell smoke only to be snapped wide awake by Ella shouting “Sally! We’re on fire” Ever calm in a crisis, Sally springs up from her bunk and without even getting out of her sleeping bag, hops toward the door like a child in a sack race. It becomes immediately apparent that the pile of extra wood had been stacked too close to the fire box in the middle of the teepees and had ignited. The flames were soon dowsed with a bottle of water, the offending wood was moved outside and after the smoke had cleared the girls returned to their beds to sleep the rest of the night with one eye open.

On another glorious morning Bernie and I decide to take that hike (to the south, no bears) so Zaya, sensing an opportunity hands us each an empty sack and asks if we wouldn’t mind collecting some moss for the reindeer. Both Bernie and I pride ourselves on being relatively fit for old farts but the track is steep, rough and very muddy. This really should not be an issue but toss in the thinner air at this altitude and we soon find ourselves resting at regular intervals to regain our breath (that’s our story and we’re sticking to it) At a suitable point near the top of a ridge we stop to gather two sacks of moss which takes only a few minutes as the stuff is everywhere on the forest floor.

We leave the moss at the side of the track and make our way towards the top of the mountain only to have the way blocked by a field of enormous boulders, some as big as cars. After scrambling about for half an hour, in search of the spectacular view we know is to be had just a little higher up the hill we admit defeat and turn for home.

Along the way we see sign of larger animals such as elk and moose as well as spotting several small squirrel like creatures darting around through the rocks. But no bears! The return journey is much easier despite carrying perhaps twenty kg each of damp moss over our shoulders.

 

Many of the villagers earn some extra income by making and selling various artifacts from animal parts such as the antlers and also make jewellry from jade and amber found in the nearby mountains. On the afternoon following our moss gathering expedition they all come together at a central point and lay their wares out for sale. We have met a couple of other westerners in the village doing a similar thing to us and they all come along to purchase something. Sally makes a point of buying some small trinket from as many vendors as possible, all the while being mindful of Australia’s strict quarantine laws. Raw animal products such as skins or bone are a no no but the antlers appear to be OK as they have been boiled in a solution of tree bark to give them a rich red brown colour. (NB. We declared them to customs on our arrival and they didn’t bat an eyelid.)

I mentioned previously that Bernie is a master saddler. He also plaits superb Australian stock whips so as a gesture of gratitude he has plaited one to present to our hosts. While they are all busily displaying their goods for sale Bernie brings the whip out from his pack, walks quietly up behind the preoccupied group and gives it a mighty crack. The resultant gunshot crack sees about fifty people jump comically and jerk their heads towards the source of the offending noise. When Bernie reproduces the sound a couple more times and shows off some well practised skills the crowd are very appreciative. Soon one of the men shows a particular interest in having a go and actually makes a fair attempt for a beginner. As it turns out, this man is the village’s best herdsman so Bernie presents the whip to him with strict instruction to use it only to make noise, not to hit the animals.

 

After a few short days of this heavenly though Spartan life we must accept that our time here has come to an end. We will miss the interaction with these wondrous people and their animals, the time spent feeding and milking the reindeer or playing with the little kids who roam freely about the village laughing and shouting as they make up new games to play.

The older kids, over six all attend school in Tsaagan Nuur where they stay in dorms for up to three months at a time so we don’t get to meet any of them. In fact a few of them are just starting to arrive back in camp for the holiday break as we leave. But leave we must and after a tearful goodbye we once again mount our reindeer and march off into the endless taiga. This time I manage to stay seated on my ride, for a while that is. First Ella takes a small tumble which sees her deposited very close to an icy stream. She is uninjured and climbs right back into the saddle. A short while later my reindeer loses his footing and almost face plants in the mud. I have no alternative than to roll off to the side to allow him to regain his footing. (The GoPro footage below almost captures the moment of my second demise.)

The laughter has barely subsided when Bernie, expert horseman Bernie, performs a near carbon copy of my disgraceful effort, landing in even deeper mud. To rub salt into our wounds some time later when we reach our rendezvous point for the four wheel drive, Sally gleefully points out that she is indeed the only one of us not to fall from her steed.

Uuche, our driver, is here to meet us again and we cram ourselves into his mighty Russian mountain goat of a van and start the arduous journey back to “civilisation”. But all of us are now questioning just what is civilised and what is not. Our return trip takes two days  across country  stopping at a quite luxurious resort at Lake Khuvsgol, a lake so large it was once home to the Mongolian Navy. It stretches some 150 km to almost reach the Russian border. The weather however has sadly turned a little grey and visibility is reduced to a hundred metres or so. We contemplate a boat cruise but decide against it. Maybe next time.

Will there be a next time? Well if Sally and Zaya have anything to say about it then absolutely, positively, definitely! Sally is already making plans to return probably in August or September 2027. Whilst in the village we met a family with a four year old son suffering cerebral palsy. Their story is quite tragic, having lost the boy’s twin sister to pneumonia when she was only a few months old. Sally is investigating ways to help in any way she can. As for myself however I am currently trying to see my way clear to spending a few months in North America, riding with my good mate Scott next year so Sally may be looking for a travelling companion. Any takers?? If your sense of adventure is somewhere near the limits, your curiosity knows no bounds and your capacity for physical endurance is strong, then look her up. You won’t regret it!