Where is Kilimanjaro?

Kilimanjaro is the highest mountain in Africa, with its summit at 5,895 metres (19,342 feet). It is in the country of Tanzania, on the eastern side of Africa, south of Kenya and north of Mozambique. The official language of Tanzania is Swahili but your guides are sure to know English (and you should pick up a Swahili phrase or two during the climb).

What dates should I plan to climb Kilimanjaro?

The best months to climb Kilimanjaro are in two separate seasons: January-March and June-October. These windows tend to be the drier months with less rain and snowfall, which make trekking much easier. The January-March climbing season tends to be slightly wetter, while the June-October season tends to be more crowded as more Europeans and Americans take holidays. The European summer (June through August) is peak season.

Temperature, cloudiness, crowds and full moon dates are all relevant factors when considering when to ascend to the ‘Roof of Africa’. Here’s more detail to help determine which month will work best for you.

What route should I choose to climb Kilimanjaro?

There are a number of routes used to summit Kili, all named for the area where the climb begins. The amount of time it takes to summit the mountain depends on what route you have chosen. While all climbs leave a trekker at risk of altitude sickness, there is often an increased success rate for climbs that allow for an extra acclimatisation day. While this extends your ascent and so increases costs, it also allows your body to become more adjusted to the high altitudes.

After the summit day, most routes allow for the option to either descend completely to the bottom of the mountain via the Mweka route on the same day you summit, or to stop at Mweka camp for one more night and resume the final descent the following morning. Either way, the descent is significantly faster and shorter than the hike up. Below is a list of the five most popular routes.

Marangu:

• Difficulty: Medium
• Duration: Typically completed in five days with an optional acclimatisation day
• Starting Altitude: 1,860 meters (6,100 feet)

Pros: This is the shortest and generally cheapest route. There is also an option to sleep in “bunk houses” on several camps along the Marangu route, which can be a great alternative to chilly nights in a tent.
Cons: Marangu has the most traffic and the quick ascent leaves your body little time to get acclimatised to altitude. Furthermore, the ascent is the same as the descent, so there is little variety and no chance for new scenery.
Summit Day: On the Marangu route, you camp at Barafu – 4,572 meters (15,000 feet) – the night before ascent. After a midnight wakeup call, you hike seven or eight hours to the summit. Marangu has the highest failure rate for summiting, but this could be due to its popularity. Especially during the European summer peak, tourists complain of long queues during the ascent up, and long lines for the toilet.

Machame

• Difficulty: Medium
• Duration: Typically completed in seven days
• Starting Altitude: 1,743 meters (5,718 feet)

Pros: Machame is known for very scenic views through the rainforest as you begin your hike towards the south side of the mountain. The longer ascent allows your body to become acclimatised to altitude
Cons: High traffic and often crowded
Summit Day: Similarly to Marangu, summiting Kilimanjaro from the Machame route means camping at 4,572 meters (15,000 feet) at Barafu the night before ascent. There’s a brutal midnight wakeup call, a seven- or eight-hour hike to the summit and a lengthy descent down the mountain (with the optional stop at Mweka camp for an extra night). Barafu means “ice” in Swahili. When camping, you will understand how it got its name.

Shira

• Difficulty: High
• Duration: Typically completed in seven days
• Starting altitude: 3,353 meters (11,000 feet)

Pros: Shira has significant less traffic as it is a less popular route.
Cons: This route starts at a very high altitude which makes it difficult for the body to acclimatise to the altitude.
Summit day: Like the Marangu and Machame routes, the Shira route also ascends via Barafu, requiring a 1,219-meter (4,000-foot) ascent in one night.

Lemosho Route

• Difficulty: High
• Duration: Typically completed in nine days
• Starting altitude:2,360 meters (7,743 feet)

Pros: Lemosho is known as the most scenic route with least amount of traffic. The longer trip means more time to acclimatise to altitude.
Cons: The long hike often makes this the most expensive option.
Summit Day: The last night before the ascent is spent at a high altitude of 5,730 meters (18,800 feet) at Crater Camp, instead of Barafu camp. This makes summit day significantly easier.

Umbwe

• Difficulty: Very difficult
• Duration: Recommended to be completed in six to seven days
• Starting Altitude: 1,600 meters (5,249 feet)

Pros: This route is a great challenge for experienced climbers and boasts beautiful, scenic views.
Cons: The Umbwe route begins high and steep, and is a very quick ascent given the terrain. Often times, tree branches are needed to help hoist yourself up, while sheer rock faces need careful navigation. This is not for people with a fear of heights.
Summit Day: This route uses the traditional Barafu camp summit. Those who choose this route should have previous experience at high altitude.

No matter what route you choose to take, you can expect to see a wide range of environments that change steadily as the altitude increases: from lush, green rainforests to rocky switchbacks. There will also be portions of the hike that require you to use both your hands and your feet to ascend (notably, the Barranco Wall, which is summited on day 4 of most routes).

The most critical questions to ask when choosing a route are: “What are my physical capabilities?” and “What are my time and price constraints?”. If you honestly assess these questions, you will be sure to pick a Kilimanjaro route that is right for you.

Can I trek Kilimanjaro solo?

Even the most experienced mountaineers cannot trek Kilimanjaro alone. Tanzanian law requires a guide.

How much does climbing Kilimanjaro cost?

The price of climbing Kilimanjaro ranges from USD $1,400 to $6,000, which includes fees, food, guides and porters, but not tips for guides or travel insurance, an essential when approaching a trip at this altitude. A good ballpark is approximately $4,000 per person (you can check some options on Get Your Guide). While there are extra amenities one can pay for on a trek (such as a private tour, a portable shower or thicker mattresses), even the most high-end Kilimanjaro treks involve a degree of roughing it.

Furthermore, it is important not to choose a Kilimanjaro trekking company based solely on price. Be sure to inquire about their policy regarding porters. Historically, these workers have been underpaid, underfed and uninsured, and going with a company that respects the work the porters do and pays them fairly is essential. The Kilimanjaro Porters Assistance Project can help choose an ethical tour company that treats all employees fairly.

Here’s an approximate breakdown of average climbing expenses across all routes. Keep in mind that there are many variables: the route, duration and amenities will all affect prices.

• Park fees (approx. $200/person/day): $1,500
• Wages for guides/porters/cooks: $1,000
• Supplies: $300
• Taxes: $200
• Accommodation before and after the climb: $200
• Commission for tour operator (approx. 25%) $800

TOTAL: $4000

What travel insurance do I need to climb Kilimanjaro?

Travel insurance is essential for climbing Kili, where around 30 hikers die every year and many more are injured or fall ill with significant altitude sickness. For many nationalities World Nomads is the most affordable option. It offers trekking cover to as high as 6,000 metres (19,685 feet), whereas many adventure insurers cap out at 5,000 metres (16,404 feet) or lower. As always, please read the Ts & Cs.

What will the climate be like?

During the ascent up Kilimanjaro, most hikers will pass five different climate zones:

• Bushland: warm temperatures and low grass
• Rainforest: wet and lush with lots of plants and wildlife
• Heath: colder but often abundant in wildflowers
• Alpine desert: low rainfall, reduced plant life and lower temperatures
• Arctic summit: rocky and icy

Logically, the higher the elevation, the colder the temperatures become. In a single climb, temperatures might range from 27°C (80°F) at the base to -29°C (-20°F) at the summit.

What gear do I need to climb Kilimanjaro?

Everything you take with you must be carried up on the head or the back of a porter, so packing conservatively is a must. Rolling clothes instead of folding will help save room within your pack. Here’s a suggested packing list for a 6-day climb.

Clothing

• Underwear (5 pairs)
• T-shirts (4)
• Long-sleeve (moisture wicking) base layer (1-2 pairs)
• Fleece jacket (1)
• Trekking pants (1 pair)
• Snow/winter jacket (1)
• Snow pants (1 pair)
• Rain jacket (2)

Footwear

• Hiking boots (broken in)
• Trekking sandals (for showers or for evenings you want to take your hiking boots off)
• Wool socks (5 pairs)

Other Accessories

• Inner layer/thermal gloves
• Heavy waterproof mittens
• Trekking poles
• Gaiters for boots (this keeps rocks, sand, and snow out of your hiking boots)
• Headlamp (with extra batteries)
• Sunglasses
• Beanie/warm hat
• Baseball hat/Sunhat
• Day pack
• 2-litre (or 64-ounce) water bottles (2)

Other Must-Haves

• Buffs are great for people with long hair – and can help keep your neck warm too
• Baby wipes can make a great substitute for a shower
• A good book (there is not a lot else to do in the evenings)
• A deck of cards



Where will I sleep on Kilimanjaro?

Most operators put one or two people in a tent on the ascent. Couples are generally paired together, while solos are can pay slightly more to be put in separate, single tents (which is often worth the price for a better night’s sleep). Guides generally provide tents and warm sleeping bags and set them up for you. The Marangu route has the option of sleeping in bunks in a hut, which can be a warmer option, depending on how you cope with snoring.

How many guides and porters will there be?

The average ratio is two guides to four climbers. The role of the guides is to inform you of the day’s activities, lead you through the hike, and answer any questions you may have. The guide will also ensure you are getting enough to eat and drink, be your point of contact if you are feeling unwell and act as motivation during the toughest parts of the climb.

Each climber will also require between two and six porters, depending on the amenities your trekking operator provides. It’s easy to forget that drinking water, bathing water, food, stoves, sleeping bags and tents don’t wait at your camp for you: someone has to be there to carry them up.

What is the food like on the Kilimanjaro summit climb?

Don’t let the terrain fool you. Kilimanjaro cooks are well versed in providing food in interesting conditions and pride themselves on hearty meals. Most treks include a variety of options at each meal, as it can be hard to keep an appetite at high altitude.

Expect a stiff porridge, bread, sausage and eggs in the morning, as well as plenty of fruit, jam and peanut butter. There is often soup with lunch (to warm you up) along with a hearty rice and meat dish, fresh fruit, fresh vegetables and condiments to spice your food. For dinner, the menu typically begins with another soup followed by stew, pasta with meat sauce and fresh salad. Guides also keep snacks on hand, and encourage you to pack granola, fresh fruit, or a sandwich in your day pack to keep you energized throughout the day.

How do I stay clean when climbing Kilimanjaro?

“Luxury” Kilimanjaro experiences include a makeshift warm shower that the guides pack up and set up in your campsite, although more often than not you will feel too chilly to want to strip down. The vast majority of climbs just provide a hot bowl of water at your tent before you go to sleep. If you have long hair, keeping it in braids increases cleanliness, while baby wipes are a life-saver for everyone.



What should I do if I experience altitude sickness?

Altitude sickness is a very serious illness and should not be taken lightly. While most people will experience some response to altitude on the mountain, it is important to look out for more extreme symptoms that mean you need to descend. (Altitude.org has great altitude sickness advice.)

The more manageable signs of altitude sickness include hangover-like symptoms: nausea, light-headedness, vomiting and shortness of breath. More extreme symptoms, such as difficulty walking or a decline in mental capacity could mean you are suffering from HACE (High Altitude Cerebral Edema), which can be fatal. HAPE (High Altitude Pulmonary Edema) is another potential risk at high altitudes and involves a cough, fever, and occasionally, blood and mucus from the lungs: this can also be fatal.

When signs of HAPE or HACE present themselves, it is time to head down the mountain. Doctors recommend gradual descent as the mandatory remedy for those experiencing HAPE or HACE symptoms, although some will also require hospital treatment: be sure you have travel insurance that covers you for trekking at altitude.

Guides will remind you, but it can’t be said often enough: drink water, even when you are not thirsty. Significantly increasing your water intake a week before the climb can help decrease the affects you feel from altitude. Prescription Acetazolamide (Diamox) can also help decrease altitude sickness: talk to your doctor about potential side effects and the risks of getting altitude sickness while using Diamox before you decide.

How physically fit do I need to be in order to climb Kilimanjaro?

The Kilimanjaro climb is more a test of your body’s resilience than actual fitness level.
Cold, blisters and altitude sickness are what tend to keep people from summiting the mountain. Prepare for Kilimanjaro in the same way you would prepare for a race: break in your hiking boots and practice being on your feet for several hours per day.

If possible, understands how your body reacts to high altitudes. A marathon runner may be very physically fit yet operate poorly at altitude. In the same way, someone who is not accustomed to strenuous physical activity may do very well at high altitude. Be aware that the same individual may react very differently to altitude on different occasions.

Most Kilimanjaro tours instruct their guides to check the blood oxygen level of trekkers with a pulse oximeter, which clips painlessly on the tip of your finger. While this is a reasonable predictor of potential altitude problems, it’s not 100%. Listen to your body and tell your guides what it’s saying.

Is climbing Kilimanjaro safe?

People do die climbing Kilimanjaro but the trek is, considering the elevation, relatively safe. The guides are trained and know the mountain well. Some have climbed the mountain more than 500 times. If you pick the right outfitter, are honest with your guide when you are feeling unwell and follow their instructions, there should be no safety concerns.

As mentioned before, altitude sickness is your greatest threat on the mountain. Understanding how your body reacts to altitude – what is a safe but uncomfortable feeling, and what is an unsafe level of discomfort – is crucial for your Kilimanjaro ascent. Blisters and sunburns are far more common than lethal falls or hypothermia. Coming prepared with adequate gear for hiking and sleeping and choosing a well-resourced tour will greatly reduce these risks.

Will I summit Kilimanjaro?

Whether or not you reach the summit of Kilimanjaro, known as Uhuru (Freedom) Peak, depends on how well your body reacts to altitude and how far you are willing to push yourself. Most people don’t spend much time at the summit due to the high altitude: just long enough to snap a few pictures.

Seven-day climbs see an 80% summit rate; six-day climbs see a 65% summit rate; for five-day climbs, the rates are lower. Even if you do not summit… hakuna matata! The joy is in the journey of hiking to one of the most beautiful places on earth.

The post How Do I Climb Kilimanjaro? appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

Because Indonesia is the only place in the whole wide world where you can set out looking for an island populated entirely by midgets and land up diving with whale sharks. (Probably also the only place where the equivalent of the head of a county council will invite you to his house to meet the spirits of ancestral kings, too.)

I am currently “on assignment” as ponces have it, or “working” as I call it, on the arduous task of researching islands off Sulawesi for a mag. (I’m also setting up a tediously factual website devoted to Indonesian islands, one of many dog-ate-my-homework reasons you haven’t heard from me for a while.) I also have to research some food stuff, which is obviously terribly hard work, and some culture, and I’m collecting a few more stories as I go.

Anywise, this weekend I, quite literally, set out in search of an island full of little people and ended up diving with the biggest fish on earth. Here, have a splendid deserted beach pic. I’ve got loads more where that came from.

In the course of researching islands – AKA talking to people and then more people until you find someone who knows or conclude that the only thing to do is get out there and have a look — I came across two possible amazing stories. One is true, and one, the island of the midgets, is less so.

But let’s start with Pak Ilham. Ilham’s father, major-general Andi Mattalatta, was known as the Rooster of the East during his heyday. This was a tribute to Sultan Hasanuddin, the 17th-century leader who managed to unify Sulawesi’s population, most of whom were more interested in piracy (coast), blood sacrifices (highlands), fishing (islands) and internecine strife (all of the above) than in the larger colonial picture, and lead a heroic if doomed resistance to the Dutch forces.

When dad retired from the army, still only in his 30s, he decided that what Indonesia really needed was water-skiing. And I defy you to imagine any more splendid sight in a nation which loves a good parade, is absolutely addicted to uniforms, and is a sucker for a schmaltzy tune, whether on the guitar or, even better, karaoke, than this absolutely splendid 1950s Indonesian water-skiing video.

Here, have a gander. It’s great!

And so Ilham, following in his father’s footsteps, decided to introduce diving to Makassar. He is, I will realise, an orang besar (big man) in Sulawesi.

Unencumbered by fripperies such as a website, a Facebook page or even, for that matter, a sign, Ilham runs the Makassar Diving Centre, cunningly concealed behind the parking lot of Kampoeng POPSA, the vaguely Singapore-style hawker court he’s set up where dad used to do his waterskiing.

An Indonesia novice would assume that any business without a website or street signage would be barely functioning and, when it comes to diving, more likely to kill you than not. Far from it!

Pak Ilham is a NAUI-certified deep dive instructor, has been diving for 40-odd years, operates a resort on the island of Kapoposang, and has an absolutely bona fide dive boat with two well-maintained 200HP engines, plus gear, plus staff, plus a professional compressor set-up. Further, he has sunk sundry items, including a broken down minibus, a jetski and some substantial classical statues off the island of Kodingareng Keke, to create an impromptu coral garden.

I explain I’m doing a diving and islands story for an inflight mag. Pak Ilham says the boat’s going to Barranglompo and Samalona tomorrow, and why don’t I join? In fact, I could dive with his family this afternoon if I fancied it? Sadly, I’m too busy trying to work out which islands are which to go diving that day.

I ask, tentatively, about the midgets. “Hmmm….” he says doubtfully. “I think there USED to be many midgets on Langkai, but with better nutrition and less – what’s the word? — incest, there aren’t so many.”

Nonetheless – and I recognise that curiosity about people of small stature is neither the most noble nor most cerebral of instincts – I am beginning to fixate on this island. Not least because I know that I will kick myself later if I am 20 miles from an island possibly populated by midgets and don’t get there. Here, have another beach picture.

You meet a nice class of people diving, I always find – especially in the more out-of-the-way spots. Our group comprises Yuda, the captain and dive guide, plus the chap who looks after the boat, plus Bert, a marine biologist looking to revisit an island he worked on 30 years before, Angel, a Chinese-Indonesian dentist whose parents used to let their house to scientists including Bert, and Anwi, who I don’t talk to that much because she’s rather vomitous and I’m being lazy about speaking Indonesian, but is clearly an extremely good photographer.

Our first stop is Barranglompo, the type of densely-packed, villagey Indonesian island of which I’m very fond – rather like Pulau Derawan, in fact. In one of those glaring contradictions that would drive all but the hardest-core fan of Indonesia screaming up the wall, it’s simultaneously a scientific research base and a centre for harvesting and culturing products for aquaria. Further, most fishing is done using dynamite, an activity on which the only possible positive spin is that it’s safer for the end consumer than cyanide. (I am far from hippie-dippie about toxins in food, but I won’t touch small Indonesian fish unless they’re in a restaurant I know and trust.)

The diving is about as rubbish as you’d expect, with equipment problems adding an extra layer of magic to the sheer joy of diving on devastated sand in murk. However, it’s interesting to watch Bert at work, bagging his specimens neatly, and fab to watch Angel, who’s won prizes for underwater photography, doing her stuff too.

On land, it’s fascinating. They’re farming seahorses – poor little seahorses! They’re cultivating gloriously coloured giant clams. And they’re snatching soft coral after soft coral for some fancy aquarium somewhere, and storing them in concrete channels full of seawater.

We stop at the home of an old friend of Bert’s. He and his daughter – who’s just learned to dive with the current batch of scientists – welcome us in. He lost his son recently, in Kalimantan, diving, Angel tells me.

Out comes the mobile, and on goes the video, with footage of her big brother’s body being dragged from the water. Questions that my English mind consider intrusive, such as how bloated he was, go back and forth, and the ritual wailing stops as we pause the video to inspect the head wound they think killed him.

“He was spearfishing a big fish,” Angel explains.

“Oh,” I say. “So the fish took him and dragged him down?”

“Dragged him into something,” she says.

I find it difficult to look at his corpse. In my culture, death is private, secretive, almost every element of it, from care of the dying to preparing the body, from flower arrangements to diagnosis, is professionalised and hidden. I’ve been to cremations in Bali and watched bodies go up in flames, which I suspect is an easier way to process death than watching a sealed coffin slide behind a curtain, but my death taboo still stands.

His father brings out photos of his handsome son posing with enormous fish – 80- or 100-kilo monsters that could easily drag a spearfisherman to unsurvivable depths. Here I can say something. “He was a good-looking man,” I say. And he was. A stunner.

Death comes frequently in Barranglompo, I learn: as on the Philippine islands not so far from here, commercial diving is done hookah-style, using a pipe attached to modified truck brakes, with close-to-zero measures to prevent death from the bends or, for that matter, good old diesel fumes.

Samalona is our next stop, an island that’s on the backpacker radar already (the Millers spent some time here in 2013). Which is to say it’s bloody impossible to walk past Fort Rotterdam, the old Dutch trading fort in downtown Makassar, without both becak drivers and boatmen touting trips out to it.

The diving is better at Samalona. We’re all fundamentally tagging along as Bert, who’s been diving off interesting islands for a living for over thirty years – and can we all say three cheers for the absolutely bloody fantastic career choice of being a marine biologist?! – whizzes along the current looking for stuff, but there’s clearly interesting weird stuff to be seen when you’re not chasing after a coral-crazed scientist.

I request a stop on shore: it’s the dinkiest island and I want to take a look. You can walk across Samalona in approximately 90 seconds, and there really isn’t much to it, but I figure it might be a splendid place to pass a night or two – there aren’t just rooms but an entire house for rent — and I note that the warung sells beer. Yay!

I ask again about the little people, whose putative island is now whizzing around my head in big tabloid capitals – INDONESIA’S ISLAND OF THE INCEST DWARVES. Part of me, however, is beginning to wonder whether both this and the possibly-legendary leopard people up north may just be a genetically challenged group of individuals, rather than an amazing off-the-path story.

The name Langkai keeps coming up. Therefore I need to get to Langkai. Here, have another island picture. You’re welcome.

There is, of course, the actual commissioned element to arrange. I want to get to Kapoposang, where Ilham has his beach bungalows, again unencumbered by any form of digital marketing, which makes sense to a degree given there’s no phone signal on the island.

Obviously, the mag doesn’t pay expenses – who does, nowadays? But, when it gets around to it – that’s 60 days after publication or many months after work has been done — it does pay enough to cover a reasonable amount of research and travel, even if most of the profit comes in on other commissions around this base story.

We work out a deal where I’ll cover staff wages on the island, tip the crew, buy food for myself and purchase the not-inconsiderable quantity of petrol required to get to all these islands; boat, dives and gear come free.

So, I’ll go with Yuda and his helper – whose name I cannot remember, and by the time you’ve got horribly drunk with someone on an island it’s far too late to ask – to Kapoposang. We’ll stop at another island someone has told me about, which is apparently the prettiest of the group. We’ll dive Kapoposang and overnight in the resort.

Then in the morning we’ll pop in to check on the incest dwarves, stop at Kodaringeng Keke to check out the sunken bus, and head back to Makassar. This seems like a decent plan for the weekend.

It’s also, I realise, the kind of proper worky travel writing – as opposed to doing fun stuff and writing about it – that would drive my spawn absolutely bloody bonkers, or, rather, leave him sellotaped to his computer. He’s staying with friends on Bali, then off to school camp, while I explore.

I spend an absolutely splendid afternoon buying maps, sampling yet more of Makassar’s fantastic food, and meeting a chap who explains in patiently simple Indonesian how the hundreds of islands off these shores join up. I have neglected to bring my dictionary, but all this enforced Indonesian language conversation is helping my language along no end.

And setting out on the boat, I realise how very much I like my life. It’s a paradoxically pretty journey. Makassar is a major port so bigass tankers and container ships come right into the harbour, close to shore and right in the heart of town, although there’s a second at Paoetere for sailing ships, big fishing boats and public boats to sundry archipelagos.

Multi-storey blocks, container cranes and tankers fade behind us. An ocean studded with white-sand islands stretches ahead of us, clumps of forest just popping out of the sea. There HAS, I feel, to be something absolutely great out here.

And Kapoposang, two hours from Makassar by speedboat, is wonderful. We dive with sharks – two big ones that come a little close for my comfort, though Yuda’s relaxed and reeftips have hardly ever taken so much as a nip out of a human – not to mention turtles, tuna, trevally and barracuda, moray eels and pretty things.

I try and fail and try and fail to get the money shot of turtles taking off from the wall with its pretty sea fans. But I can’t get both turtle and wall into a composed shot.

And then Yuda and his mate, good Indonesian Muslims that they are, break out a crate of beer for sunset and I improve my Indonesian language skills yet more.

A fisherman swings by, through the shady forest that lines the white sand beach. There are whale sharks off the island, he says: eleven of them, following a school of tiny fish and krill that comes through regularly around this time of year.

He gives Yuda, who knows the islands backwards, directions to the spot.

“Do you want to see the whale sharks?” Yuda asks.

DAMN RIGHT I want to see the whale sharks. I cannot imagine a single diver who would not want to see the whale sharks. The gentle giants of the shark world, they cruise the globe following patterns that no one fully understands.

People fly thousands of miles just for the chance to swim, snorkel or dive with whale sharks. And I don’t have to choose between whale sharks and midgets – the whale sharks are actually en route! It’s a 100% Indonesian piece of serendipity. I’m super-chuffed I fronted up for the extra 50 litres of petrol.

More beer is drunk and I improve my command of Indonesian obscenities no end.

All of us are a little under the weather at 6am the next day – in fact, having missed the sunset due to washing, I almost miss the sunrise too. Following three hours of reasonably deep diving with five bottles of Bintang is not exactly what the dive books recommend, but I eat, hydrate and caffeinate, and we leave at 7 as planned.

The whale sharks’ presence is hard to miss. Every single fishing boat from every single tiny island is out here, stretched like strings of bunting along the pancake-flat sea. There’s joy in the air. The catch is boundless! Polystyrene crate after crate of tiny fish are loaded. Men grin below the makeshift turbans that shield them from the sun as they haul in nets and pick out their silver catch. Some boats are tag-teaming – running loads back to shore to store on ice so that others can continue to harvest this marine bounty.

Yuda pulls out a carrier bag and swaps some of the dreaded Aqua glasses to fill the bag with fish.

And, OMFG, a whale shark! The first one, maybe three meters long, leopard-spotted and graceful, glides beside our boat, a fleeting vision: we squeal and snatch at pictures.

But where are the rest? We to and fro among the fishing fleet, taking directions every which way. They’re always somewhere else, but there’s a big one, seven metres long, somewhere out there.

“Snorkel?” Yuda asks.

I’ve been stripped down to my culturally-more-appropriate vest-that-should-really-be-a-T-shirt and shorts-that-should-be-a-bit-longer-this-far-out snorkelling outfit for a while. Flippers on, and we’re in the current, me following Yuda. He shouts through his snorkel: another! There are mantas, too!

“Want to dive?” Yuda asks.

“Yes,” I say.

I must admit that I’ve retained some baseline diving trauma – rescue course notwithstanding – from Zac’s death drop in the Blue Hole. I love diving. But bottomless walls and strong currents make me nervous – despite the fact I love what you see down there.

Diving a brand new site, surrounded by fishing nets and fishing boats, in the open ocean with unknown currents, is a big step for me, and involves a lot of trust. I trust Yuda, not least because he went diving in Bali and decided against diving Tepekong, an amazing but famously difficult and dangerous dive site, because “he’d rather live”. (I might consider this when I bank my thousandth dive.)

“No more than fifteen metres, and not on the wall,” I say in rubbish Indonesian. The site is a sandy bottom that looks to me like the top of a sea mount, which means there could be all sorts of nasty currents – down, up, out to sea, down and out to sea… – around the edges. On this, it appears, Yuda and I are aligned. “Have you got reefhooks?”

Yuda has two serious-ass reefhooks: not tent pegs on a rope, but bona fide claw anchors. I take one, he takes the other, which means if something hideous happens with the current, or if we find a spot we want to stop at and the current’s too fast to stop, we can anchor ourselves to the reef.

I do my usual checks – I’m mildly OCD about pre-dive checks by many people’s standards, and make myself do them even when we might miss something like a whale shark – and roll backward off the boat, Yuda gives the signal, and down we go.

Seamounts are interesting places – I’ve dived with thresher sharks at one on Malapascua, and with hammerhead sharks off another on Malapascua. They seem to function a bit like service stations on the ocean road: sometimes they’ll have entire coral gardens and cleaning stations, with fish waiting for their larger clients to come along, sometimes they’re just flat and dull.

This one’s pretty bland, apart from the sharks, and decorated with long fishing nets rapidly filling with catch, which also can’t do the coral any favours. We’ve just got down when Yuda squawks through his regulator. There’s a whale shark cruising right above me, a juvenile, just three metres long.

I bang out a couple of photos, realise I won’t get a decent shot without a wide-angle lens and a strobe and exposure control, and resolve to just watch the sharks instead. This irritates Yuda, who can’t see why on earth someone would be in the water with the world’s largest fish and a camera and NOT take pictures, so he takes my camera, which I’m cool with. The fishing net shot above is his, and I think it’s really rather good.

Then we’re in the cloud of krill. It’s like diving in fog – I even think my mask has fogged, but when I look up to the surface or close up at my computer, there’s no fog there. I follow Yuda. For ten more minutes, we fin along the seamount, down and up over the unbeauteous corals and sea grass.

No more whale sharks. Yuda calls the dive. We only have a tank each, and another dive to do. Slowly, we ascend to safety stop depth.

And it’s my turn to squawk through the regulator. “Wark!” I yell, articulately, as we hang in the water.

There’s such a majesty to sharks, all kinds of shark. They just materialise out of the blue water, almost ghostlike, like Polaroids onto paper. One minute there’s nothing. The next, there’s a shark. And then they fade away again. Even scientists don’t know where sharks go, or even how they navigate – the best bet is a form of geomagnetic sensing in which sea mounts may play a part.

This one is perfect, the textbook picture if one had the timing and equipment.

It’s right behind Yuda, heading towards us, wide mouth gaping, sieving krill. Cleaner fish hang from its belly like streamers, feasting on parasites (fun fact! Sharks get STDs too).

It’s perfect, just textbook perfect, and as we emerge, we’re buzzing. White sand island, whalesharks, what could be better? Well, midgets, obviously.

And, I realise, I think this dive into the unknown has finally cleared my diving trauma.

While we’ve been diving, Yuda’s mate has been chatting midgets with the fishermen. They’re not on Langkai, the island we thought they were on, but Lanjukang, the one along from it, a pretty little place with a gorgeous golden sandbar.

There are only 15 families on Lanjukang – Langkai is a metropolis with 300 households! – but they and the fishermen who frequent the seamounts around here support a little warung. The lady has – yay! – coffee and – major yay! – believes Yuda when he explains in considerable detail to a group of curious islanders how the crazy bule doesn’t like sugar or even sweet milk, or anything sweet, not even sedikit, ta muchly.

We sit in the makeshift bale and chat as I drink my coffee. Apparently, two Spanish and American tourists came through only a month ago, making Lanjukang quite the destination and causing quite the stir. It boasts a rather optimistic sign with a map of the island likely created long after dynamite fishing nuked the reef.

There’s a man who knows the midgets, and can bring us to them, but we’ll have to pay if we want a photo. Yuda thinks I want a photo. For some reason, he also thinks I’m writing a book, or, possibly, he’s just decided that people here will understand the idea of writing a book better than they will the idea of an inflight magazine based in a country that’s neither Indonesia nor England. I resolve to bring mag copies with me next time I do this sort of thing.

I don’t really want a picture of me with some people of short stature (hell, I’ve been to Hobbit House in Manila). I wanted to find the island of the midgets. However, this appears to be the island of the midgets, and, further, the midgets’ significantly-larger but still-not-actually-terribly-tall brother is coming to meet us, so I’ll pay for the photo and bung a few tourist rupiah into the economy.

Amazingly, the midgets’ brother speaks some English! He has an Indonesian book of conversational English, and assuming that the English conversation you want to make is an outtake from Brief Encounter – “Good afternoon! This is my friend, Smith!” – I’m sure it could work rather well.

And, lo!, behind him, his brother appears. He’s about up to my waist but in proportion, with bandy legs and a facial structure that suggests Pak Ilham may have been on the nail about inbreeding. In the days before the outboard motor, when the siblings were born, the genetic pool must have been tiny. We make introductions, and off we trot to Casa Midget – or, rather Casa Brother Midget.

I don’t want to take these people’s photo. Or, rather, if I had the time to do a proper study and place them in their home and their environment and talk to them properly which would require a translator since my Indonesian isn’t good enough for nuance, I would like to. As it is, I’m objectifying these poor people horribly.

I realise, in fact, that I hadn’t got any further in thinking about this story than: “Find out if the island of the midgets exists.”

There are two midget brothers and a sister. The men work in fishing. The sister keeps home. We are all equally unenthusiastic about the picture, but Yuda takes one, me a giant in a wetsuit with mask hair, the three of them together. And, at least when I look at the picture, it really is me who looks out of place and wrong-sized, not them.

Then we talk money. Yuda thinks 100,000 is fair. I hand over 100,000. The brother wants another 50,000, at which I initially baulk – that’s crazy money out in the badlands of the Spermonde islands – but he explains it’s 50,000 for each of the siblings, which, both Yuda and I agree, is fair. Dimly suspecting the life of people of short stature on a remote Indonesian island is far from the bliss of that gold sand beach, I don’t nego.

Job done, we head back to the boat. “They live in the forest, the midgets,” Yuda remarks darkly as we leave. I am still processing this.

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Thresher Sharks

Monad Shoal, the top of an undersea mountain off the coast of Malapascua, is probably the only place in the world where you can reliably see thresher sharks, bizarre creatures, whose bodies are almost half tail. At around three metres long, they’re phenomenally graceful as they power through the water in a ritual dance with cleaner fish: the sharks can’t stop swimming, so the cleaner fish have to play a game of trust.

You won’t see the sharks using their tail for hunting, here, though we did see a couple breaching the surface, which is very rare. With their vaguely gormless faces, small mouths and generally zen attitude, these curious, intelligent animals are some of the nicest sharks to dive with: there’s none of the sense that you need to watch your back that you get with hammerheads, or even the larger reef sharks. On three dives here, I saw multiple threshers, every time.

Mating Mandarinfish

The thresher sharks are a sunrise dive, but at sunset it’s all about the mandarinfish, who come out to mate as the sun descends. These tiny, brightly coloured fish love coral rubble, and Lighthouse, close to the island, is a shallow, unattractive site with plenty of staghorn coral. It’s lovely to watch the fish chasing each other, flirting, through the coral, until they rise above the staghorns and mate like pairing hummingbirds. I saw eight seahorses on this dive, too, including a mating pair.

Macro, Macro, Macro…

Frogfishes, pipefishes, seahorses, pygmy seahorses, nudibranches, blue-ringed octopus, harlequin shrimp, mantis shrimp…. When you dive Malapascua, you get a rare combination of excellent macro with big pelagics that means there really is something for everyone. Gato Island, North Point, Ubang Bato and Chocolate Island are all great macro sites, with good visibility by muck diving standards.

Did I Mention the Sharks?!

Malapascua isn’t a destination for hammerheads – but in season (January to April), they do come to Kemod Shoal, another seamount, and I saw a couple as we finned around in the blue (schools are seen occasionally, but you’d need to be lucky). Gato Island has a lovely, fairly shallow swimthrough where you’ll often see reef sharks hanging out, framed cinematically against the mouth of the cave, while baby white-tips sleep in smaller caves and overhangs.

Island-hopping

Calanggaman Island is one of the prettiest islands I’ve been on for ages – a pristine strip of white sand and palm trees, surrounded by waters that shade from turquoise through to violet with Leyte in the background. Bangka outriggers are perfect for island-hopping, and Calanggaman is the ideal place to play castaway with a barbeque and a handful of beers – although, thanks to the impact of Typhoon Haiyan, there’s not much to see on the wall offshore (at least, not at recreational depths).

How to Get to Malapascua

To get to Malapascua, you’ll need to fly to Cebu City: this is the Philippines’ second city, so there are directs from Singapore, Tokyo, Hong Kong and South Korea. If you’re lazy, arrange a resort pickup from the airport by car and private boat. Alternatively, take a taxi (80-100 pesos) to the North Bus Terminal, pick up a bus (80 pesos or so) to the port of Maya, get there before the public boat (50 pesos) stops running around 4pm, then fend off all the touts who tell you it’s stopped already and you need a private one. If you need to spend the night in Cebu City, consider staying in Mactan Island.

Zac and I were guests of Exotic, the folk who discovered the thresher sharks, for a story on diving Malapascua with kids – it’s a hard life being a travel writer, right?

Image credits: Thresher Shark at Monad Shoal by Maxime Guilbot,
Fish – mandarinfish by Jim Trodel and pygmy seahorse by Yusma Yahaya, all on Flickr’s Creative Commons.

The post Five Reasons You Should Totally Dive Malapascua appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

Diving Dahab the visibility is always stellar, the colours crystal clear. Looking up through the Canyon, the sun beams a bright, bright blue – at night, you can watch a full moon rise over the Red Sea through 30 metres of luminescent water.

Canyon is starkly beautiful – architecturally so.

But at Islands, ever-changing currents idle through a coral jungle; at Rick’s Reef you can drift along a pristine patch of rainbow-coloured reef; in Caves, there’s a dramatic paraglide through a swim-through; and diving Lighthouse never disappoints.

At Lighthouse, we like the junkyard, just past the underwater playground where my son practises tricks.

Ever wondered how a puffer-fish swims? This is how…

And then, of course, there’s the Blue Hole, Dahab’s most famous, and most fatal dive site. The entry through El Bells is spectacular.

But that’s not my favourite site at all, quite honestly. That’s Thistlegorm, the wreck of a WWII supply ship where giant morays make their home in ancient jeeps, where fish flirt over holds of Enfield motorbikes, where you can watch turtles at play over coral-encrusted guns, tanks and locomotives.

And when you’re done, there’s nothing quite like a cold beer, a Red Sea sunset, fresh seafood and, of course, some kittens.

Want to visit Dahab? Frontier Travel Insurance offers travel insurance to destinations governments advise against visiting: unlike standard insurers, they’ll even cover you to go to Iraq. You can buy their Egypt travel insurance here.

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The climate changes. Scant grass gives way to thick larch forest. And then a dense scrub in hues of purple and grey which, with the cloud cover descending fast, reminds me, weirdly, of Scotland.

We break for lunch, don down jackets, and dine on sour yak cheese, fresh bread and the wild green onions we picked at an earlier stop.

I cannot believe the contrast between this gloomy, foggy micro-climate, shadowed by dark mountains that, even in late June, are still streaked with snow, and the scorching plains only a very few hundred metres below.

And then… We’re there! A small boy rides past, bareback on a scrawny reindeer. A forest of tepee poles – while most nomadic Mongolians live in gers, the Tsaatan favour orts, virtually identical to the structures built by Plains Indians.

And – more reindeer! Spindly, bow-legged, emitting their weird grunting bark that echoes through the forest. Reindeer towing wood for tepees; reindeer headed to the river to fetch water; reindeer staked between the tepees; mother and baby reindeer grazing between the larches, a web of intertwined antlers silhouetted against the grey.

A cold, grey rain begins to bucket from the skies. We yell the ritual call to “hold the dogs!” which are trotting by our horses, dismount and head into our hosts’ ort for warm salt tea with rich, dense reindeer milk.

The sky impregnated the earth and begat the reindeer, to be man’s helper and stay with him for the rest of time. The Tsaatan cannot survive without the reindeer. They live together, intertwined.

In the TV series Little Britain, there is a character named Daffyd, who, against comedically mounting evidence, persists in his belief that he’s “the only gay in the village”.

We are not the only tourists in the Tsaatan’s village – not by a long shot. And, although I had never believed we would be, I am surprised by the scale of tourism here.

Even before the start of high season, the Tsaatan are – well, not quite outnumbered by tourists, who have ridden in from Tsagaannuur, and in one bold, doomed instance, attempted the boggy terrain in a jeep, but certainly surrounded by them.

There are around a hundred reindeer herders in this encampment, grouped across 20-odd tents. It’s the easiest of the Tsaatan’s multiple encampments to reach from Tsagaannuur, and so we are one of three groups overnighting in this tiny community.

There is also, befuddlingly, a Peace Corps mission in place. I haven’t seen so many foreigners in one place since Ulaanbaatar, a city of over a million.

Yet more befuddlingly, our hosts’ daughter speaks excellent English. “I studied ecology in UB,” she says.

“Why did you come back?” I ask.

“I like it here,” she explains.

Of course she does. It’s home…

And, too, despite her degree, she still holds her old beliefs. The sky impregnated the earth and begat the reindeer, to be man’s helper and stay with him for the rest of time. The Tsaatan cannot survive without the reindeer. They live together, intertwined.

The reindeer look, compared to the sturdy, sleek reindeer we have seen in Finland, quite painfully scrawny. Bow-legged. Knobbly-kneed. Their spines and hip bones jut through their fur.

Zac pets the reindeer, which are still shedding their winter fur, their horns ridiculously soft and velvety, and, close to sunset, we head up into the forest to watch our host milking her reindeer.

It’s a brutal process, reindeer milking – the infant reindeer headbutts the mother’s udders again and again to release the milk.

For the human milker, there’s much more kneading and tugging than I’ve ever seen applied to a cow or a goat. And all this painful-looking activity extracts barely half a cupful of the thick, creamy milk.

The reindeer look, compared to the sturdy, chunky reindeer we have seen in Finland, quite painfully scrawny. Bow-legged. Knobbly-kneed. Their spines and hip bones jut through their fur.

An adult man can ride an adult bull reindeer, we are told. But none of these look strong enough at all.

And, back in the ort, with possessions safely stored within its treetrunk roof, the rain pelting down on the canvas frame, and Lady Gaga on play on a mobile phone powered by a small solar panel, we learn exactly why this is.

They cannot get across the border to marry within their Russian ethnic group. They are, fundamentally, doomed by geopolitics. And have been for the last 60-odd years.

Tsaatan is the Mongolian name for Mongolia’s reindeer people – it means, conveniently, “reindeer people”. They call themselves Tuva, and the tribal language they speak is Tuvan.

After the fall of China’s Qing dynasty, in 1911, the Tuva had their own republic, a nation recognised only by Russia and Mongolia. In 1944, Stalin overran it, and added it to the Soviet Union; today, the Tuva Republic is part of Russia, while the Tsaatan remain in Mongolia.

“There are 500 of us in the taiga,” our host explains. “In Russia there are, maybe, 20,000.” (She means Tuva who still herd reindeer, not people from the Tuva ethnic group.)

I do the maths. “So, when you marry, will you marry a Tuva man?” I ask.

She laughs. No. She knows them all already.

Most Tuva marry from other local Mongolian tribal groups – typically Darkhad people (the majority grouping on this side of Khövsgöl Nuur, and the tribe that Baatar belongs to).

The reindeer people cannot marry within their ethnic identity in Mongolia, because they are too few. And, despite their shared tribal language, they cannot get across the border to marry within their Russian ethnic group.

They are, fundamentally, doomed by geopolitics. And have been for the last 60-odd years.

“It’s for the tourists. This is their spring camp. In their summer camp, there are 37 species that the reindeer can eat. Here, there are barely 15 species. They should have moved a month ago. But they haven’t…”

Later, in the ort, after the gifting vodka has gone round, drops ceremoniously flicked to honour the ancestors, the sky, the earth and the reindeer, I talk to a man who requests I do not identify him further.

“The Tsaatan won’t exist in thirty years,” he says bluntly. “Too many changes.”

We talk some more. “The reindeer…” I say. “The reindeer – they don’t look well! They’re too thin! Is it because summer has come late here?”

“No,” he says. “It’s for the tourists. This is their spring camp. In their summer camp, there are 37 species that the reindeer can eat. Here, there are barely 15 species. They should have moved a month ago. But they haven’t…”

“Because of the tourists,” I conclude, feeling slightly sick.

Because the cash contribution that we make for our accommodation, the food that we bring into the ort, the money that some tourists will pay for tribal art or to witness an “authentic” shaman ceremony, is cash wealth and food diversity beyond imagining, and so the reindeer wait. Man’s partner throughout life they may be, but there is no shamanic law which says they have to be fat.

“The summer camp…” I begin. “The summer camp is higher up, right?”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s higher up, it’s further for the tourists to come. And this is a poor community. They need the money.”

“I’m from UB,” she laughs. “I studied in the US, and then I came home, and volunteered here. I met my husband here. And… here I am.”

I wander around the camp a little, under a sky that has cleared to a light dusting of stars, then join Baatar to watch Korean TV on satellite in the village head’s ort, an activity that, in its dislocating ordinariness, reminds me very much of the time we watched Mr & Mrs Smith in a Borneo longhouse.

Later, we sleep on mats on the floor of our ort; Bill sleeps on a bed of branches, in a corner of the tepee.

By 6am, our ecology graduate is out fetching water from the stream. By 7am, she has milked the reindeer. Later, there will be bread to be made.

We’re riding out today, but, before we saddle up, we meet a girl with the classically rounded features I associate with central Mongolia, who greets us in flawless US English.

“I’m from UB,” she laughs. “I studied in the US, and then I came home, and volunteered here. I met my husband here. And… here I am.”

Her work in the community is two-fold. She tries to function as a liaison with the outside world, and control access to her adopted people. She works with the women, in particular, to generate crafts that can be resold, to create a sustainable income for her community from tourism. And she is one of few families to stay at the pastureland over winter to protect their site.

It is, however, an uphill struggle.

And, as we head out on the long loop back to Khatgal – six days’ hard riding, six days of seven hours or more – I feel the most ambivalent I’ve felt about any tourist activity since – ooh, probably Tiger Kingdom, or, more relevantly, the Penan.

Because, as tourists, we are killing this community, starving their partner reindeer. And, as tourists, we are offering nothing that’s sustainable in return. And yet…. this small community, this encampment, this traditional clan with its many intelligent and several highly educated members, has chosen tourism: and it would be outrageously infantilising for me, an outsider, to suggest they should reject it, or even that my fellow tourists should not go.

If you’re considering visiting the reindeer people, start at visittaiga.org, run by the Tsaatan themselves.

Picture credit: White Reindeer Near Lake Khovsgol by Linh Vien Thai.

Read the first post in this series on horseback trekking in Khovsgol, Mongolia — or use the next-previous buttons to navigate through.

The post The Tsaatan: Mongolia’s Reindeer People appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

I’m halfway into the saddle, with one foot in a stirrup, when the bastard, bastard horse breaks into a sprint.

My butt slides off the back of the saddle and onto the back of my bastard, bastard, galloping horse.

NOT AGAIN, I think (and, yes, these are the times at which one thinks in CAPSLOCK), as my steed thunders along the path in that horrible, leaping, galloping rhythm that’s kind of fab when you’re expecting it but really not so fab when you’re just getting on the bastarding horse. NOT AGAIN!

I am not going to be dumped on my arse in front of an audience.

Not this time, no sirree.

My horse thunders across the open ground, as I cling on so tightly my thigh and stomach muscles scream in protest. Rage and fear battle for control of my emotions, and rage comes out on top.

Swearing vigorously, I haul back on the reins with one hand, grab the pommel with the other and lever myself back into position, wondering whether this is what a pulled muscle feels like.

Ooh! I’m in the saddle! RESULT! This means, I realise, that I’m not coming off.

Safely settled, I apply both hands to the reins and actually stop the fucker.

It would not entirely surprise me, in fact, if, in the manner of the instructors watching my pitiful attempt at backing a car into an empty bay on my final driving test, they were actually taking bets.

It is at this point that I realise the horsemen have been watching this little drama with high amusement (I’d guess Mongolian children first experience it around age eight) and are now pissing themselves laughing.

It would not entirely surprise me, in fact, if, in the manner of the instructors watching my pitiful attempt at backing a car into an empty bay on my final driving test, they were actually taking bets.

“Go Mama!” says Baatar, giving me a big thumbs-up between belly laughs. “Mama good!”

“Yeah!” says Maahar. “Mama good!”

I want to beat my horse around the head like a proper Mongolian horseperson. But I don’t. The poor thing’s knackered.

And, in fact, his break for the border has exhausted him. He falters four times before we even make it into Tsagganuur, the last time so badly I think he’s going to buckle under me.

There’s no way on earth he’s going to make it to the taiga. And, with all due nodding to animal rights, and all, if he falls under me I’m highly likely to break something.

My nag now looks more like something from an Albrecht Dürer woodcut, or possibly an 80s hair metal band mascot, than anything you’d trust to get you to the taiga.

I have suggested to our various horsemen, at various times, that it might be a good idea for me to change horses. Yet, as when we crossed the pass, I realise that the only way forward is going to be a childish tantrum vocal self-assertion.

“I NEED A NEW HORSE,” I say. My nag now looks more like something from an Albrecht Dürer woodcut, or possibly an 80s hair metal band mascot, than anything you’d trust to get you to the taiga.

“Good horse!” says Baatar. “Horse good!”

I suspect the problem is that I’ve been given a Mongolian lady’s horse when I’m the weight of many Mongolian men: I am, I think, a similar weight to both Maahar and Baatar, which wouldn’t be surprising since I’m taller than both, although, obviously, much less strong. “Horse good! No problem!”

“No problem!” chimes in Maahar.

It is a masterclass in Mongolian passive-aggression.

“MY HORSE HAS FALLEN FOUR TIMES THIS MORNING AND I AM NOT GOING TO CARRY ON WITH THIS HORSE,” I yell say. “I NEED A NEW HORSE.”

Silence. I park my horse, tie the sucker up, and put my hands on my hips.

“Where you GET the horse from?” asks Maahar.

I’m a little pissy about this, given he’s got one riderless horse already. “I don’t know,” I say, seeing his Mongolian passive-aggression and raising him my British passive-aggression, while enunciating so clearly I sound like the Queen. “We can ask around town… It may take us some time. But there are a lot of horses in Tsagaanuur…”

“Maybe you have this one?” suggests Maahar.

I’m not even going to discuss budget.

After some discussion among the non-Mongolians, I race to the shop for a miniature rather than face the inevitable consequences if we open one of the large gifting bottles. It’s Saturday, so it’s legal again.

A lengthy delay as we enjoy a morning meal, and a debate over how best to provide Maahar with vodka to help his castor oil go down. After some discussion among the non-Mongolians, I race to the shop for a miniature rather than face the inevitable consequences if we open one of the large gifting bottles. It’s Saturday, so it’s legal again.

Then there’s more delay for us to do our paperwork, because the reindeer people live within shooting distance of the Russian border, and permits are technically required. Aaron stays well out of the way as he’s somehow managed to get this far sans permit thanks to his angelic face, angelic temperament and way with the horsemen.

And, finally, I am mounted on Maahar’s second packhorse, an absolute behemoth of a creature, the stockiest, strongest, most stubborn Mongolian horse I’ve come across.

He, I will learn, bolts for nothing, which is nice. Instead, he stops stone, cold dead at the drop of a hat, or, rather, the flutter of a bird, and can, like all true heirs of Chinggis Khan’s cavalry, wheel on a sixpence. He also has a new, and special trick, that of shifting a foot to one side without breaking step, or doing anything that would announce this change of direction to a rider at my level (although from the horsemen’s sniggers whenever he does it, it’s easily recognisable to them).

He wants to ride up the arse of the other packhorse from his herd. I want him to hang out with Zac and Baatar, or whoever I’m talking to at that point in time. He, being a horse, is considerably stronger than I am.

Arthur cruises up to me, as we head along the river through the low hills, and asks, with a look of intense concern, “Are you alright?”

I’m not, in fact, as my stirrups are lopsided, and both my arms and my stomach are hurting from moulding the packhorse to my will. (He wants to ride up the arse of the other packhorse from his herd. I want him to hang out with Zac and Baatar, or whoever I’m talking to at that point in time. He, being a horse, is considerably stronger than I am, being human, but I have the advantage of a bit.)

“No!” I say. “I’m NOT OK!”

“OK!” he says, smiling. “OK!”

I try and work out whether Arthur is taking the piss and conclude that, on balance, he isn’t. More from spite than any hope of assistance, I explain in more detail, with pointing. “I’m not OK, because my stirrups are wrong. Look!”

Arthur rides off, barely avoiding tangling me in the lead rein to which another packhorse is attached.

I spit blood, quietly. We are, Zac and I, getting better at riding, just by virtue of being on the bastard horses for such a long time, but it still fails to be relaxing.

And, further, Shorty is twitchy. He’s kicking out at other horses, even more than usually resistant to Zac’s management – but we’re eleven days in now, he’s the smallest of the horses, and there isn’t another obvious choice for Zac to ride.

I dip my legs into the cool, fast-flowing water and… wash! I love a good river wash at the best of times. And, with the sun shining, and eleven days’ dirt to remove, this is the best river wash I’ve ever had.

And then, all of a sudden, soon after we clank and rattle across a floating pontoon bridge, there comes another transformative lunch.

The sun is out. The sky is bright. There’s an absolutely stellar stream running down a flawless valley, lined with larches, the sort of valley you’d pay good money to visit anywhere outside Mongolia, but is hardly a rarity here.

We make a fire, cook up pasta and coffee, Maahar lies in the shade looking green, while Zac, Arthur, Aaron and Matt go down to their undies and splash in the stream.

Holy cow!!!! I can haz wash!

I CAN HAZ WASH!

I head downstream into a cluster of larches, ask the boy to fend off any Mongolians coming my way, dig out my washbag, a towel and clean clothes, and retreat to a handy stone.

I dip my legs into the cool, fast-flowing water and… wash! I love a good river wash at the best of times. And, with the sun shining, and eleven days’ dirt to remove, this is the best river wash I’ve ever had.

I wash my entire body. I remove a fortnight’s worth of fuzz from my underarms (legs, I figure, can wait). I shampoo my hair, and then condition it.

And then I towel dry, moisturise, and change every item of clothing but my jeans. I consider mascara. That would, I conclude, be overkill.

Matt is vegetarian, which is about as easy among rural Mongolians as it would be among the Inuit, though perhaps marginally easier than it would have been in the early Arab armies, whose campaign rations included a tempting-sounding mix of camel blood and camel hair.

The next valley is a shallow patchwork of green and gold, with a gentle, reflective stream meandering lazily through it, and a series of log cabins scattered along the stream. We will, it seems, spend the night at the second, with an absolutely delightful grandmother, a beautiful baby, her charming mother and rounds of delicious, sour, fresh yak cheese to eat on her fresh-baked bread (we buy some to take with us and eat with the onions that grow wild).

It’s splendid. And, because we’re nearing the reindeer people, and it’s a lovely sunny evening, we decide to set up camp by the stream rather than sleep in the cabin.

We build a fire. Yes! We, the tourists, build a fire without assistance from the horsemen. We make a vegetarian pasta (Matt is vegetarian, which is about as easy among Mongolians as it would be among the Inuit, though perhaps marginally easier than it would have been in the early Arab armies, whose campaign rations included a tempting-sounding mix of blood and camel hair).

Matt introduces Zac to the Mongolian Death Worm; Zac gets into his sleeping bag and enacts attacks; and we sit by the fire, Matt, Aaron, Zac and I, eat chocolate, drink tea, and talk late, late into the night.

We reach the reindeer people tomorrow. I’ll be very, very sad to end this journey. Despite – or even because of – the odd frustration, it has been quite dazzlingly wonderful.

And, to be honest, it wouldn’t be a journey in the wilds if everything went right…

The post A Narrow Escape – and a River WASH! appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

This means poor Baatar is now in charge of five tourists (one a child), one teenage trainee guide, three packhorses and a spare horse, or a grand total of six people and eleven horses. He isn’t getting paid extra for the increased responsibility, although Aaron, the strongest non-Mongolian rider, helps out as best he can.

The sun is beating down on the steppes as we ride out. Our poor horses last drank yesterday morning, while it’s unlikely the grazing they found last night provided enough calories to replace the reserves spent getting to it.

Even Zac’s horse is beginning to look bony. Mine, which is sized for a Mongolian woman, despite the fact that I weigh as much as many Mongolian men, is looking more like a harbinger of the apocalypse. I suggest to Baatar that perhaps I could change horses when we reach Tsagaannuur.

No dice. “Horse good! Very good!”

After three hours riding, we reach a lake where the horses can drink safely. Shortly after this, a packhorse makes a bid for freedom, dragging Aaron out of the saddle in his wake. In Mongolian, I remember, the phrase for “ride a horse” and “fall off a horse” are the same.

Once I’ve established Aaron’s fine, I’m uncharitably extremely pleased that it’s not just me and Zac who are falling off horses.

Charon begins to wind his raft back towards the bank from whence we came. It is hot. We are thirsty. The sun is beating down. And Mongolians are as stubborn as their horses, which is, frankly, saying something.

A pause for Aaron to recover, and we arrive at a narrow, dark winding river that’s too deep to wade, where an evil-tempered Mongolian gentleman of approximately Zac’s height and Baatar’s girth has put together a log raft on a wire that functions as a crude, and achingly slow, cable ferry.

Baatar, Zac and I corral our protesting horses onto the raft. We are halfway across the river when Charon the ferryman announces his pricing.

The 5-minute river crossing will cost me and Zac the equivalent of twenty quid, a frankly insane sum in these parts. (Baatar, who is a licensed guide, three horses and a tent are costing us a little more than double that each day.)

Worse yet, the others are expected to pay not only for themselves and the packhorses but the spare horse and Arthur.

Frustrations spill over. Words are exchanged. Voices are raised.

I endeavour to mediate, proposing a less extortionate but still face-savingly high price of £12 for me, Zac and our horses.

Farcically, Charon begins to wind his raft back towards the bank from whence we came.

It is hot. We are thirsty. The sun is beating down. And Mongolians are as stubborn as their horses, which is, frankly, saying something.

Baatar works out a better deal with Charon in the end, but it is, nonetheless, extremely bad-tempered group who slump crossly beside another bend in the river to begin our lunch, a gourmet confection of pasta in tomato sauce.

The baking heat becomes a thing of joy. The gloomy river becomes a playground. The repetitive trees become a verdant shade. The sweeping plains are, once again, a thing of beauty.

And then, amazingly, everything turns around.

There’s a little log pontoon, for swimming off, loosely anchored by a bend in the river. Zac and the younger chaps strip down to their undies and jump in.

Deferring to local conventions of modesty, I go for a quick dip fully clothed.

The baking heat becomes a thing of joy. The gloomy river becomes a playground. The repetitive trees become a verdant shade. The sweeping plains are, once again, a thing of beauty.

It is transformational, utterly splendid. We take longer than we should do over lunch, drink plenty of tea and coffee, and sit in the brilliant sunlight enjoying the landscape.

I wonder, idly, how Victorian explorers, the type who’d have to travel as a group with guides through utterly remote spots for months or years on end, managed it without resorting to murder.

Rural Mongolians find this Western obsession as hard to comprehend as my grandparents would have in their youth: paying to buy water? In a bottle?! Are you MAD?!

It’s a long ride up to Tsagaannuur, the jumping-off point for the taiga and the reindeer people, through a winding low pass, past teens riding bareback and herds of fat-tailed sheep, up into larch forest, and down a slope that’s steep enough to walk the horses to spare their knees, into a smooth, shallow valley where a slowly winding stream meanders in its green hollow past stranded pools and brilliant oxbow lakes.

Zac and Bill stay behind at the tents. Matt, Aaron and I walk into town, in search of a shower, water that’s not river water (rural Mongolians find this Western obsession as hard to comprehend as my grandparents would have in their youth: paying to buy water? In a bottle?! Are you MAD?!) and possibly luxuries such as meat, beer, or, in the case of the optimistic Aaron, a chance to check his emails.

It’s a longer walk than we’d anticipated. We’d figured on two or three kilometres, but in fact it’s closer to five.

Tsagaannuur itself, a metropolis by the standards of these parts, is the usual mystifying array of log cabins, most of them boarded up as their inhabitants tend their summer pastures: in Mongolia, as in Harbin, temperatures of -30°C (-22°F) are not uncommon in winter, so most nomadic herders now retreat to villages for the season.

There are a couple of enormous government buildings, and a tonne of little shops, laid out along grassy thoroughfares with sheep and goats still grazing in them, but not a whisper of either restaurant or (obviously) internet.

We try a ger by a lake. Wrong ger, wrong lake. We try another ger, by another lake. Wrong ger. Eventually, we conclude that, since it would be embarrassing to bounce around further, this one MUST be the right lake.

We do, however, find a guesthouse, populated by a couple of horse-riding casualties who have injured themselves within hours of departing Tsagaannuur, but sleeping arrangements are on the communal side and nobody, including the owner, seems particularly clear on whether there is a shower, or how it works.

Folk seem fairly definite there isn’t any internet in town. But there are plenty of shops.

Cigarettes, in an echo of UB, have to be bought under the counter, since everywhere in Tsagaannuur is too close to a government building to legally sell them. So does the gifting vodka for the reindeer people since, despite what the steady stream of locals leaving with clinking carrier bags suggest, it is technically illegal to buy vodka in Tsagaannuur on Fridays.

I load up on Mongolian fruit drinks for Zac, sweeties, apples, raisins, water and a beer.

We settle down, classily, in the lee of a woodpile to consume our beers under the curious gaze of a stray dog and a goat, then negotiate a ride to the ger from the chap who owns the guesthouse, because, quite frankly, after six hours riding and a 5k walk, none of us fancy walking home in the dark.

As we bounce around the valley in near-total darkness, Tsagaannuur retreating to a dim glow in the far distance, we realise that not one of us knows our hosts’ names, and, further, that Baatar’s phone is off. We try a ger by a lake. Wrong ger, wrong lake. We try another ger, by another lake. Wrong ger.

Eventually, we conclude that, since it would be embarrassing to bounce around further, this one MUST be the right lake. Our ride roars off, headlights retreating into the dark. This is, I realise with a sinking feeling, rather a large valley in which to find an unlit ger in the dark.

And are those two slowly moving lights out in the distance people looking for us or folk riding motorbikes into Tsagaannuur?

One of the joys of a third world phone – I bought my Nokia for $15 in Borneo over three years ago and it was on the basic side even then – is that it comes with a torch. As, for that matter, do many cigarette lighters.

I equip Matt and Aaron with a cigarette lighter each and spark up my trusty Nokia. They debate exactly which point in the treeline on the darkened hillside is the gap through which we descended to the valley with a leisurely, almost academic and thoroughly masculine interest.

And, further, which is the lake that we walked past? There are, irritatingly, rather a lot of lakes in this particular stretch of valley.

And are those two slowly moving lights out in the distance people looking for us or folk riding motorbikes into Tsagaannuur?

Having no sense of direction whatsoever, I largely stay out of these discussions, confining myself to making optimistic circles with my phone-torch (another great thing about third world phones? They have no functionality, so the battery life is stellar) and chivvying Aaron to stay within visual range lest we get separated.

Just as I am beginning to contemplate spending the night in the open, perhaps under a shelter built of branches, and singing a small hallelujah chorus that it’s neither raining nor cold, a torch flashes back at us: a steady, deliberate, one, two, three pulse! It’s Baatar! Result!

Two more nights, and we’ll reach the reindeer people! And, maybe, there’ll be a shower on the way back….

This series on horseback trekking in Mongolia starts here. You can use the “next” and “previous” buttons to navigate through it.

Tentacles in the Dark image by Nic McPhee.

The post Charon the Ferryman and Tsagaannuur appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

Not to mention us.

There’s an enormous layered salver stacked with biscuits and mixed candies, and six bottles of vodka in the empties corner.

As far as I can understand from the lady with the baby, who’s apparently sober and has good English, this all has something to do with a wedding in UB, which is where the folk in the jeep we met on the plains were going.

Baatar explains his family to me as best as he can. He had eight brothers and sisters at one point, but five have “burned”, so now it’s only him and these two sisters left. (Baatar is 49. His sisters look a little younger, but may well be slightly older: in Mongolia, as in Russia, women outlive men by almost a decade.)

Our host, it appears, would like me to stay. She evidences this by pulling out another bottle of vodka, pouring a shot, downing it, pouring me a shot, staring straight into my eyes while I down it, and repeating until I go outside for air.

As it happens, we’re clearly staying anyway. I’m not such a bitch that I’d refuse Baatar this quality time with his two surviving siblings; further, Zac has already buddied up with the older grandchild.

You don’t have to be familiar with Khutulun, the Mongolian warrior princess who outwrestled men, to be impressed by this.

I certainly am. She looks absolutely splendid, elegant and awe-inspiring in her ceremonial del, with a smart Western outfit, right down to the tights and court shoes, layered beneath it.

And, further, she has better makeup skills than I (not saying much).

As it happens, we’re clearly staying anyway. I’m not such a bitch that I’d refuse Baatar this quality time with his two surviving siblings; further, Zac has already buddied up with the older grandchild, while I’m in perimenopausal baby-crazy mode about the toddler.

“I’m sorry,” says Baatar, rather hopelessly. “Vodka! I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK,” I say. “She’s your sister. You’re allowed to drink vodka! It’s OK! We stay here tonight! No problem!”

Within seconds, they’ve improvised a pair of rather fantastic machine guns from car parts, old tyres and used vodka bottles, and are endeavouring to set up a swing. Language barrier? What language barrier?

There’s a roofless log cabin outside, more of a shelter, full of exciting things like logs and car parts and sheepskins. Zac and the child, in the universal language of boys, have already decided to use this as a fort.

Within seconds, they’ve improvised a pair of rather fantastic machine guns from car parts, old tyres and used vodka bottles, and are endeavouring to set up a swing.

Language barrier? What language barrier?

Further, in an absolute overdose of cute, a baby fat-tailed lamb and baby kid live close to the ger, in the bough paddock, rather than going out with the flocks. They have oh-too-clearly decided, despite the evidence that one is black and growing up to be a goat and one is white and growing up to be a sheep (and already has the booty to show for it), that they are siblings, twins, even.

Zac almost has a squeezure.

The boys chase them around for a bit, cuddling them, then build a fort and corral them into it.

It’s all rather sweet. And, with the endless steppe giving onto picturesque mountains, quite stunningly photogenic, too. (Did I mention my camera memory card broke?)

We are supposed to be getting to the reindeer people at some point soon, but since the only idea of their whereabouts that I have is across the plains, over the hills, past Tsagaannuur and into the taiga (whatever “taiga” actually means – I know it has trees, and is in the mountains, but beyond that I’m not entirely sure I’ll even know the taiga when I hit it), I’m not particularly fussed whether that’s tomorrow or the day after, or even, for that matter, the day after that.

This is, fact fans, one of the beauties of being nomadic. You very rarely have to be anywhere on schedule.

Appendicitis is one of those things, like tonsillitis, which every parent knows enough about in theory to look knowledgeably down the throat, or poke knowledgeably at the stomach, but can’t necessarily diagnose because…

Bill and Matt, however, would quite like to move on, not least because we’re in an absolute bitch of a dust storm which suggests that putting up anything more substantial than our lovely tubular pop-up pup tent (technically a one-man, but Zac’s scrawny) is going to be nigh-on impossible.

“That’s fine,” I say. “We’re staying. I can’t take Baatar or Zac out of here.”

They too, however, are faced with their own immovable force: Maahar.

For Maahar is really not well. I catch him out the back of the ger, slumped on a log with the pinkeyed man, rinsing vomit out of his mouth with the communal water ladle, and try and force some Cipro down him. I fail.

He heads back into the ger and lies, an absolutely splendid confection of solid slab muscle, the sort of thing a lady has to take a photo of for her gay friends (but, like I said, my camera broke), on one of the beds that double as sofas, making a groaning face yet utterly silence.

Bill is worried about appendicitis. I look up the term for appendicitis in Bue’s phrasebook. It’s not there. Nor is the term for appendix. Bugger.

“It is the right side, isn’t it?” I ask Bill. He shrugs. Appendicitis is there in his parenting ur-memory, too. But it’s one of those things, like tonsilitis, which every parent knows enough about in theory to look knowledgeably down the throat, or poke knowledgeably at the stomach, but can’t necessarily diagnose because…

… Well, because IAMNAD (I Am Not A Doctor). Now, we conclude, is the sort of time that the internet would come in really handy.

A bit of collective poking at poor Maahar’s impressive stomach, and Baatar’s sister gets what Bill and I are looking for. No, she says, it’s not that. She knows that. It’s not that. It’s something else.

“CHINGGISH KHAN!” slurs Baatar, assertively. “CHINGGISH! Very good! Horsh! Very good!” His sister looks at the door. I look at the ceiling. We do not, repeat not, look at each other.

A flood of Mongolian from Baatar, and Arthur exits the ger, returning with his cupped hands full of horse dung so fresh it’s virtually green – and, yes, still steaming. Driblets of fibrous dung drip onto the bright carpets that cover the floor.

Baatar grins, opens both hands, and takes a double fistful of horse dung.

I can’t, entirely, believe what I am seeing.

Arthur hands him one of the tea bowls we’ve all been drinking out of. Baatar squeezes the horse dung over the tea bowl, and a bunch of cloudy, dark gold juice drips between his grimy fingers and mingles, horrifically, with the residue of salt, milk tea.

Dung safely juiced, he chucks the remnants out of the ger door, and proffers the bowl to Maahar.

I catch Baatar’s sister’s eye. She makes the “men!” face at me, and I start to laugh.

Baatar, wounded by this feminine insult, begins to explain. “Chinggis!” he says. “Chinggis! Horse! Stomach! Very good! Chinggis Khan! Very good!”

His sister, a little disrespectfully, virtually pisses herself laughing. I struggle to keep a straight face, and fail.

“CHINGGISH KHAN!” slurs Baatar, assertively. “CHINGGISH! Very good! Horsh! Very good!”

His sister looks at the door. I look at the ceiling. We do not, repeat not, look at each other.

“I really think,” Bill says, with the air of a man used to diplomacy, rationality, logic and all sorts of useful lifeskills that cease to have any relevance at all a very few kilometres into rural Mongolia. “I really think we should encourage him to take the antibiotics.”

It slowly dawns on me that Maahar is actually going to drink this. And, equally slowly, the poor kid raises the tea bowl full of horse shit juice to his lips.

I have a strong stomach, but there’s something about coprophagia that activates my gag reflex.

I head into the fresh air. Bill’s waiting.

“I really think,” Bill says, with the air of a man used to diplomacy, rationality, logic and all sorts of useful lifeskills that cease to have any relevance at all a very few kilometres into rural Mongolia. “I really think we should encourage him to take the antibiotics.”

“I’ve tried,” I say, laughing a little hysterically, and waving the Cipro around like a totem. “I’ve tried. You’re welcome to have a go!”

I toddle into the roofless cabin and set up our tent in there, out of the wind. Bill and Matt have offered us this spot, and, good lord, I’m taking it.

I do make a token attempt to help Bill and Matt put up their classic triangular tent, but the child of the ger is, obviously, far more help than I could be.

“He drank it?!” I say. “Yes,” Zac says. “He mixed it with vodka and he drank it. Straight down!”

Zac exits the ger. “Wow,” he says, having finally discovered something new under the sun. “Maahar did it.”

“He drank it?!” I say.

“Yes,” Zac says. “He mixed it with vodka and he drank it. Straight down!”

I stick my head inside the ger, where yet another bottle of vodka has appeared from somewhere.

Maahar, amazingly, appears to be asleep, with one hand across his gyppy tummy, quite possibly to stop the foreigners from poking it. He is, unsurprisingly, sweating, and, thanks to his classically Mongolian skintone, has turned an impressive shade of pale lime.

“I guess,” says Bill meditatively. “It’s one way to evacuate the system.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sympathetic medicine, and all that. At least it’s less mental than homeopathy. It’s definitely going to do something. It will DEFINITELY have an effect.”

The pit toilet, a three-sided, three-bar fence around a hole in the ground with two boards to focus one’s aim, is at least 100 metres walk from the ger. Poor Maahar. Not that he’ll be going that far to eject his stomach contents, I wouldn’t have thought.

Baatar’s sister whips up a pot of noodle soup, and summons us from our cabin to eat. We dine from the very same tea bowls from which the medicine was administered, and I don’t even flinch.

Night falls. Aaron and Arthur ride off to round up our horses, which have wandered miles across the steppe in search of decent grazing. Perhaps because the majority of rural Mongolians have spent their mineral money on livestock or perhaps simply because summer is late, this is extremely sparse round here. The grass has been clipped to within millimetres of the soil.

The grandson rounds up the sheep and goats, with a little bit of utterly useless help from Zac, while his grandmother supervises, using binoculars that seem to be left over from someone’s military service.

Folk crash out around the ger. Bill, Matt and Aaron head to bed. Zac and I toddle off to the log cabin.

And Baatar’s sister whips up a pot of noodle soup, and summons us from our cabin to eat. We dine from the very same tea bowls from which the medicine was administered, and I don’t even flinch. It is, in fact, delicious.

She’ll be up at dawn to look after the family. I do hope she’ll get a nap in later.

You can read the start of this series on our horseback trek across Mongolia here.

Picture via Wikimedia Commons.

The post Way to Treat a Stomach Bug, Dude appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

Despite the fact that our pup tent is barely ten metres from theirs, I feel an air of distance is required. After all, they are on their adventure, and we are on ours, and nary the twain shall meet.

Zac, however, who has learnt over three years of travel that the world is a friendly place — and is, further, absolutely gagging to speak English with someone who isn’t me — has no such inhibitions, and scampers to and fro between tents and ger with the air of someone who’s firmly at home in either spot.

Baatar, I suspect, is also looking forward to having people to speak Mongolian with, not to mention a group of horses large enough to prevent any further escape attempts on the part of Satan the packhorse.

We exchange pleasantries. I swap some garlic for some wild onions. Zac and I test our immune systems by marinading meat and cooking it on skewers in the fire.

It’s a fair old cavalcade that sets out towards the plains, pausing only to rescue our salt and pepper from the bush into which Baatar has disposed of our lovingly packaged recyclable waste.

Yet, as we break camp in the morning, it emerges that, like it or not, we are all riding together. It’s an unusual group.

Besides us, there’s a father and son, Bill, who’s about my father’s age, and Matt, who’s about my age, who are in Mongolia because… well, Bill’s just retired, Matt has some holiday in reserve, and why the hell not? The third member of the group is Aaron, an angelic-looking Belgian 20-something who works in hospitality the bulk of the year to fund travel in his time off.

What with two packhorses, one spare horse, Maahar, a champion wrestler in his 20s who’s their lead guide, and his younger brother, a silent 18-year-old who I will call Arthur, partly because I never established the English spelling of his name and partly because – well, he’s just an Arthur – it’s a fair old cavalcade that sets out towards the plains, pausing only to rescue our salt and pepper from the bush into which Baatar has disposed of our lovingly packaged recyclable waste.

“You’re dehydrated!” I say to Zac, accusingly. “SO ARE YOU!” he yells back. “You’re TOTALLY dehydrated! At least I’ve HAD some water! You’ve had NOTHING since we set out.”

The riding’s easy enough, although Shorty seems oddly frisky, perhaps disturbed by the new horses in the group – he’s only three, and, even by Mongolian standards, highly strung.

We walk the horses down one steep slope, more to protect their knees than anything else, and set out across the plains in temperatures that have suddenly soared to 30 or more, under a beating, scalding sun, a new set of mountains looming epic in the distance.

It is at this point that I realise that Baatar has thrown out our water.

Bill has a little, which he kindly donates to Zac, but as the clock ticks towards lunchtime, we are becoming progressively bad-tempered.

“You’re dehydrated!” I say to Zac, accusingly.

“SO ARE YOU!” he yells back. “You’re TOTALLY dehydrated! At least I’ve HAD some water! You’ve had NOTHING since we set out.”

It’s true. We’re both dehydrated, and, because Mongolian horsemen, like the Bedouin, can survive a long day with only a cup of tea or two at the beginning and end of it, there’s no water in reserve.

We hit a river, which is fast-flowing and looks clear. The horsemen fill up water bottles and hand them round. Oh god.

In for a penny, in for a pound, I think. I have a medikit full of antibiotics, and water-borne diseases are relatively rare in rural Mongolia.

The river water goes down an absolute treat and, if you don’t hold it up to the light, really doesn’t look too bad.

There’s an enormous building that must be at least three storeys high, and several others that boast a second floor. And…. SHOWERS. Dear god, showers!

Our next stop will be Renchilkhumbe where there are shops, and provisions. Further, according to my guidebook, there is a guesthouse with beds and – oh joy of joys! – hot showers and – be still my beating heart! – sitdown toilets.

After over a week on horseback, a hot shower is the stuff of fantasy. And a throne? Truly, my cup runneth over…

Rather as, while in the high Himalaya, Kathmandu transformed into Bangkok in my head, Renchilkhumbe, seen from a distance, transforms into something the size of –… well, not London, exactly, but certainly Cambridge, or possibly Bristol.

It’s totally WAY bigger than Mörön.

There’s a cluster of bright-roofed cabins. Clear evidence of shops. A petrol station! Tracks well-enough defined to look like dirt roads when seen from across the plains. An enormous building that must be at least three storeys high, and several others that boast a second floor.

And…. SHOWERS.

Dear god, showers!

We park up at a ger, chug river water from a bend where the flow seems fast and clear, and enjoy cup after cup of salt milk tea.

Both the type of traditional, old school rural bank that has nothing to do with computers, or fancy foreign cards, or foreign money, but exist to take and hand out Mongolian togrog only.

It is only when we get into town that, with the help of the phrasebook, I establish from Baatar firstly that the place with the showers has yet to open and secondly that that’s what he meant by saying “NO” repeatedly.

There is, however, a bath-house, a public set of showers accessible for a small fee, at the other end of town.

Zac rides back with Baatar, and instructions on how to assemble the potato salad we didn’t eat at lunch, and I head off on the trail of supplies and showers, towel and washbag neatly stashed.

In a phenomenon to be found all over the developing world, Renchilkhumbe supports a quite overwhelming number of shops, most of them with almost identical stock, as well as several restaurants and two pharmacies, neither of which have the antibiotics that Bill’s looking for for his sinuses.

I offer him some of mine.

Gosh, I think to myself. A metropolis like this might even have a bar!

It certainly has an important-looking government buildings. And two banks. Both the type of traditional, old school rural bank that has nothing to do with computers, or fancy foreign cards, or foreign money, but are absolutely perfect for someone looking to upgrade from storing their cash in a strongbox in the ger. Hell, there are even vegetables that aren’t potatoes or onions!

There IS a bar in town! It’s not open yet, but he can open it for us. And he thinks there might be someone in town who has an internet dongle, although he isn’t sure about that.

In the largest store in town, complete with a freezer containing – oh, joy of joys! – meat, which turns out sadly to be for the owner’s personal use (it’s dairy season in Mongolia), I bump into Matt and Aaron.

They, too, are intrigued by the notion of showers, and a bar, and, perhaps, internet.

Aaron stops by the banks. They don’t take foreign cards. Or foreign money. And, no, we can’t use their internet.

The bath house is less horrific than I’d expected. There are cleanish showers with rubber mats on the floor, although, due to a general absence of anyone who wants to wash, we’ll need to wait a couple of hours for the water to warm up.

Having fixated on hot showers for at least the last eight hours, I’m more than happy to do this.

And off we toddle, in search of a bar. Not because we think we’ll find one, but more for the sense of a mission.

At a building site, we find a man who speaks some English. There IS a bar in town! It’s not open yet, but he can open it for us. And he thinks there might be someone in town who has an internet dongle, although he isn’t sure about that.

I hope Matt has more sense of direction than I, since “across the plain, towards the mountains and near the river bend” doesn’t narrow things down as much in the dark as it does in the daylight.

By 6pm, we’re installed on surprisingly fancy-looking pleather chairs, the disco ball is going, Lady Gaga’s on play, and cold beers are well under way. The outhouse toilet is ye traditional long-drop between bare boards, but, in an indication of how VERY sophisticated this joint is, it boasts not only paper but a door, with a lock, and a roof.

By 7pm, Matt’s invested in a bottle of Chinggis vodka, and I realise that I really ought to shower now.

Shots go round. And then some more shots go round.

And then another beer, because, lord knows, when wellying one’s way through a bottle of Chinggis vodka on an empty stomach, more beer is always a good idea.

I adjust my position to indicate to our Mongolian friend that, despite appearances, I’m not currently available. (Matt, by strategic deployment of the magic word “We” has also indicated that he is not available, indicating that everyone at the table’s going to be out of luck tonight.)

By about 9.30pm, it’s all a complete blur and our Mongolian friend can’t find his car to drive us back to the ger, which is, it dimly dawns on me, nigh-on impossible to find in the dark.

I hope Matt has more sense of direction than I, since “across the plain, towards the mountains and near the river bend” doesn’t narrow things down as much in the dark as it does in daylight.

Morning dawns, bright and dry, and I emerge from the confusingly circular exit of our pup tent in search of water. I can smell myself.

Morning dawns, bright and dry, and I emerge from the confusingly circular exit of our pup tent in search of water. I can smell myself.

“Mama good?!” asks Baatar, giggling.

It appears that the vodka hasn’t left me in the running for mum of the year. I grab a big bottle of mineral water from our shopping and chug it back. It doesn’t bounce. Yay!

“You missed the shaman,” says Matt.

WHA’?!

“Yes, we had a shaman and he was singing shaman songs.”

Bugger! Of all the nights to find a bar, it has to be the night that the shaman shows up.

Oh god, I think. That poor little girl! She switched on the power for the showers, and then we disappeared…

The ger patriarch cracks my second can of beer. I shake my head again, and rapidly hide the gifting vodka we are bringing to the reindeer people, as well as my reserve cigarettes.

The ger patriarch, a charming and disreputable chap who looks in his late 70s to Western eyes, rifles through my shopping bags, emerges with my cans of beer and cracks open the first. It is 8.30am. He hands the can to Baatar, who takes a swig, then offers it to me.

I shake my head, very, very carefully. This is the worst hangover I’ve had since I tried to keep up with the SAS.

“The thing with the vodka,” Matt explains, helpfully, “Is that you don’t have to down each shot. You can just sip it. That’s actually what they do. They don’t necessarily finish the shots.”

Hot damn!

I don’t normally take painkillers for a hangover – I was raised Catholic, and prefer to take my punishment – but given I’m going to be on a horse for the big end of a day, I break my usual rule.

“You were REALLY drunk last night,” observes my spawn, accusingly.

“Did you find the potato salad?” I ask.

“No,” he says, with an air of quiet heroism. “Bill gave me some noodles. And then I had Haribo.”

Oh god. I’m really not winning mum of the year. Poor Bill.

The ger patriarch cracks my second can of beer. I shake my head again, and rapidly hide the gifting vodka we are bringing to the reindeer people, as well as my reserve cigarettes.

Baatar, the ger patriarch and one of the men from the ger are sipping vodka out of little cups with a conspiratorial air. Baatar mimes that a shot of vodka will be good for my head. I down it. It isn’t.

Maahar, it emerges, is not very well. He’s going to hang back in Renchilkhumbe to see a shaman, and, on the better safe than sorry principle, a doctor, then catch us up.

It’s 9.30am, and the women of the house have already moved the stove out into the open air and got to work on making bread.

Round the back of a small log cabin, Baatar, the ger patriarch and one of the men from the ger are sipping from small china cups with a conspiratorial air.

Baatar mimes that a shot of vodka will be good for my head.

I down it. It isn’t.

It begins to dawn on me that riding across country in temperatures of over 30 is about as bad a hangover cure as they come.

It’s round about noon when we set out for town, timing which appears to be dictated less by distance to our destination and more by the fact that the vodka has run out. We park up, dine on meat pancakes and Mongolian stew, Zac stocks up on raisins and chocolates, and I visit approximately ten stores until I find some lip balm.

In the far green, two enormous vulture-like creatures are feasting on dead livestock. Hoofbeats in the distance, and Maahar gallops into view. He still doesn’t look well at all.

It looks like we’re not going to be getting very far today, which, quite frankly, is fine by me.

It’s rather less fine by poor Bill, who has a plane to catch and, further, being a recently retired software engineer rather than some random loafer, is about as relaxed about Mongolian timekeeping as he is about being stranded with a child he’s only just met.

We meet two motorbikes and a jeep as we head across the plains. At each, we stop for Baatar to exchange news and views in quite inordinate depth.

In the far green, two enormous vulture-like creatures are feasting on dead livestock.

Hoofbeats in the distance, and Maahar gallops into view. He still doesn’t look well at all.

But apparently we haven’t got far to go!

There’s a ger located on a windswept mound in the plain, and as we tie up our horses I get the feeling that, like it or not, we’re here for the night.

In the way of the world, my camera memory card bit the dust at about this point. This photo is by Nurse Kate – many thanks!

The post The One Where I Almost Get a Shower appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

And this is the ger itself, complete with truck. Like most larger vehicles in rural Mongolia, it seems to be more for the chaps to tinker with than for anyone actually to drive. Eventually, someone will pass through who can fix it. In the meantime, it’s a talking point.

This little guy’s truck does work, however. His hair won’t be cut until he’s safely through early childhood, in a grand ceremony around the age Western children enter nursery or kindergarten. As young children’s toys and clothes are entirely gender-neutral, I only learn his sex when he drops his pants to pee.

Non-truck possessions that aren’t stored in the keepsake chest are slotted into the roof poles, or the trellis frame. The cables? They’re for the solar panel.

This is the view that the family wake up to, every day, throughout the summer pasture season. Like most Mongolian gers, the door faces south.

We hand out a tonne of sweets as gifts. But nothing lives up to Baatar’s chocolate spread. And, yes, that spoon did go straight back in the jar. And, no, nobody cared.

I loved this little guy. He’s eight. He played so sensitively and kindly with the two little kids. He’s wearing surgical boots – polio, I wonder? – but no one treats him differently.

These guys are thirteen, and twins. Slightly older than Zac, and already full-fledged cowboys, herding sheep, goats, but mainly horses: typically, the sheep and goats are left for younger kids to chase.

This little tyke is off for a wander, which is what rural Mongolian toddlers do. They (sometimes) cry when they fall over. They occasionally holler when they stray too far from the ger. But I’ve never, ever seen a Mongolian toddler have a tantrum.

One of the mums has been washing in the ger today, boiling great basins of water over the stove — a thankless, not to say Sisyphean, task. The patriarch? He’s been cutting wood with a power saw, syphoning petrol from the truck, and napping.

Zac shows the little kids how to make paper aeroplanes and flies them. They go down pretty well, not that, in all honesty, the family has paper to waste.

It is, in short, an absolutely splendid ger.

We set up camp late. But once I get a fire built and lit, I feel like Bear Grylls — at least until I burn the toasting sticks Zac’s spent the last half hour whittling…

You can read the first post in this series on our ride to see Mongolia’s Reindeer People here, and the last post here.

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