Wednesday 7th September
Determined not to let the events of
the previous night leave a sour taste in the mouth, we explored the famous
Chinggis Square in central Ulaanbaatar. A statue of Mongolia’s ‘hero of the
revolution’, Chinggis Khan, stood at one end marking the 800th anniversary of the great conqueror’s coronation. We then ventured out of
Ulaanbaatar towards the famous Chinggis Khan statue (I’m sure you’ve spotted a
Mongolian sightseeing trend here) but not before visiting the Black Market.
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| Chinggis Khan Square, Ulaanbaatar |
Sprawling stalls selling just about
everything greeted us. Isaac bought a magic carpet, presumably as a backup to
the Kenari breaking down, and Rich added to his already overflowing souvenir
stash with a traditional Mongolian hat. We then pressed on to a 40m high, 750
tonne silver statue of Chinggis Khan 54 kilometres east of Ulaanbaatar. It was
at this spot, so the legend goes, that Mongolia’s great leader found his golden
whip. Inside the impressive monument sat the largest boot in the world at size
7038 (EU) – the epitome of tough shoes to fill. Ascending the humongous statue,
we emerged through Chinggis’ belly and walked up the neck of his equally
gigantic horse. Vast hilly steppe scattered with groupings of yurts stretched
out as far as the eye could see. There was only one thing appropriate for
capturing this moment, Cal’s drone.
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| Chinggis Khan Monument |
Mathius, a fellow rallier we had
encountered in Ulaanbaatar, recommended that we head towards Turtle Rock in the
Gorhi-Terelzj National Park. Despite being a rather mysterious chap, he
re-assured us that he had lived in Mongolia for over a year and that he knew a
guy who knew a horse who’s master owns a yurt. When we eventually reached
Turtle Rock by sundown, Mathius was nowhere to be seen so we instead opted to
stay the night in the nearest yurt.
Thanks to our lonely planet book, we were
aware of some of the do’s and don’ts to bare in mind when staying in a
traditional yurt, or ger as the Mongolians call them. Reasonable advice such as
do bring a gift and do speak in Mongolian were perfectly understandable.
However, some of the etiquette left us slightly puzzled. Don’t touch another
person’s hat, whistle, lean against the support column or touch a child’s head
were all stated as unwelcome actions.
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| Turtle Rock |
Upon hearing this news, the convoy
knew we had a problem. Caleb, notorious for losing hats, had only just
completed a long course of re-habilitation to restrain his inner head-snatching
urge, and Hockey was a whistling addict, belting out Nessun Dorma every morning
like a cockerel. A worried look flushed across Rich’s face as his pole dancing
past was about to be unearthed, and Guy, with his bristly tash and goatee, was
tagged and noted on the paedophile’s register. Together we were a prison
sentence waiting to happen. Thankfully, the advice to always sleep with your
feet pointing to the door came as a sense of relief to the team. We could sleep
peacefully in the knowledge that Cal’s smelly feet would be well ventilated and
near the emergency exit. Patting ourselves down and hoping for the best, we
entered the yurt.
Firing up the central fire in the middle of the yurt, we set about cooking dinner for the evening. Food babies aplenty we then retired to the comfort of our beds and hit the pillow after what felt like a knackering day. Halfway through the night Rich was woken by a faint rustling over the other side of the yurt. The sound then became louder as its source came closer and closer to his bed.
Barely a few feet away from Rich’s bed, the now only foreseeable thing it could be, a monster, was breathing heavily and rummaging through his food bag. He was convinced a Mongolian leprechaun was enjoying a midnight feast at his expense. Summoning the courage to end this nightmare, his petrified voice spoke. “Does anyone have a light?” As Alf scrambled for a torch, Rich’s unagi kicked in and the combat stance was adopted in readiness. When blinding light eventually filled the yurt, the monster was long gone into the night. Panic over, we concluded it must’ve been Peter Pettigrew the rat on a mission for Lord Voldermort.
Firing up the central fire in the middle of the yurt, we set about cooking dinner for the evening. Food babies aplenty we then retired to the comfort of our beds and hit the pillow after what felt like a knackering day. Halfway through the night Rich was woken by a faint rustling over the other side of the yurt. The sound then became louder as its source came closer and closer to his bed.
Barely a few feet away from Rich’s bed, the now only foreseeable thing it could be, a monster, was breathing heavily and rummaging through his food bag. He was convinced a Mongolian leprechaun was enjoying a midnight feast at his expense. Summoning the courage to end this nightmare, his petrified voice spoke. “Does anyone have a light?” As Alf scrambled for a torch, Rich’s unagi kicked in and the combat stance was adopted in readiness. When blinding light eventually filled the yurt, the monster was long gone into the night. Panic over, we concluded it must’ve been Peter Pettigrew the rat on a mission for Lord Voldermort.
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| The Yurt |
Posted by: Rich