Our Ger Camp in the wilderness

Our four days in Mongolia were spent with the wonderful Pujee (Mongolian) and Jeanette (Norwegian?!), who lease out two of their five Gers tents in Gachuurt Reserve Park to tourists during the summer months. Tottering around camp was their 18-month-old son Storm, as well as Byamar (Pujee’s 15-year-old niece), Felix the dog, Lucifer the cat and 20 semi-wild horses for us to ride.

The camp was about as remote as you can get. There was no electricity, just a small solar panel for essentials and both the toilet and shower were outside. When we were thirsty, we collected water from the stream which flowed straight from the mountainside and also served as a decent fridge for beers. The nearest shop was two hours away on a motorbike and the neighbours were a 20 minute gallop across the valley.

Minutes after our arrival, Jeanette came to tell us a foal had just been born and we followed her down to the meadow to see the new addition take his first few wobbly steps. The next four days were spent exploring the surrounding terrain on horseback, across the steep, rocky hillsides and grassy plains of the reserve, enjoying breath taking scenery that never seemed to end.

Pujee was a master horseman and (despite protests from his long-suffering wife) rarely passed up the chance to show off his repertoire of tricks, ranging from standing on the saddle with the poise of a surfboarder, to riding backwards in full gallop. Mongolian horses are small, strong and very fast. They also only speak Mongolian, so “Choooo” (go, go, go) and “Ooooooooch” (stop…PLEASE STOP!) quickly became welcome additions our limited vocabulary. Not every horse would comply, as El found sat stationary on the back of his somewhat overweight, sweaty nag shouting a strange combination of the two – much to the amusement of the local farmers.

Our treks would culminate in a visit to a neighbouring Ger (one of which boasted a bizarre mix of freshly butchered goat, fermenting mare’s milk and a flat screen TV) where we were generously plied warm salty milk and unashamedly stared at. And no wonder. Sat on his miniature steed, El (who incredibly managed to remain in the saddle despite this being his third ever horseriding experience) likened himself to Jesus riding into Nazareth. The overgrown beard helped.

Every so often we’d come across boys training for Naadam – a Mongolian festival of sport held in July which culminates in a bareback horserace with more than 100 riders, many as young as three years old. It was both terrifying and awe inspiring to see them racing – tiny children speeding across the steppe and somehow managing to cling on and steer at the same time.

In the evenings, we gathered in the cosy “supper tent”, lit only by candle light and heated by a crackling wood stove, where we feasted on Mongolian delicacies and listened to Pujee’s unnerving tales of the wolves that hide out in the surrounding forest and attack young horses. Despite warnings from our Russian friends, the food in Mongolia was exceptional and as good as, or better, than anything we’d had in Russia. Especially the horse ribs. And the marmot…