Mongolia 2018: Under the eternal blue sky

Out of all the surprises that happened in 2018, being given the chance to travel to Mongolia was one of the most eye-opening.

I had visions of Ulaanbaatar being a forlorn, far-flung outpost at the edge of the world, and my late-afternoon arrival seemed to support this; the plane flew over vast dusty plains before banking into a sprawling, leaden city.

The subsequent hold-up at immigration and the traffic-heavy drive from the nondescript outskirts where you could catch sight of the sooty ger districts reminded me in some ways both of that time I arrived in Prague central station at dusk – it was cold, slightly disorienting, we had to negotiate with surly cab drivers and I didn’t feel at ease until we got to our flat- and that week I spent by myself in Tbilisi, which wore its Soviet history like a greatcoat.

I would keep on being strongly reminded of Tbilisi and Georgia throughout my stay, which I think was likely the proliferation of Russian supermarkets on Ulaanbaatar’s streets, and the bold, dramatic landscapes I would later see.

The central business district

Forlorn and far-flung UB was not. It was a vivacious, energetic if slightly anachronistic capital, with endlessly fascinating ways and a diverse population.

One time I went to watch a cultural show. It was held in a dingy theater at the edge of an amusement park that had a Ferris wheel and a rollercoaster, like two bright plastic alien ships that decided to crash-land in the center of town. It was a riveting look at Mongolian art and culture: there were throat singers and dancing dragons and musicians plucking at two-stringed instruments and glittery contortionists and a troop of martial men and the music was strange and familiar at the same time.

There were art galleries in this chilly capital too, and museums, and grand Sukhbaatar Square where you could say hello to Chinggis Khaan and his sons, and the hilltop Zaisan Memorial with the statue that reminded me of either the Argonath or the Titan of Braavos and the circular mural to wartime cooperation between Mongolian and Soviet forces and the steep climb I thought I could handle, but when I made it down my ears were ringing from the altitude.

There were several bars and restaurants, including the one where President Obama is supposed to have stopped in. (We ate there too, maybe that made us more presidential than the current WH occupant? Tsss.)

Mongolian cuisine, somebody explained to me, is nomadic. There were generous portions of meat, sparingly seasoned and barely embellished, heaps of vegetables thrown together, hot and filling soup, juice made from the seabuckthorn berry that they told me was good for a host of common ailments, and yak dairy. Pungent stuff, that, and not for the faint of stomach, but I liked the yak cheese, excellent with local honey.

Mongolian liquor was something else, again, and the locals – in addition to being friendly and hospitable (and in the case of the ladies I met, fashionably fun)- can drink you under the table.

There were malls that ran the gamut from glitzy to stolid – my favorite was the State Department Store and its sumptuous furs;I wanted to buy a beautiful white fox coat but… okay, down with the woke pitchforks.

Some of my Mongolian souvenirs instead included a gorgeous deep-blue velvet Kazakh bag, a beautiful pure cashmere scarf in a similar shade, and a handful of seabuckthorn products.

Out in the countryside, though, is where Mongolia really lives up to its Land of the Eternal Blue Sky billing.

I’d arrived in late spring, too early for the resplendent summer greens, but just in time for one exciting snow day, and nighttime temperatures that fell to gentle negatives.

Winter goes down to -40, everyone said.

The skies stay blue most of the year, they also told me rather proudly (and in case you miss the point, the national flag itself, with its blue middle strip, reminds you) and this was a fact I appreciated most on my trips to Terelj National Park.

It wasn’t a very long drive out of the city, through sternly majestic landscapes under the eye-watering, bright cornflower-blue infinite vastness of the heavens. A wild eagle would occasionally flap overhead, and you could glimpse herds of galloping horses and placidly grazing yaks.

You can take the lift up to the horse’s head

On the way to the park were the steel Chinggis Khaan statue, said to be the tallest equestrian statue in the world at 40 meters (it stood atop a complex that also contained such curiosities as the largest Mongolian boot in the world, a massive calfskin project that took six months to make by hand), and the well-named Turtle Rock.

There was also the Aryapal temple, where if you chanced the uphill trek (I did), you would be rewarded with pithy Buddhist aphorisms along the way, and a stunning view of the valley from the top, not to mention the deeply tranquil meditation center itself.

In Terelj, I was treated to one of my favorite experiences ever: an overnight stay in a ger camp.

Now, you and I call them yurts, these great, circular, easily recognizable dwellings, but the proper term for them is ger.

A nomadic settlement

Gers move locations according to the seasons, and it is quite common to see one of these weather-stained gers standing next to a family’s summer house.

If you are privileged enough to be invited into a nomadic family’s home (like we were), the respectful thing to do is to accept the milk tea and homemade yak curds and yogurt they offer (a decision my stomach agreed with, happily).

Later that evening, as I drifted off to sleep in Alungoo Lodge, I marveled once again that here I was, in the Mongolian countryside, sleeping in an actual ger under the cold stars, and silently thanked the universe for letting it happen.

Ger hospitality

💙🇲🇳