In Search of Genghis Khan Page 5

  Gerel had made advance arrangements with the local agricultural commune to hire out horses and guides, and next morning, 17 May, half a dozen herdsmen rode into camp, each leading three or four spare horses. It was difficult to know which were more motley - the riders or their animals.

  The animals which the herders brought in were a typical mixture of angular, small, unkempt, unshod beasts with heads too big for their bodies, unprepossessing lines, and a hotchpotch of colours. They were all geldings, because the Mongols keep the mares for their milk and breeding purposes, and retain only a few stallions, which are often allowed to grow immense manes which hang down to the ground so that they seem about to trip on them. The standard working geldings which showed up that morning were scruffy, ill-favoured, tough-as-leather creatures, with no trace of breeding nor any hint of grace. These were the animals who had just survived the usual Mongolian winter, standing tails to wind in the howling blizzard when the wind roared out of Siberia and fending for themselves when every living plant was nipped dead by the appalling temperatures. It was horses like these that Captain Scott chose to take to the Antarctic to pull his sledges to the Pole - an experiment that failed - and which enabled Genghis Khan’s armies to move at 80 miles a day on forced marches. Now Paul and I were to try riding them for ourselves.

  The herdsmen were an equally indestructible-looking lot, all wearing their standard clothing of tall black boots, shabby working dels, and either a woolly bobble hat or a weathered trilby which gave them a startling resemblance to South American gauchos. Quietly they rode up to the edge of the camp and tied their horses to outlying trees so their half-wild animals would not be scared by the strangers, then walked forward to be offered tea and cigarettes. They glanced curiously at Paul and myself, and politely turned their attention back to our Mongol colleagues and the endless discussion of plans. The conversation was impossible to follow. For one thing I was finding the Mongol face particularly difficult to read. It is so impassive that it makes the Chinese countenance seem positively open. For another, the Mongol language offered no linguistic handholds. Although it is often said to be of the Altaic group of languages and related to Turkish, it is so far removed from modern Turkish that, even after my months of living with Turkish villagers on my Crusade ride, I could not pick out a single word in harsh and rapid Mongol conversation. When the argument grew really fierce the sounds increased in tone and pitch until the exchange sounded like two cats coughing and spitting at each other until one finally threw up.

  Doc stood aloof, clearly unimpressed by the lack of planning. He translated for us that the herdsmen had not brought enough animals. We would have to wait another day for extra horses to arrive. In the meantime the ‘nearby’ village - ‘nearby’ being several hours’ ride away - had donated a sheep for a feast. The evening drew in, and still no sheep appeared. The temperature fell below freezing. There were four little wooden cabins on the edge of the lake, presumably for fishermen or holiday campers. Paul and I retreated into one of them, swept aside the mouse- and bird-droppings and spread our sleeping-bags on the wooden floor. At midnight the grinding noise of a Russian-built truck could be heard. Peering out of the sleeping-bag, I witnessed a terrified and scraggy sheep being hauled out of the back of the truck, taken around to the light from the headlamps, and slaughtered. The cooking took another two hours, and at 3 am I was awakened by the Doc. He thrust a scalding hot metal bowl under my nose. ‘I brought this over for you. It will keep you warm,’ he said kindly. I did not have the heart to reject his generosity, and drank the scorching liquid. It was thin and greasy, and slimy morsels of boiled sheep guts slithered down my throat.

  By mid-morning next day the local Party Secretary had turned up, accompanied by a dozen or so functionaries who looked very out of place dressed in their utilitarian dark suits. The Secretary was a young man who could not have been more than 30 and was just as eager as anyone else to celebrate the local link with Genghis Khan. He even sported a lapel button with Genghis Khan’s portrait, something which would have been unthinkable for a Party member three years before. The theme of the morning was to be a ceremony typical of the communist world: everyone was to receive commemorative medals, though we had not done anything yet to earn them. Gerel had created a chunky medallion which depicted on one side a Mongol dispatch rider, his horse trotting westward. On the other side was a picture of a paiza, the famous passport of the medieval Mongol couriers. The paiza was the tablet issued by the Mongol overlords to ambassadors and important officials. Made in materials ranging from wood to copper to gold according to the rank and importance of the bearer, a paiza entitled a traveller to special privileges in the imperial realms - armed escorts, free use of guides and lodging, and unhindered passage. (3)

  Gerel’s medallions dangled from ribbons of lucky sky-blue silk, and everyone was to be given one. First, however, Ariunbold honoured the two herdsmen who had decided that they wanted to give, not hire, horses to the expedition. The two herdsmen were so enthusiastic about the idea of the ride to France that they said they wished to donate an animal apiece to make the journey. Everyone gathered in a circle and Ariunbold walked solemnly forward in his plum-coloured del and heavy felt boots. He carried a long blue scarf across his outstretched arms and a small silver and wood bowl brimming with mare’s milk. The scarf, or khata as it was known to the Chinese, was an essential in traditional Mongolian etiquette as it signified honour and esteem between giver and recipient. Ariunbold presented the scarf to the first herdsman, who looked awkward and embarrassed, then together they approached the gift horse. In theory the traditional Mongol ceremony called for the gift to be sealed with a splash of milk poured into the nearside stirrup to bring good luck and a safe journey. But naturally the half-wild horse was terrified to be approached by a stranger holding a fluttering blue scarf and clutching a shiny silver bowl, and promptly reared up and tried to bolt. With a certain scepticism I noted that although the herdsmen rode some fine animals, the horses they had produced for our use were not of the best, and the two animals being given to the expedition were positively elderly and infirm. I quietly enjoyed knowing at last what was meant by the old adage about not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

  So the second day passed, still in camp, and Paul and I adapted to a more lackadaisical Mongol pace. Everyone was very attentive and kind. We were fed the better parts of the slaughtered sheep, and shown how to tie the lead rein of a horse around its front feet as a hobble. This meant squatting down beside the animal, shifting its forefeet so that it stood with the two front legs close together, then taking the free end of the rawhide lead rope and wrapping it twice around the forelegs to shackle them about 4 inches apart, finishing off with a special quick-release knot. Like sailors with their fancy knots, each herdsman had his own idiosyncratic way of hobbling his horse. One after another they came up and insisted that his was the best method, and laughed at our fumbling efforts as we got more and more confused by the conflicting styles. On the steppe, we were told, we would not find a convenient bush or tree where we could attach the animals when we halted. If a horse did run away, then there were no fences to deter it. In theory, I calculated, a bolting horse in Mongolia can run the distance from London to Rome without encountering an obstacle to stop it.

  Paul had not ridden since childhood, and although I had given him prior warning he was visibly taken aback when he was introduced to a Mongol saddle. It was an excruciating-looking design, upswept at back and front, very narrow and tall, and made of wood. It resembled saddles found in the tombs of the Chinese emperors. The herdsmen were very proud of their personal saddles, which were works of art. They covered them in red velvet, painted the woodwork - bright orange was the favourite colour - and paid large sums for silver edging and massive silver studs of intricate workmanship. These studs, a good 2 inches across and an inch tall, were positioned just about where the rider’s thighs would touch the saddle, and must have been agonizing for anyone but a Mongol herdsman, whose backside has be
en inured to pain by a lifetime of riding. Of course such prize saddles were not available for the novice team members and artists from the city. They were to use standard government saddles, two hoops of steel on wooden panels and covered with thin leather cushions. They were no more comfortable than the traditional version.

  Cannily I had brought with me the same saddle in which I had ridden the Crusade route, and this now caused a sensation. I might as well have brought a two-headed cat. The herdsmen had never seen a saddle like it and, when I was not looking, took it away to try fitting it to a compliant horse. European girth, straps, stirrup leathers were all arranged so differently from their Mongol saddles that they stripped down the foreign saddle and tried to rig it in their own way. In five minutes it was strapped in place by one stirrup leather, and the second stirrup leather had been cinched around the animal’s stomach as a second girthband in the Mongol style. When I showed how the saddle was really meant to work, all the herdsmen took it in turns to ride up and down the campsite, grinning with pleasure, to test the fit.

  Finally, when there was still enough daylight, everyone - horse-herders, Party officials, expedition applicants, artists - lined up to have Paul take their photo like some memento of a football team. In the centre of the group, instead of a soccer ball, was Gerel’s first bronze plaque propped up on the spot where, in future, it would stand in memory of Genghis Khan’s first step on the path to becoming the ‘Oceanic Ruler’.

  4 - Arat

  The first task next morning was the selection and loading of a pack-horse to carry the expedition’s tents, our reserve camera equipment, and a collapsible stove with its metal chimney in three sections, the entire load topped off with the remaining bloody chunks of the dead sheep. The herdsmen had brought in a further draft of half a dozen horses, so there were plenty of animals to pick from, and logically enough they selected the sturdiest horse in the group to carry our gear. Unfortunately the creature was also thoroughly bad-tempered and obstinate, and had never been used as a pack-horse before. The herdsmen managed to slip the standard crude metal bit between its teeth and get a bridle on its head, but the horse then objected violently to have to saddle put on its back. It reared and plunged. Unperturbed, Dampildorj, the senior herdsman, looped the thin lead rein of rawhide around the horse’s upper lip and pulled it extremely tight. The lip stretched out and out until the horse had a long snout like a tapir, the rope squeezing the nerves of the lip in the same way that a Western farrier applies a nose-twitch to control an awkward horse while it is being shod. But a sinewy and half-wild Mongol horse still had plenty of fight left in him, and thrashed from side to side trying to shake its head free.

  So the herdsmen put on a full hobble. Two rawhide loops cuffed the two forelegs close together and a third loop was tied back to the nearside hind leg. Even then the trussed-up horse refused to be quelled, and it bucked and lunged in fury. So a Mongol crept up on each side and, suddenly snatching out, like someone trying to seize a fly in mid-air, each man grabbed an ear. Then they pulled the ears downward and twisted, further anaesthetising the wretched victim, which now stood with its head and feet trapped, and motionless enough for a saddle to be cinched in place. In double quick time the packs were loaded and roped firmly. All was now ready. The ear-pullers and the twitch-holder released their victim, and skipped clear. The furious and frightened horse gave a great leap to escape. Of course it had forgotten the hobbles. The first huge bound was checked in mid-air and the horse nose-dived into the ground with a tremendous crash which made me wince both for the fragile items in the packs and for the unfortunate animal. To my amazement the horse bounced back on its feet, even under packs and in hobbles, and tried again to gallop forward. Once more there was a tremendous pratfall. After this the horse scrambled upright and stood sullenly. A herdsman reached cautiously down and untied the rear hobble. The horse was led forward, found it could bunny-hop, and again tried to shake off the packs, this time deliberately flinging itself on the ground and rolling. A herdsman prodded it back on its feet, and the animal stood in a semi-daze. Dampildorj tugged on the lead rope and the half-defeated horse hopped forward. Ten yards farther on and the front hobbles were removed, and we had a very grumpy pack-horse.

  We set out soon afterwards in an untidy straggle of about fifteen men and perhaps twice as many horses, with the extra mounts being brought along on lead ropes. The air temperature was only just above freezing, and if we had been starting a cross-country ride in Europe we might have begun gently in order to loosen up the muscles of the horses on such a chilly morning, and then during the day followed with an alternating rhythm of walk, trot and canter to vary the pace. The Mongols did nothing of the sort. Their system of cross-country travel was extremely straightforward. In the first half-dozen steps they urged their horses into a fast, pattering run, and then kept up the same blistering pace with no variation whatsoever for the next two hours. Then they halted for a five-minute break. They would dismount, have a smoke and a chat, and on a word from the senior herdsman would swing back on to their horses and repeat the fast run all over again. They could keep this up all day if necessary. It was a no-nonsense way of covering the ground, and remarkably effective. A walk would have been too slow with the short legs of their mounts, a canter too exhausting. The flat, hammering run of the Mongol horse was the only option. There was nothing graceful or elegant about the gait. It was the pace of completely unschooled horses, without any concessions for the rider’s comfort.

  Within ten minutes of starting I knew that Beatrix Bulstrode had been right when she commented that ‘riding, I soon found, was not much fun’, and from his groans I knew that Paul was in agony. The runty little horses gave a thoroughly uncomfortable ride. If you sat down firmly in the saddle, you were jolted and rattled. If you tried the rhythmic rise and fall of a trot in European style, the motion was made awkward and tiring by the short steps of the animal, which also became puzzled and nervous about what the rider was doing. The solution was to do what the Mongol herdsmen did, but that required a lifetime of training. The horse-herders either rose in the stirrups and just stood there, for 20 or 30 or 50 miles a day, apparently on legs of pure sinew and swaying with the motion of the horse. Or they sat down in their wooden saddles and relaxed, letting themselves go limp and be shaken up and down like peas on a drumskiri. A line of Mongol herdsmen proceeding in this fashion made a remarkable sight, with their heads wobbling back and forth like demented puppets.

  We rode at first through a thin forest of immature pine trees. There was not a cloud in the sky, and a slight tang of wood smoke and a bluish tinge hung in the air. A forest fire had started on the far side of the slogan-defaced hill behind the lake, and the smoke was drifting in our direction. Forest fires must have been common because much of the forest was already scorched and black, though it was unlikely that the fires had been started by man because that part of the Hentei was uninhabited. When we emerged from the trees and entered the first of a succession of broad valleys, the overwhelming visual impact was the complete emptiness of the land. The valley stretched away into the distance. There was not a trace of human activity, not a fence, a telegraph pole, a track, or any form of domestic animal. It was completely deserted, just mile after mile of partridge-brown grassland sloping up on each side to the hills. On the upper slopes were more trees, widely spaced and bare. A few rocks broke through the thin soil, but otherwise there was nothing to catch the eye except the distant shapes of large birds of prey, falcons and eagles, wheeling and hovering over the steppe.

  An hour later the pack-horse got its revenge by running away. It chose its moment well, waiting until the rider holding its lead vein had crossed a small stream and was on the far bank. Then the pack-horse flung backwards, snatched the lead rein free, and whirling in its tracks galloped off in a bid for freedom. Our ragged line of riders halted and watched the pack-horse dwindle in the distance, chased back and forth by the most junior horse-herder, who was obviously enjoying himself in a private gall
op. It seemed a good time to take a break, and Paul and I got down from our horses, as did Bayar, who was riding with us. Our Mongol colleagues had stopped a little distance up ahead, and in two or three small groups we waited. There was the stump of an old tree nearby so Paul, Bayar and I tied up our horses and sat down on the ground to stretch out our aching legs. After a few moments I decided that it was a good opportunity to make some notes and walked over to take my notebook from the saddle-bag. Our three horses were standing close together and, unthinking, I pushed between them. The herdsmen had picked our horses for being calm and well-behaved by Mongol standards, but I promptly learned just how untamed they really were. A Mongol horse taken from the open range is completely one-sided. If a stranger approaches it confidently and slowly from the nearside, it may stand quietly, though it still regards with acute suspicion a foreigner who dresses and smells differently from a normal Mongol horse-herder. But any movement or touch from the offside produces hysteria. As I approached my horse, I brushed against the offside of Bayar’s mount. It reared up in panic, throwing itself back on the lead rein. The thin strip of rawhide snapped and the horse ran off. Fortunately it went only a couple of hundred yards and joined the next group of waiting horses, where it was caught by one of the artists. Bayar got to his feet and walked off to retrieve it but the pony-tailed doctor, who was still on horseback, had already begun to lead it back. On the way the doctor’s horse tripped, the doctor tumbled out of the saddle, and his horse as well as Bayar’s were so badly spooked that they both ran off, this time heading into the nearby hills. Observing the commotion, Paul leaned forward to pick up his camera to photograph the scene, and the sudden movement alarmed his horse as well. It too snapped its lead rein and careered off in fright. In the space of a few moments we had a total of three escapees galloping energetically off into the distance, and each making the others even more scared than before. It was a mini-stampede and our herder-guides went tearing off to catch the runaways, weaving and dodging between the trees and rocks until they too had vanished.