Mongolia in a Nutshell: Bad Roads & Religion

Mongolia in a Nutshell

Bad Roads & Religion

By Karin-Marijke Vis • Photos by Coen Wubbels

Our guidebooks

spoke about a sacred tree situated right after the border, and so, after a lengthy bureaucratic rigmarole to enter Mongolia, we set out to find it. Asphalt turned into sandy trails that meandered through grassland into the hinterland for a couple of miles.

To our surprise it was busy with cars parked all over the place amidst shady trees, and people strolling about. It was Saturday and many had come from the capital of Ulaanbataar to pray to the spirits that dwell in trees, which is a shamanic tradition that predates Buddhism.

A piece of land was fenced off with blue silk cloths tied around posts, on some of which stood cups of milk. In the middle lay a big fallen tree. Was this the Mother Tree? Adults and children sprinkled cornmeal and candies over the trunk. Next to it stood a table for other offerings: sweetbread, milk, biscuits, paper money and copper coins (most of them Russian because Mongolian money has no coins). The atmosphere was relaxed, no noise and no cameras. The latter was striking in a world where ‘everyone’ is photographing ‘everything’ these days. Only Coen was clicking away.

Suddenly we heard shouting and singing. About ten men and boys with horses started circling the trunk, some in the saddle, others leading the horse with a rope. Some were dressed in colorful, knee-length traditional robes, others wore T-shirts. The group gathered and three men took turns making offerings by throwing milk from a carton into the air and sprinkling it over the horses. After having burned incense sticks in a container they led the horses on a few more rounds while singing songs, after which they disappeared into the forest.

A little farther stood a large, dead tree. Was this the ‘real’ Mother Tree, or was it the successor to the fallen tree? Lacking a shared language with the other visitors we never found out. In front of the tree people offered sweets and grain, which was eaten by pigeons the moment humans were out of sight. More visitors arrived. More milk was thrown into the air, as was more grain, after which the devotees circled the tree and stopped for a prayer in front of a statue.

While fascinated by all we saw, we had to move on as a festival was taking place at a monastery this weekend. The border crossing had wasted a lot of our time this morning and we needed to drive some 95 miles to get to the Amarbayasgalant Monastery. It was time to go.

Back on the main road we followed asphalt that cut through the rolling countryside of soft green grass. The landscape exuded a serenity and in a way it felt ancient, as if it had existed like this for eons. Possibly it had, except for the asphalt, the cars and electric wires, of course. Herds of sheep, goats and cows were grazing the hills that are home to yurts, called ‘gers’ in Mongolia. The white, round, felt homes of the nomads stood out in the green scenery.

It was half past six when we took a turn off the highway and hit an unpaved road. Some twenty miles of brutal road surface lay waiting for us, but thankfully summer evenings are long in Mongolia. Coen aired down the tires and we were in for a continuous guess of which trail would be easiest to navigate. As they twisted around the hills we couldn’t see them in the distance and had to base our calculations on what was right in front of us. Thanks to its ground clearance, the Land Cruiser managed well on the deeply eroded tracks, but the main challenge were the trails on a slant. Our home on wheels is 8,8 foot high and the one thing we fear when off-roading is the Land Cruiser toppling. Whether that’s just our imagination or a real possibility, we thankfully don’t know (yet), but our hands get sweaty when we drive on a slant. I held on tight to the dashboard while sitting on the edge of my seat and when the slant got worse I climbed on my seat and hung out of the window as counterbalance. Whether that was of any use with my fifty kilos remains to be seen, but it felt better than doing nothing.

Back on flat terrain

crossing the valley, it was easy to doze off and sink into some meditative state as we quietly dealt with bumps and slowly drove through long potholes while chugging along in second gear. We effortlessly traversed dozens of ankle-deep streams and in the soft evening light it felt as if we were driving in a timeless landscape. About two hours later we spotted the red-brown monastery in the distance. After crossing two more shallow rivers Coen turned off the engine in a field not far from the entrance.

The ‘Monastery of Tranquil Happiness’ was built in the 18th century, a complex of forty temples surrounded by a large wall and at one time home to more than 2000 monks. It was among the few places of worship that survived the destruction of religious buildings under Stalin’s reign of terror (although Mongolia was not part of the Soviet Union and had its own communist system, the Soviet Union did have a lot of influence). Today, 28 temples remain and only 30 monks live here.

Across the field we stepped into a courtyard with two towers and peeked into a temple. The place was deserted, possibly because it was dinner time. A paper on the wall said there would be another ceremony at ten pm. We returned to the Land Cruiser with the intention to return to the monastery later, but the moment we were inside the black sky burst open and a rainstorm howled through the valley. Our bodies were wrecked and we went to bed. Tomorrow would be another day.