Altai...

Altai

We have driven nearly 8000 km and it's only an hour drive away from Tashanta, the border post where we will pass through to Mongolia. Being so close to that ancient land, there is a tendency to forget that borders are really only imaginary lines; the mountains and valleys we have been walking in the past days cross from one side to the other. Part of me is impatient to get there, but there is no rush to reach somewhere that, in essence, you are already at.

We are in Kosh Agash, a dusty town made entirely from wooden kiosks and log houses all nestled together in the middle of a vast valley. There is a 360 degree panorama of mountains, some with snowy peaks and others just bare and massive...everything seems to shrink in size below them. The streets are wide here and the few people in them move about without much urgency. It is like being in a cowboy western film, expecting to see a gunslinger fall out of a dank sweaty bar with his pistol drawn and then watch as the complementary tumble weed rolls by with a trail of dust whirling behind.

About an hour ago, a mechanic arrived at the truck and we spoke together about fixing the damaged rear wheel. He gestured towards a place not so far away and then drove of in his car. I realised that we didn't set a time for his return and it dawned on me that we could be in for a long wait. After paying some attention to various other things that needed fixing in the truck I sat back and reflected on the events over the past couple of days.

We had just made a 20km off-road excursion to a valley called Talbooash. Meandering down from the snowy peaks that towered above us was a cold fast moving river, bubbling and gurgling and cascading over tumbled rocks.. It took us nearly half a day to arrive there as most of the driving was at no more than walking pace, negotiating our way between rocks and boulders, over steep hills and down what seemed impossible descents; everyone was impressed at how the truck performed over this rough terrain. Our guide Maya, a local Altai woman and Cultural Historian, had to close her eyes at times then gasp in wonder at the obstacles we manage to overcome.

The valley was stunning, filled with the lush green robust type grass that you only find in the mountains. Rocky outcrops protruding everywhere from the grassy slopes, gradually making their way down to the Azur river which ran in alternate fast and slow torrents in-between its shallows and depths. We had to cross the river a few times with the truck and the only places where it was possible was the shallow rocky sections where the water ran the fastest. I secured the differential sphere locks on the wheels, placeed her in low gear and ploughed through each time without the slightest problem.

Eventually late in the afternoon we arrived at a rocky hill in the middle of the valley and our guide Maya motioned us to stop. We all got out of the truck and followed Maya to the top of the hill. The sun was lowering in the Sky, and as the shadows were lengthening, she began relating to us the story behind this magical place. It was a holy place for Nomads for as far back as history could tell, and the Shamans and holy people of the Nomadic Tribes would come here to communicate with the Nature and ask for certain blessings from the mountains for the wellbeing of their kinsmen and livestock. The hill was covered in primitive paintings which had been scratched into the rock with various tools made from the times in which they were carved. Some of the paintings Maya said could be dated back to 3000 years BC and there were whole collections from both the bronze and the stone ages. They were typical of the style I had seen many times on historical programmes as a child or in books and articles on our Earth's ancient past. Deer with antlers springing into the air, sheep and goats with huge curly horns, camels scratched like a child's stick drawing of an animal, and stick people whose gender was deciphered by the addition of a line between the legs for a man. Some of the animals were being ridden by stick men and others hunted by a stick man with a bow.

For millennia this place had been kept sacred, and it stood as a holy monolith guarding the valley that we were about to enter into, and where we would meet our first real Nomads.

We found a flat place between the rocks, just high enough to be out of the marshy grassland and far enough away from the steep slopes of the enclosing mountains to avoid being the victims of a landslide. Within an hour we had set up camp, prepared and chopped wood for a fire, and set off for a short hike down the river. Upon our return to the truck we found out that we had a couple of very curious and quite amused visitors. Two 10 year old boys sat atop their sturdy white Steppe Pony gazing and chuckling at us as their three very fluffy but quite tough looking dogs circled them and gave us all a very thorough checking out. We went up to them a little sheepishly and introduced ourselves... the dogs gave a little grumbling snarl, the horse stood totally confident and unmoved, and the boys in their same demeanour just giggled and quizzically looked back and forth to each other. Within a couple of minutes they had both dismounted and were curiously wandering around the truck eagerly followed by the dogs who were stuck to them both like royal bodyguards. The first most striking thing I noticed about these boys was the ease and confidence they had with their animals. Both the horse and the dogs displayed a loyalty and harmony that was far more intelligent and understanding than that of plain obedience. There was obviously a relationship and bond formed between them that came from cohabitation, living with and respecting each other. I could feel the difference in our levels of awareness, and wondered how differently they must see the world around them. We exchanged names, found out that they were watching the cows and sheep that were grazing in the valley and had their own camp about 1 km further up the valley where the rest of their family was staying. I embarrassingly had to ask a further 4 or 5 times for their names before they were logged into my memory banks, and marvelled at the patience these mountain folk must have in order to pronounce these tongue twisters each time they wanted one another's attention.

Ayeurbillic, the rider of the horse and more confident of the two boys was keen to see inside the truck and get a closer look at who these unexpected visitors were. There was much pointing and laughing at the things we had with us, all things which to us were normal and practical but probably had no use or practicality in their world at all. We gave him a baseball cap which he took very matter-of-factly and stuffed into his shoulder bag. Each in turn we all took the opportunity to have a ride on their pony, I was a bit skeptical if it would hold my weight but the sturdy Steppe Pony turned out to be stronger and more hardy than I thought and he quite easily trotted through the grass and rocks obeying my every slightest motion of directions given with my feet. We all hung out for an hour or so and then decided to take a hike further up the valley in the direction of Ayeurbillic's family, to go and say hello.

About 1 km up the valley we found a suitable place and crossed the river. Up on the opposite side there was a felt Ger' erected next to a winter coral. Some horses were grazing nearby and one massive black hairy Yak was plodding around looking like a very tough walking lampshade. About 100m from the Ger was an old lady moving around with a walking stick collecting cow dung in a sack for burning on her stove. As we approached she stood up straight and just watched us with clear and alert eyes, not saying anything until we greeted her in Russian and told her our names. Her face had a thousand wrinkles, and a weather beaten wise and happy smile said more in a glance than a book full of words. We pointed towards the tuck which you could just barely see in the distance further down the valley and explained that was how we arrived and that it was also our home. She smiled again yet still found no need for words. I wanted to ask her lots of questions about the Valley, her animals, her family, her way of life... but for now just a smile and gentle acceptance of each other's presence was as much as the moment would tell. Here in this timeless place there was no need for haste in matters of being and relating. What could be told about such simple existence that could not better be learnt in observance or participation... whatever one's thoughts or feelings, the sheep still needed to graze, the wool be made to felt, the milk curdled and fuel collected to burn for cooking and warmth. One's approach to life was what told the true story and that can only be seen in its making. We exclaimed to her how beautiful we found her home, were met again with soft steady and unyielding eyes, said goodbye and walked further on up the valley. I envisioned that her Husband and maybe children who would also have their own children by now, were out elsewhere in the valley with the sheep and cows and horses and would at some point later in the day return to a warm hearth burning in their Ger with the cow dung their Grandmother had collected.

A half kilometer walk and we did not spot any more Ger's, the sky began to change colour, large grey swirling clouds gathering and sending a warning rumble down as if to remind all below who's will was being done. The weather in the mountains can change in a second, bright clear skies and sun drenched paths can all too soon be transformed into a shower of hail and rain from churning angry clouds. We had not brought any extra clothes or wet weather gear on this walk and a few spots of rain were dropping around. We headed back towards the truck which was only a 45 minute walk away. Our guide Maya had to be taken back to Kosh Agash by that evening and within an hour we made ready and started to drive back. All this way and our first encounter with the people I had been dreaming about for years, to be leaving so soon seemed ridiculous. We decided that we would return the following day after dropping Maya back home and spend some days here in Talbooash valley, or “The Valley of the Goddess” as it was known...
On our way back through 20 km of extreme off-road terrain one of our back tyres exploded. One hour and we managed to change it but upon reaching Kosh Agash found that the damage was worse than we imagined. Three holding bolts had been sheared off and the hub seal broken, oil leaking everywhere over the wheel.

So, this is where we sit now, awaiting the return of a mechanic... The past two days now appearing to me as a dream... passing from one dream's door and into another...