MONGOLIA’S MAGIC
Yoga, camel rides and yurt living in the desert is utter, isolated bliss
LIGHTNING jitters around the horizon — a zig-zag to the left, then to the right. This is a sunset like no other, a swirl of fuchsia, tangerine and crimson. Thunder grumbles and a bird skims my head. If the middle of nowhere had a middle, this would be it. The back of beyond. Outer Mongolia. Guess what? It’s bliss.
This is the Gobi desert — a vast area of wilderness in the middle of an even more vast area of wilderness. Mongolia is larger than Britain, France, Germany and Italy combined, but it has a tiny population of just three million. The majority live a nomadic life in gers (yurt-like tents).
For 70 years, the Gobi was effectively off limits thanks to Mongolia’s position as a Sovietdominated buffer state, but now it’s welcoming visitors. Not many yet — last year there were just 6,000 from the UK.
However, that should change as Mongolia is surprisingly easy to visit and remarkably safe.
I fly in to the capital Ulaanbaatar via Moscow. It’s a city in flux, with the oldest buildings dating to the start of the 20th century; before then it was a migratory city of gers. Now there are high-rises springing up.
It’s ugly, but not intimidating, and I feel happy wandering around on my own.
Outside the city going solo is not really an option. There aren’t many Tarmac roads, just dirt tracks scything across swathes of countryside, without a sign in sight. But pick a reputable company to travel with and it all becomes remarkably simple.
I’m here for a retreat run by Reclaim Your Self, a small company that takes yoga to unusual places.
Our group rides the TransMongolian railway from Ulaanbaatar; it’s a stopping train that trundles for eight hours at the locomotive equivalent of a slow trot. We jump off (platform, what platform?) into the desert.
An old bus heaves into view and we lumber on for a further two hours through a lunar landscape of gravel, sand, mountain dunes and rock.
‘Home’ is a ger camp set within the embrace of a wide circle of rocky crags. The landscape is stark, yet not forbidding.
My ger is straight from a folk tale — a little circular tent of felt, lattice and brightly painted wood. In the centre there’s a furnace that burns dried camel dung (no, it doesn’t smell).
I snuggle down under felt blankets in my cosy bed, watching shadows thrown by the flames dancing across the ceiling. Sleep comes easily. This is the first yoga retreat to be held in Mongolia. The local staff look puzzled as, twice a day, we hurtle through sun salutes and twist into pretzels.
You can almost hear them wondering why on earth we’re getting in such a sweat. I start to ponder the same myself.
THe yoga is a form known as Jivamukti. It’s fast and athletic — ‘tough yoga for a tough environment’, as yoga teacher emma Henry puts it. It works a treat for stressedout city dwellers, but here? Mongolia runs slowly and, as days go by, I find myself dropping several gears to the local pace. There’s no wi-fi or phone coverage. Life is simple.
If you want to spend a penny in the night, you have to seek out the eco-loos at the edge of camp. The walk is a delight under a sky brimming with stars. If you need a shower, a fire is lit in the shower
ger and the warm water hoisted up in a bucket fitted with a shower attachment.
One day, we take an overnight trip further into the desert. Our guides go on ahead to set up a temporary camp (a ger takes about an hour to put up) while we follow on camels and carts.
‘What’s my camel’s name?’ I ask my guide. He announces solemnly: ‘Your camel has no name.’ So, as I sway, I sing: ‘I’ve been through the desert on a camel with no name.’
My guide rejoinders with a (far more tuneful) rendition of a Mongolian song — a eulogy to his homeland. This middle of nowhere feels good to me. Go there before it gets on the map.
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