Mongolian adventure

BY HANNAH RITCHIE

Marlborough's Hannah Ritchie used GPS to guide herself and her mount through the vastness of the Mongolian steppe in a 26-horse race. Fuelled by fermented mare's milk and (un)bridled enthusiasm, she made the most of this extraordinary adventure.

Tightening the cable ties that secured my saddle bags to my saddle meant I was dangerously close to the start of the inaugural Mongol Derby a 1000-kilometre multi-horse race across the Mongolian steppe and the longest horse race in the world.

I wondered when my insufficient sense of trepidation would be replaced by the all-encompassing terror that I felt would be more appropriate.

The scene at the start descended into utter chaos. Flurries of dust engulfed the area. The horses, trained, by Mongolian standards (ie, quite briefly) were not allowing us any sense of confidence. Three riders were up, then swiftly dispatched from their mounts like leather-clad party poppers.

With my tack carefully fastened to my horse, there was nothing left to do but get on. Up I went and with a pregnant pause, the palomino considered what to do with me. I had watched him two days earlier dispose of a fellow rider exactly like a dump truck, and felt it was best just to get him moving before he came to a conclusion.

We formed a line at the start and waited for go. It was given and 26 beasts leapt forward. A symphony of hoofbeats ensued as they struck the dusty turf and became more distant as the riders dispersed.

We felt our way by GPS and varied our pace to maintain good progress. Often the terrain would be the deciding factor, slowing us with rocky inclines or unpredictable footing. In particular, we had to watch out for marmot holes or clusters of gerbil holes, which would cause many riders to come to grief.

The course followed the ancient postal system employed by Genghis Khan, who created a far-reaching empire during the 13th century. The messenger riders would remain in the saddle for days, and every 30km to 40km there was a horse station to supply them with fresh horses. It was said that Genghis Khan could get a message from Mongolia to Eastern Europe in just 14 days. The riders must have had titanium thighs.

So we had a maximum of 14 days to complete 1000km. The course began in the ancient capital of Kharkhorin, passed south of Ulaanbaatar, then turned north to finish in Dadal, near the Siberian border. At each station, we would change horses to a fresh mount and continue. We travelled through remote countryside and the scale of the place was immense. The scenery changed quickly from rocky mountains to endless valleys.

We experienced soaring highs and crashing lows every day, depending on the horse, weather, physical stress or any combination of the above. We had completed a trying leg of the race one day, having lost most of the skin on my thighs to chafe early on and with my dressings tearing free.

We had also had some trouble with sinking bogs and our horses' enthusiasm.

At a quick interchange, we redressed, refreshed ourselves, remounted, and headed off accompanied by the horses' proud owner.

Temujin spoke a little English and was able to tell us that he had bred these racehorses. We decided to really open them up across a wide valley floor. At this point, The Beast, as he was named, snatched the bit from my hands, relieving me from the burden of control. What happened next was a 7km run of ferocious velocity, with me the happy hostage.

The nature of Mongolian horses sets them so far apart from other horses, and their level of strength and agility is incomparable. Understanding that this is a hardy breed is one thing, but feeling the limitless bounds of how tough they can be was astounding. The Mongolians revere their horses to such a level that all horse gear must be hung next to the ger (tent) altar.

The owners would often appear mysteriously beside us during a ride with faces of irrepressible joy.

They would check the security of our girths, nod their approval, give a thumbs up and then the familiar motion to go faster.

I heard of one young boy who had bought his horses to a station for selection and waited for three days as the vets made their way there. Both his animals were selected. With the money he was paid, he could put himself through school.

At the end of a day, sliding out of the saddle on to unforgiving knees, we would stagger about gracelessly, while our horses were checked by the vets. The owners, keen to have their horses chosen next, explained the attributes of their horses via complex charades.

We would finish our day and collapse into the ger. Our groans of relief and discomfort would crescendo over the presentation of food. This was mare's milk tea to start, salty and weak, followed by fried bread and pungent curd that looked deceptively like shortbread.

More palatable were the noodles, either wet or dry and with small bits of mutton or goat and always a heavy glaze of animal fat. After dinner came the drink of choice, airag, fermented mare's milk. Thin and with vinegar and yoghurt overtones, it was an acquired taste. The bowl would be passed around, usually accompanied by floating dead flies.

A few of us fell into riding together as a natural team. Charlotte, a fellow Kiwi and great friend, was navigator extraordinaire, I wrangled loose horses after involuntary dismounts, and Nick, our English gentleman, was eternally chipper, ensuring our spirits remained high.

Decisions had to be made about staying in a team or going on alone. This happened the day we helped a fellow rider.

Her horse tripped in a marmot hole, unseating her, then bucked for home. The girth snapped and the tack swung beneath its belly, held on by the second girth.

When we eventually recovered the horse, we found it to be lame and much of the tack destroyed.

It was an easy choice to stay with Matilda. In the end, sharing the journey with our team meant more than winning.

The four of us remained together for the duration and crossed the finish line in nine days.

The Mongolian steppe was well and truly ingrained into me. My skin was dark from the sun and dirt, and although I wondered what it would be like to feel clean again, I felt reluctant to wash it off.

The experience affected me so truly that I hope never to be separated from the sense of it.

Perhaps a little bit of grit might always remain.

- The Marlborough Express