By the River Yolt

I climb out of the dark green tent, leaving a snoring Inge behind. It’s earlier than the agreed-upon wake-up time, but I’m grateful for the moment alone. The sky is painted in hues of pink and blue. A sliver of the moon, still glowing, hangs above the mountain the camels descended last night. They are there. I rub my eyes, but even then, the camels are still there. The cold wind against my skin tells me it is real.  

With my burgundy socks still on, I slide into my flip-flops and sleepily stumble away from camp. I’m in search of a good, out-of-sight bathroom spot. The ground is uneven, its long grass is covered in morning dew.  Fifty metres from camp, I come across a bush that is both big enough to cover everything except my head, and away from camp. The closest thing to a toilet so far has been a pre-dug hole in the ground, but in this wilderness even that is a luxury. I pull down my pants and squat, the routine is like that of a wee except that I require more privacy to relaxed enough. 

I look around the thin valley as the sky grows brighter. A couple of metres to my left the Yolt river flows noisily. On the other side of her banks, the herd of camel’s is still there. They have barely moved an inch all night, their presence a warm and familiar feeling in this unknown landscape. The camels remain utterly unbothered by my early morning stroll through camp. Their woolly coats hang tired; it is June and they are slowly shedding, preparing for the remainder of the summer. 

While the two-humped giants ignore me, there are other spectators to my morning activity. A couple of metres ahead stands a group of wild horses, curiously and nervously watching my every move. Their manes rustle in the morning breeze and their muscles twitch at my every move. The black stallion stands between me and the herd. We keep a close eye on one another. I’m not certain it is them who are too close for comfort. 

I do my business and place the toilet paper in an inch deep dirt hole. Sparks jump from my lighter, burning away any evidence. The horses huff and puff and fidget as I stomp out the fickle flames. I stroll to the ankle-deep river and sit on my haunches. My hands sting and I try to shake the icy liquid off my hands. The bottom is littered with round rocks and pointy pebbles. The sweet sound of its rushing water spilling and splashing around large boulders fills my ears. I peek over my right shoulder only to find the horses unmoved. Once again, I cross the dew-covered grass back towards the tents. The first rays of sunlight climb over the mountain ridge.

 

Our campsite is in an ideal spot. The heavy gusts of wind that roamed in yesterday’s dusty valley barely gets through the mountain pass and the caramel-coloured mountains surrounding us exude warmth. It also is the starting point of our three-day trek towards the Alpy’s spring camp. His whole family resides there for a few weeks every year and we had been promised a big party upon our arrival. My feet are restless but my brain isn’t fully awake yet. I let my dew-covered socks carry me to the beige kitchen-tent in hopes that some black fuel will do the trick.

Amaka and Yura immediately sit me down in a bright turquoise lawn chair and shove a plastic cup of hot water in my hand. My fingers regain enough movement for me to sprinkle some espresso powder into the steaming water. The imposing smell of fresh coffee transports me back home but my first sip breaks the spell: this is smoother and softer than any cup I’ve ever made. Amaka and the little silver pot head towards the river to boil more water.

We agreed to have breakfast at eight, but an hour earlier I find myself sitting across from Yura and Amaka. ‘Coppee ok?’ I nod – not everything needs translation. We spend the rest of the hour communicating through hand gestures, a translate app and a whole lot of smiles. Inge joins us in the tent and a few minutes into sipping my coffee. Within minutes Yura hands us breakfast: rice-porridge with raisins. At home I eat oats or porridge with fresh fruit. By the time I’ve licked my bowl clean, Pas and Coen make their way into the tent. There are plenty of seats, but Inge and I give them ours and set off to pack up our tent.

The following hour we clear out camp and pack up the camels. The latter is a duty that belongs only to Ahat, Alpy, and Tamar. I watch closely as they roll out four thick braided ropes and settle our two camels, Nakai and Sarjiggit, into a seated position on top. Two ropes run under each of their bellies and over their humps to balance and tighten the gigantic saddlebags. My red backpack disappears underneath other bags, tents, and cooking gear on Sarjiggit’s back. Sarjiggit is the blonder and naughtier camel of the two. He is constantly trying to get up and get going – his restlessness mirroring my own. This is the part of my adventure through Mongolia I looked forward to the most and three days doesn’t feel long enough. It seems Coen and Pas are moving at an excruciatingly slow pace before their bags are ready to be mounted on Nakai’s back. Finally, the camels lift the heavy weight on their back into the air. Standing on those tiny yet muscular sticks, a camel can carry up to 200 kilos. We didn’t pack that heavy but the ladies groan and growl nonetheless. It is their first trek of the summer season.

 

The sun spills deeper into the long, thin valley, turning the blues, greens and browns into brighter variations of themselves. Surrounding me are horses, camels, and tall, pointy peaks. I know little about where I am or what mountains surround me. I am in Mongolia, somewhere in the Altai Sum national park but I don’t really know where I am.  

Tamar says it’s time to go.