Mongolia | Gov-Altai Aimag | Trail to Shar Khuls

We soon left the flat saxual bush-dominated desert and entered a chain of east-west trending hills composed of crumbling black basalt. There was no vegetation whatsoever. It could have been the surface of moon. And all afternoon the wind had been picking up. By late evening it was blowing a non-stop fifty miles an hour out of the due west. As the sun went down we scanned the horizon for any sign of vegetation. There was none. We rode on in the dark until we came upon a few scraggly foot-high bushes of camel wormwood. The camel men and the girls finally got their tents set up—as usual I sleep out in the open, under the “Big Tent”—and we managed to gather enough pencil-sized twigs of wormwood to heat a pot of tea. Cooking a hot meal was out of the question. We ate bortsog, beslag, and sausage washed down with Yunnan Gold black tea heavily laced with sugar. Tsogoo is quiet but his face seems to have gotten some of its color back. I had given him some painkillers I got a couple of months earlier when I had almost dropped dead on the streets of Beijing from pneumonia and ended up in the Miners’ Hospital there (it specializes in lung problems). He said they helped a lot.

The bleak scene of our camp at sunrise

The wind blew all night and did not relent in the morning. We did not even bother trying to heat a pot of tea. We quickly loaded the camels and moved on. Tsogoo thinks we should be back in the saxual bush desert by noon. We will eat then.

Ready to move on

Moving on . . .

Still moving on . . .

By midmorning we left the black hills and entered a chain of sandstone and light-colored conglomerate ridges. Hidden among the fold of the hills is a small salt lake. I asked Tsogoo if it has a name. He says it does but that the name is never mentioned anywhere near the lake. To do so might offend the Guardian Spirits of the place. He says he will tell me tonight, when we have moved out of the vicinity.

Approaching the unnamed salt lake

Passing the salt lake

The salt lake

We leave the hills and emerge onto the flat Shargiin Gov. Here there are saxual bushes for firewood. Several times that morning I had heard Tsogoo use the word, aav, which mean father. Then I quite clearly hear Tsogoo ask Mojik in Mongolian, “Where does father want to stop for lunch?” What’s he talking about? I asked Mojik. “Well,” said Mojik, we were talking about this on the trail this morning. Tsogoo has decided that we are like a little family traveling together.” Tsogoo said that Uyanga is the mother, always bustling around the campfire preparing food and tea for her brood. Tsogoo himself is the oldest son, in charge of the camels and camp, and Sükhee is his younger brother, always ready to help in any way possible. I, it seems, am the Father. This is a role I have never played before. Tsogoo says I always ride by myself, never saying much, and that when we stop I just throw out my carpet by the campfire and sit quietly by the fire drinking tea, just keeping a watchful eye on the others as if they were my family. I had noticed that I was always served tea and food first before anyone else, but I had assumed this was because I was the oldest in the group. Now it appears I am the Father. “And who are you in this family?” I asked Mojik. “Well,” she said, “it seems like I am the Bad Daughter, because I always get up last and don't help very much with the cooking.“ That was not fair. Getting up last is a traditional perk of translators, and in order to lure her out of her warm nest in Ulaan Baatar into the Gobi Desert in October I had promised her she would not have to help with the cooking. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said, “Tsogoo is just joking . . . I think.” She laughs. In her regular life she is the Good Daughter. Maybe she is enjoying a temporary stint as the Bad Daughter. She can always go back to being the Good Daughter later.

After lunch we move on across the Shargiin Gov and by sunset reach the northern foothills of the Zaraa Khairkhanii Nuruu. The wind never ceases for second. Now it is blowing maybe sixty miles an hour. We settle for the night in a ravine running down from the flanks of Zaraa Khairkhanii Nuruu. There are saxual bushes for firewood but the ravine is sandy and our tea, food, and everything else is quickly covered with a fine layer of grit. The others soon retire to their tents. I sleep out in the open, watching first the Big Dipper wheel in the sky and then towards morning brilliant Orion.

Mother Uyanga gulping her tea before it is covered with grit

Mongolia | Gov-Altai Aimag | Camel Stampede

Towards evening we reach the northern ramparts of Buuriin Khyar Uul. We follow a ravine up to a pass and walk our camels down to a canyon that opens to the south.

Uyanga leading the camels through the mountains

Mojik taking the lead

At places the narrow defile at the bottom of the canyon is just wide enough to allow our camels to pass. The camels do not like these confined places.

Proceeding through the mountains

They peer anxiously at the overhanging ledges as if expecting some predator to leap down on them. We have to beat them to keep them moving. At one point a camel revolts, starts bucking and throws off Uyanga. She lands in a mass of sharp-edged boulders and could have easily hurt herself. She gets up laughing, brushes the dust off her deel, and we continue. She is one tough woman.

A few kilometers further on the canyon bottom widens to a hundred yards or more. Here the camels are even jumpier. They hold up their noses sniffing the air and keep swiveling their heads around, peering at the surrounding hills. “Chon,” shouts Tsogoo. Wolves. These mountains are notorious for wolves and the camels are sensing their presence, he says. We keep moving on and soon reach the southern edge of the mountains. The suns goes down at 6:54 and I shout to Tsogoo that we should camp. He explains that we must keep moving and camp out on the level desert a few miles away from the mountains. Otherwise the presence of the wolves in the mountains will disturb the camels all night and they won’t rest properly. The moon will not rise until 10:36 and soon we are moving forward in near-total darkness. The four riders and three pack camels go first in a tightly packed bunch and I follow along by myself about fifty feet behind.

I heard a camel snort, Tsogoo shouted something, and suddenly there was pandemonium. All I could see in front of me was a seething mass of rearing, jumping, snorting, bellowing, and shrieking camels. Even in the darkness I clearly saw one body go flying through the air and land with a crash on a dead saxual bush. Then my camel, spooked by the others, threw a fit and started bucking like a bull in a rodeo. I’ve ridden over a thousand miles on camels but I had never experienced an out-of-control camel like this. I was very nearly thrown off, but finally managed to get control of the camel by jerking back on the lead rope until its head touched its front hump and shouting “Ho, ho, ho,” at the top of my lungs. Tsogoo materialized on foot out of the darkness, his mouth and chin black—from blood I suddenly realized, and grabbing my lead rope made my camel kneel. He frantically motioned me to get off the camel, then grabbing the taishir out of my hand leaped on the camel, which immediately jumped up, and then pounded off into the darkness.

Suddenly all was quiet. Peering around in the dark I saw one other camel tied to some saxual bushes. Other than that I was alone. Where were the other riders and camels? I yelled for Mojik but my shouts died in the wind and no one answered. Tsogoo had left on my camel but what about the others? Had their out-of-control camels stampeded off with them still in the saddle? Or had someone been thrown off, injured, and was now unable to answer? I shouted again and still no answer. It was downright eerie.

It had been quite warm at lunch and I had rode on that afternoon in only a shirt and a pile vest. The temperature had dropping rapidly towards evening and after the sun had gone down it had gotten much colder. What’s worse, the wind had picked up and was now blowing a relentless thirty or forty mile an hour. I was suddenly aware that all of my clothes, including my jacket and winter deel, were on the camels that now appeared to have run away. I checked my thermometer. The temperature had already fallen to 20º F. Within a few minutes I was shaking uncontrollably from with cold. I had to get a fire going. Fortunately I had matches and a candle in my vest pocket. I had used them to start the fire at lunch. I huddled in the lee side of a big saxual bush and using some pages ripped out of my notebook for tinder finally got a fire going. Besides keeping me warm I hoped the fire would serve as a beacon for our now dispersed group. I shouted again and still no reply. What in the name of all that’s holy had happened to everyone?

Suddenly I saw a tiny light out in the darkness beyond the fire. I knew Mojik had a flashlight with her. I shouted again and she answered. Soon she materialized out of the dark carrying one of our water cans. The top had come off and there was only three or four liters of water in the can. She said one of the pack camels had thrown its load, including our water, and she had been only been able to find one of the cans, and this one was nearly empty. This was not good news. It was over forty miles back to the last water at Otgonii Bulag and over a sixty miles to the next water at Shar Khuls. Then Uyanga appeared out the darkness. Her camel had run away and then thrown her off, but she was okay. She had stumbled upon one of the thrown off loads in the dark and found the other two water cans. They were still full. So we had water. But the other two pack camels had run off with their loads, which included all of our cloths, tents, sleeping bags, cooking gear, and most of our food. Tsogoo and Sükhee had ridden off in the dark to look for them.

We huddled by the fire waiting for them to return. They showed up about an hour later. Two pack camels had thrown their loads and one had apparently ran off with its load. We had two cans of water, our meat but no other food, the camel men’s tent, and my two carpets. Our clothes, the rest of the tents, our sleeping bags, and our cooking gear were gone. The camels, Tsogoo said, would probably return by themselves to his ger, some eighty miles to the north. Our only hope was that the third camel had also thrown its load and we would be able to find it the next morning. Tsogoo himself did not look good. I knew he had gotten at least a bloody nose when he had been thrown off his camel. Now he thinks he broke one or two of his ribs.

For now we have to rest. The wind is still blowing thirty or forty miles an hour, but we finally manage to get Sükhee’s tent set up. All five of us crawl in the two man tent. The door zipper had broken seasons ago so the tent is open on one side. The camel men and the girls had their deels and I covered myself with a carpet. By curing up in a fetal position I was just able to keep myself warm enough to fall into a fitful sleep.

I automatically woke up at my usual time, just before daybreak. The strong wind had completely blown out the fire and there were no coals. I tried again to get a fire going with paper from my notebook but my hands were shaking so bad I could not strike the matches. Soon I was shivering uncontrollably. Then Uyanga appeared. She was still wearing her deel and was not as cold as I was. She finally managed to get the fire going. As soon as my shivering stopped I went out and gathered big armloads of saxual wood and soon we had a huge bonfire blazing. Tsogoo and Sükhee finally got up. Tsogoo’s face was gray and he hunched by the fire without saying anything. He was clearly in pain.

The situation looked grim. We had only one tent, no sleeping bags, no cooking gear, no food beside meat, no warm clothes, Tsogoo was hurt, and it was sixty-two miles back to our starting point. If we went back we would have to spend at least three more nights without sleeping bags or warm clothes. And we had no way to cook, not even to heat water. Finally Tsogoo rallied and he and Sükhee rode off to look for the missing load. We did find a tin cup in which we were able to heat water. We had meat, but no knife. Uyanga tore off some chunks of meat and broiled them on stick. Hot water and barbecue for breakfast. I asked what had happened the night before. Mojik thinks a pack may have dropped off one of the loads into the tightly grouped bunch of camels. This spooked at least one of the camels and it spooked the rest. Then they all stampeded.

Uyanga barbecuing some mutton for breakfast

Mojik surveying the wreakage of our camp

Tsogoo and Sükhee returned at ten o’clock. They had found one of the camels with its load still on. The other two camels were gone and would presumably return by themselves to Tsogoo’s ger. So we now had all of our gear back. But we still had a big problem. Tsogoo collapsed in a heap beside the fire. His face was the color of ashes and there was a ring of dried foam around his mouth. He could barely talk. He said he was almost sure he had cracked one or more of his ribs. Well, I thought, we will have to return, and even that is going to be a grueling trip for Tsogoo. Uyanga busied herself cooking and we had a big hot lunch of boiled sheep ribs and potatoes and a couple of pots of invigorating Puerh tea. Finally Tsogoo said we should pack up and get going. Where are we going, I asked? First to Shar Khuls and then to Ülzii Bilegt, like we had planned, he answered. What about your ribs? I asked. He shrugged and said he would okay. He explained that we would divide all of our gear between the one remaining pack camel and the riding camels. Then he would ride on top of the load on the pack camel. That way we could proceed with six camels instead of eight. Would we have enough water to get Shar Khuls, fifty miles south of here, I wondered? No problem, said Tsogoo. I realized then that Tsogoo belonged to the Old School of Camel Men. He had contracted to take me to Ülzii Bilegt and he wasn’t going to turn back just because of a couple of cracked ribs. We loaded the camels and by one o’clock were once again heading south.

Heading south with six camels instead of eight

Mongolia | Gov-Altai Aimag | More Accounts of Dambijantsan

After riding through the Otgon Mountains we enter a vast expanse of level desert covered with saxual bushes. Soon we stop for lunch and make tea. I brew up a a large pot of Lapsang Souchong. Tsogoo was right; the water from Otgonii Bulag is excellent. Very soft, with no mineralization at all. At first Tsogoo and Sükhee had told me that they had of course heard of Dambijantsan but that they knew very little if anything about his activities in the Gov-Altai region. But slowly, as we drink tea around the campfire, they start to remember a few things.

Sükhee was born near Maikhan Uul, twenty-five or so miles west of here. He says that there is a well there known on maps as Maikhany Khudag. Some local people, however, call it Dambijantsan’s Well. Some old people in the area say that Dambijantsan either dug this well or enlarged the already existing well. We also discussed caravan routes. As Shukhee in Shinejinst had told me, there used to be several caravan routes from the village of Tsogt, which we had driven through earlier, to Dambijantsan’s fortress at Gongpochuan in China. One of the routes, Tsogoo now thinks, went past Maikhan Well, then south pass Atas Bogd Uul and on to Gongpochuan. There was also a more easterly caravan route from Tsogt to Shar Khuls, then past Ülzii Bilegt and on to Gongpochuan. This is the route we are now on.

Mojik mounting up after lunch

After lunch we ride on. In the distance can be seen the black ridges of the Buuriin Khyar Uul Tsogoo says we told try to cross this mountains before dark.

Buuriin Khyar Uul in the distance

As our camels resume their stately pace I review in my mind what I know about Dambijantsan. Despite a plethora of writings about him the details remain vague. Dambijantsan always remained a mystery even to those who knew him. The Mongolian lama known as the Diluv Khutagt was six years old when he first met Dambijantsan, would encounter him many times in later life, and was eventually involved in the plot to assassinate him. Of the few Mongolians who left written accounts the Diluv Khutagt probably knew Dambijantsan best. In his Autobiography he includes an entire chapter on him, the only individual to warrant such attention, and yet even to him the Ja Lama remained an enigma. “He called himself a lama, but nobody knew if he really was one,” the Diluv Khutagt noted, “No one knew his real age. No one knew the real truth about him.”

The Russian I. M. Maiskii visited Mongolia in 1919, traveled to Khovd and Uvs aimags when Dambijantsan was still alive—at this time probably living at his fortress at Gongpochuan in Gansu Province, China—and interviewed several people who knew the mysterious lama. Maiskii then inserted an entire chapter about Dambijantsan into his report about of the mission, Sovremenennaia Mongoliia (Contemporary Mongolia), which was otherwise a mundane collection of economical statistics, census reports, and brief essays on the then-current political situation. As in the Diluv Khutagt’s Autobiography, Dambijantsan was the only individual to merit his own chapter. “The story of his man is obscure in many details so that to construct his complete biography is hardly possible at the moment, but I have managed to learn the following facts about him,” Maiskii begins.

As mentioned, at this time Dambijantsan was holed up in his fortress at Gongpochuan, and Maiskii was unable to get any information about his current activities. Maiskii suspected, however, that the lack of news was just the lull before the storm.

“But there is hardly a doubt that this is only a temporary stage in the stormy career of the ambitious monk. No one in Mongolia believes that his inactivity will last long. But he is keeping out of sight, like a cat, waiting for the right moment to make his leap. Who knows, we may very well hear about this man again. Who knows what role he is destined yet to play in Mongolian history.”

If the Diluv Khutagt, who actually knew Dambijantsan, and Maiskii, researching while he was still alive, were unable to unravel the enigma surrounding him, then those who came later, after his death, and tried to make an account of Dambijantsan’s life had an much harder task. George Roerich, son of famous artist, mystic, and Shambhalist Nicholas Roerich, attempted to gather information about Dambijantsan during his travels through Mongolia and China in 1927, and noted:

“His life is veiled in mystery and no one knows exactly where he came from or what his ambitions were. It is extremely difficult to piece together all the existing information about his life, so varied were his activities and so extensive were his travels. The arena of his activity was the whole of Asia, from Astrakhan to Peking and from Urga to distant India. I succeeded in collecting information about him and his life from Mongolian and Tibetan lamas and laymen whom fate brought into contact with the dreaded warrior-priest. This singular personality for some thirty-five years hypnotized the whole of Greater Mongolia. At present, some six years after the death of the man, Mongols feel an unholy dread of him, and worship him as a militant incarnation of one of their national leaders.“

George Roerich’s arguably more famous father Nicholas noted in his own book about the expedition: “Ja-Lama was no ordinary bandit . . . What thoughts and dreams fretted the gray head of Ja-Lama? . . . All through the Central Gobi, the legend of Ja-Lama will persist for a long time. What a scenario for a moving picture!”

Indeed, a movie was eventually made about Dambijantsan, and it is still occasionally shown on the Mongolian State TV.

The famous Mongolist Owen Lattimore also tried to gather information on Dambijantsan’s life. In 1926 he journeyed on the so-called Winding Road caravan route which went past Dambijantsan’s Fortress at Gongpochuan. In The Desert Road to Turkestan, his book about the trip, he included an entire chapter about Dambijantsan. As in the books of Diluv Khutagt, Maiskii, and George Roerich, Dambijantsan was the only individual to merit such attention. Lattimore noted:

“Already the legend of the False Lama has been elaborated beside the tent fires into many versions, but from the choice of details it is possible to throw together a picture with life in it, of an adventurer who, during those years when Mongolia echoed again with the drums and tramplings of its mediaeval turbulence, proved himself a valiant heir in his day to all the Asiatic soldiers of fortune from Jenghis Khan to Yakub Beg of Kashgar.”

Lattimore intended to write a full length biography of Dambijantsan, but for reasons unclear this project never materialized. His chapter about Dambijantsan in The Desert Road to Turkestan, entitled “The House of the False Lama,” has served as the inspiration for a recent book, Beyond the House of the False Lama, by George Crane.