The sour odour of mares’ milk, wood smoke and the whiff of unwashed bodies surround us as we sit perched on hard stools, balancing grubby Mongolian toddlers on our knees. 

All around us the suntanned faces of Mongolian nomad people are upturned in joyous song, and engulf us in the pride of this nation that has long been considered the end of the earth to Australian travellers.

Lucky for travellers today, Mongolia is far more accessible by regular flights from Japan or Beijing. Others may prefer to reach this landlocked nation by embarking on the Trans Mongolian railway crossing through Russia and Mongolia, ending their journey in Beijing.

Outside of Mongolia’s capital Ulaan Bataar, anywhere is remote. The main highway west is crumbling and potholed, yet definitely sealed. Within minutes the endless landscape has immersed us in its’ grandeur. 

Unmarked by fences or signs of human habitation the only life are eagles soaring in the big blue sky which touches each horizon, and horsemen, lone figures dwarfed by the seemingly unchartered territory.

There are as many horses as people in Mongolia and they are central to the Mongolian identity. In fact, we are told that there are more ballads devoted to the love of a good horse than to the love of a good woman!

The Mongolian horse, looks more like a pony to us, but we are forewarned never to make this error in a fiercely proud nation, where the horse is the number one form of transport.
Mongolia has a population of two and a half million and as about one third live on the land, it is a nation of nomadic herders.

The herders are seemingly content with their lifestyle roaming on the steppes. Yet geography has them sandwiched between two superpowers – China and Russia  - and their recent history is a tragic reflection of this location.

The Mongol Empire, forged by ruthless and bloodthirsty Chinggis Khan, (known to us in the west as Ghenghis Khan) was the greatest empire the world has ever known.  At one time it stretched from Korea to Hungary, and as far south as Vietnam. 

Today, more ethnic Mongolians live in the Chinese province of Inner Mongolia than live in Mongolia itself. A million more Mongolians live in southern Russia, also once part of Mongolia.

Though one half of the population now lives in one of Mongolia’s three major cities, each Mongolian has a strong connection to the land, spending many holidays and festivals in touch with the grassy steppes.

Through this landscape of eternal skies and grazing cattle and horses, we arrive at a group of fake looking tourist gers. Distinctive homes of the nomad people, the gers are circular felt lined tents that can be collapsed in just a few hours.The Buddhist Mongolians tell us that there is no such thing as lucky people – good luck is brought by good actions. Nevertheless whether it is luck or not, we are invited to a pop concert in a ger given by Mongolia’s diva, Saraa.

She has invited the entire population of the district to a free concert, and the crisp early evening air has been filled with the rhythmic sound of hoof beats as Mongolian nomads gather from miles around.   Resplendent in traditional dress, grandfathers right through to the tiniest babies gather for this once in a lifetime experience.

It is unlikely that these nomad people would ever attend one of Saraa’s concerts, so it is with an affinity for her fellow Mongolians she gives these free impromptu performances.

Hitching rails are a fixture outside all public places in Mongolia, and outside the tourist ger camp the rails are overflowing with tethered horses as groups of nomads continue to arrive, seemingly materializing out of the vast landscape. 

Most rural Mongolians wear a heavy one-piece woolen gown known as a del, tied at the waist with a thick sash, and fluorescent orange or yellow appear to be in vogue.

oddlers are smaller versions of their parents, already dark from the elements, and playing chasey in long gowns and hardy boots. It’s said that Mongolian children can ride before they run!

The ger where the concert is being held becomes a sea of nutty suntanned Mongolian faces. The younger, smoother faces are like golden moons, right though to the creased face of an old man who has clambered to the front.  Sitting with his hand clasped on a young boy’s shoulder, the old man’s grins toothily as he slaps the boy vigorously with excitement.

Hot bodies press in from all sides, sweating the sour aroma of mare’s milk, combined with the smoky smell of fires and tobacco.

My mother gives up her hard stool to a young woman with a young child in her arms. A chubby faced toddler with plaits perches on my knee, gazing at me uncertainly. I smile; she smiles back and begins to clap gaily to the music. Mongolians love to sing – in fact much of their history has been preserved in long ballads repeated around campfires.

While Western music has begun to become popular in urban areas since the collapse of Russian Communism and its associated austerity, homegrown music has a large following, including the sweet sounds of Saraa. Her voice fills the ger – it is like a family gathering as she sings some of her hits, then invites the crowd to sing folk songs. Their combined voices fill the endless landscape of the grasslands.

Maybe it’s the woodsmoke, the heat, the excitement of the crowd, but tears prick my eyes. This is a monumental occasion for these nomadic people who live simple lives in tents on the steppes, isolated particularly in the barren winter when the temperature can remain below freezing for months!

While satellite dishes are occasionally seen outside some well to do gers, most rely on transistor radios or simply oral traditions. 

We guess Saraa the pop star is like other Mongolians and feels a connection with the land and nomad life. In Western terms, a “star” wouldn’t visit a slightly fake ger camp, let alone give free concerts – but then, why shouldn’t she?

When the communal performance is completed, Saraa gathers her son in her arms and poses with herder families for photographs and autograph signings. There is not a security guard in sight.

As we settle in our ger, a few doors down from the Mongolian superstar, we hear the rhythmic thud of hoofbeats as the nomads disappear into the inky night.

For us, this was an incredible episode in a foreign land, for them, a once in a lifetime experience.

Copyright Ariana Svenson, 2005 - Comments and enquiries, please email us.