Ikh Uul

The 'homestay' night was the genuine article. Mid-afternoon we left the tracks and headed off over the grassy hillside towards a pair of gers. Our tour leader talked to the families, making all the necessary small talk - "Are your animals fattening up nicely?" is the local equivalent of "How are you?" - while gauging the atmosphere before asking if we could stay. It took a couple of attempts to find a two-ger family who seemed suitable and soon we were welcomed in for salty tea and to meet three generations of the family (grandma in bed). We made small talk, Masha translating, and grandpa told us how they have a long tradition of welcoming visitors and asked where we all came from, while we sampled broth, dried curds and sweetened cooked cream. A snuff bottle was passed round – a tradition dating back hundreds of years – and I spiced up my nostrils with what reminded me of ground up incense – not unpleasant, though a little itchy. Formalities over, we were reminded that this was now our home and we wandered in and out of the gers and over the surrounding pasture.

Returning to the main ger, I took in the old photos, cooking area and dozens of bowls and buckets containing yoghurt, cream and cheese in various stages of development. I was handed a bowl of the freshest, most delicious natural yoghurt you could imagine.

In the evening, the younger men of the family returned with the cows and sheep and goats from their grazing. After dark it was slightly surreal to step out with a torch and be met by 200 pairs of animal eyes. The whole family joined us for the meal we cooked (by 'we' I mean our guide and drivers!). Then the vodka came out, grandpa ensuring that the correct etiquette was followed for the filling and passing of the cup. After one round of our apple vodka (not recommended) he brought out an old water bottle filled with 'the best' - a home-made vodka made from yoghurt. It was a clear drink, not very strong in terms of alcohol, but with a distinct whiff of back end of goat. Suddenly the apple stuff tasted good after all.

Later we were joined by a couple of young men, who it seemed had heard that there were exotic strangers visiting. More rounds of vodka were drunk, before we split up to sleep on the floors of the two gers. I ended up in the one where two guys sat laughing on each bed as we unrolled our sleeping bags and squeezed in like a row of sardines. Their comments and gestures certainly contained a fair dose of suggestiveness as well as general mirth, but the atmosphere was good and it simply meant that we all got the giggles too. All that is except one, who got a bit hoity-toity about it all, in between kicking up an inordinate fuss about the presence of a few beetles. Eventually, everyone settled down and I got a pretty good night's sleep, all things considered.

It amazes me that there are still places in the world where you can knock at a stranger’s door and be offered lodging for eleven people. Our welcome was genuine and the evening was truly a slice of real Mongolian life. Having stayed in tourist ger camps it was fascinating to see inside a nomadic family’s home, from the churns of milk products and curds drying on the roof to the small television which appeared to be attached to a car battery which was charged by a solar panel. Life here has changed in only the smallest ways over the last few centuries.