Brazen thieves

Day: 343

Sunrise:
05:12

Sunset:
21:33

As the crow flies:
18,00

Daily kilometers:
23

Total kilometers:
1626

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
20°C

Temperature – day (minimum):
12 °C

Temperature – Night:
8 °C

Latitude:
50°20’883”

Longitude:
100°06’991”

Maximum height:
1700 m above sea level

Time of departure:
13:30

Arrival time:
19:30

In the morning we are woken by the same constant rain that started last night. We are dog-tired because of Mogi’s constant barking. The current guard shift system only makes sense if we react to every movement of our dog because one in a hundred barks could signal the thieves. “Oh man, it’s not going to be easy to keep this up,” I say, yawning. “What do you think? Should we leave or stay here one more night?” asks Tanja because of the rain. “Hm, I don’t know. At the moment, there’s really no point in packing everything up. The tent is far too wet and therefore too heavy. We should wait and decide later,” I suggest, which is why we lie down again.

“Woof! Woof! Woof!”, Mogi barks aggressively as soon as we have stretched out our limbs. “Look at you. I’ve been watching almost all night,” Tanja asks me to lift my body up to see what’s going on outside the tent again. “I went up every time too,” I reply, not feeling the slightest inclination to stick my head out of the sleeping cabin. But as Tanja had spent the night in the awning and therefore certainly got even less sleep than me, I struggle to get up and discover two tourists walking past our tent.

“Where do they come from?” they ask. “From the taiga”, I reply in a friendly manner, whereupon a conversation develops. As the rain lets up briefly, Tanja also appears. She takes the opportunity to light the campfire while I answer the questions of the older couple from Austria. “It’s really bad in this country. As far as we can tell, only the women work here. The men are incredibly lazy,” says the man, who, according to his story, has been going on a long-distance trip with his wife and a group of friends every year for 40 years. “Hm, in some cases they’re certainly right,” I reply. “And what about you? Do you keep your wife working all the time?” he asks suddenly, pointing at Tanja, who is busy with the wet wood while I’m standing here talking. “Well, I’m polite enough to have a chat with you,” I reply, not knowing whether the gentleman was joking or really serious.

At 11:00 it suddenly clears up. “Should we set off?” I ask. Tanja hesitates. For some reason, she would stay here for the rest of the day. But as we don’t want to miss the Naadam in Mörön, after a few minutes’ thought I decide to break camp.

The horses are loaded at 13:30. We are just sitting in the saddle when another scary-looking cloud front rolls across the lake towards us. To avoid getting soaked by the torrential rain, we put on our protective clothing. Then we leave the camp. After the first bay, one yurt camp follows the next. They were all empty in the winter, but now they are bustling with activity.

After 10 kilometers we pass the town sign of Khatgal. So far, to our relief, the storm fronts have passed us by on the left and right, but when we reach the main street of the village, the purest inferno rages above us. In just a few minutes, the skies open up and flood the land, the town and us. The wet whips us in the face and takes away almost all visibility. Within minutes, everything is at least 10 to 20 centimeters under water. “Get off!” yells Tanja. The storm soon swallows her voice completely. I follow her advice. The headlights of a car eat their way past us. It was probably good to have jumped out of the saddle in time. We take the packhorses by the guide ropes and walk through a seemingly endless lake that gets deeper with every second. In the corner of our eyes we see people sitting in their stores and watching us through the windows of their safe wooden huts. Tuya and Mogi look like poodles. Her wet fur is dripping and the mud on the path has soiled her. We walk through the storm like a funeral procession, unable to find shelter anywhere. “I can only hope that the camera bags are leak-proof!” I shout. “What?” asks Tanja. “I hope the camera bags hold tight!” I repeat to myself. “There’s the store up ahead!” I hear Tanja shout against the roaring wind. Because our food supplies are running low, we are forced to visit one of the stores. We tie our animals to the wooden fence next to the small store with the mini-market sign. We unload them to take the strain off them. While I look after the horses and equipment, Tanja sets off to buy supplies for us. As the small store is closed, she marches on through the Armageddon of the torrential rain. Suddenly, as if the hand of the weather god had closed the floodgates of the clouds, the flash flood stops. I look up at the sky in amazement. Only minutes pass as the first rays of sunshine work their way through the cloud canyons and make my surroundings steam. Another five minutes later, the streets are still wet but there is no sign of the flood. All the water has seeped into the hungry soil.

It only takes 20 minutes for Tanja to reappear with a full rucksack. “I’ve got everything we need. Especially a bunch of cookies and chocolate for you,” she says with a laugh. “Great, finally something sensible to eat,” I reply jokingly. “Did you also pick up the passport copies that Saraa sent us to the guesthouse?” I ask. “I did.” Because we had given Saraa our passports and work permits for the visa extension while we were still in the taiga, we have had no identity papers since then. No problem in the taiga, but in a region like this it could happen under unfortunate circumstances to be stopped by a policeman. Not having any papers then might be unfavorable. Saraa therefore sent us copies of our papers to Khatgal to the guesthouse from which we had already collected the deel for Bilgee last year.

The duffel bags and courier bags are quickly loaded back onto the horse’s back and we leave the town behind us. We trot through the wide valley where we froze so terribly last year. Because Khatgal is said to be the stronghold of horse thieves, we try to put as many kilometers as possible between us and the town. “Naraa is tired. She can’t take any more,” says Tanja. “We have to keep going anyway,” I reply, urging the horses on incessantly. “We might find a place to camp up there on the cliff edge. We have to make it there,” I say, pointing to the bright rock formation about five kilometers away. At 7:30 pm we lead our animals through an expansive wetland valley covered with lush grass. To our left, a small river winds its way through the marshy land. Just a few meters to our right, the steep, rocky wall rises about 50 meters into the air. The horses’ hooves smack the wet ground. Although we have a strategically good camp here, we can’t stay. Our tent would simply sink into the swamp. “I’ll have a look up ahead. Maybe I’ll find a piece of dry land for our camp,” I say, riding ahead. In front of me, at the foot of the scree wall, I discover large, crouched bodies. At first I was startled, but I couldn’t identify them as human or animal. I concentrate on the crouching figures and notice how they slowly move back and forth. I pull Sar back to realize what is waiting for me there. “Phew,” I groan with relief as I recognize at least three huge vultures looking curiously at me. “Bye,” I say quietly to encourage Sar to keep walking. Suddenly the giants of the air rise up with a wingspan of an estimated 2.5 to 3 meters. I’m riding around another rocky outcrop when I actually spot a dry, 10-meter-wide grassy area that offers enough space for our tent. Forming my hands into a funnel in front of my mouth, I call Tanja, who is waiting 200 meters away for a sign from me. She understands and rides slowly in my direction. Looking towards her, I let my eyes glide upwards. This rock face seems to be an Eldorado for other birds of prey such as eagles and buzzards circling above our heads.

“A beautiful place,” Tanja says tiredly, sliding out of the saddle. “Absolutely. Behind us the rock face, in front of us a lush pasture where we can stall the horses overnight, then the river and behind it the wide valley and then another much larger river. Not a good place for thieves to steal horses,” I reply with satisfaction. “Do you think they’re coming today?” asks Tanja. “I don’t think so. I feel really comfortable here.” “I feel the same way. Apart from that, hardly anyone saw us because of the heavy thunderstorm in Khatgal. The people were all in their houses. I don’t think anyone followed us,” she replies, yawning.

After tying up our horses, we search for wood at the foot of the rock face. A few larches, which squeeze into one or other rocky niche, have shed one of their branches in the course of their barren existence. Although they are very damp from the rain, we still manage to light a fire on which we can heat water for tea and ready-made food. On the opposite side of the valley, about 1 ½ kilometers from here, we spot a few yurts. Thin columns of smoke rise from their rooftops into the now pale sky. Shepherds drive their herds of sheep, goats and cattle into the enclosures with shrill whistles and loud shouts. “Do they see us?” asks Tanja. “I think so. In Mongolia, every herdsman has binoculars or a small telescope to watch his herd. I don’t think they miss anything. Besides, they’ve long since noticed our fire. But not every Mongolian is a horse thief,” I reply reassuringly. “It’s still strange. Why do they bring their herds into the fences in the evening? Surely they could let them run around?” Tanja ponders. “A herd of animals, no matter what kind, must always be under control. They could wander too far away from the yurt camp overnight. Maybe even put them in danger. Rushing rivers, ravines and whatever else there may be. Apart from that, they are protected from wild dogs and other predators next to the yurts. Certainly also from cattle thieves. If the herders’ animals are in a fenced-in area next to the living tent at night, they can sleep more peacefully. I would do the same,” I say.

After dinner, I sip hot tea and enjoy a bar of chocolate. “Ow,” I let out as my right canine tooth sends an unpleasant pulling pain. “Toothache?” asks Tanja worriedly. “I don’t believe it. Yes. Well, I can’t have that here,” I reply. “No one needs a toothache.” “Sure, but least of all in the wilderness,” I reply immediately, brushing my teeth.

It is already dark when the headlight of a motorcycle cuts through the blackness of the darkness and heads straight for us. “It’s actually coming,” says Tanja. “Looks that way.” Moments later, he stops his buck right in front of our tent. “Sain bajtsgaana uu”; he greets us. An open, friendly face looks out at us from under his traditional colorful pointed cap. As usual, he asks where we are coming from and where we are going. We answer. Then he starts his vehicle again and chugs off into the night. “Definitely not a thief,” Tanja is sure. “Definitely not a thief,” I reply.

At 10 p.m. we go into the tent. Tanja makes herself as comfortable as possible in the awning. I lie down in the sleeping cabin and leave the fabric door open so that I can jump out quickly in an emergency. I place my weapons, the large knife, pepper gas and tracer pen next to me. The stones I have collected are piled up to the right of the entrance. “Sleep well,” I say. “Yes, thank you. You sleep well too,” she replies.

It may be due to the full moon. I can’t sleep a wink for hours. Mogi contributes to this with his barking. Again and again he discovers cattle, horses or anything else that he thinks should be yapped at. Again and again Tanja and I shoot into a sitting position, reach for our headlamps and light up the area where the horses are tied up. Nothing. Thank God. Perhaps we are overreacting? But we were soon warned incessantly. Of course we could throw all the warnings to the wind and just relax and go to sleep after a busy day. However, a horse has already been stolen from us, or rather from Bilgee.

4:00 in the morning. Mogi barks again. Tanja goes upstairs, grabs her headlamp and looks outside. “I don’t believe it. There are two riders coming,” she says in a tone that gets my adrenaline pumping. Within a fraction of a second, I jump out of my sleeping cabin next to Tanja, armed with pepper gas and a glow stick, and shine my light into the approaching dusk. Tanja’s beam of light hits one of the riders directly in the face. He holds his hand in front of it. Either to avoid being dazzled or to avoid being recognized. The bright beam of my headlamp hits the second man. This shows that there are several people here. Both men ride right past us at a distance of about three meters. They don’t make a sound. Excitedly, we shine after them. “Are they just shepherds?” asks Tanja. “At this time of night? That’s them. They’re horse thieves,” I’m sure of it. Baffled, we have to watch as the two men dressed in traditional Deels turn around 20 meters behind the camp, ride through the small river and steer their horses in our direction again. “They’ll be back,” says Tanja. Mogi barks like crazy. Our hearts are pounding so hard that we think the men can hear it. As they ride past us at a greater distance this time, their faces are harder to recognize. But they are clearly turned in our direction. “They’re checking the situation for another attempt,” I suspect in a whisper. “Yes,” Tanja murmurs, then they disappear into the pale light of the fading night.

“Unbelievable. Now we’ve seen it after all,” says Tanja excitedly. “I didn’t think I’d really come across horse thieves,” I say, still nervous. “Are they really gone now?” asks Tanja. “I think so. They certainly hadn’t reckoned on our vigilance,” I suspect. “Well, if you were a normal tourist and hadn’t been warned, you’d be sleeping at this time of night.” “Then the horses would be gone by now.” “Yes, without a doubt. Well, we’ve shown them,” says Tanja.

Shivering from the cold, I climb back into my sleeping cabin. “Woof! Woof! Woof!” barks Mogi moments later. Tanja immediately looks outside. “What’s going on?” I ask, feeling the extremely unpleasant sensation of excitement, fear and adrenaline making every cell in my body tremble anew. “I don’t know, but I think they’ll be back.” “What?” “Yes, actually. They’re driving a herd of horses in our direction.” “A herd of horses?” I ask, puzzled. “Quick, put your shoes on. They’re coming,” says Tanja and I quickly slip into my shoes. Moments later we rush outside the tent with our weapons. Tanja instinctively places herself between the tethered horses while I kneel next to Mogi, who barks indignantly, ready to jump. The men drive about 30 to 40 horses in front of them, directly towards our tent. At first we don’t understand what they are doing and still suspect it could be shepherds who have been looking for their horses and are driving them to other pastures at this early hour. “Horse driving!” shouts one of the men. For a fraction of a second, I recognize his face, whose expression is unreadable.

Mogi barks aggressively. I’m still holding him by the collar. Loud neighing, the excited snorting of many nostrils and the cries of the supposed shepherds combine to create an unreal symbiosis of sound. The herd instinct makes our horses want to follow their conspecifics. The ropes tighten. It can only take seconds for the strong pull to tear out the pitons hammered into the damp ground. If that were to happen, the animals would be lost to us. The men would drive the herd a kilometer or two from the camp, jump out of the saddle, separate our horses from the herd, grab them by the ropes and drive them away at a gallop. We wouldn’t have the slightest chance of catching up with them. The only thing we would encounter would be the herd of horses left behind. An ingenious plan that we can do absolutely nothing about.

Only now do we understand the tactics of these brazen, disgusting thieves. They are undoubtedly practiced professionals. “That’s not their herd. They drove them here from a pasture to take our horses with them!” shouts Tanja. “Yes, I’ve realized it too,” I reply as the spook is already over. The herd moves on. All the pegs have held. A load off our minds. “It’s over!” I shout.

But before we can exhale with relief, we are startled again. With loud shouts of encouragement, the men shoo the herd into a large circle and ride straight towards our camp again. “They’re coming back!” I yell. Everything happens so quickly that there is no time to check the position of the earth hooks. “That’s my horse!” shouts Tanja as one of the thieves drives Sharga with his whip so that he pulls himself off the piton. If he gallops off, he is lost to us.

Moments later, the spook is over again. Everything is quiet. As if we had just imagined that two lawbreakers had just driven a whole herd of horses right through here. Only the roar of galloping hooves and the snorting of the wind can be heard. “Phew, lucky me. They didn’t just want one horse, they wanted them all,” I say, my whole body shaking with excitement. “Will they come back?” asks Tanja. We recognize the men in the beam of our headlamps. They are standing about 50 meters away from the camp and seem to be discussing their next steps. We know that if they show up again now, they will use violence. “Take a few stones,” I say to Tanja. Because we are on the ground, we have an advantage. They will also think twice about getting out of their saddles. Because there are so many sharp dogs in this country, every Mongolian, without exception, has great respect for them. Apart from that, the men don’t know how prepared we are for this moment. Surely they never dreamed they would come across this presence. Perhaps this has never happened to them in their entire thieving career? Saraa told us that, depending on the value and severity of the horse theft, you could face up to 10 years in prison. Well, engaging in a violent confrontation with foreigners would be aggravated robbery. In this case, the men no longer know whether they still have an advantage. For thieves, this lies in surprise and, above all, in remaining undetected.

Our hearts are beating up to our necks. The tension is unbearable. If I had a gun, I would certainly fire a few warning shots into the air and the situation would be resolved. Sacrificing a tracer bullet is risky. We only have three cartridges and don’t know whether we’ll need them on the route ahead. Only a few minutes pass and the shadowy shadows of the riders move away. “They’re leaving,” whispers Tanja. “Yes.” “How did they know where our camp was?” “No idea. They must have seen us in Khatgal.” “Despite the thunderstorm?” “Apparently. Or they were tipped off. Apparently there’s a network of informants in this damn place after all,” I ponder. “Did the Mongol with his pointed hat betray us?” “You mean the one who visited us on his moped last night?” “Yes.” “I don’t know. It’s difficult to find out who it was. The fact is that they know exactly where we are. The timing of their appearance was too perfect. No light to really be recognized and yet enough to carry out such an action,” I reply. “That’s right. And at 4:00 a.m. every normal person is asleep. Will they come back?” asks Tanja, still excited. “I don’t think so, but who wants to know. We have to stay alert.” “Well, I can’t sleep now.” “Me neither. I think we should use our adrenaline to pack up and put as many kilometers as we can between us and this place.” “Good idea. So let’s pack up,” says Tanja, standing up.

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