Mongolia, from the steppes to the Altai

Ulaanbaatar

First day before the adventure

A day in town before setting off: the temples, their fiercely coloured deities, golden statues wrapped in ribbons, painted roofs curling up at the corners.

In the evening, from the top of a tower, the capital lights up. From tomorrow, no lights but the stars.

The steppe

First bivouac

The first bivouac on the steppe stays engraved: a crackling fire, the vehicles in a row, and in the morning a sun rising over endless grass.

Not a fence, not a road, only crossing tracks and the horizon in every direction.

A thousand words to describe these first days of total change of scene: vastness, colours, nomads, yaks, horses, deer stones, altars, marmots, raptors. And the Erdene Zuu monastery in Karakorum.

The Gobi

A fine ride through the desert

The Gobi begins with ochre rocks and an unexpected lake, then comes the sand. Tall smooth dunes, a lake in the hollow of one of them, a rainbow over the crests after the storm.

The 4x4s charge, crest, and sometimes bog down. In the evening the sun sets in the dunes, the moon rises over camp, and silence takes up all the space.

Already a week and more than a thousand kilometres of tracks: a river rising from a huge dune, small lakes between the dunes, a tongue of sand reaching into a lake. The Gobi is crossed after eight bivouacs.

The Altai

Along the Chinese border

The journey continues west to the Altai mountains. Fords to cross one after another, ancient standing stones in the steppe, ovoo covered in blue scarves which you walk around three times for luck on the road.

There will be a raclette above 2,700 metres, a colourful Naadam with its horses and riders, and genuine encounters.

Facing the sacred mountain, three religions live side by side: Islam, Buddhism and shamanism. In all, some 3,200 kilometres across the Khangai, the Gobi and the Altai.

The marshes

24 hours for 16 kilometres

When the mountain marshes are wetter than expected, the ruts fill up, storms roll over the summits and the vehicles sink to their axles.

Twenty-four hours for sixteen kilometres, a makeshift bivouac, plank bridges to regain firm ground. And then, at last, it goes.

The Kazakhs of the Altai

Milking the yaks

To finish, a few days with the Kazakh nomads of the Altai, a hospitable people living in a marvellous region. The yurts are hung with embroidered carpets, the table overflows with bread, butter and tea.

In the morning it is time to milk the yaks, massive animals with thick fringes. Memories still so vivid, years later.