Mongolia: There's a party going on round here

Writers' adventures in literature: Louisa Waugh arrives in Mongolia just in time for the New Year celebrations

Born in Berlin and educated in Liverpool, Louisa Waugh skipped university and found herself teaching in Ulan Bator after she hopped off the Trans-Siberian Express while heading for Beijing. Then, tiring of the city, she headed for the Steppe, where Tsengel became her home. For a year Waugh faced the challenges of living in Mongolia's western-most village surrounding nomadic settlements.

Tsengel was long and sprawling. A few ugly breeze-block buildings stood in the central square, just down the track from the clinic, but everything else was built from wood and mud: the homes, the hashsas (fenced yards), the trench toilets, and a series of small buildings with low, padlocked doors, which I guessed were stores and kiosks. Dirt tracks trailed through the village, pitted with stones and roamed by packs of rancid, limping dogs ... There was no one about. But I walked on in the brilliant cold sunshine, because there was no reason to return to the lonely clinic. Dark, low-lying mountains surrounded the village on three sides, their crests smeared in snow. On the other, a wide hill displayed an outlandish-looking settlement of ornate quadrangles and white conical turrets. I wondered who on earth lived there.

I followed several gaunt cows to the edge of the river. Its waters were frozen so solid they reminded me of huge, uneven slabs of white marble. I gazed across the frozen vista. I suddenly realised I'd never seen a sky like this before: a startling, cloudless cobalt sky, which soared across the roof of this desolate valley, and gave the village a sudden, silent beauty.

People. I finally saw some villagers. Five pensioners tottered towards me, their faces as creased as scrunched brown paper. We exchanged Mongol greetings.

"Sain bainuu?" How are you? Literally, are you good?

"Taivan." Peaceful.

They smiled at me toothlessly, clasping my hands but asking no questions, and hobbled on. I walked the rest of the length of the village without seeing anyone. Every doorway was closed; there were no children playing outside. Tsengel was silent. I couldn't think where everyone in the village might be. It was all very strange.

Eventually, I followed the solid river back to the clinic, which, I could now see, was a hideous U-shaped building with large cracked windows and a derelict courtyard strewn with rubbish and ash from the stoves. A jeep was parked outside my door. A short, slender man with the taut features of a hawk gestured to me, enthusiastically.

"Ah, hello!" he said in English, then immediately reverted to Mongolian. "How is your room? Fine? Good, good. Has the school director visited you? No? Oh, he will come soon. I am Abbai, Chairman of the Tsengel District Government."

I smiled and held out my hand. It was Abbai who'd sent the telex offering me food and accommodation in return for teaching at the local school. It was good to meet him.

"Now..." Abbai ran a blackened nail down a list of words in his open notebook and switched back into painstakingly rehearsed English. "Do you need ... a pillow, a cushion, a maid?"

"A maid?" I wasn't expecting room service.

"Yes. Very difficult for you here," Abbai said confidently.

I asked for the pillow and declined the cushion and maid, feeling in turn bewildered and amused by the unfolding plot of my arrival.

Abbai beckoned over a tall, bespectacled man in his fifties, still handsome in spite of a patchwork of creamy-coloured skin staining his brown face and neck. "This is Zultan."

"Sain bainuu, bagsh." Zultan grinned as though trying to suppress raucous laughter. "Today is Tsaagan Sar. Shall we go to the countryside?"

Of course. I clicked my fingers, remembering the date and why Tsengel appeared to have been evacuated. Tsaagan Sar, Mongol New Year – the ancient rite of celebrating the gradual retreat of the five- or six-month Mongol winter, and the beginning of a fresh cycle of the seasons. Everyone must be visiting friends and relatives in the mountains eating the traditional New Year buuz (steamed mutton, dumplings) and drinking arikh.

This is an extract from 'Hearing Birds Fly' by Louisa Waugh (Little, Brown £16.99). 'Independent on Sunday' readers can order a copy for the discounted price of £14.99 by calling 01832 737525.

Follow in the footsteps

By Liz Thomas

Keep on keeping on

Mongolia, is heralded as one of the last unspoilt travel destinations in Asia for the adventure-hungry traveller. Tsengel is Mongolia's westernmost village, close to the border with China. Popularly known as the "Tibet of Mongolia", the area is home to many of the country's nomadic settlements.

Getting there

Steppes East (01285 651 010; www.steppeseast.co.uk) offers tailor-made itineraries to Mongolia. A 10-day trip starts from £1,995 per person, based on return flights from Heathrow to Beijing and onward train travel, half-board accommodation and guided excursions.

British passport holders need a visa to enter Mongolia.

For a 30-day visa, as well as tourist information contact the Mongolian Embassy (020 7937 0150; www.embassyofmongolia.co.uk).