Lost at sea in a landlocked nation

By: Motty Klots, WG'06

Posted: 9/26/05

This August, on behalf of the Wharton International Volunteer Program (WIVP), I helped a herder cooperative in remote northern Mongolia evaluate opportunities to export livestock products to Russia. My trip from the capital, Ulaanbaatar, to the cooperative's home on the northeast shore of Lake Hovsgol involved a supposed ten hour trip in a less than sophisticated Mongolian yacht.

Friday, August 12th

I left Ulaanbaatar on a small Aero Mongolia propeller
airplane en route to Murun, the capital of Mongolia's northernmost province. After a short visit to the Murun livestock
market, Saruul, my translator, and I rented a jeep and drove for four hours on dirt roads north to Hatgal, a village on the south shore of Lake Hovsgol. There we met the local representative in the national parliament, Gundalay, who has been voted the best-looking male MP (Member of Parliament) for the last three years, and started preparing for voyage across the lake scheduled for the following day.

Saturday, August 13th

I woke up early morning to the sight of the Mongolian yacht, made mostly from plywood, plastic windows and two bamboo pontoons on each side, and apparently only one of 15 boats on the lake. The lake measures 162 miles long and 12 miles wide, and the wind blowing across the lake has been known to generate 35 foot tall waves. Needless to say the boat, built by an expert Phillipine "naval engineer" and powered by a "customized" car engine attached to a propeller that coincidentally resembled a desktop fan, did not inspire any confidence in its ability to make the treacherous journey across the lake. Fellow passengers jokingly call it "Titanic". Not funny, especially since our leisurely ten hour tour morphed into a "Gilligan's Island" nightmare. We loaded our equipment from the horse cart onto the boat and set out on our adventure to the northeast shore of Lake Hovsgol. As our boat cut through crystal clear water, with views of untouched tree-covered mountains all around, I was relieved to learn that our converted car engine authentically recreated the feel of Manhattan by blowing warm exhaust into the passenger cabin, and the carbon monoxide from the exhaust help me forget that the lake's potentially monstrous waves could swallow the boat with ease. Still better than the East River I suppose. After several hours the wind picked up and the waves grew. Shortly before sunset, and a couple of hours before our final destination, the engine gave out. We were stranded in the middle of the lake in one of the most remote parts of the world, with no means of communication and little food. The six foot waves helped me to repeatedly "feed the fishes" for the next few hours as I thought longingly of the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders I might never see again. At least my companion was good looking.

Just when I started to think that a little alcohol would soothe the nerves, one local fished out a bottle of fine whisky... and sacrificed it on the side of the boat to calm the spirits of the sea. I slept poorly, frequently waking up from a nightmare about being stranded on an immobilized boat on a lake in remote Mongolia.

Sunday, August 14th

Overnight the wind carried the boat further away from shore into the middle of the lake, but closer to a small island. I once again succumbed to seasickness and decided to skip the rationed meal of bread and milk fat. Determined to get to dry land, we tore away parts of the boat to assemble makeshift paddles and made our way to the island. Looking around I could see the depressingly beautiful sight of a clear blue sky, crystal water extending into infinity, snow covered peaks somewhere far ashore, without any trace of human life anywhere. I will never use the expression "end of the world" in the same way again. I pitched a tent, ate some of the candy we had brought as presents for the herders' children, and waited to be rescued.

Monday, August 15th

I woke up around noon, although time seemed insignificant. I was now several days off the detailed schedule that I had optimistically put together as preparation for this project back in Philly. I explored the island, socialized with my fellow castaways, read a book and tried to remember how Robinson Crusoe kept track of days on his island. Much like Crusoe, while sitting on the shore we eventually glimpsed a boat approaching our island. We were rescued! After a flurry of hugs and kisses, and an improvised celebratory dance, I learned that the government had also sent a helicopter on our behalf. Note to self: arrange escort by prominent local politician on all future potential shipwreck situations.

Finally Saruul (my translator) and I were given a lift to a valley on the mainland, about 15km away from our ultimate destination. We were welcomed by a local family and sent a note to our camp with a messenger on horseback: "We are OK, call off the helicopter search, send horses so we can finally reach our destination." We were watching satellite television powered by a small solar generator when the programming was suddenly interrupted: "We interrupt this program for an urgent news update. Member of Parliament Gundalay and his party, who have been missing for three days, have been found. Member of Parliament Gundalay is on his way to Ulaanbaatar where he will give an interview to the press. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming."

Unfortunately I never saw the interview, but they say the camera adds 10 pounds anyway - our horses arrived shortly thereafter and we set out on the final leg of our journey through the rolling hills and forests on the shores of Lake Hovsgol.