The horse that saved me on the Mongolian steppe
Raised in a remote Mongolian temple, writer and adventurer Bateer Chai grew up among horses that define life on the steppe. One black horse became his guardian, shielding him from wolves and shaping his childhood forever. As we enter the Year of the Horse, he reflects on the bond between Mongolians and their horses — a relationship that is both life-defining and timeless.
(All photos courtesy of Bateer Chai.)
As a Mongolian, I have known horses my whole life. Although I have lived in the city as an adult, my memories of horseriding since childhood and my affection for them have never changed.
My first and only horse
I grew up in a lama (Tibetan Buddhist) temple, and as long as I can remember, horses have always been a part of my life.
My lama temple was located four days and three nights by horseback from Ulaanbaatar. In those days, distance was measured in how many days and nights you had to ride.
The temple was always a popular gathering place for Mongolians. Herders, traders, doctors, performing troupes, knife fighters, horse thieves, and even foreign film crews — groups and individuals of every sort would stop by this spacious, sacred lama temple.
My first horse came into my life in the aftermath of a knife fight on the grass before the temple gate. Spooked by the sharp scent of blood, a horse broke loose and bolted into the courtyard. I was a small child then, crawling and playing on the grass.
The horse thundered straight toward me, then abruptly reared and collapsed at my feet. Instead of crying, I scrambled forward, seized its long mane and burst into wild laughter. Later, the lamas — my shifus — admitted they were so terrified they almost wet their pants.
That big black horse seemed to like me. It lay there on the ground, letting me tug, kick and pat it however I pleased. It became my first horse, glossy black and shiny all over.
The horse brought endless joy to my early childhood. To ride it, shifu had to lift me onto its back. I didn’t need a saddle — I would cling to its neck or grab its mane as we galloped wildly outside the temple.
Perhaps the horse was old (the adage “an old horse knows the way” proved untrue), or perhaps it was just not very clever. Whenever we ran too far, it would get lost and could not find its way back to the temple, while I was also too young to recognise the route. As a result, nearby herders, passing traders, and many times, several shifus would have to go out and fetch me back.
The big black horse was battle-tested and quick-witted. It suddenly charged over, clamped onto my belt with its teeth, and bolted. The wolves chased after us, biting at the horse’s legs and hindquarters, snapping wildly as they ran.
One autumn, the horse and I ran all the way to a distant riverbank. I was playing by the water when we encountered a pack of wolves — more than ten of them of various sizes. I thought they were dogs and wanted to walk over to play with the puppies. Then I noticed an adult wolf staring at me, drooling from its mouth. My mind went blank: Oh no — aren’t these the wolves my shifus said love to eat children?
The big black horse was battle-tested and quick-witted. It suddenly charged over, clamped onto my belt with its teeth, and bolted. The wolves chased after us, biting at the horse’s legs and hindquarters, snapping wildly as they ran.
I was dangling from the horse’s mouth when my belt snapped. I fell to the ground and passed out.
When I woke up, I saw my shifus holding bows and hunting rifles. My body was covered in blood. Around me lay six wolves that had been shot dead. Nearby was the horse, its belly torn open, its entrails spilled across the ground.
My shifus told me that before it died, the horse had shielded me tightly beneath its belly. When they rushed over, they couldn’t find me anywhere and thought I had been eaten by the wolves, until they discovered me tucked safely beneath the horse’s body.
... horses have always surrounded me; rather, there is no life in Mongolia without horses. Mongolian history is a history of Mongolians living alongside horses.
From that moment on, I felt an overwhelming gratitude towards horses. Whenever I saw horses passing by, I felt a special affinity with them. I would run over, circle them as I chattered away, and help clean their hooves and comb their manes. Sometimes my shifu would lift me in his arms so I could gently wipe the dirt from around their eyes.
I love horses, but I never owned another one of my own. Still, horses have always surrounded me; rather, there is no life in Mongolia without horses. Mongolian history is a history of Mongolians living alongside horses.
Whether in everyday nomadic life or in Genghis Khan’s “Iron Cavalry” conquering the world, Mongolian horses have played an indispensable role.
Mongolians and Mongolian horses
Mongolian horses share almost the same temperament and traits as Mongolians themselves. For thousands of years, Mongolian horses have lived in a semi-wild, free-range state. Even in temperatures as low as minus 40 degrees Celsius, they can paw through snow with their hooves to find food.
They are one of the world’s oldest horse breeds — small in stature, stocky, with hard hooves and large heads. Whether in Mongolia or Inner Mongolia, their bloodlines have remained virtually unchanged for thousands of years.
They are one of the world’s oldest horse breeds — small in stature, stocky, with hard hooves and large heads. Whether in Mongolia or Inner Mongolia, their bloodlines have remained virtually unchanged for thousands of years.
Mongolians are much the same — short, sturdy, with exceptionally strong legs and waists. Since ancient times, resilient Mongolians have been able to sustain their families through brutally cold winters, ensuring that their herds of cattle, horses and sheep survive. That is no small feat.
Genghis Khan’s ‘Iron Cavalry’ and the Mongolian horse
Military experts around the world agree: without the Mongolian horse, the Mongol Empire would never have existed.
Genghis Khan’s legendary military achievements were built on the extraordinary endurance and wild adaptability of Mongolian horses.
Mongol cavalry, carrying heavy equipment, could march an average of 100 to 150 kilometres per day. Each soldier was equipped with three to five horses, rotating mounts along the way, allowing the army to maintain astonishing speed.
Despite modern transportation, there are still over four million horses in Mongolia, far exceeding its human population.
Even more terrifying was the fact that Mongolian horses could survive solely on wild grass and flowers found on the steppe (European warhorses required grain). This turned Mongol cavalry into highly mobile forces that required no massive supply convoys.
Today, Mongolia still maintains cavalry units — not for warfare, of course, but to preserve the “cavalry tradition” of the Mongol empire and to serve as ceremonial honour guards during major festivals.
Despite modern transportation, there are still over four million horses in Mongolia, far exceeding its human population.
Mongolia’s wild horse herds
Mongolia is one of the very few countries where wild horse herds still exist. When a herd thunders across the steppe, it is a breathtaking, awe-inspiring sight.
When I was about ten years old, I once saw a wild herd of several hundred horses charging past, rumbling like thunder, the earth shaking beneath them. The horse I was riding trembled uncontrollably. It was nothing like the nonsense described in wuxia novels — no falcon-shooting hero charging into a herd of horses with a lasso to capture a handsome steed.
What I saw was everyone desperately whipping their own mounts and pissing themselves while fleeing in the opposite direction from the wild herd. So, those novelistic tales of capturing a steed that can “cover 1,000 li by day and 800 li by night” are simply ridiculous.
