The Hungarians migrated thru Asia and Eastern Europe and finally arrived to the Carpathian Basin where they were able to settle. Hungary was established as a Christian kingdom under Stephen I of Hungary, who was crowned in December 1000 AD.

After that we had more kings. The country was invaded by the Turkish for 150 years (14 hundreds to the 15 hundreds) and then by the Habsburgs for another few century.

After the I. World War because of a wrong step Hungary lost 60% of it's land.

Then during the II. World War another bad luck and the Russian just as 500 years ago the Turkish invaded the country for 40 years.

The Hugarians are famous of their fights for the freedom. Lots of people lost their lives in these battles so Hungary has many heroes.

You might say Hungary is a small country, but there is a lot of Hungarians who had famous inventions for the world.

The Nomadic Lifestyle:

Out of the two point seven million people living in Mongolia forty seven percent of them continue to live a nomadic life style. This means they live in circular tents made of canvas and wood called ger's or yurts that they move according to the season. They live off the land by raising sheep, goats, camels and horses. These Mongolian's are continuing a national tradition that has lasted twelve centuries.

So when you go on a horse back riding trek in Mongolia you are not only enjoying a picturesque and unique vacation but you are also journeying into the past. On the step it is unusual to see a car. One day when a plane flew over our camp we all came rushing out of our tents to find out what that strange and incredibly loud noise was. The air and land are uncorrupted by human influence. Riding horses is the main form of transportation.

The Horses:

The horses are the size of large pony's. They come in every color including brown, black, white, grey and red. Some of their manes are long, some are cut very short, some are partly cut short and partly left long. Their tails reach down to the ground. They all have a black line that runs from the base of their manes to their tail. The horses have powerful back haunches and steady feet. They are clearly not bred for their heads which are big and undefined.

They are a perfect combination of the kind of horse who sticks his nose in the next horses tail and a horse who does not. They like to ride close to each other, very close, as in touching each other. Often we would all be riding pressed up against each other. It felt like we were riding in a pack of wild horses. However, the horses are far from wild. They follow any command without hesitation. But if you don't feel like giving any commands they will just follow the herd, no questions asked.

Horses in Mongolia are allowed to wander free when not being used. They travel in packs with a single stallion leader. Often they roam alone over the Steppes for months before their owners come to collect them. While riding we saw groups of horses traveling together in this natural state. One day we saw a young boy, no older than twelve, collect a herd of around fifty horses from a lake. He pushed the horse into a canter by rushing them with his horse. As the horses ran they looked wild. Biting and kicking at each other, neighing and snorting. We galloped with them for a ways, the smell of freshly turned earth mixed with the musk of horse all around us. The Mongolian horse knows how to run. They have incredible seemingly never ending stamina. We galloped for long periods of time over rough terrain and the horses never showed fatigue. They knew the landscape as well as our guides. Picking up the pace when camp was near or a watering hole was around the next bend. They also avoided the many holes in the ground created by Marmite's and ground squirrel's burrows. Often, at a full gallop, my horse would jump a hole or swerve sharply around one that I never saw. However, the horses hooves would sometimes break through the soft ground into one of the burrows. There would be a brief moment when I was looking straight at the ground thinking, well this is it, it's all over, goodbye face, and then the horse would recover and continue to gallop at full speed, barley missing a beat, which is more than I can say for my heart.

The People:

Everyday two wranglers along with our English speaking guide lead the group of westerners (three americans, three Swedes, two Greeks and a Frenchmen). While two more wranglers and our two chef's went a shorter way with the Camel Carts loaded with our luggage, tents, food and a ger. Our guides used traditional Mongolian saddles, which are small, made of wood and leather with a high front and back. They wear their stirrups very short because when traveling at any faster than a walk they stand. Our wranglers were incredible horsemen. It was clear that they had been riding for as long as they had been walking.

The nine westerners on the tour used Russian military saddles, which are pretty much english without the padding. In fact my saddle was old and buckled in the center. By half way through the trip everyone was trying to figure out a way to pad their saddle. No one did.

After our ride each day we would arrive to a fully set up camp. The wranglers and cooks who had gone with the Camels built their ger and our tents. Tea and cookies would be served a half hour after arrival. We were all starving from the days ride and the cookies (everyone got two and no more) would go fast. Then we would sit and enjoy Lipton black tea with powdered milk until dinner.

Dinner was a four course meal. Salad, always cabbage with a mayonaise dressing, a soup, you never knew what was coming and often not even after it had left, a main course, some sort of meat and rice dish, then dessert, canned fruit and whip cream. After dinner we would fight to stay awake until at least nine thirty. One night we played a very competitive game of Old Maid. Another we drank Mongolian vodka and Fanta in the Greeks tent. Two nights I passed out right after dinner, unable to keep my eyes open because of the thirteen hour time difference and vigrouse ride. The sky, on clear nights, looked like the planetarium.

The Climate:

"It is sunny two hundred and sixty day of the year, you know." Our fellow traveller, Fredrick, would tell us every morning. "This must just not be one of them, eh." In our eight days of riding we saw one day of perfect blue sky. One day we rode through a freezing rain storm. The other six days were somewhere in-between, ranging from ninety degrees in the flat deserts to seventy five in the mountains. At night it was always cold and damp, with the sound of horses munching grass and snorting.

The Massive Gobbi:

We rode for around five hours every day. This included many gallops, some lasting as long as thirty minutes. We saw softly rolling hills covered in green and gold grasses with pale blue Sharply peaked mountains in the distance. We walked through a pass where red, sand colored boulders were piled up on either side of us blocking out the sun. We cantered passed giant sinewy mountains that rose out of perfect pasture land. We saw thick green grass that lead up to salt ponds with sand dunes in the distance. A lake where ducks, black silhouettes against the bright morning sun, covered the silver surface while horses waded in the shallows. Miles of perfectly flat land covered in dark green desert scrub. On the map, we saw less than my pinky nail of the Gobbi.

The End:

At the end of our trip, filthy, exhausted and worn out, the nine of us bumped along in a bus with big wheels over a dirt road taking us out of the Gobbi. We all had funny sun burns, sore bodies and an undeniable wish to return as soon as possible.

"I think he's drunk." Roxana leaned across her horse to tell me as our wranger weaved behind us.
"Really?" I asked, than turning around I watched the man, dressed in a traditional deel, smile broadly at me and tilt to the left. "Oh yeah."
"I think he's a little touched." Roxana continued. He stared at us unabashidly like we were the most difficult magic eye poster he'd ever come across.
"I can't believe they sent us out with a drunk." I said, starting to get angry.
"I think Bagi (our head guide) is drunk too. Did you see his nose when we left that ger." I remebered that as we climbed through the short door back into the sunlight Bagi had stumbled slightly and his nose and cheeks glowed pink with milk vodka. We'd told him we wanted to keep riding and he'd agreed waving over our drunk guide to lead us up into a nearby valley. It was a gorgeous spot, the place were two sloping, green hillsides ended. The sun was low to the west, casting a golden light over the valley where a herd of Yaks grazed peacefully, swishing their long tails from side to side.
"I think your right, he's drunk."
"This is unacceptable." The wrangler was now riding next to us whispering in Mongolia and pressing his horse against mine while concentrating on staring at my ass. I stared straight ahead not sure what to do.
"Chu." He called, the Mogolian word for go that all horses respond to by going. Roxana and I felt our mounts jumped into a trot, we pulled them back and said:
"No." He smiled at us.
"Chu!"
"No." They jolted again but we held them. The wrangler's red face drooped into a frown than broke into a grin as he yelled:
"Chu!" and smacked my horse's ass with his long lead line. He bolted forward and it took all my strenth to stop him.
"No, No, No!" He laughed.
"No, no, no." He imitated me.
"This is not funny." Roxana said.
"This is terrible."
"He's totally wasted." As if he understood us the man cupped his hands and imitated himself downing bowls of milk vodka, a local moonshine distilled from mare's milk. We nodded.
"Yes, we know your drunk." He giggled and tilted right. A few tense moments passed in silence and than he tried to until Roxana's lead rein from her saddle. She had to slap his hand. He smiled.
"I'm going to kill Bagi, how dare he send us out on unknown horses in an unknown landscape with a total drunken weirdo." And so our trip began. Later, that night we forgave Bagi when we realized that everyone in Mongolia was drunk. It was the 800th anniversery of the great Mongolian State. The State that had stretched furthest across the earth surface. The state that gave us the postal system, freedom of religion, the market economy. So on this auspicious day the desendents of the rulers of the world got totally blasted. Bagi made a toast to the group of nine American's he was leading through the Arhanghai province for the next seven days. "This is very special." He told us. "I love you all." Than our head wrangler, a white haired man named Teya, sang a haunting song that filled the small dining space, echoing off the walls, reveberating hundred of years of pride.

The next morning Bagi was deathly hungover. "I'm going to die." He told us while sitting on his horse, hunched into his deel, looking like he might puke. We set out late, Bagi, leading us down a dirt road parrelle to towering power lines. We had three wranglers with us, Teya, the man who had sung to us all the night before, Bolt, a twentyone year old who had stayed somewhat somber and now scanned his surrondings, making sure that everyone was safe and their horses under control, and Gana, Bolt's younger brother, no more than seventeen years old. A beautiful youth, with a large and friendly smile.

The nine guests were all American's. Debra, a school teacher who worked with special needs kids in the worst part of Brooklyn, she was the type of woman who felt everything really deeply. On the bus ride from Ulaanbaator we'd stopped for lunch and seen a hoof attached to a bone with shreds of fur and skin still holding onto it. "Is that horse?" she'd asked. Than finding out that it was she wailed, "That is so sad! God that's sad," holding her hand over her heart, her eyes welling with tears. Debra was riding a white and tan spotted mare, who was old, slow and heavy.

Brian, who was living in Japan teaching English, was on a red horse who liked to run. He wore a traditional Mongolian deel, a cowboy hat, army boots and smoked a pipe. Brian had been in the army years ago but he still wore his dog tags around his neck along with a cross engraved with "Lord" and "Savior." He sat on his horse like he knew what he was doing, even though he didn't.

Derek wasn't actually American, he was born in China, raised in Singapore and now lived in Toronto. He was in the Canadian army and arranged travel security for important people. He, like Brian, wore a cowboy hat but instead of a deel he had on proper english jopers, half chaps and good riding boots. Derek was quite. He had a very nice camera with him and he rode well for someone with only a years worth of experience. When I asked him why he'd taken up riding, committing himself to two lessons a week he said "no reason." I pushed him but he refused to admit that there was any reason at all that he had decided to start riding. He just had.

Sherry, Sherry I will never forget. She arrived late to the trip having come from Iraq where she worked for Haliburton. The first thing she said was hello, the second was, "It's against my faith," when offered a shot of Vodka by a totally wasted Bagi. He insisted she take it and toast with him to the 800th anniversery of the Great Mongolia State. She did, but under duress. Sherry rode a black and white horse who was very pretty and round. She smoked constantly and smiled strangly whenever you asked her anything.

Jennifer, who was travelling with her nine year old son Morgan, was the most travelled person I've ever met. She'd lived in Venzula for ten year, Argentina the two years before that. She'd gone to some isolated islands off the coast of Panama to meet some natives who still used hollowed out boats to fish and had come to Mongolia straight from Tibet via China. She was casual, fun, easy to get along with and wore heavy eye make up. Her horse was thin, slow, and steady.

Morgan rode the oldest horse, his neck was long, his back sloped. Morgan said "chu" constantly which had no effect on his horse but caused the ones around him to break into a trot. Bolt held a lead shank attached to Morgan's horse.