Why Mongolia should be your next wellness escape

I scramble up the rocks as my guide, Nergui, silently beckons me forward. He’s motioning to something on a granite outcrop ahead. I squint and adjust my binoculars until it comes into view — a young cinereous vulture, with beady black eyes and a curved beak, is peeking over its nest. Overhead, a larger bird circles; below us, the vast, boulder-strewn moonscape stretches as far as the eye can see.

Mongolia’s Gobi Desert is a remote and seemingly inhospitable place. The vast sense of space and emptiness is all-encompassing, but, as Nergui is showing me, Ikh Nart Nature Reserve on the desert’s north edge is very much alive. Summer rainfall has stirred the landscape; bright green alliums carpet the ground and temporary ponds provide water for migratory birds and wildlife. We sit in silence, scanning the horizon for some of the desert’s native animals, such as ibex, big-horned argali sheep and gazelles. I’m pleased to learn that the wolves won’t be back until winter.

Six times the size of Britain but home to fewer than 3.5 million people, Mongolia is the least densely populated country in the world. Sandwiched between Russia and China, it’s an otherworldly mosaic of steppes, arid desert, valleys and forested mountains, where people have lived a largely nomadic, pastoral lifestyle for centuries. Perhaps it’s not the first place one might think of for a yoga sojourn — but that’s why I’m here, on a 10-day retreat with Reclaim Yourself, which combines authentic adventures with a twice-daily practice. Off-grid with a group of just 20 people, I’ll be learning about local life with various hosts and herders, and staying in two traditional ger (nomadic Mongolian yurt) camps, both dismantled each season to leave no trace.

Our journey begins in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia’s sprawling capital. As we drive from the airport, the vast, open landscapes gradually give way to a cityscape dominated by Soviet-style tower blocks and congested roads. Mongolia, under Communist rule for 70 years until 1990, still bears the imprint of that era in its stark architecture. Today, over a third of the population resides here and, with urban migration on the rise, the infrastructure is straining to keep up.

As I walk along the streets, I soon find myself warming to its softer edges; children cycle through fountains on Sukhbaatar square, teenagers skateboard in the park, groups of friends fill karaoke bars and diners tuck into meaty Korean barbecue. Shopping malls have whole floors dedicated to cashmere, the National Museum sweeps visitors from Neolithic times to the 21st century, and the Choijin Lama Temple Museum, in the centre of town, is one of the few monasteries saved from destruction during the Stalinist era.

Built by the Soviets in 1949, Ulaanbaatar train station is the largest in the country. It’s a square hulk of a building, with a plain facade and columned entrance; inside, chandeliers dangle in the waiting room and loud announcements boom over the speaker. We’re here to catch the Trans-Mongolian Express, which runs all the way to Beijing, on a seven-hour journey into the desert. When the train trundles onto the platform, an instructor in a neat uniform ushers us to our compartments, and it’s not long before we embark into the flat, emerald openness of the steppe.

I gaze out of the window as the hours slip by, the vast horizon broken only by the occasional white ger campsite. Free-roaming camels, along with herds of horses and sheep, dot the landscape, and a fiery sunset streaks the sky pink and orange. Near midnight, we step off into what feels like the middle of nowhere. Heavy rain has opened gulleys in the desert floor and our transfer by an old Russian bus becomes an adventure as we twist and turn across an unmarked landscape, trying to access our camp. Finally, we arrive under a black velvet sky, the stars hanging so low I feel I could reach up and pluck one. The silence is like nothing I’ve experienced before.

Into the wild

The following day, we wake to a cloudless blue morning and are introduced to our guide, Nergui, who manages the camp for Nomadic Journeys, a company that focuses on low-impact tourism and supporting conservation initiatives on the ground. He’s spent the last 16 summers out here in the Gobi Desert with his family, and his wife, Ouynzul, is head chef.

The camp is an idyllic arc of a dozen white ger, a central one used as our yoga shala (space), with classes, led by London-based Zephyr Wildman, bookending our days. We slow down, breathe and move through asana postures, with lessons fused with Buddhist teachings on being in the moment and the art of letting go. The movement and meditation complement the vast stillness of the landscape, and the lack of news and noise soon begins to seep into my body and soul.

This area, I discover, has long been a centre of Buddhism. Humans have been living here in the desert for thousands of years. On our daily guided walks with Nergui, the landscape reveals its secrets in stages. We pass ancient burial mounds and find a Bronze Age arrow tip and fragments of pottery hidden among bleached animal bones littering the ground.

One evening, as the clouds glow rose-gold, Nergui takes us to see petroglyphs on a rock close to the camp. A man with a spear, a camel and an ibex are all clearly visible. “It’s this rich history which fascinates me,” says Nergui. “Millions of years ago, this whole area was under the sea, yet traces of life from every era remain. Archaeologists uncover new discoveries every year.”

“About 30% of Mongolia’s population still live a nomadic lifestyle and, in this reserve, around 10 families continue to roam, moving with their animals throughout the year,” he continues. “It’s common to see camel herders passing by our camp, although there are fewer these days. Many people have moved to town or gone to work in the mines.”

The following evening, we delve deeper into the desert, passing surreal rock formations and gargantuan sand dunes before arriving at Elstei, a sacred Buddhist site. The name translates to ‘with sand’ due to the ribbons weaving between its towering rocks and it’s thought that monks once came here to meditate. The well-loved Buddhist mantra Om Mani Padme Hum, meaning ‘The jewel is in the lotus’, is etched into the wall. At my feet, a lizard skits across the ground, a fox disappears into a cave and a kestrel hangs in the air. Though no one lives here now, the desert feels more alive than ever.

The rocks form a natural amphitheatre, where we feast outdoors on homemade curry before climbing the higher peaks to take in sweeping sunset views. Gathering in a circle, we join in meditation to honour the elements, and later, sat around a fire under a star-studded sky, our hosts sing traditional Mongolian ballads celebrating family bonds and the power of Mother Nature. Flames leap and voices soar, guttural notes I don’t understand but that still seem to penetrate my soul.

To the river

Our next stop is a full day’s drive north, on the banks of the River Tuul in the Khan Khentii Strictly Protected Area. En route, it feels like the saturation has been turned up to full as we’re enveloped by the vivid blue and green-gold landscape. Though the scenery shifts, the vastness and absence of people remain constant. In some areas, it resembles a Mad Max film set, with mines and cement plants dotting the horizon, giving the landscape a dystopian feel.

Some 30 miles east of Ulaanbaatar on the riverbank, our journey is broken up with a pit stop at Tsonjin Boldog — a towering 40-metre stainless steel statue of the legendary warrior Genghis Khan on horseback. The world’s tallest equestrian statue, the site was unveiled in 2008 to mark the 800th anniversary of the founding of the Mongol Empire, which once spanned over nine million square miles. Today, visitors can climb up through the horse’s chest and neck to the head for far-reaching views of the surrounding countryside.

It’s not long before we’re back in our jeeps, off-roading across the plains and rolling hills. The swollen River Tuul has burst its banks, so we traverse flooded tracks into wildflower-covered valleys, speckled with flocks of sheep and goats. Our camp, Nomadic Journeys’ Jalman Meadows Wilderness, is an idyllic spot with gers set in pretty meadows with the River Tuul gushing by. A yak and cart transfer our luggage to our new homes.

It’s raining outside, but inside the ger a central log burner keeps us warm. These round white structures, insulated with felt, are integral to Mongolian life, packed up and transported on the backs of camels as nomads move from place to place. Inside it’s a riot of colours; wooden spokes and beds are intricately painted, with every design carrying a different meaning.

Each morning, we rise early to blankets of mist swirling magically in the valley, while days unfurl at an easy pace, punctuated by yoga, massage (a therapist travels with us offering treatments) and delicious meals. Chef Richie is from the UK but works with the Mongolian team to conjure up vegetarian feasts — unusual amid the meat-heavy local diet. Down by the river, we heat up in a sauna tent and before plunging into icy water, watched nonchalently by grazing yaks. The camp also offers kayaking and rafting, but the river is too full and fast during our stay, so we stick to the land. With 360-degree views from camp, we watch the weather roll in: walls of rain and lightning followed by sparkling sun and rainbows.

I quickly learn that the Khan Khentii Strictly Protected Area is a haven for hiking. There are no marked trails in this vast wilderness, but, with a guide, we walk through the lush, flower-filled grasslands and up into the woods. This transition zone from steppe to boreal forest is home to plentiful wildlife, from wolves to bears, and the air is fresh and sweet. The most important activity of all, however, is horse-riding.

“Of the five livestock animals native to Mongolia — camel, sheep, goats, cows and horse — the horse is king,” says Jagaa, a local herder, who’s taking us trekking. Dressed in a pale, traditional deel and long boots, he’s rounded up some of his semi-wild herd and we set off across the wildflower-speckled meadows. It’s an idyllic way to explore and all but complete novices can be catered for. Jagaa’s six-year-old son Jackar accompanies us, his little legs high on the saddle, but he rides with mastery, putting my posture to shame.

Horse-racing is also highly revered here; it’s one of the three ‘masculine sports’, alongside wrestling and archery, which feature in July’s Naadam festival, a focal point in the Mongolian calendar. While the biggest celebrations take place in Ulaanbaatar’s National Sports Stadium, festivities are held in villages across the country. Jagaa is happy that his horses, ridden by his brother, won several prizes in the local tournament this year.

I learn that Jagaa grew up on this land, as did his ancestors, moving camp several times a year with their animals. He sells meat and dairy products. Mare’s milk becomes kumis (traditional fermented alcohol), the sheep provide wool, and the goats cashmere. Nomadic life, he tells me, is getting harder. Climate change is affecting the grassland and severe winters, known as dzud (winter disasters) are becoming more frequent, killing many animals. There’s pressure, too, to become settled farmers and raise larger numbers of livestock. “It’s not an easy life and I’m not sure how it will continue,” he explains. “But living in a nomadic way in nature is a blessing.”

One evening, we’re invited to Jagaa’s family home located close to our camp. His 13-year-old daughter Maral welcomes us into the ger with salty, milky tea and hard cheese — more is hanging up to dry, pegged out on a washing line inside. Today’s nomads have TVs and mobile phones, and Maral is dressed in a yellow TikTok T-shirt. It feels like the collision of two worlds, where the past lives alongside the present. In the winter, she, like her siblings, stays in dorms at school in the local village, but, for the summer, she’s back to help.

They teach me that shamanism has long been Mongolia’s dominant religion and today Buddhism mixes easily with a type of nature worship. “We believe that everything has a spirit — there needs to be balance for nature to be happy,” explains Jagaa. “I’m worried about how the spirits of the land will cope with the changes.”

That evening, in my yoga session, I find myself contemplating what a privilege it is to be in such a wild place; to be welcomed by these gentle people and to witness this precious, pastoral lifestyle. As the wind plays havoc with the ger door and a cricket joins in as we chant, I realise how easy it is to forget the rest of the world here, to sink into the simple rhythms of nature, away from screens. I’m certainly in no hurry to return home.