Cover I came to Ulaanbaatar, part in search of self-discovery, part in fear of winter’s bite
I came to Ulaanbaatar, part in search of self-discovery, part in fear of winter’s bite
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Ulaanbaatar in the depths of winter. Snow falls endlessly, cloaking the landscape in a blanket of white so vast, it blurs the boundary between sky and earth.
Figures just metres apart appear only as fleeting shadows. Wind whistles through rocky crevices, a mournful sound echoing through the stillness. The rare sun casts its glow briefly before retreating again. I came here, hoping to find something within myself, yet hesitant to face the unforgiving cold.
This winter has felt the longest, and certainly the coldest, I can remember. As the car pulled away from the airport, the road to the city centre looked like a faint pencil stroke on blank paper. An endless snow-covered desert. I was reminded of Mark Rothko’s Untitled, which I once admired at the Guggenheim. Muted grey and white layers blurring into one another, hinting at the fragile lines between existence and oblivion. That same quiet abstraction seemed to envelop this land. The endless whiteness felt both beautiful and melancholic.
My travel companion from Amsterdam sat silently by the window, gazing into the distance. Her eyes were red, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from the parting she endured only hours before boarding the flight. Nomin, a dear friend from Paris with knee-length black hair, now in town for a solo exhibition, took the wheel without a word. The three of us drove through snow-draped streets where even road markings disappeared into white. The wind outside breathed like a whisper.
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We piled on layers of thick clothing, yet the chill still found its way in. Locals warned us with quiet insistence: “The winter here is very cold, the winter here is very cold,” their words underscored with genuine concern. They pointed us towards a local market selling thermal coats, snow boots, gloves and scarves spun from Mongolian cashmere, a soft, whisper-light wool that warmed us as if fire danced through every thread.
Above Outside, snow continued to fall, and the wind wasted no time in wrapping itself around us
Outside, snow continued to fall, and the wind wasted no time in wrapping itself around us
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That evening, Nomin took us to the Fat Cat Jazz Club, not far from our hotel at the Shangri-La. Enji’s voice drifted across the smoky room like wind sweeping the winter plains—now distant, now intimate. A few glasses of sharp, spicy negroni took the edge off the cold. Outside, snow continued to fall, and the wind wasted no time in wrapping itself around us. My friend lobbed a snowball at me. We burst into laughter, suddenly carefree, like children again. A fleeting moment, but enough to pierce through the numbness of reality.
The next day, we headed south towards the fringes of the Gobi Desert. We stopped at a remote camp, with a heated cabin and a few solitary gers pitched against the snow. Desert met snow, indistinguishable in their embrace. Wild horses moved slowly through the drifts, their instincts guiding them back to the forest, heads bowed against the wind. Now and then, a car traced a line along a deserted highway in the distance, its red taillights blinking once before vanishing into silence. There was no clear edge where the snowy desert met the sky.
Above The nomadic way of life made everything light and practical: crafted to be carried, just like life on the steppes
Above The nomadic way of life made everything light and practical: crafted to be carried, just like life on the steppes
The nomadic way of life made everything light and practical: crafted to be carried, just like life on the steppes
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That night, I lay alone in a tent, simple in design but deeply infused with Mongolian spirit. Thick woollen rugs blanketed the floor, colourful cotton quilts were neatly folded at the end of the low wooden bed. A small table stood at the centre, flanked by chairs draped in dense wool, lending a sense of warmth to the frozen air. The nomadic way of life made everything light and practical: crafted to be carried, just like life on the steppes.
Every two hours, I rose to add more coal, fearful the fire would die and the night wind would slip in like an unwelcome guest. The quiet crackle of burning coal offered a kind of comfort, keeping me company until dawn.
Above A few nomads gathered to light a bonfire beneath the moonlight
Above Sparks danced off the bonfire, their glow mirrored in the snow
A few nomads gathered to light a bonfire beneath the moonlight
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On Christmas Eve, a few nomads gathered to light a bonfire beneath the moonlight, offering prayers for a gentler winter. They spoke of the legend of the “four directions” and “Father Winter” where gods guard the corners of the world to keep chaos at bay. Winter, they said, is like the strictest of fathers: demanding, yet the one who grants the strength to endure. For them, the bitter cold is a trial that tests resolve and, if conquered, reveals a quiet resilience that lives within.
I sipped milk tea poured from an old metal pot that clattered gently on the charcoal stove. It was just salt, butter and milk—nothing more, but the briny warmth met the tip of my tongue, a faintly fishy aroma rising, before the richness slipped down my throat, chasing away the cold from my fingertips. A pack of puppies played in the snow, circling my feet. Were they seeking warmth, or simply curious about the stranger in their midst?
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Sparks danced off the bonfire, their glow mirrored in the snow and in the eyes of Nomin and her friend from Amsterdam—flickering gently, as though wavering between two worlds. Above, the sky was cloudless, an expanse of endless cold. The fire blazed, illuminating a single corner. Her friend’s face came into view, huddled, lips parting with clouds of breath, her head bowed quietly in prayer. She asked the winter to soften, for her sorrow to lift. The sight brought to mind a line from Vi Thuy Linh’s poem From the Day the Sun Sets:
“I silently came to your house again
Pick up the corpse of sadness and burn it into fire
Then go
Behind you the sun sets.”
Above The wind whistled, carrying with it the acrid scent of coal smoke
The wind whistled, carrying with it the acrid scent of coal smoke
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The wind whistled, carrying with it the acrid scent of coal smoke. If only sorrow could burn away so easily, reduced to ash, drifting into the sky, vanishing into the desert night.
As the New Year drew near, we returned to Ulaanbaatar. The city lay grey beneath a film of coal dust, the sky heavy with haze. Snow, hardened and salted, crunched beneath our feet. We tried skating in front of the square where Genghis Khan’s statue loomed, then wandered through a maze carved from ice: transparent walls looping endlessly. It felt like trying to escape something, or perhaps to find something we hadn’t yet named. At the supermarket, lines stretched for hours as people waited to buy cakes for the New Year.
On New Year’s Eve, the cold was biting, but fireworks still burst bright against the muted sky, scattering colour across the grey. From our rented room overlooking the square, advertising lights streamed through the window, casting a kaleidoscope across our faces as we shared a quiet meal. My friend rested her chin in her hand, eyes fixed on the flickering candle. Still a little lost in her thoughts. Nomin, perhaps already dreaming up ideas for her next exhibition, seemed filled with a quiet hope. As for me, I simply sat in stillness, marking the moment the old year slipped quietly away.
Above The city lay grey beneath a film of coal dust, the sky heavy with haze
Above Snow, hardened and salted, crunched beneath our feet
The city lay grey beneath a film of coal dust, the sky heavy with haze
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On New Year’s Day, minus 30 degrees, we climbed the mountain near the city.
Ulaanbaatar lay beneath a fine veil of fog, the early light pale but tender. On the slopes, children laughed loudly as they skidded down the snow-packed hills on bright, cheerful skis. Some tumbled, snow spraying around them, only to rise again, giggling, racing back up to slide once more. Watching them, I realised that even in the coldest corners of the world, people still find a way to greet the new year with unfiltered joy and quiet hope. As we wandered down the mountain path, Nomin turned to me. Her eyes were calm, but a small smile played at the corners of her lips:
“Will you come back? In the summer, it will be different. The grasslands will be paradise.”
Above We are always tracing a silent path back to “home,” a place where the soul is steady, no matter what wind or snow may come
Above We are always tracing a silent path back to “home,” a place where the soul is steady, no matter what wind or snow may come
We are always tracing a silent path back to “home,” a place where the soul is steady, no matter what wind or snow may come
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What awaits my friend beyond this journey in Ulaanbaatar, I cannot say. Whether she will forget her former love, I do not know. But what I do believe is this: we have felt every moment fully, from the light snowstorms brushing the Gobi, to Ulaanbaatar wrapped in coal-grey dust; from a silent Christmas Eve spent beside a fire beneath the moon, to New Year’s Eve aglow with brilliant fireworks. And while we may have left certain things behind, we also found something: freedom, delicate and fleeting, yet warm enough to carry us through the year ahead.
Perhaps it is in those quiet, desolate hours that we come to understand: we are always tracing a silent path back to “home,” a place where the soul is steady, no matter what wind or snow may come.
May you always find warmth wherever life takes you. And may each day, in passing, quietly become a beautiful memory.
Article adapted from the original feature in Tatler Vietnam, January 2025 issue
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