Smoke billowed out of the vents above the luggage rack as we flew at a mere 10,000 feet towards the Great Wall of China. My fellow tourists and I, who the day before had flown into Beijing from Hong Kong, felt uneasy. But the local passengers, some holding live chickens in baskets, were not perturbed.

It soon became clear why. A cabinful of smoke is the norm on flights from Beijing to Hohhot, the capital of China’s Autonomous Region of Inner Mongolia. The plane, a propellered Russian-built Antonov, was bought from the old USSR in the days of Sino-Soviet friendship. Its system of ventilation involved opening vents to let in the clouds. This was real air-conditioning, not the re-cycled fetid air you breathe on most of the world’s aircraft.

Once relaxed to the idea that this was a commercial plane with the windows open you could start to admire the view. From the air, the Great Wall of China appeared tiny, but endless as it snaked over mountains as far as the eye could see.

The distance from Beijing to the Steppe lands of Inner Mongolia is less than 250 miles, or four hours flying time in the far from supersonic Antonov. Yet the view, of the Wall, the mountains and a limitless sea of grass beyond them, showed the immense psychological distance separating China’s capital from its northern outer reaches.

The Wall was built as a protective barrier against Mongolian “barbarians” whose nomadic existence and ability as horsemen made them a threat to the “civilised” Han Chinese in the south.

The conquests of Genghis Khan and Kublai Khan — immortalised by the writings of Marco Polo who stayed in his court for 17 years — struck terror into the Chinese. So much so that the name Genghis Khan, like Atilla the Hun, is synonymous with power and pillage.

As the Antonov began its descent over the brown grasslands surrounding the city of Hohhot, on the edge of the Gobi Desert it was strange to think that for the next week we would be living among the descendants of these holy terrors. But Hohhot was just the first stage of the journey north.

After cups of Chinese tea in the doilyed armchairs of the tiny airport lounge we were in the air again for a bumpy ride to the heart of the Great Steppe, the true home of the descendants of Genghis Khan.

Below, on the vast expanse of grass, you could make out clusters of tiny white dots. They were our first glimpse of yurts, the traditional Mongolian tents that would be our home for the next few days. As the Antonov taxied for landing it was a shock to see there was no runway, only a windsock and a small brick building. This was the airport for Xilinhot — literally “grassland city” — a sprawling town of 60,000 people.

There was a fine dust in the air, thrown up by the Antonov’s propellers and wheels. The afternoon sun in July is very hot and it’s difficult to imagine that for nearly nine months of the year temperatures here are below zero. This accounts for the high mud-covered brick walls that insulate the buildings we passed on the way into town from bitter winter temperatures of 30 degrees below.

Apart from our tourist mini-bus there was little motor traffic in Xilinhot, only bicycles and Mongolian ponies either ridden or lashed to three and four wheeled carts. Ponies are tethered to poles outside houses and stores in true Wild West style. Like in the old cowboy films this is a frontier town on the edge of a vast wilderness.

Our bus took us out of the city and along a dusty track for an hour. Then we were on the grassland itself. There were no roads or landmarks of any kind on this treeless extension of the Gobi Desert but our Mongolian driver knew his way by instinct. Every so often we passed herds of sheep, camels and horses until we eventually arrived at a corral of yurts.

Outside was a welcoming party, a nomadic family dressed in colourful robes and high riding boots. They showed us into a ceremonial yurt with oriental rugs on the floor and low tables of black-lacquered wood on which there were bowls of camel meat, mutton, goat’s cheese and pink Mongolian tea. After much bowing and expressions of international friendship we ate.

The outer skin of the yurt is made from the wool of Mongolian sheep and is lashed down with horse and camel hair rope. The structure is supported by large wooden poles, like the frame of an umbrella, with an opening in the top. At the centre of the yurt is a fireplace, empty in the July heat. As the banquet continued into the night, enlivened by rice wine and Mongolian songs, the lines of the yurt become hazy.

“We Mongolians have survived centuries in this bleak landscape,” said our host, with the vehemence of Kublai Khan after a bad night.
“The steppe is the Mongolian people’s natural defence against Han domination.”
It’s clear, as the interpreter explained, that people in the grasslands feel strongly about their Mongolian identity and attempts by the Han Chinese over the years to subvert it. They are deeply suspicious of the government in Beijing.

As he explained, the Han Chinese form the majority of the southern part of Inner Mongolia, their population doubling over the past 40 years. Political leadership in the region lies with the Han and the only reason they don’t dominate the grasslands, according to our host, is that they can’t stand the climate.

Nevertheless, in recent years Beijing has sought to win over Mongolian loyalty to the People’s Republic of China, partly to secure a stable border region against Russian incursions. There’s now far greater Mongolian participation in local government, while the Mongolian language and culture are promoted in schools.

As we staggered out of the ceremonial yurt the moon was high above the Great Steppe. Our sleeping quarters were in a row of separate yurts, with horses chomping on the grass in the moonlight. The yurt was hot and stuffy and it was difficult to sleep in the absolute silence of the steppe, especially when the occasional beetle emerged from the felt-covered floor to crawl on us.

Sleep eventually came and over the next few nights we became accustomed to the heat and the rhythms of the Steppe. The days were spent visiting grassland communes, seeing how barefoot doctors applied herbal medicines, watching Mongolian horsemen corral their horses cowboy-style, and taking trips into Xilinhot.

In Xilinhot there were reminders that the Great Silk Road once touched Inner Mongolia. We were shown ancient Buddhist texts, covered in silk, that were once carried along the road traversed by Marco Polo. But years of Communist rule has eradicated the spiritual dimension of Mongolia, symbolised by an ancient Buddhist monastery we visited that had been used as a grain store for 50 years.

We saw the superb horsemanship out on the grasslands, but now in the town we watched a special display by crack Mongolian riders in the local stadium.
Making full use of the stirrup — that great invention which enabled Mongolian horsemen to become formidable warriors — they jumped their horses through flaming hoops, leapt on and off at speed and rode back to front and upside down.

Like the great hill we had been shown on the grassland which was supposed to mark the spot from where Genghis Khan led his troops in the conquest of Asia, their display was a reminder of the intimate equine-human relationship that enabled these people to transcend thier harsh environment and win a unique place in history.