As non-drinkers, we were relieved to learn that when offered an alcoholic beverage such as vodka or airag (fermented horse milk), we could avoid offending anyone by simply touching our lips to the mug before returning it. The key seemed to be more the act of acceptance rather than the consumption of the drink. This was a much easier challenge to avoid than those faced by the vegetarians in our group.
Baagii informed us that the most important custom to remember was that an empty bowl meant you were still hungry, and that simply covering the bowl with your hand signified that no refills were needed. Of course, we learned this the hard way. We’d been representing ourselves according to Canadian manners, and we’d choke down every last bite only to be shocked when our bowls were then refilled immediately. I would’ve been ever so appreciative had Baagii mentioned this little tradition sooner and saved me the trouble of consuming all those extra chunks of white, gristly lard.
Baagii also explained how important it was to symbolically support the right hand with the left when offering or accepting anything. Accepting food with the left hand was a big no-no.
“I can only imagine why,” Ammon said suggestively.
“What do you mean? Why?” I asked, falling into his trap.
“Have you seen a toilet?” he asked.
“I guess, if you could call them that,” I began, wondering how the two were connected.
“How ’bout TP?”
“Oh NO! They don’t really!” I choked.
“Yep,” he smirked, pleased by the expression on my face when I realized the duties of the left hand. When accepting my soup bowl from our local hostess, I tried but failed to not look at her left hand supporting the right arm. I rustled up a smile and held out my right hand to receive it.
I could all too easily imagine that my dinner had only that morning roamed free in his flock. His brothers and sisters were still out there with their fat, bulging tails which floated up and down like a school of jellyfish whenever they ran. I found it really disgusting when bits of tail lard bobbed up and down in my soup like buoys in the salty liquid, but hunger was hunger, and I actually enjoyed the soup’s bits of neck meat. I couldn’t help but marvel over the swift transformation from living creature to food as I scooped the last piece of it onto my spoon.
Chapter 33: Mongol Ferrari
“A Mongol without a horse is like a bird without the wings,” Baagii said softly and directly into the ears of the black stallion. “A traditional saying,” he explained as he stroked the horse’s nose before leisurely climbing on. We’d woken to see horses outside our ger munching away on the short, tough grass. Their hides twitched and their tails flicked the few flies away.
This was one of Tom’s first real horse rides. I smiled upon hearing him talking about horses he’d ridden in circles at fairs. Noortje and Sarah had both passed on riding with us, and I admired Tom’s spunk. Baagii noticed Tom’s hesitation as he awkwardly stepped closer to his designated horse and asked if he was scared.
“Not so much scared,” he explained as he timidly petted the creature, “but worried that I’m going to make a total ass of myself!” I’d be worried, too, with all these six year olds riding around like pros. Mongolians must learn to ride before they can walk, and it’s obvious that they really love their horses, I thought, thinking back on twenty-odd mounted kids between the ages of six and ten we’d seen practising for the Nadaam Festival. We’d found ourselves driving in the midst of them as they raced across a vast plain like warriors off to battle decorated with multicoloured ribbons braided into their hair. They’d woven their tiny hands into their horse’s manes as they rode bareback, fitting snugly into the base of their mounts’ moist necks. The sight of the galloping animals’ strong, rippling muscles was, for me, a highlight of the two week excursion.
As I watched this fully grown man, Tom, trying to decide where the reins belonged and how his feet should fit in the stirrups, I was grateful that I would not be the most inexperienced rider today. I had learned to be comfortable in a saddle during the frequent horseback riding excursions our family had run for the ESL students. I was, however, a bit worried about our lack of a guide, but I knew better than to think about that. Our horseback riding tours of Canada’s vast meadows and forests had also taught me that horses always use their innate sense of direction to find their way home.
On family vacations, we’d go to the Flying U, one of the biggest ranches in B.C. This was the one vacation Dad always skipped, owing to his general fear of horses. I could still hear his defensive explanation. “I’m not afraid of horses! I just don’t like them, especially when they’re hell-bent on running at full speed into the lowest hanging branch of the only tree in an open field. I like riding but unfortunately, you need a horse to do it.” Dad claimed he had enough negative experiences as a child on horseback to write a novel and reveal horses’ secret agenda to the world. Although I did feel a certain healthy degree of caution around horses, I couldn’t agree with him.
The stiff, wooden saddles had no padding, and they were placed high up on the shoulder blades. Mongolian horses are very small and stocky, but I quickly learned not to judge a book by its cover. Initially, I had even been hesitant to sit on one for fear of breaking what appeared to be a fragile back. I could hardly stand to watch Ammon, envisioning that once mounted, his toes would come within inches of skimming the ground.
I felt the beast’s power beneath me as I swayed side to side with its movement. His rich and distinctive reddish-orange coat made him a real beauty. Leaning forward I patted his soft neck, instinctively smelling my hand afterwards. I liked its wholesome and grainy, hay-like smell. We were meant for each other, you and me, even though I started out prejudging you, just like all those people at home who told us we wouldn’t last out here. I was already well into my second month on the road, and I now knew we would not only survive, but thrive.
“He’s so toned. He’s the hottest cowboy I ever saw – EVER!” I heard Bree rhapsodizing about Baagii as she rode up beside me. Halfway through the day, he had conveniently taken off his shirt and exposed the beads of sweat crawling down his back. He literally glistened in the sun and melted my poor sister’s heart. You could sense that his skin was as soft as rose petals. She trotted off to get closer to him, and my horse followed instinctively.
“He looks like a little boy,” I said. “He doesn’t even have a single strand of hair on his chest.”
“I know!!” Bree said, practically falling off her horse and landing in the puddle of drool she’d made. “That’s the best part about it! And he doesn’t have even ONE zit.”
“Oh, brother! I bet he doesn’t even have armpit hair,” I said.
“Good! That’s gross, anyway!” she said, looking over at me disgustedly.
“No, that is the best part!” I said, before kicking my heels into the horse’s sides and taking off. Bree shouted happily and laughed as we both broke from a walk into a canter and rode side by side.
I couldn’t believe these creatures’ speed and strength! Any Canadian horse would’ve been foaming at the mouth if pushed this hard, but this guy hardly even broke a sweat. Just when I thought he had hit his max, we’d shift into yet a faster gear and cut through the land like a heat-seeking rocket.
Looking skyward with my arms outstretched, I inhaled deeply and filled my lungs with the freshest of air. I didn’t exhale for as long as possible, wanting to fill myself with the moment and never let it go. Even if I gave my siblings a three-second head start, I’d still catch up to and then fly past them! Despite its small size, I’d never before been on such a high-spirited speed demon.
Once again, history was coming to life, this time with the wind gripping my hair. Suddenly I felt like I could’ve been part of Genghis Khan’s Mongolian Horde, shaking the earth as it stampeded across Asia on horseback in the thirteenth century. It didn’t surprise me that the Mongols ventured so far west if their horses were anything like these. The captivating splurge of blue sky above came righ
t down to the tips of the earth, meeting the green of the rolling grasslands. The Mongols timeless adventures had led them all the way to Turkey and beyond, where they forged an empire of unforgettable strength and changed history forever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After a good hard run, Bree finally slowed to a walk beside me.
“What is wrong with you?! Didn’t you hear me yelling at you to stop? You’re such a jerk, Bree,” I barked.
“What? Why?! That was awesome!”
“I was trying to stop the horse and then you came flying up past me, so of course, mine took off after yours.”
“Well soooorry! Hrmph!”
“I just wanted to fix this killer wedgy! Seriously! It’s the worst I’ve ever had!” I said, reaching down and dislodging what felt like two metres of fabric from between my cheeks.
“Wow! This is gorgeous,” I heard Mom gasp as she looked out over Lake Khovsgol.
“Mom, what’s the matter with you? Didn’t you hear Savannah has a wedgy!?” Bree teased.
“Shut up! I’m never telling you anything anymore.”
Ignoring our squabbling, Baagii told us more about the beautiful lake. “This lake holds seventy percent of Mongolia’s fresh water. That’s half a percent of the entire world’s fresh water.” I wonder what percentage of this underwear is still in one piece? “It’s so clean the people drink straight out of it. No treatment needed.” Maybe not, but I’ll need treatment once I see what kind of damage this wooden saddle did. Bree will be picking the slivers out later!
Once that issue was finally settled, I took a look and agreed wholeheartedly with Mom. The lake was stunningly clear, so clear that the shape and colour of every individual pebble was visible. It invited us for a much needed dip, though I felt guilty about dirtying such pure, clean water.
“It’s so beautiful! It sure would be nice to live here,” Mom said.
“But you’d definitely need a horse. How much would it cost to buy one?” Bree asked.
“At least two hundred thousand togrog,” Baagii answered.
“About two hundred bucks, then.” Ammon quickly calculated.
“I’d buy mine! I bet he’d compete in the big festival,” I boasted as we trotted along. “In fact, we should race him in it ourselves!”
“How much longer are you staying in Mongolia? Will you still be here for the Nadaam Festival?” Baagii asked.
“Yah, for sure! That was one of the main reasons we came. We’ll be here another week after that because we’re planning to go on another tour to the Gobi Desert. But it’s so expensive,” Ammon said, though I knew we were only paying twenty-two dollars a person per day for everything.
“Especially with four people,” Mom threw in.
“Yah. The hotel, they charge a lot for commission and have to pay everyone. That is true,” Baagii agreed, unfastening his saddle bag and taking a swig of warm water.
“I just wish there was another way to see the country, but it seems like it’s nearly impossible without a public transport system,” Ammon said, eyeing the emptiness around us.
“Yes, that is also true, but it is not impossible to get around, really. You just have to know where you want to go. And I know where you want to go.”
Ammon paused to analyze this remark before asking, “What are you suggesting?”
“Well, I know the sights, the area, and what to do. So maybe,” he stopped to think as he offered the water to Bree, “I have a friend who has a car, maybe we just bypass the hotel commission, then you don’t pay for a whole tour price. We go, you know, kind of, like, as friends,” he said, and I caught the way he subtly glanced at Bree.
“Really, you think you know someone? Well, of course we would pay for fuel and his expenses,” Mom said.
“Yah, he has a van and can speak English too. He’s a really cool guy! And then I can come. Would be fun. I have to see if I have time off my other job, my radio job. I can translate for you, but only as a friend, no money. When we get back I ask my friend. Don’t reserve anything with the company until I talk to him. And, you know, my boss, he can’t know.”
“Of course. We will just wait for you,” Ammon said, with a reassuring smile.
“But you’re coming to the festival too, aren’t you?” Bree asked anxiously. He smiled his charming smile at her and winked before he purposely made his aviators fall from his thick hairline to cover his eyes. Tom had already stopped up ahead, unsaddling for a lunch break on a hill overlooking the gorgeous, multi-coloured lake. The edges of the waters were so green it almost glowed, and rings of all shades of blue faded into the centre.
Directing the horses with a slight, confident squeeze of the thighs, we sped up to meet him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few days later, we were situated by a different beautiful lake and we’d just returned from another six hours of hard riding. Bree and I hobbled our bow-legged way up a grassy hill behind our ger. My bladder was fit to burst by the time we climbed to where the rickety wooden structure called a toilet stood.
“Where’s the T.P.?” Bree asked as she stepped into the door-less shack.
“You have it,” I told her confidently.
“No, I don’t. I told you to bring it,” she scowled.
“When did you ever say that? That’s your job! Everybody knows it. You always have some stashed away.”
“You always forget. Ugh!! Now you have to go back and get it,” Bree said, gesturing down the hill towards the seven white gers settled next to the vast waters of White Lake. She sounded as irritated about it as if she herself had to retrieve it.
“Just go and get it? It’s like a ten-minute walk each way, and this is a steep hill. You’re the fit one. You do it,” I retaliated.
“Nope. You need the exercise, so you should go.”
“Oh Bree, c’mon! I’ll pee myself if I do.” I started to whine, ’cause I already knew I was going to lose the argument once again.
“Just like that time with the berries. I can’t trust you with anything!” she carried on, starting to get angry as she remembered something I did when I must have been all of six years old. She’d made me walk four blocks home carrying a bowling-ball-sized batch of fresh, juicy blackberries tucked up in my white t-shirt. She had picked them for hours from the school ground’s forested area, climbing in and out of the thorns and vines and dropping handful after handful into my outstretched shirt. My arms were tired from holding the load before we’d even started the long walk home.
I nearly wet my pants when she’d finally turned around in our driveway and shrieked at me, “WHERE ARE ALL THE BERRIES!?!?”
Dazed and exhausted from having run all the way home to keep up with her nine-year-old pace, I’d looked down in a panic at the red-stained shirt that was completely soaked and sticking to my belly. A quick glance behind me revealed only a bare sidewalk. Where did all those berries go? She’d marched us at least two blocks back to search for them to no avail. Just short of getting beaten into blackberry pulp myself, we returned home completely empty handed.
“I spent hours in those thorn bushes and if it weren’t for---” she was saying.
“Okay, okay, okay!” I said, cutting her off mid-sentence. I’d been subjected to this guilt trip a hundred times already, and would rather spend the next twenty minutes walking than being yelled at. Before I left for the toilet paper, though, I negotiated a fifteen-minute neck massage in return.
“And bring the camera, too!” she shouted after me. It was getting late and the early evening fires’ smoke was starting to drift out of the chimneys protruding from the centre of each roof. Aside from a few white gers dotting the shoreline, the landscape was completely free of any evidence of human habitation.
I made it back to Bree at the toilet, which was halfway up the grassy green hill. After taking care of business, we decided to go to the top to see the view, since we were already nearly there. We skipped from rock to jagged rock along the rim, scratching our legs as we went, until we rea
ched a point that had a hundred and eighty degree view of the distant mountains that enclosed the crystal waters. As we sat in that tranquil spot at the summit, we reminisced about our many mutual friends and loved ones and talked about our sad goodbyes and painful last words. As I received my promised massage, she told me the details of her parting from Fernando, the boy she’d dated for more than a year. I remembered her waving out the window of our van as we headed to Seattle, absolutely crying her heart out.
“Do you think our friends ever think of us?” I asked her as she dug her thumbs deep into my neck.
“Are you kidding me? Of course! We gave them the best time. Like, sure, we didn’t always wear the latest popular fashions or buy the newest gadgets, but who cares? We didn’t need to spend money to have a blast. They’ll remember our fun times more than some stupid shoes they bought at the mall.”
“I miss spending nights under the stars on the roof,” I said, cringing as her grip on the scruff of my neck intensified. “Ouch! Ouch! That kills! Go easy on me.”
“Oh shut up. You asked for a massage,” she said, maintaining her grip. “Plus, you’re all knotted up. You need this. And remember the scooters? That was such an awesome invention,” Bree said. Shortening the scooters’ handlebars to the lowest possible setting and then securing milk crates onto them with bungee cords, we’d assembled our own little Mario karts and rode them down the streets of our mountainside neighbourhood.
“Oh, the faces they made when they saw us coming!” I laughed. “I can’t even count how many shoes I burned through braking on the pavement.”
“Remember soaping up the trampoline on a rainy day?”
“Or chasing the rabbits when they escaped onto the neighbour’s front lawn?”
“Yah. Good times,” we declared in unison, and then we both sighed.
“Believe it or not, I even miss our magic drinks,” I said. We’d developed a game to see who could drink the most semi-noxious ingredients without getting sick. We’d take turns going into the kitchen and secretly adding strange items to the mix before blending it up again. In the end, we’d have a concoction of mustard, soya sauce, egg, mayonnaise, cheese, and/or Tabasco sauce, etc. Somebody once even threw in dog food.
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