Call of the Bell Bird

by Jennifer Kavanagh

  And at night we stayed with local people in gers, large circular tents with a parasol structure, rising to a point in the middle, with a hole for the chimney of the central stove. The arrangement of gers is pretty standard. The master bed is at the back of the ger, others to right and left, with an altar area to the right of the main bed with shrine and candle and some precious possessions. If the owners are not Buddhist, the altar will consist mainly of family photos. The cooking and eating area (we sat on little stools) is in the centre; near the entrance is stored a container of precious water where people wash their hands and face, usually taking the water into the mouth and squirting it onto their hands to wash.

  We saw no evidence of any other washing, or indeed undressing, though none of the Mongolians we met smelt. I felt extremely uncomfortable after six days of not washing, though I did on one occasion heat some water in the van and walk off into the distance to wash the crucial bits. There is no privacy inside the ger or out. Lavatorial activities take place round the back of the ger or, when travelling, behind the van, men and women taking it in turns. This is an outdoor culture, and a cold one. Our water and food in the van were frozen – waterlogged bananas, cucumbers and tomatoes a good lesson in what not to bring. Even at midday, after hours of sun, the water I washed my face in had ice in it.

  Mongolian hosts

  On arrival at a ger, the customary call is not of “hello” but “Nokhoi Khor” (“hold the dog”). Dogs are fierce here, sometimes rabid, and to be taken seriously. Once inside, we were always offered tea, made by heating a vast bowlful of water on the stove, a little milk and salt added, and a sprinkling of tea dust. We got quite used to this salty drink; any hot drink is welcome. With it is offered a bowl of bread so hard it is impossible to break without dunking it in the tea, and sometimes interspersed for the unwary with similar-looking rocks of inedible strong cheese. Meals are invariably of old mutton, brought in, frozen, from the outside, hacked into pieces and boiled up with doughy noodles. Sometimes a skilful hostess made more out of the same basic ingredients, but the smell of old mutton was ubiquitous.

  Etiquette, as our guide book informed us, is complex. Don’t step on the threshold, don’t touch someone’s hat, don’t point your feet at anyone. Don’t show your wrists, spill milk or write in red ink. On entering, walk clockwise round to the left, sitting towards the back in the area reserved for guests. Everything is given and received with both hands, or the right one, supported by the left. There are rituals surrounding the offering of snuff or vodka, even if the owner is too poor for the ornate bottle actually to contain anything. Never throw anything on the fire. Fire is sacred; on one occasion, a Mongolian friend we were travelling with brought some food from Ulaan Bataar specifically to offer to the fire, as his home in the capital had no open fire.

  On no occasion did we stay in tourist ger camps, but it soon became clear that we were being guided to gers which were used to receiving visitors, basic accommodation but almost like bed and breakfast establishments, and there was a similar impersonal attitude, a professionalism that spoilt the experience of meeting local people. One night, we stayed with a family who, very strangely, left for the night, leaving their home to the five of us (Maria, Agneta, Stephen, Gera and myself.). After we had settled down, Stephen needed to have a pee and headed off with his torch to the tin hut that served the group of local gers. A lavatory was a rarity and we welcomed the shelter from the wind, even if one side was open to the elements, and inside merely two slippery planks with a gap over a hole. He was gone a long while and I began to wonder, then heard him calling, from way off: “Hello, hello” and a cacophony of dogs barking. His torch had failed, he had lost his bearings in the dark, and had spent the last half hour wandering around. There was no way of locating my coat, hat, scarf or boots in the dark, so I made my way over sleeping bodies to the flap of the door, lit a candle and went out in my bare feet, calling to him. The candle of course blew out, but we did in the end find our way in.

  We slept well, I in one bed, the two girls in the other, and Gera and Stephen on the floor, uninterrupted save for an extraordinary invasion by three men who came in the middle of the night. Two sat on the girls’ bed, and the third ceremoniously lit a candle and looked round at us. Gera raised himself on one elbow and exchanged a few words with them, but no one got up. I kept waiting for someone to say, “What the hell are you doing here?” I expected more drama, but reality is so often tamer than the expectation. The men finally left, and we heard the roar of a motor bike fade into the distance. They could have been officials of some sort; equally they could have murdered us in our beds. Unable to ask Gera the meaning of this night visitation, we never discovered the reason for it. We did hear afterwards however that it used to be quite common for strangers to turn up in the middle of the night and help themselves to whatever they needed. Life is tough and travellers need shelter. Not only is there no private land in Mongolia; there is very little concept of privacy or ownership. Possessions are few and, except for animals, they are contained within the ger. Life is semi-nomadic, attachment slight: the very archetype of simplicity.

  The tin hut lavatory

  We all made it clear to Gera that we preferred staying in ordinary gers, and he responded. It was much harder going in that the owners were not used to receiving visitors: stoves went out early so that we could not get warm at night, even fully dressed, in sleeping bags and under layers of sheepskins; the food, always difficult, was even more basic, but the experience was much more rewarding. We did in fact always stay with better-off people – others simply would not have had the wherewithal to host an extra five people. Gera could tell from the number of cattle or sheep that were coralled outside the ger whether it would be an appropriate place to stay. The poorer people had none. As it was, a member of the household was usually sent out to fetch something from a shop or a neighbour, and went off on a horse or, increasingly likely in modern-day Mongolia, on a motor bike. We usually slept on the floor, feet to the door, or sometimes, as oldies, Stephen and I were offered a bed, and were always tucked in before the family went to bed – a very strange experience, especially as I was usually trying to change some clothing under the blankets as they did so.

  We always paid for our one-night stays, whether expected or not. Stephen argues that staying free with people much poorer than ourselves is immoral. I agree but also realise that paying for something that has been free for hundreds of years is undermining a traditional culture. Mongolia is in a transitional era and free hospitality, so much a feature of ger culture, will probably disappear in the next ten years, as it has in other countries. The age-old tradition of giving presents is also under threat. Do we pay and give presents too?

  Wednesday. Snow storm! Yesterday we drove through a blizzard, Gera manoeuvring his way on disappearing tracks and in near-nil visibility. Peeing in a blizzard, side by side with Agneta in the shelter of the side of the van was quite an experience! We have all got used to peeing in the open, men and women round different sides of the van – men peeing away from the wind, women into it – an important orientation!

  When we finally found a group of gers, they turned us away – G. always goes in first to negotiate. Extraordinary to reject us in such terrible conditions. Eventually we came to a small town and drove around asking. We were welcomed into a larger ger than usual by an extended family – mother, who turned out to be a maths teacher and was very modern, trim and sexy; father, big, handsome and traditional in his del; assorted children about ten years old who came and went; grandmother, who visited for a while; and the mother’s elder sister who was 9 months pregnant. Extraordinary to welcome 6 of us (we now had a young man in tow from the previous night, who was travelling to UB.)

  The Gobi: stuck in the snow

  It was the best night of our trip – we played cards and “bones” with the ankle bones of sheep, and sang – all very warm and companionable. S. and I finally shared a (small) double bed and were cosy and friendly in a tangle of
unzipped sleeping bags and blankets. The other bed was shared by husband, wife and sister-in-law (she sleeping the other way round from the other two!). Good dumplings in a stew last night and rice pudding with lumps of sour cheese dissolved in it this morning. I liked it but the girls gagged.

  The drive today, on paper relatively short, was appallingly difficult. Tracks had disappeared and after an hour’s driving we plunged into a snowdrift about 3ft deep. The young man eventually dug us out, then the engine failed. We were beginning to have doubts about reaching UB tonight (for M’s and A’s train to Beijing tomorrow) but G finally got it going. We then came across the only other vehicle we had seen for three days: a stranded jeep whose occupants had spent the night in it. We gave them the last of our bread and hard-boiled eggs and then towed it for a while. Then G managed to get their engine going and we started off again and finally reached UB about 5 p.m., badly in need of a rest and a wash.

  What an expedition! And what an opportunity to witness a unique way of life that challenges our own.

  In the Gobi we had visited Bayanzag, the “Flaming Cliffs”, hard to find without an experienced driver, and famous for the discovery of numerous dinosaur bones and eggs now forming part of the renowned collection in the Natural History Museum in Ulaan Baatar. So we thought we should go to see them. It is an extraordinary gallery of the remains of vast dinosaurs, up to 70 million years old, and their eggs. There were dozens of extinct animals of all sorts, including the complete skeleton of a meat-eating Tarbosaurus of huge proportions, 15 metres high and four to five tons in weight. Also the jaws of another even bigger. Magnificent but terrifying.

  But in all the other galleries, there were hundreds of stuffed animals, from a mongoose to a moose: a large stately animal taller than a man. Vast and small birds with outstretched wings: parrots, humming birds, water birds and vultures. Most impressive of all, a king eagle. It was impressive – and monstrous. Animals of all shapes and sizes had been shot for display. Shot carefully so that the appearance would not be marred by a visible bullet hole. Killed, stuffed and moulded into a form as lifelike as possible – except that the eyes are dead, the spirit, that which links the animal world to us as living creatures, is gone, their poses a hideous mockery of their living form. In a world that has begun to reject animals jumping through hoops or imprisoned in small cages, why do we not rebel at this unnecessary killing? In a land of such freedom, it seemed doubly shocking.

  Chapter 14

  Resistance and Renewal

  Faith is the sense of life, that sense by virtue of which man does not destroy himself, but continues to live on. It is the force whereby we live.

  Tolstoy

  A few hours into the journey from Ulaan Baatar to Siberia, I noticed that my fine Bolivian jacket, the jacket that I had carried through all the hot countries for use at this time, was missing. Stolen, presumably. Arriving in Siberia in March without a coat – great. This discovery was followed by a still more unnerving event. Another coat appeared – a tatty green anorak brought by a young woman who we at first thought wanted to push into our compartment, then dump her stuff there. We had already said no to a woman bearing blankets. Our young companions argued for some time in Mongolian but finally allowed her to leave the coat which she tucked very carefully behind theirs, hanging up beside the door. We naively thought that she too must be worried about having her coat stolen. But, later, as customs police spent hours searching the luggage of everyone except foreigners and finally led away a man and a number of women, including the blanket woman, it became apparent that we had unwittingly been party to contraband – possibly drug smuggling. The coat loomed large in our sight until we left the train.

  It’s not surprising that Russia doesn’t get many tourists: they make it so hard to get a visa. We were told that it is in retaliation for the difficulties we put in the way of Russians wanting to come to Britain. The process was complicated by the fact that we had to get the visa on the hop. We had tried in Bangkok, but had run out of time. So, armed with our faxed invitation, plane ticket proving our exit date from Russia, but lacking the necessary coupon for the Trans-Siberian entry into Russia, which hadn’t arrived from Beijing, we somewhat tremulously went to the Russian embassy in Delhi. We walked along the vast road full of embassies till we found the Russian one, explained we needed it quickly and to our amazement were told it would be ready next day. We danced with delight in the street, not believing our luck, till we noticed that we had been charged not $15, as we had heard him say, but $50. But, in Russia, we found that others had waited for days and paid double. We had been lucky.

  The other reason foreigners do not flock to Russia is that as a country it gets a very bad press. Stephen had been convinced that it was a ghastly country, and he was resistant to our going there. No doubt the stories of the Mafia are true, and it is certainly the case that people can be rude and pushy, but in general my experience has been positive. To stand on Red Square or go round the Pushkin Gallery with hardly a tourist in sight is a privilege.

  Siberia in the snow, how it ought to be. If independent, this would be the largest country in the world – some 14 million square kilometres. We had arrived at Listvyanka, a village on the shores of Lake Baikal, a lake of superlatives. It is the deepest, oldest lake in the world – some 20 million years old and 40 kilometres across to the mountains we could see on the other side. It is a living museum of flora and fauna, containing some two thousand recorded species, of which some seventy percent are to be found nowhere else in the world. An organism unique to the lake keeps the water pure, so, as it contains one fifth of the world’s fresh water, the lake is a huge source of drinking water. Its purity also means that one can see down about forty metres into its depths of 1,673 metres.

  When we were there, this giant lake was completely frozen over. It was an awe-inspiring sight, with chunks of the palest aquamarine forced up at the edges, and the gentle sound of cracking as we walked past. The daytime temperature was currently around freezing point but the ice was some one-and-a-half metres thick, and safe to walk on till May, we were told, though I still felt nervous about doing it. We had arrived at the wrong time – too late for cross-country skiing, which we had set our hearts on, and too early for a hike and a picnic.

  We stayed for three days with a family in a wooden house in the village, just yards from the lake. We had been met and were accompanied everywhere by our guide, Elya, who warmed up considerably when we arrived at the house – our hostess Rita, though the same age as her mother, was a close friend. The house was pretty, and had been made comfortable for the many tourists that stay there. In the sitting room that was off-limits for visitors, Rita’s mother, Valentina, spent most of her time watching Brazilian soaps.

  There was no bathroom. Like the Mongolians, the Siberians seem to wash seldom. The weekly sauna or banya in the outhouse was the main event, though the tap in the kitchen did have a curtain round it so more extensive washing was possible. There was no running water; what there was came from an electrified well. The lavatory was again a pit, but in a smart pine-clad outhouse with a green velvet seat cover as the entrance to the smelly void. Still not an inviting prospect for night visits.

  Our first breakfast on arrival was an indication of things to come – and such a contrast to Mongolia. Huge quantities of wonderful home cooking: home-made jam, soups, piroshki (little pasties), blinis (pancakes). Ham and sausage and cheese at every meal. Sometimes caviar, sometimes ormul, the local fish from the lake. We were thoroughly spoilt. In fact I was sick after one over-rich meal – it was rather a shock to my digestion after what we had been used to.

  As we sat at table with Rita, her partner, Sasha, Valentina and Elya, and talk flowed in Russian, I remembered more words and phrases, and wished I were staying longer. Discussions about politics and life in general revealed a sad attitude on the part of Rita and Elya. They felt that, although some things were better – the availability of food, and freedom to speak their mind – it would take ano
ther fifty years or so for things to improve properly. There are a few rich people, they said, but no middle class and many poor people. Elya, though a graduate and an English teacher, did not regard herself as middle-class. People cannot afford a car or to buy a home. We learnt to our surprise that Rita was a microbiologist; her partner Sasha a maths teacher; the driver a geologist. All make more money from jobs in the tourist trade than in exercising the professions they have been trained for.

  Elya was an atheist, and only accompanied us to the lovely local church in Listvyanka out of duty. She and I went for a stroll along the shore of the frozen Lake Baikal one day, and she intimated that she had a problem, though she was coy about divulging its nature. It turned out to be about a former boyfriend, and the problem of being a strong woman. She was clever and pretty and felt, at 27, that life was passing her by. She wanted to get out of her small town, to Moscow, but felt she might have left it too late.

  On the way back to Irkutsk to catch the train, Elya was back in severe guide mode. My parting with Valentina, on the other hand, was unexpectedly tearful.

  So emotional, we Russians! Valentina’s two aunts emigrated to Canada and China respectively, and there was a lot of White support here during the Revolution. It all reminded me of my mother; I thought her often while I was in Russia, and stopped the car to take a photo for her of silver birch trees – the image that haunts Russian exiles.