December 30, 2008 by Karin.

On the drive to our hosts in the Mongol Els, our guide asked us if we wanted to eat sheep or goat for our barbeque dinner.

“Goat!”

I suspected no one actively wanted to eat goat but after days of mutton, we were ready for a second option.

“Can we eat a baby?” Juno asked. (On the construction site, he had been running after baby goats for fun, catching them by their baby horns and threatening to eat them.)

Our guide finished conversing with the hosts on her cell phone and said, “no, we never eat the babies.” It’s probably considered wasteful to cut short a lifetime of wool supply.

By the time we arrived at our host’s cosy ger, our dinner was already in preparation. In this picture, you can see pieces of goat chopped up atop a cupboard.

For the barbeque, our host filled a big pot with heated stones, goat meat, carrots, and potatoes. The pot was covered with a lid held down by a random piece of metal. Then it cooked over the campfire for about forty five minutes.

We all ate together in the main ger: the Habitat group, guides, drivers, and the host family. The Mongolians passed around a bowl of the fermented mare’s milk but understood travelers enough to not bother offering us a sip. They also passed around toothpicks but I was sad to not receive one of those because it really is an essential utensil when dining on tough goat meat.

The best part of the dinner was the singing. We asked if they had a Happy Birthday song (in honor of Wei’s birthday) and they said no, but they would sing a song in honor of his mother without whom, there would be no birthday for Wei. Then they sang a song about fathers for the same reason. (I’d read that most of Mongolian music is about nature so it’s pretty hard to find a song not in honor of mother earth, father sky, or indirectly, their offspring’s birthdays…) We sang them “que sera sera” led by Carol and a TGIFriday style birthday song taught to us by Cassandra.

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October 18, 2008 by Karin.

The ger has figured into my imagination ever since I saw it on an ARTE documentary six years ago in France. The ger represented the lifestyle I aspired to: self sufficient, cozy, and nomadic. Imagine feeling at home no matter where your travels take you.

The Interior
A ger in real life certainly did justice to all the expectations I had. It even held a few surprises as I banged my forehead (hard!) on the low doorframe the first few times upon entering. Vertically challenged folks like myself rarely ever have to duck for anything. Once, my head hit the doorway so hard that one of the roof poles got jolted off its socket and fell down. Once inside, you were surrounded by a warm, colorful interior. Mongolian interiors taught me that being portable and resourceful does not mean having to be frugal about creating a nice home. The gers we visited were always decked out in painted furniture (bright orange was the most common color) with decorative trim in all colors of the rainbow. Fabrics of flowers or traditional motifs covered up the lattice frame and grey insulation felt. Oriental rugs and woven images of Ghengis Khan were also popular.

Modern conveniences
It wasn’t uncommon for nomads to have cell phones but electricity and running water were not matters to take for granted. Water was strictly a ”supply your own” affair. (As in, buy liters over the counter at a barely stocked Socialist style grocery store.) Electricity was something we encountered on our second night in a ger: a light bulb lit by a wire dangling from a little black box (later identified as a car battery). The same family had a small television in the main ger and as much as I begged to turn it on for the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics, the idea was shot down. I suspect we missed out on the ultimate Mongolian-Habitaters bonding experience. These were, after all, people that had a photo of sumo champion Asashoryo taped up beside their family photo.

Brrrrrrr!
Because it was midseason, the Mongolian families we stayed with had not taken a decisive stand regarding the hole that was our ceiling. The wheel that crowned the top of the ger allowed the chimney pipe to poke through and for us, a view of the stars. At Orkhon, our ger family left the top mostly covered and kept us stocked with bits of wood to feed the stove to keep warm. The following night in the Mongol Els, the top was uncovered and we got a little sense of what it might be like to feel cold in Mongolia. (Until that night, we were spoiled with perfectly comfortable climate). I layered my remaining clean clothes onto my body, kept my dirty socks on my feet, and curled up in the fetal position inside the sleeping bag. The best decision I made was not using the foam pad as a mattress on the hard bed (it wasn’t noticeably effective anyway) but kept it rolled up as a pillow. My shoulders sighed ‘thank you!’ the next morning.

“What’s that?”
In the main family ger (which the family abandoned for our group to sleep in), I saw a small fabric something hanging next to a decorative banner. It had pockets which held toothbrushes and toothpaste. So stark and simple. To have around what you need and leave the excess behind. It was a contrast to my bathroom back home where 21 bottles of assorted creams and cleansers sit beside the sink. We were so lucky to have gotten a peek into life as a nomad. The experience of sleeping in a ger was not the comfort in the paradise sense, but that was part of what made it such a fascinating, beautiful experience.

Posted in A first, Life-altering, Mongolia | 1 Comment »

August 12, 2008 by Karin.

Gordon and I were walking through the central square of Ulan Bator, the site of post-election riots earlier that month. On this particular Tuesday, however, all was calm and I got to take a photo with the statue of Ghengis Khan (we were separated only by two guards and a stretch of rail). My camera and I also followed around a group of Mongolians visiting from the countryside.

“Why don’t you ask to take a photo with him?” Gordon pointed to the man in traditional dress.

“Do you think he’d let me?”

“Sure. But he might want to kiss you.” Gordon joked.

I handed him the camera and tapped the gentleman on the shoulder. He consented to a photograph together, stuck his cigarette in the side of his mouth that still contained teeth, and put his arm around me. Afterwards, I must have had the happiest, dopiest smile on my face because he reached forward again, pulled me close, and planted a kiss on my cheek. It was my first (and only) kiss in Mongolia and set the stage for many a memorable interaction with the Mongolian people.

Posted in A first, Mongolia | 1 Comment »

July 30, 2008 by Karin.

also known as “a very big adventure.”

also known as “Mongolian horses don’t know the word for ’stop!’”

We were to go horseback riding, four at a time. I wasn’t too nervous and the resident cowboy-man must not have been either because we weren’t given any instructions. We were accompanied by Gana, a boy on the smallest horse and hardest saddle who guided us from behind by yelling commands like “No! Stop!” or “No stop!” which of course, have opposite meanings but was delivered by him in the same bossy tone. One of the other girls taught me to how to make my horse turn left and right. And we learned pretty quickly that “choo!” means “go!” in Mongolian. But no one said anything about how to make a horse stop.

10 minutes into the ride, my horse, who was leading the pack, wandered of the main road. The boy yelled belatedly, “stop! stop!” I gave the reigns a little yank but it just seemed to further piss of my already agitated horse. Finally, the horse decided “I’ve had enough if you!” and made a sharp 180 degree turn in the opposite direction, lauching into a full gallop.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the boy gesturing “pull on the reigns!” but my hands were occupied. My grip on the metal handle of the saddle was the only thing keeping me on the runaway horse. As we flew over the hill, out of sight of the others, and we headed through a field of low bushes, I realized that 1. the horse wasn’t planning on throwing me off and 2. a gallop isn’t so scary once you lean back and enjoy the rhythm of the ride.

Before long, I see our camp site, my horse and I making an impressive sight as we rode in.

“Stop! Stop!” the cowboy yelled.

“I’m tryyyyyyyyyying!”My horse slowed down enough for the cowboy to grab its lead and help me off. He pointed to the horse, explaining ”nice horse.” He pointed to me and makes the ‘pull the reigns’ gesture, as in ‘this is what you should have done.’ Then he helped me back on the horse.

I moaned a little “do I have to?” and even though he didn’t understand my English, he understood exactly what I wanted to say. But quitting or getting sued are not in the Mongolian vocabulary so he just handed me my reigns, adjusted my stirrups, and patted me on the back. Then for good measure, reached around and carefully placed his other hand to my chest to comfort the fear in my heart. As a compromise, he assigned Gana’s cousin, Zolvayar, to take my horse’s lead and walk beside us the rest of the trek.

  Zolvayar was my hero.

Later, both Gana and the cowboy told me I was very good on my horse…as in, I didn’t scream or break a bone (as expected). All in all, it was one of the most satisfying experiences I survived in Mongolia yet. Though it would take a whole day for my saddle gripping fingers to regain sensation. 

Posted in A first, Mongolia | 2 Comments »