Odor symbiosis for which we Western Europeans are not made

Day: 31

Sunrise:
06:09 am

Sunset:
20:05

Total kilometers:
452

Soil condition:
Meadow

Temperature – Day (maximum):
24 °C

Temperature – day (minimum):
17 °C

Temperature – Night:
6 °C

Latitude:
48°55’401”

Longitude:
103°39’459”

Maximum height:
1379 m above sea level

After a good night’s sleep, I feel much better this morning. My stomach cramps are almost over. I eat bread with jam for breakfast. Then I head back to the small yurt to try again to get the energy from the solar panels into my devices. Another charger fails during the charging attempts. This time it is the external battery charger of our replacement computer. The reason for this is a 12 volt cable that I bought in U. B. had bought. It is far too thin. Apparently this meant that the correct amount of current was not flowing that the charger needed and it therefore went into the eternal hunting grounds. Luckily I have a gas soldering iron and some solder with me and I make another cable that works. Due to the renewed outage, we can now only load one computer while writing. When Tanja starts her translation work, I have to charge her laptop at night. That is the idea. As I said, flexibility and ingenuity are essential out here. In the next few days, the entire charging technology finally seems to be working. We no longer have any security, but maybe that’s not necessary.

Before I hit the keys to write down our stories, I’m going to fix my storm lighter. Tovuu, the owner of the small yurt, watches me. When I filled the thing with new gas and ignited it, it exploded. I throw it away in horror and tear my back in the process. “That can’t be true!” I shout and have to laugh at the irony despite the pain. “Can I have the lighter?” Tovuu asks me. Because I can still use it for my spare lighter as a spare parts store, I decline his request. He seems to be miffed and leaves the yurt.

Bilgee returns from the hunt in the afternoon. Again he has shot marmots which he lays on the floor of the yurt to gut them later. Sarnai and Orgio immediately play with the dead animals and laugh as the intestines spill out of the abdominal slit. Orgio stuffs them back in. Children have a completely different relationship to death here.

Mogi still barks very often. He especially can’t stand strange dogs near the camp. As he lives under the horse-drawn cart and is tied up there, he pulls like a madman on his lead when a four-legged friend from a neighboring yurt comes by. Biting at the leash, he even tries to free himself. “We should check the line. If he carries on like this, he’ll soon have bitten through it,” I say, whereupon we take a look at it. As soon as we have reached Mogi to calm him down, he has actually bitten loose and storms like a madman towards a large dog that is sneaking around the camp. The black dog seems to be an experienced, even full-grown, warhorse and beats Mogi to a pulp. Mogi submits when the other has him by the neck. We immediately rush off to help our dog. The stranger then runs off. Mogi barks loudly, takes up the chase and seems to say, “With the reinforcements behind me, I’ll show him who’s boss here.” “Come here Mogi!” I yell. Panting and exhausted, he now stands next to us. His jaw is bleeding and he has been bitten again. “We need a chain. He’ll keep biting through the cord,” says Bilgee and builds a makeshift holder out of leather straps.

In the evening, I give Tovuu my old lighter. “Who knows if I’ll ever cannibalize it and if he’s happy about it, he should have it,” I think to myself. Tovuu is not a poor man. He worked for many years as a heavy machinery operator at a mining company. During these years, he earned well and was therefore able to afford a car, among other things. Like many Mongolians, he spends his summer vacation out here in the countryside with his family. He then moves back into his house in Erdenet in the fall. It is comparable to the Russians who move into their dadscha (weekend cottage) at the weekend or on vacation. And if you take a closer look, many Germans also go to their garden shed at the weekend or take their caravan to a campsite. The situation is similar in Mongolia. Tovuu comes into the small yurt with the sheep’s head and asks for the gas burner. “That’s where it is,” I point to the wooden shelf. He says thank you and goes back outside. Curious as to what he wants to do with the goat’s head and the gas burner, I follow him. He sits down in front of the large yurt, lights the gas burner and holds the blue flame to the goat’s head. “For dinner,” he says, licking his tongue over his lips. “If you scorch the fur with a gas burner, the meat has a particularly good flavor,” Ulzii explains to me as I raise my eyebrows questioningly.

It is already dark when a car races across the steppe as if it were an off-road vehicle. Laughing, a man gets out with his wife and two small children. It is the son of Tovuu who has come to attend the feast with his family. He immediately grabs the gas burner and a small marmot to scorch its fur too. Since the fur of the adult marmots brings in a lot of money and the small skins are worth less, one can afford to singe the fur in favor of the taste. When I have difficulties filming the scene due to the poor lighting conditions, Tovuu’s son jumps into his car without being asked, drives a jagged arc and places his vehicle behind me with the headlights on. “Baierlaa,” I say thank you. “Zugeer, zugeer”, (it’s okay, it’s okay) he replies in a friendly manner. It is already 21:00 when the feast begins in the yurt. There is a large pot of goat offal, the charred goat’s head, the scorched marmot and a bottle of vodka. The heat from the fire and the many people in the yurt make it crisp and warm. The heat mixes with the unconventional smells of Mongolian delicacies to create an olfactory symbiosis for which we Western Europeans are not made. After just a few minutes, I have to leave the festival community again. Outside, I take a deep breath. “You need a strong stomach here,” I say to Tanja as we go into our little yurt.

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