Back with Ajush

Day: 244-245

Sunrise:
07:15/07:13

Sunset:
19:42/19:43

As the crow flies:
23

Daily kilometers:
30

Total kilometers:
1311

Soil condition:
Ice, snow

Temperature – Day (maximum):
minus 0°C

Temperature – day (minimum):
minus 2°C

Temperature – Night:
minus 15°C

Latitude:
51°21’785”

Longitude:
099°21’056”

Maximum height:
1554 m above sea level

Early in the morning we are already quite busy packing everything that still needs to be packed into boxes and cartons. “When will Hohood be at camp?” I ask Tanja. “Between 10:00 am and 11:00 am.” “I think it’s really great that you can order a driver to the taiga by phone without any help or translation. The learning was worth it,” I praise. “I hope he comes too and he doesn’t mix up the month,” Tanja replies jokingly. Then the cell phone rings. “It’s me, Tsaya. Hohood will be late. Once again, there’s no fuel in Tsgaan Nuur. He had to borrow fuel from friends and neighbors to get you.” “No problem. The main thing is that he reaches the camp today,” I reply. “The broken petrol pump wasn’t the biggest problem. His Jeep broke down on the way to you. He has now borrowed another vehicle from a friend,” she explains. “What? Unbelievable! Well, I hope the car’s tires don’t fall off when it bumps through the taiga,” I try to joke. “It will come. Oh yes. Ultsan is in the jeep with you. Please call me when Hohood has made it to you.” “Why? Should we give him a message?” I wonder why I have to tell her about her husband’s arrival. “I’ve just spoken to him on the phone. He is drunk. He may want to return to the village when you leave. I don’t want that. I’ll be in the taiga in a few days. Until then, I’d be very happy if he didn’t waste his money in the village. So please don’t let him get back into the jeep. Yes?” “Don’t worry about it. We have so much luggage that there’s certainly not even room for a mouse. It will be impossible for him to accompany us to Tsagaan Nuur,” I reassure her.

“Sain bajtsgaana uu” (“Good day”) is how Darimaa greets us as we enter the yurt. “When are you going to Tsagaan Nuur?” she asks kindly. “When Hohood gets here. He’s having trouble with his car and the gas, but he’ll be here soon,” Tanja replies. “I have a farewell present for you,” she says with a smile, handing Tanja and me each a reindeer carved from horn. We are completely surprised by this attention. “Did Ovogdorj carve this?” asks Tanja. “Tijmee,” she affirms, nodding her head. “If she gives us a gift, it could be that the humans have actually grown fond of us,” Tanja ponders. “Looks like it,” I confirm. A little later, we are visited by Tanja’s favorite guest, Saintsetseg, who also enquires about our travel plans. Purvee and even Tanja’s admirer Nyam Dalai make a brief appearance to wish us a safe journey. “If everything goes according to plan and our friend Bilgee rides our horses to Tsgaan Nuur on time, we’ll be back in three or four days,” we explain, to which the camp residents are delighted.

12:30 pm. Engine noises mixed with heavy dog barking announce our jeep. Hohood stops the coughing engine in front of Gamba’s log cabin. The doors open with a creak. Ultsan and a man we don’t know stagger out of the vehicle heavily intoxicated. “Sain bajtsgaana uu,” Zaya’s husband soon slurs incomprehensibly. Then he collapses. “Isn’t that Erkhenbayar?” asks Tanja as she sees the little boy slide down from the passenger seat. “If the two men and the boy want to go back to Tsgaan Nuur, we’ll never get our equipment into the car,” I reply to her question without elaborating. “Well, Ultsan won’t be going with us anymore. That’s taken care of itself,” says Tanja, pointing at him, who is being carried into Gamba’s log cabin by two men.

“Do you mind if I rest for an hour?” asks Hohood. “No problem,” we reply. At 1:30 p.m., Hohood begins to stow two large and four small aluminum boxes, which we cannot load onto the horses on the way to the Tuwa spring camp under any circumstances, into his small jeep with the routine of a loading professional. He also smuggles several large, waterproof duffel bags, two rucksacks, all the equipment and all the cameras into the car. “For God’s sake, look after the cameras and laptops!” I urge him to be careful. “Asuudal bisch” (“No problem”), he replies, panting from the exertion. Because he has crammed the narrow space behind the rear seat bench to bursting point, the seat backrest presses forward at a 45° angle. “Anyone who has to sit there is a contortionist or a poor sod,” I say to Tanja. “Or both,” she replies with a laugh. Since I’ve already seen myself with all my cameras on the relatively comfortable passenger seat, I’m startled when the completely drunk man heaves himself onto it and lifts the little Erkhenbayar onto his lap. “And the two of us are supposed to squeeze into the 45° angle of the back seat?” I ask, puzzled. “What do you mean, the two of us? Mogi has to come too,” Tanja reminds me. “Oh no!” I gasp. It’s going to be a hell of a ride. It’s a real impertinence. We book and pay for a jeep and no matter how full the vehicle is, there are always some Tuwa or Mongolians squeezing into it”, I lament. “Here you go,” laughs Hohood, pointing the way into the interior of his pile of metal with both arms. To our surprise, all the existing tribe members are soon present to see us off. I squeeze the shaman Gamba’s hand and wind my body between the corners of the back seat. Tanja lifts Mogi up and tries to push him into the barely available footwell. There is only room for Mogi’s hind legs. He immediately straightens up and throws his heavy upper body over my bent knees. “It’s not so bad after all,” he blows his hot breath in my face, panting. Then squeeze in next to me. As the jeep lurches off, I feel like a strapped, heavily maltreated animal on its way to the cattle market.

The four-wheel drive vehicle plods at walking pace over the deep ditches, holes and snowfields. Things are slowly but steadily going downhill. The drunk man talks incessantly to the driver and us. Then he kisses Mogi on the snout, who thanks him by licking the man’s face. “A great dog,” slurs the man. Envious of his comfortable sitting position, I look at him from my squashed position.

Despite the uncomfortable ride, we enjoy the beautiful landscape. The strong spring sun has already melted away much of the snow. The deeper we go, the larger the brown areas become and the more coarse stones and rocks the ice reveals. “I think Mongolia is one of the most beautiful countries I’ve traveled to in the last 20 years,” Tanja enthuses, her gaze fixed on the majestic mountains. Then, 1 ½ hours later, we drive over the thick ice of Tsagaan Nuur and reach the village.

“Back in civilization,” I say, pointing to the many small log cabins. Although Tsgaan Nuur is certainly one of the most remote villages on earth, after more than three months in the wilderness we feel as if we are traveling to a big city. The jeep comes to a screeching halt in front of Ayush, Tseden-ish and Tsendmaa’s log cabin. Tsendmaa immediately rushes to meet us and helps us carry our equipment to the other half of the log cabin. We say goodbye to Hohood, his drunken friend and Erkhenbayar. Then we move into our makeshift home for the next few days. The acrid smell of vinegar hits us. “Obviously Tsendmaa mopped the floor here with vinegar water,” I suspect. “Come over with me. I’ll prepare you something to eat,” Ayush’s adopted daughter invites us. We leave everything behind and enter the old couple’s baishin (log cabin). While Tseden-ish lies on the bed and sleeps, Ayush plays chess with his neighbor. “Sain bajtsgaana uu”, we greet those immersed in their game. Ayush barely raises his head to return the greeting. For a moment, he makes us feel like we’re just annoying blowflies again. The memory of the seven weeks we spent here with him makes the time in the taiga seem a distant memory. “I hope it won’t take long to get everything we need for life at the Tuwa spring camp,” I say to Tanja. While Tsendmaa brews tea, I stare at the TV on the sideboard, which is painted with typical Mongolian colorful ornaments. A modern rock band bellows its dreadful song into a roaring crowd. The artists are tattooed all over their bodies, painted black like devil worshippers and have various parts of their bodies pierced with some horrible stuff. Although we are in a remote village in a rustic log cabin, the blaring flicker box is a shock and a serious insult to our eyes and ears. “Oh, I’m already longing to go back to our yurt,” says Tanja. “How peaceful it is in the taiga,” I agree with her.

“I wasn’t expecting you until this evening. Please excuse me if you have to wait a little longer for dinner,” says Tsendmaa, smiling good-naturedly. “Oh, we didn’t expect to be welcomed so lovingly. Please don’t bother with the food,” Tanja replies. “Hi, hi, hi. That’s no trouble at all,” she replies. “What have you done to your cheek? It’s all swollen?” asks Tanja. “Oh, I’ve had a terrible toothache for weeks,” Tsendmaa replies, opens her mouth and shows us a broken, black tooth. “Oh dear, that looks terrible. Why don’t you go to the dentist?” I ask. “Dentist? Well, there’s no dentist here in the village. The nearest one is in Mörön. That’s too far, too expensive and inconvenient for me. I take painkillers. That helps.” “But you have to see a doctor. The painkillers will affect your liver after a while and if you’re unlucky, your jaw will become even more inflamed,” I point out. “I’ll leave one day,” she replies resignedly.

Later, Tanja and Tsendmaa fetch water from the lake. Compared to the taiga, this way of obtaining water is a real luxury. Of course, hot water from the tap would be a delight, but here we still have to make do with fetching water by muscle power and heating it on the wood-fired stove.

As we make ourselves comfortable in our very modestly furnished log cabin, we celebrate the successful wintering with a few glasses of beer, which we bought in one of the small grocery stores. “We’ve definitely made it,” Tanja says, beaming at me. “Yes, and I can well remember how Mongolians and Germans claimed that Western Europeans can’t stand such a harsh climate,” I reply. “I didn’t find it that bad. On the contrary, I’ve really enjoyed it so far. To be honest, the last eight months in Mongolia have been some of the best of my life so far. I wouldn’t have thought it possible how good the cold is for me and how much I’ve grown fond of the Tuwa,” says Tanja. “Yes, it really was a wonderful time. And the best thing is that our journey is far from over. We can still go to the spring camp with the Tuwa and if all goes well, we still have another 1,500 kilometers of riding ahead of us,” I reply. “A reassuring thought,” says Tanja, taking a deep sip from her cup.

Suddenly Tanja’s cell phone beeps. “Bilgee?” I ask. “Yes.” “What did he write?” I’m interested, as he announced only an hour ago that he would be arriving tonight. “I won’t be able to make it to Tsagaan Nuur today. The horses are too tired but they’re fine. See you tomorrow afternoon. Bilgee and six,” Tanja reads out the text message. “Bilgee and six did he sign his text?” “Yes.” “Ha, ha, ha, he’s a humorous man, our Bilgee,” I laugh, as he has always signed all his text messages with Bilgee and two for the last 4 ½ months and is currently no longer living in Erdenet with his two sons, but is traveling with six horses.

“A wise decision not to ride half the night. After all, it doesn’t matter whether it takes a few days or not. If he really reaches us tomorrow, he will have covered the distance from Mörön to here in just six days. We ourselves were on the road for 13 days. Tulgaa took 18 days when he rode our horses back at the beginning of November. After Saraa told us that at least one horse is very weak, six days would be an extraordinary achievement,” I think. “I’m so looking forward to our horses. I can hardly stand it any longer. I hope they’ve survived the winter well and have been fed well,” Tanja replies.

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