Stallion attack

Day: 322-323

Sunrise:
05:06

Sunset:
21:37/21:38

Total kilometers:
1412

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
30 °C

Temperature – day (minimum):
22 °C

Temperature – Night:
4 °C

Latitude:
51°20’982”

Longitude:
099°20’852”

Maximum height:
1572 m above sea level

“Another one?” I ask. “Tijmee, this time a woman who even speaks English,” replies Bilgee, pleased with himself. Bilgee has placed an advertisement on one of Erdenet’s TV channels so that we don’t set off without a horseman. That’s why his cell phone rings every 20 minutes. Through Saraa’s friend, who also works as a tour guide, we have now organized a 35-year-old man who would like to go with us. He is currently in Mörön and will arrive tomorrow or the day after. Good news, which is why we are not dependent on Bilgee’s commitment.

“Denis! Deniiis!”, Shagai calls me as we sit in the yurt with Bilgee and discuss the schedule for the coming days. I immediately rush out of the yurt. “A stallion is harassing your Naraa!” explains our host excitedly, pointing to the pasture. In fact, Naraa is in need. Seemingly desperate, she tries to defend herself against the muscular lecher with hoof kicks. Sharga, Bor, Tenger and Sar take the mare protectively into their midst. Little Tuya stumbles back and forth between their bodies, unsure and completely frightened. Tanja, Bilgee and I rush to the scene to help our horses. We shout at the top of our voices, throw sticks and stones, but without the slightest success. The rutting stallion attacks again and again. He endangers our small herd with his wild and strong kicks and bites. He is about to really stir them up. As our animals are prevented from running away by shackles on their ankles, they are not very resistant. I hurl a branch with full force against the stallion’s sweating body, who in his madness doesn’t seem to feel the impact and continues his frenzy. By now my lungs are burning. Again and again, we sprint between the savage’s line of attack like hundred-meter dashers to prevent the worst from happening. Tanja races into the aggressor’s path at the last moment with her arms raised and saves our Tuya, who would undoubtedly have been run over. Bilgee has the brilliant idea and catches the stallion by his halter. It reveals that the unneutered dog has an owner. Shagai comes to the rescue. Bilgee and he make another temporary but stronger halter from one of our ropes and tie the stallion to a post of Shagai’s wooden fence. Shagai explains to Bilgee who the stallion belongs to. So that our horses can continue to graze peacefully, Bilgee takes the horse to its owner, who lives somewhere in the village.

“What did you tell him?” I ask Bilgee after he has delivered the crazy horse. “That our horses have attacked his stallion. Since he doesn’t want to see his horse hurt, I assume he’ll leave him tied up or take him to another pasture. But you see why I keep talking about why you need a horseman. What would you have done if I hadn’t been there? If this raid had happened at night?” he asks. “You’ve broken our agreement and are going to leave us,” I say, “but we can only hope that the new guy does a decent job and arrives soon. If you leave, Tanja and I will have to look after the horses all night on our own. That’s a task that’s hard to cope with after a long day of riding or running,” I agree with him.

Unexpectedly, Ultsan’s uncle Bayandalai turns up with his wife and children. They want to load three reindeer onto a four-wheel drive bus to transport them to Khatgal. The family is supposed to live in a tepee there as a tourist attraction. On this hot day, loading the reindeer is a torture. The deer, accustomed to the cold, hyperventilate and fight tooth and nail against being tied up like a package. It takes four adult and strong men to bring the deer under control and load them into the four-wheel drive bus. When part of the household, plus three men, a woman and three children are stowed in the bus, the unconventional transport leaves the Shagai farm for Khatgal.

As soon as they are out of sight, a motorcyclist roars onto the large plot of land covered in brown grass. The driver brings his vehicle to a halt about two meters in front of our yurt. When he gets out of the saddle, he falls over with the entire motorcycle and remains lying on the ground as if dead. At this moment, gathering storm clouds open their gates. Shagai, who is building a new log cabin with his uncle, interrupts his work to rush to the Baishin. He walks past the man lying on the floor and laughs. “They’ll just leave him there,” I say, no longer too surprised after what I’ve experienced over the past few months. After an hour, the man wakes up from his full smoke. He desperately tries to get his buck upright. Another man, also drunk, helps him. Then the staggering Mongolian sits on his motorcycle and tries to start it. “He won’t want to drive in this condition, will he?” asks Tanja. “Why not? He came in this state and leaves the ground just as drunk,” I say. “And why did he come at all?” is Tanja’s legitimate question. “Maybe to sleep on this lawn for a while? Who knows?” I reply with a laugh. In fact, the drunks manage to get the goat running. As you get on and speed off, the driver moves the handlebars a little too jerkily. The result is fatal. The machine bucks like a horse and throws its riders off. They fly through the air in high arcs so that for a few seconds only arms, legs and body are visible. I’m almost breathless with shock. I’m just about to rush to the aid of the casualties when they rise up again. Undaunted by the fall, they try to get the bike going again. In fact, the engine starts and the hellish ride continues. This time they successfully leave Shagai’s property and disappear from our sight.

In the evening, Saraa appears completely unexpectedly. “Yes, it really is me,” she laughs as we seem to look at her like a ghost. We warmly welcome you. “What are you doing there?” I ask. “I’m taking Guy to the Tuwa,” she says, pointing to a young man from England. As the tourist has rented a four-wheel drive bus for himself, we ask him if he would be willing to pick up the rest of our equipment from Ayush and perhaps even transport it to Mörön with us. “No problem. If I can help you with that, I’ll be happy to do it,” he says, which means that a seemingly unsolvable problem has vanished into thin air for us out of the blue.

To give Bilgee a proper farewell and to thank Dalai and Shagai for their hospitality, we head a bottle of vodka. Because the bottle is shared by a total of seven people, no one is drunk. Completely in our spirit. Later, as I drive the horses out to the pasture to fluff them up, Bilgee comes to my aid. All of a sudden he is completely drunk. He explains that he and Shagai have emptied another bottle in the meantime. When I start my watch at 23:00, Bilgee staggers over. “Go to bed. I’ll take over,” he says. “Bilgee, your shift doesn’t start until 1:00 a.m.,” I tell him, pointing out that he’s too early. “Ügüj, (no) I’ll take over. I am strong. I drank vodka. I can last the whole night,” he boasts. It makes no sense to explain to a drunk that he will most likely be in a deep sleep after just 20 minutes and will miss the next day due to his excessive alcohol consumption. Defeated, I leave and tell Tanja about Bilgee’s condition so that she doesn’t get a fright at the start of her shift.

When she goes to the pasture at 3:00 a.m., Bilgee lies on the dry grass like a dead man and doesn’t notice how she sits down behind him to start her work. They don’t return to the yurt until 7:00 am. Bilgee is still drunk and frozen on the cold floor because of his sleep. He lights a fire in the small stove to warm himself and make hot tea. It doesn’t take long before the heat makes me jump off the mat and rush outside. Outside, I breathe in the fresh morning air. After 10 minutes, I start to shiver in the cool breeze and head back into the sauna.

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