Left out in the rain

Day: 330

Sunrise:
05:05

Sunset:
21:39

Total kilometers:
1469

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
17 °C

Temperature – day (minimum):
14 °C

Temperature – Night:
5 °C

Latitude:
51°06’521”

Longitude:
099°40’726”

Maximum height:
1539 m above sea level

7:00 am. The zipper of our tent opens noisily. “Odonbaatar?” I call out because I can’t see the person through the partitioned-off sleeping chamber. “Tijmee,” he replies, putting the sleeping mat in the awning. “Are you okay?” “Tijmee.” “And the horses are all here?” “Tijmee.” “Good, are you going to breakfast?” “Tijmee.” “And then back to the horses?” “Tijmee.” “Very good,” I reply, satisfied. It seems that the words of his older brother and his mother have actually borne fruit. Reassured, I turn around again. At 8:00 a.m. I get a little restless. “Is Odonbaatar with the horses?” asks Tanja, waking from her sleep at the same moment. “I don’t know. He went to breakfast an hour ago. He promised to go back to the pasture afterwards,” I say. “Don’t you believe him?” asks Tanja. “I’d like to believe him, but after our experiences over the last few days, I’d better check, wouldn’t you?” “Good idea,” says Tanja, which is why I peel myself out of my sleeping bag, step into the continuous rain that has been falling for almost 24 hours and walk to the Baishin. As expected, the prince has made himself comfortable on the sofa. “It’s not good if you stay here too long. Someone has to be with the horses all the time,” I admonish him. “There are no horse thieves during the day,” he replies. “Firstly, that’s not true and secondly, you promised me an hour ago that you would go back to the pasture.” “Nobody steals horses here during the day,” he persists. “Your mother talked about how important it is to keep a constant eye on the animals around Ringinlhumbe,” I reply, to which he remains silent. Then he hands me his cell phone, at the other end of which his brother is waiting for me. “It’s enough if the horses are in the pasture at night. During the day they are to be tied up on my brother-in-law’s property,” I hear Boldor say, who speaks reasonable English. “Did your brother say that?” I ask. “Yes.” “Is that a good idea?” “Ondonbaatar knows what he’s talking about,” says Boldor. Tanja, who overhears the phone call, is against it. “Horses urgently need to be out on pasture day and night. Otherwise they won’t gain an ounce. Ondonbaatar is just too lazy to watch them. I’ll take turns with him every two hours during the day,” she suggests. “Okay, I’ll tell my brother and he’ll take care of the horses,” Boldor promises. Odonbaatar’s mother also thinks Tanja’s suggestion is very good and also talks to her youngest.

Because we assume our horses are suffering from mange again, we send Odonbaatar to the vet. He is supposed to get a vaccine there. After three hours he comes back with a bottle of oil which we are supposed to apply to the affected areas. “We don’t need oil, we need a vaccine,” I say. Since he doesn’t understand or doesn’t want to understand, I call Bilgee who in turn explains to Odonbaatar which medication the horses need. While Tanja has been staying with the horses in the pouring rain for four hours now, Odonbaatar disappears again without making another appearance that day. After five hours, I ask his sister where he is. “I don’t know,” she replies a little snippily. “You must know where your brother went, right? His job is the horses. We pay him a good salary of 15,000 tugrik (€8.57) a day. That’s a third more than our last horseman received and he looked after the animals in an exemplary manner 24 hours a day,” I say angrily. “Is my brother muu?” (bad) “Your brother may be a nice person but he’s doing a damn bad job. He’s unreliable and constantly swindles us,” I explain, not mincing my words. The woman, whose complicated to pronounce name I keep forgetting, doesn’t show the slightest reaction to my open answer.

As I sit in the baishin and type my notes into the laptop, Odonbaatar’s brother-in-law calls me again and again in an imperious tone. Interrupting my work, I put on my rain jacket and step outside to help the man and his son mark the rough tree trunks. “Is this a new Baishin?” I ask. “Tijmee,” he replies and orders, “Hold this.” “Reluctantly, because of the commanding tone, I hold a tin box with a spool on which a long, thick wire is rolled. The wire lies in an oil mixture and is rolled lengthwise over the tree trunk. In this way, the wire dripping with oil leaves a straight black line on the tree trunk. Once the trunk has been marked in this way, it can now be sawn into two relatively precise halves with the chainsaw. “We have to heave the trunk over there,” says Odonbaatar’s brother-in-law after it has been marked. Because I don’t want to ruin my back lifting tree trunks weighing tons, I say: “Sorry, but my back can’t handle it.” “Ha, ha, ha! His back can’t do it,” he says scornfully and tries to move the colossus into position with his 13-year-old son.

Because I can’t generate any solar power due to the constant rain, I sit back down in the baishin after my auxiliary work, plug my laptop into the socket and continue my work. In the meantime, I call Tanja and ask if I should relieve her. “Keep writing. I’ll wait a little longer. Maybe Odonbaatar will turn up after all,” she replies. Then Odonbaatar’s sister comes back into the hut. She has two friends in tow who look at me curiously and constantly ask questions about me. “How old is he anyway?” I ask. “52”, I reply, because I’m starting to feel like a strange object that is constantly being observed. Startled by my answer, the questioner flinches. “Does he understand Mongolian?” the woman now asks the hostess, smiling a little sheepishly. “I understand a little,” I reply. “Hi, hi, hi,” she laughs, whereupon the two visitors immediately pepper me with more questions. “Sorry, I don’t speak your language well,” I now reply apologetically, because the complexity of the communication that is emerging is beyond my current vocabulary. The landlord’s wife offers tea to her friends and leaves me out. An impossibility in the land of hospitality. After the food is distributed among those present and I am ignored again, I get up from my chair. Realizing that I am not wanted, I leave the baishin and retreat into the damp tent.

My cell phone rings. “Denis?” “Yes?” Can you relieve me, please. I’m hungry and I’m cold,” says Tanja after sitting in the rain for 7 ½ hours. “But of course. I’ll be right there,” I reply, getting ready for the rain that is currently trying to drown the country after the long drought. As I sit in the pasture, I phone Bilgee and Saraa to pour my heart out. “We can’t possibly go on with this person. He’ll drive us mad. We’ll give him notice tomorrow morning and leave without him. We don’t need such an unreliable, impudent, constantly lying person. It’s better, easier, certainly quicker and easier on the nerves to continue the journey alone. Horse thieves or not,” I say. “You don’t know the shortcut over the mountains,” replies Bilgee. “Never mind. Then we’ll take the way we came with you last year. According to my map study, it can’t be much longer. We’ve already completed other expeditions without the support of the locals. Apparently that’s how fate would have it,” I say. “My work will be over in seven days. I’ll come if you want me to,” Bilgee’s answer surprises me. However, as we will be on our way to Khatgal in seven days’ time and the journey from Erdenet to this region of the country alone will take at least three days, I thank him and decline his offer for the time being. “Denis, you mustn’t travel alone. It’s too dangerous. I’m worried about you. Please talk to Saraa. I’m sure she’ll find someone for you,” I hear Bilgee’s caring voice. “I’ve already done that. She’ll call back soon,” I reassure him.

“I have an old school friend in Ringinlhumbe. She’s the head of the local tax office. Maybe she can help you? I’ll find her phone number and call you back,” Saraa promises. “Great, thank you very much,” I reply. An hour later, my cell phone rings again. “I was able to reach my school friend. She will help you,” I hear, and because everything changes from one second to the next in this country, I take this statement relatively unemotionally. “I’m sitting in the pasture right now, watching the horses. Please call Tanja and give her your friend’s phone number. She can then get in touch with her,” I say. “I will,” Saraa replies and hangs up.

Meanwhile, Tanja is sitting in the Baishin and is treated as coldly as I am. Due to a power cut, she is forced to boil water on the cannon stove. The landlord only gives her wet bark to light the fire. The mother jumps in and gets Tanja some firewood. Then Saraa calls and gives Tanja her friend’s contact details. She wants to know where to find Tanja so that she can meet her. Tanja hands her phone to the landlord. “Who are you? The job’s already gone to my brother-in-law!” he yells angrily into the phone. When the family learns that Odonbaatar is about to lose his job, they all get excited and agitated. Only 10 minutes later Odonbaatar’s mother appears in the pasture and wants to relieve me. At first I didn’t understand what the old lady meant. “I’ll take over for my son. He’ll be back tonight. You can go about your business until then. Tomorrow Odonbaatar will leave with you for Mörön,” she says. “Okay,” I reply, surprised at the sudden help. When I am back in our tent, Tanja tells me how friendly and attentive the family members were after the phone call. “As if someone had flipped the light switch. Nobody wants Odonbaatar to lose his job,” she explains.

That same evening, Tanja is picked up by the head of the tax office and driven to a hut outside Ringinlhumbe on a motorcycle.

“You won’t believe it,” Tanja says on the phone a little later. “I’m currently sitting in an old baishin east of Ringinlhumbe with a very nice family. It’s nothing like the place we’re staying in at the moment. The 15-year-old son of Saraa’s friend and his 25-year-old uncle are keen to accompany us to Mörön. I have a good feeling about them, but you have to decide whether you want to go with a 15-year-old?” “Hm, the 25-year-old doesn’t want to go alone?” I ask. “No, they both want to come with us. Maybe that’s a good thing. Then they won’t get bored. Besides, two are better than one. I’ve already told them to only pay one man. They agree to share the 15,000 tugrik between them. Besides, they bring their own horses and take care of their own meat. That means we can ride again and they won’t be unhappy with the food.” “Hm, sounds almost too good to be true. I think we’ll do it with them. If it doesn’t work out again, it’s our destiny to travel alone.” “I agree with you. So should I say yes?” “Yes. Have them here tomorrow morning at 10:00. Then we can see right away if they are on time and how they load the equipment,” I decide. “Good, they’ll be delighted. The little one is on fire. They also agree to the salary, but they want 20,000 tugrik (€11.42) a day from Khatgal to Mörön.” “If they do a good job, we’ll be happy to pay that,” I reply. “A good decision. I think the same. By the way, the place where the family built their log cabin is beautiful. What do you think about relaxing here for another day or two? We could rest a little from the exertions of the last few days before we set off. The family would like 10,000 tugrik (€5.71) a day. In return, they will look after our horses.” “We pay 5,000 tugrik (€2.85) a day,” I reply. “Good, I think they’ll go for it,” Tanja ends the conversation.

Immediately after the extremely positive news, I set off in a good mood to the lush pasture to relieve Odonbaatar’s mother again. She is actually still sitting on the wet grass and has her watchful eyes on our horses. “I’ll carry on. You can warm up in your baishin again. Thank you very much. You’re a great woman,” I praise the 65-year-old whose veins obviously still have real nomadic blood flowing through them.

Because Odonbaatar still hasn’t shown up, Tanja and I bring our small herd to his sister’s property at 10 pm. As the horses have not been able to fill their bellies for 10 months like they have in the last 24 hours, it doesn’t matter if they are tied up now. The main thing is that they are not stolen overnight. “A good decision,” agrees Odonbaatar’s mother. “Soon all the residents of this city will bring their animals into the safety of fences at night. There is a lot of theft here,” she confirms our caution once again.

We look forward to your comments!