Abandoned

Day: 340

Sunrise:
05:08

Sunset:
21:35

As the crow flies:
26,23

Daily kilometers:
32

Total kilometers:
1572

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
26°C

Temperature – day (minimum):
20 °C

Temperature – Night:
0 °C

Latitude:
50°41’698”

Longitude:
100°14’348”

Maximum height:
1654 m above sea level

On our onward journey today, I get up early to free the horses from their stakes. This gives them the chance to fill their bellies with even more green. At 9:15 a.m. I go to Khurgaa and Bumbayr’s tent. “Get up boys! Let’s go!” I shout. Nothing moves. “Get up! We’re riding on today!” I repeat my request. Again, my wake-up call goes unanswered. “Are they not even in the tent?” a thought runs through my mind. I take the whistle hanging around my neck to my lips and blow hard. The shrill whistle is sure to rouse every marmot and sloth from a deep sleep. “Uhhh?” it replies angrily. “Get up! Or do you want to sleep forever!” I shout again. A little later, the boys appear in a bad mood. “Did you go fishing again last night?” I ask. “Tijmee,” answers Khurgaa, yawning.

“All my limbs hurt. Do you have any painkillers?” whines Khurgaa, to which I dissolve two painkillers in a cup of water. “Ewww, that tastes awful,” he says and gives me the cup back half full. “Are you in pain or not?” I ask him, handing him the cup again. “Tijmee but you can’t drink that stuff.” “Don’t be like that. It’s not a sweet, it’s a painkiller. So get over it,” I urge him to tip the rest of the contents down his throat. He reluctantly empties the cup and shakes his head like a small child. Then he sets about warming his disgusting rancid soup on the fire. “Would you like some of that? There’s only a little fat in it,” he asks in a friendlier tone now that the tablets are taking effect. “Thanks, but I prefer our breakfast.” “Your disgusting porridge?” “This one exactly,” I reply and spoon the grains into my mouth.

Today Khurgaa and Bumbayr ride either far behind or far ahead of us. The unintelligible shrieks of their Mongolian rock keep coming over to us. “Sounds like Genghis Khan’s hordes are attacking a city,” I say to Tanja. “Be glad they’re not riding next to us,” she replies. “I suppose that’s the reason. That way they can fill their ears with this garbage undisturbed. But if we have any problems with the load, they won’t be there. Their work ethic is as bad as what they call music,” I reply sourly.

After about 10 kilometers we come to a gravel road and thus also to one or the other minibus filled with tourists. They get out and take photos of our horse-drawn train. As they point the camera at Khurgaa, he shouts; “No photos!” “Oh sorry,” stammers one of the startled tourists. “Where does he get this photophobia from?” I ask. “Maybe he wants to exert some power over those around him?” Tanja suspects. “Power?” I ask. “Yes. If you have nothing to say in life, the least you can do is decide whether you can take a photo or not. But maybe it’s just his vanity. You’ve probably noticed how often Khurgaa looks in his pocket mirror and picks at his face. Maybe he doesn’t find himself attractive and therefore constantly puts his hands in front of his face when he notices he is being photographed? Who knows? It is difficult to find out why he reacts this way. Khurgaa is a role model for Bumbayr. He’s just imitating his uncle. I’m sure of that. When we met a few days ago, he liked having his picture taken. He even posed properly,” says Tanja. “I think you’re right. It’s unusual for a Mongolian not to be photographed. At least most of them aren’t camera-shy,” I reply.

Because of the many fenced-in tourist camps that now appear every few hundred meters, it is not easy to find a suitable place to camp. Khurgaa suggests a narrow stretch of beach which is bordered by a small wood and offers hardly any food for our horses. “No,” Tanja says, pointing to the small amount of grass. “Our horses are still thin and need to be able to fill up at least at night.” “I’ll ride ahead and find a place to camp. You drive the horses now,” I say to Bumbayr and Khurgaa. Bumbayr refuses at first, but is whistled back by Tanja when he is about to follow me.

Just one kilometer further on, I find a beautiful meadow hidden behind a larch forest that cannot be seen from the gravel road. “Look at the sign. We’re not allowed to camp there,” says Khurgaa, pointing to a half-ruined board. “Private property,” he reads to me. Although the private ground could slide down my back at this moment, I give in. We ride on and after 32 kilometers and six riding hours we find a pasture right by the lake which is also difficult to spot from the road.

As soon as the animals are unloaded, Bumbayr lies down exhausted on the grass and falls asleep. Khurgaa, meanwhile, lights a fire to prepare a large pot with the last of the dried cow meat. Thinking nothing of it, I raise my camera to take a photo of the camp. “No photos!” Khurgaa shouts irritably and jumps out of the picture. “Why?” I ask in a hushed voice for the umpteenth time. “I don’t want that while I’m cooking”, he replies, to which I would love to throw him into the lake.

“Bumbayr won’t be riding with us to Mörön. That means our journey ends in Khatgal,” he says abruptly. “What? This is where the horse theft problem starts. We need you from today onwards,” I reply, puzzled. “We’re turning back,” he says. “But you really wanted to ride with us as far as Mörön. That’s the reason why we didn’t ask Bilgee to come to Khatgal. That’s what he suggested.” “Never mind, we’ll turn back from Khatgal.” “Khurgaa. We didn’t need you on the way from Riginlhumbe to here. Your presence is only needed from today onwards. Tonight is the first night we have to keep watch shifts. We agreed on that. Your sister translated that for you. So you’ve understood what it’s all about and why we’ve hired you,’ I explain, still relatively calmly. “We’re turning back.” “But why?” “Because there are horse thieves from here on and we’re afraid they might steal our horses,” his answer almost blows me away. “If we keep night watches, no one will steal our horses,” I reply in a dangerous tone. “We don’t keep a night watch. We turn back. There are thieves here. That’s too risky for us,” he baffles me again. I can feel a volcanic eruption brewing inside me. “You’re just abandoning us here now? That can’t be true? Have you not the slightest sense of honor? You let us pay you for two days’ rest only to offer to ride back the next day? What kind of person are you? It almost looks as if you had planned this from the start?” I snap at him. Furious, I get up and walk a few meters away, swearing loudly. “Denis, there’s no point in losing your temper,” Tanja admonishes me. “What a bastard! We’re nothing but a lifeless piece of crap to them!” I roar, storming towards the young man and wanting to punch him in the face. My anger is boundless. The tensions of the last few weeks break out. Although I know that Tanja is right, I can’t control myself for several minutes. I don’t know if Khurgaa senses that he’s about to get the biggest beating of his life. “Have you got nothing on your mind, you moron!” I shout at him and touch my forehead. “You chicken out at the first best challenge. You bloody coward. No guts in your bones, but always going for fat!” “Denis?” I hear Tanja’s voice and seconds later I have regained my composure.

“If they want to leave tomorrow, they won’t be keeping watch tonight either. At least we can’t rely on that. We should suggest they ride right now,” says Tanja. I think for a moment and nod in confirmation. “Okay Khurgaa. Do you want to go straight away?” Tanja asks him without further ado. “Tijmee,” he answers calmly. Good, then saddle your horses and leave.” “Money? We’ll get 110,000 Tugrik”, (73 euros / due to the fall in the euro exchange rate) he demands. Although they will no longer be available tonight and would therefore only receive 100,000 tugriks (€67), Tanja and Khurgaa agree on 105,000 tugriks. (70,- €) I don’t want to argue about the few euros. Besides, we’ll be riding through Khatgal in the next few days. It wouldn’t be wise to make enemies just before we reach this notorious place of thieves,” she argues.

Khurgaa saddles the horses with the tired Bumbayr. “How far is it to Khatgal?” Khurgaa asks me, knowing that my GPS tells me all about distances. “About 35 kilometers,” I answer dryly. “We’ll manage that today,” he says confidently, even though it’s already 7 p.m. “Are you going to sleep with your relatives?” asks Tanja in a friendly tone. “Tijmee,” he replies. “Tomorrow we’ll ride back to Ringinlhumbe. We’ll take the shortcut over the mountains and be home tomorrow evening,” he says. “Good luck then,” says Tanja. “I’ll ride by tomorrow at 11:00 a.m. and help you load the equipment,” he offers. “Will his guilty conscience stir now?” I ask myself, not believing a word he says. “I think he wants to get out of the affair without any further incidents,” Tanja suspects. “Probably,” I say.

The two of them quickly climbed into the saddles. Bumbayr looks down at the floor, embarrassed. “Daraa bajartaj!” (Goodbye) they shout and gallop off. As if their presence was just a ghost, we are suddenly alone. And in the middle of an area where we should never be alone under any circumstances. What a strange irony of fate. Although I have been toying with the idea of sending her home for some time, I feel abandoned and at the mercy of her in these seconds. An unpleasant feeling of vulnerability spreads through me.

“I’m going to sleep outside next to the horses tonight,” Tanja decides. “It’s far too damp right next to the lake,” I point out. “Never mind, I’ll put a tarpaulin over the sleeping bag.” “Okay,” I reply, thinking about the purpose of this action.

After some deliberation, our plan for the first night is set. We peg Mogi right next to Tanja. It should be our early warning system. Then I collect fist-sized and smaller stones. Stones can be dangerous projectiles, especially if you can throw them accurately like me. I place a small pile of stones next to Tanja’s sleeping mat and one next to the tent exit for me. Each of us owns a pepper spray which has saved my life at least three times during my and our travels together. We also have walking poles that are light and very stable. These are excellent cutting and stabbing weapons in an emergency. My secret weapon, however, is a flare launcher. Actually intended to shoot a flare into the air in an emergency to draw attention to itself. In our case, a very good weapon to strike fear into the hearts of horse thieves who don’t expect such a fireball shot in the night. “And God knows, if they come, I’ll teach them to be afraid,” I swear to myself.

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