As if I had sat on a fire jellyfish

Day: 403

Sunrise:
06:21

Sunset:
19:54

Total kilometers:
2373

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
10 °C

Temperature – day (minimum):
8 °C

Temperature – Night:
minus 6 °C

Latitude:
48°56’096”

Longitude:
102°47’680”

Maximum height:
1550 m above sea level

Constant rain lets damp cold into our tent. We lie down and listen to the monotonous drumming of the drops of water falling onto the canvas. “Even if we had wanted to, we couldn’t go any further,” says Tanja. “That’s right. So it’s a good day to rest,” I reply. At around 11:00 a.m. we fire up our petrol stove and heat up water for, what else, fresh grain porridge. Then, for a change, there are the remaining, what else, Mongolian cookies. “I’m so sick of this food,” I moan, surely having reached the lowest weight of my life. “Tell me about it,” replies Tanja, whose body also doesn’t have an ounce of fat on it. If things go on like this, we could rival Mahatma Gandhi. He was also so thin because of his constant fasting,’ I joke and ask melancholically if we still have any chocolate in our supplies. “Where are you thinking?” “Well, chocolate. Although even that’s running out my ears.” During a short break in the rain, we are visited by a shepherdess whose baishin is only about 300 meters from our tent. “My name is Setseg,” she introduces herself and hands us a bag of Aruul (curd cheese dried in the sun). In desperation, I keep reaching into the old plastic bag to shove piece after piece of the not-so-good-tasting and rock-hard curd into my mouth. “You shouldn’t eat so much of it,” Tanja admonishes me. “Oh, leave me alone. I’ll eat as much as I want,’ I reply defiantly, taking another sour-smelling piece.

Setseg invites us to drink airag in her baishin. “You go ahead. I’m going to cook myself some pasta,” I say to Tanja. As soon as she’s gone, I cook pasta. As there is no sauce or anything else to go with them, I fry them in the pan after cooking for a change and sprinkle a little salt on top. To my delightful surprise, I find a bottle of seasoning ketchup in our almost used-up groceries. I pour plenty of the spicy liquid onto my fried noodles. As if I’m starving, I shove at least three bowls of pasta behind my gills until I finally feel full. When Tanja returns, I lie on my sleeping mat to rest my completely overstuffed stomach. “Are you not feeling well?” she asks. “Great. I’m just resting a bit,” I reply, hiding the first stomach cramps. 20 minutes later, I shoot out of the tent. “What’s wrong?” “Gotta go,” I say and run out onto the wet prairie to be punished for my defiance and feeding frenzy. After sneaking into the wet for the fourth time, I’m as meek as a whipped dog. “Let me guess. Aruul?” asks Tanja. “Aruul,” I reply, barely audible. “Bad?” “Terribly bad. It’s not just the Aruul but also the stupid red spicy sauce. My bottom feels like I’ve sat in a jellyfish,” I moan, whereupon Tanja lets out a muffled but then hearty laugh. “There’s nothing to laugh about. I’m suffering.” “Sorry, but that just sounds too funny.” “Nothing is funny. It burns like hell.” “Ha, ha, haaaa, Uuhhaaa, ha, ha!” I hear her laugh, pulling my sleeping bag over my head.

Because I can hardly move due to my burning butt, Tanja takes over the guard shift for me. The clouds are swept away by the cold north wind. The Milky Way glitters above our tent and the thermometer drops to minus 6 °C again. At 2:00 a.m., my maltreated stomach forces me back into the frosty darkness to torture my battered backside. I step carelessly into Mogi’s pile of shit. That too. Then I sneak back to our sleeping area as wide-legged as I can.

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