Give him five minutes to smile

Day: 151

Sunrise:
09:25

Sunset:
17:16

Total kilometers:
1211

Soil condition:
Ice, snow

Temperature – Day (maximum):
minus 28°C

Temperature – day (minimum):
minus 30°C

Temperature – Night:
minus 36°C

Latitude:
51°21’785”

Longitude:
099°21’046”

Maximum height:
1475 m above sea level

We had a restless night because of the hassle about firewood, especially the excessive travel costs. Nevertheless, we stoically pack our home into boxes like an ox. I don’t know where we get our confidence from, but regardless of the circumstances, we expect to set off soon for our main goal of this expedition. “Tsendmaa wanted to come by at 9:30 to tell us what Ayush has decided?” I ask Tanja, who is packing part of her kitchen into tin boxes. “You know what it’s like here.” “What’s it like here?” “Well, there’s no time,” she replies. “Hm, that’s right. So let’s take it easy,” I try to react calmly to the tricky situation. Suddenly I feel better. “What the hell, we’ll go later then. We won’t be put under pressure. It’s the same as always. We have an appointment in our heads that may have nothing to do with the reality of the outside world and if something comes up, we get in a bad mood. But it’s just an idea, a fiction, pure imagination. If this date doesn’t work out, then another one will. Who knows what another postponement of the departure date will save us from?” I say, sensing more and more how Ayush is losing his price poker. I can feel all power being taken out of his hands. Because if he was able to exert any pressure on us at all, it was only because we authorized him to do so with our own behaviour,” I explain the situation to myself and Tanja. “These are good thoughts. I feel the same way. Then we won’t celebrate Christmas and the turn of the year with the Tuwa. We’ll survive,” she agrees.

It is 11:00 a.m. when Tsendmaa arrives in our yurt. “Oh, it doesn’t look nice at your place anymore. Everything is in such a mess and packed in boxes,” she says with a friendly smile and a slight groan as she takes a seat on the aluminum box. Tsendmaa asks for a piece of paper and writes a number on it. “150.000? Does that mean your old man has accepted?” I ask incredulously. “Yes. He just has to talk to Jock. But you know who wears the pants. So that shouldn’t be a problem,” we understand her Mongolian. “That’s great. That makes us very happy. Then we can set off soon,” I say.

As soon as Tsendmaa has left our home, Shagai appears. We offer him tea and cookies and report that we have reached an agreement with Ayush. “Then we’re leaving today?” he wants to know. “No, Jock has to agree first. But Tsendmaa thinks the matter is as good as decided. I think it will start tomorrow or the day after. I’ll give you a call. “Oh, Shagai?” “Yes?” “Please come alone. We don’t need any more men to help. We are enough to dismantle and rebuild everything. If we still need help, the Tuwa in the taiga will support us,” I say with a self-assurance and natural authority that Shagai accepts without hesitation. Then he places his rifle with us. “I’ll take it with me to the taiga. No problem storing it with you until tomorrow?” “No. Is it loaded?” I ask. “There are no bullets in it,” he replies. “It’s a big caliber. Do you hunt bears with it?” “Not at this time of year. They’re in hibernation then. But I always get squirrels in front of the shotgun,” he explains. “Squirrels of this caliber? Is there anything left when you hit them?” I wonder. “I blow their heads off with it. Then the fur stays intact,” he explains with a laugh. “How much is a fur like this worth?” “Oh, I usually get 5,000 tugrik (€2.85) for it. “And how much does a cartridge cost you?” “2,500 tugrik.” “Not exactly a good deal. Why don’t you hunt with a small caliber? Wouldn’t that be much more lucrative?” “Yes, but I only have one gun,” Shagai replies, to which I respond with an “Oh, right”.

In the evening, the price of the truck, including wages and the extra load of wood, is still 150,000 tugrik. “I’ll pay you 75,000 tugrik. You’ll get the rest when we’re safely back in the taiga,” I explain to Ayush. “Ügüj” (“No”) is his resolute, irrefutable, very precisely formulated answer. “You’re paying 150,000 tugrik now. We’ll buy oil and petrol for that,” I understand. “What if your truck stops halfway?” I ask cautiously. Ayush reacts with another clear silence. Although we have not always had the best experiences with advance payments, I have no other option. I count the bills into Ayush’s hand and he gives me a five-minute smile. He takes the money, presses it against his forehead and lets it disappear into the lockable drawer next to his wooden chair. I shake his hand to seal the deal. He looks me kindly in the eye for the first time in a long time. His handshake is surprisingly firm for his age. Tseden-ish, who is almost deaf, sits next to her husband and also holds out her withered hand to me. I take her in my arms and also thank her for the happy business deal. She babbles something incomprehensible and smiles too. As we have learned in recent weeks, she is also more inclined towards money than it seems. “We start tomorrow at 8 a.m.,” says Ayus in Russian. “Najm tsag”, (8:00 am) I reply in Mongolian to confirm. “Tawtaj nojrsooroj”, (“Good night”) I say goodbye. Then I leave them and walk across the crunching snow to our yurt behind the log cabin.

At 2:00 a.m., a stomach ache forces me into the bitterly cold night. Ice crystals flicker through the clear air in the light of my headlamp. The sky is cloudless and full of bright stars. A beautiful sight if it weren’t for my stomach ache. I crunch across the snow to Ayush’s dilapidated outhouse and stand in a strenuous squatting position over the slit in the board. It takes a while for my stomach cramps to ease. Shivering, I hurry back to our yurt, where it’s already minus 15°C at this time of day. I quickly slip under my sleeping bag and breathe myself warm again. “Sounds like diarrhea,” says a sleepy voice next to me. “Yes,” I answer curtly. “Bad?” “I’m fine. But my testicles now hurt like I’ve burnt them. I think I stood on the windy slit of the toilet for too long and froze to death,” I reply meekly.

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