Have we hired a moron?

Day: 327

Sunrise:
05:06

Sunset:
21:39

As the crow flies:
14,81

Daily kilometers:
23

Total kilometers:
1435

Soil condition:
Grass, stone

Temperature – Day (maximum):
22 °C

Temperature – day (minimum):
18 °C

Temperature – Night:
5 °C

Latitude:
51°13’465”

Longitude:
099°25’131”

Maximum height:
1705 m above sea level

Finally in deep sleep for days. Suddenly, the ringing of my cell phone snaps me out of my reverie. “Denis. Please come right away. There are two men on their motorcycle right in front of me. Sain bajtsgaana uu (Good afternoon) she explains in a controlled manner and greets the men while talking to me on the phone. “I’ll be right with you,” I reply, shooting off the mattress. I’m just getting dressed and about to leave the yurt when my cell phone rings again. “The all-clear. They’ve driven on. They gave me a real fright. They drove straight at me on their motorcycle. I jumped to the side because at first I thought they were going to run me over. Then the driver stopped just a few centimetres in front of me and spoke to me. It was a good idea of you to hold Mogi by the collar. I think they thought it would protect them from our dog. I had my cell phone to my ear in my other hand and was talking to you. If they were up to something bad, they were scared off. I also had the pepper gas. That’s what I would have served them next,” Tanja explains, still excited. “Are you all right?” I ask anxiously because I know how scary a night watch can be. Especially when you get unexpected visits from drunks. “Yes, yes. The men drove off. I was able to follow the tail light of the motorcycle for a long time”. “Okay, call me at the slightest unusual movement,” I say and can no longer fall asleep because of what has happened.

As we want to leave Tsagaan Nuur today, we wake up Odonbaatar at 8:00 am. We have a simple breakfast. Then I start packing all our equipment into the duffel bags and courier bags. Mogi, who finally enjoys his freedom here and is not on a chain, jumps excitedly around us. Suddenly I hear clamoring. Mogi races past me, holding his prey securely in his mouth. Dalai comes around the corner and points excitedly at our dog. “Mogi! Come here at once! This can’t be true,” I say as he sits down submissively in front of me. With pointed fingers, I take a pair of shitty children’s pants out of his mouth and carry the unsightly thing to Dalai, who thanks me kindly.

At 12:00 everything is stowed away and ready to be loaded onto the horses’ backs. “Poor loading technique,” says Odonbaatar and wants to tie the large duffel bags crosswise onto the horses’ backs instead of lengthwise. “Initially, we also packed the bags crosswise. But they kept slipping. This loading technique has held up well for 1,500 kilometers so far. Bilgee developed it,” I explain and don’t let myself be put off. This is one reason why Odonbaatar’s commitment to help is almost completely dormant. He is now standing next to me and barely lifts a finger. “Well that could be fun,” I say quietly in my own language. Shagai says goodbye to us. “See you in ten years,” he jokes. “Who knows,” I reply with a laugh. His wife Dalai is sad to see us go. “Take care of yourselves. And thank you for everything you’ve given us,” she says. “You’re welcome. Thank you for your hospitality. My time with you was carefree and happy,” I reply, thinking about the difficult life with Ayush.

Although we have slimmed down massively on equipment, Sharga, Tenger and Bor are still heavily loaded. At 13:30 we leave a place without our bilgee for the first time on this long journey. A dog immediately snaps at our heels. “When he realizes that he’s not getting anything from us, he’ll soon turn back,” I say, not knowing at this point what stamina this dog will show.

Because Naraa is still too weak, Tanja doesn’t want to ride her. For reasons of solidarity, I also lead my Sar behind me, although we have agreed that Tanja and I will ride him alternately. As we cross the first mountain, which borders Tsagaan Nuur in the north-east, two drunks are lying in the dirt again. But the two are so close that they don’t even try to mount their buck again.

After a four-hour walk, we reach a wide river. The ferryman takes our horses safely across the water. On the other side, in a bend in the river, we find the lushest grass we’ve seen in ten months. Odonbaatar scouts out the bend. When he comes back he says; “No good grass. We have to move on.” “What? No good grass?”, I say in amazement, because from our vantage point at the bend in the river, it is bursting with green. “Besides, we can’t cross the side arm of the river here. It’s too deep for the horses. We have to go around it,” he explains, pointing to a lake into which the side arm flows. “Hold my horse and Mogi, please,” I say to Tanja, now taking a look at the bend myself. When I get there, I think I’m in paradise. The greenest grass of all time. Horse feed for at least one week. What’s more, there’s firewood lying around everywhere. I take a thin tree trunk to check the depth of the side arm. At its shallowest point, it is barely more than half a meter deep. Shaking my head, I walk back to Tanja and Odonbaatar. When I tell Tanja about the fantastic feeding grounds and the ford, Odonbaatar is already moving on. “Let’s stay here,” I say, to which he doesn’t respond. “He said it’s much better over there,” says Tanja. “Better? It can’t be any better than here,” I reply, irritated by our horse man’s strange reaction. “He’ll know where it’s good. After all, he’s from the area,” Tanja tries to reassure me. “I don’t think he knows where it’s good. I don’t understand him,” I say angrily, following him. “If you think it’s better here, call him back,” Tanja urges me. “What the hell,” I reply grumpily, continuing to follow the man.

Only five minutes later we reach a camp site that doesn’t offer nearly as much lush grass. When we have unloaded all the horses, I discover a nasty bruise on one of Bor’s vertebrae. “Looks bad,” I say and show the injury to our horseman. “Dsügeer, dsügeer”, (okay, okay) he just says and turns away. “Nothing’s any different here,” I get annoyed. “I think I should saddle the horses myself from tomorrow,” I say, looking at the eaten grass at our campsite. “Maybe the green grass in the bend isn’t suitable for horses?” I ask now, unsure. As the river is only 100 meters away from us and I discover the same green grass on the opposite bank as in the river bend that our husband had spurned, I ask Odonbaatar if the grass over there is only good for cattle and sheep but not for horses. “Very good food for horses,” he replies, to which I am even more confused. “So either he’s not quite right in the head or he’s up to something,” I suspect. “Why?” asks Tanja. Well, because it leads us from very good feeding grounds to this grazed pasture. Because the ford there is passable and because the firewood in that place is also decidedly better than here,” I reply. As soon as the luggage is unloaded, our man is hungry. He doesn’t even want to wait until the tents are erected. It must be eaten immediately. “Right, then we’ll just eat straight away and set up the tents later,” I give in, wondering who’s the boss here and why we have this person with us at all.

After the first hunger pangs are satisfied, I set up our large tent. Then I carry all the equipment inside. Odonbaatar doesn’t even think about helping me with the towing and I’m too proud to have to order his every move. Then I show him how to pitch his tent. After it is ready to move in, I give him the sleeping mat so that he doesn’t have to lie on the bare floor. As soon as his camp is ready, he crawls in to lie down. “And who looks after the horses?” I ask. “There are no thieves here,” is his answer. “How do you know that?” “It’s my home. I know my way around here. Besides, I know everyone here. Nobody steals my horses. If one goes missing, all I have to do is call my people. Then we’ll get the horse back,” he explains, zippers up and lies down. “And when are you planning on flocking the horses?” I ask through the canvas. “At 11 p.m.” “Then it’s too dark. We still have to get them ready for the night in daylight,” I reply, but I don’t get an answer. I stand there puzzled and don’t know how to react. “He just left me standing there,” I say when I get back to Tanja. “Didn’t he at least want to water the horses?” she asks. “From the looks of it, no.” “Well, we’ll have to do that then,” she replies, whereupon we lead our animals to the river so that they can quench their thirst.

Tuya jumps around excitedly and plays. He seems to be the only one who likes this stage of the journey. Curious, he goes to the small tent where Odonbaatar is resting and nibbles at the tent cords. Odonbataar comes shooting out of his den and slaps our little one on the butt with the flat of his hand. Tuya opens his eyes and runs to his mom, startled. “No! Stop it!” Tanja and I shout at the same time. Now we know why Tuya has become shy in the last few days. “That moron is beating our baby,” I grumble. “Uutschlal,” he apologizes and disappears back into the tent.

I wake Odonbaatar up at 22:00. “It’s time to fetch the horses and get them ready,” I say. After a while, he actually comes out of the tent, sits down on a hill and remains there, transfixed. “Either he’s fallen asleep or he’s listening to music on his cell phone,” I guess, pointing at the silhouette. Tanja and I gather our horses together and hitch them to the ropes, which are about 10 meters long, near the tent. In this way, each animal has a large radius in which to eat its fill. But to give the horses the opportunity to eat even more, I will get up at night and in the morning to move the hooks. Actually the job of the horseman. But he is still sitting on his little hill like a pillar of salt. I slowly walk over to him to see what he’s up to, because meditation is certainly a foreign concept to this person. As I get closer I notice his shoulders and head slumped forward. Apparently Odonbaatar can fall into a deep sleep in any position at any time

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