Hospitality to the point of unconsciousness

Day: 397-399

Sunrise:
06:18/06:20

Sunset:
20:11/20:07

Total kilometers:
2273

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
18°C/26 °C

Temperature – day (minimum):
15° C/18 °C

Temperature – Night:
minus 3 °C/8 °C

Latitude:
49°02’891”

Longitude:
101°50’645”

Maximum height:
1482 m above sea level

As soon as we wake up and crawl out of our sleeping bags, Gangsuch comes to visit us. “Did you sleep well?” he asks kindly. “Very good and deep,” Tanja replies. “You can do that too. There are no horse thieves in our valley,” he says and sits down on the ground in the awning. “Would you like some tea?” asks Tanja. “Gladly,” he replies. We chat as best our language skills allow. When Gangsuch has learned more about us, he invites us to his yurt for lunch. “I’ll send the children when the food is ready,” he says as he says goodbye.

We are actually called at lunchtime. Although we don’t tolerate Mongolian food particularly well because of its fat content, we are delighted to have been invited. As soon as we take our seats in the yurt, a woman called Nirgui serves us fresh cream puffs from a large aluminum bowl. This is accompanied by suutei tsai (salted milk tea), aruul (dried curd), cookies and airag (fermented mare’s milk). I carefully take everything but the cream. I prefer to leave them because of the pure fat content. I still remember our first stay in Mongolia with horror. The food made me so ill that after a few weeks I fell off my horse from weakness and we consulted a llama who had to pray me back to health. “Hm, very good,” we praise the food served to us. “Have some more of the Airag,” Nirgui offers me. She hands me the greasy bowl from which everyone present drinks. Even though I’ve mentioned this many times, I can’t get used to it. Even the 76-year-old grandpa, who is lying ill in bed, shakily lifts his head, puts his pale lips over the edge of the bowl and drinks from it, drooling. I can’t even look at it or I’ll feel instantly sick. “Come drink,” says Nirgui, taking the bowl from the lips of the grandpa called Purseen and passing it to me. “Thank you, I’m full,” I decline. The bowl is placed on the low table next to the cannon stove. Two-year-old Ganghoo crawls past and sticks his fingers into the airag. General laughter. Then Nirgui’s brother grabs the bowl, takes a big sip and offers it to me again. “Oh thank you, I’m really full.” The mare’s milk is immediately poured from the bucket at the bottom using a ladle. As we unforgivably did not have a hepatitis vaccination before the trip, we are certainly at risk of catching this virus. I can only hope that this family is not infected with the virus and sip my tea.

“Let’s go to my sister’s yurt,” Gangsuch asks us after half an hour. “Your sister?” I ask uncertainly. “Yes, that’s where my wife and sister prepared lunch,” he replies kindly. “Lunch?” I whisper to Tanja. She doesn’t let on and we follow Gangsuch, his wife and a few other guests.

Again, we are offered a place on the honorary side of the yurt, right next to the Buddha altar. Urensetseg, Gangsuch’s wife, serves us small plates. She prepared extra buuz (meat-filled dumplings) in our honor. Tanja and I take two or three of them on the plate. “Take more. Eat, eat and enjoy it”, she urges us not to be so reserved. To be honest, I’m not reluctant, I’m fed up. Regardless of this, the buuz are also filled with fatty sheep meat, the intense smell of which doesn’t exactly motivate me to cram more of it into my already overloaded stomach. As a vegetarian on a break, Tanja enjoys these Buutz and is more than happy to comply with the hostess’s request. “I can’t understand why you like them so much,” I say, shaking my head. “Take Denis, take some more Buuz!” Urensetseg calls out. “Oh, I’m really full,” I reply, thanking him warmly for the food. “After dinner, nermel Arkhi is just the thing,” says Gangsuch and hands me a mug of schnapps made from mares. “Bairlalaa,” I thank him, bringing the small vessel to my lips. The cheesy, rancid taste is more for enthusiasts, but I still take a sip. “Well, you have to finish your drink,” he urges me, whereupon I bravely empty the container. Then the drink goes to Tanja who tips it behind the pads as if it were a sip of water. “Tastes a bit strange,” she says. “Strange? Well, you’re good. It tastes terrible,” I reply. As soon as the words have passed my lips, I’m already holding the next full glass. To avoid being asked to do it again, this time I immediately pour the stuff down my throat. Again and again, the small kraal is filled to overflowing and makes the rounds. Everyone, including Grandma, hangs their snout in and empties the Mongolian delicacy into their gullet. The laughter intensifies from round to round. Slowly the swill gets into my brain too. Every now and then I lift the camera to my eyes and take a picture. Another sister immediately places her twins on her lap and laughs readily and joyfully into the lens. No one here is shy about taking photos. On the contrary, I am even asked to take photos of the brother-in-law, the guest who has just arrived and grandma. “Hi, hi, hi! Ha, ha, ha!”, it sounds like rifle whistles. “We have to be careful. In the end, the stuff not only causes intoxication but also diarrhea,” I warn Tanja, who is also sitting next to me laughing and with bright red cheeks. Even if the food and drink on offer is not to our taste, we enjoy the generosity and exceptional hospitality of these yurt dwellers to the full.

Since we are no longer traveling with disturbed Mongolian companions, the journey has changed completely. Strangely enough, we experience much more hospitality and meet friendly, helpful people throughout. What’s more, this results in a real wild freedom that is sometimes exciting but immensely satisfying. No one interferes with my search for a camp anymore, no one thinks the fire pit is bad or the water too far away, etc. Because we have been completely self-reliant since then, our relationship with our horses has grown even stronger. I would even say that it helps us understand horse behavior better. The saddle construction was also an important task for me which, as they work perfectly, fills my adventurous heart with a little pride. Of course, we don’t know if it’s really due to traveling alone, but we are happy to have been able to experience a different Mongolia over the last few months. As long as everything goes well, it is the greatest thing to be able to travel without other people because everyone has a different character, different peculiarities and needs that require us to be willing to compromise. Now, on the other hand, we lead a life without compromise, a life of true independence, independence and freedom.

“Come on, you can still drink that one,” Gangsuch’s voice floats to my ears. “Oh, I can’t take any more. I’m all woozy already. What percentage does the Arkhi actually have?” I ask. “About 10 to 12 percent,” answers Gangsuch, which makes me wonder why I’m so tipsy from the few cups. But it seems we’re not the only ones who get carried away. The brother of Nirgui and Urensetseg was already lying unconscious on the ground before we arrived. Shinooder has certainly tipped too many of these cups. Every now and then he grunts strangely, sits up, laughs at us, only to lie down again. Before we lose control of our minds like he did, we manage to turn down the upcoming rounds of milkshakes and float back to our tent. “Oh man am I together. Aren’t you?” I ask Tanja. “I’m fine,” she replies with a laugh

In the late afternoon we watch Urensetseg and Nirgui milking the mares. Afterwards, the various family members visit us. Shinooder has also woken up from his unconsciousness and is sitting with us in the awning. “Do you have stomach medicine?” he asks us. “Do you have a stomach ache?” I reply. “Oh yes, too much Arkhil,” he groans. I give him two bullrich salt pills. He says thank you and sneaks off again. Just half an hour later, I shoot out of my chair to relieve myself in a hollow in the ground. “Are you not feeling well?” asks Tanja worriedly. “I feel sick, in the truest sense of the word sick,” I reply meekly.

The next day, there is no question of setting off. I am completely drained of energy because of the fatty food and most probably also because of the milk schnapps. I spend most of my time on the sleeping mat. I am not able to write myself on this day. Our hosts are delighted that our stay has been extended and want to celebrate with a round of horse milk schnapps and fermented mare’s milk from the Kumis. “Oh, thank you very much, but I have to recover from yesterday’s party first,” I reply, to which everyone laughs heartily. “Here, this will help you,” says Gangsuch and hands me a bowl of rich noodle soup with goat meat. It is impossible to refuse. Without showing how the smell of the dripping goat fat alone makes my hair stand on end, I take a few spoonfuls. “Do you like a bit of Airag? That couldn’t hurt?” “Thank you, better not today,” I say and manage to say goodbye again.

Because I was out of action yesterday, we decide to stay for the day. “I have to at least record the experiences of the last few days,” I say to Tanja. “That’s fine with me. We’ve traveled enough in the last 13 months,” she replies contentedly about the rest day. Spooning my sandwich into cocoa, I look out of the tent and see the two sisters milking their cows. “I’m still missing that,” I say. “What are you missing?” “Pictures of cows being milked.” “Then go and take a picture of Nirgui and Urensetseg. I’m sure they’ll be happy.” “Maybe, but I have serious reservations about being invited back afterwards.” “Oh well. If you don’t like it, just say no.” “You know very well that saying no is an insult and I don’t want to offend these nice people under any circumstances,” I reply. “You’re not going to let yourself be boxed in because of the food, are you?” “Okay, okay, I’ll go,” I say, grab my SLR and make my way to the kraal where the cows and their calves are standing.

The two sisters greet me happily and pose for my camera while milking. Even though Mongolians are not necessarily camera-shy, this is not usual. Many of the women often want to make themselves look pretty before the photo and sometimes don’t allow themselves to be photographed beforehand. Nirgui and Urensetseg, however, couldn’t care less. When I’ve finished my work, I make my way back to the tent. At this moment, Gangsuch steps out of the yurt and beckons me to visit him. “I knew it,” I whisper and enter the felt tent. “Do you like Airag?” I am startled by the obligatory question. “Oh, not today. Just had a lavish breakfast,” I fib. Gangsuch doesn’t seem to have heard my words and presses the bowl, which has already been immortalized by a whole army of lips, into my hands. Groaning inwardly, I bring it to mine, sip and give him the container back. Thank God he doesn’t ask me to empty it. Meanwhile, Shinooder is preparing a noodle soup with mutton. “I have to be out of here before the dish is ready,” it goes through my head. “Here, eat,” Gangsuch asks me, pushing a bowl of bones towards me. “Give him a knife,” he asks his nephew, who immediately jumps up and grabs one from the kitchen shelf. Luckily I am the first to be offered from this bowl today, because it looks quite clean. Because I hesitate a little, Gangsuch’s hands shoot forward, grab one of the bones, take the knife and cut off a piece of fatty meat. To make sure no one else throws their hands into the bowl, I reach in and cut myself a piece of the leanest. They all look at me. “Tastes good,” I praise the unseasoned meat. Everyone laughs contentedly. “Let’s see the pictures,” says one of Nirgui and Urensetseg’s brothers, whose name I have forgotten. Fingers dripping with grease, I switch on the camera. “Give our guest a cloth for his fingers,” Gangsuch asks his nephew, who immediately hands me a scrap of cloth in which many hands have already left their grease. “Beautiful pictures. Really nice pictures,” say the men enthusiastically as they watch Nirgui and Urensetseg milking cows on the display. When the women come home from work and enter the yurt, they are told immediately. “Beautiful pictures. Really beautiful,” they repeat.

“Eat more of the sheep,” one of the men asks me. “Thank you very much. I’m full,” I decline. “Well then, another sip of Airag?” “Thank you very much. I’m really full.” “But a little arkhi is always good. It’s good for you,” I hear. Only the thought of the milk schnapps, which smells of old cheese and rancid, makes my stomach rise a little. “Thank you very much. I’d better not drink any arkhi today. I still have to work,” I reply and take this moment as an opportunity to stand up and say goodbye. Just then, the soup comes off the stove. “You can’t leave under any circumstances until you’ve tasted my soup,” says Shinooder. Defeated, I settle back down on the low wooden stool. “There’s no fat in it either,” he says with a grin, as word seems to have got around that I can’t stand fatty food. I carefully push the first spoonful into my mouth. Surprised, I can hardly taste any fat and no rancidness. “Very good,” I praise, whereupon everyone laughs again with satisfaction. I bravely empty the bowl except for a few pieces of cartilage and fat. As soon as I’ve finished, I’m given a second helping.

Another man enters the yurt, goes straight to one of the bedsteads, bends down and pulls a bottle of vodka out of a box. It is opened immediately and I am handed my first cup. Again I sip politely and hand the glass back. “More, drink more.” “Thank you, but I want to write something today. If I drink more, I won’t be able to. Besides, it’s only 10:00 in the morning. Too early to drink.” “It’s never too early for vodka,” replies Shinooder, which is why I remember that the word time doesn’t exist in this country. Somehow I manage to turn down another cup. “Then drink this,” Shinooder urges me, pushing a big-bellied plastic bottle filled with a poisonous green liquid towards me. “Thank you very much. I’m really full,” I reply as if my brain has a crack in the hard disk.

Meanwhile, the children present smear bone marrow and sweets on their faces and shirts. Unrensetseg is kind to me and puts a bag of cookies from some store in front of me. The pastry, how could it be otherwise, is filled with a pink-colored substance. I break off a piece of it. Before I burst, I stand up. For not wanting to eat anything at all, my stomach is now filled with mutton peeled from the bone, noodle soup with goat meat, airag, milk tea, colorful cookies, horse milk schnapps and some vodka. The cocktail promises an explosive mixture. “Why don’t you stay? Drink vodka with us!” a voice calls out as I set foot over the threshold. “No, no, I really have to go now,” I reply before anyone can kill me with any more strange dishes or liquids.

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