Lustful stallion – Storm

Day: 354-357

Sunrise:
05:25/05:28

Sunset:
21:24/21:22

Total kilometers:
1722

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
29°C

Temperature – day (minimum):
20 °C

Temperature – Night:
12 °C

Latitude:
49°42’773”

Longitude:
100°11’497”

Maximum height:
1492 m above sea level

At 5.00 a.m. we are woken by loud neighing. “Our neighbor’s stallion is free!” I shout. It only takes a few moments for us to be at Naraa’s side. As in Tsagaan Nuur, the horse immediately attacks the mare and wants to mate with her. Sharga, Tenger, Bor and Sar take her and little Tuya into their midst. They defend the two with fierce kicks and bites. “Get lost! Hey! Hey Hey!” we shout, but the stallion is mad with lust. I throw stones and hit them. “Iiiihhhjjjj! Iiiihhhhhjjjj! Iiiihhhhhjjjjj!”, he whinnies and attacks again, completely unimpressed. As Rezindorj, his wife Gadimaa and his grandson Dorchuruu are still asleep at this early hour, we are forced to solve the problem on our own. “How could he get free?” asks Tanja, breathing heavily because of the chasing back and forth. “I think the rope just broke,” I reply. Normally, the stallion is tied to a peg with a long rope day and night. During the day, the animal stands saddled about 50 meters in front of the yurt. This means that shepherds can use it at any time to drive their goats, sheep and cattle or to ride somewhere. There is a car in front of the yurt, just like at home.

At 7:00 a.m. we see Rezindorj in front of his Mongolian dwelling. He immediately recognizes the situation, gets on his motorcycle and rushes to our aid. But it doesn’t take long before he gives up. Without comment, he leaves us back to the stallion who has been keeping us in suspense for two hours now. By now we are tired of throwing stones and shouting and screaming. The stallion seizes the moment and mounts Naraa. “Make sure you get away!” Tanja yells, charging at him. Unfortunately too late. Because the lustful stallion has put his hooves on Naraa’s back to mate with her. The pressure point has now burst open so that raw meat can be seen over a length of 15 centimeters. “What a bummer. Now the wound was just healing,” I curse again, throwing stones at the culprit. After another hour, Rezindorj returns from milking the cows. Now he finally has time to redeem us from his crazy stallion. Tanja leads Naraa into a fence that is used for the sheep and goats at night. The stallion follows immediately. As soon as he is inside, Rezindorj closes the gate. Now it only takes minutes for the horse to be caught and tied to its post again.

We use the days of waiting for Bilgee to do laundry, rest and write our updates. Soon every late afternoon a more or less violent thunderstorm rolls in. Temperatures then usually drop from over 50°C in the sun to 10°C in the shade within a few minutes.

Meanwhile, communication with our two yurt neighbors is very good. They take Tanja into town on their moped and bring her back in the evening. This gives her the opportunity to shop and check her e-mails. We are surprised to be warned about horse thieves only now. One of us rests every night at the outpost, in the open awning, but it would have been useful to know earlier that the shepherds in this area are also affected by this problem. “I’ll shoot him!” Rezindorj says, pointing to his rifle as I address him directly about this miserable challenge. “But the problem is not as big for us as it is for you. We all know each other in this valley. It’s really difficult for a thief. But you are new. It’s much easier to steal the animals from you,” he explains.

Storm

As we do every evening, we take our horses to the water trough when a strong wind comes up. “Looks like another bad thunderstorm. We should hurry and get the horses flocked up,” I warn as a heavy gust hits our tent. Before we are able to react, the canopy has been torn away. “Take Sar, I’ll take care of the tent!” I shout and rush to our dwelling before another gust can tear it away. I close the main entrance of the balloon-like inflated fabric house just in time. Increasingly violent gusts of wind are now hammering against the canvas. It’s only a matter of time before the pegs are pulled out of the ground. When Tanja enters, she retreats to the sleeping cabin. “Uuuaa, it’s uncomfortable out there,” she says, pulling the sleeping bag over her. Heavy rain is now hammering against the fabric wall again. I sit in the awning and watch the flapping and rattling of the fabric with suspicion. Suddenly, a real blow hits our home. “Wow, that was a bad gust. If the wind gets any stronger, the place will blow up in our faces,” I say as it bangs violently and Tanja is half buried under fabric. “The pegs have been pulled out!” I shout, unzip the zipper and literally rush out into the open. A third of the tent has already been torn down. It takes all the strength I’ve got in my muscles to get the line upright against the wind. My left hand holds the fabric while my right sticks a peg into the wet ground. “I can’t make it!” I shout as another gust rips the fabric from my hands and part of the tent collapses again. “Do you want me to help?” Tanja whines, lying under the fabric. “No point!” I reply, tugging the line against the wind again. I use the back of my small axe to drive a large peg into the ground again. Another gust hammers into the fabric at around 60 km/h. It’s only a matter of time before the tent poles break. Ignoring the downpour, I pull out all the stops at my disposal and drive one peg after the other into the ground in order to make use of all the available storm tensions in the tent. The effort is worth it. The tent seems to be defying the weather for the moment. Whenever it is hit with full force by a squall of force seven or eight, it literally deforms into a U. “I don’t know how long the material will hold out!” I shout, expecting to see the fabric fly away in shreds at any moment. To prevent the wind from getting caught under the tent, the blunt side of the small axe hammers another ten pegs into the eyelets provided. Saving our sleeping place depends on who is faster. The storm or the person. Now the tent looks more stable. Stones collected in a hurry now also weigh down the snow flaps. After almost every peg has been hammered into the existing loops, I deepen the ditch with the spade. Over an hour later, dripping wet and chilled, I retreat inside. “Looks good. The rattling of the tent track has become much quieter,” says Tanja. “Yes, now the tent is stretched to the limit. We can only hope that the storm will end soon. “It’s a crazy country,” says Tanja. “What do you mean?” “Well, the weather is just extreme. During the day, it’s a monkey heat of up to 58 °C in the sun, then this terrible storm. We almost drowned recently and in winter it’s minus 50 °C.” “That’s right. It’s a country of extremes. A country of superlatives. Everything is on offer here. I don’t even know what to call this country? Land of blue skies only applies at times. Land of vastness is appropriate in the steppe but not in the taiga. Land of eternal winter is certainly correct, but since the short summer can get really hot, it’s not quite right either. It’s not easy to find a title for our story,” I think. “What do you think of Land of Wild Freedom?” “Land of wild freedom? Hmm, that sums it up. In fact, everyone can still move around freely here. And it’s certainly wild in many areas,” I agree with Tanja.

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