Mongolian hospitality

Day: 331

Sunrise:
05:05

Sunset:
21:39

As the crow flies:
3,60

Daily kilometers:
4

Total kilometers:
1473

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
28 °C

Temperature – day (minimum):
24 °C

Temperature – Night:
8 °C

Latitude:
51°07’441”

Longitude:
099°43’449”

Maximum height:
1628 m above sea level

After another rainy night, Tanja leads the horses out to pasture at 6.00 a.m. while I take care of dismantling the camp and packing it up. Odonbaatar appears like an innocent lamb at 9:30 am and asks where the horses are? “Tanja has put them out to pasture,” I reply curtly. “Then I’ll go and help her.” “No, we don’t need your help anymore. Your job ended yesterday,” I reply. Odonbaatar stops and seems to be thinking about how to interpret my statement. “You are dismissed. We’ll move on without you,” I repeat again. When he has digested what he has heard, he turns around and disappears. I am relieved, I was expecting anger and resistance. “Is Odonbaatar with you?” asks his sister a little later. “He was there. I dismissed him,” I reply. “Dismissed?” “Yes.” “Is my brother muu?” she asks again. “Unreliable and not honest,” I reply. Listening to a bad feeling, I immediately call Tanja. “Yes?” “He was just there. I’ve given him notice.” “Good, he’s standing in front of me at the moment. He wanted to relieve me with the herding. I asked him where he was yesterday. He said he’d been asleep.” “Slept?” “Yes. I gave him notice too.” “Good. Is he peaceful?” “Yes. Makes an embarrassed impression. He’s just leaving now.” “Good.” Just a few minutes later, Odonbaatar turns up again and wants to help me put the tent together for the first time. “Please leave it alone. I’ll do it myself. Your job is done,” I repeat to myself, whereupon he puts the tent pole back on the ground with a heavy heart.

“Hello Deni!” a voice calls out, unable to pronounce my name properly. I look up and see a boy peeking over the wooden fence. “Hello, you must be Bumbayr,” I ask him. “I am,” he says kindly and climbs over the fence. Odonbaatar and a friend are sitting in the meadow not far from me, watching me pack up. “Come here!”, our expedition leader orders the boy, whereupon he obediently sits down on the meadow with the two men. “I hope he doesn’t tell Bumbayr anything stupid,” I think to myself. But it doesn’t take long for Odonbaatar and his friend to leave. Relieved, I look after them.

“It’s best if you go to Tanja in the pasture and help her bring the horses here,” I explain to the boy, who immediately understands and jumps off. Less than ten minutes pass as Tanja, Bumbayr and two other young men drive the horses into the yard. The equipment is quickly packed onto the horses’ backs.

Although Odonbaatar did not ask for his salary, we still want to pay him. We deduct the travel costs paid to him, the day he forced us to make a detour and the day he was absent yesterday and want to give the money to his mother. However, Tanja only meets her son-in-law, who would like to receive the bills for his brother-in-law. “No,” Tanja decides. “I’ll give it to Odonbaatar’s mother or no one.” It only takes minutes as the mother hurries into the yard. Tanja hands her the money. She thinks we are paying her for yesterday’s horse guard and holds the bills against her forehead in Mongolian style. Then she puts the sum uncounted in her pocket. “This is for your son,” I explain, causing her face to harden. She tries to explain something to me using sign language and a few words. I don’t respond and say, “Give the money to your son. Thank you very much and goodbye.”

Then, without turning around, we lead the horses out of the yard and leave the town heading east. The path winds its way through the lush pasture and climbs gently up the mountain. The log cabins in the village are getting smaller and smaller. We cross a river on which there are still large patches of snow. Herds of yaks come towards us. When the massive animals discover Mogi, they attack him. Pulling in his tail, he tries to seek shelter under the body of my horse. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Mogi. You’re not usually so scared and chase everything that runs away,” I say. Rantan, meanwhile, hunts marmots and other small animals. He is happy about the onward march. He scurries back and forth, panting. It’s strange why the dog chose us as his new masters. “One of the last dogs that joined us was shot,” I warn him. He doesn’t seem to want to hear about it and remains loyal to us. So far at least.

When we reach the small hut of our future companions, we are greeted by the family with a joyful hello. Khurgaa, the 25-year-old, helps me unload the animals and set up the tent. “Come and have a cup of tea with us,” he asks Tanja and me afterwards. We enter the simply built log cabin and immediately feel at home. Regzedmaa, Khurgaa’s mother, and his 21-year-old sister Ozgondalai immediately place a small stool for us to sit on. Fresh cream, Boortsog and salted milk tea are served quickly. Compared to Odonbaatar’s family, we experience a high level of Mongolian hospitality here. We sip the tea with relish and eat a few of the fat dough balls deep-fried in cow fat. My gaze glides through the small hut, about four by five meters, whose walls are covered with the usual blue, white and red striped plastic sheeting. In the middle of the room is the obligatory cannon stove on which a kettle is boiling away. The kitchen corner consists of a single roughly carved shelf on which two pots, a pan, bowls and a few food items have found their place. In addition, an old chest painted with typical Mongolian patterns huddles in the corner and in the other corner there is a small table on which the kitchen work is done. On the other side of the room is a table 30 centimeters low, at which we sit on the only two wooden stools. A blue patterned plastic tablecloth covers the frame. Regzedmaa, tries to get me full and says; “Help yourself, help yourself.” A doorless passageway leads to an even smaller adjoining room containing two old iron bedsteads where four to five people spend the night.

In the afternoon we are offered beef bones cooked in their own broth. The food is eaten from a single bowl, into which everyone puts their unwashed hands, licks their fingers and cuts the meat from the bones with a single knife. The hygienic conditions are enough to make you tear your hair out. You could die from bacterial poisoning or jaundice just by looking at it. But after living with the Tuwa, our defenses are so well developed that we will survive this stay without serious illness. “Would you like some more of the brew?” the young English student Ozgondalai asks me in a friendly manner. “Oh, I’m full. Thank you very much,” I fib. Even our Mogi and the new dog, who we call Rantan, get some of the meal.

Suddenly there is excitement. Khurgaa and Bumbayr sprint around the baishin, armed with the apron tongs. “What’s going on?” I ask curiously. “A mouse,” answers Khurgaa with the serious face of a hunter about to kill a wild elephant. While 15-year-old Bumbayr enthusiastically guards the house from the outside, Khurgaa attacks the mouse from the inside in a lightning strike and crushes it against the bedroom wall. With a triumphant laugh, he grabs the maltreated mouse body with his apron tongs and carries it outside. “Mice are muu”, (bad) he says with a grin. “Yes, I know. They eat the food and through the mattresses,” I reply, looking important.” “Right,” he replies, throwing the crushed creature into the pasture in a high arc. Rantan seizes the opportunity and races after the dead mouse to eat it alive.

In the evening, Tanja contributes pasta, potatoes, fresh carrots and onions to the meal. The extremely industrious Regzedmaa, who is about 1.50 meters tall, prepares a wonderful tasting soup that we all enjoy. The offal from the goat is served with it. Regzedmaa draped them neatly on a plate and served them with a raw onion. Khushuur is served as a dessert, a specialty that is usually prepared during the great Naadam festival. Khushuur are deep-fried dumplings filled with cream cheese and herbs. “If you don’t want to upset your stomach, I wouldn’t eat too much of it,” Tanja warns me. “It’s quite fat, isn’t it?” I ask. “Oh yes,” she replies with a smile. Then she puts a pot of fresh porridge on the stove so that we can enjoy our own breakfast tomorrow. “Ewwww! What’s that?” asks Khurgaa, looking disgustedly at the boiling grains in the pot. “Breakfast,” Tanja answers dryly. “For Mogi?” he asks, grinning uncertainly. “No, not for Mogi. For us.” “For you? It’s not food for humans, but for dogs,” he says confidently. “No for us,” Tanja confirms once again. Shaking his head, he averts his eyes and puts a piece of the disgusting-looking goat’s stomach in his mouth.

The sun has already set when Tanja and I hitch up our horses. Khurgaa and Bumbayr don’t seem to have noticed the agreement to look after our horses. We take it easy and hope that they will do their job during the trip. Compared to our last hosts, we believe we have arrived in paradise here. “You don’t need to worry about your horses tonight. There’s no cattle rustling here,” all the family members reassure us. We believe them and crawl into our sleeping bags without any tension for the first time since Bilgee’s absence.

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