The last bastion of honesty – Wilder Tenger – I am next to myself

Day: 372

Sunrise:
05:47

Sunset:
21:04

Total kilometers:
1722

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
27°C

Temperature – day (minimum):
22 °C

Temperature – Night:
10 °C

Latitude:
49°42’773”

Longitude:
100°11’497”

Maximum height:
1492 m above sea level

Just under a month ago, we pitched our tent between the two yurts to the west and east of us in this beautiful, fertile valley 1,500 meters above sea level. We actually only wanted to stay one night and then move to Bilgee’s friend’s yurt camp. However, the divine order, or the overarching plan, or whatever you want to call it, has other plans for us. If it were up to us, we would have been on our way long ago and would probably soon have reached our destination. But once again we are stuck here. The current reason for the delay, how could it be otherwise, is the visa extension promised by Saraa. “You’ll have it by July 20 at the latest. Trust me,” were her words. Well, our annual visa expires in a few days. Our passports have been with the authorities for many weeks but, how could it be otherwise, some document is missing. Saraa can’t take care of it at the moment. Even though we had bought her a plane ticket so that she could do the job on time. Saraa used the flight ticket to meet two tourists in Ulan Bator at the same time and pick them up for a round trip. As always, she uses the money we give her for our errands for several purposes at once. Clever and legitimate, but she is careful not to tell us. In many cases, however, we found out how she earns money. In the case of the two tourists, for example, it was quite simple. I met them during the Naadam and they told me how and when they met Saraa. The date was the same date she flew to Ulan Bator for our visa. Well, everyone has to earn money and Saraa has organized a lot for us in the past year. That’s fine, and at the end of our trip we don’t want the last reliable bastion we’ve had in this country to fall under any circumstances. Saraa was and is a pillar of reliability and seriousness for us, and we want to keep it that way. But three days ago she went on vacation with two tourists and her family, even though our visa situation is still unresolved. “I have to look after myself now. I’m very tired. Your visa will be fine. Trust me,” she said again and disappeared. Even though Tanja and I are basically relaxed, well-traveled adventurers, there is still something uncertain and uncomfortable about us. The authorities demand 400 US $ per person and day penalty fee for visa overstay. That’s reason enough to get nervous. at least for me. Because should the extension be rejected for whatever reason, the question arises as to how we can get away from this? What do we do with the horses and our equipment? And how many days does it take to get to Beijing, which is around 2,500 kilometers away from here? Sara’s words “Trust me” mean that we are now completely defenceless in this situation. Unfortunately, I have an extremely unpleasant feeling about this and so far this feeling has rarely let me down. Another reason for my stressed state of mind. Now, at the beginning of August, Saraa will be back from her short working vacation. At the earliest then we will see more clearly.

Wild Tenger

Before I go to Mörön today to buy veterinary medicine and small items for my saddlery at the market and sort out our unneeded equipment for transportation to Ulan Bator, we have to catch Tenger. He slipped off his halter last night and is now free. Fortunately, he still has a fetlock on his left front and back foot. But horses that wear leg irons for long periods of time develop a remarkable ability to run away quickly despite this restriction. With any other of our horses, a lost halter would not be the slightest problem. We would simply go there, put a new halter over his head and tie a rope to it. With Tenger, however, this is impossible. As soon as he senses freedom, he gallops off as soon as we appear. We attribute his behavior to a bad previous owner who most likely beat him often. Tenger has improved a lot over the past year but is still frighteningly shy. Bilgee warned us about him again and again and never left us alone with the horse. “He’s crazy in the head,” he kept repeating to himself. We now know what he meant by that. If Tenger is startled for any reason, he literally explodes. In such a situation, it is best not to stand in the steed’s way, as it uses its body as if it wanted to bomb through a stone wall or knock your head off your shoulder with its hooves.

“Take it easy, my dear. Take it easy,” I say in a gentle voice, slowly approaching. Tenger snorts and simply trots ten meters away. Because he loves Tanja’s mare Naraa more than anything, he never strays far from her, so I follow him and start the whole thing all over again. “Take it easy. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” As it gets hotter as the hour progresses, our horses make their way to the small pump hut. Renzidorj has filled fresh, cool water into the drinking trough made of coarse concrete. I keep talking to Tenger and manage to get to his legs to fix the right front leg with the ankle cuff. “Well done,” praises Tanja, who is there the whole time. “Now comes the trick of putting the halter on him,” she says. “We can do it,” I am convinced. “We can do that,” Tanja also replies confidently.

Because, for whatever reason, Mongolian horses don’t find it so threatening when you approach them in a crouched position, I try to crawl up to them on all fours. Always speaking softly, of course, so that he doesn’t get scared. Another hour later he lets me back on his front legs. Slowly, a rope in my hand, I feel my way up along his neck. Always a hand on his body. Tenger’s eyes widen and he snorts nervously. Ready to run to safety during one of his sudden outbursts, my blood pulses through my veins at high pressure. “Looks good,” whispers Tanja as the rope slowly slides over his neck. “Good boy, don’t be afraid,” I whisper, not knowing which of us is more scared. The right end of the rope touches the ground. Caressing the horse’s sweating body, I bend my knees, take the end of the rope and thread it through a tied eyelet on the other end. I quickly pull the rope and before Tenger knows it, it’s around his neck. With elemental force, he tries to escape the trap he has already fallen into. “Now you can’t get out of my way,” I say triumphantly, leading him to one of the wooden stakes dug into the ground.

We wrap the rope around the peg. Then Tanja gives me the halter. When I bring it near his head, he goes crazy, jumps into the air and whirls around. “Pull the rope deeper! Deeper quickly, otherwise he’ll pull the peg out of the ground!” I yell. Tanja reacts with lightning speed and pushes the rope loops to the end of the post. Once again I dare to approach the hyper-nervous horse. I stand behind the wooden post so as not to be crushed if Tenger jumps forward like a bomb. “If I go left, you have to carry the rope,” I say, so as not to get caught between the horse, the post and the rope. Because we don’t want Tenger to accidentally strangle himself with the rope tied around his neck, Tanja has only wrapped two loops around the post. In this way, it can give way to the rope in an emergency or pull it tighter if necessary. In this work, it is important to trust each other blindly and to work hand in hand without a lot of words. Because we have covered 12,000 kilometers with camels so far, including training wild camels for our caravan, we know exactly what we are doing. And yet absolute concentration is required at all times. I slide my hand up Benger’s neck again. This time leading the halter. It’s a game of patience, because whenever the halter reaches the bridge of his nose, he explodes with such force that we get scared and bang. “Don’t give up. We’ll make it,” I say more to myself than to Tanja. “You can do it,” she tells me encouragingly. And then the halter is over the bridge of Tenger’s nose, gliding down over his nostrils and slowly under his chin. “Okay, any resistance no longer makes sense,” I say, closing the halter. “Phew, that was an exciting piece of work,” says Tanja, breathing a sigh of relief. “To be on the safe side, we’ll tie an extra rope around his neck. If he takes off his halter again, we can catch him by the neck rope at any time,” I say. “Good idea,” Tanja muses.

This is how the peaceful time we spend on the large pasture in the beautiful high valley passes. Due to the daily temperature fluctuations of up to 52 degrees between day and night or 40 °C before and after a thunderstorm, life is exhausting. There are times when we’d like to lie down, but it’s too warm in our tent at 40°C. When I write, my skin literally sticks to the camp chair. And yet I love the heat much more than the extreme cold of last winter.

I am next to myself

In the afternoon, I drive into town with Ilchelaugsuren to sort out some more equipment in Saraa’s garage for transportation to Ulan Bator. Then I visit the market. Naimak, who visited our camp a few days ago with her mother, sister and Roelof, helps me with the shopping. As she has spent the last four years in the big city of Ulan Bator, she is bored here, so any change is good for her. “When are you going back to Ulan Bator? Roelof’s tourists should be coming soon, right?” I ask as we walk past the many stalls. “I’m not going on the trip after all,” I think I’ve misheard. “How?” “Well, I’m not going with Roelof. I have to be back in Mörön on the eighth of August. That’s the time when I can apply to schools as a sports teacher.” “But Roelof needs you. He has already confirmed your presence to his guests,” I say, feeling my psyche collapse. “I’m going to Ulan Bator and will talk to him. But I can’t go with him. I’ve decided to work here as a sports teacher.” “And you’re just abandoning Roelof? After everything he’s done for your family? Didn’t you say you’d never forget how he saved you?” I ask, now truly horrified. “But what am I supposed to do? I can only work for Roelof for a month. After that, I’ll just lie around and have no job. If I get a job as a teacher, I’ll be permanently employed,” she defends herself. Lost in thought, I walk through the monkey heat of the dusty city and feel like crying. Don’t people in this country have the slightest sense of honor? Do they only think of themselves? No matter what you’ve done for them? What Nyamka is planning is even worse than being abandoned by our horse people. This is moral criminality of the worst kind. “You shouldn’t abandon Roelof. He has you firmly planned. That’s not good.” “There are other girls who can take my place.” “No, there aren’t. There’s no time for that. Besides, you said yourself that the Dutch have asked you and only you to look after their children. Parents are sensitive about that. They are very reluctant to give their children to anyone they don’t know,” I reply, to which she says nothing. “There will be another opportunity for a job. You can start your teaching degree next year,” I break the silence. “Next year, I’ll have forgotten everything I learned at university.” “The main thing is that you’re doing well,” I think, her beauty and kindness merging with the dirt of the city and the dusty street. Not for the first time on this trip, I feel the urge to leave the country as quickly as possible. I am defeated by the morals of the Mongolians. Checkmated, so to speak. The barrel has overflowed. If my feelings about Saraa are confirmed, it would be a physical knockout blow. And if we actually don’t get a visa extension, we can’t just flee but would have to face this challenge too. I ponder my thoughts and wonder whether we’re just unlucky with the people here or whether it’s really possible that an entire nation is so weird. Or maybe it’s just our moral concepts that don’t fit in with those of the Mongols? The Mongols seem to get on well with it. But on the other hand, we also heard many locals complaining about the unreliability and dishonesty of their fellow citizens.

When we reach Njamka’s home, which Roelof has built, Badamsuren welcomes me warmly. I sit down on the chair that Roelof has bought and am immediately served cold milk tea and a delicious pasta dish. “Take off your shoes and lie down on the couch,” she says. To refuse would be an insult, so after dinner I lie down on the sofa that Roelof has bought. Zulaa, Njamka’s sister, immediately jumps off the couch to sit on a wooden stool. The new color TV Roelof bought flickers. Badamsuren looks into the box with interest. “What’s that about?” I ask Nyamka. “Oh, our ex-president is on trial for corruption. He denies all the charges but still gets four years in prison,” I hear and would love to disappear into one of the sofa seats. I follow the live broadcast of the court hearing, which has been going on all day according to Badmasuren. The thought arises as to how it can happen in the land of corruption to condemn one of their own kind. But what the heck. It’s just a useless headache to ask myself such sensible or nonsensical questions, I mused, letting my gaze wander through the beautifully furnished new house. It consists of only one large room which is used as a living room, bedroom and kitchen. “Was it a hotplate like this that caused the fire?” I ask, pointing at the new-looking electrical part. “Yes,” confirms Njamka. As I lie here waiting for Ilchelaugsuren to pick me up, I understand part of the conversation between Nyamka and her mother. “If you come back to Mörön to apply for the job as a teacher and therefore don’t go on the trip with Roelof, he might not finish our house,” Badmasuren ponders. “Maybe,” replies Nyamka.

I stretch a little, a soft moan escaping my lips due to slight back pain. “What’s wrong?” asks Badmasuren anxiously. “Nothing, it’s just my back,” I reply, whereupon she immediately rushes over to me to give me a massage. “Maybe she’ll change her mind and go on the trip with me,” a thought runs through my mind during the massage. Actually, I couldn’t care less. It’s not my business and yet the young woman’s decision leaves me no peace. We humans are all somehow connected. What you do to others, you do to yourself. As it cries into the forest, so it echoes back. Sayings that are usually based on the truth. Surely it would also be better for the girl to pay off her debt to Roelof. He would never let the family down, I think as Ilchelaugsuren turns up three hours late to pick me up. “Take this for Mogi,” says Badmasuren, handing me a bag full of deep-fried fish pockets and the rest of the noodle dish. “Mogi will have a good time here,” I think and say goodbye.

When I tell Tanja about Njamka’s decision that evening, she is also horrified. It does me good, because I thought I could no longer properly assess my feelings. “When I go into town tomorrow, I’ll give her a good wash. She has to go with Roelof,” she says.

We look forward to your comments!