Tribal elder talks about her life

Day: 291-296

Sunrise:
05:38/05:29

Sunset:
20:59/21:08

Total kilometers:
1361

Soil condition:
Ice, snow

Temperature – Day (maximum):
3°C/ 20 °C

Temperature – day (minimum):
minus 5°C/ 15 ° C

Temperature – Night:
minus 12°C/ minus 10 °C

Latitude:
51°39’155”

Longitude:
099°21’977”

Maximum height:
1858 m above sea level

The time here at spring camp seems surreal to me. On the one hand, it flies along like the dark clouds in the firmament and on the other, it simply seems to stand still. We still haven’t fully digested Bilgee’s decision. Our spirits fluctuate. On the one hand, we are in a good mood and enjoy the valley with its nature awakening in slow motion and on the other hand, we live in an unpleasant conflict. According to plan, and we know that things don’t always go according to plan here, we should be back on the road in two weeks at the latest. On the road in a country that is awakening after eight months of hibernation. But no, we won’t be on the road, we have to stay here. Not voluntarily this time because of the weak horses. Having to stay in one place involuntarily, even if it is the most beautiful place in the world, has a completely different dimension in which the psyche can take a bad turn. I realize my dilemma, the so-called head cinema, and yet I still struggle with the situation. Nothing bad has happened. Nothing has actually happened except that our man is running away. And where is the problem? Maybe that’s even a good thing? Will it take us and the journey in a new direction? We will get to know a new person as a result. He doesn’t have to be worse than Bilgee. On the contrary, we may later thank our fate that things turned out this way. Who knows for sure? It would be nice if you could accept everything that is and happens at all times without any ifs and buts. Then our human life would be much easier.

Tanja and I are considering whether we need a horseman at all. Well, it’s easier. He has our backs and always looks after the horses. It also makes sense to have three people when loading and unloading. This help gives me time to write this book. The trip has more quality and fewer stress factors. After weighing up the pros and cons, we decide to look for a new husband. We’re not quite sure how we’re going to do this because we have no way of contacting the outside world. “Time is of the essence,” I say, taking a confident and positive view of the situation.

After Bilgee has brought the rest of our equipment from the winter camp, he sleeps in the tipi while Tanja and I spend the nights in our still cold tent. Although it is already mid-May, the night-time temperatures are still between minus 10°C and 15°C. “Will the mercury ever rise above 0 °C in this region?” I ask myself.

Because I have caught an infection in my elbow from chopping tons of wood and sawing, typing 385 A4 pages, almost 800 pages of the book so far, I am currently unable to do heavy work or even hold a teacup properly. One reason why Tanja and Bilgee go into the taiga to cut down trees and drag them back to the camp on the backs of Bor and Sharga. A real back-breaking job. It’s another unpleasant feeling to have to watch helplessly. I can only hope that the immobilization, as far as a life in the taiga allows, and the intake of Anika will soon make me fit again.

One evening we visit 77-year-old Puntsel. Tanja has put one of our two bottles of vodka in the Deel that we want to drink with her. Puntsel loves the drink more than anything and once told us that she would sing for us if we managed to invite her for a round of vodka in the seclusion of the wilderness. In the meantime, we have kept the water until it is time to bring it to the people. Puntsel seems to us to be a good choice. We climb up the slight hill to their small tepee. Puntsel is actually sitting on the bare forest floor, warming her hands on her stove. She greets us warmly and offers us a seat on a piece of tattered carpet. Bilgee, who is accompanying us, engages the old lady in conversation. After the usual greetings and questions about how the family and the reindeer are doing, Tanja pulls the bottle out of her Deel. The eyes of the tribal elders immediately light up. Tanja gives me the bottle and I hand it to Bilgee so that he can bless it and open it. But he hands them over to Puntsel. “Tschin setgeleesee bajrlalaa”, (“Thank you very much”) she says, presses the bottle against her forehead in gratitude and lets it disappear behind a bundle of dirty clothes. As vodka gifts are always shared with the giver immediately, we are speechless. “I don’t believe it,” says Tanja after a fun little party. “That’s amazing. Now she’s just put the bottle away,” I say. “She tricked us?” Tanja ponders. “Obviously she wants to empty the bottle with someone else,” I add. Bilgee, who would also have liked a nip, hands her a pack of cigarette papers. She laughs again and puts the paper to her forehead as a sign of thanks, only to let it immediately disappear into her deel. Then the experienced Mongolian buttered up the shrewd old woman. “We heard you can sing so well? We wanted to sing with you. But it would be nice if we could share the bottle,” he says and laughs. “Hi, hi, hi,” she replies to his laughter and begins to let a song slip from her lips. “Gojo, gojo”, (“beautiful, beautiful”) she praises Tanja, whereupon Puntsel starts the next song. “Gojo, gojo!” we cheer and clap our hands. Puntsel slowly gets going and with her raspy voice she warbles one song after another. Then she reaches behind the pile of clothes and pulls the water out again. She has difficulty unscrewing the cap with her old, bony fingers, so I help her. She immediately pours herself a glass and downs it. “Hi, hi, hi!” she laughs loudly and looks at me challengingly, as she did at the Tsagaan Saar Festival. She fills the cup again and hands it to me. I tip it down my throat. “Hi, hi, hi,” she laughs, filling it again to serve Tanja and Bilgee. So the little glass circles incessantly, doing a few unnoticed laps of honor.

The atmosphere is exuberant. We sit on the thin piece of ancient carpet through which the dampness of the floor seeps. The tipi is even more spartanly furnished than in the winter camp. Apart from a few rolled-up bundles of clothes and mattresses lying against the tent canvas, there isn’t much else. Fat strips of meat dangle above our heads. It looks like the stomach of an animal. A few straps and leather straps are clamped between the tipi poles. In the middle of the small tent is the obligatory stove, where 15 years ago there was still an open fire. I listen to Puntsel’s idiosyncratic singing and look through the tipi opening at the high mountains to the east. Because her tent is a little higher than the others in the valley, I can see the many tipis spread out like mushrooms in the meadow below. Reindeer walk around and search for lichen among the bushes. The cows call for their newborns, who answer incessantly. It soon sounds like the croaking of countless frogs. I listen spellbound to this strange symbiosis of sounds.

During a break in the singing, Puntsel tells us that she was out and about today visiting other tipis. “I’ve been eating meat all day. Hi, hi, hi.” I take the opportunity to ask her a little about her life. She answers readily. “You are now 77 years old and have lived and worked hard in the taiga for many years. Do you actually have any physical ailments like back pain?” “Oh yes. Sometimes my back and joints hurt. But I can live with it.” “You’re a happy and cheerful woman,” says Tanja. “Hi, hi, hi. There’s no point in being sad.” “Are there actually any herbs in the forest that the Tuwa use as medicine?” asks Tanja “We get most of them from the pharmacy these days. Hi, hi. But I eat soda for my stomach and digestive problems. You can find it in various provinces in Mongolia. It’s a kind of rock. I mix it with tea or water. I usually do this when I’ve eaten too much bread to relieve my indigestion.” “When I get sick, I look for herbs and drink them as tea. If I have high blood pressure, I take a certain root. I dry it and mix it into my tobacco. Then I roll myself a cigarette and smoke it. That helps.” “How do you know if you have high blood pressure?” I want to know. “When my neck gets stiff and my feet get hot. When I have low blood pressure, my feet get cold. I also smoke the lichen that the reindeer eat.” “What does that do?” “It also helps against high blood pressure. I can’t take western medicine. It doesn’t work for me. When I take medicine for high blood pressure, it goes up to 300. I once took western medicine for high blood pressure. It made me vomit all day. That’s not good for me.” “Did you also go to shamans when you were ill?” “Ügüj. (no) I treat myself. Hi, hi, hi,” she laughs and pours another glass down her throat.

“Do you actually have a Tuvan name?” Tanja wants to know. “Oh yes. My Tuwaname is Jongnae.” “Does the name have a meaning?” “No, it’s just a name.” “Is that an old Tuwaname?” I ask. “When my older sister was three or four years old, she gave me this name. She had a favorite baby reindeer with the same name. And when the baby reindeer died, she said I would name my younger sister Jongnae,” she explains. “Is your older sister still alive?” I ask. “No, she died at the age of five.” “That young?” “Yes. I never understood why she died so young.” “That’s very sad,” says Tanja and asks; “And you gave birth to six children?” “All in all, I had nine births. Four of them died.” “It must be difficult to bring five children through life?” asks Tanja. “Oh no, I have six children. Three boys and three girls. Hi, hi, hi,” she improves. “Yes, I had a lot of difficulties raising my children because I was alone.” “Why were you alone?” “Oh, my partners weren’t right. My children came from different fathers. In those days, I had a part-time job at the Tsagaan Nuur fish factory. When Hadaa and the others were small, I tied them to the bed with cords, closed the door of the baishin and went to work.” “That was a good idea. That way you could be sure that they stayed at home,” Tanja replies. “Tijmee, (yes) during my lunch break I rushed home to see if everything was all right. When I came, the children would look out of the window and wait for me.” “How did you tie them up? Around their feet?” I ask. “No, around the waist.” “And after living in Tsgaan Nuur, you moved back to the taiga?” asks Tanja. “I love it in the taiga. I’m used to the forest.” “Peaceful?” “Peaceful, hi, hi, hi.

“Do you remember when you fled from the Russian Tuwa province to Mongolia?” I ask. “Tijmee.” “What was that like?” “I was eight years old. I remember when my parents packed up.” “And some of your family members stayed there?” “Tijmee. But my parents and my two younger brothers were there.” “Do you remember why you fled?” “Many of us wanted to go to Mongolia because it was considered a free country.” “But Mongolia had the same communist system of government as Russia?” I say. “My father’s grandmother was Mongolian. She told us a lot of good things about the neighboring country. That was one of the reasons why we went. At that time, we had no idea what to expect in Mongolia. When we were in Mongolia and met my great-grandmother, I couldn’t talk to her because she only spoke Mongolian and not Tuvan. It was difficult to talk to her. “How did your great-grandmother happen to be Mongolian?” “She was adopted by Mongolians. My great-grandfather met her when he was in Mongolia once and married her. He brought her to Russia.” “And how long did it take you to get from the Tuwa Province to Mongolia?” “Three days.” “Only three days?” “Tijmee. It wasn’t very far to the border. We crossed a river and got across the border that way.” “So there was a concrete plan to leave Russia to get to Mongolia?” I ask again. “We wanted to leave anyway. The Russians began to discriminate against the Tuvan nomads. Racism arose. That was another reason why we didn’t want to stay.” “Wasn’t another major reason because the Russians drafted your young men into the Second World War to fight against the Germans?” “Not for us. But other Tuwa tribes had this problem.” “Did you live in the wilderness back then or next to a town?” “We lived not far from Kysyl, the capital of Tuva. My mother was a baker and baked bread for the Russians.” “Did you have many reindeer in those days?” I ask. “Yes, we had many. We kept them in the taiga.” “And people also lived in tipis back then?” asks Tanja. “Tijmee. We lived in the mountains.” “When you arrived in Mongolia, did you like it there?” “It was very nice.” “Why did you like it?” “New country, new atmosphere. It was very interesting for a small child.”

“What do you like more? The old days or today?” I ask. “I like it now just as much as I did then, I think. When you’re a child, you don’t know what life means.” “Hm, okay, but today you have electricity, at least a battery, and the village of Tsagaan Nuur, which didn’t exist back then, is accessible. You have contact with foreign tourists. There is a telephone. Do you love this kind of civilization?” “Oh yes, I like it. Hi, hi, hi,” she laughs as she fixes her broken plastic cup with a sticking plaster.” “How old is this cup?” “Ultsan’s mother brought it to me from Ulan Bator 22 years ago. It’s broken all over now, but I’m attached to it. Just like the kettle. She brought it back then too,” she answers, pointing to the steaming kettle on the stove.

“Have you ever been to Ulan Bator?” I want to know. “Yes. When I was 23 years old, the government invited me, along with 30 others, to visit the city.” “Was it a shock to be in a city for the first time?” I want to know. “It was really nice. We were there for a week.” “I heard you sang in Ulan Bator?” “Ügüj, I never sang in Ulan Bator. But I sang in the auditorium in Tsagaan Nuur.” “What did you do in Ulan Bator back then?” “They took us to a candy and cookie factory. But we couldn’t see the Mongolian state circus because they were on vacation.” “Have you been to Ulan Bator often?” “Ügüj, that was the only time.” “Oh, that was a long time ago.” “Tijmee. I remember that I liked it so much that I didn’t want to go home. When we got to Mörön I thought we were in the countryside. At that time there were only log cabins there. It was an exciting time. We had never seen a city before. Before we got to Ulan Bator, we all had to take a shower. Hi, hi, hi. I had never seen a shower before. We also washed our clothes and underwear. I saw something white in my room and thought it would be a good place to put my clothes to dry. The next morning, everything was burnt to ashes. I unknowingly put the clothes on a stove. Hi, hi, hi. I was really, really stupid at the time. I can remember it well.

When we reached the city, we were all taken to hotel rooms together. In the morning, the organizers of this excursion locked us in our rooms so that we wouldn’t wander around and get lost in the city. I suddenly felt very thirsty and wanted to drink hot tea. There was a hole in the wall next to my door. I managed to slip through it. I left the big house and saw a place where lots of people were eating. I hurried over there. The people gave me tea and a cookie with a hole in the middle. I drank my tea and ate my fill. Then I went back to the hotel. Everyone asked me where I had eaten. I led the whole tour group to this place and everyone got tea and cookies.” “Everyone?” “Yes, we all got hot tea and the delicious cookies with the hole in the middle. So I was the smartest one in the group. Hi, hi, hi,” she laughs, slapping her thighs. Later I found out that I had led our people to a bus station.” “And they gave you something to eat?” “Tijmee.” “Nice people.” “Tijmee.” “Was this trip one of the best times of your life?” I ask. “Yes, yes, very nice.”

“Did you like the communist era?” “During that time, we all had jobs. We were given bread and different kinds of food and tea.” “So it was a good time?” “Tijmee, a good time. The government gave us a salary for looking after the reindeer.” “Did you feel unfree at that time?” “It was fine for me. I didn’t have any difficulties.” “I think you got so old because you have a very positive attitude.” “Hi, hi, hi. Whenever I leave Tsagaan Nuur to go back to the taiga, my friends and relatives say; Oh we will miss you because you always make us laugh.” “Is there a time in your past life that you would like to live again?” I ask. Oh recently Gomb came riding into camp with a fat Mongolian. Purvee noticed that this woman was taking birth control pills. We then teased Suren and told her that it might be good if she also took the contraceptive pill.” “You mean the old Suren?” asks Tanja, “Tijmee.” “Why would she take the pill?” “Well, so she can have a little fun with old Gomb. Hi, hi, hi, ha, ha, ha,” she laughs heartily, whereupon we also almost collapse with laughter. “Okay, but is there a time in your life that you would like to repeat?” I ask. “I don’t know. I have so many memories. It’s important for me to laugh. To laugh a lot. It makes life worth living. Even pain passes then. If someone is always angry and constantly talking about negative things, they might get heart problems and quickly fall ill. I think optimism and positive thinking is the key to a long and beautiful life. Nurses and doctors are always surprised that I don’t need medicine. They ask me how I manage to stay so fit.” “This is wonderful for us to see. We will always remember these words. That’s the recipe for staying healthy,” says Tanja. “Yes, you will always stay healthy if you laugh a lot and are positive.”

“How long have tourists been coming to your camp?” “Ten years.” “And what do you think of that?” I ask. “Oh, that’s good. I hear from different places on this earth. I see new faces.” “Do you get interviewed more often, like just now?” “Yes, sometimes they ask so many questions that my head is spinning. Then I say to them, ‘Give me a bottle of vodka and I’ll talk like a waterfall. And then they bring it out and we talk all night,” she says and starts to sing a new song. Just before the bottle is empty, Puntsel and Bilgee sing a duet. It sounds foreign and beautiful.

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