Mongolia - Grasslands Part 1

The following day I was kindly collected by who will forever be known as “The Dumpling King”, the origins of said name to be revealed later. A delightful gentleman with an excellent command of English greetings and, happy sparkling eyes and a perfectly round head.

When I booked this, I figured it would enable to me to see as much of  Inner Mongolia within the allocated days of Golden Week. I was lead to believe that it’d be me (admittedly some of this may have been my imagination as opposed to any raw information provided) and a bus full of southern Chinese, non-English speaking tourists. DELIGHTFUL! For me, this would mean a peaceful trip without any unnecessary small talk…

However The Dumpling King as driving the same mini van as the day before… I narrowed my eyes… could it be… did I score a trip by myself? Just me… and The Dumpling King?

I eased back into the chair, donned my head phones and prepared for the long trip to the grass….

Urgh…

We pulled over…

Oh! Looked like we were just picking up the Mongolian Tour Guide, a cherub-like woman bouncing between cars and bikes toward the van.

Followed… yes, followed… by…  pasty, blond haired… Englishman… from the North.

You may think it peculiar I mention his northerness, however in recent experience I’ve observed that this area breeds persons of a notable “Know All” attitude – my new travelling companion did nothing to dispel this observation…

My stomach lurched… I took a deep breath, removed my headphones, put on my “I’m a lovely polite and sociable Australian who is simply DELIGHTED to have another English speaker on this journey. There is nothing I’d like to do more than, while in Inner Mongolia, than hear all about your life, your family, your job, your philosophies on existence and where possible, how you know MORE about Mongolian history than our actual Mongolian guide…”

Lets just say we didn’t keep in touch.

I did, however, thrust my hand out and shaking it, introduce myself, completed an appropriate amount of niceties, before engaging in chit chat with Rose, our guide, who I immediately took a liking to. Bright, bubbly and I hope to keep as a lifelong friend.

“So, Rose”, I said, “What happened to split Mongolia up to… well, here, Inner Mongolia and ‘Mongolia / Mongolia’”.

“Mmmm…” said Rose

“Ohhh” said Simon… the Northerner who knows, “Well, it all had to do with…”

“With”, continued Rose, and I liked her spunk, “The Qing Dynasty gave money and land to some Mongolians and they wanted to remain, they enjoyed the wealth and lifestyle. Further North people wanted to split, to go back to traditional ways. So instead of warring, they decided to split up the country… Inner Mongolia is part of China, but is STILL Mongolia (she said this with gusto!) and then outer Mongolia… which sadly doesn’t use the original language any more… she whispered… it’s a bit Russian now!”

Wow! Was this the most peaceful split of a nation?

Another two hours were spent watched the undulating grasslands silently sleek below the sharp mountains in the distance. The green, grey and yellowing colours silenced the mind, a sparse landscape, devoid of tree or bush… but now and again a man on a four wheeler motorbike herding a string of horses from one place to another, stirring up wisping clouds of brown dust, broke up a rather meditative landscape.

I reflected on my dearly departed Grandfather and wondered if… the reason for his desire to see this land, is that, in my opinion, it so closely reflected a dry summer in the Western Australia wheatbelt. I felt strangely like I’d returned to my childhood home.... a cloudless blue sky, a horizon so far beyond it was inconceivable to reach, the sun bearing down and a flat landscape in every direction.

At one time I would have ran from such a setting, infact for many years I’ve not been able to watch desert based films, from Mad Max to anything based in central Mexico… fortunately I’ve overcome this fear… and could appreciate the uniqueness of this particular landscape. At the same time I could see myself in my teenaged years, wandering out to a random paddock on the farm with the sheep dog and my cat, to sing my lungs out and make imaginings of my future… certainly a place where ones imagination can go wild.

There’s a particular different between the Chinese and the West… I don’t know whether it’s the same with other Eastern cultures… for my future self, I do hope not… the difference is… familiarity. Whether you are in a shopping centre, getting in a cab or speaking with your teacher… there are no airs and graces, you speak as you would someone you’ve known for years. If you are frustrated, you express this – no holes barred.

I’ve been in a cab when the driver has picked up an extra passenger and I assume they are friends… no, just familiar. It causes me a strange disturbance because, for those who know me, takes a LONG time for me to transfer an acquaintance to a friend, and goodness forbid I speak in a completely familiar manner to someone I’ve only just met! Might be the old English in me!

So… I was ill prepared when we stopped for a quick loo break and myself and Rose entered the facility… not a stall to be seen. Just a long cement slab with rectangular shafts set sporadically and parallel to one another…

I hovered.

Rose offered me some wipes…

She then straddled one of the shafts, flicked down her underthings, and squatted, relieving herself while continuing her conversation with me.

Not wanting to seem rude, ashamed… Western… I unburdened myself of my trousers and underwear, and, while my face cringed with the shock of utter inappropriateness, tried to respond to her questions and dialogue while letting my body know… its ok… its ok… you can do this… its either this or holding it, potentially, for another day or so!

I set my fingers, while squatting, on the cement. Rose indicated with distaste not to do this,

“Rose!”, I said, “I don’t have your balance! I’ll end up falling in!”

She giggled… and if there is a way to become close to a person, try spending some pants-down squatting, definitely breaks the ice! If not pride and humility!

Finally, the Dumpling King drove us up a slight incline, and toward one giant circus looking tent, accompanied by maybe 15 yurts – our evenings accommodation!

However, before we had a chance to check these out, it was time for a horse ride over the grass lands. A man and woman, sun-streaked skinned and squat, stood awaiting us. Quite stern faced, the two of them, they gave their instructions, bruskly, to Rose who translated for us.

“Do not stand behind the horse… he will kick you!”

I moved… so as not to stand behind the horse.

The lady, holding onto my horse then shouted… DO NOT STAND BEHIND THE HORSE!

I moved again, to avoid the rear of the horse… and she bloody moved the horse again! How am I not to stand behind the horse if you keep facing the horses buttocks in my direction!

Eventually we overcame this initial misstep, and moved onto the next one where I needed to HEAVE myself onto the horse from the ground, with the less than delicate assistance from the male horse trainer – using his strength to push me up via my own buttocks.

Fortunately it wasn’t just me, Simon made an even worse mount, he, however, didn’t then decide to pat the horse which resulted in my getting reprimanded again by the squat lady once again.

We tripped, trapped and trodded along a very familiar looking landscape, I felt like I’d been transported back home… the only difference, it was bloody cold. I bounced along on the horse (not patting him/her!) and took in the endless sky, the wave-like rolling hills of the grasslands… without said grass – grass is something that appears in the Summer, in the Winter the land looks like its recovering from a recent burning.

The horse wranglers pointed out animals as we mozzied on by. The sheep were less than impressed by the interruption to their mastication… strangely I enjoyed the nostalgic scent of their wool and their… lets just stop at wool, shall we?

We came upon a Ovoo… or a large stone construction, and by stone I mean, hundreds of thousands of stones set one upon another resulting in a large circle, covered in blue lengths of silk material. The history behind it is that, in the grasslands – particularly in the day without the stars to guide them, travellers needed a way to establish where they were and where they were going. So people started placing stones with arrows by them. Travellers would add a stone to the original pile as they passed, and again, and so on and so forth… over time people would start praying at these places, for a safe journey, for incoming travellers… then for health and happiness.

When Mongolia and Buddhism developed a connection these places were used for prayer to Buddha, given that farmers and workers might not be able to get to the temples of the towns and villagers.

It reminded me of the Cairns in Scotland and made me realise more Chaos theory… the same things happening at the same time in a different place without physical or intellectual connection… Maybe I was getting infected by the spiritual essence of the place, but I enjoyed the idea of the similarity between us all… the humanness in trying to find our way and hoping… praying, for the best… from whatever tribe, be it Asian, European or otherwise.

We headed toward a small dwelling, which, as it turned out, was the home of our horse wranglers. We… less than elegantly… dismounted our honourable steeds and were invited into their home. I noted the blown up love heart balloons and suddenly a younger woman appeared… Nihoa! We greeted one another… I indicated toward the balloons,

“We are just married”, she said in broken English

“Wow! CONGRATULATIONS!” I responded. The lady directed me to look at a portrait of herself and the male horse wrangler, who at that moment, appeared at the threshold and seeing the remnants of our discussion, looked like he would burst with pride and joy.

The older lady – aka yelly horse butt rotating lady – turned out to be the man’s mother and this was their family home.

They invited us to sit and, while the new bride went outside to pour some warm milk from a large barrel and return, the elder woman placed some different treats before us. All of them made from milk… lots and lots of milk, and not 2% milk… this was MILK MILK.

Sadly, since the age of 30, my tolerance for lactose has reduced somewhat, so while being polite and indulging in said treats, my sinuses were protesting with gusto! Though my tastebuds were delighted, the rest of me was disinclined… but I forged on and drank two cups of the potential horse-milk with additions of some kind of clove… and munched through different varieties of dried milk made into… could you call it candy? I don’t know. Imagine a pseudo custard tasting paint and you’ll get the idea.

We tried to communicate, but not to much avail… and after A LOT of dairy, we eventually re-mounted our steeds to return back to our unique accommodation!