Mongolia - Part II & End InaNutShell

Ok, so a picture can speak a thousand words to check this out.

I enter the circular cement structure, I continue to call it a Yurt, but technically its called a Ger… however, He Who Knows All tried to correct me one too many times, so I reverted to Yurt in a mature tongue-out-to-you response. 

Originally they were portable dwellings made of skins or felt, however, Rose told us, that in Inner Mongolia atleast, the Nomadic lifestyle hasn’t been as it was for atleast 50 years. I was sad to hear it, I’d always dreamt of spending a few days with a Mongolian nomadic tribe, but maybe it wasn’t to be. She tried to explain the ins and outs and reasons why but it became rather convoluted between economics, political landscapes, land and environmental restrictions not to mention modern taxes.

Never-the-less, here I was, on the grass lands on a particularly clear and, in my opinion, magnificent day, crossing the threshold of my very own YURT and my eyes were immediately struck by the rainbow circus awning of the ceiling. The blissful brightness delighted me, not to mention the simple fact that… I was in a circle, I don’t know why this was so exciting, maybe the fact that it is a singular experience… it has a wee little bathroom with, phew, a pedestal toilet… but, it was FREEZING! I would spend the night having the shivers and rubbing my hands together, but, it was one night in Mongolia… cant really complain about the cold can I?

We had an hour before meeting for lunch, I set down my bits and bobs and prepped myself for an hour to relax, try and contact Tiff and the parents to share this long awaited moment with. However, it was far too cold to stay in the Yurt, so I grabbed a chair and popped myself outside in the closely waning sun… Only to meet two new miniature friends.

Two little girls snuck up behind me, whispering in Chinese. I took my time, pretended not to hear… they stepped closer, and ever closer, before I LEAPED from my chair, turned and ROARED!

The kids giggled and ran off screaming, soon to return with Hello’s and My Name Is’s and more screaming, giggling and a little bit of chasing from me. An Amy and a Tina, and adorable were they both.

While we were on our way here Rose asked whether we would like some traditional… lamb. I have never been a lamb eater, given I had them as pets as a child, and I didn’t really eat mutton given sheep are, to this day, the least intelligent animal I’ve ever met and I’ve spent enough time with them to judge their IQ. HOWEVER, Simon was inclined… I didn’t want to be a spoil sport, then Rose announced that it would be 350 Yuan each! Crickey moses, I was going to have to eat some of this lamb.

So… entering the big tent food started to come out and be placed on the lazy susan. Spiced and sauced cucumber, some kind of potato dish, egg and tomato semi scrambled, rice… and… a quarter of a baby sheep. The cook brought it out for us to inspect, then later returned having cut it up, well atleast pulled the bones apart.

Rose was delighted when we asked her to join the feast, Simon seemed to enjoy it, I, on the other hand, wondered how it was we spend that much money on what was primarily bone and gristle, but maybe I’ve been spoiled for choice. The three of us couldn’t get through the whole quarter, so it was baggied up and popped in my yurt to be heated up later for dinner.

Locking up my own ‘Oval’ room – please mind the pun – we jumped back in the van with our smiling Dumpling King and headed…

We headed to a kind of park… It seemed to honour Ghengis Khan and general war-esque feats of the united Mongolian tribes. Before us stood a wooden fence, very reminiscent of pseudo military constructions of the Dark Days of England / Germany and similar, from what I’ve seen in documentaries! Wooden constructions, high exterior walls, what appeared to be dry human bones here and there, but unique to Mongolia… what appeared to be heads on spits…

Rose corrected me. I cant remember the name but apparently warriors, such as the Khan’s, held these – a long wooden stick with an empty rounded shape atop, hair like strands falling from it. Apparently holding these instruments gave more power to the rider / warrior.

We walked the long long walk, moving up a slow incline toward a large Ovoo. Rose explained that this is a particularly important Ovoo, somewhere where many Mongolians come to pray… for help, for health, for peace, for friendship.

I stood back as she bowed once, twice and once more. She moved toward the enormous mound of separate stones, each holding a wish, a prayer… a hope. Some dating back beyond written history. Rose then proceeded to walk slowly around the Ovoo three times, apparently its an ancient Shaman tradition that, although not as popular in Tibet, is still very much part of the Mongolian Buddhism tradition.

After taking a wander around and discussing with the ever lovely Rose, I sat silently. I took in the sparse landscape, the LOUDEST cicadas I’ve ever heard! Yet also simply watching the prayer flags flick and flap in the wind. White for the soul. Green for the land. Yellow for the Sun… It may be the first time in a very very very long time, including deep sleep, that I’ve felt silence. Just the absence of thought in my mind, utter silence, peace. The flags flapping in the wind, the smell of a land tippidy tapped by animal hooves, the whisper of prayer ribbon lining the Ovoo whisping and whipping in the light breeze.

I didn’t hear a bird, not an animal in sight, if you walked out for an hour… you would be entirely alone. Maybe the most alone person in the world. Something haunting, yet comforting, frightening, yet beautiful about that…

Interrupting my strange reverie, I was advised that there was horse riding to be observed, acrobatic horse riding… and I am NOT one to miss acrobatics.

Rose tells me… “Mongolian men… the most beautiful men… the most powerful men”,

“Yes”, I said to Rose… “but they are… still… men”

She looked at me confused, then laughed, “You are a very strange girl!” Rose is not of the opinion that a woman should remain unmarried, I enjoyed her 

fascination when I explained the pro’s of being an independent woman… about the freedom of doing it (life) solo. She said she will ponder this, I suggested that maybe how you live life can be a decision, rather than a predestined path. She smiled. She liked this idea.

Sitting in the front row, a large maybe half-a-soccer field sized sand space before us, at the read make-shift stone mountains with two one adorned shaman dancing and screeching out. Horses started to gallop, thunder-fast from one end to the other. The riders, both men and women, jumped, while on the speeding horse, off – bounded on the ground, flipped up, their feet at a 90 degree angle, then spinning, came down on the other side of the horse… then back – straddled like nothing had happened at all.

It was INCREDIBLE. I have seen Spanish horse acrobatics, but Rose dismissed the comparison, Mongolian riders became one with their horses. The reason Mongolia was so successful in conquering lands was because of their expertise with their steeds, shooting arrows while galloping at a pace. You could almost see the connection between man and animal.

The performance wasn’t just a display of skill, it told an old story of a man whose two daughters took his place in battle. We watched as the young women joined the army, how they trained with the men… competitions and then… war. The final scene all the horses and the riders were laid out on the ground. Oh these horses! The survivors mourned the horses, howling as one would a family member or lover. This is the way of Mongolians – there is a connection to these animals, a bond that develops over time. The horse that Ghengis rode is memorialised as a spiritual white horse, something supernatural, powerful. Some pray to it when they go on journeys, still.

I was buzzed, walking out, having gasped and sat wide eyed for the last forty five minutes, but the sun was waning, time to head back to our accommodation, I had no idea what the night would bring.

Arriving back at the yurts, I wandered around, camera in hand, taking in the slowly descending sun, the changing pascal colours of the horizon, the shadowing subtle grassland hills… the glimmer of the moon summoning the night.

I was caught by my new friends, Tina and Amy, enjoying a short but very high brow game of hide and seek around the yurts (more difficult… given there are no corners as such) before returning to the circus sized dining tent to finish off our bones… sorry, I mean LAMB!

Mongolian cuisine is primarily meat… meant and hard whiskey… and not fermented potato, wheat, barley or any other vegetable or grain. No… their throat burning, blood boiling, cheek reddening beverage is fermented… milk. Horse… milk.

As we had invited Rose to partake with our lamb, she decided to treat us to a couple of horn shaped bladders of ‘Airag’, which can exceed 30% proof and’s to be drunk at 10 minute intervals with cheers. Rose, being somewhat smaller than both myself and Simon, started to show its influence after the first three shots but protested that, as a Mongolian woman… she knew how to drink!

The tent filled up with Chinese tourists, families that came here every year, a group of gap year students, 6 guys, two girls and… two very vocal singers. Dressed in traditional Mongolian attire they took microphones and sung traditional and current Mongolian songs. The guy in particular put his heart and soul into each note and I wondered if there was a “Mongolia’s THE VOICE” because he’d be a sure fire entrant!

They stopped for a moment to bring in an entire roasted lamb, that still looked… like a lamb, head, eye balls, and all. The two performers hose a couple from the dining tent and brought the up, adorned them in royal clothing, including silk hats. They were instructed on how to cut the animal, from head through to shoulder, then down one side and then, the other. Apparently cutting the animal is an honoured tradition undertaken by esteemed families or the newly nuptialed.

But this was not the beginning, nor the end, of the singing and performance. Once dinner was finished, everyone moved out, under the cloudless sky, a shimmering full moon, to romp around the fire.

So imagine, you’re in the middle of nowhere, having had to literally tear your dinner off the bone of an animal, while the head of his friend stared on at you, the full moon blacking out the stars, the rolling yellow hills turning purple and quiet…

Then

The bang… bang… BANG of dance music blaring from a thigh-high speaker. The Mongolian, Chinese and foreign guests dancing around the fire. Eventually grabbing one anothers hands, friends or strangers and parading around the sparking fire, running in, then back out. Laughing and cackling and eyes connecting with joy.

Tina and Amy found me and I showed them my best 70’s moves I knew, they copied and we did the lawn-mower, the sprinkler, the front crawl and a bit of a wiggle.

As the fire died down families and guests returned to their yurts or tents, I decided to stay out. I took a chair from my yurt and brought it out to sit beside the dying embers. As the flames flicked ever slower and the moons light was absorbed by a passing cloud, I sat alone staring up at a strangely familiar sky, a sheet of sparkling stars, and I took a breath of thankfulness for being here, in this unique, unexpected, ever dreamt of moment. I was in Mongolia.

For me, the Grasslands was the highlight of the trip. The next day we travelled three hours to experience the desert. I decided to go the full hog and bought myself a material mouth guardy thing and a scarf that I attempted to tie around my head so I looked like a proper desert lady – but to no avail. I looked more akin to a VERY sheltered rich Western woman going to a dress-up party in a terrible attempt to look like a “foreigner”… you know… the other.

At the end of the day… when in Rome.

We jumped onto the back of a ute, holding on for dear life, as it sped up and down and through the desert. Can I be completely honest and say… it was very much similar to places I’ve been in Western Australia… I feel that Mongolia and WA are not so distant cousins when it comes to landscape… everything I saw and felt in terms of environment was very very very familiar. I’d accidently clicked my ruby shoes together and returned to my childhood home!

When we arrived at “Desert World”… yes, it was called “Desert World”, we saw a strange sand like thing to our right, a no-longer functioning vernacular to our right, and a rather long line of humans directly infront of us – this was for the camel rides.

Rose, the delightful person that she is, offered to stand in line for us to hold our place in the que while we wandered off (in separate directions…) to explore the desert for the 45 minutes it would take til we could ride the camels.

Agreeing to this I wandered off and explored… for about 20 minutes before deciding that, having promised myself to overcome my preconception of the desert, my initial opinion of it was correct – this was not a place I found any fascination with, and I really didn’t see any difference between this and the sand dunes of Western Australia.

However, I wont deny I enjoyed this camel ride more than the last. Arent they the most incredible creatures, incredibly strange that is. Their continuous mastication, regardless of whether they have anything tooo chew on or not, the honking noise, chomping English style skewered finger-length teeth, lips that Louis Armstrong woulda been proud of, hooves that literally have a 180 degree rotational ability… odd, odd, odd.

I jumped atop my camel in a far more lady like manner than I did the horse, I feel maybe horses should take some advice from the camel in terms of allowing their mount… to mount. But then, I sense that horses are a wee bit more prideful than camels.

The going UP aspect of the ride was slightly more uncomfortable, and yet, entertaining as, at first, you felt like you were going to fall off forward, and then… fall off backward, and then with a honk and a grunt, the beast was on its way.

While a horse is more a clip and a clop… the camel, with its knobbly knees, is more a haddumm da dumm da dam hadddumm… and so on and so forth, slightly more difficult to get in the rhythm. It kind of feels like you are VERY slowly using a hoola hoop on your hips… very slowly indeed.

I cant say, however, that it wasn’t an extraordinary moment to be literally on a camel train, in the desert, in Mongolia. Watching the shadows of myself and my… I’m going to say ride as opposed to steed at this point, on the wind-blown patterned sand.

Just one of those… “Is this me? Am I really here” moments… and a grin and a heart burst and a glance at the clouds and a hello to my Grandfather.

I’d not mention the next bit, but for the fact it was a bit of a Mister Bean moment… give it a moment, you’ll see in just a moment.

So, another two hours and we were in town between where we were and where we were going, it was also Mid Autumn Festival, where the Chinese and Mongolians celebrate the full moon, hoping for luck and happiness for the next season, and we were fortunate to be under a cloudless sky to enjoy.

I headed up to my hotel room, fortunately I didn’t need to use the card to open the door, it was wide open and welcoming, ready for me to take a long hot shower, enjoy an episode of something inappropriate and cuddle into a hotel robe, I’d made myself at home.

An hour later and our driver took us out to dinner… to the place that would result in his new name… “The Dumpling King”… We could choose trays of hand made dumplings (we watched the ladies artistry behind the screen, their nimble fingers filling the light pastry so easily).

We brought the trays back to the table where there was a hole, in the hole a small flame and atop, a small bowl of water into which you dropped the fresh dumplings and waiting for the dumpling king to tell you when they were ready.

They were delicious. I’m determined to find out how to make them from scratch before I leave China. I do wonder though, why they don’t do chicken dumplings. When I asked Rose… she just laughed at me?

Ok… so Mister Bean. A lovely meal later, the Dumpling King returned us back to the hotel. After appropriate good nights and confirmation of when we would meet again the next morning, Simon and I took the elevator to our respective floors. I was looking forward to getting back into the hotel robe and snuggling up on a compfy couch… WITH HEATING!

But… my key… my key wouldn’t work. I swiped it – red – beeps. I swiped the other way. Red – beeps. I turned the door know, no give. I swiped again, red – beeps… I looked at the card. Room 1212. I was standing at room…

Room…

Room… 1202!

All my stuff, my laptop, my wallet, everything was locked behind this door. I must have looked at my key, saw 12 and assumed it was 1212… WHY WOULD I ASSUME THIS?… and then showered, wandered, robed… in the wrong room!

CATASTROPHE!

I scooted toward the lift… the wrong way… upon hitting the end of the corridor, I turn tailed and scuttered back in the other direction, taking the lift down to the concierge.

As I approached I could see the fear rise up in the staff members eyes… they did not speak English. They knew I didn’t speak Chinese. They could sense my urgency… it was going to be a fiasco.

They were not aware, however, that I had a method of communication that transcended any spoken language… I… can…do… charades!

Three staff behind the desk and five potential guests watched as I took them on an adventure that was my last couple of hours. I showed myself taking the first card, going into my room. Taking a shower and putting on a robe… they giggled.

I looked at my watch! They observed as, eyes wide, I showed I’d realised the time and needed to go to dinner… hand to mouth eating delicious dumplings.

Walking step by step in the same place, then crouching down and rising up, they knew I’d come back to the hotel and taken the lift back to my room. Then swiping my card… trying to push the door open, swiping again… and no luck!

Looking at my card, I turned to them, wild eyed – I wrote on paper 1212 and 1202… indicating my things were in 1212… but my room was 1202! What to do, what to do?

So, after a good 10 minute silent performance that I feel even Mr Chaplin would have been proud of I finally had a staff member (actually two!) come with me to collect my things from 1212 then move into 1202.

After a photo with my VERY kind helpers, that would inevitably go on WeChat under “Crazy Western Person Cant Work Out Which Hotel Room She’s In Resulting In Embarrassing Performance”, I was in a different hotel room, with an even BETTER shower (what luck), and exhausted, collapsed onto the couch with a moon cake and the Autumn moon shining in through the window…

A less than dull day, all in all!

Over the next two days we visited the Mausoleum of Ghengis Khan, a place where his tents were placed upon his death, however his body was buried elsewhere – a place that has been lost to time.

The history was written on the walls by way of paintings and I was humbled to be in the presence of some ancient artifacts of Mongolian warship and general ancient lifestyle. It is beautifully kept, obviously revered and I felt honoured to have experienced this…

As we left the main building I sighted a relatively large mound to our right and suggested we take a squiz and wander up,

“No”, said Rose

“No?” I asked… inquiring… confused… eyes narrowing

“Well, we cannot go up it. Simon can go up it! Its good for… for… virility!”

I raised my eye brow, Rose giggled and grabbed my arm, she was working me out quickly,

“In Mongolia there is a place for a man, there is a place for a woman. If a woman goes up there… it can harm her… “ she took a moment to search for the word, “harm her…” she moved her hand around her belly,

“Her womb?” I suggested

“YES!” said Rose… “Not good for a woman to up there, but good for a man! He can have many babies”

“First of all”, I said to Rose… “Men don’t HAVE babies” she grimaced, Simon laughed… striding toward the mound… “Secondly…” but I thought better of it. I decided to respect her traditions (and who knows, not tempt fate!) and, while every part of me protested inside… I did not go up the mound. Simon returned from the top though,

“Feeling verile then?” I asked

“No, not particularly different”… doesn’t get the sarcasm then, I spose… bloody Northerners!

So that was the end of the journey…

My final day in Hohhot Rose met me, off the clock! To enjoy the delight of my getting my very first tattoo! I’ve been wanted to get one for two years, I had the design all ready and set to go, but having been in Mongolia found something that made more sense.

I wanted something that I could see, that calmed me when I needed to calm myself, that reminded me of a time when I felt at peace… 

So… I now have Rose’s hand writing on my wrist. Nam-Jim, which translates to calm / silence / peace and I see it momentarily every day, and it makes me smile, it reminds me of her, of Mongolia, of where I started and where I’ve gone and where I am.

And IDEALLY stops me throwing a naughty student out the window!