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
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!
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