Up North
Northern
Mongolia was a refreshing change of pace from Ulaanbaatar, with green rolling
hills, blankets of red, yellow, and purple wildflowers, and no honking
vehicles. We took the Trans-Mongolian
railroad up to the city of Erdenet, the nation’s copper mining hub, and then
drove for a grueling eight hours to our ger camp. I’m usually a huge fan of road trips, but I’m
also a pavement snob.
The “roads” in the Mongolian
countryside are more suggestions than true infrastructure, and our minivan driver
parked facing downhill in order to jumpstart the van after each stop. When a hill was not readily available, we all
piled out of the van and started pushing.
Our driver didn’t speak English, but I sensed that our cheering
embarrassed him when the minivan engine finally roared after each stop.
Our ger camp host was a
well-renowned Mongolian violinist named Chinbat who has performed for
dignitaries across Asia and Europe. He
and his wife run the small camp in the summer and return to Ulaanbaatar where
he teaches music in autumn.
Chinbat took us to visit a local
nomadic herding family in the next valley over from our camp. I was nervous to find out that the family
didn’t know we were coming, but it’s not exactly like we could phone ahead first. I recognized my Western cultural norms coming
through.
The family was warm and welcoming,
as they invited us into their ger. The
patriarch of the family was the grandfather lighting his cigarette below. He was a kind, entertaining man who passed
around the Chinggis vodka constantly and chain-smoked throughout our visit, but
tried to tell me through hand motions that smoking is bad for your health. It doesn’t matter what part of the world you
are in, grandpas will always tell you to do what they say, not what they do.
The grandfather has been raising
racehorses for over 30 years and brought out the medals he has acquired from
years of winning horses. It seemed
ironic to be eating the horse liver he offered, while hearing (through our
translator) about his winning horses. I
wondered if I was eating the slow one in the herd.
The grandfather sent over a few
horses for us to ride later in the day.
Chinbat asked him to please send his tamest ones; his concern turned out
to be warranted.
I can ride a horse comfortably with
a western saddle, but these were not the kind of horses you ride on a trail in
the mountains, nor the saddles made for my American buttocks. Within seconds of jumping into the saddle, we
were off running. Mongolian horses know
the word “choo” as a command for them to run.
There is no “whoa” in their vocabulary.
My confidence in my riding
abilities quickly vanished when I attempted to slow the horse using all my
upper body strength to pull back the reins.
He didn’t care. My horse only slowed
when a Mongolian man riding along side me at a full gallop pulled back on my
reins with me. By that time, I had
already hit a tree, busted my knuckle on the saddle’s silver embellishment, and
severely bruised my thighs on the uniquely shaped saddle. I enjoy a good adrenaline rush, but not
seeing my life flash before my eyes.
Our Mongolian guides could see the
fear in my face and laughed hysterically.
Somehow them laughing at me calmed my nerves. I don’t really mind when people talk smack
about me when I don’t understand the language.
I gave my horse’s lead rope to a guide and motioned for us to walk
instead of run. The guide smiled as he
took the rope and then began instructing my horse to “choo.” It would have been a good time to have my
Mongolian phrasebook handy. He finally
understood my intent for my horse to walk the rest of the trip when I
repeatedly stated, “no choo, no choo.”
With my blood pressure back down to
a safe level, I was able to enjoy the breathtaking scenery – with grassy hills
as far as the eye can see and not a single person in sight.
A girl in our group was raised
around horses and felt confident in her racing abilities. She challenged one of our Mongolian guides,
and they set off running. I watched, as
if in slow motion, her horse thinking for himself and deciding to change course
without any regard for his rider. She
flew off the side of his saddle, landing on her hip and knocking her head
against the ground. Our guides
panicked. Two men went after the loose
horse, pursuing it over the hills. My
guide and another tended to the rider.
Without a translator with us, there was a lot of pointing to clearly
identify her injuries. After her
hearing in one ear returned and she could stand, she jumped back on her reclaimed
horse for the journey back to camp. I
was impressed and I think our guides were too.
On the way back to camp, we helped a herder move his sheep and goats along the hillside. It was the most spectacular ending to an adrenaline-filled afternoon.
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