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July 21, 2006

The Big Feast

Heading north from the Gobi, the Mongolian landscape slowly came back to life. Shrubs and brushes gave way to grass and trees, and herds of animals roamed freely. The temperature also took a dive, making it pleasant during the day, but chilly at night. Recent rains forced our mighty van to plow through rivers, occasionally stalling midway, before sputtering back to life and delivering us safely to the other side.

With Joel and Jaa

The green landscape gave us ample opportunities to camp, and at White Lake we pitched our tents right along the water with only a few others in sight. I was beckoned over by a couple of stumbling Mongolians in traditional dress who insisted that I come over to their tent where five people sat around a small table, its centerpiece a bottle of vodka. I scanned each face, trying to figure out their intentions, and my gaze fell on Joelle from San Francisco. He was in Mongolia for a couple of weeks and Jaa, a friend of his mother's, was showing him around. I think that Jaa’s friends beckoned me over as a companion for Joel as he hadn't seen another English speaker in over a week. I was eagerly offered a cupful of vodka, and a snuff bottle from which I sniffed a pinch of the powder which giving a slight burning sensation to my sinuses. I fetched the others and we spent the rest of the evening miming, laughing and talking (often through his daughter who acted as interpreter). Between swigs of vodka and an endless supply of food, Jaa told us stories of how he used to drive goods between Russia and China, and how he even went to Finland to box competitively at a young age. Like most Mongolians, he was interested by Karin's dreadlocks and asked if her parents had them as well and if she had them from birth. As we parted ways for the night, Jaa warned us to be careful of the “bad people” in the area. Thanks. For the rest of the night I couldn’t sleep, waiting for bad people to come and ransack our tent. At three in the morning when a couple of vehicles pulled up to find a spot to camp, I was convinced that we were done for and began stuffing all of our valuables into the bottom of my sleeping bag for safe keeping. Sometimes I think that I get a little too paranoid.

Our trip to Mongolia coincided with the Naadam festival, the biggest event of the year and we decided to skip the main event in Ulaanbaatar to visit several smaller countryside festivals. Wrestling, archery, and horse racing are the main events, but we witnessed the unofficial event of boxing as one vodka induced competitor pulled another off his horse and fists were thrown. In total we were able to see three different festivals of varying size. Our first experience was in the tiny town of ____, where ringside seats were guaranteed, but the caliber of the competitors was a little mixed. We seemed to be the few that didn’t show up on horseback and in the queue for food, those on horseback had the right of way. Fried mutton dumplings, only cooked around Naadam, were the most sought after.

Battra (right) faces off against his opponent

Naadam in the town of Moron was the event that we were waiting for, and Baatra's chance to display his wrestling prowess. Unlike the smaller Naadams, the wrestlers here meant business, and each was dressed in the full traditional outfit. We squeezed into seats amongst the waiting wrestlers who were wrapped up in long jackets to keep warm. An announcement was made and suddenly every wrestler around us stripped down to their speedos and reverse bras and paraded out into the stadium. Each wrestler marched onto the ring raising his arms as if trying to take flight, walking in a slow circle past the officials where hats were ceremoniously removed prior to starting the match. Ten simultaneous matches took place for each round, and as far as I could see rules were minimal. Wrestlers usually engaged in a mutual headlock until one worked up the strength to throw the other to the ground. If the headlock lasted too long, a jovial old man would enthusiastically smack the butt of one of the wrestlers, I assume as a sign to get things moving. The loser is the first one to the ground, and the winner does yet another eagle dance before reclaiming his phallic shaped hat. Some matches were definitely one sided as the previous winners are allowed to select their opponents. This resulted in many huge wrestlers throwing down small guys in less than a minute. Baatra was singled out by a fairly large guy, and although he gave a good fight, was unfortunately defeated.

Baatra was keen to make a side trip to visit his mother, so we altered our itinerary and were promised a traditional Mongolian feast. We were given warm hospitality and were shown all the animals including a newborn calf who was still a little shaky on his feet. It was amazing to see how completely self sufficient the family is -cows are milked twice a day and vats of the fresh milk are stored in the ger and used for all sorts of food. It all takes tremendous work and there were plenty of children around to help. The children, who spend winters at school in Ulaanbaatar and summers in the countryside, seemed delighted to have us around and loved posing for the camera. The eldest had learned some English and was keen to practice. Whenever he could, he cornered me and asked endless questions on subjects ranging from my views on the war in Iraq, the best Hollywood movies of the year and if I was sad when Princess Diana died. My fumbled answers led him to observe that I didn’t seem to be very well informed. Upon returning from a walk around the area, we noticed a rather confused looking goat tethered to a large table outside the ger.

I think his time is up

I don’t know why, but I pictured a lot of blood, cries of anguish, and possibly a headless dash around the yard. I had never seen an animal killed before, and really had no desire to, but morbid curiosity forced me to watch. The process was much more methodical than I had expected. Baatra’s brother performed the entire process, first laying the sheep on it’s back, slicing a small in incision in it’s stomach, and then reaching inside to tear the main artery. No blood was spilled, and the animal died silently. Once the sheep had been sent to greener pastures, it was skinned and cut open. Everything that could be used, was. The only thing thrown away was the gallbladder, which must not be very appealing as even the dog turned his nose up at it. Luckily for us Jacob and Karin are doctors, and were able to point out each part that was being removed. The ventricle, intestines, stomach, kidney, heart, and all the other good stuff were cleaned and boiled for a soup that we unfortunately never had the pleasure of tasting. The meat was cut up and placed into an airtight canister with an onion, water and boiling rocks, and within half an hour, it was cooked to perfection. It was definitely the freshest meat that I have ever had, and absolutely delicious.

After three weeks in Mongolia it was time to get back on the train and we were quite happy to find our four berth compartment empty. For the next thirty minutes I scrutinized every person that walked near our carriage, wondering if they woulb be sharing the small space with us for the thirty six hour journey. I was determined that everyone had some sort of bad quality and therefore made an undesirable companion. As the train chugged away from the station our compartment remained empty. That is until two in the morning when a Mongolian woman and her eleven year old son boarded the train and moved in with us. They somehow managed to both fit on the bottom bunk and fell promptly asleep, snoring at an alarming volume.

The evening light in Mongolia is perfect for photos

Our train arrived at the Mongolian-Russian border at four in the morning, and we were to spend the next eleven hours going through border procedures. Luckily we had entertainment - our cabin mate had started rummaging through her two large duffel bags revealing more shoes and clothes than could possibly be for personal use. Through a series of hand gestures she let us know that she was headed to Russia to sell them, and wasn’t planning on bringing them in legally. She frantically started to stash items of clothing around the compartment, handing us clothing and shoes for us to pretend were ours. Occasionally, she would pause to show us her bible, reassuring us that she was a Christian, and break out in a repetitive chant of “Jesus Jesus Jesus, Amen Amen Amen”. While she was busy stashing, her son was donning as many pairs of pants and shirts as he could, making him look like an unconvincing junior bodybuilder. When no more clothes could be piled on, the duct tape came out and remaining clothing was taped to his legs and arms. The poor kid then had to sweat it out in the hot cabin while Russian customs officials searched his mother's bags. Somehow it was all pulled off, and a series of “Hallelujahs” were exclaimed before she gathered all her goods and hurried off the train to make her fortune. If this is a taste of what Russian bureaucracy is going to be like, we would be in for a challenge in the next couple of weeks.

Click Here to see the photos

Posted by brett at July 21, 2006 12:21 AM

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Posted by: Shawn at August 1, 2006 02:57 AM

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