Arbulag - Day 4

Awaa outside of Arbulag

Breakfast is finished. I ate all the bread. B. gets up and informs me that the uncle spoke with his wife about Max, and that they have decided against buying him. But B knows other people in town who may be interested, so wait and see.

The mother sits on the sofa watching a Korean soap opera. She is 55 and retired from her work of 38 years as a government secretary. Her office was in the big building, the hotel where B first took me looking for a room. The uncle told me yesterday that B's father helped build it, from 1968 to 1972.

The nephew of the family is angry with me: my transgression? rolling out the dough for shöl wrong. The bigger news is that I have sold Max, to an acquaintance of B. He did not dicker at all! He pulled a wad of cash from his deel and counted out the bills. B signed the bill of sale. I still have the saddle.
As we walked with Max to the buyer B tells me that probably the horse will be dinner in Russia in a short time. We walk on silently. What are you thinking? she asks. Yes, I am a bit sad to say good-bye to Max. He has been good to me. I can't blame him for being hungry these last days, stopping at the slightest release of the reins to sink his head to the earth.

No transport to Moron today, so I will depart tomorrow.

Today I walked to the awaa with a relative of the family. Three hours round trip. The awaa has a significant place in Arbulag lore. B's mother typed it up as part of her job for the school children. She shows it to me. Three hundred years ago a Mongolian hero warrior was fighting against the Chinese. He knew he would be captured, so he cut off his thumb and put it on the mountain. He was brought to Beijing and killed in a peculiar manner: 81 coins with holes in their centers were placed on his body and through each hole a vein was pulled and pierced.

Back home B wants now to go up the nearby mountain. Sure, why not? But my feet hurt from my boots. So we search for footwear and find a pair of sandals. Up the mountain we go, looking for ganga, an herbal plant that is used for washing hair. We gather the ganga in a bag. On the top of the mountain is a small pile of rocks of B's making. From here we can see the layout of the town. It stretches long, bordering on the lake. B says she sees her mother at her relatives' home.

B's family built their home only a few years ago. Beforehand, they pitched their ger on their plot of land. If you want to move to the town, the government will give you a plot of land, about an eighth of an acre. Such plots are the only private property in the country.