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.

Arbulag - Day 3

Today's activities: study map, talk with the family about the awaa (the shrine on the hilltop), look at old coins, water Max at the lake with the uncle, go fotoing, play guitar, look at Mongolian herder's almanac (containing traditional songs, recipes for öröm, tarak, etc.), origami flapping bird.

The almanac is a treasure, but it is all in Mongolian, of course. As a sign of the changing times, the mother knows the songs, but not the daughters. She sings a couple for me.

I made an offer to sell Max to the uncle, but he has to talk with his wife who is in the hospital. The weather forecast says the next three days will be sunny, up to 22 to 25 C.

Arbulag - Day 2

Photo albums

The weather forecast turns out so far to be true. Rain and more. We are now waiting for transport to Moron. I will go with B. to return the computer. It had viruses on it, too. What will the day bring?

We go to a house, not a store front, to exchange the computer. We look at a different one. "Someone must have switched the other one," the saleslady says. After checking the new one, I was about to recommend to B. that she buy it, but she telephoned with her mother and they decided against it. There is no Internet in Arbulag. The family wanted a computer basically for the elder daughter who is a teacher.

As I make plans, my main concern now is the weather. O's father was spot on: in two days time the weather changed. Did he see the weather forecast or did he speak from his 50 plus years as a herder in the countryside? Today is blustery cold! No rain yet, but I am not ging to ride in this weather, especially if it should continue. And I guess that is the question: will it remain cold?

If so, that means I sell Max and move on. To Moron for a day or two and then back to UB.

Photo of forefathers

B. is a university graduate. She has only recently returned home from Erdenet. But no prospects here in banking, her field of study. She plans on spending a year here with her family and returning to Erdenet next year to find work. She dresses in western clothes, but her sister, just a few years her senior, prefers the traditional Mongolian deel.
The father has died. His portrait foto occupies a central spot above the triptych mirror to the left of the shrine. You must not lie with your feet stretching towards the shrine. I have been reprimanded twice already for doing so. But the TV is against that wall. So some sit while others lie on their bellies with their heads propped up on their hands

Arbulag - Day 12 Solo

Departure: 10:45
Arrival: 4 pm.
Tea break: 12:45 to 2:15
Riding time: 3:45

B. and her mother

The second person I talk to in Arbulag invites me to her family home. She is B., 21 years old. She tells me that I am the first foreigner they have had as a guest. What is more, they have grass for Max. Incredible. I asked her for a hotel. She brought me to it, but then invited me to her home.

Her mother has just returned from Moron with a new computer. I helped them set it up but a fuse blew. The uncle in the house was able to get it repaired (I knew my electrical tape would come in handy).

But guess what? The computer isn't new! There are games and documents stored on it from last year! So they called the store and the sales clerk turned off his phone. They called a second time and arranged to go see them tomorrow. I will go with them.

Boy comes to invite me to his ger

Today's ride included a boy riding across my path. He rode south towards a few distant gers, and I continued on the trail to Arbulag. O's father pointed over a hill. That is the direction of Arbulag. I followed his finger and rode up a low pass which gave me a grand view of the valley. An hour into the valley I met the boy.

A half hour later the boy, maybe 10 years old, returns. He beckons me to come with him to his ger. I hesitate. A storm is brewing behind me and I want to get to Arbulag before the downpour. But he persists, and after thirty minutes riding I find myself in his family ger.

Mother with phone

His mom had summoned me. Why? She can't figure out how to send a text message on her cell phone in Mongolian. She wants me to show her how! She has a written code that deciphers the Roman alphabet on the keys into Cyrillic. I look at it for a moment. Though I know the Cyrillic alphabet, it looks a bit confusing, . But then a stroke of luck - her battery runs out! So I am relieved of my duty. And after filling up on biscuits and tea, I am back on my horse.
As I find myself back where the boy met me, another man approaches on horseback. He rides up to me and I say hello. But he is silent. We ride together for only a few moments before he turns and heads back towards the pass. What was that all about? Safety is a big concern here, especially with all the talk of horse thievery. So far I have been lucky, but I wonder how close I have come to danger.

Day of rest at O's family ger

Fetching water

Lunch at the ger. Mom wakes up and serves me bread and berry jam, but what kind of berry it is, I don't know. The name is not in my phrasebook. O's sis, A., chops mutton for khorshoor, along with her auntie. Not much happening here. We watered the horses from the spring abut 50 m west of the ger. A. staked the horses back on the meadow, a couple hundred meters distant, but grass is short. Her white horse has more fat, less rib showing.

This family has the requisite family foto display. O is present. Tv is often on, showing a Mongolian soap opera. A. still slices the mutton of the sheep her dad slaughtered.

I am trying to plan the rest of my trip. They say in two or three days it will be getting cold: 10 to 15 C during the day. That is not so bad. But I am tired. I did not realize until these last days how tired I have gotten. Back in Ulaan-uul I started to notice it. They say my horse can go another two weeks.

In big part it is the sense of accomplishment that makes this trip fantastic. Setting a goal and meeting it on my own is a good feeling. That is not to diminish the beauty of the landscape, the hospitalitiy of the people, the learning curve with Max. It is easy until you have a problem. I could have had a mishap a couple days ago down the river valley (after the guys got out of their truck), when I stayed on the west bank instead of crossing the river. My horse wanted to take the trail, steep up the bank, on loose soil. He slid a bit but then I managed to get him to take the lower branch of the trail. If he had slid and fallen, that could have been the end.

Braiding leather whip

But that did not happen. What is happening now is my exhaustion and Max's hunger.
From the forgot to mention file: Back in the ger with Ulana, we sat together thumbing through the phrasebook. She found the word "nomad" and then points at me. You! she said. That made me laugh. This happened after I told her of my distant travels. Is that partly why I like it here so much? Am I a nomad as much as them?

O's family - Day 11 Solo

Departure: 11:15
Arrival: 6 pm
Two x 30 minute tea breaks.
Riding time: 5:45
It works! The message Baigalmaa wrote me I show only twice. Good thing I stopped to ask before riding further on. The first time I ask, a woman points south of the trail, towards distant hills. Behind that one, she says, you will find them. How far is it? About an hour. Ok. It is only 3 pm. Plenty of time yet before dark. I ride towards the horizon.

No gers are in sight. I am a bit anxious but I trust my luck. I focus on the mountain profile as it cuts the sky and steer Max towards it. After an hour I begin to ease around the mountain. To my left are a few gers. Time to ask directions again. I ride up to a woman doing the laundry. I show her my note. She points over the next hill, about 30 minutes away. Which hill? I dismount Max and foto the horizon. Then I zoom on to the foto. She tells me which hill she means.

As I ride up the hillside a motorcycle appears. He stops and waits for me to ride up to him. I circle around so I don't have to look into the sun. I hand him the note. He says laconically, That's my father.

It is amazing to me that people in the countryside have addresses. This one reads something like: behind Mt. So and So. Arbulag. Although nomads, these Mongols return to the same spot year after year. While the ger is movable, they often build permanent structures, such as a barn, corral, or outhouse, which mark their place in the landscape.

I am welcomed at O's ger by a couple of aggressive dogs. I do a dance with them and Max, but before long I am feasting on bread and cheese. I am beat! It is a tremendous relief to arrive! I feel as if I am approaching the end of my journey.

Road to Emt, Darch - Day 10

Departure: 1 pm
Arrival 6 pm

It is evening in Emt. Jaya shows me a foto album of her family. Foto albums are a big thing in the countryside.

Tomor, with Max in background

One hour out of Bayanzurkh a man on a motorcycle stopped to say hi. So I ask him which is the road to Emt, the left or right bank of the river.Tomor invites me to tea. He is my age. He gives me a deerskin pouch as a gift. And a box of matches.

Max was shy this morning about being saddled; that was the first time that has happened.

I stop today for tea. Inside the ger a child is making cookies from aaryyl.

Aaryyl cookies

At 6 pm I was ready to stop. I saw a ger to my right and headed for it. But it did not work out. Instead, we sat outside in the cold wind while no one had much to say and the two younger women were too shy to speak. So I left.

On I rode in view of other gers and soon I stopped and was warmly welcomed by Darch and Jaya (brother and sister). It took a couple askings from Jaya of "Where you going to sleep?" before things turnee in my favor. I told her Max needs to eat, so we went out to stake it. Darch took over and rode off with Max to the valley, where the grass was longer.


Darch and his medals

 Though it is dinner time they offer me only barsocks - those chunky unsweetened cookie like edibles. But that is OK with me. I am happy to have a place to sleep.

Darch is the local wrestling champion. His medals hang proudly in his ger, 10 or so. Wrestling is one of the most popular sports in Mongolia, and occupies a key spot in the Naadam festival. Some Mongols immigrate to Japan to compete in sumo - and do very well.
Back in Bayanzurkh, Baigalmaa called my friend in UB. I will visit my friend's family 17 km outside of Arbulag. Baigalmaa writes down in Mongolian a message: I am looking for this family. Here is the address. Which way should I go?