Mongolia, even in the summer, can be cold as hell. Even in the Gobi Desert. Especially in the Gobi Desert. Hence the alpaca scarf.
Since last fall, I’d been working out at a local gym, perfecting my wrestling moves. It was tougher to practice archery and horseback riding, but I found a couple of stables that reluctantly allowed me to do it. My strongest effort would be the wrestling.
Everything was in place. Sartre and I would fly to L.A. (I knitted a little bag to take her in using buffalo yarn so she’d be cozy), then take the Bombay family private jet to Ulaanbaatar. We’d stay for a few weeks to prep, hook up with our guides and train. Sartre could hang out, munching on the grasses of the steppe while I got my ass kicked over and over in the competition. I couldn’t wait.
As I spent the last few days getting organized, I couldn’t help wondering what had happened to Veronica Gale. I hadn’t heard from her. Not that I’d expected her to call, but I thought maybe I’d hear something. I’d left her my e-mail address and cell number. Still, I’d never really invited her to contact me.
The strange thing was, it really bothered me that she didn’t call or write. And the fact that it bothered me, bothered me. I’d never wanted attachments before. So why now? Why here? Maybe I was getting old and afraid of living alone? There was something about her I found intriguing. More so than any other woman since, well, since a long time ago.
I put those thoughts aside and finished getting organized. There were a lot of arrangements to be made. Fortunately, Sansar-Huu in Manzushir Khiid was handling a lot over there. I’d sent him my measurements for my zodag, shuudag and gutals (or boots), the uniform I’d be wearing. Or should I say, I’d be barely wearing. The outfit resembled a purple Speedo and a pair of silk sleeves attached to resemble a barely there bolero jacket. I’d learned that the reason the jacket was so open across the chest was to discourage women from secretly entering the contest by pretending to be men. Frankly, I’d like to see that. I was hoping at least one or two women would give it a try.
Sansar-Huu had also managed to find me a true tahki, or Mongolian pony, for the competition. These horses were descended from the original horses used by Genghis Khan as he took over Asia and Europe. I had a thing for Genghis Khan. I’d written my master’s thesis on how such a violent man peacefully embraced people of all races, religions and cultures. Of all the countries I’d visited over the years, this one was special.
I didn’t think I stood a good chance of winning. But that wasn’t the point. The point was to throw my hat into the arena and give it a shot. By heading out now, in the beginning of June, I’d have a little over a month for training (which, of course, wouldn’t be enough) and be able to participate in the smaller, local naadams before the main festival in Ulaanbaatar. I was looking forward to visiting my friends again. In fact, I hadn’t been back in fifteen years. But I had kept up my language lessons after leaving the Ivy League. For several years I had a carney colleague who was secondgeneration Mongolian. Chudruk kept me on my toes language-wise. He had since moved back to the homeland of his parents. His father was a former naadam champion, and I hoped to learn something from him.
The day I left, my cousin Missi came through with Veronica’s personal e-mail address. That kind of research wasn’t my thing. But Missi could find an amoeba in a mountain. I’d have to remember to pick her up something special from my trip.
So I sent Veronica an e-mail. It was simple, just inquiring how she was doing and mentioning that I would be in her area at the end of the summer. I got a reply back immediately.
Veronica Gale is out of town for the summer. Please leave a reply and she will get back to you in the fall.
Damn.
Sartre traveled like a pro and managed to stay nice and quiet while I smuggled her into Mongolia. She was a good sport. Now, I realize that sneaking a rodent into a foreign country isn’t usually a good idea. But this little pig went everywhere with me. She was kind of a security blanket. I wondered what the philosopher I named her after would think of that.
“Sain bainuu!” Sansar-Huu called out as he met me on the tarmac.
“Sain ta sain bainuu?” I replied with a hug.
“Fine, my friend!” he continued in English. “And how are your animals fattening up?”
I laughed at this traditional greeting and patted my sling holding Sartre. “Fattening up just fine.” My pig squeaked in protest.
Sansar-Huu, whose name meant “Son of Cosmos,” laughed as he took my duffel bag. After I shouldered my backpack, we walked across the tarmac to where a very beat-up Chevy truck stood waiting.
“What? No camels?” I teased.
Sansar-Huu proudly patted the rattletrap. “I just got this! My new truck!”
We climbed inside and began to make our way over the bumps and potholes that dotted the road. My friend was very proud of his newest acquisition, and I was happy for him. It always amazed me how two different cultures could call something “new” and it didn’t at all mean the same thing. His truck was a far cry from what we would consider new in America. And yet he was just as excited about it. Vehicles were a rarity here in the countryside. To have anything with an engine was a big deal. Sansar-Huu was probably considered a wealthy man.
I sighed and relaxed. There was something very peaceful about being in a place untouched by modern society. No cell phones ringing all over the place. No one on a laptop in a Starbucks-mainly because there was no Starbucks. People lived off the land. They ate what they grew. Life was straightforward. I often thought that these people knew something we didn’t. Maybe the real nirvana is in places like these instead of a loaded-up spa in Malibu.
“Your friend is here. He brought his family to meet you,” Sansar-Huu said with a smile.
“Chudruk is here?”
He nodded. “They set up camp near the stream. You did not tell me his father is Yalta. My family was very happy to meet him in person.”
“My apologies, my friend. I didn’t realize they would travel here to see me. I thought I would meet up with them along the way.” That was more in keeping with the way Mongols think. Time is almost too abstract for them. Datebooks and planners are irrelevant here. You just go until you meet up with someone.
“It is all right. Your ger is ready.” He grinned. “My wife set it up two days ago.”
I leaned my head back against the yellowed glass of the truck. Good. I was tired. International flights always wore me out. I didn’t want to get to our camp and have to spend more time setting up my tent. Sartre complained with a loud wheek! I pulled her out of the sling and held her on my lap.
“What is that?” my host asked.
“It’s my pet guinea pig.”
Sansar-Huu laughed loudly. Animals were treated differently here. Dogs were kept outside always, no matter what the weather, and they certainly never got up on the furniture. The people here ate everything else. I explained to Sansar-Huu that Sartre was my friend. He laughed even harder. Oh, well. You’d have culture clash sometimes. And as long as they didn’t try to eat her, like some friends of mine in Peru tried to do two years ago, we’d be okay.
We entered the Bogd Khan Uul Strictly Protected Area, paid for our tickets into the park and drove on. The scenery was breathtaking-fragrant cedar trees beside crystal streams and verdant grasslands. I stared out the window as Sansar-Huu rambled on about the weather. Eventually we came over the crest of a small hill to see the valley below, framed in the shadows of sunset, filled with small white dots. Those dots were our tents, or gers. This was where I’d be living for the next few weeks.