I had met most of Sansar-Huu’s family years ago. I’d kept in touch through letters. But his family had grown quite a bit in the last decade and a half. Sansar-Huu had told me he and his wife had five children. But I counted at least two dozen running around in the waning sunlight, laughing.
We pulled up about fifty yards from the first ger. A smiling woman with a weathered face and a thick, long braid came out and toward me, arms outstretched. This was Odgerel, Sansar-Huu’s wife.
She began speaking in rapid Mongolian. I barely kept up. I think she said something about her goats being happy to see me, or the mare was too busy drinking alcohol to say hello. Apparently, my Mongolian was rustier than I thought.
I got settled in my ger and set up the small, collapsible cage I’d packed for Sartre, then made my way to Sansar-Huu’s ger for dinner. My muscles ached from the bumpy drive and a full day of travel. I sat on the floor, enjoying the company while I ate sheep stew, then, after a few bowls of vodka, made my way back to my tent and bed. I don’t even remember falling asleep.
“Coney! Coney Bombay!” The cry from the door woke me, and I staggered to my feet.
“Come in!” I shouted, quickly putting on clothes. Chudruk threw my door open and stepped inside with a smile. The years had been kind to him. Tall for his people, he was sinewy and strong. His name meant “fist.” I never knew why.
Chudruk and I embraced, patting each other on the back. Within moments I had started a fire in the stove in the center of the room and was boiling water for tea. Mongolians prefer it with milk and salt. Sometimes they add animal fat. I was a real trooper about trying new things, except when it came to tea. I’d brought Earl Grey and a pound of sugar with me on this trip.
“Ahhh,” Chudruk said as he drank deeply. “I do miss Western tea.”
I tossed him a second box of Earl Grey and a large bag of sugar. “I brought you a little extra. I remember that sweet tooth of yours.”
He nodded. “I’d never had sugar until I went to the States. It ruined me for this place.” He stuck the tea and sugar in his jacket. “But that’s okay. I’ll survive somehow.” He tossed me a felt bag.
“This is beautiful. Who knitted it?” The bag was a gray that graduated halfway down the bag into black. The felt was strong.
“My mother made it for you. For your training.” He motioned to the opening. “Look!”
I pulled out an open-chested jerkin made of turquoise silk, a pair of purple silk underpants and a pair of leather boots, upturned at the toes. The embroidery on the boots and uniform was exquisite. Threads of silver and gold trailed and entwined impossibly across the surface of both garments.
“You have to train in this too.” He pulled a pointedtopped cap from his jacket. “I almost forgot.”
I shook my head. “I brought some training clothes.”
Chudruk smiled. “I promised the guys I’d upload some photos of you in this on my Facebook page.”
“Fantastic,” I growled as I stripped, then put on the outfit. I felt like an idiot prancing around in what basically constituted a Speedo, two sleeves and pointy boots.
“I don’t want to ruin them,” I tried.
Chudruk waved me away as he tried to avoid doubling up with laughter. “No! You look great!” Hey! Where had he gotten that camera? “Say ‘goat cheese’!”
I was still scowling as I stepped outside to find thirty-some Mongolians waiting for me. The women smiled and giggled. The men laughed with something I suspected was more mockery than anything else. Chudruk laughed and dragged me over to a man who appeared to be a shorter, older version of my friend.
“Coney,” he began, “this is my father. Yalta.”
My new coach nodded abruptly in my direction, and I returned the nod. Shaking hands wasn’t a common activity here.
The crowd faded away. There was a lot of work to do before the day’s end, and everyone was needed. I had given the two families a male and a female dairy cow and six goats each. The animals had been delivered just before I arrived. This would pay for my boarding and for the rudeness I’d be displaying by training and not helping out. These people never asked for it. But I wanted to thank them.
Yalta and Chudruk led me down to the stream, where my friend continued his introduction.
“My father does not speak English, so I will translate. He is the winner of three national naadams. He has the rank of bull. And he has agreed to train you.”
“Tand bayarlaa,” I thanked him. This was a big deal. A man like Yalta was as important in Mongolia as Joe Montana or Johnny Depp was in America.
“The first thing you have to do is fifty push-ups in the stream.” Chudruk translated his father’s rapid-fire Mongolian.
“In the stream?” I asked, hoping he was kidding. The water in a creek like this came from melting snow in the mountains. It had to be about twelve degrees.
Yalta frowned and nodded. He seemed to take my question as an affront. I did as I was told and got in the water. My skin felt as if it was frozen hard, but I kept going until I had done fifty. As I got to my feet, I tried not to shiver. The two men were whispering as they watched me.
Yalta pointed to a large stone next to the stream.
“Pick it up,” Chudruk translated. “Twenty-five overhead presses, please.”
What could I do? I struggled to lift the stone. It was as wide as my shoulders and probably about seventy-five pounds. Still, I did what I was asked. My brief complaint earlier would no doubt turn on me later. I didn’t want Yalta to think I couldn’t handle the first five minutes of training. I still had a whole month to go.
Four hours later, bruised and exhausted, I slipped into my ger, ate a smuggled-in protein bar and chugged two cups of tea. Yalta had decided I was weak and needed rest. I didn’t protest. I didn’t even remove my uniform or boots-just buried myself under layers of wool blankets. I think I even fell asleep with my hat on.
I’d like to think it was jet lag, combined with my pitiful training back in the States. I’d prefer to believe that, instead of the fact that I wasn’t as young as I used to be. And that hurt. Still, I was completely and utterly useless. And tomorrow, I’d do it all over again.
Chapter Seven
Narrator: You can swallow a pint of blood before you get sick.
– FIGHT CLUB
“Wheeeeeeek!” Who needed a rooster when you had a demanding guinea pig? I brought my arm up to move the blankets and my muscles threatened to assassinate me. The pig continued to protest, and I was worried she would wake up the whole camp.
I managed to toss some fruit mixed with hay into the cage and collapsed back onto my cot. It was dark, and the stove had long since run out of fuel. There was a chill in the air that was not helped by my skimpy clothes. After lighting the kerosene lantern, I filled the stove from a bucket of dried dung and lit a match. It took only a few moments for the space to warm up.
The ger was basically a round tent covered in felted wool. In the middle of the tent stood a small stove. The pipe disappeared through a hole in the top. To the left of the door I had my cot, two trunks for my things, two stools and a rug. A box of cooking and eating utensils stood next to the bucket of dried manure. This might be the first time in my life I was happy to be the proud owner of a bucket of shit. A simple life, really.
I stood and started stretching to relieve my aching body. Fortunately, I had some life-giving ibuprofen in my backpack. I took three with the tea I’d warmed up on the cookstove. The heat flowed down my throat, and I started to feel a little like myself again. Wow. Hours of bizarre, sadistic exercises and wrestling one-on-one with a famous athlete. Maybe I wasn’t doing so badly after all. And what time was it anyway, seven or eight at night?