Mongolia Mischief, Episode 2

It around four PM when Chuka drove us to the Ger of a family of nomads. These guys still live mostly like mongolian nomads have lived for centuries, except for the odd sattelite dish and solar panel.

The visit was somewhat formal, but the family was very hospitable and treated me to salty mongolian milk tea, cakes and dumplings. 

Their Ger is beautiful, with ornate carvings on their poles and beautiful carpets on the walls. Hanging from the middle of the ceiling was a thick red velvet rope that symbolised the family’s prosperity and good fortune.

On the floor a mostly toothless grandfather was playing around with the youngest member of the family and a son and his wife stood for most of the hosting. 

Food duly chewed, it was time for my next treat: horseriding.

Now, I have ridden horses a couple of time before in my life. I am not new to the whole horse “scene,” if you know what I mean. I know where the saddle goes, possibly even the… mouth-thing. 

Those horses, however, were Norwegian “dølahestar” (valley-horses) big, somewhat slow and most importanly TAME. 

The Mongolian Steppe Horse does not give two shits what your jeans-wearing punk-ass thinks about which speed it takes. You better cling on, son, because giddy-fucking-up.

You think you can handle us, punk?

The son of the house looked rather suave, though, casually pimp-leaning back in his US Army jacket, steering both of our mounts with one hand while fishing up a pack of cigarettes with the other. He was the James Dean of horseriding. I felt obliged to offer him a light. 

Oh yeah, hang on, we’ll get back to the riding in a second. 

About cigarettes. Everyone - no, listen - EVERYONE in Mongolia smokes. When I shared some of my bribe-pack as thanks for the nice treatment later I was on the verge of sticking one in the mouth of the baby. 

"Got some cigs, brah?"

My guide and buddy Bat was basically lighting his next up with the remnants of the last. 

More on that to come. 

SO, horse-riding: We went around the camp and had a nice little trip of about an hour. We met some japanese tourists.

"Sugooooi"

We cantered, we trotted, we galopped. We rode, dawg. 

Today, three days later, I still have a tender backside. Imagine a piece of beef being speed-hammered at varying intervals, and (since I am of the dude-persuasion) chuck a couple soft-boiled eggs in between for full effect. 

I cannot ride. As evidence, I present this tosser:

After the visit, I said good bye to the family in the Ger and the grandfather with his granddaughter outside. She is three years old and a better rider than me already.

Back at the camp, I had dinner and was chatting with Bat. After a while, he had a suggestion. 

“How about we drive to the only store within 20 miles and pick up a bottle of vodka, then go back to the nomads and have drinky times with them? It’s okay, they liked you and said you were welcome back.”

How do you say “hell yes” in Mongolian?

When we got back to the Ger, the grandmother had returned from the city and turned out to be an incredibly nice lady. One again they greeted me with warm hospitality. Which was all because I am amazing and not because of the bottle sticking out of my bag.

I got a new kind of tea, (also salty) and started talking with the grandparents. They had been married 40 years and had 8 children. The youngest one, (who I went riding with that day) was 22 and just finishing university. They wanted to know about my family, my work, my studies and plenty more. Eventually though, it was drinky time.

Bat lead what I can only describe as a booze ritual. I liked it. The vodka was to be served in four beautiful little silvered and ornate cups.

First he poured for the eldest, then the second eldest, then for me (being the guest of the guest) then for himself. He handed the cups out carefully with the right hand (the left being traditionally unclean) and said many well-wishings upon the house. Then we drank and hissed at the strong drink. It was no small satisfaction to see that three years of practice in Aberystwyth had given me quite a poker-face, and I got complimented for being a “strong young man” by the elderly. 

The talk continued happily and suddenly a new guest had entered the Ger. Nomads never call ahead, as neighbours are always welcome, so the farmer living up the valley had decided to stop by.

Zachya Jo (I write what I heard, I am probably butchering the poor man’s name) is a scoundrel with a heart of gold. I’ve met his kind many times before, and the banter that ensues is always first class and the craft of a master. 

Zachya Jo joked around while we quaffed a few more cups of drink and wanted to know if I was married and how long I stayed in Mongolia.

I think he took a shining to me, because after a few more cups he swore that if I returned to Terelj, he would slaugther two of his sheeps and feast me properly. I could also stay with his family for as long as I liked. (I would have to supply my own vodka, though. These things don’t grow on trees, you know.) That said, the farmer suddenly summoned a little bottle of his own from one of the Ger’s corners. He had hid it there for an emergency, he said.

The company got increasingly merry and the father of the house had to slink away and have a little nap. The neighbour seized the moment and started singing an old song for me which lyrics I shall not disclose. 

After that I got to say a few well-wishings to the household, and Zachya Jo nodded sagely every time I made a particularly eloquent toast to their healthy flocks and this lunar year’s harvest.

It was during one of my particularly inspired ramblings that Zachya Jo made a very deep nod that sort of ended on the floor. 

When the grandfather hopped over to him to see if he was alright, he gave a snort and let us all know exactly what he thought about that.

It is very rude to interrupt some quality floor-time.

A little bit later, me and Bat said our good-byes and stumbled home through the forest. A little bit richer on adventures, and a lot poorer in sight. 

The fire in my Ger’s oven had gone out so I had another little adventure before finally pulling the covers over my aching, aching bum. 

And that, dear friends, is the story of how I drank a Mongolian nomad under the table.

As always: Stay safe (or drunk.) 

Eg reise ålaina.