I'm pretty much Mongolian by now....

If I ever have to give up my Canadian Citizenship, I am confident that I could easily slip into life as a Mongolian. I didn’t come to this conclusion lightly…I determined this after a full day of Mongolian activities that tested my fortitude.

I awoke this morning after the absolute BEST sleep I have ever had. Last night it was chilly outside, I was tired from a full day of Mongolian activities so when I settled under my duvet as the fire warmed our Ger to a warm and cozy level...sleep came quickly and stayed for 10 hours.

I poked my head out of the small Ger door and was immediately blown away by the scenery - it really is absolutely stunning. Our Ger is nestled in the shadow of a few giant boulders (that are high enough to qualify for mountain status) overlooking rolling green pastures dotted with herds of grazing animals and other felt homes.

After a less than delicious breakfast our group decided to split up; with Will, Sarah and Pete heading off for some trekking and Tricia, Fiona and I choosing to tackle the Mongolian horses again. To attain the true experience we donned traditional Mongolian overcoats, Dells, and headed out to meet our horses at Turtle Rock (This rock has no spiritual significance; it's just a pile of rocks that look like a turtle). I’m not sure why, but there were several random men at the rock who seemed to be unhappy with the manner in which my coat was done up…here is where one of those cultural differences make travel so interesting.

Dell coats fasten on the side and are cinched up tightly in the middle with a sash. Mongolians cinch them very tightly, thus the top portion of their coat becomes a pocket for carrying supplies or a child. As we had none of these, and have been accustomed to the luxury of breathing, we had our sashes a bit on the looser side. I guess these random Mongolian men thought that I was ignorant of the correct way to dress in a Dell for they just approached me and started readjusting. Of course the language barrier made it impossible for me to explain that in my culture it’s not appropriate for strange men to walk up to a female and start adjusting her clothes, touching areas that normally would result in a molestation charge in North America. But when in Rome…

After the awkward touching was over, we started out on our ‘steeds’ (I don’t know how to type sarcastically) for a leisurely ride back to our camp. The first 30 min was more leisurely than we had intended – we moved a total of 25 feet. Tricia’s horse just seemed to have a mental block on progressing past a big rock. Fiona’s horse seemed content to just wander around in search of food. My horse never stops moving…it’s just constantly in circles. It wasn’t quite the ride we had envisioned…at this rate we wouldn’t make it back to our camp in time for our train to China…3 days from now.

Eventually a Mongolian boy with a stick happens by and “encourages” some forward progression. Next obstacle…a herd of goats. For the record there is absolutely no shortage of herds of goats around here…this is not a new thing to these horses…but they had to stop and stare as if was had just stumbled across a herd of unicorns. After a few more stick persuasions, our stallions plodded along to the next distraction…a pond of water.

Being the kind-hearted riders that we were, we stopped to let our horses have a few laps of water. That was a mistake. Any doubts that my horse hated me were completely erased the moment that stupid beast started splashing me with dirty pond water. He did not respond to any of the commands that I learnt in my years of riding classes. I gave up all hope when it became clear that he wanted to roll around in the water, regardless of the fact that I was still on his back. The young boy with the stick saved me from ending up in the drink that day – I made it out with just a soaked right leg.

Finally we progressed away from the water…slowly making our way back to the camp…when our next Mongolian adventure just popped up…Yak herding. It appeared as though 6 baby Yaks were leaving their nomadic home, making a break with an older rebellious Yak. Our guide boy immediately recognized the situation and while the rancher was heading the Yaks off on the North side, he (with his responsive horse) cut the Yaks off and turned them around. Tricia, Fiona and I were very integral to the success of this mission as we strategically placed our horses on the south side, thus eliminating a path of escape. Luckily the Yaks were not bright enough to realize that we actually had no control over our horses and really would have never been able to hinder their escape.

Yak children safely returned we meandered home in time for a disappointing lunch before heading out in the “Benz”. Gurley our guide was great and if we just mentioned something, she found a way to make it happen. It seems for a few dollars, we could rent a car and driver to take us exploring. The “Benz” is the fanciest car around…so it was quite an honour that we were allowed to ride in this car. The driver (and owner) beamed with pride as we piled into the back seat of his 1988 Mercedes Benz and headed out for a more reliable form of exploration.
We toured around, visiting little Ger shops, camels and oovos before I got it into my head that I needed to take a photo of a Yak. Tricia had learnt about this primal need I have to photograph things while searching for that crocodile in Belize and knew that I would obsess over it until it happened. Well, finding Yaks is way easier than finding crocodiles and we stumbled across these large, hairy beasts in a matter of minutes. Obviously I needed the Benz to stop so I could get closer to these animals (I wasn’t worried…Yaks love me…I could just tell).
As we were watching a bull try and unsuccessfully seduce a female I heard a plop and swung around and saw a freshly born calf, still covered in afterbirth, wiggling on the ground below an exhausted mother. The next 20 minutes were spent watching Mommy clean and try and help the young yak to stand. I could tell that my cohorts were getting tired of standing in a field of Yaks…waiting for junior to take his first steps…but I felt we had to stay. I am about the least maternal person that there is, and despite my profession, I am not overly caring…but I felt strongly that I needed to be there in case the Yak calf needed me. Of course I have no idea what it takes to raise a Yak…but I am sure there is an Idiot’s guide to book on it.
Fortunately, especially for the newborn, my Yak raising skills were not needed as junior stood and successfully wobbled along in under a half hour. Happy for the Yak but felling a loss for something I never really had, we returned to the camp to be reunited with the others after their successful trek.

After another disappointing dinner (everything in this country is mutton) and a movie highlighting the attributes of Genghis Kahn we settled down for a rousing game of ankle bones. Assuming this was another case of lost in translation I was surprised when Gurley set down a bag of actual ankle bones to play with. My competitive streak came out when we started a make-shift game of Candy Land with the bones of goats…I placed second.
And with my virtual silver medal in place, we headed back to the Ger to settle down for another amazing rest. It was a great, and long (you know, you just read all about it) day – I may need some more practice before I become a Mongolian Horse Wrangler or the makeshift mother of a Yak…but just wait…someday Milton Bradley will learn of this elusive ankle bone game…and that…I will dominate. Buyer-la for reading!