Learning to Love the Moment in Mongolia

Letting go of expectations

A Mongolian ger. All photos by author.

Shouts pierced the night. A rising tempest of anger intensified outside the tent. Men ripped through the cloth with their knives and in moments were upon me.

I woke up. It was a dream. There were no Mongol hordes coming to kill me. But the shouting was real. The voices of two men clashed against each other as their friends tried to restrain them. They knocked over metal pans and were only a few feet away from the ger (tent) I was sleeping in. They were obviously drunk and becoming violent as well.

I was wide awake, not daring to go back to sleep until they calmed down. The door to my ger was locked, but I’m sure a few well-placed kicks could break through it.

The fight did calm down eventually. The men were with a group of construction workers from the capital city of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. A rowdy bunch that had been drinking vodka since the afternoon. My two guides and I were staying at a nomadic camp in the countryside open to tourists, mainly other Mongolians seeking some respite from the city.

The next morning one of the men tried to call me over to drink with them. I pretended to not notice and walked past them all.

I slept a total of three hours thanks to you buddy, not gonna say hi.

I came to Mongolia to experience some kind of spiritual connection to the wide open plains and eternal blue sky. Instead, here I was walking over dried horse shit and fending off Mongol riders in my sleep.

My first horse ride in Mongolia.

“Ok, let’s go.”

With that, our guide grabbed my horse's reins and off we went. There was no safety explanation or how-to instruction, just “get on and do it.”

My hands were shaking as our horses left and I held tightly onto the animal. I hadn’t ridden one since I was a kid. My aunt back in California used to own horses and let us ride them a few times. She once told us a story about how one of her horses killed her dog. The dog crept up behind the horse and got kicked in the head. Since then I’ve never felt totally comfortable around them.

“Ok, now let’s go fast!”

What? He knows I’m a beginner right? No way he’s serious.

He was. The guide started whistling to get the horse’s attention and made his start galloping. As my horse’s reins were being held by the guide….my ride also began to sprint over the green hills and jagged rocks.

I didn’t know you’re supposed to stand up in the stirrups when you gallop to avoid the saddle crushing your balls. Not only was the concussive force shattering me down there, I felt the leather sides of the saddle begin to cut into my legs. My body slid to the side, and the rushing ground beneath was uncomfortably close.

Our group came to a stop. We were on the top of a hill, in front of a shrine built like a pyramid with long branches, wrapped in colorful prayer flags and a bull’s skull lying in front of it.

Beyond the death shrine, I could see the valley. Wide. Green. Full of rivers and forests. There were no humans in sight below, only herds of cows, horses, and goats. The wind atop the hill muffled all sound. Everything was still and quiet.

One of the men riding with us was from Inner Mongolia, China. A thin man who always had a cigarette in his mouth. He was a professional throat singer, the traditional Mongolian style where people sing from deep in their, well, throats, and produce a visceral and hypnotic sound.

He treated us to a song. Incomprehensible to me yet alluring.

“Ok, let’s go,” the guide commanded us.

I checked my legs, they were bleeding down into my socks now.

For round two I asked about how to keep my family jewels from oblivion and discovered the secret of standing up. This next gallop was much more enjoyable.

My heart pounded and I still gripped my horse too tightly. But I was starting to calm down a little. When we slowed down, I started stroking my horse. An invisible connection was forming.

“Ok, let’s try to go alone.”

With this, my guide let go of my horse’s reins. We were now going to try to follow him by ourselves. The guide whistled and everyone jetted off. Except for me, that is.

I couldn't get my horse to move fast. I tried yelling “tchou!” to get him moving, but he was far more comfortable to walk to his own groove.

I was all alone now. I knew the general direction I should be heading. But, being in charge of this animal beneath me, I wasn't sure I was up to the task.

“Tchou! Tchou!”

My guy just wouldn't pick up the pace. Later I was told he was the “foreigner horse” because he had the calmest temperament, so tourists always got paired up with him. The problem with him being calm was that he also had a reputation for being lazy.

I couldn’t see anyone else from my group. It was just me, the horse, and a random assortment of livestock we walked past.

And you know what? It was okay. The horse didn’t kick me in the head. He didn’t throw me off. The bulls that came near didn’t gore me. I finally relaxed and learned to enjoy the ride. My legs had stopped bleeding but every slight movement of the saddle rubbed them even more raw.

Despite the pain, as I looked up at that eternal blue sky, all was still. All was good.

Walking in the Steppe.

I hadn’t bathed in three days. There was a shower set up at each campsite, but the water was ice cold.

All I wanted on this green Earth was a hot shower.

I could tell you that I stank, but I’m not even sure that I did. I was so used to all sorts of smells by now. The scent of sour milk when you enter someone’s ger for the first time. The aroma of manure permeated each settlement we came across. Smells meant nothing to me anymore.

I didn’t poop for three days either. Each toilet we came across was a hole in the ground surrounded by a makeshift outhouse. The first time I opened the door to one, a cloud of flies poured out all over me. Maybe a few thousand of them. The reek that emanated from that hole…..chills me to this day.

The second thing I wanted on this green Earth was a toilet. A man can dream.

We were driving out to our final nomadic family visit. We had to drive through the outskirts of Ulaanbaatar and several other smaller cities in order to get there.

Shanty towns dotted the side of the road. Dilapidated and crumbling. Smog, thick and dark, choked out the city skyline. This is not the Mongolia I was promised in all the YouTube videos I saw.

Where was all the vast open Steppe? Where were the eagle hunters, the reindeer riders, the camel herders?

This couldn't be Mongolia, I refused to accept it. Did I make a mistake in coming here?

Several hours later I saw it, the Steppe. A thing that had tempted my imagination for years. It was here that centuries ago Chinggis Khan rode out to conquer the world. It was from here that China’s borders were so often ransacked that they built a wall. It was from here that European popes feared the end of Christendom would come.

Tsugou, my driver, veered left into a field with no road; nothing but a barely discernable dirt path. We bumped and bounced along the footpath for an hour. Endless waves of hills surrounded us, a tiny tin box in the sea of forever grass.

We hit a steep dip on the road. So bad that, if we went straight down it, I’m positive the car would’ve flipped. Tsugou budged the car around the rim of the decline, a little bit at a time, all while saying nothing nor expressing anything on his face.

We survived.

We exited out of the hills and came to a vast open space. In the distance, we could see nomadic encampments, about five in total, all belonging to different families and spread out from each other.

The other guide, Tsugou’s sister Tuul, called someone on her cell and he guided us towards his camp.

There were four ger, a few trucks — one of them being a brand new Toyota Hilux — and a motorcycle. The family was outside skinning a lamb and came over to greet us with their three big wolf-hunting dogs.

This family is doing well.

Gunna was the patriarch, a man my age at forty. Tanned bronze, wearing a traditional dress, and shaking my hands with vice-like strength. He welcomed us warmly into his ger and gave us some airag (fermented mare’s milk).

Gunna and his family had been hosting foreigners for about five years now. They spoke no English but that didn’t stop them from having over 200 people come and stay a night or two with their family.

Gunn’a son leading my horse.

Gunna’s young son, a boy of eight in an oversized red shirt, took me out horseback riding for an hour. The wounds on my legs hadn’t healed yet so we took it slow. The boy’s task was to bring in all the calves who were wandering somewhere out in the valley.

Nobody knew exactly where they were, but they had a general idea. We crossed a river that went up to the horse’s bellies and set out deep into the valley. It never felt like we were too far away from camp since there were no trees or hills to obstruct the view of home.

About two kilometers out we came across the wolf-hunting dogs. Somebody had driven the body of the lamb out here to give it to them. They ripped it apart, smearing their faces with bone bits and flesh. They were friendly to us, and even wanted me to cuddle with them….I had to pass for obvious reasons.

I “helped” the boy herd the calves back. By help I mean I was physically present. The boy guided the calves, who kept veering off track, pooping all over themselves, and stopping to eat grass.

Getting back to camp I helped Gunna’s wife make some dumplings. I couldn’t get the shape right and she said, through a translator, “It’ll be easy to tell which ones are Shawn’s by how ugly they are.”

We spent the night drinking and eating sour cheese, and the lamb that was slaughtered for us that morning. I speak only a little Mongolian, yet somehow we were able to connect and enjoy the night.

Going to sleep I stared up at the stars. My ger had a viewing hole in the roof so I could see the sky clearly. The howl of wolves in the distance put the guard dogs on edge, one of them slept right outside my door. He protected me against both wolf and potential Mongol raiders tearing into my tent.

With no city lights, every flaming beacon in the sky was visible. In the coolness of that moment, I was happy to be where I was. Even without that hot shower. Even without that toilet.