Mongol Nostalgia
August 12, 2016
Bloodshot eyed and bare feet, I am boarding the plane to leave Mongolia. My heart aches at the last glimpse of the smooth emerald mountains in the early sunshine. As a kind farewell, the sky is resplendissant blue again. After two days of rain Mongolia has stopped shedding tears for me, while I started crying for the loss of her that I never had. She cradled me for a month, she gave me the chance to know her, but I was too lazy, too tired… too absent.
I let myself be carried by the flow and joined the terrific pair of Enrique and Montserrat who allowed me to live a nomadic adventure near Dalanzadgad and a serene trek in the Orkhon Valley. Without them I would have probably never even realized what this beautiful land and people held.
However, I feel I am missing what I came here for. I haven’t even left yet and my whole being is imploring me to come back. My brains are entreating me to follow the independent way of the lone traveller, to be deaf to all objections and blind of all obstacles, mere illusions raised by the people of Ulaanbaatar.
I should have tried harder.
I would carefully enter the dark and airless ger where the fire is always burning, home of Tila, a tough grandmother in charge of this little piece of rough and harsh paradise. I would tiptoe around the central stove, always wondering if my presence is a disturbance. At a sign of Eggy, I would gladly churn mare’s milk until the airag is ready to be transferred into the gigantic blue and white porcelain bowl. I would patiently and painstakingly kneel close to her, observing her skills at thinly rolling dough for Tsuban, or at using every part of the goat just killed. I would wait until she passes me the large metallic bowl or the long and thin piece of tubing acting as rolling pin, her hands covered in blood or flour, and I would take my turn, imitating her as best I can.
As I write, the plane is still on the tarmac, my body broken by eight months of traveling, my luggage empty - all mended and torn belongings I owned have finally been thrown away - and I am on the verge of disembarking.
I am ready to find a pair of shoes and run back South, to learn to pronounce their half whistled sounds, to speak their playful language, to understand their nostalgic music, to write their calligraphed alphabet, and to race cattle until all stars have faded from the night sky if need be… if they have me.
I would watch Turuu and Mehjo, brothers or cousins, young men already mastering the art of husbandry when not living the student life in the capital. I would watch them and understand how to milk a goat or a mare. I would better myself as I did after my first experience upon realizing that my left shoe had had more to drink than the bucket. At a touch from me, the animals wouldn’t refuse to stay still, the whole line wouldn’t vibrate with complaints anymore. Instead of mayhem I would finally bring help.
When the sun is high, the cattle grazing on the hills, and the air too warm to stay outside, I would sit on the floor of the bright and colourfully decorated ger, in front of the ancestor’s hotel, and I would have the courage to ask Turuu to show me how to solve the last ring of the grey and black asymmetrical rubis cube, watching his tanned hands move precisely at a surprising speed.
Once again, I would let Mehjo lead me deep in the mountains where we were caught by wind and rain on the friable rocks of jutted summits while searching for wild onions. I would imitate this young man’s strong hands, undoubtably repeating the movements of countless generations before him. I would confuse the Earth an instant by trading damp roots for delicately coloured purple flowers.
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I would borrow their temperamental motorbikes to herd the nearby cattle on the rocky rolling hills.
Early on a sunny afternoon, after a mad run of sheep shaving and tacking energetic kids to separate them from unruly goats, I would follow little Mintje a few steps away from the small corral. There, we would tiredly plunge our naked bodies in the shallow rusted feeder and wash away some of the smell. I would dry my skin to the warm wind of the Gobi desert, I would watch the storm coming over the prairies.
The vibrations of morin khuur and throat singing, the stampede of cattle drives and dancers would course through my body, and I would understand the cheers and applauses raised by this little girl wildly dancing in the shaded canyon where the whole family had come to relax from a hard working morning.
I would stand still on the edge of the world. I would watch the mountains and listen to the tender breeze as sunset rays filtrate through the clouds.
After dinner, I would quietly sit between the two beds of the vibrant ger and hope to be chosen by Mega to play in the father’s team. I would learn every rule of the airag drinking game, I would understand their implications and how deeply rooted in tradition it is. I would understand partner choices and team alignment, calls and shouts, finger catching and bowl emptying, warm belts and distractive talking. And I would understand songs and silences.
Late at night, fascinated by the Milky Way shining over two isolated white gers standing in the vast prairies at the foot of the mountains, I would trade the name of constellations too quickly forgotten.
I would feel the weight and warmth of a beautiful deel on my shoulders on a cold and clear morning.
With time I would learn to do all this and more. Efficiently.
With time, my ears would perceive tunes correctly, my tongue would learn to move properly, and my already rapidly increasing vocabulary would stop making their ears bleed. I would lose the count of warm days and cool starry nights as I did then, knowing deep down inside that a little piece of me will always live here, adopted by this kind family.
And one day I would leave again; as I always do. I would part from them, and from the quiet and determined Tila. She, a rock of wisdom carried by her strength, her imposing aura and the certainty of her ways. She wouldn’t shake my hand as I would expect, she would catch me off guards, as she did then. Her last touch would only speak of tenderness. A smile would linger on her face, a sparkle in her serious eyes. She would inhale the air close to my ear, ruffling a few lose hair, tingling the nape of my neck, the same way a tender lover would do right before falling asleep, as if to retain the memory forever.
