Wide open space. Clean air. Clear, crystal water that sparkles brilliantly in the afternoon sunlight. Sun! No more dim, lifeless skies choked by pollution. The slow suffocation of sanity by millions of constricting bodies has been lifted. My mind has been saved. I can no longer hear loud abrasive mechanical and human noise, sounds that dig into the fibers of my brain. I've found peace and stillness. We have arrived in Mongolia. One of the world's truly wild places.
I feel at home here. People are scarce and nature rules supreme. In the north, green vibrant grasslands roll into bare earth-toned mountains that are so still and lonely you can hear the whispers of time. By listening I feel like I am intruding on a deep secret that wasn't meant for my ears. I listen anyway.To the south the great Gobi stretches wide and unforgiving under the unrelenting sun. It never ceases to amaze me how, by a matter of a few degrees longitude and the right tilt and rotation of the earth, this burning star, which is over ninety million miles away, can gently kiss our upturned faces with warm tenderness, or scorch the earth and bones with its fixed searing gaze. The big bright-blue Mongolian sky in which this temperamental god sits feels like it could swallow me whole. Its vastness consumes me.
I didn't just travel to Mongolia from China, I fled; with all the speed and desperation that self preservation and hope induces. And I never looked back.
Our adventure in this thrilling, timeless land was short and concise. Upon our arrival in the capital city, Ulaanbaatar, we began immediately making preparations for our exploration. Within a few short days we were on the road heading south. Our spirits fluttered with excitement as we travelled forsaken stretches of sun-scorched land with our hired Mongol driver, Gumba.
Gumba didn't speak much English. The few comprehensible words he knew included: machine (the name he gave to all motored vehicles), lunch (the word he used for every meal), and Mongolia (the term he used to describe the people, language, and place of his birth). But perhaps my favorite verbal idiosyncrasy that came out of our driver's mouth was his third person referrals. "Gumba, machine, yes!" (Meaning: get in the vehicle, it's time to go). Or, "Gumba lunch, no." (Meaning: he wasn't hungry for lunch... or, depending on the time of day, breakfast or dinner.)
Dave and I enjoyed our driver's company. We were able to communicate through games of charades and a small incomplete Mongolian phrase book. We even taught him a few card and dice games which he embraced enthusiastically. "Gumba yes!" We were sad when we reached our northern-most destination, Lake Khosvgol, and parted ways. He was a good driver and a friendly embassador.
Our wide encompassing journey started in the north, in the capital, where we arrived by train--the Trans Mongolian line--from China. As we meandered south through expansive grasslands where herds of horses, sheep, goats, and yaks wandered and grazed methodically, we soon realized that paved roads were luxuries of the past. Where by most developed country's transportation standards would have lain a smooth black surface accented with yellow, instead revealed multiple sets of tire tracks heading in a general direction. These tracks were printed in mud, grass, and sand, and led vehicles through streams, rock fields, and some of the steepest terrain ever to be called a road. It was an exciting driving experience, but painfully spine-jolting at times. We left a couple of nice cranium-shaped dingers on the ceiling of our Russian imported van.
As we travelled south we watched the landscape magically transform before our eyes. Cool snow-dusted mountains turned to dry thirsty hills tormented by heat. The change in temperature was shocking. We awoke one day with a chill northern wind nipping at our faces and went to sleep with the thermometer still a blaze from the sun's ceaseless stare.
When we reached the Gobi region Gambu stopped the machine, locked the hub-caps, shifted to 4WD and turned the wheel west, proceeding through some of the most unforgettable miles of "road" I have traveled.
Bactrian Camels speckled the sandy wasteland--their goofy-looking double humped bodies moving together in stride.They stopped intermittently to graze on resilient shrubs so thorny and dry I wondered how the creatures got them down their gullets with out injury. We rode these beasts, swaying in our saddles. Their movements are strange. Unlike most four legged animals, these creatures step with both their front and hind legs simultaneously, moving one side of their body and then the other. A fast trot on a camel feels like you are being vigorously shaken; teeth rattling, head boggling. Ouch.
We climbed, rather we crawled, up golden-hued sand dunes a hundred stories high. The wind swept their surface, cutting sharp edges into the pyramid-like forms and erasing our blundering hand and footprints. A clean, smooth slate. These edges became more defined and acute by the shadows cast by the sun and, as we witnessed from our campsite one night, the full moon. The dunes sang an erie song as the wind played against their surface--a harmonious choir of moaning voices. That song haunts me still.
We drove past dead, forlorn mountains as dry as sun-bleached bones, and hiked through shaded, half-lit canyons that held secrets of past worlds in the form of fossils. Great birds of prey, wide-winged wonders, soared at heavenly heights. I first noticed a massive shadow. The darkened ground caught my eye and I craned my neck unnaturally, skywards, towards its origin. I winced, momentarily blinded by the illumination of the sun. The shadow skimmed the ground's surface and as my eyes adjusted I discovered the source of the projection--the connective life flying a thousand feet above me. She is the shark of the sky, a golden eagle! Circling slowly, purposefully, she searches-her sharp eyes scanning the valley for a life she can snatch in her great, sharp talons.
Here in the desert the sky battles the earth for space. A contrasting clash of brilliant blue, glittering gold, brass browns, and peaceful purples--the colors of the Gobi. The desert holds a magical appeal to those who come prepared--with eyes wide open and souls filled to the brim with wonder. Most travelers don't bother, preferring the lush vitality of alternate climates to this heart-breaking land. Even Marco Pollo looked upon his journey through the Gobi Desert with disdain and dread. But there are people who choose it. They thrive here. This land is part of them. They breath it. They bleed it--the blood returning to their hearts time and time again. They are modern nomads. The last of their kind.
They say home is where the heart is. The Mongol heart belongs to the land. Their lives and the lives of their beasts are dictated by weather patterns, the changing of seasons, droughts, etc. They live their lives on the steppes, in the mountains, and within the harsh desert--moving in cycles with the earth. They reap the bounties from fertile seasons--stoically thanking the gods of the earth for their benevolence--and resiliently absorbing the tragedies of famine--praying fervently, searching for atonement.
They live a migratory life, like Canada Geese and the Monarch Butterfly. They float on the winds of necessity, never excess, and their homes are well suited to their nature. Gers--round tent-like structures--are broken down, transported by horse and cart or, just as often, by yak and cart, and rebuilt in a new location. The process of packing up and resetting one of these homes is quick, taking less than a day. They move rapidly and leave only foot prints and vodka bottles behind.
Through out our Mongolian journey we were generously given the opportunity to sleep in more than one nomadic home. We would be invited in with gestures and smiles, offered warm yak milk and biscuits, and asked to stay. We camped part of the time and slept in gers the rest--each spot containing a story and a memory.
The first ger I entered surprised me greatly. Despite some extremely remote locations, many of these homes provided the comforts of a stationary life. A few even contained appliances! Of course these luxuries only exist alongside a generator. And this magic box comes at a great expense.
The furniture, except for a small table, is arranged along the wall of the ger--a ring of comforts. Typically included is a vanity or wardrobe, a bed or two, a chair, and a small sink--the drain pipe leading to a removable bucket. Half the floor is a strip, or multiple strips, of carpet and the other side--the kitchen side--is a heavy plastic tarp or synthetic tile. In the middle of the room sits a small wood burning stove. The chimney pipe leads up and through a hole in the canvas ceiling, leaking sunshine that spills onto the centrically placed table. Gers are always warm and cozy. Always. The Mongols swaddled the interior walls of their tents with blankets--adding more in winter for insulation, and less on hot summer days. Family photos and embroidered pictures often hang from these unconventional walls--a hint of decor and a homey touch.
These homes are not glamorous by the western standard. The blankets on the wall are always miss-matched, the furniture is clashing, you have to dispose of your bucket-filled drain water, and sometimes the ger has no chairs--forcing you to sit cross-legged on stained carpet squares. And, of course, you have to brave the elements when using the bathroom--which consists of a hole in the ground sheltered by a couple of slabs of wood. No, these homes are not the feng shui three bedroom, two and a half bath, architectural masterpieces most people consider livable. It's a nomad's home. And I find the simplicity inviting and intrinsically warming. I would choose a ger.
We travelled directly up the heart of the country, heading north, immersing ourselves in the natural beauty of Mongolia. We hiked the dead cratered remains of extinct volcanos, felt the cool misty breath of pounding waterfalls, and skipped smooth, round stones off the surface of caribean-blue lakes, where chunks of ice lingered in the wintery waters. We tasted camel meat and yak cheese, sat in a circle on the floor of a ger drinking vodka with locals, rode horses up green hills smattered with bleating goats and lambs, and watched herds of antelope burst across the plains with explosive speed. We gazed awe-struck at flaming meteorites falling from a dark diamond-filled sky, and witnessed the birth of a new day--the morning sunlight visibly moving its rays across the green valley floor, chasing away shadows and lighting up lakes and rivers causing them to burn reflectively. We said goodnight to the sun as it disappeared over ancient mountains, the colors in the sky bleeding out like a mortal wound.
Oh the beauty of freedom! The joy of travel and the thrill of exploration! Driving with windows down through new territory, wind tumultuously whipping my hair, my man--my heart--by my side, a herd of wild horses attempting to out-run our rickety-Russian van, Gumba blaring Mongolian-pop music and singing unabashed in his Mongol-tongue.
I've never been happier.
