Chapter 15 - Transvestite Cows and Pink Girs
We travel from lovely Lake Khovsgol to White Lake by way of a homestay near the town of Moron--no I am not referring to the tour group.
Transvestite Cows and Pink Girs
Lake Khovsgol to somewhere outside of Moron to White Lake , Mongolia, Thursday, 20 July 2006
Our Tuesday afternoon adventure was visiting the “reindeer people” who live in the area.
The “Reindeer People” are Mongolians whose livelihood derives from domesticated reindeer. A more shamanic population than the rest of Mongolia, the reindeer is at the heart of their traditions. For example, they drink reindeer milk instead of mare’s or yak milk. As they say, you can pretty much milk anything with tits and an udder—get it out of your head… you can’t milk me! Their teepee-like structures immediately bring to mind North American Native peoples.
We were supposed to be treated to a Shaman dance, but as the water continued to pour from heaven’s spigots, we decided that no self-respecting Shaman would attempt to entertain annoying foreigners in such weather.
At the encampment, we visited with one family who had just migrated into the area. The Reindeer People are very nomadic and move ten or more times a month. The family was quite inviting, despite having a member who had fallen off a horse and was shivering under covers in their dwelling, suffering from a serious concussion. Their Shaman had gone to find someone who could “massage the brain back into the right place.” Regardless of this tragedy, they were all very kind as they were turned into a human zoo.
Ugh. I guess all peoples must make money despite setbacks. Not my favourite thing.
Our evening was spent at a bonfire created by the camp staff. When they say “bonfire” in Mongolia, I now know they mean a giant blaze with enough heat to melt one’s face off. Music blared and vodka warmed as we danced the night away to everything from the Pulp Fiction soundtrack to “Barbie Girl”–type dance mixes. The lovely local folks also saw to it that they played some Bhangra rock music, seeing as how I looked Indian and all. Well into the wee hours of the morning I danced, drank, and had a lovely time chatting with a girl named Nirgwe, whose English was as good as Jargalan’s.
Some interesting developments happened during the day and night. Our intrepid leader Robin became closer to Jargalan. We—Derek, Scott, and I—had been suggesting that Jargalan was interested in him. He had talked to her all afternoon, only to be told that she had a boyfriend. Later that night, though, they hooked up in some form. Details have been omitted, as loose tongues need tying up. Derek, Scott, and I were fine with it all—just “don’t let it interfere with the trip.”
Wednesday was hangover central. I think I had had too many vodkas than was necessary.
Our drive took us away from Khovsgol Lake, through Moron again, and finally to a homestay on our way to White Lake, where we were due to spend two nights. Sarah was in fine form during the trip, launching into such classics as “Old MacDonald” and other children’s songs. No penmanship can possibly capture her brilliant ability to mimic farm animals—especially the goats alongside the road. Meanwhile, Danielle’s iPod ran out of juice, and she decided to alleviate her boredom by tormenting me. We created a new driving game: “Punch Twinkie,” based on “Punch Buggy.” We were to punch each other if we saw another Twinkie on the road. She won. Sarah had a sudden realization that female cows in Mongolia came with horns and were not male at all—unless, she said, “they were transsexual cows wearing horns to hide their femininity!”
In the more bouncy Green Twinkie, Robin’s hangover deteriorated at a rapid pace. The poor guy was looking haggard by lunch and near comatose by the time we arrived at the homestay in the late afternoon. Did I mention that today was his birthday? I daresay he felt many more years than his young 28. We planned to celebrate his and Jargalan’s 21st birthday the next night when we arrived at White Lake. We gave the wife of the person whose gir we would be staying at a ride from the wonderfully named town of Moron. The drive from Moron to her home took about three hours.
Having had most of our entrails bounced to hell, upon inquiring, “How much farther, Papa Smurf?” we were told, “Not much farther now, Twinkie Smurfs—only ten more kilometres.” In most countries this would normally provide an accurate estimation. In Mongolia, time and distances seem to be warped in a fashion only Doctor Who could possibly comprehend. The ten-kilometre journey turned out to be literally over the hill and five minutes away. It could also be that a traditional response to any distance is “ten kilometres.”
“Hey Jargalan, do girs come in any other colour?” Sarah asked.
“What do you mean?” Jargalan replied, over one particular bump in the Twinkie.
“You know, can I have a pink gir, for instance? I’d like to have a pink gir!” Sarah said, grinning.
“No, Sarah, that is not possible. Mongolians only have white girs!” Jargalan laughed.
Well, what do you know… in the distance at our homestay were a number of girs shining white in the evening light.
One gir, however, shone a brilliant pink.
Jargalan was speechless. Sarah was ecstatic. To her dismay, it was not to be her gir for the night and wasn’t even erected in her honour.
Apparently, the family had just moved into the area and were settling in, building girs, sheep pens, and so on. This family was larger and wealthier than our last homestay, judging by the state of the girs and the number of cattle. Our supper was to be barbecued mutton prepared by Grey Twinkie driver and master Mongolian chef, Naidam. The meat he cooked may have been some of the best I’ve ever had. As noted earlier, I’ve given up all pretense of vegetarianism while in Mongolia, where the animals roam free and live happy lives before being placed on my dinner plate. It also means that after I leave Ulaanbaatar, if I want meat again, I’ll have to fly to Mongolia. Them’s the breaks.
The family was really cool and allowed me into the goat pen to capture goats for milking. It was a lot harder than it looked. The downside was that my clothes stank of goat for the next 24 hours. I pity the rest of the crew.
Of note was the soap opera involving Robin and Jargalan. The two had decided to go have a chat—or whatnot—for a couple of hours during the cooking. By now, most of the group had realized that something was up. Unfortunately, the two decided to do this at a time when we were in need of translation and guiding services at a homestay. They also chose to have their “chat” on a hillside visible to everyone. I had decided to climb a hill in the opposite direction, and the drama was only explained to me on my return. Everyone had noticed the pair and had used zoom lenses and binoculars to watch them. The Mongolian Steppe is rather wide open.
Meanwhile, Derek had also gone hiking up the same hill as Robin and Jargalan. He stayed on the hill for several hours and missed the meal in order to capture some spectacular sunset photos. I have yet to ask Robin or Derek what happened when Derek caught up to the pair, and frankly, I could care less. The group, for the most part, seemed annoyed by their timing. Ah well.
Our sleeping arrangements were pretty simple, with two girs: one for the boys and one for the girls. In order to preserve sanity, Steve had kindly offered to sleep in the van—he being the loudest snorer. Ironically, he likely had the best sleep. We had to follow Mongolian tradition and sleep with our feet facing the door, which unfortunately meant our heads were downhill. I did have a good sleep, mostly—even if the blood pooled in my skull. The girls in their gir did not.
The story was that the wife’s husband, a rather portly gentleman, had come to sleep with his wife in the girls’ gir. They decided to perform their coupling duties despite the foreigners in the tent. There were many theories on this. Did he want to show the foreigners who was the man of the house (gir)? Or was it a simple case of a different culture, where the closeness of people in a gir is not a big deal? We will likely never know. What we do know is that the girls were treated to felt headboard shaking, moaning, and groaning.
The morning dawned bright, cold, and clear, and we disappeared into the Mongolian sunrise and roads less travelled. Our goal for today was to reach White Lake, a lake surrounded by extinct volcanoes. Naturally, up to this point, the health of our Twinkies had been too good to be true. The Green Twinkie was now overheating, and a few times the gasoline just bubbled out of the tank.
I’m beginning to wonder what a roasted Twinkie would look like.
Along the way to White Lake, we ran into two girls and a guy from Australia. This being a small world—and Mongolia being smaller—it turns out these were folks with whom Sarah had shared her train from Moscow. Naturally, the two girls were cute, and I attempted to keep tabs on them, as they would be at White Lake as well. Let me tell you, riding the Green Twinkie on these Mongolian roads is no picnic. I think my innards switched places a couple times during the bumps.
Despite the bumpy ride, we arrived at the tourist gir camp at White Lake at the appointed hour. Scott had come up with a rating system for the tourist gir camps. We suggested this camp is a “three horse and a goat” camp. Despite the cleanliness and the well-run facilities, it cannot beat the four-horse rating of the Blue Pearl at Khovsgol Lake. The difference was in the hospitality.
The lake is surrounded by hills and mountains, and some of these flat tops look like the extinct volcanoes that we were supposed to find here. Scott and I are sharing a gir this time.
Tonight was the night of the big birthday celebration for Robin and Jargalan—her real birthday is tomorrow. We started after supper—and much-needed showers, laundry, and use of various facilities—then moved the party to Steve and Barbro’s gir. Much vodka was drunk, and finally, with the fire crackling in the hearths, our girs facing the white-capped lake, we pushed into a deep sleep.
Spiders Ahoy!
White Lake, Mongolia, Friday, 21 July 2006
I have no fear of spiders. I do not like snakes.
Sarah, however, is deathly afraid of spiders. Why am I writing about spiders? To quote Scott: “There are more spiders in our gir than in the movie Arachnophobia.” Going to sleep, I had no idea this was a problem. Today, though, I have become a lot more paranoid. They are everywhere—crawling on the roof, on our clothes—and yet we have no idea where they’re coming from.
At this very moment, Scott is trying to come up with a plan. Maybe even a cunning plan. On a square metre of wall, I can count twelve spiders. Sarah, by the way, is freaking out. If she were in our gir, she would probably be running down the road to Ulaanbaatar.
Besides spiders, our day has been fairly sedate—for a change. We’ve serenaded the birthday girl, Jargalan, a couple of times. We climbed an extinct volcano, ran into the same tourists we keep running into, reconnoitred and discovered where the cute Australian girls were staying, wandered around a gigantic sinkhole, and walked about in some lava flow caves. The lava fields here are massive, and supposedly there are 32 volcanoes in the area—all from a million years ago, which was presumably a much more violent time than today.
In short order, I’ll be going horseback riding with Scott, Mieko, Sarah, and possibly Steve. We’ll take a pass at meeting the Australians.
This can only end in “Madness”—which is why we brought a bottle of it with us.