Mongolians Wouldn’t Make Good Mary-Kay Saleswomen

“Do not compliment him, he will just run away” said my friend Gans as we approached the ger (yurt in English) of the camel herder we would be staying in for the next few days. “Oh, and do not say Thank You or Hello more than once…a day.” These instructions really came at a shock to my senses when my strategy behind expressing friendliness and gratitude in places I didn’t speak the language was just to smile stupidly and vomit up a butchered version of ”thank you” in their language.

After having not seen anyone for hours on the dirt road that led to the Gobi, we suddenly turned behind a small dune of brush and saw the felted home. I was just absorbing the rugged, isolated splendor of it all when Gans yelled “Hold the dogs” (in Mongolian of course) and told me to just walk in. Walk in? Just walk in? No knocking. No formal introductions. Just walk in.

Walking into the ger was a corporeal experience. You smelled the faint and comforting smell of dried camel dung that was used to fuel the slowly burning fire in the center of this round home, and as soon as we walked in, the woman (and owner of the ger) replaced the top of the stove with a large metal basin and began to make the salty milk tea delivered to anyone upon entry.

Later that evening I was exposed to another Mongolian custom, passing delicious Chenggis Khan Gold Vodka (which goes for about$9 for a large bottle). This was delivered in a brass bowl to one guest to take a sip, then back to the host to refill, then to another guest, then back to the host to refill, and so on. After finishing the bottle and more than my fill of a meal of camel meat khuurshur (fried pastry), came the really soulful part of the evening. I asked earlier, that if I couldn’t compliment this man who was providing food and lodging for us for days, and I couldn’t say thank you, why could I do? I was told, ever so simply, to ask him questions about camels. So, that’s what I did.

I asked about camel breeding. I asked about camel racing. I asked about training camels, and the differences between female and male riders. I asked about the differences between sexes in camels and what makes the best racing camel. I asked about the training horses verses training camels. Among the many replies to these questions, I learned that my rough and composed host, laying the carpeted floor of the ger because of a riding injury years earlier, was actually a poetic and eloquent man. He explained that falling from the camels never really hurts because he falls on his land, his Mongolia. He compared herding under the current capitalist system against under the previous communist government. And, he described how proud he is that three of his six children have decided to become herders, so he is comforted by the fact that, unlike other herders who must retire in the village, he will continue to live this nomadic lifestyle until he dies.

There is a hushed romanticism to Mongolia. The climate is brutal, (I had to sleep with my electronics so they would not freeze). Infrastructure and an accompanying sense of permanency are relatively non-existent (there are no roads about 50km outside of the capital city of Ulaanbatar). However, there is romanticism to Mongolia. There is something raw and magical about this place and the people who live here, and I consider myself fortunate to be one who few to experience this wild Mongolian winter.