Ger-to-Ger in Terelj

My Ger-to-Ger experience began on a chilly summer morning. It was Monday, the 25th of May, but felt like December in the US. As Yelena, Amber, Molly, Alison, and I waited for the bus to Terelj to arrive, a heated argument broke out between two Mongolians standing behind us. I turned to see a very large man with long black hair and a mustache of impressive proportions pointing and shouting at an older man in a beige fedora and traditional herdsman's robes of a beautiful grayish sky-blue color. As he made rude gestures back at the first man, I caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were an intense blue color that seemed sharp enough to pierce granite. For those of you who have read the Dune novels, now I know what a freman looks like. Evidently it is a genetic trait that some Mongolians possess, dating back from before European influence.

As the two glared at each other, the bus to Terelj came into view. The crowd of people all ran to get seats on the bus, some blatantly pushing others out of the way as they jumped aboard. The bus driver stood next to the doors, shouting in Mongolian. "What's he yelling?" we asked. "'Don't push,'" Allison answered with a laugh. We fought our way through the crowd anyway and eventually got seats aboard the bus. The old man with blue eyes sat down next to me, with the other man nowhere in sight. Allison made sure that we had all gotten on safely, and then she went back to the youth hostel.

The ride to Terelj took about 3 hours. The whole way there the wind blew fiercely, throwing wave after wave of dust that blanketed our vision outside the bus for several seconds. Dust devils whirled madly towards us, sweeping down from the dusty hilltops that dotted the landscape.

When at last we arrived, a man in traditional clothing greeted us and ushered us onto a cart with a bored-looking ox attached. He spoke little English besides "Ger-to-ger," so we didn't speak much on the ride over. He drove the cart out of town and across a shallow, icy river into a sparse forest. ("Fording the river in an ox-cart!" we said to each other, recalling happy days of Oregon Trail.) We could see many gers in the woods around us. Eventually, we came to a ger with smoke happily billowing out of a small chimney, promising warmth and a hot meal. As our host led us inside, we were careful to step right-foot first over the threshold in accordance with Mongolian custom. The interior of the ger seemed much larger than I had thought when judging it from the outside. We were treated to steaming hot bowls of milk tea and mutton-noodle soup with chunks of potatoes and onions floating in it. I honestly have to say, it was one of the best soups I have ever tasted (don't worry, Mom, I wrote down the recipe!).

That evening we spoke with the family using the little Mongolian we knew and were pleasantly surprised to find that the man's wife was fluent in Russian. Yelena and Molly did an admirable job of translating what she said, and I felt that we got right along with them. We played a card game after dinner that Amber had learned in the states that we all seemed to pick up pretty fast.
The next day we rode out on horses and on the ox-cart. The horses were clearly not happy about the journey and protested so much that the man had to lead them by foot and left me to drive the ox for awhile. We road east across plains, the cold wind blowing madly the entire time, cutting through even our warm clothes. Each gust brought with it gales of dust which enveloped us before blowing off into the distance. The ox stopped several times, prompting the man to kick it in order to make it move. We traded mounts halfway through, with those who were riding on the cart mounting the horses and vice versa. As we continued the long journey to the next ger, I heard a sharp, melodious whistling sound buoyed by the wind. I turned to see a herder galloping towards us, robes billowing in the wind and fedora fluttering around his head; a true Mongolian cowboy. He offered to help lead to the next ger, which our host eagerly accepted.

When we arrived at the next ger, we found a family of four there: a young couple, the husband being 30 and the wife 26. They had a young daughter of 4 years and the husband's niece (10) was visiting with them. They were busy running their farm, and so we did not talk to them as much. We watched them round up goats and milk them outside. That night we had mutton and rice (also delicious) and were served boortsog (fried dough, easy to make and very delicious). The wife showed us her hobby, traditional embroidery. She taught us how to make the Celtic-looking designs found on traditional Mongolian dress.

The next day we moved on to the next ger. We stopped along the way at the husband's brother's ger and were served milk tea. I was invited to play what I thought to be chess at first, but soon learned to be some kind of variant of checkers. It was fun, but I came away a bit confused about just what rules they were using.

We continued to the site of the next family to find out that they were in middle of moving to their summer location (being nomadic and all). We found a women in a ger in the middle of packing. She told us that the other ger had already moved and directed us there. When we arrived, the last visitors, two Portuguese men, were just leaving. The men of the family also left to go tend their flocks, leaving us with the grandmother who was very hard of hearing.

Before leaving, the son of the family, age 18, let us play with a bow and arrow, shooting at a target outside. None of us managed to hit the target, a board about a foot across from around 40 feet away. But we came darn close a few times! As the day wore on, our hosts had still not returned. We went back into the ger to return the bow and arrows, but we found the grandmother asleep and opted not to disturb her inside. So, we wandered around outside for several more hours. With each hour, it seemed to get colder and colder, and we were shivering by the end. When our hosts finally returned, we showed them pictures of our homes and families. We had mutton-noodle soup again that night (no complaints there!). In the morning, we were to journey 8 kilometers back to the bus stop. Our host drove the ox, but insisted that only two of us ride on it while the others ran to keep up, evidently concerned that with the five of us on the cart, the ox would be slowed down.

And so began the Great Terelj Marathon. It was 5:30, and we needed to reach the bus station by 8:00. The family kindly let us wear some of their heavy coats. Nice as they were, I became far too hot despite the bitingly cold wind, and took the coat and my own jacket off. We ran through forests, dashed over open plains, and forded many rivers to get there. Every now and then, the stiff crack of stick against oxflesh punctuated the urgency of our journey. After two hours, we reached the station and had a nice chat with a French foreign aid worker doing work in the region. Being tired from the run back, I slept through much of the ride back to Ulaanbaatar, but once there awoke to many wonderful memories of our adventures in Terelj.