Day 5: Return to Nowhere
A Rare Light
In the morning as dawn broke I
quickly packed, saddled up, prepared to ride off. Just as I got in the saddle,
the door of the ger swung open and a little girl’s face poked out. Then another
face poked out on top of the first. They looked at me, curious and unsure. I
smiled at them, lifted my hat and gave Rocky a
little kick. They smiled back and the littlest one waved. There is perhaps nothing more uplifting to the human soul than to
have someone to wave goodbye as you set forth into the world. And so it was that I set off happy on that final day.
The air was clear, the grass damp
from the overnight rain and dew. The morning sun reached
out long golden fingers onto the wet hills, sparkling greens mixed with
shadow. A great morning to be alive. And here I was, quite alive, and in
Mongolia! In fact, I was even astride my own horse. I laughed at the thought. Last
year, I was sitting at a desk, unsure of my health, my job, my life. Here I was
now, in an alien world.
The sad remnants of my horse-hair
girth seemed to be holding themselves together as we ambled along the trail.
Gaining confidence, I picked up to a trot and we began making decent time. I
took the high road, which was a narrow track in the hills far above the valley
floor. From here, the little smoking gers and ranches on the river’s edge
looked like props from a Western. A low rumbling began, the sound of distant
thunder. I glanced first at the clear sky before spotting a large herd of
horses galloping along the plain. Why were they running? Then, out of the dust
in the back emerged two riders. They rode swiftly and surely, darting among the
stragglers, rounding them up and sending them back into the pack. It was an
amazing spectacle watching the skill and speed of these ranchers. They would
suddenly slow, wheel around left or right, and then just as quickly burst back
to a gallop. All the while they held the reins with only one hand, the other casually
flicking a long rod like a whip. One of them stopped and pulled off for a
moment, then raised the reins to his mouth. Even from this distance, it was
clear he was taking a drag from a cigarette. Not only were they rounding up
horses on the run, but this man had somehow managed to keep a cigarette lit
in his fingers.
That wasn’t impressive. It was
unbelievable.
 |
| Herding |
I shook my head and we continued
on. As the sun rose high above my head, a prick of white appeared, and then
grew into a stupa. It was the same one I had encountered a few days ago with
the young girls. But today I would have no such company. We arrived and again I
tied Rocky off to the hitching post.
We
were at the top of a hill that surveyed the junction of the mighty Tuul Gol and
the Terelj river. Above the vast forested flood-plain, a wall of low mountains
sprouted on the far side. The Tuul, ever winding its
way south to Ulaanbaatar disappeared into a notch in the wall. It was in this very forest where, on my first eager
day of the trip, I had accidentally filled my boots with water, been lost in
swamp, had not one, but two Mexican yak bull stand-offs, and been awoken in my
underwear by a tough cowboy. All because I wanted to be clever and hide from imaginary thieves. Sitting up here in the bright sun,
the firm straight road home before me, I couldn't help but laugh.
Behind me a new crop of rain
clouds had snuck up, spilling curtains of rain onto the valley. Yet, it was one
of the odd days when the sun was also out, and I watched in fascination as the rain lit
up with the sun’s reflection. Any photographer will know that nature provides
many types of light conditions. There is the harsh light of a noon-day sun, the
soft warmth of sunrise, the ever-changing palette of a sunset. But perhaps the most remarkable, and rare, light of all was the
scene before me. There is something unreal about cloud, rain, and sunshine all combining at once upon a natural landscape. The colors pop out in such a vivid way that
it’s almost as if Nature has turned the world into an Instagram filter. The
greens of the plain were greener, the ger tent skins creamier, the horses
browner, the rain a sparkling silver. I sat alone at the shrines, eyes open,
mind empty. Watching. Breathing.
But the rain was getting too close
for comfort, and the meditation did not last long. I began my descent down and
turned for home.
Cowboy Nemo
We were walking and trotting at a
decent pace, when I noticed I had company. Far behind me was another rider. He
was herding a cow and a calf. Now, I do believe that if I was herding a cow and
calf, I would certainly not be able to catch up to another rider. But, slowly,
surely, he gained ground. Perhaps it was all that time spent jockeying on the
LA freeways, or perhaps it was that competitive streak of growing up with 10
siblings. But I felt a little miffed at this and hurried Rocky more. “Choo!
C’mon old boy, we can’t let this local yokel and his cows catch up to Cowboy
Nemo and his legendary steed Rocky! Choo I say!” Rocky apparently hadn’t herd
of Cowboy Nemo, and his new legendary status did not seem to excite him either.
We lost more ground, and soon the rancher was almost upon us. It was clear I’d
have to let him pass.
I glanced over as he came abreast,
and I was surprised to find it was only a teenager. Slouched low in the saddle,
under a worn baseball cap, he looked at me with obvious curiosity. Like all
country kids, although his face was tanned and weathered, the cheeks somehow
remained rosy. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the face of the Nepalese and
Tibetan kids I’d met in my travels. So similar these races were.
His main charge, the big cow, plodded
head-down along the trail. But the skittish calf darted constantly about,
clearly bewildered by this forced march away from home. With a practiced hand, the boy moved his
horse constantly about to herd the calf back in line, cracking his lead rope
like a whip. And he didn’t just crack it for the noise. The calf was taking a
beating, bleating in fear. First it would run back to its mother, but was so
scared it couldn’t help but continue to run off.
I pitied the calf, but such was life in the country. The boy was just doing his job. After saying
hellos, I pointed where we were going and asked “Terelj?” He nodded “tiim” and
pointed at the cow. And then I noticed something horrible. The cow’s right rear
flank had a large palm-sized wound, yellow and red from disease and blood. What
looked like black broccoli was sprouting from the edges. It looked like a
horrendous staph infection. When I looked closer, I saw that the cow was doing
very badly. Other black spots had sprouted up apart from the main infection.
The eyes were red instead of white, the nose was running with thick fluid. This
cow was probably not going to make it. But the rancher’s family was clearly
trying to do what it could by taking it into town. The calf had no choice but
to come along with its mother, running scared, constantly whipped.
Suddenly the calf darted across my
path, so that I was now blocking the boy from herding it. There was only one thing
to do, really. I turned my horse to chase after the calf. I managed to get to
the far side, and attempted to crack my rope at it. The rope flew back and cracked next to my eyeball instead. I had nearly blinded myself. Nice. I yelled at the calf, “Go! Go!” The
calf turned around and ran behind me. I turned as well to find the boy
laughing. In a moment he had the calf back on the path. I shook my head and laughed back. After a
moment, I had a 2nd chance as the calf ran off my way again. This
time, I took a wider berth to get to its right, then without using the rope or
yelling, steered it back to the trail. The calf ran back to its mother.
Success! This herding thing wasn’t so hard after all. The boy gave a little cheer.
We rode together for a bit,
herding the calf as a team. It was a fantastic feeling. Here I was, rolling, rolling, rolling, keeping them doggies rolling. Almost a real fake cowboy. The herding was so easy for him that he never dropped his cigarette, and
yet it was almost comically impossible for me. The calf would turn and dart
behind me, then when I turned around it would run back in front. I always
seemed to turn the wrong way. Finally, after about 10 attempts at whipping the
lead, a satisfying “crack!” came off the end. The boy exclaimed something like
“Good!” in Mongolian approvingly. Ah! I was a natural at this. And then, as
will happen, I failed to reproduce it on the next 30 attempts to more laughter
from the boy.
I took out my phrasebook and
managed to ask his age (14), where he lived (behind us somewhere), and his name
(which I didn't quite understand). I pointed at myself and said, “Nemo.”
“Momo?”
“Ugui,” I shook my head.
“Neee-moe.”
“Nee-nee?”
Well, it was what I deserved. I had already learned
that my name was impossible to pronounce in this country. It didn’t have what
in Mongolian is called ‘vowel harmony,’ where only certain combinations of
vowels are allowed in the same word.
I sighed and nodded. “Tiim,
nee-nee.”
“Nee-nee!” he beamed back.
But, the day was growing late, and
I was determined to reach my old hotel stomping grounds before it was dark. I
bade farewell to my new friend, and with a kick and a “Chooo!” we were off.
Soon we were running, and with a wistful
thrill I realized that this was perhaps my last ride on ol’ Rocky. So we ran
for a long way, longer than I'd done on the entire trip.
Ahead was the forest that marked
the entrance to the Terelj outskirts. Civilization.
After entering the
forest, we encountered a shack built of wood. A permanent structure. Not long after
that, fences. And then, a loud roar was heard. It was a big SUV, bounding along
the muddy track at speeds that were not compatible with reaching old age. I
quickly got off the trail to let it pass.
It was far too soon. My trip was
over.
Home?
After mis-judging where to cross
the river and getting my boots filled with water, running from dogs, and
dodging SUVs apparently hell-bent on splattering a horse on their grill, I
finally reached the friendly Mongol hotel. The beginning. The owner who had
taken pity on me wasn’t home, but after some extended games of charades I
managed to convince the person in charge to let me spend a final night on their
lawn. Or, perhaps he was just nodding politely to get a wild filthy foreigner back
outside of the hotel. I’m still not sure which it was to this day.
At any rate, after getting the
horse and gear sorted for the night, I actually had a moment to myself in the
fading sunlight.
I pulled off my boots, then my
filthy wet socks and set them out to dry. And stared at what remained of my
feet. The monster blister covering my entire heel had burst and was partially
torn off. The one covering my big toe had turned a black reddish color. My face
was burnt, my neck fried, my left knee throbbing, my back was in need of three
simultaneous Swedish masseuses, my golf balls were numb, and my ass was chapped
like it’d been attacked by a dominatrix. My poor jeans were 2 threads shy of being ripped completely
apart down the ass. I looked at the single flip-flop I'd kept. Yes, I kept it. Yes, it would get me about as far as a 1-legged chicken.
And yet … here I was, a fresh
plate of delicious goulash in my stomach, a cold beer in my hand. Contemplating
the experience. The stress of planning the trip, buying horses and gear, being
lost, worrying about thieves, equipment breaking, … these were all now in the
past. For the first time in two weeks, a surprising thing began to happen. As the
sun warmed my feet, I sagged back in a chair and drifted off. Could it be? I believe I was starting to relax.
The Ouroboros
 |
| The Ouroboros |
It is night in my tent. Snuggled
in my sleeping bag, headlamp on, pen in hand. From beyond the Chinese canvas
comes the pleasant sounds of Rocky happily munching away. I chuckle at the
memories of my first night in this same spot, Rocky screaming as I
suddenly realized I had no idea what the hell I was doing.
Pen meets rough Tibetan paper and
I scrawl some final musings in this beautiful hand-made journal.
“I have discovered 3 things:
1) I’m
no horse whisperer and never will be. No amount of Mongolian boot camp can
replace a lifetime of experience.
2) It
is possible to have a dream solely about pizza. Cold beer is incredibly
delicious. And, big baby Jesus, I really really miss good espresso.
3) I
will never, ever, do this again. (Did I tell you my ass feels like it was
attacked by a galactic death ray?) God help the poor souls I’d met back at
Mendee’s camp who were headed out on 6 week solo treks.
Oh, and Tim Cope (who re-traced Genghis Khan's journey from Mongolia to Europe), you are a freaking masochistic legend.”
======
I stop for a moment, happy with the snarky ending to my tale. But, the pen doesn’t drop. I guess
I’m not done? And then I realize there is a final confession to make.
Tomorrow I would be selling Rocky,
like he was a used car. And it makes me feel odd. A bond is being broken. I suppose it’s like
you saying goodbye to your dog, except that in this case, you depended on your
dog for your actual well-being. Rocky wasn’t just a “pet,” he was, as Walt Whitman put it, a comerado.
Goodbye Rocky. I wish you well.
And I hope your next owner will name you something awesome like “Gambler” or
“Pilgrim.” But, your likely fate is known to me. You’ll end up a tuk-tuk
for tourists. Slogging mile after mile for a buck, whipped, abused, and then
jettisoned like the Mongolian tool you were born to be.
I stop to think.
It’s not just Rocky’s fate that
has me in this strange state. I think about the modern world, and what place Mongolia has within it. Our race is nothing more than warring tribes of chimps. Man
kills and enslaves man. Forests are burned, rare animals poached and forever lost. And yet we spread,
and burn, and build, and spread, and today, even the Earth itself is but another form of Rocky. A tool
to be used and discarded. For what?
Why does Mongolia sing for so many
of us in the West? Why do we come here, of all places, to seek answers? I unzip
my tent, and look up into the night. Above is the naked blinding light of all creation. The
fresh smell of dewy grass swims in the dark. It is the world as it was.
Spilling out endless in all directions, wild, free.
Pure.
So little is still like this
place. One day, soon, even this Land of Blue Sky will be nothing but fences and
smoke.
I look at my backpack. I could
have stuck with my boring job; I could be sipping a nice glass of wine on the
couch. But, what do you know, backpack ol’ boy? I chose you. Tonight, I know in
my bones, it was the best decision of my life.
THE END
Good ending!
ReplyDeleteNice story Nemo - thanks for sharing it.
ReplyDelete