Читать книгу Mongolia – Faces of a Nation - Frank Riedinger - Страница 14

The Mongolian Family

Suhkee had to negotiate his way round two diversions. Finally we are on the road to Baga Gazriin Chuluu, The National Park located in the middle of the Gobi Desert, 230 kilometres from Ulaanbaatar. With our destination in our sights, I listen to Suhkee as he relates stories about his friend Batsaikhan. Perhaps it’s just a few kilometres to go. Perhaps it will take longer. Nowadays I have learnt that there’s no point in asking. On one occasion I got the confusing answer from my driver that vague definitions like “perhaps” or “later” give the Mongolian attitude to life enough freedom to allow for all unavoidable eventualities. Anyway, who could tell what time we were actually going to arrive, given the usual driving conditions?

Due to the unusually dry spell, our route went across a dried-up river bed. We must be in the National Park, as I recognise the strange rock formations from when I was here before. The shapes formed by the rocks play on the fantasy of the observer. Nature seems to have put them together to look like a parade of mute animals.

Sukhee settles himself in his seat and puts his foot down. He hasn’t seen his old friend for a long time and the anticipation of seeing him again brings back some anecdotes from earlier times. “You’ll get to know him later”, Sukhee says to me. He shields his eyes from the sunlight and looks for the direction that we need to take to find Batsaikhan’s jurte camp. “A bit south of here, behind some big granite blocks, just off the road”, he mumbles to himself. This description is just about as accurate as “later” or “perhaps” as the answer to the question about what time we might arrive. So we drive further along the dusty road in a southerly direction and then turn off to the left behind some imposing granite rocks. And of course, we end up right in front of the jurte.

Batsaikhan is waiting for us, accompanied by his sheep and goats. The animals are all gathered around the only well in the area unaware of our planned rendezvous. I look around me in astonishment. It all looks like a well-ordered Nomad encampment. I had imagined that being a Ranger in a Nature Reserve, it would be a bit different. But a career path in Mongolia can be complex. It is not unusual for people to pursue many different tasks and jobs.

The friends hug each other warmly. I stand to one side and think of all the greetings and farewells that I have been witness to. The two adventurers slap each other on the back, and recall fond memories. Soon, we will sit in the shade of the jurte and exchange stories. And that’s exactly how it is. The two of them puff on their cigarettes while I stretch out my legs and listen.

They relate the story of an elderly nomad woman whose sheep and goats disappear without a trace. She returns home in the evening, without her herd. She suspects that wolves have attacked her animals. One day some time later, when she is looking after her neighbour’s herd, one goat runs off and starts climbing into the mountains. Painstakingly, the old lady follows it and comes across a concealed entrance to a cave. She goes inside and when her eyes have got used to the dark, she tries to find the goat. A sudden shiver stops her in her tracks. In front of her, small stones that she must have loosened with her foot tumble down into a seemingly bottomless cleft in the rocks. It takes all her strength to stop herself from falling. But after that, the bad luck cave is closed off for ever by the people living in the nearby village.

Just then I hear some applause. I have become sleepy with the heat and the welcoming drink. Often, the onomatopoeic sound of the language lulls me into an almost meditative frame of mind. As if Batsaikhan could read my mind, a smile crosses his face and he invites us to eat with him and then to stay overnight. In our honour, he slaughters a goat. In spite of the fact that he is employed by the state, he, like almost all Mongolians, still keeps animals that provide his family of five with meat.

The evening sun spreads a gentle light. Bright reds and warm greys glide over the granite rocks. Rain water glistens in the ruts in the track. But the rocks are not immutable. The changing light gives them a volcanic red that makes them look as if they are glowing deeply. In the morning however, without any shadow, the rocks look as if they are sunk into the ground. The nomads believe that water has curative properties if you have eye problems. Some drops drizzled into the eyes are guaranteed to help. I am fascinated by these sorts of natural phenomena.

I hear sounds, quiet voices. Batsaikhan calls out that the meal is ready. As I approach the vat that the meal is being scooped out of, I see what is being prepared for us. Batsaikhan has slaughtered the goat and with these summerlike temperatures, the innards have to be eaten first.

Mongolian fare doesn’t offer much variety, so a small change like the taste of a different meal, is very welcome. While on my journeys, I stay with the nomads and eat with them. I also don’t know anything here other than what the locals eat. For weeks, Guriltai Shul, a noodle soup has been on the menu. Very occasionally, there was Tsuivan, a noodle dish with chunks of meat and lots of fat. These are the two main meals that are eaten at all times of the day. According to the Mongolians, the only good meat is fatty meat. They all share this opinion, young and old alike. Next to milk, meat is the basic foodstuff in the country. Yoghurt is also possible, in a dried form. Cheese production like we know is unusual because the Mongolians don’t use rennet.

Batsaikhan presents his family to me, his wife and three daughters. The leftovers from the slaughtered goat lay waiting at the place for honoured guests and the head of the family, opposite the entrance to the jurte. I make myself comfortable on the bed on the lefthand side, the side for the men. The three daughters sit shyly opposite me. I give some Chinese balloons to the youngest as a gift. This makes her want to go and play and takes away her appetite for eating.

The master of the house fills the aluminium dish with the cooked innards, lungs, kidneys, liver, heart and the stomach of the animal, filled with blood and chunks of meat. There is rice for the second course that is cooked together with the innards. Nyamaa, Batsaikhan’s wife prepares fresh milk tea. Using flowing movements with the ladle to stir the milk constantly, oxygen is mixed into the drink, giving it its typical taste.

Only the vodka ritual can equate to the preparation of the milk tea, whenever and wherever there are guests to be honoured. It is a gift of friendship from the great socialist brother who first made vodka a national drink here. Before the communist era, even in the shadow of their Soviet neighbours and friends, drinking vodka was not a traditional Mongolian custom.

Before night falls, I help the family round up the sheep and goats. They are driven into a pen, protected from the wolves who I hear howling at night. I roll out my sleeping bag and crawl into its soft shell. I can see the stars through the hole in the roof crown, glittering in the night sky. I turn over the events and experiences of the day in my mind. The nomad family is not asleep yet. They have a second jurte, which they move into out of respect for us. Sukhee sits with them there, smoking and telling stories. I hear a friendly exchange of banter and the popping of balloons in the darkness.

Baga Gazriin Chuluu – Granite rocks and a ruined monastery in the middle of the Gobi desert.

After milking is complete, the milk is boiled up. As a result of the frothing-up caused by the boiling, the cream separates off and forms a layer on the surface of the milk.

A goat is slaughtered in our honour.

The animals are penned in at night to protect them from the ever-present wolves.

Tsaagan Arkhi (Vodka of the Mongolian steppes)

Milk schnapps is made from fermented yoghurt (Tsagaa). This “Steppes Vodka” or Tsagaan Arkhi is still distilled today from the fermented yoghurt from goat, cattle, horse or camel milk. Approximately 18 litres are heated up on the stove in the jurte. A cooling dish filled with water is positioned about 35 mm above the yoghurt on a metal casing. The alcohol condenses on this cooling dish and then drips into another collecting tray or is fed off through a pipe into a bottle. Some families also hang goat and sheep meat in the casing during the distilling process. The Mongolians know that meat that has been impregnated in this way, is a good treatment against tiredness and allergies.

Depending on how strong the fermented yoghurt is, up to three distillations can be made. The first one is called Okhi, the second Arz and the third distillation made from the same yoghurt is called Khorz. There are no foreshots and aftershots than can damage your health here, as is the case when distilling from mash, because the yoghurt doesn’t contain any damaging alcohol types or fusel oil. Aaruul is mainly made from the yoghurt leftovers after the distilling process. This is then dried on the roof of the jurte.

Distilling milk schnapps. The fermented yoghurt is heated.

A metal distillation dish is placed over the boiling yoghurt, then the distillate runs off into the bottle

Granite rocks at Baga Gazriin Chuluu.

Tsagaan Suvarga – A prominent rock formation in the middle of the Gobi. The colouration of the ground indicates the presence of minerals.

Ongiin Khiid – The Monastery in the middle of the Gobi.