In Part One (Issue 6, p 10-11) the author and Oyene-Erdene (O.E.)-a U.N. land planner-embarked on adventures to the far western aimags (provinces) of Mongolia. Their travels-in the winter of 1997- began in Olgii, a Kazack town nestled in the heart of the Altai Mountains. After a few hospitable delays the pair were finally on the road again, this time travelling by Russian jeep towards the remote city of Khovd.

Today O.E. and I readied ourselves for our trip into the high Altai. O.E. managed to track-down a Russian jeep and an experienced local driver to take us into the heart of the mountains and then back down to the high steppe. Khovd would be our next destination.

After two days in Olgii's lone, nameless hotel we were getting increasingly smelly and restless. The ever-present odour of mutton and stench of cheap Bulgarian cigarettes by now had fully permeated my clothes. Our bathroom had no shower-just leaky pipes and faucets which left coppery and algae-like patina stains on the sink and walls. And although there was no hot water, I was not too worried, for tomorrow we would be on the road. Patience and equanimity are virtues in Mongolia.

The normally sedate town of Olgii just happened to be the only connecting point for those wanting to travel by air from Alma Atay-the capital of Kazackstan-to Mongolia's capital Ulaanbaatar. But since Kazack Air and MIAT did not have anything resembling predictable connections, travellers are forced to stay overnight in Olgii. The result was an interesting mix of unexpected characters in a wild frontier setting.

Central Asian Women Invaders

One night our far-flung outpost was inundated by a clan of females. Energetic delegates, en route to a "Central Asian Women's Conference" slated for the upcoming week in the capital, invaded the hotel lobby. Their 'tour' leader, Anastasya, a striking Russian women who worked with the New York-based Soros Foundation, told me about the plight of Central Asian women after the downfall of Communism. The five countries she spoke about were located just to the west of Olgii.

Anastaysa told me that the delegates from the new Central Asian nation states: Uzbekistan, Kyrgystan, Kazackstan, Turkmenistan and Tajikistan, were on the front line of discovering newfound freedoms-one step forward-while at the same time experiencing soaring rates of unemployment and repressive institutional barriers-two steps back. The upcoming Soros conference was about forming women's networks to counter these barriers.

In order to accommodate the delegates and other passengers, our hot-water deficient inn had no choice but to ask its guests to double-up. But here there was little fretting about sharing space. Western notions of personal space and privacy simply do not apply in Mongolia.

Lambs to the Slaughter

The different 'sense of space' might have something to do with the fact that so many Mongolians grew up in each other's faces-quite literally. People spend a lot of time together, in large families, either in the warm confines of the one room gers (yurts) or in very small apartments. The ger usually houses a family: it serves as kitchen, living room and dining room, lovemaking room and birthing room. Often in-laws live in small groups of adjacent gers, creating small ger communities. It seems plenty of livestock, along with the in-laws, are always kept nearby.

I once slept in a ger sharing the tight, but warm space, with 12 other people and three newborn lambs. The lambs' owner feared they would not survive the night out in the minus forty plus weather. However, when one of the children brought the lambs inside the ger I misunderstood her purpose: I thought that the woolly creatures were intended as a special dish for the foreign guests, including myself.

Other travellers had told me of the elaborate lengths hospitable Mongolian hosts might go to in order to please their guests; a kind of one-upsmanship, akin to the Potlatch-Vancouver Island's Kwagulith Indian tradition. In Mongolia, to not eat, especially since the hosts are so materially poor, would be seen as a direct 'loss of face'-an insult to the host.

I felt sick to my stomach, watching the lambs get put into a metal wood bin. I thought of the horrors of this sacrifice, just for visitors. At the time I thought to myself, "I have forgone my vegetarian ways working in Mongolia for the past three months, yes. But eating two day old baby lambs...maybe these people still deserve their reputation as barbarians from the era of Genghis Khan."

But the nomads in the land of Khan are easily misunderstood by vain foreigners. The lambs were just being kept at close quarters so they would be warm for the night and wouldn't run around defecating inside the ger. Instead of fresh lamb, we stayed up late into the night exchanging stories, drinking hot milky-salt tea and playing with our fleecy friends.

I suspect the social life of the ger contributes to Mongolians' dual personality-extremely sociable, hospitable folk on the one hand-and a nomad's love for nature, the open steppe and the eternal blue sky, on the other hand.

The Spare Bed

The spare bed in the room O.E. and I shared, was quickly filled by an amicable, chain-smoking Korean businessman who managed a commercial printing business in Central Asia. He too was flying back to Ulaanbaatar with the conference delegates. Soon he was smoozing with O.E. trying to determine how cash-rich our project was and scoping whether he might score on any lucrative printing jobs in the future.

O.E. and I were thankful that the delegates had descended upon town since we saw a considerable increase in the quality of our lunches. Instead of the usual mutton, rice and milk tea, we now had mutton, rice and milk tea served in the hotel's best dishware, along with mantuu : a sticky, dumpling-like bun. For supper we were even luckier, as we were invited to dine with a local family.

Honoured Guests

O.E. and I spent the evening with Jangarkhahann and his family. Jangarkhahann was formerly a meteorologist and rocket researcher. Now he advised the local government on a strategy to help get Olgii out of its present economic, social and ecological woes-a job none too small for a rocket scientist.

To be a guest in Mongolia is one of the greatest honours. As with the Bedouin of Arabia, Mongolia's nomadic code is one of benevolence, curiosity and pure kindness. Guests are invited to feast, rest, and drink. And drink. And drink, especially vodka. Conversation is key, though with my severely limited Mongolian, I spent most of my time listening and asking lots of simpleton questions. I mostly kept myself entertained looking at his old family photographs and Buddhist mandelas.

In Western Mongolia horse meat is especially popular. Jangarkhahann served us this very dark and dry speciality. Meat is central to the Mongolian diet. There are few vegetables and it is not at all spicy as the Mongolian Grill Restaurant claims. Unfortunately this is the extent to which most Canadians learn about Mongolia, aside from the fact that the Great Wall was built to keep the Mongol nomads away from the civilized Han Chinese. The Great Wall also kept the spice from going north, ergo the Mongolian intolerance for Szechuan pepper or ginger additives.

I sampled some horse meat, so as not to insult my hosts, but mostly loaded-up on salads and the 'white foods'. White foods or Tsaagan idee is the name given to the wide variety of cheeses, cremes, curds and fermented mare's milk that Mongolians love to eat. Another favourite tradition, introduced by the Russians, are the endless rounds of vodka toasts.

After the vodka toasts which did not end until our host had distributed a 40 proof bottle amongst us, O.E. and I headed back to our hotel room and our new Korean roommate. As we struggled upstairs the Central Asian women were being serenaded by a local domber player. The domber is a long-necked, three stringed, bridge instrument, usually with a horse-like neck. As the music shifted some of the dancing delegates eyed us over to see if we had it in us for dancing. Instead we opted for sleep before our long journey still ahead of us. Traffic Jam

The morning of our departure I found room in the jeep for my newly purchased Kazack magic carpet-a wonderfully patterned felt rug-a memory of my journey. Our jeep driver, a muscled and tattooed army vet, waited until the traffic jam in front of the hotel cleared. It was quite the sight. A flotilla of over ten jeeps used to haul off delegates-four in each jeep-to the local airstrip for their journey eastward to Ulaanbaatar. We too were headed eastward, but by jeep.

Russian trucks are the workhorse in these parts. Even though there is an influx of Toyotas and Land Cruisers in the capital, their lives are typically limited by a shortage of spare parts. Everyone, it seems, knows how to get the Russian trucks up and running. Reassuredly however, they were made to handle Siberian winters.

Eastward

Our fearless driver took us up winding canyons, via high grassy valley passes and benches of land wedged between even higher snow-capped mountains. It was a sunny day with whispery cirrus clouds visible as a backdrop to lower jet exhaust streams. Our journey to Khovd would be nearly 200km or about 6 hours to the east. The roads in the area are simply dirt tracks, generally going in one direction. Oyene pointed out how this multi-tracking or braiding, exacerbates soil and vegetation loss. Plus it did not make for a good ride either. The driver did an admirable job picking his way through the anarchy of it all-his arms appearing to be in constant battle with the steering wheel and by extension, the ground.

We detoured into a remote village and stopped to visit with the local mayor. His companions offered us more white foods and vodka. Their was no longer a regular supply of electricity-it was down to just several hours a day. Buildings and infrastructure were in disrepair and the town appeared abandoned.

The only sign of new development was a nearby simple domed wooden mosque. Its robin's egg blue minarets topped with golden quarter moons tilt towards Mecca. I peered inside and found three boys still half asleep. It was nearly noon, but things are slow in those parts. They quickly emerged from bed and gave a brief tour.

Back on the road we passed animals and families on the move hauling parts of their ger by camel and horse. "This is what being a nomad is all about," I thought to myself romantically. Soon after a pink-cheeked young man hitched a lift with us, telling my companions about the local conditions. He got off seemingly in the middle of nowhere and headed-off into the great beyond. I supposed he too was a nomad.

Beyond the Great Wall

We passed Yak, and wild Bactrian camels grazing next to a large salt lake. During a quick stop I realized how comfortable Mongolians are with animals as my companion approached a furry camel, and while gently touching it, got it to kneel and was soon sitting atop the furry beast.

We stopped once more for white foods and biscuits and the creamiest, tastiest yoghurt I've ever tasted. This time we were guests in a remote ger near the jeep track. As guests we were expected to enter the left side of the ger and we were seated at the rear next to the elders of the household. The father offered us snuff tobacco and we in turn offered stories of our jeep trip, Olgii and Ulaanbaatar.

O.E. asked me if I had any questions for him. "Yeah, ask him if he's noticed any changes here since the communists have gone and since democracy and capitalism have come," I said. They all laughed for a while, including his wife and children. O.E., still laughing, simplified it saying that the old smiling man just said: "You know nothing's really changed around here for the past twenty-five years."

As we headed towards Khovd we made various stops to visit sacred places, including shamanic ovoos-stone sites, symbolic interfaces with the spirit world. I thought to myself about how many Mongolian's still lived a nomadic existence, with their stacked suitcases always at hand-literally ready to be packed at the drop of a hat.

In Canada the homeless and hobos, certainly a type of nomad, are frowned upon or considered at best unfortunate outcasts, at worst deranged individuals. In Mongolia, to be ready to move or moving is a cherished, respected tradition, inconsistent with our notion of settling and planting roots. Surely the lives of both nomad and settler offer plenty of mutual wisdom for living in our northern lands.

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