Life on the Kazakh Frontier

After a month in Mongolia, certain things seem normal: walking into pitch-dark restaurants through unlabeled doors; the complete lack of privacy in a place where people sleep in communal tents and the “bathrooms” don’t have walls; sun bleached bones scattered across the ground in every direction; sleeping on wooden boards or the ground; the need to always watch where you are stepping (and what you are about to step in).  Stoves powered by cow patties.  Buses driving through rushing rivers. Restaurants with extensive menus, where each item you select is met with a flat-faced head shake until you happen to point to the one thing they actually have that day.

But now we are at the official Edge of Nowhere: the last town out west, beyond which lies the literal frontier.  A place so far out, even for Mongolia, that they don’t even speak Mongolian (and just when we were starting to get comfortable – if not quite conversant – with the language).  A place so special that you can’t just go – you need paperwork, and stamps, and new tires.

Getting close to the border, you need authorization from the military.  This needs to be obtained from an army base – the kind of remote dusty outpost that some kid enjoying life in the city gets posted to, quite in contrast to his dreams of glory when he enlisted.  The kind of place where a printer breaks or the precious stamp pad runs out of ink, and no permits can be printed.  Being foreigners, we needed the permits.  Being foreigners, we are not allowed on an army base.  Being foreigners, we have no idea why our driver Taku is so proud to produce an official paper with a stamp, yet still mimes a need to go back to the base to get a stamp.

So our first day is spent going back and forth across town between the army base (“2 more hours”), the tire shop, the vegetable market (to buy over 50 pounds of potatoes, carrots, and onions for our trip, though how this much food could be purchased as an afterthought, to kill time while we waited for tires and permits, was never clear), to lunch as the day stretched on, and to a candy store so Taku could buy and deliver chocolates for the girl who worked at the shop across from the army base.   As was typical, nothing much changed, there were no discernible milestones, but at some point it was time to hurry up and start driving out of town late in the afternoon.

You pick one from the pile, roll it into the shop along with your wheel, and an hour of banging later you’re good to go!… back to the army base.

Two hours later we lost two more hours, sunk up to the Landcruiser’s axles in a pit of mud.  (Time means nothing our here, but sunset does…).  There was a lot of digging, rock piling, and wheel spinning.  Taku was up to his knees in the marsh; the rest of us weren’t quite ready to get out of the car.  Taku suddenly jumped on the back of a passing motorcycle and was gone, to return a bit later on the back of an ancient Russian truck which dragged us out of the bog with a way-too-short length of cable that had been in use securing their unbalanced load before we untied it.  The fee for this rescue was one cigarette each, after which we chose our path more carefully, crisscrossing the valley to avoid further entanglements, as we were running low on both daylight and cigarettes.

Tsengel, Aaron’s “homemade” old-west town

Late in the evening we arrived in the village of Tsengel, which sits in a 5-way intersection of valleys that I could only truly appreciate after following the day’s meanderings on my map.  Aaron’s description as we approached: “This town looks homemade!”  True to its location, the town had a real old west feel, with log cabins separated by rough wooden fences and hitching posts actually used to tie up horses.  The dusty ambiance is enhanced by the lack of running water.  As in most of the villages out west, wheelbarrows and hand trucks are used to bring water from the stream or town well up to each house where it sits in a large pail in the corner waiting to be scooped for tea, bathing, or other domestic use.

Tied to the hitching post

Even in the log cabins in the “center” of town, the experience is still half-camping.  The outhouses are mud brick structures, sans roof, about waist high – high enough to conceal the details, but low enough that there’s no risk of surprising anyone while it’s in use.  (The business end of the structure is still just two planks above a pit).  The houses have two or three rooms, one of which is a living room with a kitchen to one side – essentially a hot pot or electric frying pan on the floor.  Unlike the gers, the houses have small refrigerators in which to keep frozen hunks of mutton that are chopped into the daily stew for flavor.

Suzie in our hosts’ living room / kitchen / dining room / guest room in a log cabin in Tsengel.  All cooking is in the electric fry pan on the floor.

And flavor there was.  Each family we stayed with on this trip had the same ingredients we’d had in the Gobi, but instead of the bland, monotonous (and tortuously slow) meals our guide/cook prepared, every meal was tasty at a minimum.

The family we stayed with this night was some kind of cousin to our driver, spoke a modicum of English (useful, since our Mongolian was now useless) and had a nine year old daughter who loved handing us candies and showing Ethan and Aaron how to play the half-destroyed (yet full volume) accordion that seemed to be the one family toy.

(On our return trip, a week later, we would arrive back at their home to find that they had left for a day in the city.  Taku grabbed the padlock on the front door, gave a couple of yanks, and pulled the hasp out by the screws, glancing  back at us with a sheepish grin and a now familiar “No Problem!”  We lit their stove, raided their fridge and cooked dinner in their kitchen.  One of their friends showed up, walking in unannounced as is the Mongolian way, and was visibly shocked to see a white family sitting in the living room eating.  We welcomed him and had a grand ol’ time eating watermelon, but as soon as he left Taku moved the landcruiser down the block, bolted the door, and explained that the guy was crazy – at first we thought he was saying the watermelon made him crazy, but later we pieced together the threat, though we never really understood it.  When the family returned after midnight, they seemed completely unsurprised that we had taken up residence in their home, much less breaking and entering.)

The bridge between the lakes, seen through the windshield. That’ll hold a car, right?

The next day we reached our initial goal: Altai Tavan Bogd National Park, with the twin lakes of Khoton Nuur and Khurgan Nuur (which Taku could never keep straight).  Taku negotiated a stay with a large family camped on the edge of the lake at the foot of the mountains guarding the valley to China, which were in full fall splendor, an immediate contrast to the tourist ger camps of the Gobi.

The hills between the lakes and China

As we left for a hike along the lake, Taku (“mom”) warned us of the dangers: bears coming down from the woods, drowning in the little stream alongside the camp, rabid horses, and the Loch Khoton Nuur monster that would grab and drown us.  (What he actually said was, “Trees Closed!  GRRRRR!” as he alternated between making an X with is arms and pantomiming some kind of attacking beast with bared teeth.  Followed by “Water Closed!  Lake Closed!”  Elsewhere the warnings were of pickpockets and bag slashers.)  The lakes themselves are beautiful: long and narrow, with rocky barren hills on one side and forested mountains on the other, with an aura of untouched isolation.

Our hike along the green side of Khoton Nuur

Our host family gave us our first in situ introduction to the differences between Mongolian and Kazakh culture and architecture.  The families are much larger, with more gers in each encampment, and the gers themselves are larger, higher, and far more ornate.  Everyone, all the time, was working – making rope from the wool, bailing hay, cooking, cleaning, tending (and mending) the animals.

The family compound

Even through the language barrier, the tension in their political / ethic identity was palpable.  We had read that even for those living in Kazakhstan, this area of Mongolia is the pure expression of Kazakh culture, untainted by post-soviet ambition.  All of the local families we stayed with were split, with members pursuing greater opportunities in Kazakhstan (along with the remittances) while the rest stayed back to remain true.  Taku, while we were walking around the area, spontaneously grabbed a fistful of dirt: “This is my country.  I am Mongolian.  Kazakh Mongolian!”  As Kazakhs, they are Muslim, in stark contrast to the Buddhist Mongolians, with a sudden absence of Oovos (the towers of rocks festooned with blue ribbons) and the sudden presence of head scarves.  And yet, as we passed each little shop Taku asked if we had enough vodka, as we spent evenings drinking with the Muslims (even the women took a few shots.)

Spinning and braiding rope from tufts of wool

We played a day-long game of Simon Says

Our time with this family gave us a real taste of the nomadic life.  In addition to the women hand-spinning wool into thread, three women worked to braid the thread into a 50 foot length of rope.  Cheese and boiled milk curd dried on racks in the sun, protected by hand made mesh nets.  Morning included the milking of the cows.  One at a time, a calf was released from the pen to get the flow of milk started, after which he would be tied up while the women milked as much as they could get.  The calf would be released to restart the flow, then the women would take over once again.

Cheese drying

With each family, the sheep were taken through a morning ritual I never quite understood.  Each lamb is painted with either red or purple.  Two young teens climb into the lamb pen and chase the lambs around, grabbing only the red ones and throwing them over the fence.  As the red/purple ratio decreases, it takes more time, and much more energy, for the kids to corner each red lamb in the corner-less corral.   Finally, the last red lamb is tossed over the fence.  Immediately after which the gate is opened, and all the purple lambs stampede out, right next to all the red ones.  As each searches for its mother there is a deafening cacophony of begging lambs and bleating mothers, as a hundred of each weave through the dense crowd searching for the right pairing.  The sound begins to taper as the reunions are made, and as the last lamb finds its mother there is a sudden silence.

The next day we made a run for (but not across) the Chinese border, up a colorful canyon to a waterfall that serves as the designated tourist goal of Western Mongolia.  Along the way we met an American couple traveling the alternative way: with a guide, a cook, a driver, and other staff, who together had an encampment of 7 tents (including mess tent and bathroom tent, complete with an actual western toilet seat).  Comfortable, no doubt, but well insulated from all that is western Mongolia.

The Chinese border

In contrast, after the hike we found another nomadic family living in the valley, this one with kids Ethan’s age.  One advantage of this trip is the relative isolation of our kids.  Without others to play with, they have become much better friends with each other – no small achievement given the 4 year age difference.  And they have each become far more outgoing, craving peer interaction.  With only the slightest encouragement, Ethan began asking the boy a few questions (name, age).  The boy, previously stone faced, lit up immediately, and they started sharing what they could – finger games, drawing pictures.  Ethan had the idea to teach the kids a game called “Wax Museum,” which we were sure was quixotic at best.  But with ambition and a willing partner, he soon had all the other kids playing along.

This gave way to Mongolian wrestling, which Ethan had watched at the Naadam festival a few days earlier; just enough to get the basic idea.  A small crowd gathered (as it always does when a wrestling match arises) as the kids grappled.  Ethan lost most every bout to the smaller (but older, and more practiced) boy, but remained good natured at having found a friend.

The national pastime

Soon it was off to the basketball court (!) where all the kids played a spirited game.

You have to hit the lay-up just right, and watch for funny bounces off the court…

Afterward came the goat.  For once, it wasn’t dinner, but a pet.  Ethan and Aaron took turns trying to win its affection – a male, just a few weeks old – still young enough to sleep (tied up) inside the ger with the family, and safe enough to literally butt heads with.

Ethan with his new pet

By the next morning one of the gers was half down – we had made it just in time.  Another day or two, and all the families in the valley would be gone, and we’d be facing another cold night – and one was quite enough.

A ger skeleton

Which presented a bit of a challenge the next night.  Mongolians – yurt dwellers and nomads in general, regardless of country or culture – are famous for hospitality; show up and there’s a place for you.  But with families in the midst of packing, we were turned away from one ger after another.  “Ger, Problem Is!” Taku explained.  Here it became clear that everyone was right – you can’t successfully (or comfortably, at least) tour the west without a Kazakh speaker accompanying you.  What they don’t mention is that he doesn’t need to speak English!  You just need to navigate and find a place for each night, and since you can’t drive yourself (unless you come overland from Europe in your own vehicle, a la the Mongol Rally), your driver is in the same boat; it’s all part of the package – unless it’s a package booked from Ulaan Baatar.

Or just play with the kids, no language necessary

The day was a mix of rain and snow, including throughout our hike to the top of a hill on the opposite side of the lake from where we’d been staying and hiking.  (A hike which pushed Aaron a bit beyond his limits, leading to an extended discussion of the precise definition of “sufferfest” and costing me a couple of Mars Bars.)  The weather at least enhanced the views, as the fall-colored mountains were now dusted on the upper slopes with fresh snow.

A dusting of fresh snow in August

We did ultimately succeed in finding a place, on the shore next to the bridge right between the two lakes.  This put us in walking distance of the nearest vodka dispensary, along with providing a perfect vantage for watching (and listening to) the local herds make their way across the countryside (and bridge) the next morning.

“Time for some traffic problems on the bridge.”

We also got a treat from our host: reviews of Mongolian tours are filled with the lament that “We didn’t get to do any work!” as exemplar of the disappointment of ger camps rather than actual homestays.  It wasn’t 10 minutes before Ethan was handed a broom and ordered to sweep the floor, and Suzie was presented with a pile of dirty dishes.  When I (literally) rolled up my sleeves to help I was scolded and shooed away – this was not men’s work.

Suzie doing her best to be domestic

Inside our last Kazakh ger

Finally, in this (believe it or not) abbreviated version of the story, it was we time to head back to what would seem like civilization by comparison.   More milk tea, and several more relatives and coworkers of relatives.  One village we stopped in was said to be the home of a famous Tuvan throat singer – a type of singing where one person can sing two or three separate tones simultaneously, and which I’ve been a fan of for decades.  We made several phone calls, and ultimately found out that he had died, but one of his students would come over and sing for us.  It wasn’t exactly a world class performance, but we got a private concert in someone’s kitchen over milk tea.

Listening to a private throat singing concert

With time in the car, it was time to get re-acquainted with the local pop music.  But now, in addition to our Mongolian favorites, we enjoyed tunes done in some kind of American Idol style game show with children singing karaoke, as well as Kazakh pop, including carbon copies of Olivia Newton John, Cher, and Epinine (from Lez Mis), with some Russian pop thrown in that had us reminiscing about our last visit to a Russian Restaurant.

Filling up for the drive back at a hand-cranked desert gas pump. Taku fretted at putting the low grade Russian gas into his Landcruiser

Hey, I thought I reserved an exit row!

And then, the moment we’d all been waiting for: the bus to Ulaan Baatar.  Four days and nights shoehorned into a sardine can, bouncing across the country side.  Upon boarding I thought, hey, it could be worse – there’s almost as much leg room as on United.  Then they loaded the cargo, which fills the aisles, then the floor under where my feet should have been.  Luckily I had small travel pillows, which I needed between my knees and the steel bars of the seat in front of me, which practically bled with each bump.

As we were about to leave, we were boarded by a horde of young men in camo – obviously the army – who turned out to be on assignment, reporting to the capital.  Along the way, deep into the night just outside Khovd, some crazy guy in a minivan cut us off.  Our bus swerved around and kept going.  Then a second guy jumped in front and slammed on the brakes.  We stopped in time, there was some yelling, and the bus pulled over – to find a roadside carnival of minivans and jeeps, with blankets spread everywhere, each the family of one of the soldiers on board.  Everyone came out of the bus, and there was an hour long reunion of each family, complete with a picnic basket of Mom’s cooking, all by moonlight.  The driver eventually grew impatient and started honking, while each family said goodbye, and each and every one gave their soldier a bag of watermelons adding to the cargo rolling around and on top of my feet for the next two nights.

The reward came at our last rest stop, at a deep river crossing.  As we watched entrepreneurs with tractors tow Priuses across the river, the watermelons came out for a second picnic, now with the camaraderie of 4 days of rattling around in a tin can together.

An impromptu watermelon picnic