This is Mongolia? I wondered.
And then came the following morning, John Mina, a close buddy who was traveling
with me shouting for me to get up. Stepping out on to the balcony of the hotel
room it started to hit, I was really in Mongolia, and far off, beyond the city,
the vast open steppes of Central Asia beckoned. Even the slightly dismal look of
the city of the night before changed into something strange and exotic, a new
world to explore. UB, as we "vets" call it, is worthy of a several days in and
of itself, but the steppes awaited.
Our expedition set out three hours later. We hooked up with our Mongolian
cohorts, a couple of professors from the university, half a dozen graduate
students, and a wonderful support team of drivers and cooks. All of them were
about to become the greatest of friends, companions, and andas.
As we rolled out of Ulan Bator, eight hundred years dropped away behind us and
for the next two weeks I wandered in a dream land.
We camped along the Orkhon River, where the great herds of a million horses of
the Horde once watered. We rode across dusty plains, no roads, just trekking,
our destination a distant mountain peak. Standing atop that mountain you could
actually sense the curvature of the earth, the vista encompassing thousands of
square miles of open steppes.
One historical connection I never anticipated was to our own American West. The
West of two hundred years ago is of course lost forever. It has been plowed and
paved, jet contrails course overhead and a thousand billboards extolling you to
visit yet another authentic wild west town and Indian settlement litter the
landscape.
On the other side of the world the steppes of Mongolia are, in places, quite
similar to what Montana must have been, and yet go a hundred miles and you sense
that here is old Arizona, or Utah, or even the mountains of Wyoming. The
difference is that it is untouched, pure, the air as clear as on the first day
of the world, the only sound the wind and your own breathing. There are even
some villages up in the mountains, homes made of split logs, with horses tied
out front, that look like old photographs of western towns from a hundred years
ago.
As we drove across the steppes we stopped at ovoos, which are local shamanistic
shrines, and walked about them three times, leaving our own offerings to the
pile of rocks which had been growing for a thousand years.
My first venture into the ger of a local host was strange, wondrous, and yes
even a bit unnerving. This was no tourist ger, the locals dressed in native
costumes because we were the four o'clock tour, these were true nomads, living
as their forefathers have for a thousand years.
When offered my first cup of aureg I manfully took it, for I was the historian
who had to find out what fermented horse milk was like. I'll admit, that first
sip was a bit startling, but interestingly, after a couple of days you actually
acquire a taste for the stuff, and miss it once you leave.
Smells are something that linger in your memory long after you leave. The heady
scent of aureg becomes part of you, horse dung fires, the pure fresh air, and
the wonderful scent of sage, which wafts up around you wherever you step.
It was meeting the people that became the great joy of the trip, far more than
following the track of Chinggis Khan. For in a way meeting them is like meeting
Chinggis. His blood is in their veins, their pride in him is wonderful to
behold, and as you sit in a ger, talking, you realize that you are touching an
all but lost world.
I sat around dung fires (actually the scent of burning horse dung is quite
pleasant, sort of like dried grass), drank aureg, ate boiled goat and sour
cheese, and loved every minute of it. Somehow word spread around that I was a
rather strange American, a professor who studied the history of Chinggis Khan
and that created a wonderful stir. Old folks wanted to meet me, one remarkable
gentleman took us to a site where a great battle had once been fought. When I
pulled out my dog eared translation of the "Sacred History," there was
excitement that here was someone who studied "their" story.
We rode Mongol horses (be careful, they are tough little characters and the
saddles are killers), bactrian camels, chased yaks, and even feasted on roasted
marmots, an experience that you'll either remember with a grin or try to forget
for the rest of your life. My students still pester me to show the video of that
feast yet again, all of them not quite sure about my sanity by the time the film
has ended. In fact, those of us who have traveled together with Gus to Mongolia
now call ourselves "The Brotherhood of the Marmot," and we even have a secret
initiation for all new members at the end of an expedition.
The best times were the evenings as we settled into camp. Local nomads would
wander in, we'd go through the standard greeting ritual of taking a bit of
snuff, and the exchange of small gifts. The meals were wonderful, the aureg
would flow, stories would be told, and then we'd sing. I heard throat singers,
wonderful chants, heart felt love songs, and even the strange weird tones
produced by the Mongol's one string fiddle. We'd sing as well. My friend John,
who is a doctor, has an interesting hobby as a leader of a do-op 50's group, so
he became our choir master. The most requested song "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."
How strange and even as I write this I grin, remembering how often we sang that
silly song, while overhead a million stars filled the heavens over Central Asia.
Back at the beginning of this note, I opened with
a comment about how when people ask me about Mongolia, those who've already
heard me grin. I could go on for hours more, telling you about abandoned caravan
cities in the desert, lost palaces, remote villages, ancient temples filled with
chanting Buddhist monks. Gus Grabscheid is right, life is an adventure, all you
have to do is stop dreaming, grab hold, and get aboard for the ride.
It changed my life, shaking me out of the doldrums of mid-career when
promotions, journals, publication deadlines, taxes, dentist bills for the kid,
and all the other daily concerns began to seem like the totality of life. It
opened up a dream and made it real. If you should decide to come along, I'll be
there with Gus, grinning like him, watching you as you stand there like a kid at
times, blown away by the strangeness of the world that is still out there
waiting to be explored. My job will be that of being the historian, of trying to
explain the wondrous story of Mongolia, but I can tell you now, that far more
than the history, it will be the beauty, the open steppes, the towering
mountains, and the people themselves that will captivate and haunt you.
A closing story. . . Our third or fourth day out in the field on the expedition
two years ago. During the night a thunderstorm rolled through. As it passed a
strange golden glow filled my tent, a soft weird light like the kind you usually
only see in a movie. I stuck my head out. . .and it was happening yet again! The
sky overhead was black, but far off, on the distant horizon, the sun was
breaking. . .and overhead a double rainbow was forming. My andas laugh now how I
woke up the camp, running around in just my shorts, how my shouts were first
greeted with groans and more than a few curses, for we had all been up late
singing and passing the aureg bowl. But as each grumpy explorer stuck his head
out, their faces changed to looks of wonder.
We stood there in the rain, laughing, dancing about, the sky an explosion of
gold, the remains of an ancient Mongol fort just behind us. I remember Gus
standing next to me, and my friend John. I grinned and said. . . "What an
adventure."
Bill Forstchen Is the author of over thirty books
including; the best selling sci fi series: The Lost Regiment & Wing
Commander, Plus....Gettysburg, Terrible Swift Sword, The
Far Magic & The New York Public Library's Book Of The Year...We Look
Like Men Of War
