David and Craig

Craig and David, from the Gold Coast of Australia, came up to the ranch Monday night.

On the train ride up, I broke out a bottle of Altai early. As we were sitting in the cabin with the door open, a pair of train cops passed by a couple times, staring at the bottle. We joked that they must want a drink. Then they came to the door and asked for passports. I stood up and went to the door and handed them my passport, then they walked away down the corridor, waving at me, and I followed them to their cabin at the end of the carriage.

We sat down. I asked if they spoke English or Russian, and they said they knew only a few words of each, so we talked in Mongolian. They asked questions about who I was and who the other guys were and where we were going. I was sincerely congenial, because I live in Mongolia and so it is easy to be happy, and I mentioned the rain outside and how there had been a lot of rain this spring. I asked them where they were from and how long they’d worked on the train. I still didn’t know what the problem was, or if there even was a problem. Maybe they were just curious, I thought.

Then the one guy said that drinking, as well as smoking, are not allowed on the train. I was sincerely surprised, because I had drank on that train nearly every time I had ridden it. But I quickly realized that I probably shouldn’t be surprised. And I realized where all this was headed.

I had the thought then that no smoking and no drinking is actually good policy. I also then thought of the couple occasions I had encountered drunk people on the train, but knew that it would not be helpful to mention that. Instead, I said that I hadn’t known that drinking was not allowed, and that it was only one bottle, and that those Australians were good guys, and that no one was drunk, and that we would never drink on the train again. They said that there needed to be a fine. I made like I didn’t understand, and reiterated my protests. They said that the fine was 5,000 togrog. I kept rambling, in my ridiculous broken Mongolian. The one guy pulled out his ticket book and showed it to me. It was printed in both Mongolian and English, and printed on it was the sum of 500 togrog. The second guy looked like he was bored and left the cabin. The first guy then said that if I didn’t pay, he would keep my passport. I said that it’s my passport, and I need it. He smiled a rather sickening grin and said that the fine was 5,000 togrog. I said again, calmly, that it is my passport. He put my passport into the breast pocket of his jacket and buttoned down the pocket flap.

I said, “It’s my passport.”

He said, “5,000 togrog.”

I started to say again that I didn’t understand, that no one was causing any trouble, that the Aussies are good people, but in the middle of that he produced his badge and held it right up to my face.

“Do you see that?” he said.

I said, “Yes.”

“Do you know what that is?” he said.

I said, “I understand, but that is my passport,” and I pointed at his breast pocket.

He put his badge away and looked out the window. I said then that I had a copy of my passport, and he could have that. I searched in my pocket for my folded photocopy, which I always carry with me specifically for the purpose of giving to cops when they ask for a passport, and I cursed myself in my head for ever letting him get his hands on my real passport. I found my copy and unfolded it and offered it to him. He stood and walked to the door of the cabin, not looking at me. After a moment, he turned to me, pulled out my passport, handed it to me, and said, “Here. Go.”

It was very difficult not to smile then, but I succeeded, and never let the confusion pass from my face. I said to him that we had bread and sausage and onions in our cabin, and that he and his partner should come down and join us. He said that we should come to his cabin. I went out the door as the second cop came in, smiling.

Back in our cabin, I related the incident to David and Craig in as somber a tone of voice as I could muster, not wanting to sound my triumphant elation, which might reach the ears of the cops, offend them, and bring them back with a vengeance. I cut a couple hunks of bread and sausage and onion, and took it down to the cops later. The second one was already asleep, and the first one, who was reading a newspaper, simply accepted the food and set it on their table.

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Had very enjoyable conversation with David and Craig on the train. Of the most interesting parts were some of Craig’s stories of working in security, providing personal security for singers and celebrities in Australia, such as the Spice Girls and Kylie Minogue. He said that his and the other security personnel’s favorite—the nicest, friendliest guy—was Michael Jackson.

He said that first thing, Mr. Jackson asked everybody’s names and a bit about their lives, whether they were married, and so on, and that from then on he remembered their names and who they were.

When Jackson was there, he was, you know, wearing the surgical mask. But after a couple of days of being with him 24 hours a day, they eventually asked him, “So… what’s the deal with the mask?”

And he replied that thousands of people come to his concerts for his voice. One time, he got a throat infection, and had to cancel much of a tour, disappointing thousands of people and affecting thousands more who work to arrange the hotels and concert venues and so on. He said so much hinges on his voice, so many people are affected by what happens to his voice, that he has to take care of it, that it is too much of a risk to get a throat infection.

Which, we agreed, when explained that way, is understandable and even admirable.

Craig also said that Mr. Jackson spent a lot of his time in his hotel room playing PlayStation. When Mr. Jackson complained that no one plays with him, Craig called in a second shift and spent a few hours playing PlayStation with Michael Jackson.

Craig summarized that Jackson seemed like just a big kid, that he’d never grown up, that he wasn’t an adult like other adults are, and that that is maybe why they enjoyed doing security for him so much, because it was very much like babysitting.

* * *

After the horse ride from the train station at 3 a.m., we sat up in the ger for a while. David remarked that the unfamiliar stars of the Northern Hemisphere add a dimension of exoticism for them to Mongolia and to China, where they had just come from. We stepped outside and I pointed out the Big Dipper, how it points to the North Star, and Cassiopeia. I couldn’t find Orion’s Belt, however.

I asked if there was an equivalent of the North Star in the Southern Hemisphere, and Craig replied, with a blank face, “The Southern Cross.” I was then inwardly shocked at the foolishness of my question, nearly as shocked as I had earlier been at the foolishness of relinquishing my passport to a shifty cop.

-Radigan

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View photos of the ranch on the day David and Craig arrived

Bernard

Bernard (of the world-famous Chez Bernard cafe in downtown Ulaanbaatar), our Belgian friend and longtime fixture in Mongolia, came up to the ranch over the weekend and enjoyed the new sauna.

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Chez Bernard, Ulaanbaatar

Katrin and Adam

Adam, from Canada, and Katrin, from Germany, came up to the ranch on Wednesday night.

On the train ride up, we talked about Mongolian customs. I mentioned the important ones, such as always offering and accepting something with either your right hand or both hands, but never with the left hand. Katrin said that in her German guidebook, it was written that one should not get out of bed in the morning until after the woman of the ger has risen, because she likes to have coffee or tea brewing and other things prepared before the rest of the ger gets up. I had never heard that, but when I thought about it, I realized that Minjee was, in fact, always the first to rise in their ger. However, I assumed this could be largely attributed to Martin’s and my habit of drinking and staying up late the night before. Katrin’s comment also reminded me of Dan’s “Where’s my breakfast?” line.

Mongon met us at the train station with horses. Soon after riding out from the station, Adam’s horse bucked him several times. I told him, “Don’t worry: if you fall off . . . get back on.”

The next morning, we drank milk tea and sat a spell talking with Saraa. Katrin grew up in East Germany, and Saraa is familiar with her hometown. Saraa and Tseren had traveled to East Germany while they were national athletes for Mongolia during the Soviet period. Saraa offered to take them into Orkhon the next day, show them the features of the little town, and introduce them to the mayor.

Later, Katrin, Adam, and I went for a ride through the grazing land north of the ranch. Halfway out, the horses got willful and tried to gallop back home. I gave some riding tips, and we pushed on. Thereafter, they kept impressive control of their horses, especially Katrin. We rode to where the Orkhon River bounds the northern edge of the grazing land; we rode through the brush along the river, and then I showed them the tunnel under the railroad tracks, which one must pass through to head up to the ridge.

That evening, in the ger, we sat around with Sun-Hee and Jonathan, talking and drinking Altai. Jonathan is Martin’s son, who grew up in Melbourne, Australia, and Sun-Hee is Jonathan’s girlfriend. Sun-Hee is from Seoul, South Korea.

For some years, Adam and Katrin had each been studying and alternately living in Germany and Canada. Adam is from Edmonton.

I said that I grew up in North Dakota and had spent time in Calgary and that I really like Canada. “It’s like California, but colder.”

Adam asked me if “treeplanter” meant anything to me. I thought to myself that all “treeplanter” means to me is simply a person who plants trees. Since I was certain that Adam was referring to something more specific than that, I said, “No. What’s a treeplanter?”

Adam said, “It’s a person who plants trees.”

After I had stopped laughing, both Adam and Katrin explained that there is a treeplanter culture in Canada. Logging companies are required to replant each tree that they cut, so they employ people to live in camps in the forest and plant hundreds of seedlings per day through the summer. “There is a perception that treeplanters are a bunch of hippies running around in the woods. And that’s generally what they are,” Katrin said.

Tseren came in and said hellos. He sat at the table, near to the stove, and put a kettle of airag on the stove.

He then produced his tobacco bottle and passed it to each of us. We each took sniffs from the bottle and passed it back.

With the airag heated, he poured out a bowl and passed it to Adam. Adam drank it and passed it back. Then, in turn, we each accepted and drank a bowl of airag.

This continued for many rounds over the next hour or two, eventually prompting Jonathan to proclaim that Tseren has some kind of magical bottomless kettle of airag.

Tseren threw some airag at the roof of the ger, in offering to the Blue Sky. He gave a lengthy speech of welcome and about the state of the ranch, which I did my best to translate.

At one point, Tseren sang an Italian operatic song, which sounded Mongolian. He then passed the bowl around again and insisted that everyone sing before drinking. Adam sang “O Canada.” Katrin sang a German song, the tune of which I recognized. I sang “Sixteen Ton.” Jonathan wimped out, claiming that he was doing us a service by sparing us from his singing. Sun-Hee sang a Korean lullaby.

We then enjoyed a nice Korean meal that Sun-Hee had cooked, along with excellent Mongolian buuz.

Adam and Katrin were looking forward to partaking in the milking. I left to go back to UB on the train that night. Martin and Minjee came up the next afternoon. Katrin and Adam stayed at the ranch for two more days. On Saturday, they took the long horse ride up over the northern ridge and down into the valley on the far side.

-Radigan

Dan

Dan, my friend from California, came up to the ranch Friday night and stayed for two days.

The first day, he, Jonathan, and I took a long horse ride to the north. The four dogs from the ranch came along, and this provided us some additional activity in the form of keeping the dogs from chasing the grazing cattle and horses that we encountered.

It was a very good ride, including great views, a steep descent, some interesting terrain, and several good gallops. We met one old herder with a flock of sheep on top of the ridge, and I talked with him a bit. He was from Orkhon.

In the last leg of the ride, when we were almost home, Jonathan and Dan began complaining about their sore butts. I later reported to Martin that one was “winging” (because he’s Australian), and the other was “whining” (because he’s American).

That was the second time in his life that Dan had ever been on a horse. The first was the night before, after we had arrived on the train and Mongon and Martin had met us at the station with mounts to ride back to the ranch.

Dan came into Martin and Minjee’s ger in the morning while we were still sleeping and said, “Where’s my breakfast?” Later, we attested that “Get it yourself!” is the only appropriate response to such a question.

Dan really enjoyed playing with Zaya. The rest of us concurred that he was probably going to go home and get his wife pregnant.

-Radigan

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email message from Dan to friends:

Hi,

I've now been in Mongolia for five days. It's Monday morning here in Ulaanbaatar; our train back from the ranch dropped us here at about 7AM, and I'm going to finally attempt to write something interesting for you.

I'm starting to figure out Radigan's definition of "ecstasy." I think it involves a tremendous degree of personal freedom, horses, and a dawning realization that we're not as weak as we're taught to believe we are. For example: our train up on Friday evening arrived at Orkhon at 3 in the morning, and the means of transportation from the station to the ranch was horse. Never having ridden a horse before, the instructions given to me were: "get on."

The horse was led by Martin, a man I can't begin to describe in this format, but suffice it to say he's a good guy. So in fact I didn't really need to know anything. But the next day, when we took the horses out after lunch, the instructions given to me -- this time without anybody leading -- were still "get on." It turns out, that's pretty much all you need to know about riding a horse.

It was a beautiful ride. From the ranch, three of us rode across the steppe a short way to the thawing Orkhon river... up a hill, yielding beautiful panoramic views of the landscape which I took no pictures of whatsoever... down the other side, through a frozen bog, then along the train tracks coming back... On the way we saw sheep, cows, wild horses... The dogs that followed us from the ranch kept trying to play games with the livestock we passed by. It was a long ride, at least for my first ride. The GPS showed us being a bit over four miles away as the crow flies, at what I think was our furthest point away from the ranch, but I figure we actually rode over ten miles in total, across what would have been very taxing terrain for a person to hike. Anyway, the point is: there I was, on my own horse, literally galloping across the steppe in Outer Mongolia.

Ass, legs and lower back were pretty sore after that, so I spent all of Sunday taking photos around the ranch and relaxing.

Alcohol has also played a role here. I've had my share of Altai, a drink made with some kind of berry. We also broke out the baijou I picked up in Beijing, but after maybe half a shot each, it was determined to be undrinkable.

-Dan

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View Dan's photos at the ranch

Quote-of-the-Week: 2005 December 19-25

"It works. I burned myself."

-Martin, about the new barn heating system

Quote-of-the-Week: 2005 December 12-18

"It will definitely work maybe."

-Radigan, about the new barn heating system

Quote-of-the-Week: 2005 November 28 - December 4

"It's been warm this year."

-everyone, about the weather

Quote-of-the-Week: 2005 November 21-27

“I don’t want to haul a boiler on a horse.”

-Martin, saying that because he was taking the new boiler up to the ranch this week, he would take a car from Ulaanbaatar instead of the train, because taking the train would entail riding a horse from the train station in Orkhon to the ranch

Quote-of-the-Week: 2005 November 14-20

"You guys fell down a lot."

-Bulgan, referring to the afternoon of roping and branding horses