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Alex Abraham

ANHIL (fragrance) more than lived up to the promise of her evocative name. She was slender, tall, bright, vivacious, bubbling with energy, with an intensity and zest that was instantly contagious even in the sub zero temperatures of Ulan Baatar City. She had escorted me to the remotest shops in every market across the length and breadth of the capital of Mongolia. We had visited homes of consumers to see their habitat and understand better the conditions under which they prepared their food and cleaned themselves, their clothes, their vessel's and their homes. Most of the homes were a series of old Soviet barrack style flats, heated by flues from huge central furnaces. The average household consisted of a drawing-dining room, a bedroom, with a tiny toilet and kitchen. Within the ambit of their tiny homes, the Mongolian housewife I quickly learned, was exceptionally house-proud and kept her home all spruced up and meticulously clean.

Mongolia is an enormous country, wedged high in the central Asian plateau, between Russia and China. One can begin to imagine the bleakness of this sub-continental expanse when you see to the north, the vastness of Siberia and to the south the Chinese territory of Inner Mongolia. The country follows the traditional form of Lamaistic Buddhism similar to that in Tibet. The economy is based on animal husbandry and some attempts at industrialisation have been made based on indigenous coal and oil. The largest industry is the smelting of copper in the town of Erdenet. The country is sorely dependent on the foreign exchange earned on the exports of wool, hides, fluorspar and copper.

After three days of intensive work in the city, it was painlessly easy to succumb to her proposal to leave the hustle and bustle of Ulan Baatar to see the Mongolia beyond the lattice of crowded streets and the aging majestic buildings of a bygone era. I jumped at the opportunity, eagerly accepting her proposal with almost ungentlemanly haste. It was an opportunity to visit some part of this vast country that is two third the area of India with a population of just 2.5 million people, an opportunity that I was scarce going to pass up. Early the next morning, we drove west out of the city, past the vast and impressive Sukhbaatr Square, even bigger than Tianamen Square in Beijing, which was built by Japanese prisoners of war. A magnificent statue of the national hero Sukhbaatr dominated the centre of the vast paved square. Further on was the massive power station, its tall chimneys belching bundles of black smoke, into the blue skies over the wide-open countryside. The countryside was scarred intermittently by randomly etched rivulet beds in the mountainsides. Keeping us company along the way were the unending telephone lines strung along wooden beams with lean to supports. It was a surreal scene, an ethereal painters expressionist rendering of a still life portrait.

Ten miles out of Ulan Baatar we encountered a massive Ovoo built at the highest point of the pass before we enter the next big valley. The Ovoo was built up of a pile of rocks, about five-foot high topped off with small twigs and sticks to some of which, were attached yellow and blue ribbons of cloth. The ribbons flapped gaily in the icy winds. This was a large sized Ovoo, well over ten feet tall and the base a circumference of 25 feet. It had grown with time, each succeeding generation of travellers having added their mite to wayside place of worship.

"All travellers'', Anhil told me, "stop to offer prayers here, at the beginning of a long journey. They walk three times clockwise around the Ovoo, adding one more stone to the pile with each circumambulation. They believe that the ribbons and flags are a token of their prayers and that the winds carry their prayers to the Gods on high, for safety, a good journey, health and success."

We walked around the Ovoo three times and I tied at the highest spot on the Ovoo, the pale green ribbons that Anhil remembered to provide for me. At that very moment, the icy wind picked up and my green ribbons fluttered with an added intensity. The reassurance of my prayers having been conveyed to the heavens stayed with me through the day.

Ahead of us lay hour upon hour of unending emptiness with grandeur all of its own. Beyond that visible horizon, to the far north lay the vast open Siberian emptiness. The first hundred miles were a repetition of this grand empty monotony of nature, broken intermittently by three features uniquely Mongolian. Huge herds of cattle, horses, sheep and goats lazily grazing on the scrubby brown rolling downs: An occasional tiny temporary settlements of two or three ger, the typical Mongolian round tented home pitched on a mountainside, fenced in with wooden planks, and the infrequent mounted malkin (shepherd) in his deel ( traditional Mongolian robe) and malgai, a hat with jauntily upturned ear flaps giving him a spatial Star Trek look.

The herds of animals are a delight in their sheer multitude of differences from their cousins that we encounter in warmer climes across the world. The horses are prized for their stamina and load-carrying capacity. Another equally prized attribute in these desolate regions, quite unlike in any other country in the world, is their immense value for their milk, that is called `airag'.

The milk is collected daily, stored in large containers, fermented and stored to last through the long winters. Airag is valued for its taste by the people; by those more hopeful, as a nutritious drink; and by yet others who just will not give up hoping, as an aphrodisiac! It is from such folklore that we have the ancient legend of the Kick of the Mongolian Mare!

The Mongolian cattle too are smaller in frame but look sturdy and strong. They have a rich and healthy coat of hair, stocky forward looking shoulders and short stubby snouts.

The sheep and goats were almost nondescript, although the keen observer cannot help but see a sheen of Cashmere fame in their hair, though this may well be the imagination running riot. And the sheep, well they seem like sheep anywhere in the world, fluffy, unworried, uninterested in all but the act of eating and unhurried and seemingly best suited to the weather and the terrain. All these animals are the wealth of the Mongolians, the people of five animals.

"The fifth was the Camel which abound further south on the fringes of the famous Gobi desert," explained Anhil, "and they all serve to provide vital life support to the population, through milk, meat, skin, wool, hides, cashmere and transportation."

From a distance, the ger appeared to be a small circus tent. In fact, the ger was a white round tent-like home, usually about 20 feet in diameter. The perimeter is built by using stakes at eighteen-inch intervals to a height of five feet. I was privileged that day, to be invited to visit the pastoral family of Chuullen Baatar (Strong Hero).

As I followed him into the ger, the extreme neatness and cleanliness of the interior struck me. The only door to the ger faced south away from the howling winds that tear down from the north.

To the northern side was a large decorated wooden chest. This doubled as their family altar, with an ancient statue of Buddha and six faded brown, ancestral family portraits, stood proudly on this chest.

As we entered the ger, Chuulun Baatar and I moved to the east side of the ger, following ancient mongolian tradition, in order to be under the protection of the sky God Tengir. Anhil moved to the western side of the ger, as women were expected to, under the protection of the Sun God Narhajid. Enkthuya (Forever Light), Chuulun Baatar's wife, ever the attentive hostess was quick to offer us wooden bowls of steaming Mongolian tea. (The fact that two total strangers had ambled into her ger without any form of warning, in no way appeared to perturb her.)

The tea had been plucked off a two-kilo slab that she stored in a wooden box, boiled with airag, the aged, mare's milk and rock salt. That it bore no relationship in taste to any tea I had ever savored in the past, did not detract from it rejuvenating attributes.

We bade farewell to Chuulun Baatar and all his family and made our way further north. In about an hour, we entered a large verdant valley, that fared better than the land all around because of the scattered ring of mountains that provided a modicum of protection from the frenzy of the elements. It was in this valley that we encountered Tushumbaat (Calm Strong), a malkin, which turned out to be yet another exciting experience. Mounted on a sturdy brown charger, with only a hint of a saddle of hard wood, the malkin's job is one that demands skill, patience, and experience in herding vast numbers of different animals across the icy mountains and meadows. Tushumbaat, although small in form, embodied the grace, noble stature, and clearness of eye and radiated the physical strength of the typical Mongolian.

His face wore a perennial smile, but as I learned from Anhil, the Mongolian ability to transform the perennial smile to a perennial scowl is legendary. Our road now climbed higher, past the snow line at some 3000 meters above sea level where the road reached the very top of the high mountain. Large patches of trees now covered the mountainsides.

These were huus, Siberian birches and nars, needle pines bereft of all colour or leaves. The whisper of the wind, now turned into a whistle and then a howling rage as we crested the mountain.

As Anhil and I, paused to enjoy this beauteous site, a gray hare scurried out of the surrounding scrub and into the nearby grove, startled by our sudden intrusion. As we slowly moved down the mountain, like a command performance there hove into view three sturdy Bactrian (two humped) camels bound for the market, carrying enormous loads of hides. These hardy creatures are the epitome of strength, each capable of carrying two hundred and fifty kilograms, going a whole week without water or a whole month without food.

They each provide five kg of wool and five hundred litres of milk each year. If they look down on the rest of the world and us with snooty arrogance, they may be forgiven, for their sheer strength and survival instincts would seem to justify their pride!

As I approached the lead camel to photograph it, Anhil held me back at a safe distance and then let me into a secret.

"The camel may be a picture of poise and propriety,'' she said "but beware of him in the mating season! In January and February, he goes berserk and no man nor animal dares cross his path.'' That was a timely warning and well-heeded.

We reluctantly turned back and made our return journey to Ulan Baatar, over the high mountain, through the valley where we had encountered Tushumbaat, past the ger of Chuulun Baatar and Engthuya, and the meadow of the four animals.

Another stop at the Ovoo was completely in order to thank the Gods for all their multitudes of blessings and for our safe return.

The day was far too short but it had given me an exciting though brief insight into the wonderful people and places of this great "Land of the Blue Skies''. Anhil had opened for me another window. A window on a gracious and warm people, tolerant of hardship, so in harmony with creation, anchored deeply in nature with all its generosity and hardship.

Wondrous open spaces, air so crisp and pure, scenes so magnificent and awe-inspiring. The ancient land of the great Genghis Khan and Sukhbaatar had turned out to be, for me, a truly magnificent and unforgettable experience.

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