What, Me Worry?

CM - So, I thought I’d give a bit more information about one of my recent travels.

I recently flew to Bayanhongor a few weeks ago to see a dairy market. I went by myself into the heart of Mongolia, and the edge of the Gobi (just the other side of the Altai Mountains). I was met at the ramshackle airport by an energetic and all-around good gentleman named Eerka (not his real name, but the shortening of it I could pronounce). I could tell from the get-go that he is energetic just by the magnificence of his hair, which was carefully gelled - perfect and crisp. Surely this must take time. But don’t get the wrong idea about him. He's a down to earth guy with magnificent hair.

So, some sort of Russian military vehicle (presumably one they left behind about 17 years ago) went to the plane to get the luggage, and I waited in a Russian Jeep, with the driver. I could already tell that this driver was bent on hellfire and destruction behind the wheel from my first glance. He wore camo pants, military boots (as far as I can tell – not like I’ve been in the military), and wrap-around sunglasses (which I later borrowed to see a partial solar eclipse). He was ready for action.

I found that my impression was correct. People paid to be drivers in this country earn their money. He bombed across rocks and barren land and (only in the center of town) concrete at unsafe speeds. He did this with a satisfaction that sat deep in the slight grit of his teeth that resembled a smile and his rough accelerator foot.

So, I can’t go on too long about this trip, because there is too much to talk about, but let me tell you a funny (in retrospect) story. I was in Bayanhongor over a holiday (officially soldier’s day – unofficially men’s day). I told the local Mercy Corps staff that I could take care of myself for the day – I planned to climb up a nearby mountain.

To get ready for this feat (hey, it is a feat for a fat-ass like me), I went to the diner in the hotel I was staying in (I could write an entirely new post about the hotel and the wrestling match I was in, but I’ll save that) and ordered eggs and rice. I don’t know how to order much else.

There were a bunch of men drinking vodka at the diner (I later found that some people call the holiday “vodka day”). One man came over and gave me a shot of vodka. The custom, as I understand it, in Mongolia is to accept the first shot of vodka that anyone offers you. Reluctantly, I took the shot, and then ate my food. Soon, the gentlemen invited me over. When I got to their table I found that four of the six men were policemen, with one other being a military man. Apparently (from what we could communicate to each other) he is the guy who gets to shoot down aircraft that shouldn’t be there.

Anyway, we proceeded to drink about three bottles of vodka. I hadn’t planned on this, but different people kept offering me shots, and I couldn’t say no to just one of them, so I drank about 10 shots of vodka.

I thought about just going back to bed at this point, but NO. I had told myself I would climb up that Mountain before I left, and was damned well going to do it. Drunk or not. Keep in mind this was not K2 we’re talking about here, but for a man in my physical condition, it might as well have been.

I stumbled up the large rock, and suppressed my urge to vomit. I decided to take the express route down the mountain – walking/falling/sliding down the steep face of it. This was amusing to the locals, but I didn’t care. I got back to my room a little worse for wear (rather large bruising was taking shape on my buttocks and elbows from the aforementioned falling and sliding – what wasn’t covered by snow was mostly crumbly rock).

The next day, as I was preparing for departure, I noticed my passport was missing. This presented a problem, as I really didn’t want to walk the 600 km home. Gee, where could I have lost it? Hmmm. Maybe on that $&@*! mountain! And so, Eerka and I trudged up the mountain, following my tracks backwards (which means we climbed up the exact steep face that I had climbed/fallen down). We got to the top without finding the passport, but, on our descent, there it was, sitting in on top of the - little blue book that had lost its way. It was pure joy.

…And now I’ll never lose anything ever again…