Gobi Desert
Mongolian Homestay
"Horsey!"
Tuvshihbat was leaning towards me, the one English word he knew especially incongruous coming from his heavy Mongolian face. In his hand was a camera which showed him standing proud in thick snow, resplendent in a traditional Mongolian deel. He was next to his 'horsey', outside the house we'd been beckoned into.
It's a common refrain that travel reveals the kindness of people; one corollary we'd discovered is that sometimes it pays to look more vulnerable than you actually are.
Day four had been a hard slog. We'd rolled onto sealed road only a few kilometres in, kissed its smooth touch, but it wasn't long before other challenges arose. Much of the day had been spent trudging up the sort of constant, grinding incline that seems to stare you down. There was a headwind too. Even with cold weather gear and fulltime sun we were regularly scrambling down to stamp our feet and rub our hands in the dead air beside the raised road. It was a long day and I was learning windchill. I found my thoughts turning to good company, homemade pizzas and warm scotch. Still, when we started scoping for a good spot to place our tent late that afternoon, we were more out of our comfort zone than out of our depth.
When we saw a cluster of houses by the tracks our thoughts both went to the same place:
"Let's pitch our tent outside and look pathetic enough that someone'll invite us in."
"Yeah."
Tuvshihbat was our someone. He was in his late thirties or early forties, with a fu manchu moustache and a solemn expression that hid his generosity.
He took one look at our tent and grunted a dismissal. He didn't know it was double-walled, rated for four seasons and generally as slick as they come. He probably wouldn't have cared if he did.
With no English, he directed us into his subdivided house, turned the TV to English-language news and returned a half hour later with his wife, his infant son, Chinggis (the Mongolian spelling of Gengis), his nephew and his nephew's partner.
Mongolian hospitality is as subtle as Chinggis' namesake. We were toasted with four shots of 50% spirits and immediately afterwards served a huge cookpot of leftover tsuvian, cold chunks of mutton and fat spread through noodles and washed down with neverending bowls of salty tea. Try that after you've already eaten on a day when you've drunk maybe two-and-a-half litres of water.
Numb-lipped, queasy-full and supremely happy, we spent the next few hours explaining our trip, wresting, arm-wrestling, nursing Chinggis and being shown Tuvshihbat's photos, horsey and all. Somehow Tuvshihbat’s wife managed to find enough time between feeding us to repair Dheiu's split snow pants.
When it came time to sleep they lay their choice mats down for us in the carpeted lounge/sleeping room and themselves slept in the small kitchen. 700-rated goose down and four-season tents couldn't match that.
"Horsey!"
Tuvshihbat was leaning towards me, the one English word he knew especially incongruous coming from his heavy Mongolian face. In his hand was a camera which showed him standing proud in thick snow, resplendent in a traditional Mongolian deel. He was next to his 'horsey', outside the house we'd been beckoned into.
It's a common refrain that travel reveals the kindness of people; one corollary we'd discovered is that sometimes it pays to look more vulnerable than you actually are.
Day four had been a hard slog. We'd rolled onto sealed road only a few kilometres in, kissed its smooth touch, but it wasn't long before other challenges arose. Much of the day had been spent trudging up the sort of constant, grinding incline that seems to stare you down. There was a headwind too. Even with cold weather gear and fulltime sun we were regularly scrambling down to stamp our feet and rub our hands in the dead air beside the raised road. It was a long day and I was learning windchill. I found my thoughts turning to good company, homemade pizzas and warm scotch. Still, when we started scoping for a good spot to place our tent late that afternoon, we were more out of our comfort zone than out of our depth.
When we saw a cluster of houses by the tracks our thoughts both went to the same place:
"Let's pitch our tent outside and look pathetic enough that someone'll invite us in."
"Yeah."
Tuvshihbat was our someone. He was in his late thirties or early forties, with a fu manchu moustache and a solemn expression that hid his generosity.
He took one look at our tent and grunted a dismissal. He didn't know it was double-walled, rated for four seasons and generally as slick as they come. He probably wouldn't have cared if he did.
With no English, he directed us into his subdivided house, turned the TV to English-language news and returned a half hour later with his wife, his infant son, Chinggis (the Mongolian spelling of Gengis), his nephew and his nephew's partner.
Mongolian hospitality is as subtle as Chinggis' namesake. We were toasted with four shots of 50% spirits and immediately afterwards served a huge cookpot of leftover tsuvian, cold chunks of mutton and fat spread through noodles and washed down with neverending bowls of salty tea. Try that after you've already eaten on a day when you've drunk maybe two-and-a-half litres of water.
Numb-lipped, queasy-full and supremely happy, we spent the next few hours explaining our trip, wresting, arm-wrestling, nursing Chinggis and being shown Tuvshihbat's photos, horsey and all. Somehow Tuvshihbat’s wife managed to find enough time between feeding us to repair Dheiu's split snow pants.
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