30 August
We drove to from Tes to Bayantes ("rich tes") soum. The garden here is by the river, 15 kilometres from the soum centre. We are sleeping out here tonight. After wandering through the two hectare garden (one hectare potatoes, the other mixed vegetables) we were served a meal (it is 4:30pm so I am not sure if it is a late lunch or an early dinner). A storm blew up while we were eating. We were sitting in a marquee the cooperative members put up for our accommodation. The wind blew it down while we were racing to move food and furniture into the ger. So now we are sitting in the ger, steaming a bit as the stove is going to heat milk for milk tea. The storm has passed over and everyone is crunching on hard toffee sweets while we interview cooperative members. This cooperative has 45 families as members. Four families at a time camp next to the garden in 20 day shifts over summer.
Our ADRA driver has an interest in photography, so I let him loose with my camera while I am in the meeting. He has a good eye for light and composition (he took the photos above and below). He would love a camera like mine, but it is out of his league in terms of income. When the tent collapsed on us my camera was in the corner and he dived in to get it (I was carrying bowls of potato and beetroot salad).
It just struck me that I am almost completely unfindable at the moment. I am in a ger, by a river, in a northern part of Zavkhan province, close to the Russian border. I say almost unfindable, as this morning in the soum centre I received a text message from my mother in Australia. She doesn't know I am traveling. It felt very strange to be in such a remote place yet still have contact from Australia. In a travel book I am reading (Along the Silk Road) the author writes how traveling in remote places can feel like a complete disconnection from past relationships and responsibility. The only focus is understanding the new surroundings and finding your way to the next destination. My work travel sometimes feels like that, a complete change from everyday routine that I usually keep busy with.
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I am now writing by the light of a big bonfire by the riverside. We are all sitting on logs or standing at least five metres away. The sparks are flying so high that three neighbouring herders crossed the river on their horses to see if everything was alright (or in the hope of a wild party). The horses are big shadows looming quietly at the back of the group, I nearly walked into one in the dark coming down from the camp. I think a big fire like this is unusual in most of Mongolia, as timber is precious, but the garden here is on the edge of a forest so I guess they wanted to put on a show for us. The timber is dry, so the fire is hissing wildly.
The singing starts, all Mongolian's love to sing. The group divides into locals and ADRA staff, with each group having to take turns performing songs. The ADRA staff need some practice! I manage to escape a solo performance, but the two Germans have to perform. They end up singing about a "special tree" - (to the tune of "Oh Christmas Tree"!). Much of traditional Mongolian music evokes the rise and fall of the hills and mountains, the epic spaces, the blue sky. Later us three foreigners talk about how we have lost the culture of folk songs in our countries, and how lovely it is to hear all the Mongolian's sing familiar songs together. We have the familiar toasted faces and frosty backs. After the singing some people are chatting, others just watch the flames.
