In the intimacy of a Mongolian nomadic family

by magali gable (Canada)

Making a local connection Mongolia

“I’m not sure about this anymore” is confessing Max in my right ear, loudly enough to cover the noise of the old car, which has been shaking for the past ten hours on the dirt road. I can feel anxiousness in his voice. I attempt to reassure him with words, unable to move as my left arm is stuck by a giant cake box that the driver is bringing back to his wife, the right arm is blocked by 3kg of dry wood belonging to the front passenger and my legs are positioned from either side of the suitcase of the teenager seated on my left. “I’m very excited about this volunteering in Gurvanbulag, I’m sure it will be full of surprises!”. As he remains silent while the drunken front passenger is trying for the tenth time to engage conversation with me despite my inability to speak Mongol, I’m also starting to doubt this 10 days commitment. I wanted to experience Central Mongolia and support a nomadic family in the most work-intense month of April. The old couple’s daughter Sediwa told us in a broken English “they will be delighted to have you help them with the cashmere and taking care of the baby goats and sheeps. I hope you are not vegetarian because we eat a lot of meat, you need strength to endure the working conditions”. Entering the ger, the Mongolian yurt with my right foot, without stepping on the threshold as per the traditions, our first encounter with Youna and Lazo followed the sacred rules of Mongol hospitality. Holding with both hands the copper bowl containing the salted tea, we take a candy in the box put forward by Youna. Without really understanding, we also nod for agreement to Lazo who is gesturing towards what seems like a piece of meat in a basin. He is actually offering us a most valuable delicacy, a sheep’s dried tail. Soon enough two pieces of thick sheep fat float in my salted tea. It’s barely 8am. There is no time to rest, we rapidly exit the small and confined space of our new home to assist Youna with “allocating” the kids and lambs to their mums as they are separated for the night: one black kid gesticulating under my right armpit, I’m trying to understand where is Youna pointing to while she mimes a scar on the forehead. Wandering helpless amongst the white, brown and black goats, I’m saved by the mum herself, a white goat claiming her kid. Turning to Youna, she confirms, thumbs up, that it’s the right mum. Repeating the exercise 15 times, the clamor of hungry kids lowers slightly. Still 55 of them to feed though... Youna coughs for the fifth time, the dust is everywhere. It infiltrates our eyes, nose, hair and inside our clothes, pushed by the strong wind coming from the steppes. It’s the women’s duty to care for the sheeps and goats. Once kids and lambs are satiated, we come back inside the ger around 11am. When Tibo asks to throw his candy paper in the fire Youna is starting with the dry cow shits, she frowns. The fire is sacred, it represents life for a nomadic family: it’s warmth, food, and hosts the ancestors’ spirit altogether. Youna put her arm on the side of the two central pillars supporting the ger either side of the stove. “Ok” She put her arm in the middle “no no”. She gestures to mime that she misses her daughters, gone to live Ulaanbataar, like most of the young generation who left the steppes to study, abandoning their ancestors’ nomadic life. Almost with affection, she shows me how to prepare the tsuivan, “Mongolian pizza” she says laughing. She flattens a third of the dough, sprinkle oil on it then fold it. While the carrots, potatoes and sheep meat are cooking, she grabs my hair to comb them. “Mama mongolia” she declares with a smile, pointing at her chest. As we are falling asleep after this intense first day next to Youna’s bed in this little winter ger, Max whispers in my ear: “Definitely this volunteering in a Mongolian Nomadic family was a good idea”.