Simple pleasures can be found anywhere

by Michael DeFrancia (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Mongolia

The five-hour westbound drive from Mongolia's arid flatlands to the verdant rolling hills of the Orkhon Valley had not been for the faint of heart, and despite my high tolerance for car sickness, I mercifully wanted the ride to be finished. The driver of our Russian-made passenger van, Tuugsuu, had coerced us through sand drifts, forded several streams and rivers, and stomped through bogs and any imaginable pile of livestock poop along the way. The van's rough ride, along with Tuugsuu's equally rough out-of-tune singing with the radio, would soon be over, but only if Tuugsuu could find our host family's camp. As we continued to slog our way through the muddy road, the warm hues of the afternoon's golden hour were a welcoming sign that our day's journey was nearly complete. While we trundled along a riverbank, Tuugsuu pulled out the biggest surprise of the trip - a working cell phone. Tuugsuu called our hosts. With no knowledge of Mongolian at all, my best guess as to how the conversation went was to confirm our location and to give our estimated time of arrival. "Do I make a left at the boulder, and then a right at the big pile of shit?...Okay, thanks. We'll be there in 10 minutes." Sure enough, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, we arrived at our host family's campsite. Tuugsuu and my guide, Ebi, introduced me to our hosts, Khongorzul, and his wife Lkhmaa. Like nearly half of today's Mongolian population, they continue to live a nomadic lifestyle and maintain livestock as their primary source of income. We would be staying the night at their family camp, which consisted of three gers, or Mongolian tents, a livestock pen, and a hole in the ground for use as a toilet. As Tuugsuu and Ebi assisted Lkhmaa with preparing an afternoon snack, I took a walk around for a much needed stretch, and came across a small boy playing beside the river. Just like any young boy anywhere else in the world, he was entertained by the simple joy of playing with two toy cars, one a police car and the other a fire truck. The premise of his play was basic enough --make loud sounds, crash cars into each other, repeat--no need for verbal communication. He was too engulfed with making sounds for his toy police car and fire truck to notice my initial presence. I started to make a "weeeoo-weeeoo" sound myself, which startled him for a moment. After he saw that I was interested in playing, he lent me his fire truck. I sat down beside him and started a long "Hooonnnk-hooooonk" horn for the fire truck. That sound made him perplexed and confused, and his face turned to disapproval. He then grabbed the truck from my hands, and began to make his own "weeeoo-weeeoo" sound. My guess was that in his imaginary world, a fire truck never makes a honking sound. Ebi then came over to tell me that our snack was ready. I walked over to a pop-up table, and the boy quickly followed. I sat down with Tuugsuu, Ebi, and Lkhmaa for a snack of cookies and hot milk tea. Lkhmaa, through the help of Ebi's translating, introduced me to the boy who had tagged along. His name was Enkh, 5 years old, and the youngest of her four children. Enkh quickly asked Lkhmaa for some of our cookies, which seemed to be a rare sight in the Mongolian countryside. After I asked Lkhmaa with the universal "Okay?", she approved, and I handed Enkh a couple of cookies. A few bites later, Enkh reached down for his fire truck, rolled it onto the table, and let out a loud "Hoonnnk-Hooonnk" along with a sly smirk. I couldn't help but let out a laugh and approving head nod, then accompanied Enkh in rolling his fire truck back and forth across the table for the next several minutes. The savoring of a sweet snack. The refreshing sip of tea. The warmth of welcoming company. The joy of playing like a kid again. These simple pleasures, found in the middle of nowhere, were a great end to the day.