The Stranger from Solongos

by Jeeseon Hwang (Korea South)

Making a local connection Mongolia

I yank sharply at the frayed rope, my arms trembling with the effort. The horse pays me no heed, neck bent forward and ears flat against her head as our shadows fly across the grass. Her unshod hooves pound out a wild rhythm. My thighs burn with the effort of holding on as the wind whips my hair out of its braid. My muscles lock up in panic and I let go of my dignity as I yell, “Help!” I see a flash of brown out of the corner of my eye. Enkhbold gallops calmly past on his horse, passing me easily. He cuts in front of me, forcing my horse to slow to a walk. “Are you okay?” He asks in Korean, the foreign syllables rolling awkwardly off his tongue. He squints at me in concern, crinkles forming in the corners of his eyes. I nod, my mouth dry. He takes my horse’s reins and pulls us into line behind him. His hands, like the rest of him, are tanned and weathered from years of sun and wind. I stare at my hands, the soft white skin contrasting sharply with the burns from the rope. When we arrive at the camp, icy rain begins to fall, turning the ground to mud beneath my feet and obscuring my view of the Mongolian grasslands. We step into the ger, where the warmth and heat envelop me and the savory smell of khorkhog wafts past my nose. We sit in a circle as we pass around a metal cup filled with airag. The pungent smell of the fermented horse milk is unfamiliar, but I take a sip. The taste stays in my mouth, sour and out of place. “A toast from Hwang’s daughter,” one Mongolian calls out. I clear my throat nervously. “Thank you for having me. My father would have loved to be here, but as you know he was injured and couldn’t make it.” Everyone nods, some looking at me with sympathy. I want to hide. Although all of them are kind, it is not me that they were waiting for. Everything, from the horses to the traditional Mongolian dishes to the temporary bathhouse had been prepared for my father. We meant to come together. When he said that I go with him, I was over the moon with excitement. I could already imagine the rolling green hills and the icy white stars against a velvet night sky. We started to take horseback riding lessons weeks in advance and all was going well until my father fell, shattering his rib and his collarbone. And so I find myself listening to the camaraderie of old friends and trying to belong here, to this place. We ride for hours again the next day. I still can’t believe that I can see so far off into the distance. The only things that interrupt my view of the horizon are small dots that are either horses or sheep. My father’s friends ask me eager questions about Korea. I wonder what they would think if they saw its high-rise apartment buildings blocking out the sky. I wonder what they think of me, a city girl who has come in their friend’s place. Mongolian horses can tell when their rider is inexperienced. When my horse suddenly kneels in the grass and refuses to carry me any further, it is Enkhbold who comes back and pulls my horse back to her feet. I duck my head in frustration. Unbidden anger courses out of me as I can’t help but think that his kindness comes from obligation to my father and pity for me. “Why are all of you so kind to me? I don’t belong here. I am not like my father. And Korea is nothing like this place. You wouldn’t like it.” Enkhbold blinks. “You are our daughter. Hwang is like a brother to all of us.” The words are not delivered with particular grace or kindness. He simply speaks as if it is inconceivable that I should think otherwise. Enkhbold continues. “You are from Solongos. It means rainbow, and it is your country.” The name of my country in his language sounds beautiful.