ARCHIVE: MONGOLIAN NIGHTS: THE HUNT PART I

A Note From The Editor: This story will be presented to you in two parts.  Look for Part II next week.  

HERE AND THERE
MONGOLIAN NIGHTS: THE HUNT
BY DYLAN P. LAURION

      My bed was appealing. I was exhausted. I had spent the day working a herd of cattle in the morning and then, in the bruised twilight, I drove a rearing, racing, band of 75 half-wild horses home.  The cattle, kindly, did most of the work on their own- they seemed to possess a keen sense of when and where they were going. The horses, however, were motivated by their instinct to roam.  And, in Mongolia, on the expansive plains, there is a hell of lot of room to run.
     Some experiences burn themselves into memory, never to be forgotten.  That sound: hooves pounding the earth, that sight: shaking manes, wild eyes, the dust rising, and that feeling: heat radiating from the horse I was riding, pulsating energy of galloping among and within the herd, and then racing to catch those who tried to break away, and pressure of responsibility, knowing that I had been trusted to return several families shared livelihood.  The herd was free during the day, but at night they needed the protection of wooden-railed shelter.  
      After driving the herd of short-legged-horses into the corral of my host-father's family, I joined my Mongolian host-mother, her four year old daughter, and husband for dinner. Tumar, my host father, and I scraped the bottom of our boots on the threshold, washed our hands with cold water in a dented metal washbasin framed by a small wooden cabinet hung to the left of the door, and waited while the evening meal finished cooking.
       Darkness brought the cold and a quick flash of snow. The stove, fueled by wood I had chopped in the morning, had been continuously stoked since mid-day. The one room cabin glowed with electrical lighting, the power was generated by a solar panel mounted on the roof.  The luxury of electrical lighting at night was helpful, but what often appeared to be of greater significance was the ability to watch television, particularly Russian soap operas and action films that would fetch C or D ratings of quality upon the American cinematic scale.  This was often our entertainment at night, when we did not play cards and drink vodka.
     During dinner, while eating a robust stew of cleaved meat, root vegetables, hand-made noodles, and accompanied by milk tea, I attempted blurbs of Mongolian.  My hope was to nurture some kind of connection between my host parents and I.  Whatever words were not spoken, the effort was appreciated. 
     Language is a funny thing.  When fluent, countless words are spoken. They roll from within a person and coat the air. In the absence of words, people learn that the world can be narrowed and bridges of connection can be built with gestures, facial expressions, and the non verbal communication often ignored, unrealized, and underrated. For four people virtually incapable of speaking with one another, we laughed, we worked together, and we formed a bond that was touching and familial. By the time I left them, they trusted me with their child, their livelihood, and their home. And, in that world, the land of the Mongolian nomad, there is little more important than that.
     Khuko, her small form curled on my narrow bed, a box of crayons I had brought for her spilled in front of her, had already fallen asleep when the rumble of an engine was heard and bright headlights illuminated the ground between the front door and the thin-slat fence encirclin the cabin.
       Visitors were not uncommon. I had seen many arrive at the door, welcomed in with the Mongolian's longstanding tradition of always receiving guests, even strangers, whenever they arrived. Many of the people who visited while I lived there had made a special trip to see me, the white-man. In my case, I was the hairy white man, whose arm hair and beard prompted laughter and calls of, “Chon,” which means wolf in the beautifully guttural language.
     I was writing in my journal when the door opened. The visitors were different than before. Two men, one tall and one short, both stout and smiling broadly, walked in behind a rush of cold air. Tumar immediately moved from the table to greet them. His hand gripped theirs. They slapped him on the back. My host-mother smiled, wiped her hands on a gray, often used towel that had been draped on the edge of the narrow wooden table- painted blue.
     Words were uttered. Hands pointed out beyond the walls and windows of the cabin. Tumar nodded. I watched, my pen still held in my hand. Tumar moved past me and to the back corner, where, at the foot of my small bed, he kept several rifles. He pulled out a large, hand-held spot light.  And then, I knew, what the two visitors were about. They were on a hunt, going after whatever they could see in the consuming darkness present beyond the arch of their headlights. Adventurous inklings began to rumble in my stomach. Adrenaline of an impending thrill was starting to flood my veins. I was working quickly to improvise a way to get an invitation. My opportunity arrived when the door opened next and one of my language teachers walked in.
     Ganbagana seemed to exist in a constant state of mirth.  He was always willing and even pleased to help whenever he could. He was just past thirty when I knew him. He had aspirations of law school, but had yet to climb into the halls of the legal eagles that existed in Ulaanbaatar. I liked him. He was a good guy. And, when he came into the cabin, I knew I had a chance. He, unlike myself, could properly explain my intentions. He spoke quickly with my host-parents and the hunters. Ganbagana turned and faced me, his smooth, round cheeks were framed by a hat lined with fur. The jovial expression I was accustomed to was gone. His eyes and the ensuing words that left his mouth were serious.   
     “If you come, you can not tell anyone.”
     “I won't,” I promised. My oath, too, was serious.
      Ganbagna said nothing. I repeated, “I won't say anything. You have my word.”
     He nodded his head.
      My host-mother instructed me to lift my arms with a look and a motion of her own strong, muscular arms. She then carried my dell, a long robe of heavy fabric that is the traditional garb of the plains people, from the foot of my bed and slipped it over my arms, wrapped it around my body. After she had fastened the folds in place: small wooden toggles slipped through loop holes, I cinched my belt around around my waist. Into the bib of my dell- where Mongolian men often keep items they use regularly: cigarettes, binoculars, gloves, a little bottle of vodka, snuff to be snorted, and other assorted items- I slipped my headlamp, buck-knife, and binoculars. Gloves were pulled onto my hands, hat was pulled tight over my head, and a scarf was wrapped around my neck. It was a fucking cold winter night that March and I didn't know how long the hunt would last.
       Climbing into the old soviet jeep, a popular genre of vehicle because of its interchangeable parts allowing for quick, impromptu repairs, I squeezed my body next to three other men, including Ganbagana. We shared a narrow seat and a boy, perhaps ten or twelve, climbed onto my lap. Between the back seat and the front was a stack of rifles, of varying caliber, standing butt upon the floor. The driver shifted, the gears clanked and groaned, and we rumbled away from the cabin.
        There was a lot talking, jibber-jabber, bouncing around the cramped ride. Most of the words were unrecognizable to my untrained ears. But, I did not mind. There was plenty to think about.
        After a while, I tried speaking to Ganbagana, but he was pressed against the opposite side of the jeep and the engine was loud. Shouting, he explained, “We're hunting wolves.”
        His voice was once again even, laced with excitement, no longer coated with thick nervousness while he contemplated my involvement in the night's activities. I had worked his defenses well, but the deciding vote was cast because, over a short period of time, he knew he could trust me. His adamant and declarative statement that, “No one can know about this,” bore a heavy truth: I was protecting his job by maintaining my discretionary silence.  I also know, and I assumed he did too, that I would be equally fucked if higher authorities discovered our excursion.
        There were strict policies forbidding involvement with fire arms. But, I was there in Mongolia to experience the heart of the culture and to gain an understanding of the people.  It seemed irresponsible, to me, to not participate.  I am glad that I never had to test that particular trial defense.  I couldn't imagine passing up the opportunity to join the men on their hunt.   The rules be damned. I accepted the risks and I never reconsidered as we jostled along the landscape.
     Not long after leaving the cabin, the driver turned onto a slightly worn path of tire tracks. The grasses were still short and not yet green after months of snow, ice, and wind. And so, even in the daylight, with keen eyes, the path would hardly be distinguishable from among the landscape of faded colors. 
     The chatter continued. I had officially resigned myself to the role of observer. I didn't feel the need to speak, my words would offer little improvement to the moment. What I can recall, that is significant, is the ratcheted sense of being alive and thrilled: high voltage. There have been few moments that compare to those days, days that seem like a life time ago, when I existed with the nomads.
     Quick shifts in people's energy are particularly noticeable in small spaces. When the chatter stopped, cut off abruptly, the humor and mirth evaporated and a mood of grim seriousness enveloped the jeep.
     “What is it?” I asked Ganbagana, finally able to speak in a normal voice.
     Before he could explain, a single headlight was seen cresting the small hill behind us. The driver of the jeep, in two quick motions, jerked the steering wheel and turned off the headlights. We careened off the path and barreled down a series of hills. My heart beat quicker. Events were becoming precarious: damned interesting.
      I asked again, “What is it?”
      Ganbagana had not heard me the first time, he was distracted by his own thoughts, but this time he replied, “Ranger.”
      One word. One word represented an entity that had silenced an entire vehicle and made all of our minds sift through the possibilities. Most of them were not good.
     While I considered the implications of Ganbagana's revelation, I began to piece together the available facts. And then, in a flash of thought that should have been realized sooner, I knew we were not on a sanctioned hunt.  What we were doing was not legal.  We were poaching. Shit-A-God-Damn.
        Ask the nomads who live and have grown up on the same land that their ancestors had if they are poaching and many of them will say, clearly, definitively, obstinately, honestly, “No.” They are hunting for food and for ritual.  They hunt as a practice of honor important to their culture.  They are hunting as they have always hunted. Many of them will not stop because of a governmental declaration and an official’s label applied to a region- declaring it a hunting free zone- in the interest of environmental protection and wildlife management.  A tremendous amount of education and cooperative work is required to integrate such policies.1 They were nomads. They were hunters. They were riders. They were people of the plains. But, there are still consequences and I was acutely aware of those.
     The ranger, if he caught up with us, I hoped would be a family member of one of the men. It was my hope, but I would not envy his conflicting roles of a man bonded by oath and bonded by blood. Selfishly, I hoped for blood trumping his role as enforcer. Bruce Springsteen's song outlining a similar conflict of relationships came to mind as the jeep rolled to a stop. But, the song was quickly interrupted by another shift in spoken tone.
     “What is happening now?” I asked.
     “The engine isn't working.” Ganbagna replied. For the second time that night, I recognized an expression of sincere concern. There was little room for humor in that jeep of building consequence.
      Everyone climbed out of the stalled vehicle. The night air had gotten even colder. The wind was low, which helped, but it was the kind of cold that freezes nose and facial hair and seems to amplify the slightest sound.
      The broken jeep and our group of six were stranded in a wide clearing bordered by trees- a bad place to be when on the lamb. The ground crunched under our boots, the snow that had fallen was no longer soft, but hard and crusty. The Mongolian men were huddled around the front of jeep, the hood lifted. Bursts of of words rumbled from mouths and hands worked in the guts of the vehicle. I watched as mechanical parts were removed and discarded on the ground. Several voices began to speak at once and one man knelt down and half of his body disappeared under the dashboard. When he stood up, he held a fistful of wires.
       “What's broken?”
       “I don't know. This is why Soviet jeeps are good. Parts are switchable,” Ganbagana explained.
       “Great,” I said smiling. I couldn't help it. I thrive on excitement, even if that excitement is dire. And, I've always felt that being able to smile when the proverbial shit is hitting the fan is a skill not to be scoffed at. Go down with a grin and flash of teeth, I thought.
        Ganbagna shifted his feet in the snow, he was rubbing his hands together in front of him- I was not sure if it was from the cold or nerves.
        “It will be OK.” I said, hoping to reassure him.
        He chuckled. What else was there to do?
        One of the mechanical surgeons walked over to us and muttered quickly to Ganbagna.
        “He says you should go stand over there and watch.”
       “OK.”
        I walked to my post. There was no need to ask for what I was searching.
        The moon, not yet full, was large and beautiful. It was a stunning scene, fit for film. I wished that I had a camera better equipped for such a moment- I was still a couple of years removed from my first digital camera: a tough concession.
        What was beautiful and even, under different circumstances, serene was not a friend at that moment. I would have preferred a heavy rain and darkness, making the prowling eyes of the ranger obscured and distorted.
​        I stood, a solitary figure, a long shadow on the snow, waiting and watching. My parents read to my brother and I, every winter, a book called Owl Moon. It was about a father who takes his daughter into the woods to look for great horned owls. They walk quietly, their breath caught in the cold air. And they waited and they listened. I waited and listened, but unlike the father and daughter, I did not want to hear the sound my ears were searching for.
        The engine turned over once, sputtered, turned over again and a steady roar followed. They had fixed it. Somehow, some pairing of mis-matched wires, had brought our getaway car back to life. I turned around and saw Ganbagna waving me back. I ran.
(TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK.  THANKS FOR READING.  BE SURE TO COME BACK TO SEE HOW IT ALL ENDS.)
1The events of this article took place in March of 2007. The views and information portrayed in the piece reflects that time.