MONGOLIAN HOSPITALITY

After bouncing and churning over miles of unbelievably rough terrain, we come to a stop near a group of three gers. There is a small corral, some cattle and assorted goats, a wolfish dog, and four saddled Mongol ponies. We climb out of the vans, and learn that we have been invited to the home of a Mongol family.

Our host is the man who was driving the jeep. He is handsome, his features a bit more finely-cut than most Mongols, and he sports an American-style crewcut. He's wearing a white shirt which is cut almost like our Western cowboy shirts, black pants and of course, riding boots. He is trim, muscular and very fit. A broad smile seems to be a permanent fixture on his face, and his whole demeanor conveys a genial welcome.

We are led, almost pulled, into the main ger and urged to be seated. The ger is surprisingly roomy, and easily accommodates about twelve of us, plus the man and his family.

Our hostess has prepared a spread of traditional Mongol food, and has obviously gone to a great deal of effort, and probably significant expense. There is a wide array of little tidbit foods, and a platter of roasted mutton, with some boiled potatoes alongside. We are encouraged to serve ourselves, and since there are no serving utensils to be seen, we find that fingers work very well. The mutton is tough and stringy, but tasty, and I enjoy a few bites. The potatoes are, well, boiled potatoes!

There are some small things which look like cookies, but which prove to be very hard and have almost no taste. The hostess indicates that we are to dip them into a creamy-looking concoction, which to our surprise is delicious. It tastes like sweetened, buttery cream, and the combination with the hard little cookies is really very good. There is a large platter of the slices of dried milk curd, which seems to be a staple of the diet around here. We have been given several plates of it as gifts, brought in by the locals and presented to us with pride. We have tried to eat it, but it's not easy. One could easily break a tooth, and the stuff is truly not worth the loss! Still, out of respect for our hostess, we each take a piece and gnaw on it a bit. I slip mine into my pocket when no one's looking.

There is a plate of sliced cheese, which looks delicious, but which proves to be hard, dry and leathery, with no taste and is almost inedible. It seems that almost everything they make from milk is hard and dry, and I think I know why. With little or no refrigeration available, at least in the summer, anything that wasn't completely dessicated would mold or otherwise spoil. In the winter, they just sit things outside and have instant refrigeration, but in the summer that doesn't work. So, they have developed a process for drying everything, which keeps it very well. I'm not sure how they do it, but I suspect it's a method that has existed for centuries. These people keep traditions!

Then comes the moment we have all heard about, and have been dreading. The hostess brings out a lovely blue and white china tureen, beautifully painted, and a ladle. She begins to fill bowls with a frothy white liquid. I can smell it from where I sit, several feet away. The bowls hold about a pint, and she fills them to the brim. To serve anything less would be considered very rude on her part. The liquid, we know, is "erek" (phonetically spelled). It is made from mare's milk (yes, they milk their horses), which has been fermented for a long, long time. There are small lumps floating in it, and occasionally a vein of clear liquid will appear. She stirs each bowl and begins passing them around. I try to disappear, but can't quite manage it. I receive my bowl and thank her.

The smell is awful, rather like spoiled buttermilk. Now, I like buttermilk very much, but I never drank it if it was spoiled. I can't imagine how hard this would be on someone who doesn't even like buttermilk. Our handsome host is smiling at me, nodding eagerly, obviously anticipating my pleasure in his most cherished offering. I'm trapped. I have no choice. I take a small sip and somehow manage a smile, as the "kick" coursed through my insides.

The taste, surprisingly, wasn't quite as bad as I expected once I got past the smell, but it is definitely not something I'll ever forget, or ever acquire a taste for. It's sour, of course, and has a gamey taste, and of course, that kick. Yep, my very first taste of an alcoholic beverage! I had to come all the way to Mongolia to do it.

The host and hostess continue to urge us on, and I take several more sips, as much as I can muster. Finally, knowing my limit, I put the bowl down on a ledge beside me and try to ignore it. The awful taste is still in my mouth, as another bowl comes my way, passed from one to another. This is a communal bowl, and everyone seems to accept that fact. It contains a clear fluid, like water, but it definitely isn't water. It's Vodka. I know it's Vodka. I have heard that Vodka has no taste, and hoping that it might wash out the taste of the erek, I figure, well, why not? I've come this far. So I take a swallow of the Vodka, and can truthfully say that it tastes worse than the erek! I have thinned paint with something that smelled like the Vodka tastes. I believe you could blow stumps with it. So much for that. Right now, I'd just really love to have a big glass of iced tea.

My host has noticed that I'm not drinking my erek, and points to it and makes drinking motions. I have no choice. A couple more swallows, and mercifully he seems satisfied. I put the bowl down again, and sit quietly, waiting for Genghis Khan's revenge to overtake me.

Soon, our host stands and invites us outside. He indicates that they have saddled the horses, and he would be pleased if some of us would care to ride. Well, of course, I'm there. My friend Karen and I mount up and ride a few hundred yards. The horses seem to have two speeds. Walk, and stop. We can't get them to move any faster than a walk, no matter what we do. Heels drummed on ribs were ignored. I don't know if they were waiting for a Mongolian giddyap, or what, but whatever the magic word was, we didn't know it. Perhaps they knew we crazy Americans would fall off of those weird saddles. That was a possibility, indeed. They leave you feeling very insecure, those saddles. Still, I actually rode a Mongol pony.

We ride back to the ger, dismount and others of our group take our places. Toom Chris is persuaded to try, and quickly finds out that his frame just simply doesn't fit in a Mongol saddle. He notified us that he would be singing with the sopranos in the choir from now on.

We are preparing to leave, and our genial host makes the rounds, giving each person a very firm, gentle handshake. I'm struck by his good looks. He has beautiful white teeth, with a gap between the two front ones, that does not detract at all from his appearance. His face is brown and a bit weathered, but less so than many I've seen. His eyes are bright and direct, and convey a friendly openness that is disarming. His clothes are Mongol, but there's a hint of Western in them as well. And of course, there's that American crewcut! These people are a strange combination of cultures, but the more I'm with them, the more I like them.

We boarded our vans, and bumped and bounced over the open plain, eventually reaching the highway, and headed back to the hotel. It was almost 10pm when we arrived, though just barely getting dark, but dinner was waiting. We had a good meal, and a time of sharing with the teams who are doing humanitarian aid visits in the town. Later, we returned to our rooms, and after a quick shower, I fell into my bed and was asleep almost at once.