My door to China was, very basic conversational Mandarin, a need by foreign enterprise for persons with essential management skills, and a wild hair. These requirements fit like a shoe, as a child I always wanted to have the experience of living a foreign language. There was something about the thought which mesmerized me, even as a child of six I wanted to learn a foreign language. However, unfortunate for me, I was born in America where the only language the majority speaks, or has any direct interest in, is English. Thus I had to wait ten more years before I could begin my life journey with foreign language. This flare led me to be the only student at my high school to attempt French, German, and Spanish all in one load.
Nearly ten years after coming to China, after working for the Shanghai Hilton as Concierge, United Airlines as ticket agent, and for a Corning Inc. joint-venture project my working days in China were numbered. The Chinese workers had begun completing their courses in international management and had started to remove their blue and green suits to put on a white collar and tie. I could feel the need of the situation was gradually moving from foreign wage earners, like myself, to these newly trained local wage earners. The idea of returning to America at the time did not seem right. I had experienced and learned too much, a new language and the basics of dealing in a foreign culture. However, these things are intangible thus would be next to impossible to demonstrate without an “endorsement” of some kind.
Ten plus years in China and a knack for language allowed me the right ingredients to learn Mandarin. With this I was able to pass the State Mandarin Proficiency Exam (HSK) which allowed me to attend university without any further Mandarin training. I decided that my “endorsement” was to be a degree in something pertaining to China, this would allow me to advance in the language and add to the knowledge I had already attained. It would also allow me a whole new perspective on the China which I had come to know. My interests led me toward Minority language and culture and through much consideration, and guidance from one Tibetan friend, I chose to attend Inner Mongolia University in Huhhot. I was to be the first foreign student to receive a degree in Mongolian Language and Literature.
July 1995 was the beginning of a whole new life for me in China, what would come of it I could not say, all I knew was that I must go through with it, and I did. After settling down in Huhhot I began my Mongolian classes at the university. For the first year, my teacher taught me with traditional Mongolian primers which gave me a good base in the traditional written language, it may be interesting to note that there is a substantially large difference between traditional written and spoken Mongolian. During the second year, I began to learn grammar and the rules behind the spoken language. From the beginning, I felt sure that I would be able to learn this language within one to two years, however after the second year I was still feeling as if I had only scratched the surface. I was constantly amazed at the beauty and expressiveness of the language. At times I would find that through learning Mongolian I was relearning my own language, reorganizing my own world view.
Later several people suggested that I take a trip to the grasslands so that I might get a better feel for the language and the culture. In Huhhot the language of the majority is still Mandarin, even for the Mongols, consequently the language environment is not so conducive to speaking Mongolian. I made up my mind to pursue the idea and began making preparations, my plans were to stay for one month. The date was set and I purchased my plane ticket to Xilinghot, the banner seat of Xiling Gool.
After arriving at the Huhhot airport preparing to board the plane I had no expectations but to experience life with a Mongol family on the grasslands of Xiling Gool. In my mind I was trying to imagine what it will be like, of course, to no avail. The plane was a small military prop plane which seated approximately 50 persons, there were maybe eight passengers scattered through out the the plane. After taking off we rumbled over the Da Qing Shan mountain range and on into the small grassland town of Xilinghot.
I was met at the airport by the family of a friend in Huhhot and they immediately took me to have some traditional milk-tea and mutton at a small tea-house in town. The next day I was to be picked up by the people from East Ujemchin where I would be staying, however it started to rain incessantly for a couple days and the dirt roads in and out of the area were impassable. I could do nothing but wait out the rain. On the fifth day the jeep from Ujemchin finally arrived to whisk me off to what was almost seeming to be a “never-never land”.
We drove for a couple hours on the winding asphalt roads out of Xilinghot until finally we came to the end of the asphalt. One look at the rain damaged dirt roads and I could see we were in for a bumpy ride. The jeep strided its way through it all as we passed several camels losing their winter coats, and a few white Mongol Ger (yurts) off in the distance against the budding green grassland hills of spring. The curiosity and excitement made me feel like I was I kid again, off to my first day at school. This was going to be a much different kind of education than I had ever imagined and one that I would never forget.
After nearly a three hour ride night was upon us as we arrived at a stretch of asphalt, this was the main street to the small town of Uliastai. I spent one night at the home of my ride, who was also the person who made all of the arrangements for my stay.
The next morning after milk-tea, Mongolian cheese and fried bread we climbed in the jeep and headed off in the direction of my grassland home to be. Leaving behind the asphalt again we drove along a hill road for nearly an hour when we came to a small village situated next to a natural lake of salt called “Mother Lake”. I was already familiar with “Mother Lake” from my Mongolian primers. The story was strong in my mind as we drove into the village.
“Mother Lake” was the lifeblood of many Mongols in days gone by, it was the only source of salt which is a vital ingredient in Mongol milk-tea. People would arrive in caravans from all around, sometimes traveling for days on end, just to get the salt they needed. Thus, the lake was named “Mother Lake”. Odes and songs have been sung to her, and even I was to partake in the mystery of her spirit.
We arrived at the local government offices where I was introduced to the local cadres who would accompany me to meet my new family. After a simple lunch we jumped into the jeep and drove off along “Mother Lake”, her snow-like salty white edges almost seemed like a halo. The village behind us was soon out of sight as we drove off into the quiet hills. After about thirty minutes we came to a flat prairie and someone pointed at a terracotta brick home with a windmill up ahead, ” That’s your new home” they said. The house was very simple with only three small windows on the back. The sheep were roaming around one side and cows on the other side. Even the sheep looked up wide eyed in curiosity almost as if to greet our arrival.
We pulled up to the barbed wire gate and a robust man of about thirty came running out of the house to open the gate. He ran heavy in the big seemingly awkward leather boots. As he ran his beautiful turquoise Mongolian robe swayed with the stride just below the top of his boots . The smile on his windblown face gleamed like the salt halo around “Mother Lake”. He motioned the jeep towards the front door of the house, the fading blue wooden door was situated just at the middle of the house with a window at either side peering from the rooms on the east and west sides.
By now the two family dogs, later to be known by me as “Pooch” and “Pup”, had run up to the jeep to make sure we were friendly visitors. I got my duffel bag and we all went inside the house. Just inside was a small entry room with nothing more than a large steel covered water barrel filled with water, and a face basin on the right. We were led in to the west room, this was the only room in the house with a “kang”, a brick build-up about three feet high which covered almost half of the room, the surface was covered with a large carpet. All of the men got up on the kang sitting cross-legged chatting away in Mongolian.
There was a small square red wooden table with short legs sitting in the middle of the kang. The women brought in bowls filling them with milk-tea and giving one to each visitor, this was when I was given my green porcelain bowl which I would be using for my whole visit. Boiled mutton and other various snacks were brought out in honor of the guests. A woman of about twenty-eight slipped several knives into the bowl holding the meat. Everyone was drinking and eating and chatting. I just sat and took it all in trying to figure out how I should act. One man reached over and picked a large bone with meat on it took a knife and began to whittle the meat off the bone, the direction of the knife always toward himself. He put the knife up to his mouth, a slice of meat trapped between his thumb and the knife were soon in his mouth as he continued to whittle of another slice still keeping up with the conversation. This went on for a few hours until the official audience was ready to head back. They all said their farewells, climbed back into the jeep and I found myself standing together with my gracious hosts waving good-bye to the jeep as it drove away. I looked around and realized that I was in the middle of a world I had no concept of. Beyond the barbed wire was nothing but grassy hills and a path left by the jeeps which come and go. The sun was beginning to set and the sheep and goats were noisily making their way back into the barbed wire compound preparing to settle in for another nights rest.
The mother of the family was in her early 50’s, I called her Aunty. Her husband had passed away several years ago leaving her with five sons. Aunty was a very beautiful woman with a face that glowed like the stars in a clear sky. The man who met us at the gate was her third son, Humjilt, he was the one who, along with his wife Delger, was in charge of the house. Humjilt and Delger had a six month old baby son named Sumber, he was named after a mythical mountain.
After a good nights sleep on the kang, I was awakened by the newness of the day, baby Sumber, and the sheep and goats outside making a morning ruckus. The sun had only just begun to show its colors when my new world had come to life. Humjilt had begun to move all the sheep out to the open areas outside the barbed wire. He just walked behind them slowly motioning them forward as they moved on like a crowed on the streets of Shanghai. He had picked up a couple baby goats and put them into a small enclosure, the mothers were not to keen about the idea but they were hungery and knew that the food was outside the enclosure. Later I came to know that the young are kept around because they cannot keep up with the adults. Between the mother goat and Deleger with a bottle all the kidds and lambs got three square meals. I became fond of the little kidds and even got butt a few times by the mothers for picking them up.
Once the sheep and goats were put out it was time to milk the cows. All of the calves were kept in an enclosure until it was time for milking. One at a time the calves were let out of the enclosure and they would make a bee line for their mothers teats. After they had gotten their fill they would be tied up to a post and Aunty and Deleger would begin the milking. Pooch and Pup were always around making sure that everything was under control.
After a few days had passed everyone was getting used to the fact that they had an American living in the house, in fact, they even started acting as if I was one of them. I was happy to help with the chores as I could. I took over managing the water barrel and whenever it was getting low I would make the necessary trips to the well to keep it full. I would also try to keep the “argal” box full throughout the day, argal is wind-dried cow patties which Mongols use as fuel for cooking and heat. When the box in the house was getting low it would be brought in from the large mound build up outside.
Walks were just a step outside the barbed wire fence. I would walk for what seemed hours on end, the scenery was so beautiful and it was easy to escape the world of mankind. I would often find a quiet place to sit down and just contemplate the world around me, birds flying to and fro, a herd of sheep became a patch of white off in the distance. Looking around in all directions gave the feeling that the sky was a huge blue bowl cupped over me where the sky and the land were interconnected with nothing in between.
One day, as I was walking, I saw a Mongol ger in the near distance and decided to go visit. I had heard many stories from my teachers about how the owner of a ger would leave everything open and available when he was not home and how any passerby could enter the ger, eat what he please, and rest; then depart leaving everything just as he had found it. However, they would add, it is no longer like that because of the outsiders, the Han Chinese, who have come into the area do not respect these Mongol habits and traditions.
Today, when people go away from their home they lock the doors just like everywhere else.
As I approached the ger a dog began barking out his warning to me. Everyone in these parts knows that a dog is there to protect the home and if you get too close they will attack. I decided to push my luck and kept on in the direction toward the ger. Off to the west I could see a man on horseback with his sheep. He was also alerted by the dog and began to ride in my direction as I approached his ger. He rode up to me and I greeted him, he was quite surprised to see that I was a foreigner and he was very friendly to me. He first warned me about his dog and then led me into the ger using his lasso stick to keep the dog off. The man’s name was Baatar, which means “hero” in Mongolian.
He led me into the ger form the door, which was facing south. Baatar’s family was inside; his mother was kneeling on the ground making yarn from clumps of camel hair with a small needle like tool. His wife was preparing lunch; noodles with mutton, and his two children, one boy and one girl, were mesmerized by the foreigner. Baatar put his hat on as a sign of respect to me, sat down on the floor, and leaned back on one arm.
Whenever I would go out I would always carry some small gift with me just in case I happened onto a situation where it could be given away. This time I just happened to have a Mongolian cassette with me and I gave it to him, I looked around and noticed that they did have a player; they did not have any electricity. I asked him if he could play it, he said that the batteries were dead and he would have to wait until the traveling salesman comes around so he can get some new ones. The two kids were enjoying removing the cellophane, opening the box and looking at the cassette all the same. Baatar was one of the few people in that area who still lived in a ger year round. Yet still most people today will set up their ger near to their permanent home during the summer months.
Gers are very comfortable in the heat with natural air conditioning achieved by propping the felt covering up with sticks around the base of the ger.
Before my trip to the grasslands I had purchased a pair of Mongolian riding boots, these boots are black leather boots that are almost knee-high; they almost look like something you would think of Santa Claus as wearing. Having boots was the easy part, but getting my hands on some traditional Mongolian “stockings” was the hard part. These stockings are hand embroidered with a good two to three inches of handiwork showing outside the top of the boot. I had noticed Baatar’s stockings, which had impressed me as being quite beautiful. I reluctantly asked him if we could make a trade and offered him my quality cowhide Western style belt. I took the belt off and gave it to him to look at. He looked it over and asked where it was made, while he tugged at both ends checking the quality of the leather. I told him it was made in America and he smiled. He accepted my trade offer and I walked away with a beautiful pair of Mongolian stockings.
Several years later, I had the opportunity to return to the home of Baatar, he was surprised to see me. As we exchanged our greetings he proudly pulled his shirt up to reveal a belt that looked so familiar and still in good condition.
