A Mongolian Lament: Excerpt Chapter 1

Chapter 1: There is Nothing on the Land

Mongolian Proverb: Good fortune may forebode bad luck, which may, in turn, disguise good fortune.

When does nothing become something? When does the middle of nowhere become somewhere? If ever the middle of nowhere had a physical location, it was Ulaanbaatar.

‘The snow is early this year,’ said Temulbaatar Bagabandi. As he said, a punctured tire forced their vehicle off the road. The driver and Temulbaatar raised their sheepskin collars and deftly attended to the situation as if it were a regular occurrence. Neither emitted a grunt, a groan, a sigh, or any sign of complaint.

Jorja Himmermann remained in the car. A dead pigeon lay on the cement pathway in a pool of melting snow. It was flat on its back, and flakes of wispy snow landed on its scaly pink feet. Another dead pigeon tangled in a chicken-wire fence dangled with its entrails exposed. Jorja watched a short, ruddy-faced Mongol, who had a small cart of fur pelts, tap Temulbaatar on the shoulder as he hunched over the wheel’s flat tire. Temulbaatar shook his head, stood, pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket, and slapped the fur trader on the back. The three men shared a cigarette and a conversation, stamping their leather-booted feet in the snow. A phlegmatic cough emanated from the old hawker as he continued pushing his carta long the pathway and onto the road, forcing traffic to slow to a snail’s pace.

‘He’s selling bear fur?’ asked Jorja as the driver and Temulbaatar entered the car.

‘Fox and marmot mostly,’ answered Temulbaatar. ‘Marmots are like American groundhogs; we call the tarveg. Do you have them in Australia? Some say they can foretell the weather. The man with the cart says the fur is darker this year: a sign of a long winter. Long winters bring hardship, and hardship demands more money. He’s asking a high price.’ The driver mumbled a response in Mongolian. ‘Nekhii says it’s too early to ask a high price.’

Both men had the thickened skin and bearded stubble of arctic explorers on the last leg of their journey. Hairy dark eyebrows formed lines, like woolly caterpillars, over Temulbaatar’s small, beady eyes and Nekhii’s drowsy eyelids. Temulbaatar, short and stocky, contrasted with the slightly taller but thickset Nekhii. Their soft-spoken voices and wide smiles belied their rugged and coarse appearances.

Nekhii stopped the vehicle at the entrance of a gray apartment block. Temulbaatar looked around before punching the security code into a panel on the outside wall. Four sand colored stray dogs jogged past, stopped abruptly, and turned on each other. With teeth bared, rapid shallow bites, and claws against fur, their fight was fierce but brief. Their impatient aggressiveness startled Jorja, but Nekhii merely showed them the sole of his black riding boot. It didn’t connect with the feral dogs; it merely acted as a warning for them to disperse, which they did. Their aggressiveness was aimed at each other, not at Jorja or her companions. Temulbaatar advised Jorja to strike a dominant pose if they troubled her, and they would surely leave her alone.

Temulbaatar looked around again. Nekhii and Jorja glanced around too. Jorja sawa a short naked man enter the adjacent apartment building. Naked in the winter snow! Thinking it was her imagination, she craned her neck to take a closer look, but he was gone. A rugged young man in head-to-toe black leather held the iron door open behind the naked man and glanced furtively from side to side. To Jorja, it looked as though the young man was taking advantage of the open door, slipping in without entering his security code. They locked eyes momentarily. He wiped his nose with his gloved hand before entering the building.

Temulbaatar reentered the code. At the sound of the click, Nekhii pushed the heavy iron door inward. Paper, plastic bags, and cigarette stubs swirled in the darkened corridor. Automatically a light flickered on. Nekhii trundled Jorja’s suitcase to the two elevators; one wasn’t operational. They exited on the sixth floor into a gloomy corridor of closed doors and stood outside the second door on the left, facing the stairwell. They waited for Temulbaatar to unlock the red door with a large golden knocker. An odor of over-boiled cabbage hung in the corridor.

‘As I said, the dogs won’t attack, but it’s best to avoid them. They can be quite vicious if they are looking for food and you are carrying a grocery bag,’ advised Temulbaatar.

‘I’ve heard of the famous Mongolian sheep dogs,’ said Jorja.

Nekhii shook his head. His leather cap didn’t move. Temulbaatar said, ‘Those dogs weren’t sheep dogs. The sheep dog, or bankhar, is larger and much hairier, and it’s usuall black. Bankhar means ‘chubby in the cheeks.’ ‘You’ll recognize a bankhar the moment you see one. The bankhar is an ancient breed—perhaps the most ancient of all. The more ancient the breed, it is believed that the higher its intellect, the healthier its body, the more powerful its adaptability, and the more universal its genetics.’

Jorja wondered whether he was referring to the great Mongol Genghis Khan or the great Mongolian horse, for his words could easily apply to the ancient warrior or the magnificent steed.

‘The dogs you saw were khotosho.’ Nekhii nodded at Temulbaatar’s translation, wrinkled his nose as if in disgust, and repeated the word: khotosho.

‘Khotosho?’ asked Jorja.

‘Mongrel. Yard dog. Low breed,’ explained Temulbaatar. Nekhii spoke in Mongolian and Temulbaatar laughed. ‘He said that yard dogs don’t keep you warm in winter. That’s true. They are skinny, nervous dogs, and not good for children. Foreigners introduced the yard dogs years ago; they are not native to Mongolia. They’ve become more and more aggressive, especially in winter.’

MARTINA NICOLLS is the author of:- The Shortness of Life: A Mongolian Lament (2015), Liberia’s Deadest Ends (2012), Bardot’s Comet (2011), Kashmir on a Knife-Edge (2010) and The Sudan Curse (2009).