Core Of Culture Field Operative Nathan Whitmont researches traditional horse trading and training in Mongolia.
I couldn't believe how fast the little sedan travelled. Each passing minute the land dried, the valley widened, and the mountains in the distance shrank, flattening into plains. Still we raced south. An hour passed. The mountains were but distant low rims when out on the flat horizon two tiny white dots appeared. As we approached they grew into gers, the felt tents most Mongols call home.
I couldn't believe how fast the little sedan travelled. Each passing minute the land dried, the valley widened, and the mountains in the distance shrank, flattening into plains. Still we raced south. An hour passed. The mountains were but distant low rims when out on the flat horizon two tiny white dots appeared. As we approached they grew into gers, the felt tents most Mongols call home.
Two gers are just visible on the horizon
At last the lawyer’s uncle killed the engine and the car rolled to a stop as a flock of children ran out, followed by a stern but handsome woman, who invited us inside for milk tea. In the Mongolian countryside sharing tea, or, when it's in season, fermented mare's milk, is an important ceremony that marks every meeting and parting, and seals every transaction. The tea is strong and very salty.
Ichbaatar, the horse trader, wasn't home, so the lawyer’s uncle and her father grabbed some of their nephews and a few of the cousin’s who’d come along from the city and jammed me and all of them back into the sedan and drove to their relative's place a few miles away where we were greeted and once again served the salty tea. After a while we returned to Ichbaatar's, where we had tea, and waited.
When the horse trader arrived we all had tea inside the dark tent. Then we went out and a teenager jumped on the only horse around and raced off. The rest of us stood in the bright empty desert where I could finally get a good look at Ichbaatar, who eyed me suspiciously. He appeared to be about 50 but was probably 35, and he looked tougher than nails. His skin was weathered, his eyes narrowed, he said little and he stood still. He stared off into the heat waves. A dust cloud began to rise. Below it ran horses. Forty or fifty head raced across the dry steppe. Two boys galloped behind them. Reaching us, the boys contained the horses by racing circles around them, impressively forming a two-man human fence. Ichbaatar roped the rattiest, most starved and scarred horse I ever saw. I scoffed and waved it away. He looped another with oozing sores on its withers and I shooed it off as well. The third horse wasn't half bad. It had lots of sores but at least they were mostly healed. Its feet looked all right. It wasn't happy about letting me see them - I was two feet taller than Ichbaatar and bright blazing white; the poor horse probably thought I was an alien - but eventually he gave in. I decided that in a pinch, the horse might make the list. I turned around and the herd was gone and Ichbaatar was holding the horse with the oozing sores.
I didn't speak more than ten words of Mongolian but there are certain signs understood universally, and eventually, to Ichbaatar’s obvious displeasure, the kids were bringing the herd back in. As they did I noticed a sleek paint out front, kicking and jumping and keeping in the lead. Now that's my kind of horse, I thought and was amazed when Ichbataar roped him. The look on the horse's face clearly stated he thought Ichbaatar was an alien; I was something 20 times worse. It took me ten minutes just to get near him. He never did let me pick up his feet. I took my saddle from the trunk of the lawyer's uncle's sedan and Ichbataar got nervous for the first time and shook his head. The lawyer’s uncle, who spoke a bit of English, said: "No, too dangerous."
I stood in the middle of the Mongolian steppe with my saddle in my hand and 100 pounds of gear in the lawyer’s uncle’s trunk, hundreds of miles from the city, the only civilization as far as I could see two felt tents, and the only people Ichbaatar and his family. Without their help I was stranded, and suddenly that was obvious in any language. But there was no way I would head onto the steppe with a horse that couldn’t be ridden. I stepped up and threw on my saddle. Ichbaatar insisted on doing it himself; he actually pushed me aside. With all his family watching, I let him. I watched from a few paces away then checked his work. In an empty field half way around the world from my family, and my family doctor, I stepped into the narrow stirrup and eased onto the dangerous horse.
Ichbaatar, the horse trader, wasn't home, so the lawyer’s uncle and her father grabbed some of their nephews and a few of the cousin’s who’d come along from the city and jammed me and all of them back into the sedan and drove to their relative's place a few miles away where we were greeted and once again served the salty tea. After a while we returned to Ichbaatar's, where we had tea, and waited.
When the horse trader arrived we all had tea inside the dark tent. Then we went out and a teenager jumped on the only horse around and raced off. The rest of us stood in the bright empty desert where I could finally get a good look at Ichbaatar, who eyed me suspiciously. He appeared to be about 50 but was probably 35, and he looked tougher than nails. His skin was weathered, his eyes narrowed, he said little and he stood still. He stared off into the heat waves. A dust cloud began to rise. Below it ran horses. Forty or fifty head raced across the dry steppe. Two boys galloped behind them. Reaching us, the boys contained the horses by racing circles around them, impressively forming a two-man human fence. Ichbaatar roped the rattiest, most starved and scarred horse I ever saw. I scoffed and waved it away. He looped another with oozing sores on its withers and I shooed it off as well. The third horse wasn't half bad. It had lots of sores but at least they were mostly healed. Its feet looked all right. It wasn't happy about letting me see them - I was two feet taller than Ichbaatar and bright blazing white; the poor horse probably thought I was an alien - but eventually he gave in. I decided that in a pinch, the horse might make the list. I turned around and the herd was gone and Ichbaatar was holding the horse with the oozing sores.
I didn't speak more than ten words of Mongolian but there are certain signs understood universally, and eventually, to Ichbaatar’s obvious displeasure, the kids were bringing the herd back in. As they did I noticed a sleek paint out front, kicking and jumping and keeping in the lead. Now that's my kind of horse, I thought and was amazed when Ichbataar roped him. The look on the horse's face clearly stated he thought Ichbaatar was an alien; I was something 20 times worse. It took me ten minutes just to get near him. He never did let me pick up his feet. I took my saddle from the trunk of the lawyer's uncle's sedan and Ichbataar got nervous for the first time and shook his head. The lawyer’s uncle, who spoke a bit of English, said: "No, too dangerous."
I stood in the middle of the Mongolian steppe with my saddle in my hand and 100 pounds of gear in the lawyer’s uncle’s trunk, hundreds of miles from the city, the only civilization as far as I could see two felt tents, and the only people Ichbaatar and his family. Without their help I was stranded, and suddenly that was obvious in any language. But there was no way I would head onto the steppe with a horse that couldn’t be ridden. I stepped up and threw on my saddle. Ichbaatar insisted on doing it himself; he actually pushed me aside. With all his family watching, I let him. I watched from a few paces away then checked his work. In an empty field half way around the world from my family, and my family doctor, I stepped into the narrow stirrup and eased onto the dangerous horse.
| Nothing happened. Every muscle in the little animal's body vibrated with tension, but we just sat there. Finally I nudged him and got zip. I nudged him a few more times, then gave him the tinniest little kick. He took half a step and locked up again. Eventually we turned a halting circle in each direction and that was good enough. After a few days he'd loosen up. I dismounted and unsaddled and when I turned around, once again, the herd was gone. Ichbaatar held the dangerous horse and the one with the mostly healed-up sores. We locked eyes for a long time. Ichbaatar wasn’t exactly scratching my back; I’d hired the lawyer’s uncle, Ichbaatar’s brother, to bring me out here, and he'd brought along half his family - when he’d arrived to fetch me there were so many cousins and brothers aboard there was barely room for me to squeeze in. Plus I was buying two horses for no doubt several times the going rate. It seemed to me the Mongol could give me a little scratch. We stood there, face to face, eyes locked, shoulders squared, and the wind blew. Clearly Ichbaatar was not in a scratching mood. Saddle Sore and Dangerous would be my steeds. Ichbaatar and I shook hands, then went inside to seal the deal with milk tea. |  Dangerous |
It was decided by the three brothers, Ichbaatar, the lawyer’s uncle, and her father, that I should be taken to see the UNICEF Genghis Khan memorial, which I was thrilled about, so the whole family, except Ichbaatar and his wife, crammed into the little sedan and set off across the dry steppe. After a few miles we came across a small town, just a few permanent buildings huddled on a rise against the wind. We drove past it, even further south, towards the Kherlon River, where it bent to the north; it was the river up which I eventually would ride. We could almost see its banks when the monument appeared, a tall marble obelisk with a plaque. The whole family stood beneath it for snap shots. I looked around and reflected on the massive armies that had staged on those very plains while creating the largest empire the world has known. Then we drove home, stopping twice along the way for milk tea.
At the UNICEF Genghis Khan memorial
That night the whole family butchered two sheep. The men did the killing and butchering, the women sorted the entrails and organs, the children fetched water and cleaned pans, the dogs drank the blood and ate the scraps; there wasn’t a single member of the household that didn't participate. We huddled in the lee side of Ichbaatar's tent as the wind howled and the sun set. The remaining sheep lay thirty yards away, backs against the wind, oblivious to our slaughter. A crescent moon appeared in the clear sky and I wondered if I'd ever been a part of something so incredible.
Ichbaatar's wife and oldest daughter tore much of the meat into strips and hung it to dry in the tent and the lawyer’s uncle threw one whole skinned sheep in the trunk of his car to stay refrigerated. Inside the tent the women cooked, the men smoked, and Ichbaatar, after examining all my tack and finding my bridle insufficient, took out a hand-treadled sewing machine and fixed it. By candlelight we ate stringy, fatty stewed meat and dry bread, then the lawyer's uncle brought out a bottle of vodka. Ichbaatar's wife and children huddled out of the way while the men drank. Conversation between the three brothers was quiet and serious. After a few shots I refused any more, and they seemed insulted. As they took shot after shot I remembered the warnings I’d received about Mongolia: the greatest dangers were wolves and drunks. I felt the barren emptiness all around us and glanced again and again at Ichbaatar's eyes, which were hard as steel. Eventually Ichbaatar’s wife spread blankets out on the floor. There was only one bed and Ichbaatar offered it to me. Ichbaatar's older brother, the lawyer's father, was twice my age and it didn't seem right him sleeping on the floor and me in a bed so I refused repeatedly. Finally he took the bed and I slept on the floor but the family seemed offended.
Opening my eyes in the morning my first site was Ichbaatar's pretty wife watching me the same way her husband had the previous day, with a look that said "what the fuck are you doing here?" Or maybe it simply said you can't ride across the steppe alone. She gazed at me for several more moments then went back to her work. I went outside and found the lawyer’s uncle nervous. The horses were gone.
We warmed up the sedan and all the men got in, Ichbaatar tense, gripping a pair of old military binoculars and a rifle. The field glasses made sense but I wondered what the gun was for. We drove around the steppe, glassing from atop little hillocks, checking shallow washes. No one except the lawyer's father spoke. He occasionally said something to Ichbaatar who only nodded. I was quite uncomfortable as I'd already given Ichbaatar the cash. Maybe I should have slept with my new stock lashed to my ankle. I could see where it might all be a set up. Then we spotted them, up in a dry wash. As we approached they all looked at us with faces that said "O hey - you looking for us? Jeez, what do you guys look so worked up about?"
The whole family watched as I packed. Everything I had was going to fit on the back of one scrawny Mongolian pony and yet it seemed like I had so much more than them. I gave the kids pens. Ichbaatar's wife was out with the sheep so I gave his oldest daughter a bag of dried fruit. Ichbaatar saddled the horses and we hung my loads on my new horse named Dangerous. I knew Ichbaatar would insist on lashing the loads down. I had a hundred-foot picket line and a fifty-foot lash rope. I held the lash rope back and sure enough, without pausing, Ichbaatar picked up the picket line and started tying. It took him several minutes to weave up a tangled mess with all that rope. Then I stepped in and threw a box hitch and had the whole thing cinched down tight and pretty in about twenty seconds. I smiled at him. His expression only changed a fraction, but it was enough to say maybe I wasn't a totally lost cause after all. I shook his hand and hopped on my horse, the one I was calling Saddle Sore. All of Mongolia stretched out into the flat, barren distance around me. Somewhere in the Western haze lay the river; until I reached it there would be no water. The sun was already high in the sky. After months of planning and anticipation the moment was now upon me. Saddle Sore shifted nervously. Ichbaatar was saying something to me. He was making the gesture I had come to recognize so well: he was inviting me inside his tent for a final cup of milk tea.
Ichbaatar's wife and oldest daughter tore much of the meat into strips and hung it to dry in the tent and the lawyer’s uncle threw one whole skinned sheep in the trunk of his car to stay refrigerated. Inside the tent the women cooked, the men smoked, and Ichbaatar, after examining all my tack and finding my bridle insufficient, took out a hand-treadled sewing machine and fixed it. By candlelight we ate stringy, fatty stewed meat and dry bread, then the lawyer's uncle brought out a bottle of vodka. Ichbaatar's wife and children huddled out of the way while the men drank. Conversation between the three brothers was quiet and serious. After a few shots I refused any more, and they seemed insulted. As they took shot after shot I remembered the warnings I’d received about Mongolia: the greatest dangers were wolves and drunks. I felt the barren emptiness all around us and glanced again and again at Ichbaatar's eyes, which were hard as steel. Eventually Ichbaatar’s wife spread blankets out on the floor. There was only one bed and Ichbaatar offered it to me. Ichbaatar's older brother, the lawyer's father, was twice my age and it didn't seem right him sleeping on the floor and me in a bed so I refused repeatedly. Finally he took the bed and I slept on the floor but the family seemed offended.
Opening my eyes in the morning my first site was Ichbaatar's pretty wife watching me the same way her husband had the previous day, with a look that said "what the fuck are you doing here?" Or maybe it simply said you can't ride across the steppe alone. She gazed at me for several more moments then went back to her work. I went outside and found the lawyer’s uncle nervous. The horses were gone.
We warmed up the sedan and all the men got in, Ichbaatar tense, gripping a pair of old military binoculars and a rifle. The field glasses made sense but I wondered what the gun was for. We drove around the steppe, glassing from atop little hillocks, checking shallow washes. No one except the lawyer's father spoke. He occasionally said something to Ichbaatar who only nodded. I was quite uncomfortable as I'd already given Ichbaatar the cash. Maybe I should have slept with my new stock lashed to my ankle. I could see where it might all be a set up. Then we spotted them, up in a dry wash. As we approached they all looked at us with faces that said "O hey - you looking for us? Jeez, what do you guys look so worked up about?"
The whole family watched as I packed. Everything I had was going to fit on the back of one scrawny Mongolian pony and yet it seemed like I had so much more than them. I gave the kids pens. Ichbaatar's wife was out with the sheep so I gave his oldest daughter a bag of dried fruit. Ichbaatar saddled the horses and we hung my loads on my new horse named Dangerous. I knew Ichbaatar would insist on lashing the loads down. I had a hundred-foot picket line and a fifty-foot lash rope. I held the lash rope back and sure enough, without pausing, Ichbaatar picked up the picket line and started tying. It took him several minutes to weave up a tangled mess with all that rope. Then I stepped in and threw a box hitch and had the whole thing cinched down tight and pretty in about twenty seconds. I smiled at him. His expression only changed a fraction, but it was enough to say maybe I wasn't a totally lost cause after all. I shook his hand and hopped on my horse, the one I was calling Saddle Sore. All of Mongolia stretched out into the flat, barren distance around me. Somewhere in the Western haze lay the river; until I reached it there would be no water. The sun was already high in the sky. After months of planning and anticipation the moment was now upon me. Saddle Sore shifted nervously. Ichbaatar was saying something to me. He was making the gesture I had come to recognize so well: he was inviting me inside his tent for a final cup of milk tea.
Ichbaatar flanked by his brothers - the lawyer's father to his right, the lawyer's uncle to his left
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