The song rose in the darkness, pure like the crystal river that flowed past.
The girls held us by the hand and we walked six in a row among sleepy horses, drunk on the magic of their voices and the ethereal splendour of the starry sky.
I close my eyes for an instant and led myself glide over this moment.
To feel so small, so light, so insignificant and yet so deeply happy; a smiling, tiny buoy bobbing up and down in a sea of gentleness. The girls sang their melodious Kazakh songs, speaking of winters and warm summer winds, of fattening sheep and blissful weddings, of abundant milk, celebrations and life.
In the moonless light we made out the soft, welcoming shape of a Ger. The girls’ hands tightened over ours, hot and dry, pulling us toward the painted wooden door of their home.
‘Tsai!’ they said. ‘Moloko! Come and eat’
The door opened and we were pushed in, caught in the tide of singing girls.
Inside we blinked in the sudden light, lost for a moment in a swirling world of warmth and colours, the permeating smell of milk.
The Ger was a tempest of crimson and bright orange, volutes of cotton coils and twirls chasing each other in a voluptuous dance all around the circular walls. Every surface was decorated with plump, embroided felt, each of the little brass bed lining the inside perimeter covered in rich woollen blankets. A neatly pressed suit hung on a pink plastic coat hanger next to a yellowing picture of a patriarch. An old women breastfeeding a toddler stood up as we entered, greeting us with a gaping smile, her face a furrow of lines that seemed to converge toward her eyes like rivers, filling them with light and wonder. Her baby suckled as she spoke and gestured to us toward a small table near the hearth, his one visible eye darting curiously at us, glinting like a dark stone in a riverbed. The girls sat next to us all talking at once, while the oldest rushed around the tent, collecting here and there food for her guests: a bowl of dried curds from a large cotton bag, a large bread from a pillowcase, a giant kettle filled with hot yak milk, a jar of cream. The table disappeared beneath piles of butter, sugar, yellow cheeses in waxy shells. We looked at each other and began to eat, dipping our buttered bread in milk, smiling above our steaming bowls as they looked on with cheer joy at our appetite. A group of red-cheeked children burst in, bringing with them the scent of the night. They sat near the door, laughing and murmuring in each other’s ears. Their hands, like the hands of their older sisters, always busy touching each other’s hair, hands or shoulders, giving and receiving love and tenderness in the most natural way in the world, like a mother touches her child.
‘Sisterrrr! Sisterrr!’ they called, bursting into laughter when we smiled in return.
We had no language to communicate, but mirth and gratitude need no words. They are written in irrepressible smiles and the warmth of a glance, the touch of a hand.
We sat in this world of joy and colours, of love in a million multicolour stiches sewn into a home and the riches of all this food they had conjured up with their work, skills and care for their animals.
Outside bullets of parching winds shook the few, ragged trees, sending twirls of spiralling dust high into the air, blurring the stars.
Of Mongolia there is too much to tell. Where to begin?
But if all had to be said in a few words… it would be that one has never known what genuine, unbounded friendliness and unadulterated human spirit truly was, before encountering the Nomads of Mongolia.
These people are a miracle, yet do they know how precious their mere existence is in this nuclear world of eight billion lonely souls?
The girls held us by the hand and we walked six in a row among sleepy horses, drunk on the magic of their voices and the ethereal splendour of the starry sky.
I close my eyes for an instant and led myself glide over this moment.
To feel so small, so light, so insignificant and yet so deeply happy; a smiling, tiny buoy bobbing up and down in a sea of gentleness. The girls sang their melodious Kazakh songs, speaking of winters and warm summer winds, of fattening sheep and blissful weddings, of abundant milk, celebrations and life.
In the moonless light we made out the soft, welcoming shape of a Ger. The girls’ hands tightened over ours, hot and dry, pulling us toward the painted wooden door of their home.
‘Tsai!’ they said. ‘Moloko! Come and eat’
The door opened and we were pushed in, caught in the tide of singing girls.
Inside we blinked in the sudden light, lost for a moment in a swirling world of warmth and colours, the permeating smell of milk.
The Ger was a tempest of crimson and bright orange, volutes of cotton coils and twirls chasing each other in a voluptuous dance all around the circular walls. Every surface was decorated with plump, embroided felt, each of the little brass bed lining the inside perimeter covered in rich woollen blankets. A neatly pressed suit hung on a pink plastic coat hanger next to a yellowing picture of a patriarch. An old women breastfeeding a toddler stood up as we entered, greeting us with a gaping smile, her face a furrow of lines that seemed to converge toward her eyes like rivers, filling them with light and wonder. Her baby suckled as she spoke and gestured to us toward a small table near the hearth, his one visible eye darting curiously at us, glinting like a dark stone in a riverbed. The girls sat next to us all talking at once, while the oldest rushed around the tent, collecting here and there food for her guests: a bowl of dried curds from a large cotton bag, a large bread from a pillowcase, a giant kettle filled with hot yak milk, a jar of cream. The table disappeared beneath piles of butter, sugar, yellow cheeses in waxy shells. We looked at each other and began to eat, dipping our buttered bread in milk, smiling above our steaming bowls as they looked on with cheer joy at our appetite. A group of red-cheeked children burst in, bringing with them the scent of the night. They sat near the door, laughing and murmuring in each other’s ears. Their hands, like the hands of their older sisters, always busy touching each other’s hair, hands or shoulders, giving and receiving love and tenderness in the most natural way in the world, like a mother touches her child.
‘Sisterrrr! Sisterrr!’ they called, bursting into laughter when we smiled in return.
We had no language to communicate, but mirth and gratitude need no words. They are written in irrepressible smiles and the warmth of a glance, the touch of a hand.
We sat in this world of joy and colours, of love in a million multicolour stiches sewn into a home and the riches of all this food they had conjured up with their work, skills and care for their animals.
Outside bullets of parching winds shook the few, ragged trees, sending twirls of spiralling dust high into the air, blurring the stars.
Of Mongolia there is too much to tell. Where to begin?
But if all had to be said in a few words… it would be that one has never known what genuine, unbounded friendliness and unadulterated human spirit truly was, before encountering the Nomads of Mongolia.
These people are a miracle, yet do they know how precious their mere existence is in this nuclear world of eight billion lonely souls?
1 comment:
Dear Ana and friends,
What a beautifull way to describe the Mongolian way of life.
I am very glad that you guys experienced the true feeling of Mongolian hospitality. It gives me a warm feeling to read about your encounters with this magical country and their wonderful inhabitants.
I can't wait to go back their myself.
Good luck with your adventure!
Love, Jeroen
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