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Yak caravan across the Chulutyn Gol river (more photos)

Jesus. That beats my ass bruise.

– Dave

Dave tells me that back in his younger days in England, he once joined some friends at Oxford for the May Day tradition of jumping from the college’s famous Magdalen Bridge  into the Cherwell River. This tradition has no logical foundation and is fairly dangerous, hence its popularity among University students.

Unfortunately for Dave and his friends, the water in the river was at an all-time low that year. Or rather, unfortunately for Dave and his friends, no one present seemed at all bothered by the many signs around the bridge that said the water in the river was at an all-time low that year, the security guards patrolling the bridge that said the water in the river was at an all-time low that year or the barricades put up to block access to the bridge due to water levels being at an all-time low that year.

They jumped 25  feet into 2 and half feet of water.

The drop left most of Dave’s friends  at the hospital in leg casts and left Dave with what he claims was one of the more spectacular ass bruises of all time. Dave took pictures of his ass bruise, showed it to his friends and generally thought quite highly of it. Once he could sit of course.

So it says something that when he saw the purple and blue dinner-plate-sized contusion on the back of Janine’s upper leg, Dave was impressed. “Jesus. That beats my ass bruise,” he said. Janine’s ankle was also scratched and swollen and the hoof shaped scrape mark on her boot supported our conclusion that she’d only just missed having that bone smashed by her horse as well. But it was ass bruise that really grabbed your attention. I felt queasy every time I glanced at the thing, pulsing malevolently like one of those pictures NASA occassionally releases of the latest nebula or super-nova photographed by the Hubble telescope.  It was very hard to believe nothing was broken underneath all that traumatized skin and muscle.

It was equally hard to believe that Janine being her feisty self, was eager to get back on her horse and continue our  journey.  But one look at that bruise and the way she hobbled around the camp the next morning, told us all that this would be a day to rest and be grateful no one was in a wheelchair.

So we rested. I drank tea, Janine slept prodigiously and Dave and Val went into town for a much needed resupply of coffee and Russian junk food. Despite the stable weather and our proximity to the town of Chuluut, our camp on the banks of the Chulutyn River attracted almost no visitors. The only exception was Dodreg. The big man shuttled back and forth between town and camp throughout the day on a fiery red motorcycle. He’d picked it up in Chulutt, which was home to several of his family members. If Dodreg enjoyed riding a horse, he was a kid at Christmas on a bike, blowing across the valley floor in a whirlwind of dust, gravel and scattered livestock; plowing through the river and up its muddy banks before coming to a stop in front of our dining tent, motor reving and back firing, grinning like a saucy Mongolian Brando.

While Dodreg ferried the guides back and forth to town to enjoy some hospitality, the rest of  us sat in the dining tent to discuss our next move. We were all shaken by the bolting and Janine’s injury. I could easily have been persuaded to quit the trip then and there. But Janine, Dave and Val remained committed. We were only a few days from trip’s end at White Lake and to complete the journey in a jeep seemed like an expensive cop-out after coming this far on horseback.  After a long discussion, we elected to continue.

We relayed the news to Gaaj, who squatted down on the ground outside the dining tent patiently awaiting our decision. Looking at Janine, his damaged right eye disappeared into the folds of his face as he smiled and gave her the nicest compliment she could have received in this country.

“Good… Mongolian woman,” he said.

As if in further benediction of our decision, a convoy of half a dozen yak-drawn wooden carts made its way down from the forested hills we’d left behind the day before. Each cart was piled high with freshly cut larch timbers. A single family oversaw the caravan, father riding a horse at the front of the group, mother tugging the lead yak forward with the aid of a rawhide string tied through its nose, a small boy riding happily atop a stack of logs near the centre.  Dogs patrolled the edges of the group like a fighter plane escort.

It was a timeless picture – how many dozens of generations 0f their family had gone into those hills to bring out the timber that would see them through the winter? More had changed in our world in the last ten years than had changed here in 500. As the carts were eased slowly down into the river, wooden wheels and axels creaking, father shouting single syllable commands to the yaks, dogs yipping urgently, we savoured the scenic and compelling reminder of why we’d come to Mongolia in the first place.

 

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