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Published: October 28th 2009
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Just before leaving Mongolia İ was invited to attend a horse branding... ceremony? I was told by my 29 year old Mongolian mother, Haliuna, that their neighbors out in the countryside would be branding a "baby" horse and that if I wanted to join them İ should bring a bottle of vodka as a gift. My imagination foresaw a few guys holding a horse with cigarettes dangling from their lips while another sizzled his mark into the hide of his expanding property and we would all toast to... İ don't know, Genghis Khan? But what I experienced was a symbolic rite of passage, a blessing, the first day of a three day long celebration of food, drink, and song - prayers and offerings in the hopes their animal stock, especially the next generation of offspring, survive the encroaching tumultuous winter. For these nomads don't make money, the livestock is their bread and butter - literally.
As I arrived at the ger hosting the celebration I was greeted by the host who called to me by name and invited me into his home, he poured me a bowl of the tradıtıonal drink of fermented mares milk, airag, and thanked me for
A Nightly Stroll.
-- Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia coming. I swore off airag after my less than pleasant experience my first week in Mongolia but didn't want to offend so sipped from my bowl and was surprised to find the elixir remarkably delicious compared to the sour-gut-wrenching brew I experienced before.
I was then lead across a wide gully to where a crowd was gathering and dozens of horses were baskıng in the golden hour of a setting sun. Mongolian cowboys and cowgirls were running down herds in the distance separating the remaining young from their mothers. This was going to be an event! A fire was being stoked using yak dung, and two metal rods were buried in the center, there ends wrapped in symbolic blue scarves. It was soon after I arrived that a command was given and young lads ran to secure the first three victims who were tied to ground posts. A plume of smoke and a kicking horse signified the end. The circling mares neighed in empathy as their offspring were being initiated. Fourteen horses in all were given the extended mark of the herd. Once finished, the tattooed youth were released under a shouting and cheering crowd. The horse is revered
Gandan Monastery.
One of the only two that survived the 1930s "cleansing" in Mongolia. as the most sacred of all animals to the Mongolian people.
Everyone slowly made their way back to the ger where the following hours were filled wıth endless toasts of vodka (but not before dipping your ring finger into it and flicking it three times into the air as an offering to the spirits), copious amounts of roasted lamb and goat, bowls of airag, and bowls of an unknown clear alcoholic homebrew being passed around in a silver bowl which I tried to pass on but my hosts insisted I "finish". The elders sat at the head of the ger, men to their right, women to their left. In the center of the ger a young couple tried to keep up while refilling shot glasses, bowls, and plates, dishing out grog and grub until all volumes exceeded there container limits whether you were consuming or not. There's no hospitality quiet like Mongolian.
There was a constant flow of bodies in and out of the tent. Folk songs were being sung with an increasing gusto as empty vodka bottles started to pile. At one point, steaming hot oily rocks were pulled from a cooking pot of mutton and passed
out individually to everyone in the room. Men and women each pulled a tennis ball size black stone from a plate being passed around and played hot potato with themselves. Again it came to be my turn and there was no refusing, I could feel everyone's eyes on me as I nervously reached for a stone... I lasted about two seconds before I yelped and dropped the stone onto the table. My actions drew a few laughs and many comments which were interpreted to me by Haliuna, "Soft hands." I bıt me tongue and grabbed the stone under personal protest and juggled that thing until me hands were beet red and saturated in its oils. We were then served overflowing plates of tender chunks of lamb wıth potatoes and carrots. Our greasy hands dived ın claiming our own appendage and devoured the sacrificial meat despite the fact we've been eating for the last two hours.
This was the beginning of a three day festive celebration. A young man pulled ladles of airag from a 50 gallon drum saying... "Tonight, finished." At that, Haliuna and Gana signaled that it was our time to go. I gifted my hosts with a
A Plate of Organs
Lung, heart, intestines, liver, and a few unknowns. fine bottle of Genghis Chan vodka and had bid them a healthy and successful winter and thanked them for their hospitality. We walked across the late night open landscape to our vehicle whıle laughter and folk songs slowly faded into the distance. Soon the sounds of the land will be filled with the harsh unforgiving winds of winter, and these nomadic people and their livestock will patiently await next summer's brief but warming relief marking another beginning to this cyclical ancient way of life.
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Nice.
Great photos. I was recently in Mongolia and appreciate your pics.