Renchinlhumbe and Along the Jargalan River

January 31.

We are at Mishig's house. There is a lot of activity, because his wife is going to the countryside with a truck full of merchandise from her store. Much ado about getting ready. We will also leave today, but first we will do more recording, right there.

So the accordion player shows up. And two ladies, dressed to sing. And sing they do. 

Then we embark on the next phase of the adventure... we load the van with all of our stuff: duffels, food, and the five of us. Once we are all in the van, there are a few more stops. In fact, it takes a full hour before we actually leave Renchinlhumbe! Gas station #1. Turns out it is closed, but we find out only after waiting there awhile for an attendant. Gas station #2. Bataa gets out to help - the pump is manual. Then a stop at a store for chips and drinks... the store is right behind Mishig's house! Then a stop at a house to borrow a horsehead fiddle that we will take to someone who knows how to play but does not have an instrument of his own. We finally roll out of town into the sun-in-our-eye 4pm light. I wonder how far we will get before dark.

We head across the valley. Looking at the mountains brings a deep sigh as I drink in their majesty.

We stop at three homes - two houses and one ger - to record. In the latter, their enthusiasm for the project is wonderful - they really get into it and appreciate what we are doing, since some of the songs are disappearing. In fact, it is not unusual for singers to take a moment or two to remember all the words. 

The homes are along the Jargalan River.  I recognize one area where we rode horses last fall, including a rickety bridge. But this time we turn north instead of south at that crossing (and we cross on the ice, not the bridge). 

From one place to the next, the families just waved in a general direction: go that way. (Some refer to this as the Mongolian G.P.S. or "ger positioning system.") Most of the time we follow a two-track path - I hesitate to call it a road (in the Mongolian language, there is just one word for both "road" and "path"). At one point we cross a frozen river and aim at a bank that appears to go straight up to the height of the van! Yet Mishig drives straight up and over! I exclaim out loud with surprise (glad I'm not driving). 

It gets dark as we go from home to ger. I begin to wonder where we will stay tonight, with some unsuspecting family. I have learned not to ask questions for which Badmaa has no answer, like, where will we stay. She doesn't know. As Mishig drives in the dark, he easily chooses several forks in the road without batting an eye. There are absolutely no street signs! Somehow he just knows. (At one point he turns off the headlights to check the contour of the surrounding mountains to get his bearings.) Days later, it occurs to me that I would feel equally comfortable navigating the back roads of Leelanau County; Mishig is a veterinarian and in this region, vets travel to all the remote corners of the valley... he has been here before...

But that does not occur to me as we unload the van at 8:30 pm. We stay in the house of a family - when we arrive, there are eight people there, making mutton dumplings and watching a Korean soap opera that has been dubbed into Mongolian. 

Getting here ranks right up there in terms of adventure! We are officially far away from towns, running water, the power grid, you name it. If it were any warmer, I would linger outside to gaze at the amazing array of stars. But I save that for another time.

Renchinlhumbe - Cultural Center

January 30.

We spent the evening at the Cultural Center - a large building with an auditorium that easily holds 200 people or more - it even has a balcony in the back, and chandeliers! Tonight was in honor of teachers - many were recognized with various awards - following that was a music and dance show.

I found the music jarringly loud. Singers were accompanied by a keyboard and apparently some preprogrammed tunes and beats. The thing is, to my ear, often the singing and background music didn't quite mesh or the background had overwhelming bass. Perhaps it's more noticeable to me because I'm here recording music?

The hit of the evening was five dancers on stage: two in traditional dress, two in jeans and black tops, and a break dancer. It was wild to see such a display, and it was cleverly choreographed.

At the end of the planned show, Mishig commanded the microphone and talked about our project. He then showed some of the videos he had taken of the singers. People stuck around. Badmaa told me people were saying how good it is to hear the old music - it is not something that happens very often. Hearing that warms my heart!

Renchinlhumbe

January 30.

As we draw near to the town of Renchinlhumbe, I begin to recognize certain mountains and stands of trees from the horseback trek last fall. It feels oddly comforting. We pull in to Mishig's yard, and I have the vague sensation of coming home. True, it is his home. But I still marvel at how my four traveling companions seem to accept me in their midst. As the only foreigner, this kinship is really cool.

In the yard, I immediately recognize the big white truck in which I spent 15 bouncy hours some 4 months ago. The ger where my dad and step-brother stayed last fall is also in this yard, locked and cold. We will stay in Mishig's house - it has two ample rooms.

We spend the afternoon recording at the local high school. It is marvelous to see the kids so poised and also all dressed up to perform. But here, at this school, I also take time to thank the music teacher for what he is doing. I make the point that you never know the impact your students will have; their performance last fall helped to inspire this recording project!  

Culinary and other adventures

January 29.

It's 11 p.m. and the electricity just went out, so we're over to battery power and one fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling. The five of us have finished our dinner, and our hosts, a kind couple, are starting in on theirs. Mishig is joining them as well. He said, "mor," (horse) indicating the sausage-looking thing in the big plastic bowl. "Mash goy!" (delicious!) he added, with a big grin, urging me to try some.

At that moment, Badmaa was somewhere else. So I said, "Amerig mor khool ugui..." (in America horse is not food). But they already know that. I mustered what it took to try a jigjig (little) piece. It was sausage - I couldn't down the skin, but the meat was okay. I couldn't help but recall hearing that it tends to be older horses that suffer this fate...

Earlier in the day, I found the container of Old Bay seasoning I had brought as a gift for the cook, Magi. So I gave it to her, and asked Badmaa to describe it as a blend of seasonings kind of like American curry, for use on meats and seafood. So when I smelled Old Bay on the stove that evening, it momentarily transported me back to the Chesapeake region. The mutton tasted really good at dinner. However, the rice had been seasoned with equal parts Old Bay and Indian curry, with a curious, yellow-colored result. Eminently edible, however.

In the evening everyone sat around watching a Russian soap opera on tv that had been dubbed into Mongolian. The lady was sewing a new deel for her daughter, using a hand-crank machine. The man cut kindling for starting the fire the next morning. These people are amazingly accommodating in hosting five souls for two nights in a row, and they didn't even know we were coming.

Before letting the dog loose in the yard for the night, our hostess made sure I had one last safe run to the outhouse. She stood in the yard to keep the dog calm. That dog was one of the more vicious creatures I've met - certainly an effective deterrent from entering the yard - and could potentially traumatize her foreign guest. I certainly gained an appreciation for why all the Mongolian guidebooks have prominently listed the phrase, "hold your dogs!"

They let me have the cot this evening, on the same wall I had slept along the night before on the floor. So I rolled out my sleeping bag with the head towards the corner - same orientation as the night before. Then some conversation ensued. Badmaa told me I had to put my head in the other direction. Why? I asked. Because the god is in the opposite corner and you cannot sleep with your feet toward the god. When I mentioned that I had done so the night before she said, no, your feet were under the god, so it was okay. I flipped the sleeping bag around. But I also acknowledged to myself that I'm not accustomed to thinking of a deity that is in a certain physical location, but rather, thinking of God as a loving, ever-present, all-knowing, all-powerful, unlimited infinite Being. With that thought, I drift off to sleep.

More recording in Ulaan Uul

January 29.

We went to three houses and one ger this morning. The elders in the ger were just great - octogenarians. She sang first. He sat nearby with a charmed grin on his face and twinkle in his eye. He then announced he would sing a song that he sang for a Tsaatan girl before he met his wife. His wife then said, "you're over 80 so it's okay."

This same man said when he sings a Darhad duu, a Darhad song, he sings about whatever he wants to - it's all Darhad duu because he is Darhad...

At the Cultural Center in Ulaan Uul

January 28.

The Cultural Center is a modest building, with a large room for gatherings (like a mini-auditorium, but all one level and with moveable seats) and an office attached to it. The Director has a computer loaded with all his favorite music and digital photos from a recent trip to the nearby mountains. Computer runs off power from a portable generator outside.

The music is blaring when we arrive. I do a double-take - the only thing missing is a connection to the Internet; I learn that Internet should arrive in the next year or two. The Director, a man in his mid- to late-twenties, is clearly eager for Ulaan Uul to be "plugged in." But rather than go to the big city himself, he is staying and waiting for the electronic/digital world to come to his sleepy town in the Darhad Valley.

We set up the recording equipment at the Cultural Center, and people begin to show up to sing. Malgar and a younger singer then try to convince the rest of us that the Darhad people actually invented hip-hop before the West did! They sing a rousing duet that alternately moves through traditional Darhad tunes and a more rhythmic expression of the same. The younger singer turns his hat sideways with some attitude. I get a kick out of both of them!

When the battery died in Mishig's video camera, everyone hung out while it recharged. I offered a bit of entertainment, and sang an American folk song, a melody from Appalachia ("He's Gone Away"). Afterwards Badmaa translated the meaning, which everyone appreciated since it's about one's love, a theme also common in Darhad lyrics.

The Big Ovoo

It's a pilgrimage of sorts. Everyone who goes over this mountain pass stops to honor the gods that protect it. There is a very large ovoo plus a dozen smaller ones, all in a row. These mark the high pass between Ulaan Uul and points to the south. I recall stopping here toward the end of our trip in September. It is beautifully covered with snow in late January. We walk around the large ovoo three times, and Badmaa leaves a handful of cookies on one of the stones. Years' accumulation of offerings are also there, running from a ten-tugrug note to a horse's skull. Many blue prayer sashes adorn it as well.


I am, at this point, happy to get out and stretch. I take in the scenery - we are surrounded by snow-capped mountains - and note the raven soaring nearby. It and another species of white and black bird (I don't have a picture - it has a long tail and is about the size of a raven) are somehow impervious to the cold temps.


While we are driving, I sit in the cab with Mishig. I noticed from the outset that he is singing while he drives. It's not the kind of singing one does for an audience, but rather, because one simply likes the tunes. I can tell he's singing but I can't quite hear the songs in their entirety and I certainly can't make out the words. So I ask, in my halting Mongolian, if he would teach me one of these songs. This brings on a round of laughter and good-natured delight. The topic resurfaced the next day when Malgar sang a simple song for me to learn, which I recorded. All these songs are Darhad songs.


A note on the boots. Yesterday, Mishig pointed to my high-tech, molded-rubber-soled boots and said they weren't good. I assured him that the boots were indeed good enough (at $125, why wouldn't they be?) and rated to -50F. This morning, however, I conceded the point. The boots don't breathe. Water doesn't go in, but neither does it go out. I only realized this in the morning, when the boots were definitely not as warm as they had been the day before. Count this part of the learning curve - I had to dry them out at the end each day, or there would be water condensed on the inside which, once outside, would produce the effect of wearing little refrigerators on my feet.


So I borrowed a pair of felt boots for a few days which Mishig had brought along, just in case anyone needed them. Hmmm... I also showed some resistance to wearing something that, shall we say, is unglamorous? Badmaa then explains a key point. In the Mongolian countryside during the winter, if you look like you are warm, then you are attractive.

Onward to Ulaan Uul

January 28.

A couple of interesting observations for today: how to start the van in extreme cold temps, and the first and second attempts to find the path out of here.

This morning I'm startled to see Mishig in his winter del and warm hat. Now I know it's cold out. But I wasn't prepared for what I saw him doing to the van that morning. He had three different heat sources - two torches (yep, with about 8-inch flames) and a fire - underneath the van. Now, I'm no mechanic, but I have to believe that most cars on the road in my hometown wouldn't tolerate such treatment - some computerized piece would malfunction. But this Russian-designed van is intended to be started this way, and everything is manual - transmission, steering, etc. So there's Mishig, lying on the ground, legs sticking out from under the van, directing heat at the axle and parts of the engine. This goes on for about 30 minutes. I'm thoroughly entertained. He seems amused at my amusement.

Then he sticks a hand crank on the front of the van and turns over the engine. Then he starts and runs the engine for a few minutes and switches it off until we're ready to leave over an hour later, at which time it again starts reliably.

By the way, Mishig stores the van battery inside overnight. When it's time to re-insert the battery, it fits behind the driver's seat which, conveniently, is not fastened down and can be removed in seconds. Come to think of it, almost nothing inside is fastened down, including my seat. (There was no discussion of seat belts, but also no concern, no traffic, and rarely did the van exceed 20 mph in that terrain.)

Oh, and the van is not heated, so we ride wearing multiple heavy layers.

So there we were, guided by Malgar, heading northward out of town and up into the mountains in a ravine that got dangerously narrow. I began to have concerns about the van staying upright (but kept these to myself). Suddenly Mishig is turning around in the first available open space, way above the town. This is the wrong way...

We bounce down the ravine, drive almost all the way back into town (have we left yet?) and drop down onto the frozen river. Now this is beginning to make sense. We follow the river northward for awhile, and make our way up through the mountains.

It is beautiful. We have consistently sunny skies. On the way, this is the first time we see a herd of horses, grazing through the snow. We stop to take a look.

Typical Day - This One's in Bayanzurkh

January 27.

I reach from deep inside my sleeping bag for my tiny thermometer - the kind you attach to a zipper pull. It reads 28 degrees Fahrenheit. Water in my Nalgene bottle is frozen. It's 9:00 am. The fire has been going since 6:50. I roll out, and into insulated pants and down jacket, all in one motion. Then while eating breakfast, somehow it gets too warm inside.

Our hostess, Duujii, is telling the stories behind the songs to Badmaa and Bataa. As I watch "B2" with her, I can't help but think this is some sort of miracle. Everyone that Mishig is choosing to include is very helpful and enthusiastic. It's in the quiet moments of waiting (such as this one, while Mishig is out somewhere with the van), that I realize everything is going just as it should. No schedule to which to adhere, and everything is unfolding. Later in the day, Badmaa echoes this sentiment, telling me she is really happy with how things are going.

This is no surprise, really, having done the recording that day at the Bayanzurkh school. The head of the town's cultural center showed up with his accordion. Upon donning his dress clothes in the teachers' lounge where we recorded, he glanced at the mirror and declared triumphantly, "Bi huu Chinggis Khaan!" ("I'm the son of Chinggis Khan!"). He was great with the kids.

The kids were great! Poised, enthusiastic, and in full voice.

Before recording at the school, B2 and I were led to the gym, where on that Sunday, a number of parents were playing volleyball. We barely sat down before it was time to go to the teachers' lounge to record. But while in the hallways, I caused quite a stir. The younger kids would run up to me, catch a glimpse of my eyes and nose, and run off. Perhaps I'm the first foreigner they've seen? I smile at each of them.

After lunch, we went to an elder singer's house. Lots of milk tea... and Mishig explained what we are doing. Then another elder singer, a lady, walked in. She was beaming with delight. I could tell by the way she sang, that she was visualizing, not just singing. I'm especially grateful that she showed up, and with such sparkle.

The day wraps up, and we are still in Bayanzurkh, even though we completely packed that morning. Mishig assures us that it's wiser to travel during the day. I couldn't agree more. (He spent part of the day hunting around for a part to fix the van.) Dinner involves mutton.

I decide at the end of the day that I'm tired, but enormously satisfied with how things are going. I also decide I've already eaten too much mutton. And way too much mutton fat. I roll out my sleeping bag on the floor next to B2, and fall asleep.

En Route To Bayanzurkh

January 26, heading by van to the northwest of Murun.

Duujii and Malgar are singing in the back of the van. They are catching a ride with us to Bayanzurkh. Both sang for us in Murun. Malgar has become an advisor to the music project.

We drive up into the mountains, pausing at least once at a ger to talk about the path we are on. Path (not road) is a two-track. It's getting dark - we left Murun in the evening.

The snow sparkles like diamonds under our headlights. It's the kind of snow-ice that forms immediately into crystals, pulling the least bit of moisture out of the air. Temps hover between -25 and -40.

We arrive at Duujii's house at 10:30 pm and the team springs into action. The fire gets stoked, tea is made, dinner is chopped and cooked, all in a flurry of activity which is explained when, at 11:00 pm while we are eating, the electricity goes out. Apparently in Bayanzurkh electricity is generated only between 7 pm and 11 pm. Grab your headlamp...

The First Recording Session

January 26. Murun.

We are in the ger of a medicine man who is also a musician. While waiting for music-related action, we talk with the medicine man, who proudly shows us some of the homeopathic herbs he keeps in reindeer-skin pouches that his grandfather used.

Several singers and musicians show up, ready to sing. It is at this moment that I learn something: the Darhad people don't just sing. Well, I should qualify this. They don't just sing when they're being recorded. They sing once they have donned the traditional clothing - fancy deels and hats. Then, once they've stepped into the role of singer or musician, the music flows. And beautifully!

This first session is a treat. The musicians play the horsehead fiddle, another smaller fiddle, a small instrument akin to the jews' harp, and a percussion "instrument" made with sheep bones. One man does throat singing while playing the horsehead fiddle. Throat singing is a sound unlike any other, and this is the only time we will record it during our journey. The other songs in this session are melodies we will hear repeated in the other towns.

The Deel: Double-takes and Grins

En route to Murun, January 25th. Since they weigh ALL pieces of luggage here, including carry-ons, Badmaa, Bataa and I decided to wear the heavy clothes, including our deels (pronounced "dells"). (Deel, as I've mentioned, is a traditional Mongolian outer garment, in winter often made with quilted fabric or wool fleece. It buttons under the arm and is cinched at the waist with a sash or belt.)

When the three of us walk together, this draws no unusual attention, until people look at the faces, or catch a glimpse of my lighter hair from under the big furry hat. Bataa grins with his whole being when he sees me put my passport in the deel, in the "pocket" formed above the sash. While we are waiting in the airport in UB, several people walk up to us, give me a "thumbs up," and explain to Badmaa how good it is to see a foreigner dressed like that.

What a fun way to break the ice, so to speak.

I have too many layers on to be inside. I am warm, and trying not to exert too much energy.

On the flight, I am the only American. Actually on this full flight, everyone else is Mongolian. A hint of the weeks to come...

Over 150 Songs Later...

I have returned to UB, in the middle of Tsagaan Sar - White Moon celebration. It's lunar new year, and a time to honor the elders. It's also time to visit family and eat lots of bots (mutton dumplings).

The trip exceeded expectations! Traveling together, we (Mishig, Maggi, Badmaa, Bataa and I) functioned as a closely-knit team... no sense of separation based on nationality. It was as if we all adopted each other as family for 2 weeks.

We recorded over 150 different songs, sung by Darhad people ages 7 to 85. They were very supportive of the project. How often do you get to do something that everyone wants to help with? Their eyes danced with delight at the prospect of handing these songs down to future generations and sharing them with the rest of the planet.

We stayed in homes of 9 different families, and visited quite a few more families and several schools during the days. We covered over 600 miles of often rough but frozen terrain (not all passable by vehicle when it's warm out - ground softens and "swallows" vehicles).

Of course, there were those unexpected things along the way... Like the newborn goat kid that was in the one-room house all night (for warmth), howling every two hours for its mamma. Or the shaman's ceremony that began at midnight in his ger and went for 4-1/2 hours. Or the impromptu speech I gave to a room full of octogenarians. Or watching Mishig light a fire under the van (literally) to get it started in the 30-below mornings.

Stay tuned over the next few weeks. I will be posting stories and impressions from this amazing two-week journey through the Darhad valley in northern Mongolia.