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.