The surprises start to arrive.
Coming back from Khustain National Park, the domain of the takhi, Erdene, our very friendly Mongol driver, invites us to visit the ger district.
Erdene: "Let's go visit ger district. OK? My brother lives there."
Me: "Yes, OK. I'd like to go there."
Ysabelle: "Yes, that's nice, thanks."
My daughter and I smile at the prospect of a side trip.
I notice the taxi swerving to the left instead of going straight to the direction of Ulaanbaatar (UB). The city's humungous ger district hugs and snakes across the hills bordering UB. A ger is a traditional Mongolian home made of felt, wooden lattice walls and a wooden door that faces the south.
Me: "We're not going to the UB ger district?"
Erdene: "No, we go ger district countryside. Better! Very nice."
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| Ger district set amid rolling hills and valleys - there were several wooden and brick houses like those on the left. Photo credit: Greca Durant |
Our vehicle hobbles along for a few more kilometers on the dirt road. I start to discern clearings and wooden fences, gers and wooden houses. Erdene maneouvers the taxi onto a narrow street. We could almost touch the wooden fences that line the muddy street. Our taxi jumps as it navigates the potholes.
Erdene: "I am looking for market."
Me: "Ah..."
Now I understand why he is driving around in circles.
Erdene finally finds the shop. It looks like a hole in the wall. He nips by to pick up a big jar of cherry compote.
Erdene: "For brother," he says as he starts the car.
Me: "Ah..." realizing Ysabelle and I didn't have any present with us.
We continue with our zigzagging drive until we reach a fenced area. On the road, huge cows moo their greetings at our arrival. Erdene descends and opens wide the metal gate. He gets back into the taxi and drives up to the ger.
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| Yak mom mooing her greetings Photo credit: Greca Durant |
Ysabelle and I step out onto the yard. Baby animals stand around in a corner, by the gate, regarding us with wary eyes. Erdene picks up the jar of cherries and motions us to follow him into the ger. Ysabelle and I step inside, carefully picking up our feet over the threshold of the ger, according to Mongolian etiquette. Stumbling over it or bumping your feet against it may bring bad luck.
Me: "Sain bain uu," I say, removing my hat.
Ysabelle: "Sain bain uu," using her newly learned Mongolian greeting with a smile.
Erdene: "My brother, my younger brother. His wife. His daughter, his son," he says as he introduces his brother's family to us. The names are not easy to catch. The warm smiles suffice for the language gap. "Other son work in UB."
The brother, who is sitting on the ger bed, waves his hand, for us to sit on low orange wooden stools around the equally low orange wooden table, traditional ger furniture. Erdene and his brother start a conversation in Mongolian. Ysabelle and I listen with great interest, even if we did not understand anything. The wife starts pouring something milky into china bowls. These are handed to us one by one. We all say "Bayarlalaa" with more smiles. A plate of homemade boortsog or deep fried butter cookies arrives at the table to accompany our milk tea.
Erdene: "Milk tea," he says, starting to sip.
Me: "Yes, really good," I say truthfully because I like milk tea. We start to perspire, it being also a very hot day. I pick up a boortsog and this just melts in my mouth. Definitely not the store variety. This is top boortsog.
Ysabelle: "It's really nice," she comments on her first taste of Mongolian milk tea or suutei tsai. She also appreciates the buttery, melt-in-the-mouth boortsog.
We finish our bowls of suutei tsai and mouthfuls of buttery boortsog.
On the stove nestles a big wok-like metal pan of milk that has started to boil. By the ger door stand large, tall metal jugs of milk. On top of a chest freezer, I notice a cutting board with a rolled dough on top, very thin like thin crust pizza. In a pan, on a stove, by the foot of the freezer, ground meat is being tossed around. I think it is mutton, from the smell that saturates the air in the ger.
Erdene: "My brother say MonFresh did not come collect milk today, so they have lots of milk."
Me: "My. The reason for all the boiling. There's a lot. What will they do with all this milk?"
Erdene asks his sister-in-law, who is sitting on a stool next to the stove, alternately looking after the meat and stirring the bubbling milk, lifting ladles of milk in the air. She smiles and explains.
Erdene: "They make...tarag...ah...," at a loss for the English word.
Me: "I know tarag, yogurt."
Erdene: "Yes, yes, yogurt, tarag."
At the mention of tarag, the brother stoops and picks up a metal milk jug and offers it to us. The jug is very cold to the touch. It is brimming with inviting half-frozen homemade yogurt. The wife brings more bowls to the table. She also gives us spoons. Erdene's brother scoops large spoonfuls of the thick icy yogurt into our bowls. His wife offers sugar. Before we can even put a spoon of tarag in our mouths, a plate of delicious looking, wobbly, creamy white wedges is served.
Erdene: "This is urum...ah..." again looking for that elusive English translation. "There is new baby yak, and this, from milk of mother."
Me: "It's like cream, very soft. Is it curd?"
Erdene: "No curd. Curd, aaruul; this, urum."
We start to take small chunks of the urum. My eyes widen. I have never tasted anything like it. Wow! Full fat clotted cream at its best! And the tarag? Top tarag in town.
We finish our bowls of tarag and our mouthfuls of full fat urum, and manage more mouthfuls of boortsog.
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| Clockwise: Urum or clotted cream, tarag or yogurt jug, boortsog or butter-fried cookies and suutei tsai or milk tea. Photo credit: Greca Durant |
Erdene's brother leads us outside, to cool down a bit. As I walk out, I watch as his wife rolls the dough into tubes. She put these tubes in a steamer.
Outside, the sun's heat has lost its power to burn. It is now very pleasant. Time to say hello to the baby animals. I spot the baby yak. Ysabelle and I move toward the youngsters.
Erdene: "This baby yak, two days old. This, baby cow, two months, still baby. That, six months. All these, still babies."
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| Baby yak hiding behind another calf Photo credit: Greca Durant |
Our cameras start clicking. The baby yak is very shy and manages to evade our photographic efforts. Erdene motions for us to follow him and his brother to the shed. Inside, everything is shiny clean. We are shown the milking station complete with rubber tubes and containers.
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| Milking the cows using a double bucket vacuum pump Photo credit: Greca Durant |
We head back to the ger and sit on the stools around the table. I notice the ground meat is cooking nicely in the pan. The wife uncovers the steamer and removes the dough tubes. She carefully slices each tube in a diagonal manner until she has a pile of spaghetti-like strings. She tosses them into the pan where the meat is cooking. Bowls are removed from the ger table drawer. These are filled with the noodles. A brimming bowl finds its way to my waiting hands.
Erdene: "Tsuivan, Mongolian spaghetti. Let's eat."
Ysabelle: "This smells good. Thanks," addressing the wife of Erdene's brother.
Me: "Bayarlalaa."
Her tsuivan version is a very tasty blend of homemade noodles and delicious, tender pieces of mutton. It is definitely top tsuivan in town. I smile at my daughter who is obviously enjoying her share. To wash down our meal, our lady host offers us bowls of freshly pasteurized yak milk.
We finish our bowls of tsuivan and our bowls of hot yak milk.
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| Our Mongolian feast! Photo credit: Greca Durant |
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| Hot yak milk Photo credit: Greca Durant |
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| My daughter Ysabelle sitting outside the ger owned by Erdene's brother, taking a breather from our Mongolian feast Photo credit: Greca Durant |
Ysabelle and I round up some snack items like jelly, dried fruits, fresh apples, aloe vera drinks and cookies and the collection is handed to the daughter, the youngest member of the family. We offer our profuse and heartfelt thanks to our hosts and we are off to UB.
Food is definitely not a topic until breakfast the next day.
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