How Many Lumps Do You Want? Oh, Three or Four

Today was the day we would move to the next ger. We were sad to leave this family that we had grown so attached to over just two days, but were excited about meeting a new family with our increased confidence about language and the local customs.


While we waited for Broody to arrive with the camels for our trek, we each enjoyed our last moments playing with our little Mongolian boy before we had to say goodbye.




But it's not all fun and games. Even he had chores to do. (Getting water for a baby goat.)

While we sat outside, we watched Dad and number 3 son herding some horses. The animals in Mongolia are treated much as they were in the American west about 100 years ago. They are allowed to roam free in herds when not in use, then are captured when needed. The son was riding to get the horses near Dad, who was trying to catch one with a loop on the end of a long pole. Here are some pictures, but if you can watch the video, it is a little more interesting.

Eventually, they did catch one. We assumed that they were catching it to carry our bags, but then they did the unexpected. The son climbed off his horse, removed the saddle, and moved it to this new horse. It seems that this new semi-tame horse would be a vehicle for one of us today. It was time to say goodbye to our home and our adopted family. Here is a little look at our home for you. This is the family ger. (Our separate one was in a picture from my post two days ago.)

The inside of our ger was set up for visitors, whereas the family one has their beds, as well as their kitchen and all of their belongings. (Notice our little munchkin to the right in this picture.)

The north end of the family ger has a shrine, but ours simply has pictures of the family and their visits to Ulaan Baatar.
And finally, you get to see these curd products I have been mentioning. They are made from drying the goat’s milk curd on the roof of the ger. It has a slightly tart taste and an al dente consistency, but it not a taste that is hard to acquire. (Both shapes taste the same to me.)

After our well-rehearsed Mongolian goodbyes, we set out on our journey, me riding Shaar, Kerry riding Hoar, Liz riding the wild horse, and Broody on his horse carrying all of our gear.

We were not looking forward to riding camels again, but we did learn a few comfort tricks, like standing in the saddle early and often to keep pressure off the leg joints, and also how to shift the stirrups to allow you to straighten you legs without losing your grip.

We rode over bumpy grassland, which was like a roller coaster, as the camels tripped and stumbled through it, then back on to the hard surface of the semi-arid steppe.
Liz is an experienced rider, so Broody let her take her own reins. Kerry and I may be "joolchen" (tourists), but Liz, in spirit, is part Mongolian.
When we were only about 100 meters from the next ger and our salvation from the uncomfortable camels, the unexpected happened. One of the sleeping bags that Broody was carrying wriggled free from its straps and fell to the ground, making a sudden swooshing sound. Unfortunately, camels spook easily and mine was right next to the bag. It reared up, throwing me, and took off running. It all happened in an instant. As my camel reared up, I tried to hold on, but soon knew this was impossible. I was already in the air by the time my mind registered the sound of the bag falling. In an attempt to avoid being trampled, I tried to twist my body so I would land parallel to the camels’ strides. Unfortunately, this meant that I broke the fall with my left arm and my face.

Upon hitting the ground, I rolled up into a sitting position, watching the other animals still running away. I heard myself wailing, from the shock, from the pain, and from my desire to not have to sit there in the dirt alone. I immediately knew I had broken my arm. I had broken it last year teaching my friend Alba to ice skate and as soon as you’ve done that once, it is a feeling you never forget. I tried to balance my arm on my thigh so it wouldn’t have to hold its own weight. After a few seconds delay, my nose started bleeding. I tried to catch the blood in my hand, but then realized that it was already streamed across my pants. There was no point in trying to stop it, so I let my bloody hand fall to the ground. I kept calling out, needing someone to be there for me, but they were doing the intelligent thing, which was to stop the animals so no one else would be injured. I realized that, in the impact, my camera had popped out of its case and was lying just out of arm’s reach behind me. In a move that will bring a smile to my photographically-inclined friends’ faces, I twisted around to stretch behind me, grasping at and finally reaching my camera, all the while still dripping blood, wailing, and trying to keep my broken arm immobile.

After the longest 20 seconds of my life, Liz arrived, asking what hurt. Now that I was not alone anymore, I stopped crying out and calmly explained that I had broken my arm and had a bloody nose. Liz got my handkerchief for me and within moments, Kerry, Broody, and another Mongolian man were there. While I was addressing my nose injury, the men were trying to touch my arm and I had to shout at them to stop. Liz found the phrase for "broken arm" in the phrase book (so glad we had that) and they immediately stopped trying to move it. After much pinching of the nose (always stop the bleeding by pinching the nose with your head tilted forward, not backward) the bleeding subsided.

I wiped away the tears and got down to practical matters of dealing with the arm. The girls got out my first aid kit so I could take some OTC pain meds, which did very little for my pain. I don’t carry anything really strong because some countries are funny about what pain killers you can carry. Then I asked Kerry to get out my krama that my friend Jennifer had bought me in Cambodia. A krama is a traditional Cambodian scarf that was about to become a traditional Mongolian sling. (Thanks, Jennifer!) I lifted the broken arm with my good arm, while the girls slid the krama under my elbow and tied it up around my shoulder. Then I told them that I needed to get up before the shock wore off and the real pain set in. I grabbed Broody’s arm and the other man tried to touch my broken arm again, which got him a scream. I felt bad because he was trying to be nice, but that really hurt! Between Broody gently pulling and me using my own power to pull myself up at a pace that wouldn’t hurt, I was soon standing, to worried smiles from the girls.

We walked to the ger and the family immediately had me sit and relax, with pillows all around to support my arm. They, naturally, gave me milk tea, which I sipped, but then had to give to Kerry because it was burning my hands and it would have been very disrespectful to drop it. Hot cup, no handles, one arm – bad combination. They brought in lunch and had me sit in the place of honor closest to the north end of the ger so I could sit comfortably to eat.

At my request, Liz communicated, once again through the godsend of a phrasebook, that there was no emergency (since I assumed it was the same break as last year, which only required a sling) and I didn’t want a doctor. (Actually, no offense to Mongolia, but I didn’t want a local doctor.) They didn’t know what to do with me, so the Mongolians all left to discuss this in the other ger, save Broody, who sat sheepishly at the place of least honor, on the floor right next to the door. After the others had left, he asked to borrow our phrasebook and flipped through the entire thing, until he found the word for “I’m sorry.” ("uuchlaraa") The worst part is, he could have saved himself the trouble and said it in Mongolian, because that was one of the few phrases I knew. He really looked sullen and concerned, a complete departure from the cocky and temperamental man we had met the day before. We kept telling him it was not his fault, but he kept saying that they were his camels, making him responsible. I couldn’t help but think that Cris, our veterinarian friend in Ulaan Baatar, was right – they really are deeply concerned for your personal well-being.

When we were finally alone, we tested out my camera to make sure it still worked. This is Kerry declaring me a bad-ass.

The Mongolians returned, phone in hand. Unsure of how best to help me, they had used their cell phone to call the tour company, who in turn called my transport insurance company. The tour company manager had a decent knowledge of medical care and between he and Liz, they assessed my condition and agreed to send a car to pick me up, but it would take several hours to get here, and the 300 km drive would take seven hours or longer in the dark.

While the girls did the planned activity for the day, which involved riding a yak cart to the dunes to do some sand sliding, I had to stay home. I was sad to be missing out on the fun, but in my condition, jealousy was not an emotion I was capable of. I tried to rest, but everything was uncomfortable. For the second time today, Cris was right on. When the car arrived, even though I was standing there in wrenching pain and precious daylight was fading, the driver and our tour company rep went into the ger to have milk tea and food. As I paced outside, which was the only comforting thing I could do for myself, I pictured with complete empathy the poor sheep lying on the ground, sickly, as Cris was painfully obliged to enter the ger to drink milk tea.

These fantastic new friends, despite my assurances that they should continue on their tour, insisted on returning to Ulaan Baatar with me. How many people would do that for someone they had met just days before? We finally said our goodbyes to the family and took off across the dirt in a van to make our way onto the sealed road. It was probably only about 400 meters, but before we were even halfway across, I was screaming in agony and begging the driver to stop. Liz called the tour company and my transport company and explained that we needed a new plan.

The transport company wouldn’t air lift me for a broken arm. I believe their exact words were, “Those are the hazards of traveling in a remote place.” There were no doctors and, more importantly, pain killers close by. Light was fading fast and the second half of the journey was not on a paved road. We had run out of options. We had no choice but to spend the night in the ger. We thanked the driver and I insisted on getting out and walking back, rather than enduring that agony again.

Liz rode back with the driver to explain the situation to the family and Kerry walked with me, at my gingerly slow pace. As the sun set over the dunes, I mentally prepared myself for the long night ahead. The van came back past us and the two children from the family (aged 11 and 12) hopped out. They had been sent to walk us back. How sweet! To entertain us, they caught baby goats and sheep for us to pet.

When we finally reached the ger near dark, Liz washed my pants for me because they were covered in blood. We went to bed, but sleep was fleeting. I managed to find an elaborate pillow, chair, and bed arrangement which was comfortable for my arm. But, I have always been an active sleeper, so within an hour, I was uncomfortable and had to shift, which threw off the entire system. Now, I was not in a good position for the arm, I couldn’t rearrange the pillows with my one good arm, and I could not manage to get the blankets back over me to protect against the icy cold of the desert night. Liz had set her alarm to wake me every few hours to make sure I didn’t have a concussion and was kind enough to help me rearrange myself each time. But by morning, I had probably only slept three hours.


[For those curious about the title, it's an exchange between Bugs Bunny and Pete Puma from Looney Toons. Rather appropriate for today.]