The Mongolian Adventure-Equine Style

A sample of my short stories...

Scratching the incessant itch of the bug bite I’d acquired on my forearm, I glanced toward my friends. We sat huddled together inside the toasty warmth of the yurt, unsure of the Mongolian chieftain’s decision.

The clan had found us on the broad steppes, riding abreast Bonanza-style behind the band of mares. Our mistake was that we thought they were much like American mustangs, ranging free and belonging to no one. We were wrong; the mares were the pride and joy of this particular family of Mongolians. Because of the language barrier, the normally affable nature of the natives had turned dour and we found ourselves herded inside their camp.

However, being held in the brightly colored felt structure was quite comfortable. I shook my hair out of my red ski cap. “Guys, we didn’t do anything wrong. How could we have known those mares belonged to them? We’re just tourists out for little ride in Mongolia.”

“Are you Cr-crazy? That head guy looked pissed off!” said Max, the Grizzly Adams of the group.

Mia, mousy and slight, looked toward me and added, “We’ll be tossed out of the country for sure, or worse. Why did you talk me into this?”

“Me? You’re the one that wanted to go on a riding vacation!” I grinned, “Besides, how many of our friends can say they’ve ridden on the Mongolian steppes?”

Neil, my husband, wiped his glasses and thoughtfully mentioned, “If we can get them to understand that we were just curious, I’m sure they’ll let us go. Not one of the men that surrounded us had guns that I saw. According to the literature I’ve read, horses are a way of life here. We have horses as a commonality.”

“Well, while we’re here, I’m going to check out the place,” I said, standing.

Two hands reached my arm at once and pulled me down. “Sit down! If they find you snooping like a tourist at Disneyworld, we’ll be in deeper trouble than we already are.”

“Sheesh, you guys are no fun. I wonder what’s in that pot in the corner. Did you see it? It’s all rusted and looks like a witch’s cauldron,” I said, reluctantly sitting.

Max muttered, “Just sit down and be quiet, I hear someone coming.”

The flap of the yurt opened to reveal the chieftain, scowling, followed by other members of the clan. They gave us a fleeting look and headed to the cauldron in the corner. The Mongolians were short, barrel chested men, with recessed almond shaped eyes that were difficult to read.

Our unease increased as the clansmen spoke to each other in their native tongue. The language was so totally foreign to us that glances from the men made my friends and husband a little fearful.

Naturally gregarious, I winked directly at the chieftain and smiled, lifting my hand with a little wave, hoping the gesture was universal and that he would look kindly toward women.

“Don’t,” whispered my husband, “We don’t know their culture. What is friendly to us may mean something completely different to them.”

Silence was replaced by the sound of liquid being scooped from the cauldron into chipped, gaily painted cups, clearly their very best. I noticed that there were more cups than men. The leader of the Mongols carried two full cups toward our group. He offered the first to me with a grunt.

I accepted the offering and sniffed the watery white liquid. I noticed the liquid smelled vaguely of mare’s milk and took a tiny sample. Not wishing to offend the clansmen, I smiled and said, “Mmmm, good.”

My words instantly melted the frigid atmosphere. Smiles from weathered Mongolian faces grew into rapid-fire responses. I hadn’t a clue as to what they were saying, I just smiled and nodded.

Before long, the yurt was full of people, which now included the women of the clan. It seemed that we had been accepted. One of the younger Mongolians spoke limited English, enough to translate the story of our vacation. . Food and drink was offered freely as our hosts welcomed us into their home.

Night fell and the clan offered our group our own felt covered teepee as well as a makeshift corral for our horses. As we bedded down, warm under furry blankets, I dreamily whispered, “Horsemen are all alike aren’t they? Our translator tried to barter for that bay I’m riding.”

My husband removed his glasses and snuggled further under his blanket. “Don’t you dare trade that bay for one of their ponies; you’ll create an international incident. I can see the headlines now, “American Woman Imprisoned in Mongolia for Horse-trading”.

“Well, they did have a really cute little chestnut with flaxen mane and tail, I wonder what the transportation costs would be” I said, as my eyes closed yielding to slumber.