Airag!

The dust of the city was gone. And the sheep for sale by the roadside. And the goats tied to rusty pick-up trucks. So too the chimneys' smoke, the crowded bus stops and the windowless breeze block walls. The cacophony of squealing brakes and lisping voices, of traffic whistles and loud abrasive beats fell no longer upon the ears, but lay distant and quietened - a vague recollection of a saturated sonic landscape.

Above the dryness of the empty steppe, the heat of the air swelled and grew humid. The light, spattering rain, from the gathering, darkened clouds, promised downpour and soon enough I found myself away from the road searching for a place to camp. The sandy earth drank, thirstily, the heavy, cooling water.

Only several hours later did the sun again make its presence felt. The light, warming rays came, accompanied by a beautiful, mourning voice - singing outside my tent. I went outside to meet Mungo - a malchin, or herdsman. As we sat around my phrasebook I learnt of his family; his two brothers and his parents, with whom he lived, and I tried to explain what I was doing. We shared sweets and apples as he played, fascinatedly with various parts on my bike. I felt very welcome in this new and ownerless land.

A little while later, making coffee outside, I was slightly startled to notice a horse, galloping towards me at a great pace. At the last moment the horse was pulled to a halt and another herdsman jumped down from the saddle. The furious pace of his arrival was quickly replaced with an apparent friendliness and I was once again to be found sharing fruit and chocolate - flicking through pages of Mongolian words. Pointing often, as my pronounciation seemed to rob the phrases of all meaning.

The new herdsman told me that he lived alone. And pointing to the clouds, still dark in the sky, invited me to spend the night in his ger. Excited by my first opportunity to gain an insight into the life of a Mongolian nomad, I was happy to contribute a little money towards buying some airag - fermented mare's milk.

It was only as he began to rip my tent pegs from the ground that I noticed a drunkeness was already well established within my new acquaintance. Time, perhaps, to be on my guard, but certainly no cause for panic.

My tent was packed and my bike loaded. Ready to ride to my new friend's ger. It was at this point that he turned. Pushing my bike to the ground and motioning to hit me! He swung his fists and bizzarely grinded his teeth. Jumping away, I stared perplexed at this change of behaviour. He stepped over the bike between us and, smiling, hugged me tightly, drunkenly. And, though the wetness of his lips did not find a welcome cheek, I was happy not to know his fists.

Resolved in my decision that it was time to leave I picked up my bike and said goodbye. Again he pushed my bike to the floor and the drunken scene continued for several minutes.

It was a great relief to watch him, finally, clamber upon his horse and trot away. Towards his ger, with my five thousand togrog in his pocket. He had covered just a few metres when he turned and, again, galloped towards me - lashing wildly with his horse whip as I dived out of his path. Now masterful and confident in his skills as a horseman he span around - swinging again for my scrambling body. Perhaps half a minute of this pantomime ensued before his former character surfaced. Smiling again, he motioned toward his ger and indicated that I was welcome as his guest.

"Bayta" I said. Goodbye.

Adrenaline filled as they were, I was able, over the following 15 miles of escape, to put the event into perspective. He was a drunk. And a crazy. But his aggression never crossed effectively into violence and, after regularly checking I was not being followed, I was able to sleep surprisingly well... imagining he was furthering the investigation into his personality crisis over several cups of airag.

... sorry again, really I will try next time for brevity...