my head "yurts"

before i go into the "adventure" that was the inner mongolian grasslands, i will paint a picture of the night before as it is somewhat important to the full understanding of the story (somewhat, i say, but in reality it is merely a humorous story that cannot go untold).

so, a few weeks ago, we were told that three americans were coming with one of their teachers to tour the school and see what it was all about. we thought this was strange as the school is literally in the middle of nowhere and difficult to get from any major airport, but, as with anything here, there is little use in asking questions as nothing really makes sense. the day came and we were all to meet these american students in the school meeting room. walking into the room where they sat, we proceeded to get to know these foreigners a little better: where were they from? what school did they go to? why the hell were they here in inner mongolia? the answers came back normal enough. they were from chicago and went to some high school in the suburbs. they were all cousins and one of their fathers had attended school with the headmaster of our school. questions answered, we bid them adieu. flash forward a few hours . . .

we all arrive at a famed mongolian restaurant downtown. the nine of us foreign teachers, the three students, bossman, and mr. wu (another high-ranking administrator) all sat down to what was going to be a delicious mongolian dinner. the nine of us were affected with a surge of happiness at the realization that we were eating out and could avoid the horrors of the dining hall back at school. orders of pijiu and baijiu dutifully ordered, we settled in for a long, enjoyable night of food, revelry, and much too much karaoke singing. as mentioned in earlier posts, any good chinese dinner begins, consists of, and ends with a succession of toasts that render the diner incapacitated at the end of the night. we expected no different from this night. it seemed, however, that our underage friends hadn't gotten the memo as they seemed to be taking "sips" (more of a guzzle) between our "sips". one of the boys in particular was making great strides in attempting to drink the restaurant dry by himself. we decided to ignore this obvious faux pas in hopes that our newcomer to the world of bachinallia would soon learn his mistake. this soon became impossible, however, as the decibel level of his voice grew to deafening levels as did his spastic laughter. one of our group decided it was necessary to kindly prod him to slow down. her kind suggestion made, she was met with a response of, "i will f-ing kill you" from the young reveler. obviously meant to be a joke, the comment was met with complete silence from the table as everyone was trying to ascertain what had happened within the past few seconds; a scene of glazed eyes filled with surprise and soy sauce stained lips gaping with confusion. apologies came from all around and the incident was soon all but forgotten. amidst pijiu inspired singing and baijiu laced laughter, a glance to the corner revealed a lone figure drowning in his embarrassment. all attempts to forget what had happened were foiled, as the sight of this lone boy put an edge on the rest of the night. this story is perhaps not as humorous to the reader as to me, but i felt it a necessary story to document, nonetheless. now, flash forward again about 3 hours . . .

after a 4am wake up and an icy cold shower i crawled to the bus that was to convey us to the fabled inner mongolian grasslands. amidst a pounding sinus headache from a cold that i had gotten a few days before (and still have), the lurching of the bus caused by a seemingly drunk bus driver, incessant bumps caused by irregularly paved roads, and the nose-piercing aroma of baijiu permeating the air originating from dirty-hand-soiled seats, i dreamed of the scene i was soon to behold. horses running free, tall grasses, yak skin covered yurts, and kind, welcoming mongolian folk were what i laboriously envisioned during the 3 hour trek.

the bus sputtered to a stop and we all filed out. to the left, cows grazing and swimming in a large pond. to the right, a cluster of yurts. beyond that, seemingly endless grasslands and rolling hills. walking to the encampment, i realized that this was anything but an authentic mongolian yurt camp. the yurts had foundations, they were covered with colorful canvas and nylon, there were karaoke systems, running water, electricity. my disappointment was allayed, however, when i glanced once again at the pristine grasslands beyond. after a short walk through the camp, a few of us decided to trek through the grass to the hills a good distance ahead. any description of this beautiful scene that i could attempt would be inadequate in the least. the pictures will do that job for me.




im sure it comes as no surprise to any of you that i am now a true mountain climber having scaled the formidable hills of inner mongolia with only a digital camera in my pocket and a sparkle in my eye. i'm the real thing. in this spirit, i descended the "mountain" in hopes of a lunch befitting a true mountain climber. entering the yurt, we were all seated around two different tables; one supposedly for baijiu drinkers and the other for pijiu drinkers. still feeling the effects of the night before as well as the dehydration of the day, i opted for the baijiu table so that i could sneak water into my glass. after a few toasts, happily sober and beginning to feel hydrated, i began to notice that my dining partners were approaching a state i like to call "housed". the rest of the meal was abundant with drunken affirmations and random bursts of uncontrollable laughter, while i hastily took shots of my "baijiu/water" so as not to be found out. this drunkeness was perhaps fueled even further by the fact that our lunch contained fatty-greased-up peices (read: slabs) of sheep meat surrounded by sheep entrail soup, sheep's blood sausage, and other unmentionable parts of a sheep's anatomy. i politely ate from the dishes that looked the least organ-like. i am not sure exactly what i ate, but that is the charm of this place - you never know what you are putting in your body or what part of the body it is from. the yurt soon resounded with giggles of drunken delight as i sat and watched the scene: diana getting kissed and wu-ed by mr. wu, mike and jacob going shot for shot with the busdriver (yes, the busdriver), and bossman insisting on everyone taking more shots despite protests from some citing lesson plans that had to be made.


lunch soon declined into a dull, hungover roar and some expressed an interest in horseback riding. ready for another "adventure" i shot out of the yurt, put my shoes back on, and hopped onto the nearest horse. the ride was tourist-fare to say the least, but my guide, noticing that i had ridden a horse before, let me ride alone. mike proceeded to flirt with his guide in broken chinese and somehow managed to purchase the vest off his back. he now had a piece of mongolia and a piece of his man. having sufficiently made our usual mark as crazy tourists, we sombered back to the bus only to find the bus driver passed out and unresponsive. unable to enter the bus, adam climbed through the driver's window and unlocked the door. a few minutes of fear were all but forgotten when a back-up busdriver appeared from the grass and our lives, saved. reclining in my sweat-stained seat, i dozed off to dream once more of my own idyllic grasslands and the many adventures . . . and quasi-adventures . . . that await me.