Mongolia, A Report from the Field: Flying Reindeer of Moron

When last we saw our intrepid adventurers—before the horrors of multiple computer disasters and restoration chores on this end—they were bundled up against the cold northern Mongolian wind at the exclusive Ashihai Tourist Camp and waving goodbye to the staff who had assembled to see them off.  

Being here is worth the cost of the trip,” says Cap.   I agree wholeheartedly, though the best part for me was the day trip from the Ashihai tourist camp and the visit with the Mongol herders. And that cup of salted yak milk tea.

They are on a time schedule now, as Cap is anxious to get back to Ulaanbaatar in time to attend a meeting at 2 P.M. Saturday afternoon.   We catch up with them in nearby Mӧrӧn, not far from Ashihai but a couple hours closer to their destination, where they have stopped to spend the night.

Now, we’re in Murun, or Moron, or Mӧrӧn—take your pick, as long as you pronounce it Muroon.   From now on, I’m going with the Moron spelling, just for kicks and because I’m still reading From Mӧrӧn to Moron.

My room isn’t quite ready, so I wait in the lobby of the hotel where we had lunch a few days ago, looking at a large map.   I have a hunch there’s more to the name of this hotel than meets the eye.   There’s a sign that says 50/100.   The longitudes and latitudes on the large map are too small for me to read, so I take photos and hope to enlarge the numbers later.

This little girl is so focused on the cartoons playing on the TV above me that she has no idea I'm there.

Turns out there’s no need because as soon as I walk up the stairs to my room, there are signs everywhere:   n 50°” e 100°00” Hotel.   And there you go, the latitude and longitude of this hotel that’s named 50 Degree 100 Degree Hotel.   Frankly, the old name that everyone still uses, Edelweiss, is much easier.

The adventure for the day is a visit to the Deer Stones.   I was absolutely blank on what deer stones were, but I suspected something along the lines of cave art.

The short drive is where Chimdee decided to have some fun and he pushed the pedal of the metal as we rocketed across the flat plain.  A caveat:  No livestock were harmed during the speed-of-light crossing.

Don't care for the road you're on? 

Choose another.

Out in the middle of nowhere is a small shack used by a volunteer caretaker during the summer tourist months, a few signs, and a fenced area surrounding some stones sticking up in the air and some piles of rocks.  I am immediately enthralled and wish I had a guide book that would tell me more in depth than I glean from Yusuf.  It is not Yusuf’s fault; it’s mine.   I simply don’t know enough about this site to ask the questions that would satisfy my curiosity.

 

Some of the deer stones in this complex.

Most often carved from granite or greenstone, these ancient megaliths from the Bronze Age most likely depict events from a person’s life, though they are not considered to be gravestones as no human remains have been found at the sites.   Most likely, they represent shamanist rituals, as animal remains have been found under the stones.   Other theories suggest they are simply art.

There are many theories as to the purpose of these mounds, but they are now considered by many to be altars.

Yusuf and Patti amid the deer stones.

Stones with stylized reindeer are prominent in southern Siberia and northern Mongolia.   Of the 700 known deer stones worldwide, 500 of them are in Mongolia.

Note what appears to be a belt or sash with bow, axe, and other tools.

Like gers, the carved faces are oriented to the east, to catch the morning sun.

Note the face at the top of the deer stone.   This is considered very unusual.

 While I lingered at this tallest of the deer stones, a break appeared in the clouds.   Look what happened.

This is from Lonely Planet: 

Found across Mongolia, deer stones are markers from the Bronze Age and there are several theories about their existence.   The ancient steppe tribes believed that after death the soul ascended to the sky on the backs of deer.   The deer carved on the stones appear to be representational of this act. 

However, since human remains have never been found near these stones, they do not appear to be gravestones, but rather serve some sort of religious or spiritual purpose.   Many deer stones are also carved with a belt, from which hang various tools including axes and spears.   These accessories would be required to successfully navigate the afterlife. 

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The drive back to Moron was at a moderate speed because Cap had a tête–à–tête with Chimdee.   It was also populated with speed bumps in the form of  curious livestock.

Having had one successful tête–à–tête this afternoon, Cap approaches the locals to attempt another.

Other photos from the drive back to Moron:

A monument to horses on a nearby hill.

Moron is laid out in grids with wide streets.

 

This map shows several routes.   Ours will be from Lake Khuvsgul in the north to Moron, across to Bulgan and east to Erdenet.   Our destination is Ilaanbaatar in the far east.

To all my readers on Valentine's Day

Supposedly I'm a writer, but I cannot express adequately how much it means to me that visit here and read what I share.


Thank you for being in my life!

Love always, Gullible

Uncovered Story--An Ann Linquist prompt

(As my computer recovery and backup continues, I came across this short story I wrote a few years ago and had forgotten.   Here it is for your enjoyment during this intermission in the Mongolia Reports from the Field.   The story was inspired by a list of writing prompts from instructor Ann Linquist.  The three I chose were bowling, hearing aid, and Druids.)

Seamus reached back over his shoulders and drew the hood of his brown woolen cloak over his long black hair. Slipping his feet into sandals, he opened the heavy wooden door of his cell, kissed his right forefinger and middle finger, placed the fingers on the Irish cross over the doorway, then stepped into the dorter.

As he passed the rows of empty cots, he noted the absence of other monks. They must all be in the refectory, he thought, and added a prayer that none were yet in the misericord.

The wooden soles of his sandals clapped on the cobblestones floor as he left the dorter and entered the windowed cloister. I should wear the horsehair-soled ones, he thought, but they hurt so much on these stones. Well, the Abbott can’t hear them anyway.

At the end of the long hallway, he turned left into the lavatorium. Seamus rolled back the sleeves of his cloak, dipped his hands into the trough of running water, and began scrubbing them with the coarse brown lye soap made at the monastery. Only Patrick was in the small room, drying his hands on burlap.

“Brother Patrick,” said Seamus. “I pray God be with you tonight.”

“Thank you,” said Patrick, “and with you, Brother Seamus. How is the Abbott this day?”

“Weakening, I am sorry to say. I am about to take him his evening meal. What have the brothers prepared for us?”

“Boiled potatoes and cabbage, along with fresh haddock.”

“Sounds wonderful, as usual. The Abbott can eat the fish and potatoes if I mash them for him. I’m afraid the cabbage is too much for him to chew, though. Perhaps some of the broth will do him well,” answered Seamus. “And the other?”

We Omagh Monks are ahead of the Dublin Druids three games to two” said Patrick. “That new novice Brendan is gifted at nine pins. He alone can take credit for winning two of the games. Have you finished your new bowling ball yet?”

“I have. The Lord willing I will make those Druids laugh yet.”

“There are a cheery lot, are they not,” laughed Patrick. “Begorrah, I have yet to see even one smile. I don’t know how they win anything, with all their doom and gloom prognostications directed at their fellow teammates. Do you really think they will keep their promise to laugh if we win the contest?”

“Yes, well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here and become prideful. We are blessed that we have been able to meet two nights in a row. And their Lorcan and Eoghan are determined bowlers, are they not?”

“Do you anticipate difficulties tonight? The brothers have completed all their prayers and chores and are anticipating the evening’s contest.”

“No more than usual. Two days prior I ‘accidentally’ nudged his hearing horn under his bed so he cannot hear the balls rolling across the stone and hitting the oaken pins. To be playing a secular game when there are crops to be harvested surely is a sin, but what fears me most is if he discovers we have refashioned the dungeon misericord into a bowling hall,” said Seamus. Patrick raised his eyes to the ceiling and made the sign of the cross.

The two entered the refectory where two dozen monks were eating in silence, not by the promise of their vows, but in anxious anticipation of what might befall them this night.

Questioning eyes turned to Seamus as he entered the hall, though all the monks knew it was too soon for an answer. Seamus said nothing and indicated nothing. He went to the serving trencher and spooned a small portion of potatoes and fish onto a wooden plate, then mashed the two together. In a simple goblet, he ladled some cabbage broth, and placed the two serving dishes on a wooden slab.

A few minutes later, Seamus pushed open the door to the Abbott’s room, clearing his throat loudly as he did. 

There was no response from the man seated at the window. Seamus paused and watched for signs of movement. Seeing the Abbott take in a breath, Seamus again cleared his throat and spoke, “Good evening, Abbott Benedict. I have brought you a fine meal.”

Slowly the Abbott turned towards Seamus. “Oh, I didn’t hear you, Brother Seamus. I still cannot find my hearing aid anywhere. Have you seen it perchance?”

Seamus looked down at the tray in his hands, then chanced a sidelong glance at the Abbott’s bed. He could just make out the dim off-white shape of a hollow goat’s horn on the floor, almost totally hidden by the wool blankets that draped to the stone floor.

“Abbott, I’m sure you have simply misplaced the horn. We will find it someday.”

Abbott Benedict raised his rheumy blue eyes to Seamus’s and said nothing. He picked up the wooden spoon and began eating. Seamus began speaking of the work accomplished so far with the monastery’s crops and of the work yet to come. The Abbott nodded occasionally, but remained mute. When the Abbott finished his meal, Seamus placed the plate and goblet on the slab.

“Would you like some assistance in getting to bed, my father?” said Seamus.

“Yes, please, Brother Seamus. That would be kind of you. My legs don’t seem to have the strength I think they should have. Ah, I think the good Lord will be calling for me soon.”

“That would be his proud gain and our misfortune,” replied Seamus as he helped the man rise and then offered his arm. The Abbott sat on the edge of the bed and Seamus lifted the old man’s legs onto the straw mattress, then drew the woolen blankets over the Abbott’s thin frame.

“Would there be anything else?” asked Seamus.

“No, no, you’ve done enough, Brother Seamus. You can put out the candles before you leave. I will say my prayers in the dark tonight. The Lord doesn’t need light to hear my words.”

“I wish you a good night then, my Abbott,” said Seamus, pinching the wicks of two beeswax candles between his thumb and forefinger. He walked across the Abbott’s cell and reached for the iron latch.

“One thing, Seamus, before you leave.”

“Yes, sir?”

“What is the score? You aren’t letting those dratted Druids beat us, are you?”

Getting Closer

Two weeks and counting for this computer restoration after a new hard drive was installed.   Also setting up a new laptop.   I didn't want to post any stories and photos here because it would have slowed the downloading of about 80,000 photos that Carbonite had backed up.

Now to start writing again.   Spent today getting Office 2016 installed on the new laptop.  Had to get a Microsoft tech uninstall all the remnants of Office 365.s