Mongolia: Before The Rain
‘I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape. Something waits beneath it; the whole story doesn’t show.’ – Andrew Wyeth.At the end of April, I entered the 2016 National Geographic Writing Competition. Unfortunately, my entry was not successful and I won’t be enjoying the free trip to Madagascar in October, nor will my piece of writing be published by the magazine. Oh well! It’s good for you guys, because it means that I have decided to share it here for your enjoyment instead! It’s only a short piece (the word limit was 500 words) but I hope that you find it interesting.
Mongolia is an beautiful, often bleak, country and it left a deep impression on me. I barely scraped the surface of this complex country when I wrote this piece. There are so many facets left to discover and this is just one interpretation. I hope to return one day and explore further. Until then, I’m left with wonderful memories of my time there, many of which I will share here on this blog in the coming weeks.
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The horse is grey and nameless. He is skinny too; a result of the harsh winter Mongolia has just endured, and the dry summer before that.
When we drove out of Ulaan Baatar, Mendee explained that the winters were getting longer and the summers drier. He recalled his childhood when it rained more and the grass grew greener and longer. I asked if he thought climate change was having an impact and he nodded seriously.
‘It is getting worse,’ he replied, as we passed a power station belching clouds of thick smoke into the sky, ‘We lost a lot of horses this winter.’
I have come to Mongolia before the rain.
From between the ears of my nameless grey horse, I can see how tough life is. The grass is brittle and grows sparsely. Animals must roam far and wide to get what little nourishment they can. Strong winds flow unchecked across the land and whip the soil into angry dust devils that throw themselves at us, causing our eyes to sting and our mouths to clog. The ground is littered with rocks, pebbles and animal droppings.
There is rubbish everywhere, the mark of our throwaway society even in these remote corners. A cardboard box bowls jauntily along on the breeze. Scraps of plastic, shards of broken glass and chunks of metal wink at me where the sunlight catches them. Occasionally, there are items of clothing – an odd shoe, missing its partner, and once, a sad looking cap, lying in a sorry little heap in the dirt.
The long winter lingers on, icy fingers still gripping the land, slow to let go. We pass herds of withered cattle and starker reminders of suffering – horses skulls picked clean by carrion crows.
A town appears from nowhere. Bright blocks of colour cover the drab Communist concrete, the buildings reminiscent of the Soviet era not so long passed. Empty vodka bottles are strewn here and there. Tattered flags stream in the omnipresent wind. They remind me of the Mongolian people – resilient in these unforgiving conditions and defiantly clinging on, despite adversities that the steppe throws their way.
The rain will come soon. Life will be easier for both man and horse for a season. The rubbish will be washed away, soil will regenerate and the steppe will be green once more. The nameless grey horse will grow fatter and the cycle will begin anew.
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