Summer 2011: Emmy Part 1

This is my commute home from work.

For as long as I’ve known her, my good friend Juliet has been fascinated by the nomadic peoples of Mongolia and Siberia. She conducted a study abroad research project on nomads in southern Siberia, wrote an anthropology thesis on the subject, and even toyed with the idea of moving to Svalbard to study nomadic reindeer herders. Juliet, I invite you to drop out of medical school and study me, a bumbling but determined nomad in training.

For those of you who haven’t heard from me in awhile, I’ve spent the past two months in Mongolia on a research project. I’m here to study an early Cambrian tectonic basin. How exactly does a basin subside during a collision? How does organic matter migrate through a basin? Is it possible to use fossils, chemical signals, and sedimentology to reconstruct the geometry of the basin? How and when was Mongolia assembled, and more generally, how does it fit into the tectonics of the rest of Asia? These are some of the questions that interest me.

I know your eyelids are drooping, so I'll stop with the geology and start on the Mongolian nomad part.

Unlike my earth science colleagues who stare at computer screens all summer, I spend months actually looking at, touching, mapping, describing, and collecting rocks. So for a Cambrian tectonic history nerd like me, the most fascinating place in the world is the Altai Mountains of western Mongolia. There are Cambrian rocks elsewhere in the world, but the rocks here are particularly well-exposed, well-preserved, and under-studied. I’ve been travelling around with four Mongolians: Uyanga, a fellow Harvard PhD student, Djeka and Gerald, 2 undergrads from Ulaan Baatar, and Mogi, our driver. We’ve rented a Russian-built van that the Mongolians call The Machine. Outside of UB, there are no paved roads or land ownership rights. The Mongolian steppe is one giant campground, and we’re free to go where we please as long as Mogi can maneuver The Machine there. Most of the time we drive on river beds and dirt tracks that were created by other steppe travelers or illegal miners that the Mongolians call “Ninjas”, presumably because they resemble the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with their bandannas and pans that they carry on their backs. While in the car we listen to Mongolian ballads about love, mothers, and of course horses.

The Machine cruises over the steppe, probably on a Ninja trail.

I consider myself a decent camper and backpacker. I enjoy hiking, sleeping in a tent, and being outdoors for extended periods of time. I’ve learned, however, that one’s willingness to sleep in a tent does not necessarily translate to being a good nomad. On the Mongolian steppe, I know no more than a toddler. Without exception my companions’ judgement in regard to navigation and basic necessities has been better than mine. I can navigate using a compass, map, or GPS, but without those I’m lost. Mogi the machine driver, on the other hand, drove for 3 days from UB to the Altais relying just on the mountains, hills, rivers, and the sun. Occasionally we would stop to ask local herders for advice on the conditions of different routes, but not once did he look at a map or compass. My Mongolian companions know how to soothe a sunburn (yogurt), how to build a fire without wood (dried dung), and how to dig a van out of a mud pit (with your hands). When I woke up sleeping in a river during a flash flood, they helped rescue my belongings. Rather than wash all of my gear in a muddy river (my idea), they knew to lay it out in the sun and peel the mud off after it had dried. When falcons attacked our food, they knew to throw rocks at them and hide everything red. They know the most humane way to kill a goat (pinch the main artery) and how to salt and boil it so that it keeps for weeks. They know to save our jars and plastic bottles to give to a family in exchange for fresh yogurt and milk. Even after camping for two months they have all managed to keep their bodies and belongings incredibly clean and tidy. Meanwhile, my hair has transformed itself into a rat’s nest and I refer to my tent as “the stinkhole.” I won’t go any more detail on my personal hygiene other than to say that I’m not looking my prettiest.

Stuck in mud

Uyanga trades empty plastic bottles for fresh yogurt.

By Mongolian standards, my four companions are as slick as city slickers get. Uyanga has spent three years in the US, Gerald knows far more about American celebrities than I do, Djeka applies heavy eyeliner and blush at least twice a day, and Mogi’s two hobbies include reading gossip magazines and watching TV. But these four have proven that even the most urban Mongolian citizens still know how to lead a traditional nomadic Mongolian life.

It’s quite obvious which of the five of us does not come from a nomadic culture. I view camping and living in a tent as a temporary situation whereas they consider it a way of life. Roughly half of the Mongolian population still lives in a ger (a felt tent, the Russians call it a yurt), and all of my companions have lived in one at some point in their lives. I plan camping trips so that I soil all my clothing and run out of supplies on the exact day I return to civilization. For Mongolian nomads, there is no return to civilization. They pack up their gers and migrate with their herds on a lifelong camping trip. Cleanliness, tidiness, and organization are essentials for any nomad.

Among my other nomad talents, I now know how to recognize a Mongolian gas station.

Recently, I’ve been trying to act more like a nomad and less like a recreational camper. I’ve tried to tame my rat’s nest; I keep my bag packed and organized for the next flash flood; and I have started to understand why it’s not a huge waste of time to constantly unpack, clean, and reorganize our food boxes.

I have a month left to hone my nomad skills this summer. I’ll continue exploring the canyons in the Altai Mountains for another couple of weeks, and then I’ll head north to Khovsgol Lake, an area famous for its nomadic reindeer herders. At the end of the summer, I’ll fly to Novosibirsk and take a train south to the Sayan Basin in Siberia, just across the border from where I was in Mongolia. Juliet, now is the time to drop your med school textbooks and document my journey from American slob to Mongolian lifetime-camper.

After we hid all of our good meat, Gerald threw goat fat to the falcons.

The falcons attack.