Mongolia for the Senses

I didn’t feel like I could write before today. I think my state of being was too far removed from this sensation of fingers on computer keys. Incompatible. In the desert, my senses have been stretched, whipped, rubbed raw, boiled, dissolved. Now, after my first shower in a week, after my first encounter with the internet and its portals to other worlds, this machine makes more sense. My thoughts can fit inside its boxes; whereas until now, they seemed to disappear in nightly desert winds.

I want to tell you about this place. Before coming to the Gobi Desert, we talked with three people about their experiences here. “Awesome.” “Amazing scenery.” “The friendliest people.” “If you are lucky, your host will bring out the good stuff [homemade yogurt] from under her bed.” We really didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into, aside from the idea that it would be an unforgettable experience and the hope that the boys would get to ride horses (which they did).

All the photos of the Gobi Desert I saw didn’t match what people were saying. It looked like a dull dirt mass against an empty sky. As Chris has stated before, “Deserts aren’t really beautiful, I think people just say that to sound deep…” So, with the boys’ help, I want to fill all your senses with what it was like to live here for twelve days.

Prairie turns into mountains, vast granite stacking stones, sheer faces
Dark purple amethyst, dark purple clouds against a yellow sunset
Yellow trees beginning to lose leaves, red bushes
Dust particles flowing through streaks of sun
Vast plains of stars

Grasshoppers with lawnmower drone signaling the morning
Thundering of running herds, thumping and rumbling of our vehicles
Bleats of the goats, haunting wolf-whale cry of the camels
The wind flapping the felt top of our ger
Silence

Lavender and sage
Manure and pit toilets
Vomit mixed with clove oil
Warm milk
Dust

Hair like clay, constipated stomach, dry skin
Sore from bumpy car rides and bumpy horse rides
The rhythm of the canter
Hot, hot stove, like an oven in our ger
Hard wooden beds, heavy blankets
Cold at night

Milk tea in the morning, curd in your mouth, like sour soap
Custard, yogurt, soft, milky, mildly sweet
Fermented mare’s milk, sour and strange
Hot potatoes melting in your mouth with oil
Salty mutton meat

The field of stars I remember from childhood

There is so much to tell. The difference between the way of life here and that to which we grew accustomed in Virginia feels as vast as the Gobi Desert itself. And while the words above may not describe that with which we wish to fill our senses, strangely, honestly, I already want to go back.