Percha: Mongolia teaches universal lesson halfway across the globe

If there’s one thing I’ve re-affirmed while spending my summer in Mongolia, it’s that… If there’s one thing I’ve re-affirmed while spending my summer in Mongolia, it’s that timeless lesson which every mom, preschool teacher and motivational poster seems to declare: Nothing is impossible.

After a lengthy drive over the pothole-ridden countryside — during which we got incredibly lost, stopped twice for salted milk tea and paused to admire a passing nomadic troupe — my friend John and I finally found ourselves in Mongolia’s Arkhangai Province. We were spending the week with a herding family who, despite not being able to speak English, insisted that we wear traditional dress coats and milk the yaks, among other activities.

The highlight of the experience came later one evening as we gathered around a stove in the center of Grandma’s ger — a circular felt yurt, or nomadic tent. Through the steam, I watched in horror as Uncle Batdelger slid a massive gray pot from under the bed and placed it on the table. I hesitantly peered inside, finding myself face-to-face with my worst nightmare: twisted bits of intestines, veiny pieces of meat and something that vaguely resembled a brain. As if the sight alone weren’t nauseating enough, the dish was accompanied by an all-too-distinctive smell — imagine the scent of a foul barn plus a splash of spoiled milk.

The dish was called makh, which literally translates as “meat.” Just a big pile of boiled sheep innards. Considered a bit of a delicacy in the countryside, the meal is usually reserved for honored guests and requires just two serving utensils: a knife to hack the meat into sizeable chunks and a wet rag to wipe up the residue.

After reaching into the bowl with a loud squishing sound, Uncle Batdelger tossed an indiscernible chunk of meat in my direction. The whole family watched expectantly, waiting for me to sample the meal.

I stared at the floppy piece of intestine in my hand, and it seemed to stare back. I pictured myself bolting for the door, but then again, refusing the morsel would be offensive to the family. Instead, I did what any classy girl would do: swallowed my pride and, with it, the sheep bit. Apparently satisfied with my efforts, Batdelger nodded and dug in.

But just as I quickly learned that chowing down on an entire sheep is not, in fact, an impossible task, so too did I realize that neither is overcrowding a vehicle to the point of near-collapse.

Each July, Mongolia screeches to a halt in celebration of Naadam, an impressive athletic festival that’s akin to a mini Olympics. For three days, the holiday takes center-stage as government offices close, tourists pack the streets and massive crowds flood to enjoy the three traditional “manly sports”: wrestling, archery and horse racing.

In true festival spirit, my friends and I made grandiose plans to see the races — but when our city-bus-turned-Naadam-shuttle suddenly lurched to a halt in the middle of the Mongolian steppes, we knew something wasn’t right.

The road ahead was closed for some unknown reason, so we grumpily unloaded from the bus as a sense of disappointment settled in. With our transportation plans on indefinite hold, how could we ever get to the races?

The answer came just a few minutes later, as a middle-aged local approached us with a toothy grin. “Where you go?” he asked, wiping a fistful of sweat from his brow before extending a hearty handshake. Using our broken Mongolian vocabulary and even worse miming skills, we tried our best to explain our destination.

“Muriin yariaa?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward himself. Horse races? We nodded energetically and followed him to a small, green micro-bus, a vehicle which seats 10 passengers at capacity.

Peering inside the vehicle, I spotted about 20 people already crowded aboard, each smiling in anticipation of the journey. But this was no time to be concerned for personal space: If we wanted to see the Naadam races, this was our only shot. With little choice, we piled into the packed vehicle and sped off.

From my cramped fetal position near the front of the bus, I counted 26 people, a sleeping infant and an elderly woman who, despite her best attempts to stay awake, periodically kept nodding off on my shoulder. With traffic at a standstill on the road, our driver opted to take the path less traveled, lurching the micro-bus onto the bumpy ground and continuing along at breakneck speed.

We rambled through the countryside, my carsickness escalated as we made our way over one impossibly steep ditch, two massive standing puddles and three low bridges. The infant awoke and began to wail. Sand rushed in through the bus windows. Both of my legs fell asleep.

Our new friend, the man who had ushered us into the micro-bus, turned around in his seat with a smile. “Music?” he asked, popping a waxy iPod headphone from his ear and offering it to me. I politely declined the offer. Nonetheless, he plunged it into my left ear, closed his eyes and began singing aloud at a terrifying decibel.

After what seemed like hours later, we finally arrived at the race site — and discovered that we’d missed the race altogether.

“Impossible!” barked our new friend, checking his watch as he stumbled out of the van.

I couldn’t help but chuckle.

E-mail Julie at japercha@pitt.edu.