I bet you are wondering about the title of this post, eh? Well, it's a long story, but a good one.
I have recently returned from an eventful trip to the grasslands to see the Nadaam festival (think Mongolian Olympics), courtesy of a very generous, sweet friend.
It started with my 2nd ever train ride. We took an overnight ride from our city to the city we visited. We had bunks so we slept on the train. There is something to adventurous about a train ride anywhere...definitely lends to the feel of this trip...the feel of stepping back in time to the days of the Wild West (but in a different cultural context).
We arrived Wednesday morning, and were met at the train station by a young man dressed in jeans, a versace belt, plaid shirt, pointy cowboy boot-esque shoes, and aviators. Too cool for school was our first impression. We later nicknamed him Michael Jackson because he bore a resemblance to the pop start pre-ridiculous amounts of plastic surgery.
We then were met by what appeared to be his crew, who had brought several land rovers. We then proceed to drive for many miles into literally the middle of nowhere. At this point we are all praying to survive, because it seems that our driver is intent upon driving 90mph across the rough terrain.
We survive. Climb out of the car and are immediately handed traditional clothing to wear, and escorted to horses led by young men. This starts the typical scene of photographers flocking like paparazzi to stalk the foreigners, and then much shouting on the part of the young men in Mongolian, Mandarin, and a few words of English if they know any.
(one of our friends and I)
Michael Jackson has dressed in a very authentic cowboy outfit and is riding a gorgeous horse. He begins asking us how old we are, then continues by telling us how beautiful we are, etc. He rides alongside me and a friend translated that he is telling me I am "the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, and that he wishes he could talk to me, but he doesn't know any English". Oh boy.
After an amusing ride in which we attempt to convince our escorts that we can, in fact, handle some galloping, and that the horses in America are in fact much bigger than these horses, we finally come to a halt, unsuccessful in our attempts to negotiate a more exciting ride.
Then Michael Jackson rides over, gets off of his horse, and motions for me to get on it. "Yesss, I finally get to ride a good horse." I think to myself. Naive. As I am climbing into the saddle, MJ grabs my butt. As I am in a precarious position, I can't do anything, but our friend yells at him to "stop pulling tricks". I then sit in the saddle. He motions for me to take my feet out of the stirrups and let my legs dangle over the horse's neck. "Oh no.." I realize what is happening. MJ swings into the saddle behind me, grabs me across the chest, and kicks the horse into a gallop.
I will interject here that while this might have been a Hollywood type moment, galloping across the plains on a gorgeous horse with a handsome (if forward) boy's arms around me, it was not that kind of moment at all. Mongolian saddles are small, and the crest of the saddle dug into my thigh, bruising me every time the horse took a stride. OUCH. I yell at MJ that I am NOT scared, but that my leg hurts, but he thinks I am just being frightened and laughs at me.
Finally, he turns the horse around and we stop back at the group. As I am rejoicing at having survived the experience, he throws an arm around me again, leans around and gives me a huge smooch right on the lips. Which, of course, is photographed by the fifteen photographers standing around. Aiya.
(immediate aftermath of the kissing...not a flattering photo of me. MJ on the left)
Later, as we are hanging out in the yurt (Mongolian house), our host yells at MJ and won't let him sit by us. He protests, and our host whacks him. We laugh. A photographer comes in, and then scoots close to me, and shows me a photo. Yep, there in vivid imagery is what appears to be me making out with a Mongolian boy. "Do you want to buy a copy?" The photographer asks. "NO."
Our host later is mortified, and makes the photographer delete his copy, but I have no doubt that another rendition is no doubt gracing the front page of the local news...ahhh the adventures of a whitey. I love Mongolians, but had never quite encountered just how bold they can be.
(hanging out in a yurt)
Apparently on the way to dinner MJ got a talking-to, because for the rest of the evening he was the picture of perfect manners, even donning a shirt (the boys usually go shirtless) and not making eye contact with me.
We returned that evening on the sleeper bus (a great invention which I'd never seen before) with many great memories, that is for sure.
.JPG)