I Grew My Boobs in China (39 page)

The carcass was hanging in one piece from the low support beam in the kitchen. The mother stood at the small counter near the stove making dinner. She sliced bits of neck meat from the carcass and threw it into the soup pot together with the older daughter’s doughy noodles. The slaughtered corpse hanging nearby did nothing for my appetite, but I was too hungry to skip dinner. I waited cross-legged on the colourful wool rug, my belly twisting with hunger and uncertainty as I remembered my very first taste of mutton back at the Mongolian border. Khongorzul, the lady who travelled with us on both the overnight bus and the train, had promised us the best soup of our lives.

“C’mon. You come with me. I get you some real Mongolian soup,” she had said. “This is REAL soup.
Mongolian
soup,” she went on, inferring that it was far superior to the “awful” Chinese food we’d been enjoying. Lipton’s instant chicken noodle soup immediately came to mind, the kind that we couldn’t possibly dream of getting here but I was hopeful nonetheless. The bowls we were served contained a thin broth with an oily film on top. Careful not to insult her favourite Mongolian dish, we hesitantly asked if we were supposed to take out the floating, white chunks.

“NO! That is best part. Very healthy,” she insisted before scooping one up on her spoon and happily shoving the blob in her mouth.
Oh man!
I was not in the mood to sample dead animal soup, and fatty, greasy soup at that! It was dreadful, to say the least, and a rather unnerving introduction to the country where I would spend a whole month.
I can’t even believe someone could eat this. I heard these Mongolians had a sense of humour. Maybe she’s pulling my leg?
But no. Though I desperately wished she had been, she continued to slurp passionately until the bowl was empty.

“This isn’t too bad!” Bree’d said.

“Oh yah? Just wait a few more days and we’ll see what you think of it then,” Ammon predicted, scowling at his bowl when Khongorzul had gone off to the bathroom. The mere
word
mutton had always projected the image of a skinny, old sheep wrapped up in dirty grey wool hanging in matted clumps and dying in a muddy ditch. Upon actually tasting it in that horrid soup, my worst suspicions were confirmed.

After this introductory meal, I realized that the food was as horrible as I’d heard, but that obviously, the locals didn’t share my assessment. They thought it was divine, and no matter how distasteful I found the food, I knew there was no need to feel sympathy for them. Taste is a relative, cultural matter – we mostly like the kind of food we ate as children.
Besides, they would probably find my chicken noodle soup disgusting.
I could appreciate her being completely content with, and proud of, her country’s cuisine, but it was not for me.
No, thank you very much!

From the time of our first introduction to traditional Mongolian food, Bree was still eating her fair share at every meal, while Mom and I learned to surreptitiously shovel most of our meals into Ammon’s bowl. He’d glare at me out of the corner of his eyes whenever I did it, as he only ate to avoid losing weight from a physique which had always resembled something of a stick bug.

While we waited for tonight’s sheep noodle soup to cook, Baagii taught us some more customs as vegetarians Tom and Sarah munched on their packaged cookies. For example, in Mongolian culture it is unacceptable to refuse anything that is offered. It is obligatory to take at least a sample, no matter what it is.

“Please, Baagii, no! Don’t let them bring us the eyeballs,” Bree pleaded, squeezing his arm tight, knowing that sheep’s eyeballs and their large fatty tails were considered delicacies and were therefore usually offered to honoured guests. Mongolian sheep store fat in their tails to help them survive the harsh terrain the same way camels store it in their humps. He smiled and I saw Bree melt a little more than the heat warranted. Because Baagii had lived in the United States for a couple of years in his early twenties, he could appreciate how revolting eating eyeballs was in our culture. Though I’m sure he’d amused himself many times observing the reactions of other vulnerable guests, he obviously had a soft spot for Bree.

When he said, “Okay, I won’t,” she fell even deeper into whatever spell she was well on her way to succumbing to. We were grateful never to have been tested by such delicacies. The main snacks offered to us were comparatively bearable. The sour goat milk biscuits they loved tasted a bit like vitamin C rocks. I might have enjoyed them had they not been streaked with dark goat hairs. The yoghurt, which was equally sour and hairy, was homemade in an old, stained bucket. With China’s to-die-for yoghurt still fresh in my mind, this Mongolian version fell completely on the opposite end of the spectrum. Nearly every night, though, these same “munchies” returned to haunt us.

As non-drinkers, we were relieved to learn that when offered an alcoholic beverage such as vodka or airag (fermented horse milk), we could avoid offending anyone by simply touching our lips to the mug before returning it. The key seemed to be more the act of acceptance rather than the consumption of the drink. This was a much easier challenge to avoid than those faced by the vegetarians in our group.

Baagii informed us that the most important custom to remember was that an empty bowl meant you were still hungry, and that simply covering the bowl with your hand signified that no refills were needed. Of course, we learned this the hard way. We’d been representing ourselves according to Canadian manners, and we’d choke down every last bite only to be shocked when our bowls were then refilled immediately. I would’ve been ever so appreciative had Baagii mentioned this little tradition sooner and saved me the trouble of consuming all those extra chunks of white, gristly lard.

Baagii also explained how important it was to symbolically support the right hand with the left when offering or accepting anything. Accepting food with the left hand was a big no-no.

“I can only imagine why,” Ammon said suggestively.

“What do you mean? Why?” I asked, falling into his trap.

“Have you seen a toilet?” he asked.

“I guess, if you could call them that,” I began, wondering how the two were connected.

“How ’bout TP?”

“Oh NO! They don’t really!” I choked.

“Yep,” he smirked, pleased by the expression on my face when I realized the duties of the left hand. When accepting my soup bowl from our local hostess, I tried but failed to not look at
her
left hand supporting the right arm. I rustled up a smile and held out my right hand to receive it.

I could all too easily imagine that my dinner had only that morning roamed free in his flock. His brothers and sisters were still out there with their fat, bulging tails which floated up and down like a school of jellyfish whenever they ran. I found it really disgusting when bits of tail lard bobbed up and down in my soup like buoys in the salty liquid, but hunger was hunger, and I actually enjoyed the soup’s bits of neck meat. I couldn’t help but marvel over the swift transformation from living creature to food as I scooped the last piece of it onto my spoon.

Chapter 33

Mongol Ferrari

“A Mongol without a horse is like a bird without the wings,” Baagii said softly and directly into the ears of the black stallion. “A traditional saying,” he explained as he stroked the horse’s nose before leisurely climbing on. We’d woken to see horses outside our ger munching away on the short, tough grass. Their hides twitched and their tails flicked the few flies away.

This was one of Tom’s first real horse rides. I smiled upon hearing him talking about horses he’d ridden in circles at fairs. Noortje and Sarah had both passed on riding with us, and I admired Tom’s spunk. Baagii noticed Tom’s hesitation as he awkwardly stepped closer to his designated horse and asked if he was scared.

“Not so much scared,” he explained as he timidly petted the creature, “but worried that I’m going to make a total ass of myself!”
I’d be worried, too, with all these six year olds riding around like pros. Mongolians must learn to ride before they can walk, and it’s obvious that they really love their horses
, I thought, thinking back on twenty-odd mounted kids between the ages of six and ten we’d seen practising for the Nadaam Festival. We’d found ourselves driving in the midst of them as they raced across a vast plain like warriors off to battle decorated with multicoloured ribbons braided into their hair. They’d woven their tiny hands into their horse’s manes as they rode bareback, fitting snugly into the base of their mounts’ moist necks. The sight of the galloping animals’ strong, rippling muscles was, for me, a highlight of the two week excursion.

As I watched this fully grown man, Tom, trying to decide where the reins belonged and how his feet should fit in the stirrups, I was grateful that I would not be
the most inexperienced rider today.
I had learned to be comfortable in a saddle during the frequent horseback riding excursions our family had run for the ESL students. I was, however, a bit worried about our lack of a guide, but I knew better than to think about that. Our horseback riding tours of Canada’s vast meadows and forests had also taught me that horses always use their innate sense of direction to find their way home.

On family vacations, we’d go to the Flying U, one of the biggest ranches in B.C. This was the one vacation Dad always skipped, owing to his general fear of horses. I could still hear his defensive explanation. “I’m not afraid of horses! I just don’t
like
them, especially when they’re hell-bent on running at full speed into the lowest hanging branch of the only tree in an open field. I like riding but unfortunately, you need a horse to do it.” Dad claimed he had enough negative experiences as a child on horseback to write a novel and reveal horses’ secret agenda to the world. Although I did feel a certain healthy degree of caution around horses, I couldn’t agree with him.

The stiff, wooden saddles had no padding, and they were placed high up on the shoulder blades. Mongolian horses are very small and stocky, but I quickly learned not to judge a book by its cover. Initially, I had even been hesitant to sit on one for fear of breaking what appeared to be a fragile back. I could hardly stand to watch Ammon, envisioning that once mounted, his toes would come within inches of skimming the ground.

I felt the beast’s power beneath me as I swayed side to side with its movement. His rich and distinctive reddish-orange coat made him a real beauty. Leaning forward I patted his soft neck, instinctively smelling my hand afterwards. I liked its wholesome and grainy, hay-like smell.
We were meant for each other, you and me, even though I started out prejudging you, just like all those people at home who told us we wouldn’t last out here.
I was already well into my second month on the road, and I now knew we would not only survive, but thrive.

“He’s so toned. He’s the hottest cowboy I ever saw – EVER!” I heard Bree rhapsodizing about Baagii as she rode up beside me. Halfway through the day, he had conveniently taken off his shirt and exposed the beads of sweat crawling down his back. He literally glistened in the sun and melted my poor sister’s heart. You could sense that his skin was as soft as rose petals. She trotted off to get closer to him, and my horse followed instinctively.

“He looks like a little boy,” I said. “He doesn’t even have a single strand of hair on his chest.”

“I know!!” Bree said, practically falling off her horse and landing in the puddle of drool she’d made. “That’s the best part about it! And he doesn’t have even ONE zit.”

“Oh, brother! I bet he doesn’t even have armpit hair,” I said.

“Good! That’s gross, anyway!” she said, looking over at me disgustedly.

“No,
that
is the best part!” I said, before kicking my heels into the horse’s sides and taking off. Bree shouted happily and laughed as we both broke from a walk into a canter and rode side by side.

I couldn’t believe these creatures’ speed and strength! Any Canadian horse would’ve been foaming at the mouth if pushed this hard, but this guy hardly even broke a sweat. Just when I thought he had hit his max, we’d shift into yet a faster gear and cut through the land like a heat-seeking rocket.

Looking skyward with my arms outstretched, I inhaled deeply and filled my lungs with the freshest of air. I didn’t exhale for as long as possible, wanting to fill myself with the moment and never let it go. Even if I gave my siblings a three-second head start, I’d still catch up to and then fly past them! Despite its small size, I’d never before been on such a high-spirited speed demon.

Once again, history was coming to life, this time with the wind gripping my hair. Suddenly I felt like I could’ve been part of Genghis Khan’s Mongolian Horde, shaking the earth as it stampeded across Asia on horseback in the thirteenth century. It didn’t surprise me that the Mongols ventured so far west if their horses were anything like these. The captivating splurge of blue sky above came right down to the tips of the earth, meeting the green of the rolling grasslands. The Mongols timeless adventures had led them all the way to Turkey and beyond, where they forged an empire of unforgettable strength and changed history forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a good hard run, Bree finally slowed to a walk beside me.

“What is wrong with you?! Didn’t you hear me yelling at you to stop? You’re such a jerk, Bree,” I barked.

“What? Why?! That was awesome!”

“I was trying to stop the horse and then you came flying up past me, so of course, mine took off after yours.”

“Well soooorry! Hrmph!”

“I just wanted to fix this killer wedgy! Seriously! It’s the worst I’ve ever had!” I said, reaching down and dislodging what felt like two metres of fabric from between my cheeks.

“Wow! This is gorgeous,” I heard Mom gasp as she looked out over Lake Khovsgol.

“Mom, what’s the matter with you? Didn’t you hear Savannah has a wedgy!?” Bree teased.