Raised in Ontario, Canada, Cuyler Black has been a teacher, syndicated cartoonist and youth worker. For many summers he directed youth outdoor leadership development camps out on the lakes of Ontario, Canada. Cuyler left full time youth work to start a company called Inherit The Mirth, which has been described as ‘faith meets funny’. His greeting cards, books, t–shirts , post cards, etc. are available at retailers nationwide and internationally. He lives in Connecticut, USA.
I could feel the woman staring at me and I turned towards her smiling. She was older than I had first thought, though it is hard to tell everyone has thick, deeply creased skin. She smiled at the children who were riding my bicycle back and forth on the trail, and then looked back at me. Mongolian women’s eyes were even harder to look at than the men, because in addition to being stripped of all pretenses as if they never learned to hide like we had, and cored to their essence which was pure and intense, I had this suspicion they saw even more than the men. I knew by the way that the woman was looking at me, then, she was trying to understand me. She grabbed my hand. Her skin was dry and warm. Then she looked at me, smiled and tilted her head in a curious manner. She pointed at me, then raised one hand and one finger in the air, pantomiming the question almost everyone I had encountered on my trip seemed to ask. Oddly, the frequency of the question was amusing when it could be answered in silence. I looked past the woman, to the children who were cruising on my bicycle, attempting to do what looked like some kind of group pop a wheely, to the huge candlelit blue sky arcing above us. Yes, I laughed, feeling the peace spreading inside me. I’m alone
Even though I am a small woman, I have never been attracted to small men, and so countries where the men, though often strikingly beautiful from an aesthetic perspective, had more delicate bones than even I did, didn’t quite tempt me. In Mongolia, I couldn’t help but watch them, their bodies toughened from hard living and tumbling with their horses all day, with more than just a small degree of appreciation. Sometimes it could get downright distracting.
It didn’t help matters any that Mongolian men were outrageously flirtatious. My new friend that had arrived by motorcycle ambled towards me, and jokingly elbowed me in the side, My breath caught in my chest. I was grateful my cheeks were wind burned enough that the man would not notice me blushing. Fortunately for me, he bent down lower, pushing me into his armpit and I picked up his scent. He smelled funny, the way most Mongolians smelled funny to me, a sour scent I attributed to years spent working around horses and a diet that consisted almost exclusively of Tolvin, a Mongol staple, which is essentially anything you can make with flour and mutton and the occasional carrot. I thought that the “vodka problem”, a direct translation from Mongolian, that some Mongolians seemed to have may have also contributed. On more than one occasion, the scent had saved me, kept me from acting like a complete and utter spaz because otherwise the men were pretty damned hot.
And with a ear to ear grin a woman emerging from the place where the Mongolian hotty had parked the motorcycle. She raced up towards me, laughing and placed a water bottle in my hand. Sain Bainuu/Hello,how are you I said in Mongolian, smiling and took the first sip. Then I reached into my pocket, pulled out some bells, and handed them to the old woman. Bells I had purchased from the market in Ulaanbaatar, the capital city. The bells are used as buttons on the Mongolian traditional coat called deel in the Mongolian language. A brilliant coat that serves as blanket, tent, pocket and travel bag when need be. Mongolians travel for days with nothing more then the belongings transported within their coat, one coat for summer and a warmer version for winter. The Mongolian people I have met are the most practical travelers I have met since beginning this cycling journey almost 7000 peddle miles and 9 countries ago. Not surprising given there nomadic roots.
The hum of a distant motorbike startled me out of my meditative daze. I have not seen another person in over a week, and have become accustomed to the long lulling silence, punctuated only by the sound of my bicycle cutting though the wind. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my shirt sleeve and formulated a plan. I had been pedaling for hours and didn’t think I could manage the degree of animation I would need to play the cat and mouse chase game motorcyclists sometime play with me on the road, so I made my way over to the side of the trail where I had noticed an ovum.
I lay my bicycle down and walked a few steps into the desert, to check out the ovum, an oval shaped shrine piled high with rocks, swatches of bright colored silk, hard candy and old Mongolian money. Ovums can be Buddhist or shamanic in nature and they mark sacred spots. They are erected yearly and always added to therefore there are lots of Ovums to be honored throughout Mongolia. I fought the urge to run around the shrine three times. This was a habit I had picked up along the way, another event that marked the days on my spiritual obstacle course, and was generally followed up with a bite of a Snickers bar and the chugging of a half liter of water. I am pretty sure that ovum running is not a registered Olympic sport anywhere but it is practiced throughout Mongolia.
I suspected the Mongols on the motorcycle would be greatly amused and understanding if they caught me at my little game. I imagined tales would be told about me over bowls of vodka—how the crazy foreign girl on a bicycle with the crispy red cheeks and electrocuted hair ran around their shrine like her feet were on fire in her strange imported rubber cycling sandals. I resisted the urge to three-peat the running in circles event. Instead I walked over to my pannier/bikebag and pulled a Snickers bar and pulled out some of the jingly bells I had bought in Laos. I walked back to the ovum and buried the bells in a dark crevice between two rocks. I heard the motorcycle slow behind me, and then stop. Smoothly, I turned, and, with a huge smile plastered on my face, greeted my newest friends.
With an ear to ear grin and a big ole nod a man jumped off his motorbike, then he took my hand and pumped my arm furiously. Hand shaking is not native to Mongolian culture but has been learned from the Russians. Many Mongolians shake hands hello, after a shared laugh and while saying good-bye as well. It is quite the work out. I had tensed my arm a second to late and so I just stared at him, the golden glow of his skin and his weather scarred cheeks. Hesitantly, I looked at his eyes. They were, as I suspected, distinctly Mongolian eyes; brown and raw souled, so unguarded and honest it made it difficult to stare at them for too long. I looked at the dirt streaking his clothes and face, and smiled inside. It was such a relief to be around people as oh natural as I am. The Mongolian sense of practicality and necessity jived with mine; the polar opposite to the ultra clean little Chinese men, just over 1000 km behind who scurried off to wash their hands every time they touched my bicycle.
I am cycling through the Gobi desert on my touring bicycle, a place that is as close to a church as you will ever get. It is a strange terrain for a cyclist, a place where spaghetti trails beaten into windswept sand and clay roads by horses, motorbikes and the odd old Russian military Jeep, are distinguished only by the occasional cropping of yurts (gers). The traditional circular elaborately decorated felt tent/homes of the Mongolians. I have been peddling through the tough clay sands for hours, successfully keeping the sun on my left and to the east. My legs push, pull and pedal furiously; propelled by some internal motive I did not completely understand. I am averaging 80 km about 50 miles per day and I am on a mission, hell bent on making my way to the Northern…..to the region of the reindeer herders and Siberian shamans, before it gets too cold for my little tent.
There is a chill in the air,, the temperature is beginning to drop. This change makes the desert landscape more startlingly beautiful. Mist hovers in the air, drawing out the intensity of colors. The big bright orange sun spreads across the unbroken sky, casting warm shadows on mounds of sand, which twinkle like they are laced with mirrored glass. The horizon line is seamless, blending softly into the edge of the land.
Aside from following the draw to head north quickly before the deep Siberian winter sets in, something in me has drastically changed. I am at peace in Mongolia. The absence of sidewalks, street lights and neon signs sooth me. I am on shared land with fellow nomads from the Oxford of the old school. Here movement is not just accepted but expected and embraced. Staking my little tent in a different serene spot every night somehow cuts me off at the root, makes past and future almost irrelevant and has stopped all brain chatter from rattling around in my head. There is something more than that though, something about the country, it’s people and culture itself that has opened my heart. The longer I stay, the more alive I feel. I have peddled through 9 other countries in less than 7 months and have never felt as alive as the way I do here. I am in love with Mongolia. It seems to me to be the place I have been rushing towards my whole life. I vow that from this day forward until death do us part, in sickness and in health that if anyone asks what I am looking for in a relationship I would have to say Mongolia. A “place” filled with raw simplicity, unspeakable human beauty and open to all things possible. With every push of the peddle another must capture this moment feeling, a special kind of spiritual photography that focuses the soul.
So many great things to say about vitnam this is a test to see if the font looks good.
