Still in Mongolia

After a back-breaking week of cooking up all sorts of special dishes to test for the new cafe menu here in Ulan Baator, the staff closed up yesterday afternoon to take me to the"countryside", as Mongolians call everything beyond this capital city. It was a profundly heartfelt thank you for the cheesecake, pizza, eggplant parmesan, cilantro pesto and dhal bhat platters I'd taught them to prepare.

Four of us took off about 2:15 in the center's old royal blue Subaru Impreza, a tiny tinny car that gets lost on the roads jammed by Land Cruisers and Lexus SUVs. Uyin Baator, the cafe manager, had sacrificed his day off to be the driver. I had the honor of the passenger seat. In the back were Nandia, who takes orders and money seven days a week now that the university where she is studying to be an English translator is closed for summer holiday, and the head cook, Eveel, who looks Eastern European with her pale skin, long black pigtail and generous figure. Otgo, the dishwasher and potato peeler, had to bow out at the last minute because her brother had been taken to the hospital. A bag of food and four bottles of water were thrown in the far back.

We went with the heavy traffic down boulevards to the four-lane Peace Bridge over the snaking Tuul River that defines this city. It's one of only two bridges that connect the older, more developed part of UB with the relentlessly growing new city on the far bank. Everywhere you look are cranes parked beside crowds of enormous half built apartment towers. Mongolia currently is the world's fastest growing economy with a GDP rise of 25% per year thanks to all the copper and gold under the Gobi Desert, and although 1 million of its 2 million people already live in UB, it looks like the city is preparing to absorb the last nomads out there on the plains.

"Agh," Uyin Baator grumbled as we crossed the river again on a smaller bridge. "This used to be a really big and beautiful river. This is our Mongolian Tuul River. but no more. Look how thin it is. They are taking all the water."

After the slum district where the toxic coal fired plants are and where Mercedes and Volkswagon and Hyundai car dealerships line the last of the four-lane boulevard, we bounced along a pot-holed two lane, stopping for gas and then at a small shop for what turned out to be salami. Mongolians cannot picnic without meat and Eveel had packed food from the vegetarian cafe. So now all filled up, we motored past decaying Soviet buildings, an occasional ger and lots of huge billboards screaming the merits of candidates for the upcoming election. There were plenty of intervening billboards too touting Swedish mascara, Bridgestone Tires, the loving bank tellers who patchildren on the shoulder, and the joys of a flat screen Samsung TV. Korean companies are kings here.

We passed the airport and a glass space ship that they told me was a new sport palace and suddenly the car choked, sputtered, slowed, sputtered, slowed. The bewildered Uyin Baator pulled off the road, opened the hood and double checked all the dipsticks. He started the motor again. The car lurched, sputtered and crawled. "You got bad gas," I said. "either water or dirt in it."

"Maybe," he said, not really sure what to do.

I got out and tried to flag down a truck. It zoomed right by. So did three cars. Then a white sedan with four young guys pulled over. A guy got out of the back. He had on droopy swim shorts and unlaced sneakers. He worried over the car, put his food on the pedal to rev the motor and told Uyin Baator I was right. His sister had the same problem last week: bad gas.

We lurched and crawled our way into the small town on the horizon. The gas station attendant sympathized with our problem but had no solution. We filled the tank a bit more and soldiered on. All the stopping we had to do gave me a good chance to snap photos of Mongolians on their ponies herding horses, large herds of sheep, dry river beds waiting for summer rains, or white gers sprinkled below the treeless rolling green hills.

Eventually we reached our destination: Manjushri Mountain, a popular weekend getaway spot for UB residents. The entry fee for Mongolians is 75 cents but for foreigners $6. Uyin Baator pleaded with the elderly couple guarding the entry gate for me to be admitted as a Mongolian since this was a holy Buddhist mountain and I was such a good Buddhist. The fat Mongolian woman in the big straw hat and tight black capri pants considered this for a moment, looked at me and handed back the $6.

The Soviets destroyed what had been a major monastery on Manjushri Mountain just as they did the monastery on Chenrezig mountain. But there are remnants on this mountain and inside the one remaining wooden building a small shrine has been recreated. A Buddha statue is flanked by statues of Green and White Tara and the altar is decked in royal blue khatas. Mongolian khatas are all this rich blue hue "for the blue sky," Eveel explained. Then she put her forehead to the altar for blessings, opened her small purse and put money in front of the Buddha. She is very very devout, which is why she works in our cafe and not a restaurant where she could earn twice the money and be able to afford a place to live. Eveel is in her 40s now and is basically alone here in UB having left her family in the ger and chosen not to marry.

The rocks behind the building had four or five cave openings framed by wooden doors. This is obviously where the monks must have meditated in retreat. As I was looking up at these cavesI thought I saw a stream of maroon flowing down above them. It got closer and closer. It was monks in Tibetan garb. As it turned out, eight Tibetan monks from Dharmsala had gone to the mountain top to do prayers of blessing. With longhorn, prayer table and texts in hand, they hurried off to their bus in the crowded parking lot.

"There!" Eveel said triumphantly, pointing to a rock beneath us. "You ask me all the time for rhubarb. here." Finally! Mongolia gave rhubarb to the world: it grows wild here. You cannot buy it in stores; you have to go to the countryside to pick it. Under my feet it was everywhere, newly sprouting. Rugosa roses and blackberry brambles were also sprouting. Siberan iris and violets were in full purple bloom under strong summer sun in that big blue sky. Uyin Bataar motioned us to the shade of the glade of evergreen trees and here we, one group among many, had our little picnic before lurching back to Ulan Baator in the lingering summer light.

~Sandy Garson"Wordsmithing to attest how the Dharma saved me from myself!"
http://www.sandygarson.com
http://yoursinthedharma.blogspot.com/

Technorati Tags: Yours In The Dharma, Sandy Garson, Dharma, Buddhist, Buddhism, Spirituality, ReligionThis work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
Click here to request Sandy Garson for reprint permission.
Yours In The Dharma 2001-2010, Sandy Garson Copyright 2001-2010 Sandy GarsonAll rights Reserved