MONGOLS AT HOME
Until we left Urga the second time Mongolia, to us, had meant only the
Gobi Desert and the boundless, rolling plains. When we set our faces
northward we found it was also a land of mountains and rivers, of
somber forests and gorgeous flowers.
A new forest always thrills me mightily. Be it of stately northern
pines, or a jungle tangle in the tropics, it is so filled with glamour
and mystery that I enter it with a delightful feeling of expectation.
There is so much that is concealed from view, it is so pregnant with
the possibility of surprises, that I am as excited as a child on
Christmas morning.
The forests of Mongolia were by no means disappointing. We entered them
just north of Urga where the Siberian life zone touches the plains of
the central Asian region and the beginnings of a new fauna are sharply
delineated by the limit of the trees. We had learned that the Terelche
River would offer a fruitful collecting ground. It was only forty miles
from Urga and the first day's trip was a delight. We traveled northward
up a branch valley enclosed by forested hills and carpeted with
flowers. Never had we seen such flowers! Acre after acre of bluebells,
forget-me-nots, daisies, buttercups, and cowslips converted the entire
valley into a vast "old-fashioned garden," radiantly beautiful. Our
camp that night was at the base of a mountain called the Da Wat which
shut us off from the Terelche River.
On the second morning, instead of golden sunshine, we awoke to a
cloud-hung sky and floods of rain. It was one of those days when
everything goes wrong; when with all your heart you wish to swear but
instead you must smile and smile and keep on smiling. No one wished
to break camp in the icy deluge but there were three marshes between
us and the Terelche River which were bad enough in dry weather. A few
hours of rain would make them impassable, perhaps for weeks.
My wife and I look back upon that day and the next as one of our few,
real hardships. After eight hours of killing work, wet to the skin
and almost frozen, we crossed the first dangerous swamp and reached
the summit of the mountain. Then the cart, with our most valuable
possessions, plunged off the road on a sharp descent and crashed into
the forest below. Chen and I escaped death by a miracle and the other
Chinese taxidermist, who was safe and sound, promptly had hysterics. It
was discouraging, to say the least. We camped in the gathering darkness
on a forty-five-degree slope in mud twelve inches deep. Next day we
gathered up our scattered belongings, repaired the cart, and reached
the river.
I had a letter from Duke Loobitsan Yangsen to a famous old hunter,
Tserin Dorchy by name, who lives in the Terelche region. He had been
gone for six days on a shooting trip when we came into the beautiful
valley where his _yurts_ were pitched, but his wife welcomed us with
true Mongolian hospitality and a great dish of cheese. Our own camp we
made just within the forest, a mile away.
For a week we hunted and trapped in the vicinity, awaiting Tserin
Dorchy's return. Our arrival created a deal of interest among the half
dozen families in the neighborhood and, after each had paid a formal
call, they apparently agreed that we were worthy of being accepted
into their community. We were nomads for the time, just as they are
for life. We had pitched our tents in the forest, as they had erected
their _yurts_ in the meadow beside the river. When the biting winds of
winter swept the valley a few months later they would move, with all
their sheep and goats, to the shelter of the hills and we would seek
new hunting grounds.
Before many days we learned all the valley gossip. Moreover, we
furnished some ourselves for one of the Chinese taxidermists became
enamored of a Mongol maiden. There were two of them, to be exact,
and they both "vamped" him persistently. The toilettes with which
they sought to allure him were marvels of brilliance, and one of them
actually scrubbed her little face and hands with a cake of my yellow,
scented soap.
Our servant's affections finally centered upon the younger girl and
I smiled paternally upon the wild-wood romance. Every night, with a
sheepish grin, Chen would ask to borrow a pony. The responsibilities
of chaperones sat lightly on our shoulders, but sometimes my wife and I
would wander out to the edge of the forest and watch him to the bottom
of the hill. Usually his love was waiting and they would ride off
together in the moonlight--where, we never asked!
But we could not blame the boy--those Mongolian nights were made for
lovers. The marvel of them we hold among our dearest memories. Wherever
we may be, the fragrance of pine trees or the sodden smell of a marsh
carries us back in thought to the beautiful valley and fills our hearts
again with the glory of its clear, white nights.
No matter what the day brought forth, we looked forward to the evening
hunt as best of all. As we trotted our ponies homeward through the
fresh, damp air we could watch the shadows deepen in the somber
masses of the forest, and on the hilltops see the ragged silhouettes
of sentinel pines against the rose glow of the sky. Ribbons of mist,
weaving in and out above the stream, clothed the alders in ghostly
silver and rested in billowy masses upon the marshes. Ere the moon had
risen, the stars blazed out like tiny lanterns in the sky. Over all the
valley there was peace unutterable.
We were soon admitted to a delightful comradeship with the Mongols of
our valley. We shared their joys and sorrows and nursed their minor
ills. First to seek our aid was the wife of the absent hunter, Tserin
Dorchy. She rode up one day with a two-year-old baby on her arm. The
little fellow was badly infected with eczema, and for three weeks one
of the lamas in the tiny temple near their _yurt_ had been mumbling
prayers and incantations in his behalf, without avail. Fortunately,
I had a supply of zinc ointment and before the month was ended the
baby was almost well. Then came the lama with his bill "for services
rendered," and Tserin Dorchy contributed one hundred dollars to his
priestly pocket. A young Mongol with a dislocated shoulder was my next
patient, and when I had made him whole, the lama again claimed the
credit and collected fifty dollars as the honorarium for his prayers.
And so it continued throughout the summer; I made the cures, and the
priest got the fees.
Although the Mongols all admitted the efficacy of my foreign medicines,
nevertheless they could not bring themselves to dispense with the lama
and his prayers. Superstition was too strong and fear that the priest
would send an army of evil spirits flocking to their _yurts_ if they
offended him brought the money, albeit reluctantly, from their pockets.
Although the lama never proposed a partnership arrangement, as I
thought he might have done, he spent much time about our camp and often
brought us bowls of curded milk and cheese. He was a wandering priest
and not a permanent resident of the valley, but he evidently decided
not to wander any farther until we, too, should leave, for he was with
us until the very end.
A short time after we had made our camp near the Terelche River a
messenger arrived from Urga with a huge package of mail. In it was a
copy of _Harper's Magazine_ containing an account of a flying visit
which I had made to Urga in September, 1918.[1] There were half a dozen
Mongols near our tent, among whom was Madame Tserin Dorchy. I explained
the pictures to the hunter's wife in my best Chinese while Yvette
"stood by" with her camera and watched results. Although the woman
had visited Urga several times she had never seen a photograph or a
magazine and for ten minutes there was no reaction. Then she recognized
a Mongol headdress similar to her own. With a gasp of astonishment
she pointed it out to the others and burst into a perfect torrent of
guttural expletives. A picture of the great temple at Urga, where she
once had gone to worship, brought forth another volume of Mongolian
adjectives and her friends literally fought for places in the front row.
[Footnote 1: _Harper's Magazine_, June, 1919, pp. 1-16.]
News travels quickly in Mongolia and during the next week men and women
rode in from _yurts_ forty or fifty miles away to see that magazine.
I will venture to say that no American publication ever received more
appreciation or had a more picturesque audience than did that copy of
_Harper's_.
The absent Tserin Dorchy returned one day when I was riding down the
valley with his wife. We saw two strange figures on horseback emerging
from the forest, each with a Russian rifle on his back. Their saddles
were strung about with half-dried skins--four roebuck, a musk deer, a
moose, and a pair of elk antlers in the "velvet."
PLATE XI
[Illustration: OUR BASE CAMP AT THE EDGE OF THE FOREST]
[Illustration: THE MONGOL VILLAGE OF THE TERELCHE VALLEY]
With a joyful shout Madame Tserin Dorchy rode toward her husband. He
was an oldish man, of fifty-five years perhaps, with a face as dried
and weather-beaten as the leather beneath his saddle. He may have been
glad to see her but his only sign of greeting was a "_sai_" and a nod
to include us both. Her pleasure was undisguised, however, and as we
rode down the valley she chattered volubly between the business of
driving in half a dozen horses and a herd of sheep. The monosyllabic
replies of the hunter were delivered in a voice which seemed to come
from a long way off or from out of the earth beneath his pony's feet.
I was interested to see what greeting there would be upon his arrival
at the _yurt_. His two daughters and his infant son were waiting at the
door but he had not even a word for them and only a pat upon the head
for the baby.
All Mongols are independent but Tserin Dorchy was an extreme in every
way. He ruled the half dozen families in the valley like an autocrat.
What he commanded was done without a question. I was anxious to get
away and announced that we would start the day after his arrival. "No,"
said he, "we will go two days from now." Argument was of no avail.
So far as he was concerned, the matter was closed. When it came to
arranging wages he stated his terms, which were exorbitant. I could
accept them or not as I pleased; he would not reduce his demands by a
single copper.
As a matter of fact, offers of money make little impression upon the
ordinary Mongols. They produce well-nigh everything they need for they
dress in sheepskins during the winter and eat little else than mutton.
When they want cloth, tea, or ammunition, they simply sell a sheep or a
pony or barter with the Chinese merchants.
We found that the personal equation enters very largely into any
dealings with a Mongol. If he likes you, remuneration is an incident.
If he is not interested, money does not tempt him. His independence is
a product of the wild, free life upon the plains. He relies entirely
upon himself for he has learned that in the struggle for existence, it
is he himself that counts. Of the Chinaman, the opposite is true. His
life is one of the community and he depends upon his family and his
village. He is gregarious above all else and he hates to live alone.
In this dependence upon his fellow men he knows that money counts--and
there is very little that a Chinaman will not do for money.
On one of his trips across Mongolia, Mr. Coltman's car became badly
mired within a stone's throw of a Mongol _yurt_. Two or three oxen were
grazing in front of the house and Coltman asked the native to pull his
car out of the mud. The Mongol, who was comfortably smoking his pipe in
the sun, was not at all interested in the matter, but finally remarked
casually that he would do it for eight dollars. There was no argument.
Eight dollars was what he said, and eight dollars it would have to be
or he would not move. The entire operation of dragging the car to firm
ground consumed just four minutes. But this instance was an exception
for usually a Mongol is the very essence of good nature and is ready to
assist whenever a traveler is in difficulty.
Tserin Dorchy's independence kept us in a constant state of irritation
for it was manifested in a dozen different ways. We would gladly have
dispensed with his services but his word was law in the community
and, if he had issued a "bull" against us, we could not have obtained
another man. For all his age, he was an excellent hunter and we came to
be good friends.
The old man's independence once led him into serious trouble. He had
often looked at the Bogdo-ol with longing eyes and had made short
excursions, without his gun, into its sacred forests. On one of these
trips he saw a magnificent elk with antlers such as he had never
dreamed were carried by any living animal. He could not forget that
deer. Its memory was a thorn that pricked him wherever else he hunted.
Finally he determined to have it, even if Mongolian law and the Lama
Church had proclaimed it sacred.
Toward the end of July, when he deemed the antlers just ripe for
plucking, he slipped into the forest during the night and climbed
the mountain. After two days he killed the elk. But the lamas who
patrol "God's Mountain" had heard the shot and drove him into a great
rock-strewn gorge where they lost his trail. Believing that he was
still within hearing distance, they shouted to one another that it
was useless to hunt longer and that they had best return. Then they
concealed themselves and awaited results. An hour later Tserin Dorchy
crawled out from under a bowlder directly into their hands.
He had been well-nigh killed before the lamas brought him down to Urga
and was still unconscious when they dumped him unceremoniously into
one of the prison coffins. He was sentenced to remain a year; but the
old man would not have lived a month if Duke Loobitsan Yangsen, with
whom he had often hunted, had not obtained his release. His independent
spirit is by no means chastened, however, and I feel sure that he will
shoot another deer on the Bogdo-ol before he dies!
Three days after his return home, my wife and I left with him and three
other Mongols on our first real hunt. Our equipment consisted only of
sleeping bags and such food as could be carried on our horses; it was
a time when living "close to nature" was really necessary. Eight miles
away we stopped at the entrance to a tiny valley. By arranging a bit of
canvas over the low branches of a larch tree we prepared a shelter for
ourselves and another for the hunters.
In fifteen minutes camp was ready and a fire blazing. When a huge iron
basin of water had begun to warm one of the Mongols threw in a handful
of brick tea, which resembled nothing so much as powdered tobacco.
After the black fluid had boiled vigorously for ten minutes each one
filled his wooden eating bowl, put in a great chunk of rancid butter,
and then a quantity of finely-ground meal. This is what the Tibetans
call _tsamba_, and the buttered tea was prepared exactly as we had seen
the Tibetans make it. The _tsamba_, however, was only to enable them to
"carry on" until we killed some game; for meat is the Mongols' "staff
of life," and they care little for anything except animal food.
The evening hunt yielded no results. Two of the Mongols had missed a
bear, I had seen a roebuck, and the old man had lost a wounded musk
deer on the mountain ridge above the camp. But the game was there and
we knew where to find it on the morrow. In the gray light of early
morning Tserin Dorchy and I rode up the valley through the dew-soaked
grass. Once the old man stopped to examine the rootings of a _ga-hai_
(wild boar), then he continued steadily along the stream bed. In the
half-gloom of the forest the bushes and trees seemed flat and colorless
but suddenly the sun burned through an horizon cloud, flooding the
woods with golden light. The whole forest seemed instantly to awaken.
It was as though we had come into a dimly lighted room and touched an
electric switch. The trees and bushes assumed a dozen subtle shades of
green, and the flowers blazed like jewels in the gorgeous wood-land
carpet.
I should have liked to spend the morning in the forest but we knew
the deer were feeding in the open. On foot we climbed upward through
knee-high grass to the summit of a hill. There seemed nothing living in
the meadow but as we walked along the ridge a pair of grouse shot into
the air followed by half a dozen chicks which buzzed away like brown
bullets to the shelter of the trees. We crossed a flat depression and
rested for a moment on a rounded hilltop. Below us a new valley sloped
downward, bathed in sunshine. Tserin Dorchy wandered slowly to the
right while I studied the edge of a marsh with my glasses.
Suddenly I heard the muffled beat of hoofs. Jerking the glasses from
my eyes I saw a huge roebuck, crowned with a splendid pair of antlers,
bound into view not thirty feet away. For the fraction of a second he
stopped, with his head thrown back, then dashed along the hillside.
That instant of hesitation gave me just time to seize my rifle, catch a
glimpse of the yellow-red body through the rear sight, and fire as he
disappeared. Leaping to my feet, I saw four slender legs waving in the
air. The bullet had struck him in the shoulder and he was down for good.
My heart pounded with exultation as I lifted his magnificent head. He
was the finest buck I had ever seen and I gloated over his body as a
miser handles his gold. And gold, shining in the sunlight, was never
more beautiful than his spotless summer coat.
Right where he lay upon the hillside, amid a veritable garden of
bluebells, daisies, and yellow roses, was the setting for the group we
wished to prepare in the American Museum of Natural History. He would
be its central figure for his peer could not be found in all Mongolia.
As I stood there in the brilliant sunlight, mentally planning the
group, I thought how fortunate I was to have been born a naturalist. A
sportsman shoots a deer and takes its head; later, it hangs above his
fireplace or in the trophy room. If he be one of imagination, in years
to come it will bring back to him the feel of the morning air, the
fragrance of the pine trees, and the wild thrill of exultation as the
buck went down. But it is a memory picture only and limited to himself.
The mounted head can never bring to others the smallest part of the joy
he felt and the scene he saw.
The naturalist shares his pleasure and, after all, it is largely that
which counts. When the group is constructed in the Museum under his
direction he can see reproduced with fidelity and in minutest detail
this hidden corner of the world. He can share with thousands of city
dwellers the joy of his hunt and teach them something of the animals he
loves and the lands they call their own.
To his scientific training he owes another source of pleasure. Every
animal is a step in the solution of some one of nature's problems.
Perhaps it is a new discovery, a species unknown to science. Asia is
full of such surprises--I have already found many. Be the specimen
large or small, if it has fallen to your trap or rifle, there is the
thrill of knowing that you have traced one more small line on the white
portion of nature's map.
While I was gazing at the fallen buck Tserin Dorchy stood like a statue
on the hilltop, scanning the forest and valley with the hope that my
shot had disturbed another animal. In a few moments he came down to
me. The old man had lost some of his accustomed calm and, with thumb
upraised, murmured, "_Sai, sai._" Then he gave, in vivid pantomime, a
recital of how he suddenly surprised the buck feeding just below the
hill crest and how he had seen me jerk the glasses from my eyes and
shoot.
Sitting down beside the deer we went through the ceremony of a smoke.
Then Tserin Dorchy eviscerated the animal, being careful to preserve
the heart, liver, stomach, and intestines. Like all other Orientals
with whom I have hunted, the Mongols boiled and ate the viscera as soon
as we reached camp and seemed to consider them an especial delicacy.
Some weeks later we killed two elk and Tserin Dorchy inflated and dried
the intestines. These were to be used as containers for butter and
mutton fat. After tanning the stomach he manufactured from it a bag to
contain milk or other liquids. His wife showed me some really beautiful
leather which she had made from roebuck skins. Tanning hides and making
felt were the only strictly Mongolian industries which we observed in
the region visited by our expedition. The Mongols do a certain amount
of logging and charcoal burning and in the autumn they cut hay; but
with these exceptions we never saw them do any work which could not be
done from horseback.
Our first hunting trip lasted ten days and in the following months
there were many others. We became typical nomads, spending a day
or two in some secluded valley only to move again to other hunting
grounds. For the time we were Mongols in all essentials. The primitive
instincts, which lie just below the surface in us all, responded to
the subtle lure of nature and without an effort we slipped into the
care-free life of these children of the woods and plains.
We slept at night under starlit skies in the clean, fresh forest; the
first gray light of dawn found us stealing through the dew-soaked grass
on the trail of elk, moose, boar or deer; and when the sun was high,
like animals, we spent the hours in sleep until the lengthening shadows
sent us out again for the evening hunt. In those days New York seemed
to be on another planet and very, very far away. Happiness and a great
peace was ours, such as those who dwell in cities can never know.
In the midst of our second hunt the Mongols suddenly announced that
they must return to the Terelche Valley. We did not want to go, but
Tserin Dorchy was obdurate. With the limited Chinese at our command we
could not learn the reason, and at the base camp Lü, "the interpreter,"
was wholly incoherent. "To-morrow, plenty Mongol come," he said.
"Riding pony, all same Peking. Two men catch hold, both fall down." My
wife was perfectly sure that he had lost his mind, but by a flash of
intuition I got his meaning. K was to be a field meet. "Riding pony,
all same Peking" meant races, and "two men catch hold, both fall down"
could be nothing else than wrestling. I was very proud of myself, and
Lü was immensely relieved.
Athletic contests are an integral part of the life of every Mongol
community, as I knew, and the members of our valley family were to
hold their annual games. At Urga, in June, the great meet which
the Living God blesses with his presence is an amazing spectacle,
reminiscent of the pageants of the ancient emperors. All the _élite_ of
Mongolia gather on the banks of the Tola River, dressed in their most
splendid robes, and the archery, wrestling, and horse racing are famous
throughout the East.
This love of sport is one of the most attractive characteristics of the
Mongols. It is a common ground on which a foreigner immediately has
a point of contact. The Chinese, on the contrary, despise all forms
of physical exercise. They consider it "bad form," and they do not
understand any sport which calls for violent exertion. They prefer to
take a quiet walk, carrying their pet bird in a cage for an airing; to
play a game of cards; or, if they must travel, to loll back in a sedan
chair, with the curtains drawn and every breath of air excluded.
The Terelche Valley meet was held on a flat strip of ground just below
our camp. As my wife and I rode out of the forest, a dozen Mongols
swept by, gorgeous in flaming red and streaming peacock plumes. They
waved a challenge to us, and we joined them in a wild race to a flag
in the center of the field. On the side of the hill sat a row of lamas
in dazzling yellow gowns; opposite them were the judges, among whom
I recognized Tserin Dorchy, though he was so bedecked, behatted and
beribboned that I could hardly realize that it was the same old fellow
with whom we had lived in camp. (I presume if he saw me in the clothes
of civilization he would be equally surprised.)
In front of the judges, who represented the most respected laity of the
community, were bowls of cheese cut into tiny cubes. The spectators
consisted of two groups of women, who sat some distance apart in
compact masses, the "horns" of their headdresses almost interlocked.
Their costumes were marvels of brilliance. They looked like a flock of
gorgeous butterflies, which had alighted for a moment on the grass.
The first race consisted of about a dozen ponies, ridden by
fourteen-year-old boys and girls. They swept up the valley from the
starting point in full run, hair streaming, and uttering wailing yells.
The winner was led by two old Mongols to the row of lamas, before whom
he prostrated himself twice, and received a handful of cheese. This he
scattered broadcast, as he was conducted ceremoniously to the judges,
from whom he returned with palms brimming with bits of cheese.
Finally, all the contestants in the races, and half a dozen of the
Mongols on horseback, lined up in front of the priests, each one
singing a barbaric chant. Then they circled about the lamas, beating
their horses until they were in a full run. After the race came
wrestling matches. The contestants sparred for holds and when finally
clinched, each with a grip on the other's waistband, endeavored to
obtain a fall by suddenly heaving. When the last wrestling match was
finished, a tall Mongol raised the yellow banner, and followed by every
man and boy on horseback, circled about the seated lamas. Faster and
faster they rode, yelling like demons, and then strung off across the
valley to the nearest _yurt_.
Although the sports in themselves were not remarkable, the scene was
picturesque in the extreme. Opposite to the grassy hill the forest-clad
mountains rose, tier upon tier, in dark green masses. The brilliant
yellow lamas faced by the Mongols in their blazing robes and pointed
yellow hats, the women, flashing with "jewels" and silver, the
half-wild chant, and the rush of horses, gave a barbaric touch which
thrilled and fascinated us. We could picture this same scene seven
hundred years ago, for it is an ancient custom which has come down from
the days of Kublai Khan. It was as though the veil of centuries had
been lifted for a moment to allow us to carry away, in motion pictures,
this drama of Mongolian life.