Miss the sea

I didn’t even want to see the lake but Odtsegseg insisted, so we went. Three days of bumpy van driving didn’t excite me at all, but she couldn’t have been happier. “The best time to visit Lake Khovsgol is in the spring when it rains less and the flowers and bird-life are at their best” she read aloud from my English version of the Lonely Planet. “Imagine a lake in Mongolia” she said sighing in contentment. “Imagine a lake frozen in time withholding billions of litres of fresh water. Imagine it frozen just for us”.

I smiled and pretended excitement but it was hard to convince her of my longing for the lake. Other Mongolian friends had told me about it and had always used the words sea or ocean when describing it. I had pointed out that landlocked countries couldn’t have oceans but this was met with giggles. In truth, I simply wasn’t in the mood for further scenery. I’d done all I’d wanted to do during my moons in Mongolia and had all the photos and anecdotes I could desire. In fact, all I really wanted to do for my last few weeks was hang out in favourite bars in the city, the ones that played Abba songs and dance and laugh and relax. But Odstegseg was adamant

For two years we had been colleagues in Ulaanbaatar. Working and worrying, laughing and crying and she couldn’t believe I was planning on leaving the country of a thousand blue-skies without a trip up north. So this was my last trip to the countryside, our last trip together.

We approached the lake from the south side in the late afternoon and I felt that yelling of adrenalin only felt fully in beautiful and new places. The lake was still half frozen and seemed to be moving under the closing light mirrors of the day. The alpine style sunset and mountains reflected on the water and the ice was still and silent. I smiled and looked over to her, expecting that radiant look of wonderment she gave me, without expectation, so often. But she was looking elsewhere. There in the foreground of my view, was a dead yak drifting on the edge of the water. She looked as though she were going to cry which I couldn’t understand at all. She’d seen dead animals before, she wasn’t sentimental about that. But then I saw it too. Surrounding the yak were empty vodka bottles, plastic bags, finished cigarettes, papers and rubbish. All cajoled around the animal, and this decay would now evaporate the thousand images she wanted to show me.

We drove on by until we found a place to pitch our tent. We set-up in silence and ate the last of the brown bread from lunch with some meat and butter. She said she was going to go to sleep, but I found the bottle of Russian champagne I had in the van for emergencies and so we drank it sip by sip from the bottle. She drank more than she normally did and was so distant from me so I let her wander. The lake, still not fully defrosted yet, made a unique sound of crushing ice movement and this was echoed by the sound of shamans praying in the distance. We let the fire go out, the champagne was gone and then she asked me.

“What will you miss about my Mongolia”

““I’ll miss so many things about your home.” I told her.

“I’ll miss marmot sandwiches and camel polo. Snow on the ground and blue-sky. Sand-storms in the city and the delight of transparency, mostly my own. There are some things here which will never leave me, and I will miss them all.”

For the first time in hours she smiled at me.

“Actually, do you know what I’ll miss the most about Mongolia?” I asked her.

“I’ll miss the sea”.