Wild by Nature E-Book

Sarah Marquis

• Herausgeber: Allen & Unwin
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 339

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

In 2010, Sarah Marquis embarked on a perilous journey: alone and on foot, she walked ten thousand miles across the Gobi Desert, from Siberia, through Thailand, to the Australian outback. Relying on hunting and her own wits, she traversed fever-haunted jungles and scorching deserts, braved harassment from drug dealers, the Mafia, and camp raids from thieves on horseback. Surviving dehydration, dengue fever delirium and crippling infection, Sarah experienced a raw and spiritual communion after three years of walking at the base of a tree in the plains of Australia. Through an inspirational journey, Wild by Nature explores what it is to adventure as a woman in the most dangerous of circumstances, and what it is to be truly alone in the wild.

Leseprobe

First published in Great Britain by Allen & Unwin in 2016

First published in English in the United States in 2016 by Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press

Copyright © Sarah Marquis 2014.

The right of Sarah Marquis to be identified as Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

Allen & Unwin

c/o Atlantic Books

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26-27 Boswell Street

London WC1N 3JZ

Phone: [phone]

Email:[email protected]

Web:www.allenandunwin.com/uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Trade paperback ISBN 978 1 76029 072 6E-book ISBN 978 1 95253 418 8

First published in France in 2014 under the title Sauvage Pour Nature: 3 ans de marche extreme en solidaire de Sibérie en Australie by Éditions Michel Lafon

Internal design by Steven Seighman Cover photos: FWagner/Getty Images Photos of Sarah Marquis courtesy of the author

To my dog, D’Joe, who gave me so much

To all the women throughout the world

who are still fighting for their freedom

Contents

Introduction

1. Preparation

2. Mongolia, My Beginning

3. Central Mongolia

4. Gobi Desert

5. Gobi Desert—Second Attempt

6. China

7. Gobi Desert—Third Attempt

8. Siberia

9. Laos

10. Thailand

11. Northern Australia

12. Southern Australia

Acknowledgments

Introduction

I’M BACK IN THE SWISS ALPS AFTER THREE YEARS AWAY, and everything is pretty much as it was, on the surface. I, myself—adventurer, woman, companion, daughter, sister, speaker, friend—am finding my place again in the scenery. My daily life is surprising, even exciting. I’m beginning to readjust to my old life, but things are different. In fact, nothing is as it was before. To start with, I’ve just survived three years of tumultuous adventures. And, believe me, this detail was not a foregone conclusion.

Today, I don’t recognize the rhythm of my pen squeaking on paper as I attempt to faithfully capture the phrases that tumble through my head. My memory won’t seem to unwind all the way; it feels like my whole being doesn’t really want to remember. It’s as though I’ve been forever marked by the hostile regions I crossed step by step, disguised as a man. There were so many nights when I fell asleep with danger prowling nearby. I could only ask my “guardian angel” for protection. In those moments, I forced myself to swallow high doses of positive thoughts, leaving no room for negative thinking. It was my only weapon. Today, like a wild fawn, I continue to slip into the scenery as I’ve habitually done for the past three years. I still have survival instincts that emerge in my daily gestures. It’s like I have a huge tattoo, from three years of walking on my body, in my spirit, on my heart. I can’t erase or hide it. This is how I am now.

Here, everything is so comfortable. Water comes out of the faucet, the fridge is full of good things to eat, and I even have an automatic coffee machine. I lift my eyes from my writing and move toward the coffeemaker, anxious to hear it purr.

I never asked myself how I would do it. What I felt at the deepest level was a sensation so strong that it became self-evident. I was going to become an adventurer.

So many steps—so many adventures—were needed to answer the single question: Why do I walk? The explanation is so simple as to be almost logical, pragmatic. It’s enough to make me wonder if all these years, all these steps were really necessary to arrive at this understanding. And still, I can’t help but think they were. I smile in recalling these years, having followed the signs of destiny all this time.

It’s only in looking back through my wide-angle lens that I come to perceive these signs, to understand them, to feel them. The farther away I get, the more I see. It’s why I never feel alone. My life until this point has been a mix of excitement, sweat, pure adventure, wild creatures with unpronounceable Latin names, hairy, bare chests where I rested my head for an instant—all mixed with enough danger to keep me alert. This existence has also been full of choices. I won’t be able to get everything down on paper, and yet, especially for women, I would like to record all of it, so as to leave a testament that tells of freedom, the freedom to choose one’s life.

The story that follows is my story. I dedicate it to all of the women throughout the world who still fight for their freedom and to those who have gained it, but don’t use it.

Put on your shoes. We’re going walking.

1. Preparation

Before a departure . . .

“I wanted to be alone on my walk, but not just that. My mission was both much more serious and at the same time unique.”

A SUBLIME SENSATION STARTED GROWING IN ME THE MOMENT that leaving showed itself to be the only option. I knew deep in my heart that this departure was the only way to be loyal to the fire that burned within me. I could feel it weakening, the flame was shrinking. . . . It was time to go out and collect the wood that would allow me to rediscover my life’s flame.

That’s how I left. On foot—a fact that presented itself to me as obvious—and alone.

Don’t misunderstand me. I didn’t one day just jump in an airplane, thinking, “Cool, I’m going to cross the globe walking from north to south!”

It required a huge undertaking, with tons of determination and energy, all before even beginning to walk. I had to put together a team that I could count on, with an expedition leader. For my two previous expeditions, my brother Joël had been by my side. Sabrina, his partner, had taken care of all the logistics for the “Path of the Andes” expedition. We planned everything over coffee, with no headaches, laughing as we went, sharing love for a job well done. After my last expedition, Joël set down his suitcases with his partner and their young daughter. He started his own mountain excursion business,1 to which he devotes all his time. So I knew that this expedition would take place without him.

My twenty years of experience in this field has taught me that it’s vital to anticipate any and all potential problems. I therefore set out to find someone living in each of the countries I was going to cross who could speak English and who, in case of an emergency, could organize an evacuation, talk with the authorities, take care of visas, etc.

In discussing preparations, it’s important to take stock of the complexity of the project. In total: six countries to cross, diverse and varied terrain ranging from jungle to desert, from hot to cold, from snow to sand. As is my habit, I don’t leave without equipping myself with good old topographic maps on paper, essential in my eyes. My new expedition leader suggests digital maps, which would have the advantage of being lighter. Something to keep in mind, maybe as plan B.

These operations have a cost that I have to determine and budget for in order to move on to the next step: finding partners to sponsor my expedition, which I’ve baptized eXplorAsia. At the same time, I need to devote myself to my physical preparation with an intense training program aimed at endurance.

And there it is, two years of preparation in a nutshell. Alone, I launched the machine of this gigantic initiative. As time progressed, good people appeared, as well as some who were not so good. Then one day we got the definite go-ahead. I could finally shift from the planning to the active phase of my expedition.

Vevey, Switzerland, June 2010—one week before departure

It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon, but I’m exhausted. I lie down on my dog’s bed, sharing it with him. I’m sad. I’m going to have to leave D’Joe in Switzerland. Each time my eyes fall on his wild coat flecked with red, white, and blue-grey, I can feel Australia, and it reminds me of our crazy adventures—the fire from which he saved my life, our long days without food, our stiflingly hot desert crossings, and our night walks when he wanted nothing more than to sleep. . . .

His breed is the closest a dog gets to a dingo. D’Joe is a Red Heeler, or Australian cattle dog. I saved his life on a farm when he was about seven.

This happened during my expedition to Australia, from 2002 to 2003, when I walked 8,700 miles—6,200 of them in D’Joe’s company—across the most isolated zones on the continent. When we met, I made him a backpack and he became part of my life. Since then, we’ve shared everything. It seemed completely natural when D’Joe touched Swiss earth in the winter of 2003, after a remarkable flight. With no money, I had to call on people who had supported me from the beginning to fund the transport and quarantine costs of my loyal companion. I can never thank those of you who repatriated D’Joe enough for your generosity.

My heart tightens. I can’t imagine not seeing D’Joe upon returning home. I’ve organized everything, even made appointments with a veterinary osteopath for his achy hind legs. I’ll leave my scent in my room with clothes that I’ve worn; that way he’ll sense my presence and won’t worry, for awhile at least. I’m sad.

Eight days before I leave and my twenty-four-by-twelve-foot living room is full of gear. There’s not an inch of floor that isn’t covered in stuff, things piled on top of each other. I’ve meticulously planned each of my hypothetical needs. The store Yosemite in Lausanne helped me by taking charge of, among other things, the logistics of ordering gear. This is how I spent entire mornings with Alain and Sabrina, who were a huge help when it came to choosing all the equipment. My biggest concern was choosing the right footwear. Since the shoe company Raichle no longer makes the ones I’ve used for years, I had to choose another kind. The good old Swiss brand I wanted was sold out and my favorite model disappeared from the catalog. Let’s hope my feet like my new walking shoes—I bought eight pairs.

That week, I only sleep a few hours.

I feel a mix of joy and dispiritedness. Sadness gnawing my stomach, I look at D’Joe lying on the pile of camping stoves and fleece jackets in the middle of the living room. Silently he says, “Don’t leave . . . please,” with eyes even sadder than mine.

But suddenly my mom, who joined the base camp at Vevey to give us a hand, slips on my backpack, which is way too big for her, and starts pushing my cart. Laughter ensues and lightens the mood. Meanwhile, Gregory, the expedition leader, is in the yard making sure that the satellite phone connection works with the solar panel.

A woman in Mongolia (preparation)

Each culture is a sort of magic box where one discovers with wonder and curiosity the habits and customs of a country. To survive in a foreign country, the first thing you need to do is learn about its history; I immersed myself in Mongolia’s. And knowing that, generally speaking, only seven percent of the communication between two humans is based on language, I have a ninety-three percent chance that everything will go well. In Mongolia, the power of both the close and distant family clan is the key to everyone’s survival, and the notions of property and privacy are less rigid than they are in the Western world. What outsiders might consider stealing, Mongolians would look at as being appropriate behavior within a family clan. It’s part of their identity, something that is most likely why, for centuries, outsiders have viewed Mongolians as thieves.

In my backpack nestles an English-Mongolian dictionary, small and light, as well as my trusty collection of images that allow me to make myself understood. It contains illustrations of just about any basic situation—whether tense, dangerous, or funny—that a tourist might encounter in a foreign country; a white, female tourist, that is, one traveling alone in the steppe.

The Mongolian Cyrillic alphabet is related to an earlier Uyghur script. Learning the Cyrillic alphabet is, therefore, essential if you want to decipher Mongolian—the language of all of my topographic maps. Fortunately, the metric equivalents are the same as what I’m used to.

On the ground, I’ve used my ears a lot, asking locals I passed on my routes to repeat the names of the next villages, listening closely to the exact pronunciation. Then I’d repeat them over and over until I mastered the right intonation. Having evolved amidst so many different cultures, I know that a language isn’t made of words; it has its melody, its intonations, its own rhythms that must be carefully observed.

Mongolia is one of the rare countries where my safety would be threatened just about every day. A country where the World Health Organization inventoried “diphtheria, hepatitis A, typhoid, Japanese encephalitis, pneumonia, tuberculosis . . .” and the list went on. Illnesses like the plague and brucellosis are still present in the steppe. Mongolia has also seen epidemics of meningitis and cholera.

My last vaccine was twenty years ago. It made me so sick that I never had another. But for this trip I had decided to get my tetanus booster, which I did, and also to protect myself against rabies. But this immunization required three injections given at fairly long intervals, and in the stress of my departure I hadn’t had enough time. I was therefore well-advised to avoid being bitten or licked by a wild animal or a dog.

The preparations for my trip lasted two years and were tedious. Emptied, exhausted, I am finally sitting on the plane, seat 24B, ready to take off for Mongolia.

______________

1. You can find him at www.verbier-excursions.ch.

2. Mongolia, My Beginning

I’M FORCED TO STOP, THE TEMPERATURE HAS AGAIN reached 104°F. My body has been reacting badly since the beginning and I need to listen attentively to what it has to tell me. I slow down and moderate my efforts.

On this day, I decide to walk to the thicket of trees I see from on top of a hill. It will take me more than an hour to reach this little zone of shade. Once there, I close my eyes and collapse, my head in my hands. It feels like there’s a little monkey in my head, banging on metal cups. I know exactly what’s happening to me, since it’s what always happens to me at the beginning of an expedition. I’ve gotten sunstroke again, and yet, not an inch of my skin is exposed to the sun.

The next morning, I begin my day with my head looking like a slowly roasted pear. The morning light hurts my eyes, but I’m happy, the sunstroke has passed. At least that’s over with!

I walk slowly, pushing my cart along the uneven terrain. This takes a lot of effort, but I know that without the cart, I wouldn’t be able to travel these long distances where there’s nothing, not a single village where I can resupply. I have with me two weeks’ worth of limited food rations and over twenty liters of water reserves. After just ten short minutes, I come upon the other side of the hill.

What an unexpected discovery! I take off my sunglasses to be sure I’m seeing clearly. Before me is a valley full of real trees, a forest dense with birch, and at their feet a carpet of green ferns. The place is magical, and I’m so astounded by its beauty that I get out my video camera. It’s as though I’ve been transported to another country, far from the typical, bare steppe.

Video camera in hand, I film this woodland scene straight out of a fairy tale. Suddenly, I catch my breath, my elbows squeezed against my body to keep from moving. Something brown has appeared in the frame. My eyes widen as the thing comes closer. My God, I don’t think he sees me! Without taking my eyes off him, I check to see that the little red “record” dot is lit up on the screen.

He moves forward again—this morning’s light breeze is blowing in the opposite direction—I’m lucky. He continues with prudent steps, as though he senses danger without being able to discern what it is. But his desire to follow his path wins out. Just then he rushes forward, a few yards from my camera. I stand silently in disbelief, bubbling over on the inside. Then he bounds away between the ferns into the woods. For a moment more I can make out his bouncing hindquarters before disappearing deep into the forest.

It was a magnificent buck just a few years old, given that his antlers weren’t very big. I’m left speechless. His caramel garb and big, black eyes are still floating before me and I have to blink to come back to my senses. The encounter leaves me awestruck and full of energy. It erases all the little corporeal memories, sending nonstop signals of pain. I push my cart, suddenly light as a feather, up the slope. I thank the vagabond of the woods, the cause of the sudden lightness.

While my body walks, pushes, carries my movable house, my spirit smiles and slips away into another forest during the summer of 2002 in the United States. I was walking the 2,650 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail, a path that goes from the Canadian border to the Mexican border.

It’s the end of a long day of walking. I find myself in a forest of dark, humid pines, where a sense of chaos reigns. Trunks covered in green moss blanket the ground, others remain halfway suspended. A large granite rock that seems to come out of nowhere catches my eye. I move toward it and joyfully put down my pack.

At my feet, a deep stream with no current, opaquely black, imprisons the big rock that I saw from far away. I undress and slip into the cold water. If you move into water slowly, the body adapts and the sensation of cold is diminished. Without moving, I sink little by little until just my head is above water. It’s a simple experience of abandon; I feel like I’m nothing more than a head at the surface of this black water; my body has disappeared, the cold water has put it to sleep. Suddenly, a movement draws my attention to the other side of the stream. My eyes open wide, I can’t believe it! It’s a magnificent stag! He moves forward slowly, freezes, listens, then, after a long moment, bounds ahead elegantly and soundlessly. He swims, a procedure at which he demonstrates astonishing mastery. I still haven’t moved, the top of the water is a true mirror. These majestic woods seem to shift themselves to the surface without a body beneath them. The black, stagnant water accentuates this impression. With no fear, the stag passes right next to me. He reaches the bank just a few steps from my dry clothes, then disappears, bounding elegantly into the dark and humid forest.

Back in Mongolia, my shoulders are untouchable because they hurt so much. Just about every one of my muscles is swollen. Since my departure, my body has creaked into motion like an old steam locomotive slowly taking off.

I started training a year ago, but didn’t push myself as much as I did for the previous expeditions. I was short on time, as the size of the project didn’t leave me much time to spare.

So I promised myself I would be careful at first, and find my rhythm. I move forward slowly but surely, as pushing a 110-pound cart and carrying a 40-pound pack on my back requires some effort. Since the ground is uneven, progress is difficult.

I find myself on the summit of one of the hills that I’d seen to the north, bare but green. The air is very heavy. Moving my tongue across my lips reveals the tension in my body. I’m sweating. Salt is everywhere, the temperature is holding steady at 104°F and there’s not a single tree or bush around to provide shade.

From this small height, I carefully observe the curves of the countryside. I need to find water, which has been an incredibly difficult task up to this point. My long career as a water hunter spares me the anguish that most people would normally feel in this kind of situation. Over the years, I’ve used and acquired different techniques for gathering water. Here are a few of them:

• Dig a hole in the earth and cover the opening with a plastic bag. Place a small stone in the middle (on the plastic). The temperature difference between day and night will create a condensation effect and water will collect.

• Another technique is to wrap a branch covered with as many leaves as possible in an air-tight plastic bag. It’s best to use this technique when the sun is at its height. The leaves will begin to sweat (a sauna effect) and after a few hours you’ll be able to collect the condensation at the bottom of the bag.

• The third technique is ancestral and is also used by animals. In the dried-up bed of a sandy stream, you can sometimes find water beneath the soft surface. First, picture the streambed before you filled with water. Then look for a curve, or an obstacle like a big rock. This may be the place where the water was slowed down before the stream dried up. Once you’ve found such a spot, and you’re sure that it’s worth it to spend your energy and your sweat to dig a hole at least three feet deep, then start digging. Once you’ve accomplished your mission, take a nap. When you open your eyes, if you guessed right, you’ll find a small quantity of water at the bottom of your hole.

There are lots of other techniques, but none of them result in the collection of more than a couple of ounces. It’s imperative, though, to ask yourself the right questions before you start and to evaluate the quantity of water that will leave your body during the process of digging or setting the condensation trap.

Above all, I think it’s not the technique that counts as much as your ability to read the landscape. All the clues are there, but you must empty your spirit of preconceptions, of theories. In 2006, I experienced an event that marked me forever and that helped me not only in my life as an explorer, but also in my life in general.

Water, where are you?

I was in South America on my Path of the Andes expedition, eight months of hiking on the cordillera. I was climbing a stony, difficult valley. Rough, grey rock dominated as far as my eyes could see. The wind, above all, was constant and wearing. I scanned the horizon looking for water, but in all this grey there was nothing that resembled life. I thought that if there was water, it would be accompanied by some form of life, logically vegetation. So I searched for green, or even just a simple change of color in the landscape, but there was nothing.

According to my topo map, a good-sized stream came in from the west and trickled into the valley that I was climbing going north. It wasn’t the first time that my map announced streams that had turned into rock beds. I decided to stop and eat something. I knew that I would have to walk that day until I found water, and that I would need some energy. After a quick snack and a short nap, I decided to climb the sixteen-foot pile of rocks a few yards away. (Usually, I make it a point to get past any immediate obstacles before stopping or eating.) I put on my backpack and pushed to the summit, giving attention to the synchronization of my hands and feet. When I lifted my head, the spectacle before me took my breath away: a mountain stream, not very deep, but wide (just as it is on the map) was flowing vigorously. The lesson that I received that day is worth all of the lessons of survival. Why hadn’t I seen this stream as I searched the horizon? I’d asked my spirit to look for green, thinking that it was what would lead me to water. Really? It did exactly what I had asked it to do. Except that at this altitude, there can be water and no vegetation (which is what I learned that day). I had made the greatest mistake!

I hadn’t tried to read the terrain as it was before my eyes. Despite all my experience, that day I hadn’t opened my spirit, I had sent it on a path that was based on a reflection, on a theory, an equivocation that came straight from my head. And yet, hadn’t I felt the slight change in temperature caused by the presence of water?

The wall of stone created a real obstacle. And the wind alone camouflaged the sound of the water.

Sensitivity is the only answer for understanding a landscape. You must put aside logic, theories, good sense, and everything else. Blockages of the spirit are like imaginary barriers that we create for ourselves that prevent us from seeing.

This first day in Mongolia (continued) . . .

I notice a change in color a couple miles away, a darker shade of green, almost imperceptible in this very green green. An abnormal movement of the hills seems to break up the harmony of the countryside, the summits narrow, which could mean the presence of a small stream down below. The decision made, I throw myself into the descent. I take a narrow game trail, another indication of water, even if I haven’t seen a single animal up to this point. I’ve drawn myself a small map to hold for reference, indicating the number of hills I have to climb before I get to those that seem greener. I’m consulting this small bit of paper when a melody reaches my ears. I turn, look around, but I’m unable to discern its origin. Suddenly, without having seen him come, there he is, sitting very straight on his horse, looking at me. The tune has stopped. My very first nomad is right in front of me. I smile, full of respect. I greet him. With no real expression on his face, he gives a very, very subtle movement of his head, looks at me an instant with the bit of paper in my hand, and decides to come and take it from me. His horse watches me intently as the man skillfully throws his leg over his saddle and plants his feet on the ground. He takes the paper from my hands, contemplates it, and squats down, lifting his traditional coat, as a woman would lift her skirt. I find this long, bottle green tunic-coat with its mandarin collar beautiful, and very practical. A single closure is located at the base of the collarbone, consisting of a series of cloth buttons. The garment is gathered at the waist by a large golden band that serves as a belt. He speaks only Mongolian, like nearly all the nomads who I’ll meet after him. I pronounce the few words I’ve learned, among them the word for water, us, pronounced “ousse.” On the ground, in the dust of the path, he begins to trace a crude map. Once finished, he marks with an X the spot where I’ll be able to find water. Watching him, I find the same ease in his gestures that the Aborigines have when drawing in the sand. They’re the only people I’ve ever seen who, after showing me my path, carefully destroy the sketch before leaving. I thank him a thousand times and use gestures to ask if I can take a picture. He motions for me to wait, swats the flies from his horse’s eyes with the back of his hand, then checks that his tunic doesn’t have too many wrinkles at the base of his belt. Now, he’s ready for the picture. I show him the result on the digital screen. He looks at the screen with an indifferent eye. But the back and forth of his irises nestled between his taut eyelids reveals his excitement at seeing himself like that. With an agility inherited from his ancestors, he gets back on his horse without a word or gesture, and continues on his way. As soon as his horse finds its rhythm, the melody rises with the wind. I watch him move away into the distance, and I hop with joy. My first encounter was as beautiful as I could have imagined. I compose myself and decide to follow his instructions to the letter. Little time passes before a pretty mountain stream, completely hidden in the vegetation at the bottom of the valley, offers me its purity and coolness exactly where the nomad had indicated it would be.

The temple, the giant, and the infant

Now that I’ve finally found water, I can undertake the long climb that will have me cross a waterlogged forest of larches, positioned due north. The ground is damp, soaked with water, and the wheels of my cart sink into the mud. Pulling, pushing, sweating, slipping, after interminable hours of effort, I arrive on a berm. I read the ground like an open book: chewed bones, a pile of black ashes, ends of half-burned wood . . . people have eaten here, but it was well before the rains. I stop and make myself some tea with a few twigs that are more or less dry. Until now, I had to skip my tea breaks due to lack of water. Not anymore; my two ten-liter containers are now filled with crystal-clear water. Tea is much more than tea for the desert dweller that I am. It’s a moment when I extract myself from reality by watching the dance of the flames and drinking this warm liquid.

I don’t reach the summit until the next day. In front of me, in the middle of the forest, stands an immense cairn fifteen feet high, made of small stones carefully piled, mixed with blue scarves, wood, money, various objects, and broken bottles of vodka. I realize that I’m in the presence of an ovoo.

According to tradition, when you encounter an ovoo on your path, you must stop and walk three times around it clockwise, adding another stone each time you go around. The traveler can then continue on, knowing that he is protected. He can, if he wishes, leave offerings in the form of candy, money, milk, or vodka.

Mongolians are animist. Animism is the conviction that all things possess their own spirit. Even today, Mongolians still worship the spirits of the sky, the mountains, water, and the moon, leaving them milk, vodka, or money offerings.

I carefully avoid this place out of respect and continue on my path. I hurry my steps, I must arrive at a temple which will be my first chance to resupply since my departure.

I can make out a faint path which, I imagine, will take me far from this forest, and I decide to follow it. The village must not be far away. In less than an hour, I’m already out of the forested zone and find myself, with great pleasure, surrounded by cows, horses, and sheep. I progress slowly while taking in what’s around me. Far away, a man relaxes in the shade of a tree. The repetitive movement his horse makes to brush off the flies catches my eye. The nomad lying on the ground knows he’s been spotted. He unhurriedly gets to his feet and settles into his saddle to catch up with me. After a “sainbanou,”2 he invites me to his house for tea, which I gladly accept. We pass through a herd of sheep, and he accompanies me to his yurt, which is a few hundred yards away. A woman with wrinkled, copper-colored skin immediately comes out to meet me and invites me inside. I don’t think she’s more than fifty. She sports a bizarre fold of skin that hangs heavily over her skirt. Her sweater is too short, and it’s as though her stomach is trying to crawl away. I lower my head and enter. The space is empty, rugs are scattered over the ground. I sit down as I should, without my feet sticking out in front of me, taking care to fold my legs beneath my body. I am sitting to the left of the central pillar, the place to the right of it being reserved for the head of the family, his wife, and his close family.

I immediately feel a wonderful sensation: I adore this round tent made of sheep felt. The woman makes me some tea and, with a frank smile, asks me to turn around. Which I do. A stifled exclamation escapes my throat, the kind that one makes before something bigger than anything, where the greatest mystery of life resides: a small baby is lying there, swaddled in protective cloths like a larva. Questions crowd my head. When was he born? He seems to be only a few days old. Where could she possibly have given birth? I wonder how and in what conditions Mongolian women traditionally give birth.

Smiling, I congratulate her; she seems to understand. A dog appears in the door frame, looks at me, and leaves. He seems to say, “Everything’s okay here, I’ll check back again soon. ‘Long Nose’ would do well not to move an inch.” Where the child has been placed on the ground, a ray of sunlight penetrating the opening at the top of the yurt gently caresses the infant. The woman serves me suutei tsaï, the famous tea made with salty milk. It’s a bowl of milk that could be from a yak, a mare, a camel, or something else, to which is added a pinch of salt and a little tea. The tea is accompanied by a piece of something mysterious that resembles a bit of cheese but is as hard as a rock. I thank her and slip the morsel discretely into my pocket. In the steam of the tea, I perceive a rancid odor that assaults my nostrils before it even wets my lips. My stomach instantly contracts. I clench my teeth and I drink. (I’ll later learn to appreciate this salty tea after spending months in these Mongolian lands.) I drink with little sips; she lifts her eyes from the steaming bowl and smiles timidly. We digest this moment in the company of her newborn, in the intimacy of silence.

It doesn’t last as long as I would have liked; the distinct sound of a galloping horse rings out. On edge, the dog barks, the sheep stir. A man, then another, followed by a young man and a red-cheeked young woman arrive. Everyone sits down. They choose their seats precisely, and I’m able to determine who is family and who is just passing through. Suddenly, the red-cheeked young woman removes her undershirt, exposing her breasts to anyone who cares to look at them, not excluding any males present. The newborn’s mother immediately lowers her gaze, as she sits on her heels, her legs carefully folded beneath her body. Her features fall, and a gentle rocking movement settles in. She seems angry and sad, the light is gone from her face.

A multitude of questions flood my mind and in my head I begin to lay out the problems that could follow from so public a display. I decide to draw away, respectfully taking my leave from the mother and offering her a reassuring smile. Without waiting for a response, I extricate myself from this atmosphere that has become unbreathable. A rumbling of words follows at my heel, as everyone exits the yurt except the mother. They scream at me, accompanied by some spitting here and there. It seems to be full of reprimands that I translate as, “You must stay and sleep here, live with us, eat with us and . . . take off your undershirt when we do!” But of course, I could be mistaken in my interpretation of this family drama!

My legs don’t wait for an order to get far away from this place, as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. I can only smile with astonishment at what just happened.

“Ahhh . . . these Mongolians . . .” escapes my throat.

I take off toward the temple. The dog follows me a dozen yards behind; he seems to be telling me, “Don’t be angry with them, they’re just like that.”

From far away, the temple imposes itself on the scenery like a guardian of the steppe. It’s beautiful from here, with its large, red earth palisades and its roofs curved at the edges. All of the architecture of Asia is there, before my eyes. . . .

A man is working at the foot of the south wall. I’m just five hundred yards away. But from where I am, I can’t quite tell if the man is tall or if the wall is gigantic.

I leave my pack at the entryway, ready for inspection by the dog that followed me, whose gentle eyes tell me of his empty belly. I pet and scratch him gently, and he smiles at me. Far away, the man who was digging stops, gets awkwardly to his feet, and leaves. I’m dumbfounded—he’s a real giant, dressed in the traditional coat called a deel. All of this gives him an imposing appearance. He flees upon my arrival. He had been sitting on his bottom like a child, digging trenches for water drainage with a pickaxe. From far away, the pickax looked like a toothpick in his hands. Poor guy, he must have been worried that I would take his picture. I’m sad for him, and angry at tourists who steal photographs without permission. A photograph should never be stolen. It’s a moment in time, a life, an instant, that the picture freezes. There’s responsibility in it.

I enter the courtyard where everything seems to be falling into ruin. Bags of sand are scattered over the ground, there are piles of brick strewn about, plastic bags vibrate in the wind. In a corner, a scaffolding seems to belong to a colony of pigeons who’ve taken up residence. I leave immediately and run into the young woman from the yurt who gives me a fake smile. Like her dog, she starts following me and yelling “money.” As she makes her demand, she gives me a look that I don’t know how to describe: Her eyes are stuck between her unblinking eyelids, her expression seems frozen on her face. I can’t figure out how to read these people, they all seem to have the same frozen expression. Their expressions are so minimal, I’m going to have to figure out how to do things differently in the future.

She struggles to keep up; my sustained walking speed exasperates her and she grumbles behind me. My stomach is emitting strange sounds. I stop an instant and look behind me. She’s let me go and turned around to go home, her dog at her heels.

I progress in the direction of the yurts that I see far away. I cross the river without difficulty, as it’s not very deep. I approach the fence encircling a series of perfectly aligned yurts. They seem too well aligned, and there’s no sign or emblem.

Two young girls come out to meet me, and look at me strangely. It might be because I’m streaked with mud and I haven’t washed since . . . well, since I left, twelve days ago!

To my great surprise, I’ve just found one of the first Mongolian tourist camps. I smile a lot, too much, I think, for their taste. I’ve noticed so little expression on their faces. No smiles, either. I wonder if this has something to do with the well-known Asian cultural value of “saving face, no matter what the situation.” I count around thirty yurts, but there’s no one there, not a single tourist. They ask me for money. I pay the fee, which seems appropriate. We exchange niceties thanks to my little translation book, and they ask me the following questions: “How old are you? Where is your husband?”

I’m tired, I’m hungry, I need to eat, to resupply, can’t they understand? I start gesticulating. . . . Eureka, they bring me a bowl of boiled mutton swimming in hot milk, which emits such a distinctive odor.

I take a deep breath, keep smiling, and try to explain that I don’t eat sheep. I shout, I gesture, I’m my own traveling theater. But despite rolling out all my artistic talents, they remain indifferent, with their narrow eyes and their stoic expression (that would irritate me so many times). At that moment one of the girls steps back, looking terrified. No? It’s not possible, I think. I need to test my intuition, so once again I open my eyes very wide! Poor thing, she really looks scared! What does she imagine I am? A double cyclops dragon from the north?