by D. I. Telbat
For an hour, I repeated those two verses from Psalm 25 as I marched through the forest. When I heard a scamper of feet nearby, I raised my voice to cover the sounds of stalking predators. Once, I paused long enough to pick up a gnarled branch that I could use as a walking stick—or a club if need be. I kept the stick in my right hand and pushed my bike along with my left, gripping it by the steering bar juncture.
A gray wolf with a slender muzzle and eyes like marbles crossed in front of me. It stopped to study me, then slipped away.
"'. . . for You are the God of my salvation!"' I repeated as another circled bravely into sight. There was nothing else I could do as they closed in around me.
My fear lessened as I realized I would have no chance of fighting off the wolves if they attacked. These creatures would have sensed my fear, anyway. Even if I used the 12-guage flare pistol, I had only three shots. I counted close to ten wolves. But as I prayed and yelled, my senses came to me as my adrenalin lessened. Hungry wolves would've attacked already, I reasoned. The land was plentiful with prey for the predators. They didn't need to eat me. They were curious. I hoped. Only curious. So, with nothing else to do but trust the Lord, I sang praises to the Creator of the highest cedar, for the same God who managed the timber also harnessed the carnivorous wildlife.
The forest began to thin, and I hastened without running to see what lay ahead. Emerging from the trees, I stopped in awe. I'd seen this from the mountain ridge, but now, I was here! At the base of the Gobi Altay Mountains, the desolate land sprawled before me like a sea frozen in its waves of grass and scattered bushes. The hills rolled high with a gentle grade, then sloped down into greener bowls where the ground was closer to the water table. I felt the ground tremble and a flock of vultures at the edge of the forest took flight. Two wolves not a stone's throw away howled mournfully as the earthquake lasted nearly a minute. Smiling, I raised my hands to the sky, tears of happiness in my eyes for being so transplanted from prison into the middle of God's creation. Behind me, and to the north and south, the Altay range was seismically active. Though I'd seen no steam yet, I had read there were also hot springs along the fault line.
A wolf padded out of the forest nearby. Lowering his head, he laid down on the coarse grass to watch me. He was a timber wolf, gray and black, with a sleek frame and jaws stained from recent kills. I imitated a canine whine at him and he barked back. Though I hadn't seen them, I knew the country had thousands of stray dogs that mingled with the wildlife, often breeding and intermixing even with the wolves.
"Don't mind me," I said to him. He tilted his head. "I'll be out of your territory in the morning."
The night was closing quickly, the moon already looming. On the open steppe, the bitter wind barreled down from the north with nothing to hinder its path. I made camp against the trees where the forest could give me some shelter from the weather and I could find fuel for a fire. Using dry twigs and fallen branches from the forest floor, I built a grand fire then sat down with my back against a grand cedar to enjoy the flame's warmth. As the stars came out, I could see the light reflecting in the eyes of the wolves as they drifted past my fire, their bodies not quite visible. And by the light of my blaze, with a can of clam chowder warming next to the coals, I wrote this first journal entry:
"Gino, my first day here has been touched by both death and life. Without the patience of your teaching and challenging, I fear I would've faltered. By God's grace, I'm held upright through these struggles, and I thank Him with my every breath that He and you and others didn't give up on me so long ago."
I stopped writing for a moment. To the south, I listened to the wolves fight over a recent kill, snapping at each other for a piece of the carcass. For a moment, I recalled a night in my youth that I'd spent with an angry dog after I'd run away from my foster parents. God had been watching over me then, and He was watching over me now.
"The wilderness around me, the savagery, is unlike the States, but it's strangely familiar as well. As wild beasts tear at each other selfishly for a morsel of food nearby, I'm reminded that such violence wouldn't even exist if it weren't for mankind bringing it into the world through sin. Man sought selfishly for a morsel of food, the apple. How simply and naively we destroy ourselves when there could've been infinite peace and harmony in God's love.
"I trust you are well and safe, you and your family, and your congregation. I have prayed for your spiritual growth and well-being every day as I know you pray for mine. The journey across the Atlantic and through the Mediterranean was magnificent! My Russian hosts were both accommodating and demanding, as was the work . . ."
Writing into the night, I paused often to gaze up at the stars which I could see twenty times clearer without the smog and lights of civilization. Mongolia! And with this remarkable land came a remarkable people with whom I prayed I could share the Gospel.
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In the morning, the beginning of my second day in Mongolia, I saw no trace of the wolves except their numerous tracks around my camp. I had slept restfully, waking only twice to stoke the fire beside me. The vultures had claimed the carcass from the night before. They circled and squawked over what bones and flesh the wolves had left behind. For breakfast, I sloshed water around in my clam chowder can from the previous night, heated it to a boil, and drank it down. Since I hadn't expected to be stranded in the barren land, my food had to be carefully rationed. There were nine cans of food remaining. It was enough, I calculated, to last me four days. But my water would run out before that, even though I had filled my metal canteen with snow run-off the night before. Mongolia had its share of rivers in the central region, but they were scarce in the west and south. Water itself wasn't scarce; one only had to dig for it. If I could locate a region frequented by nomads, I would also find wells which were fashioned with nineteenth-century hand pumps if not a bucket and lever system.
Anxious to be on my way, I packed my belongings, stomped out the coals, and climbed onto my bike. I slid my walking stick into place next to the shovel handle and started southeast. Until I found a trail or pathway, I had to ride and steer through the bumpy range land, which took some skill with my shoulders and wrists absorbing the pounding from the front wheel. Though it was a rolling landscape, it was mostly downhill as I descended from the mountains.
After an hour, I stopped. My buttocks were already bruised and sore from the jarring, rough ride. I had expected to have my trailer to burden my gear, but now, the weight rested on my back and subsequently, my rear end took a beating on the thinly padded seat. For a few miles, I walked and pushed my bike alongside, then paused once again at the top of the last significant hill. Behind me, the forest was a stand of green midway up the mountains. Though the trees provided some comforts of fire fuel and shelter, it was a sign of man that I needed most.
I climbed onto my bike and coasted down the great hill. At the bottom was a dirt trail and I examined it for sign. Horse hoof prints were heading somewhat toward my intended direction, but I was no expert in tracking; the prints may have been weeks old. Horse sign didn't necessarily mean people were nearby, though. The aduu, Mongolia's domesticated horse, made famous by the conquest of Genghis Khan, ruled the steppes here. Though domesticated, when they weren't ridden, they were loosed by their owners to forage. Oftentimes, they returned to the wild, needing to be broken again before riding. The animals wandered where they wanted, from watering hole to grazing land.
Peddling down this dusty, vague trail, I hoped to find a more developed trail, especially since it meant smoother riding for my troubled bones. All that day I traveled, walking up the steeper inclines, using my binoculars to scope ahead when reaching small rises. I watched for herdsmen, caravans, or even a road traversing the range, but there was nothing in sight.
Near sundown, my simple trail came upon a very small bog where mud had puddled to provide wild animals an inch of water. I'd received all my shots before leaving the States, but I had no interest in tempting some parasite against my healt
hy insides.
Weary to the core, I moved a distance away from the bog and made camp. I broke my stick over my knee until I could break it no more, and used it for firewood. It was a small fire, only large enough to warm my hands as I heated a can of stew. One can had been my lunch, which left seven in my stock. My coals glowed red for a while, and I read the Word, prayed, and wrote in my journal until my eyes would stay open no longer.
The next two days were the same, as I moved deeper into Mongolia's vastness. Twice, I came upon larger water sources, but I didn't pollute my canteen with the liquid—no matter how much it looked like healthy water. My canteen was still a quarter full, and though I had water purifying tablets, I wouldn't feel completely safe until I could boil the questionable, animal-trampled water. With no more fuel for fire, there would be no boiling.
But the next day, my water was gone before noon. All morning, I placed this concern before God, and near one o'clock, I found crystal clear water trickling out of a hillside into a wooden trough fashioned by human hands. I filled my canteen, dropped two water tablets inside to quench my paranoia, then quenched my thirst.
For an hour I remained at the trough, bathing and eating a can of food. Every few minutes, I felt the devil put fear in my head. Fear that my food would soon be gone and I would starve to death. And water. What if this was the last water hole for a week? Then what? But I had to shake my head and pray for God's help. He knew.
"I'm on the Lord's business," I'd say aloud. Then I'd look at the sky—which I have a habit of doing when I pray, though I know God is with us and not only above—and I'd say, "You know my provisions, Lord. I know You'll take care of all my needs."
Though I was still a baby missionary, I was quickly learning that the mission field is touch-and-go sometimes. Provisions and safety are so uncertain, one can only turn to God for the things that are otherwise out of man's control. I remembered the Israelites in the wilderness, Elijah, John the Baptist, and many others who weren't always certain how or what they would eat that day. But they depended on God, and He was worthy of such dependence. In a way, I was forced to trust Him.
*~*
Chapter 5
That night, I ate my last can of food with a measure of excitement to see how God would provide for the next day. I didn't feel He would provide; I knew He would.
Since thunderclouds were rolling in from the northwest, I unfolded my thin, twelve-by-twelve tarp and covered my belongings as well as myself inside my sleeping bag. With nothing edible except gum in my backpack, it was unnatural that I slept so soundly. If it rained or sprinkled, I didn't hear it. The next thing I knew, daylight was shining through my tarp, and I could feel the early morning chill on my cheeks. Praying for strength, I drifted in and out of sleep, and welcomed the day with anticipation.
A critter wrestled with the edge of my tarp to my right. It could've been any number of little varmints. Maybe it was a curious bird or a—
It suddenly poked me in the cheek and I flinched with fright, but I couldn't move much since I was encased up to my neck in the sleeping bag. I stared wide-eyed at the critter that had poked me. But it wasn't a critter at all. It was a boy no older than three years old! He'd crawled under the tarp to see what stranger slept there. And then he poked me again! He was motionless, his eyes as wide as mine, his mouth open in the shape of an O, as if he were stuck between a question and an exclamation, the same as I was. I finally gained my wits and grinned broadly.
"I thought you were a squirrel!" I said in Mongolian.
He giggled, then retreated on hands and knees from under my cover. I uncinched my sleeping bag and threw back the tarp. After tugging on my boots, I stood to stare after the boy as he ran east. Squirrel was all baby fat, and his three layers of skin and hide clothing wasn't helping his fleeing feet, but they cushioned his falls every ten or so steps. His clothing wasn't modern like that of a Mongolian citizen from a town. That meant he was from a nomadic clan, probably a Kazakh in this region. But I didn't care what kind of people they were; they were near! The boy disappeared over the top of a nearby hill.
After folding my tarp, I rolled up my sleeping bag in seconds. With my pack on my back, I was peddling after the boy in less than two minutes. Cresting the hill over which Squirrel had vanished, I climbed off my bike to admire the valley filled with life below me. Horses and camels mingled as they were herded together across the valley by herdsmen and women. Cattle were to the south, and sheep and goats were nearer to me. I didn't see any dogs, which I thought strange since I knew the Kazakhs prided themselves in their hunting and herding dogs—as well as eagles, their birds of prey.
Squirrel waddled and tripped through the sheep and goats as they parted for him. In the middle of all the livestock were ten huts, or gers, as they're called in Mongolia. A ger is a portable, round tent, too low to stand up inside, covered in thick felt in the winter and a lighter canvas in the summer—all over a wooden frame that was assembled or disassembled by the nomads at each campsite. Judging by the ten gers, I guessed five or six families lived in this clan, and other tents were used for storing provisions. And I believed this was a wealthy clan by Mongolian standards. So much livestock! Herding was still the principle occupation in the country. Even those who lived in the towns depended on these rural societies which were so isolated in the steppes that some of them sold stock only once a year at the markets.
Before me lay the heart of Mongolian life, and it was this heart I eagerly stepped off the hill to meet.
From Squirrel's alerting cries, a number of people emerged from the gers and herds. People already outside shielded their eyes from the morning brightness to see me. Squirrel ran up to a bulk of a man and hugged his legs. The man wore a long, drooping mustache that mingled with a goatee. His black shoulder-length hair was held out of his face by a fur hat. He rested his hands on his hips as I approached, the goats and sheep scattering before me. I could see this man had a presence about him that demanded respect. He looked to be in his fifties, and though I was a few inches taller than him, he outweighed me by fifty pounds. His torso and shoulders were massive. But his eyes showed curiosity, so it was this openness that I was drawn to.
Two other men stopped their camp work to stand behind their chief. One resembled the first, but was taller, broader, and younger. The other was short with broad shoulders, about my age, and seemed to prefer the bowl cut when it came to haircuts. His face was challenging, doubled by the fact he firmly gripped a Russian AK-47 assault rifle across his barrel chest. At a glance, I counted nearly thirty people, mostly women and children, as they stood watching. Though Squirrel was dressed in the clothing of his ancestors, the adults wore coats unzipped down the front, and sweaters, as if from a Sears catalog. Their pants were wool and a few wore hide leggings. They wore winter boots, which I knew they wore year-round.
I dropped my bike to one side, then raised my hand and smiled as I stopped five paces from the foremost man.
"Hello!" I said in Mongolian and bowed slightly. "I came alone from the mountains five days ago. It sure is good to see people!"
All raised their eyebrows, surely at unexpectedly hearing their own language from the mouth of a foreigner. They looked from my bicycle to what they could see of my backpack, and back to my face. As Jim Beckley had warned, these were a cautious, skeptical people. The books I'd read said they were quick to welcome strangers, but this small clan I'd stumbled upon was the exception since they seemed to be more isolated than most.
"You are . . . Russian?" the leader asked with a frown.
"No, I'm American, a traveler from the United States."
"Is America still at war with the Russians?"
"Um, we are often rivals," I answered carefully.
An uncomfortable silent moment passed. The one with the rifle shifted his feet impatiently.
"Ha-ha!" the leader suddenly blurted and raised his hands. "Then you are welcome in my camp! Any enemy of Russia is a friend of mine!" He held up a finger. "Unless you are Ch
inese or a Kazakh! I hate them, too!"
I chuckled nervously. So, he definitely wasn't a Kazakh. This was a Mongolian clan in Kazakh country, though.
"Very well. My name is—"
"Ah!" the man said. "I know an English word from Dund-Us! Your hair—it is pond!"
Touching my head, I pulled off my hat.
"My hair? Oh, you mean blond."
"Yes! Pond. See?" He grinned proudly at his companions. "I am Gan-gaad. This is my clan. My brother Luyant." He nodded at the over-sized version of himself, then at the younger man with the challenging face and rifle. "And Dusbhan, my nephew. Come, Pond, you are weary. Dusbhan, take his pack. This is a remarkable bicycle!"
I stepped aside before I was trampled as Gan-gaad approached my bike. He stood it upright and swung a leg over the seat as if it were a horse. The seat was too far from the pedals for his short legs, and he couldn't quite take his feet off the ground to balance himself.
"Luyant! Push me! I haven't ridden one since childhood!"
The large brother moved behind the bike and pushed Gan-gaad into the sheep and goats. They bleated excitedly as Gan-gaad bellowed with laughter.
"Your pack, American," the younger nephew offered.
"Oh! Thank you." I slid my gear off my sore shoulders. He hefted the pack onto one shoulder with ease, the rifle cradled in the other arm. Since I'd grown up with guns on the streets and lived under them in prison, I gestured knowingly at his AK-47. "That's a fine rifle. I see you take good care of it."
"It's for wolves," he said, then added, "but not only for wolves."
He gave me a threatening glare, then turned away. Perhaps to intimidate me more, he dropped my pack roughly on the grass next to the nearest ger and stalked out of sight amongst the herd of horses. That was when I noticed the spring bubbling out of the ground between the gers and sheep. It puddled in a six-foot-diameter area, churning sand from the depths of the earth, then snaked obscurely down the valley to the south in a narrow stream bed.