The real revelation that I’m heading back to Mongolia always hits me as I arrive at my gate at Incheon Airport. The global nature of the travelers passing through Seoul immediately narrows. Rounding the corner to my gate I’m greeted by the familiar sibilance that’s characteristic of the Mongolian language. It’s a language that, like so many aspects of the country, can feel harsh at first.
It’s spring and several families are bringing beautifully packaged Korean strawberries—far superior to the Chinese varieties available in Ulaanbaatar—to their families back home. It’s been seven years since I’ve been back, but it already feels so familiar.
Landing at Chinggis Khan International Airport, I’m greeted by my dear friend Danzka who I’ve known since 2013. Back then, his car had fake Louis Vuitton seat covers, a jet-black window tint, and a video monitor where the rearview mirror used to be that played American music videos on repeat. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Rihanna’s “Diamonds” driving around Ulaanbaatar. Passing by an empty parking lot at night, he’d take the opportunity to rip off a few donuts before the attendant could alert the authorities.
Today Danzka picks me up in his wife’s Prius. It’s a vehicle that he describes as being the best quality for the best price—one that can handle the lawless nature of the streets in Ulaanbaatar as well as the rugged features of the countryside that exists in the rest of the expansive country. He still finds a way to make me grip the edge of my seat.
Driving with the windows cracked, it feels so good to be back in the comfortable chaos of Ulaanbaatar.
The smell of coal smoke.
The smell of gasoline.
Entering Danzka’s home it’s the smell of aaruul and milk tea.
It’s 7 am and I’m wide awake.
It all smells like Mongolia and feels like the second home I had made it for a while.
As the weekend comes around, Danzka invites me to come along with his family as they make a quick trip outside the city.
As we make our way into the countryside he asks “What do you think happens when we die?”
Unsure of what I think and unable to articulate myself quickly enough he interjects, “I think the human body is just here to carry our spirit.”
He goes on to describe an incredibly vivid dream in which he seemingly passes through realms of the living and dead—meeting with deceased and unborn relatives. He explains that when he woke up, his wife told him that she was pregnant.
Close to twenty people pile out of three small cars. Frozen meat begins to cook on a butane stove, a pressure cooker with rice and cow’s heart is passed around, Danzka’s two kids as well as the children of his relatives run and wrestle in the calm, windless dip in the hillside that we’ve found to set up.
The kids are instructed to gather argal, dried cow dung which is fuel for nomadic herders throughout the country.
To me, more than anything else, the smell of burning argal is the smell of Mongolia.
As Danzka goes to light the fire, he explains that white argal smoke will release the bad energy in your body. He cradles his five-year-old son Bibi, throws a handful of salt into the fire, and swings Bibi through the smoke. I watch as each of his relatives twirl through the smoke and take my turn once everyone has passed through.
Then the fire assumes its true purpose. Dankza and his family begin placing potatoes directly into the coals. It’s maybe the most quintessential Mongolian picnic delicacy that Danzka describes with the utmost nostalgia.
The potatoes become coated with a thick black char. Peeling away the hardened exterior, we sprinkle them with salt which melds together with the uniquely greasy cow meat that has also been prepared.
As we finish, the picnic is disassembled. The goodbyes are quick as the growing family folds its way back into the three cars that brought us all here.
As we make our way back to the city, all I’m thinking about is smoke and spirits. I wonder what the smoke took from me today. Whatever it was, I am truly grateful.