The horses repeated this ritual several times as other riders returned to the corral. When we set out a little foal followed us; he would stay with us for the whole ride, nursing a little from the mare but mostly grazing, falling behind, then cantering gaily to catch up with us, often passing us by several yards first. My steed was well-behaved enough (he didn't seem bitter, like a lot of horses are at similar riding places in the U.S.) but he was obviously getting tired of walking the same route over and over. He would stop suddenly, causing our lead to say, "Che, che!" while tugging the rope. This started happening as soon as we turned towards the gully; it was like the horse was saying, "Come on, man! This is boring!"
We didn't ride nearly as far as we thought we would. When we got to the canyon floor, our lead let the horses graze and told us to take a look around. The canyon was lovely, and geologically interesting. We didn't go far, but took in the water and rocks and headed back after some photos. As we headed up a path, I was swinging my hand carelessly and accidentally brushed it against a harmless-looking plant. I was rewarded by several moments of fiery pain, followed by numbness in my palm and two of my fingers. My Dad thought I was overreacting to the initial pain until he saw the angry red swelling around the point where I had touched the plant. Upon investigating, we discovered that the plant had tiny, almost invisible thorns; these thorns probably contained some kind of poisonous agent. I can only imagine what falling into the shrub would feel like. Returning to the horses, we once again walked out to smoother ground, then got on our horses. We switched rides this time; I took the mare, who was older and seemed to have asthma. He had raced horses as a child. I'm not the horse racing sort but it was fun anyway.
We returned to the main campus of the hotel and went to wash up before dinner. Our guide was way too early, of course; he took us to the banquet hall before it had even really opened for dinner. We had ordered roasted lambchops (they had to be ordered ahead of time due to long roasting time); as we waited we ordered some other dishes: peanuts, potato shreds, chicken soup. The peanuts were ordered by our guide to accompany - guess what - [i)baijiu. We ordered a bottle of a regional product, this one of the "heavy" variety. It was also named after Genghis Khan.
Mom was not into it; Dad and I got sucked into drinking with our guide. We apparently were not only paying him for his driving and guiding services, but we were also his meal and drink ticket. Well, in this case, the more the merrier. I think he wanted to see how wasted we would get. I have been in Inner Mongolia for months, so I have learned how to drink the hard stuff at a meal. It's all about pacing oneself, sipping instead of gulping where possible, and keeping one's stomach comfortable with appropriate foods. We were drinking the Mongolian version of milk tea, as well: unlike its sweet southern counterpart, it is salty and slightly oily; somehow, I think this helped to me to down more of the liquor.
We wouldn't have had half so much to drink if it weren't for the travel group sitting towards the front of the banquet hall. They were the only other people in the room, but they had ordered a whole roasted lamb, which was served to music and great ceremony by the restaurant staff. This included the imbibing of more milk alcohol by the honored guests, who were soon in high spirits. The waiters and waitresses also passed by our table with the bottle of milk alcohol; having been instructed by our guide, I did the honors for our table by standing, dipping my ring finger into my cup, and making libations first to heaven, then to earth, before smearing the last libation across my forehead and downing the rest in one go. This brought applause from the guide and my parents. I had always thought that ritual was so cool, and now I was the one performing it.
A few minutes later, another waitress came by with a plate full of lamb. I thought this must be our dinner, but the waitress explained that the travel group at the front of the hall had sent it to us with their compliments. We were properly moved, and consulted our guide as to the best way to thank them. His answer was, "Go toast them." Great. When they seemed properly unoccupied, we walked over and thanked them, and then drained our cups. The men in the group stood, a bit blearily, and slugged massive amounts of alcohol. We were drinking from tea cups; they, from tall glasses. We were impressed, but not particularly envious: it was clear that their condition
One Mongolian cowboy, a little princess, some heavy-weight drinkers, and us
was quickly deteriorating.
Da Zhao Temple with a disco-type step. A tall giant of a man approached first my mother, then me, opening his albatross arms wide and stepping in place to invite one of us into the beat. When we declined, he pressed his hands together in the Buddhist fashion of blessing, his feet moving the whole time, before moving off into the night.
I walked out into the morning sun and the electric buzz of hundreds of grasshoppers calling; knocking on my parents' door, I was greeted by Mom. We walked for a bit on the path and looked out toward the windmills; the lower-lying ground was filled with mist. Finally we returned to our cabins and began packing up.
Although the performances and Mongolian-style clothing were all part of the hotel experience, this seemed to me a much more authentic experience than when I went to the Zhao He grassland; much more complex and involved. The staff presented us with customs and foods traditional to the region, doing so with enthusiasm and flair. Further, the location was gorgeous, and the employees were all people who lived nearby in the grassland in more or less a "traditional" fashion. The motorcycle is indeed replacing the horse in the practical use of traversing large distances, as I have read, but our horse-riding lead was still an active horse racer, and he was proud of the horses he was leading (his main point of pride being how expensive they had been).
I hope to go farther to the north and east in my travels; I am nurturing a Wutasi interest in Mongolian culture and want to begin studying the language(s); I would find it fascinating to see what is changing and what is remaining the same from a more informed point of view. But for now, I am bound to my city life, and I was pleased to spend this precious time off with my parents. We returned to Hohhot in good spirits, I think refreshed by an experience so different from anything else we had done so far.
Well, I guess my milk tea was my Mongolian cowboy breakfast because, although I had been plenty hungry at breakfast, I didn't feel hungry again until dinner. Mom, still on U.S. time, declined dinner; Dad and I ate at a Thai restaurant, where we had a lovely chicken curry and where we saw our first foreigners since entering the domestic flights terminal in Shanghai. (A side note: security at the domestic terminal of Shanghai's Hong Qiao airport was the tightest I have seen in China. We had to pass through security before we could even check in. I would bet a fair amount that it is because of Shanghai Expo.)
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