elusiveworld

We are in the hands of both a madman and a saint. An artist tainted by ten years of cabin fever is our host. He takes the vodka bottle to his lips and words pour out.

He talks of his loneliness out here in Tsaganuur, surrounded by villains and throwbacks of Stalin’s 1930s persecution on Mongolians. His drunken recital is so convoluted that I am stunned into silence.

The man’s gait is strong and wild gestures with his fists do little to promote sanctuary in his presence. On the contrary, I feel that we are in the grip of a madman. A fledgling saint crushed by the might of the Darkhad Depression. An apt name for this god forsaken bowl, an outpost akin to those of the Midwest USA in their gold rush. Where men kill for minerals. It is a hard place for sure.

My mind is restless. Talk of a good-natured guide arriving today has yielded no truth. Given that snow is hanging heavy in the sky, this is the time to move. If the guide does not show early tomorrow I’ll go mad too. Forward is the direction even if going back is necessary first. Our options are growing more limited as snow approaches. No guide will be willing to lead an expedition in these conditions and when his animals are fat from summer grazing. Snow on the ground would make the road hard to travel – a road which is already rugged and mountainous. Prices will rise, as Darkhad people are no mugs.

Awake in the Siberian Wind

Last night our host poured out his heart in a tirade of drunken heartache. It is now dawn and we can still feel his dissettled vibrations travelling through from the family quarters in the other half of the cabin. His wailings carried on all night and the man is not in a good state now.

He arrived here in Tsagannur ten years ago and worked as a painter producing some wonderful watercolours. Yet they all remain boxed up in the attic, like the thoughts that have so long been enclosed in his mind.

Up here in remote north-west Khovsgol, people close up their cabins for winter. There is a piercing quietness in the air, broken only by the shrill howling of the Siberian wind.

In his pained discourse he tells us that ‘only when a blade of grass carried on the wind comes to light on his cheek does he feel alive’. Otherwise this town in but a stage – A place where life is played out by drunkards and the lonesome.

It is from here that our trek into the wild begins. By night we will pass a talking rock high in the western forest. Here we will not pause, but gallop by quickly as there are spirits who strike fear into all who pass.

I step outside the cabin. The lake is bathed in a mysterious yellow light which pierces the grey clouds above the snowy mountains. Vapor rises from the water and a warm yellow illuminates the mist.

I swing open the saloon door to the family quarters and step inside. The painter’s eyes are lakes of tears. His wife and daughters are quiet. A man can be broken so easily. The night of drinking took its toll on him, deranging his good intentions into heart wrenching chasms of aching loneliness and fear.

Gripping his wifely close to him, he kisses her above the ear, then with clench fist raised towards the townfolk outside he screams an illegible torrent of words, challenging any drunkard in this ghost town to take his wife from him.

We will be heading to the Western Taiga on horseback, the journey will take three days. There are wolves in the hills so we need protection.

Using a hammer and pliers, the father of the family – our guide, prepares the bullets, whilst his wife having set the sheep soup to cook, kicks back with a cup of salt tea and a slice of bread spread thick with curds and wey.

He is deconstructing small bullets and pouring the gun powder into  larger shells. Using a pair of pliers, he removes the lead bullet heads then pushes them into the large shells then hammers them home with the pliers and crimps them into place.

It is a country man’s necessity to be armed. Tonight there is a full moon, all that is left to fill the scene is the howl of wild wolves high in the forest.

Ten bullets fashioned, the smith is set for the journey into the taiga.

We take our seats behind old wooden desks in a classroom decorated with black and white stills of movie greats, directors and writers. In a quirky Mongolian way it felt familiar, like being in an old grammar school in England.

The wise old professor seated before us, removes his heavy duty, outdoor spectacles which he substitutes with a pair of sophisticated, gold rimmed ones. With one eye squinting behind the bent left lens, he begins his discourse on remote filming technique. Speaking in a gravelly voice, with a gleam in his one open eye, and a gold wedding ring deeply-embedded on the knuckle of a superstitiously crossed finger, he informs us of what to expect when working with the Tsataan Reindeer herders.

After giving us his time-honoured points of view he once again changes spectacles, placing the thick framed pair on his nose, above a well-groomed moustache. Standing a little over five feet tall, he leaves the classroom dressed in a black shirt, plaid sports jacket and striped tie. Great affection is shown towards him by his female students.

Aside from the aesthetic wonders of this lesson, we leave the professor with little to help us in terms of film technique. He has instilled in the idea that we must buy a car and lighting equipment.

We walk down the back of the dilapidated film school and down an alley between the crude rustic fencing of  semi-permanent ger camps. A husky dog rolls out his tongue and yawns. We pass a large animal skull of some kind, then a line of heavy duty steal doors, designed to keep out harsh weather. A poor little kid passes us, his head bandaged up, a small hand in his mother’s. They have tough faces, but a gleam in the eye.

In contrast to the professional techniques and caution advised by the other professor, our meeting with the second professor highlighted a far more down-to-earth, rough and ready approach to film making. He suggests that we use only natural light.

As the light of day fades to dusk, we eye a map spread out on the table in front of  the tenement block where he lives. The professor wears black horn-rimmed spectacles – the kind that have stretchy rubber to hold them behind the ears – below a head of fine swept back hair. In a corner seat and with his arms spread out on the veranda he exclaims enigmatically ‘you can find the shaman!’

The next day I visit a Siberian Shamanistic costume exhibition at the National Museum. There are many pagan amulets and intimidating costumes of steel and bone objects hanging from deer-skin cloaks. Strange head pieces adorned with animal faces and feathers and voodoo-like dolls. Very primal and supernatural, fascinating, yet at the same time ominous.

We are later to encounter ‘Ghost’, the most revered shaman in the taiga (forest) of Khovsgul, where we hear tales of footprints the colour of blood in snow and howling devil birds.