The bland green Mongolian Steppe is a far cry from the purple mountain majesties and parking lots I know and love. Here, the people are nomadic, trying to live like cowboys in an old Western movie. But this off-putting behavior does not deter an anthropologist like myself. I accept all of Mongolia’s quirks with an open notebook and a judging eye.
“Welcome,” my host, Kan, said to me upon my arrival. He is one of the few in Mongolia who is able to speak English, I am sure. The rest of these people speak only a dialect of Gibberish.
Kan brought me into his condo – what he referred to as a “ger” – and offered me a traditional meal of mutton and kumis.
“Boy, I could go for burger and fries right about now,” I said, eyeing the slop that my host had placed before me. “In America, that’s what we eat. Burger and fries.”
“I see,” Kan said.
“We don’t drink fermented mare’s milk like you people,” I added, “We drink cow’s milk. Straight from the udder.”
Kan was sitting criss-cross applesauce on the rug. To put him at ease, I was also sitting criss-cross applesauce on the rug. There was only the rushing sound of the wind outside the condo as he processed this new information. It was peaceful in the Steppe, like highway at night.
I surveyed the room and considered the redecorating that could be done. I had
seen truckstop bathrooms with more charm than Kan’s shabby condo. But before I was able to articulate my concerns, I was interrupted by a bizarre noise.
Kan now had a deformed guitar sitting in his lap, and he was playing it with a bow.
“This is called a morin khuur,” he said after he had played his music at me for a while.
“Oh,” I said. “Okay. It’s nice and all, but it’s no Aerosmith. You know Aerosmith?”
“No, I do not know Aerosmith.”
I chuckled at the foreigner’s ignorance. “Yeah. It’s a rock band.”
“I see.”
“You people play moron cores, but Americans play electric guitars,” I explained.
Kan nodded, reflecting. The spirit moved me to continue.
“Rock ‘n roll. That’s America. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll, Kan. You people think you’re free out here in the grass, but you’re not.” My hands curled into impassioned fists. “You people aren’t cowboys. You’re cattle. Do you know why that is, Kan?”
“Why is that?” he asked.
“Cowboys only live in America.”
