idea of having a normal life. That was how I ended up a carney. And that was when I started these little sabbaticals. Neat, huh? I’ll bet you were expecting something else. Trust me, aside from being a knitting assassin/carney with a black belt in aikido and a proud guinea pig parent (I have the bumper sticker on my trailer), I’m not that complicated.
“You really gave us a show today,” Sansar-Huu said as he and Chudruk sat down next to me on a rock beside the stream. They had hit it off immediately, so now I had two of them giving me a hard time.
“I aim to entertain.” I pulled off my boots and stepped barefoot into the icy water. It felt wonderful. I felt alive. Battered but alive.
“Oh, you do, my friend,” Sansar-Huu answered. “My wife wants to know if you will actually eat dinner tonight or if you are planning to insult us by going straight to bed again.”
I wiggled my toes in the cold water, enjoying the shock. “I am sorry I offended you, my most gracious host.” I wasn’t being facetious. I really was sensitive to the fact that my nonappearance at dinner as a guest was noticed. You couldn’t go to a country like this, where hospitality was an important part of life, and act like an arrogant American.
“I will be there and bring my appetite.”
“Good,” Chudruk said. “And be thirsty. I’m bringing airag. ”
“I can handle it.” At least, I hoped I could. Airag, or koumiss, as it is sometimes called, is a potent alcoholic drink made of fermented mare’s milk. I know, it doesn’t sound tough, but the first time I drank it I lost my voice—and the lining of my esophagus—for a day and a half. And these men were serious drinkers. I would have to walk a fine line of drinking enough to make my hosts happy and not too much that I’d be in a coma in the morning.
“Just be ready,” Chudruk said. “Yalta is going to start with the mekhs. ”
There was a word I didn’t know. “ Mekhs? ” I asked.
“It means…” He scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment. There was no dictionary or Internet out here on the steppes. I hoped he could figure it out. The light came into his eyes and he smiled. “Techniques. My father is going to show you how to wrestle the way his father and grandfather taught him.”
Stepping out of the stream onto the grass felt good. I toyed with washing up but decided against it. The sun was low in the sky and I wanted to make sure I changed before dinner in Sansar-Huu’s ger.
The two men rose and started to walk away as I put my boots back on.
“By the way,” I shouted. My stomach rumbled, and I realized I was very, very hungry. No PowerBars tonight. Tonight I was going fully native. “What are we eating?”
Sansar-Huu waved and shouted back, “Testicle soup!” As he turned away, I had the distinct feeling that he was smiling.
Chapter Eight
“Gravity is a harsh mistress.”
— T HE T ICK
The next few days went as you can imagine. I survived the testicle soup and found it really was not that bad…if you imagined it more like Campbell’s chicken and dumplings, and had a lobotomy to rid your brain of the meaning of the word testicle. The mind works in mysterious ways.
As my training continued, I found, as I always did, that my stamina increased. So did my stubbornness. And slowly, very, very slowly, I started to understand what I needed to do. In my opinion, fighting was eighty percent mental. Every time I was thrown, I learned something. Granted, I wasn’t as good as even the most amateur wrestler, but I was beginning to understand the physics of this form of wrestling. (Psst…it’s all leverage.)
I asked Chudruk to forget the archery and horseback competitions (partly this was because I was afraid Sartre would see the horse as a compatriot in her mocking of me). It would take everything I had to get through the wrestling. And I had my first naadam in a couple of days. Trying to concentrate on two sports didn’t make much sense. All
“You really gave us a show today,” Sansar-Huu said as he and Chudruk sat down next to me on a rock beside the stream. They had hit it off immediately, so now I had two of them giving me a hard time.
“I aim to entertain.” I pulled off my boots and stepped barefoot into the icy water. It felt wonderful. I felt alive. Battered but alive.
“Oh, you do, my friend,” Sansar-Huu answered. “My wife wants to know if you will actually eat dinner tonight or if you are planning to insult us by going straight to bed again.”
I wiggled my toes in the cold water, enjoying the shock. “I am sorry I offended you, my most gracious host.” I wasn’t being facetious. I really was sensitive to the fact that my nonappearance at dinner as a guest was noticed. You couldn’t go to a country like this, where hospitality was an important part of life, and act like an arrogant American.
“I will be there and bring my appetite.”
“Good,” Chudruk said. “And be thirsty. I’m bringing airag. ”
“I can handle it.” At least, I hoped I could. Airag, or koumiss, as it is sometimes called, is a potent alcoholic drink made of fermented mare’s milk. I know, it doesn’t sound tough, but the first time I drank it I lost my voice—and the lining of my esophagus—for a day and a half. And these men were serious drinkers. I would have to walk a fine line of drinking enough to make my hosts happy and not too much that I’d be in a coma in the morning.
“Just be ready,” Chudruk said. “Yalta is going to start with the mekhs. ”
There was a word I didn’t know. “ Mekhs? ” I asked.
“It means…” He scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment. There was no dictionary or Internet out here on the steppes. I hoped he could figure it out. The light came into his eyes and he smiled. “Techniques. My father is going to show you how to wrestle the way his father and grandfather taught him.”
Stepping out of the stream onto the grass felt good. I toyed with washing up but decided against it. The sun was low in the sky and I wanted to make sure I changed before dinner in Sansar-Huu’s ger.
The two men rose and started to walk away as I put my boots back on.
“By the way,” I shouted. My stomach rumbled, and I realized I was very, very hungry. No PowerBars tonight. Tonight I was going fully native. “What are we eating?”
Sansar-Huu waved and shouted back, “Testicle soup!” As he turned away, I had the distinct feeling that he was smiling.
Chapter Eight
“Gravity is a harsh mistress.”
— T HE T ICK
The next few days went as you can imagine. I survived the testicle soup and found it really was not that bad…if you imagined it more like Campbell’s chicken and dumplings, and had a lobotomy to rid your brain of the meaning of the word testicle. The mind works in mysterious ways.
As my training continued, I found, as I always did, that my stamina increased. So did my stubbornness. And slowly, very, very slowly, I started to understand what I needed to do. In my opinion, fighting was eighty percent mental. Every time I was thrown, I learned something. Granted, I wasn’t as good as even the most amateur wrestler, but I was beginning to understand the physics of this form of wrestling. (Psst…it’s all leverage.)
I asked Chudruk to forget the archery and horseback competitions (partly this was because I was afraid Sartre would see the horse as a compatriot in her mocking of me). It would take everything I had to get through the wrestling. And I had my first naadam in a couple of days. Trying to concentrate on two sports didn’t make much sense. All
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