DAY 304: I've never been a cowboy in the traditional old American Wild Wild West sort of way, but I've seen a lot of classic Westerns. Actually, that's not true, I've only see a couple -- or three if you include Mel Brooks' western parody Blazing Saddles. In any case, the point I'm trying to make is that the landscape of the Gorkhi-Terelj National Park was reminiscent of being in the old American west -- especially when you are on the back of a horse all day wearing a sort of cowboy hat.

With Tatiana's help the day before, I had managed to book a horse for seven hours at the price of three. The unofficial timer started five hours after sunrise at around 11:15 in the morning when Davaabat (picture above), a 28-year-old Mongolia guy from a nearby Mongolian yurt camp came over to our camp with two horses, one for each of us.

Wearing my full-brimmed cowboy-esque sun hat, I rode my horse named Har, who was attached to a long rope held by Davaabat who was riding his horse named Hehr. Trailing behind Davaabat for most of the day wouldn't have been so bad if it weren't for the sounds of farts every two minutes.

* Urrrrrnnnt! *

Wait, was that my guide or his horse? I thought it was best not to ask.

We continued on through the vast landscape, passed herds of cattle, a stream and some French tourists from a package tour bus that took pictures of the two of us, probably thinking that I was one of the locals with my East Asian-looking face and all. At times, riding the beautiful northern Mongolian steppe landscape, I could imaging myself riding alongside the great Ghenghis Khan in the 12th century -- it was his home territory -- but then I'd hear the * Arrrruummmmmmppppf! * from the backside of my guide and his horse and be immediately reminded of the famous fart scene in Blazing Saddles, and then be transported back to the old American west.

My goal of the day was to reach the remote Guunjin Sün temple, a former religious temple created in Manchu style during the Manchu occupation. We trotted long passed Turtle Rock, the farthest most of the tourists go, and continued about another hour through the grassy valley and towards the mountains.

"Sün!" Davaabat pointed out in the distance. A red building was about halfway up a steep hill -- I noticed its Chinese architecture with its Chinese roof. Davaabat had his traditional Mongolian hat on and again I was transported back to a time of feudal Mongolia and China, when Mongols and Manchus duked it out with bows and arrows atop their horses. The Eastern mood was broken again though, when I heard the ringing of a cell phone coming from Davaabat's boots. He grabbed the mobile out of his leg and took the call.

We tied the horses to a tree at the base of the Guunjin Sün temple and proceeded on foot over a rickety suspension bridge over a small gorge. Soon we were at the foot of the stairs that ascended as steep as the hill's incline and walked up to the temple itself. It had recently been converted to the Aryabat Initiation and Meditation Center for Tibetan Buddhists -- the main religion of the country. Inside the building was prayer and meditation space and a golden Buddha statue with money in its hands.

After admiring the view from the temple
and trying on each other’s hats, I realized that we had completed the one goal I had of the day relatively early. There was still a good five hours of riding time that was agreed upon and so I used my Mongolian-English dictionary to point to "river," which translated to "upside-down L, O, Pi, M, theta, P, theta, H" since I hadn't reached the river the day before as planned. Davaabat slapped his horse on the ass to get a move on and it farted almost immediately after contact like a four-legged whopping cushion. Then again, maybe he timed it that way to hide his own flatulence?

AS COOL AS IT WAS TO RIDE ON THE TOP OF A TRAIN IN ECUADOR, the novelty of it wore off after a couple of hours, and I thought to myself, What the hell am I doing on the top of a moving train? Riding on the top of a horse is different though; the novelty lasts a long time, at least for me as I rode through the magnificent landscape of Gorkhi-Terelj National Park, passed other Mongolian horsemen and scurrying chipmunks below, still pretending that I was some sort of cowboy in the Wild Wild West. Davaabat was even jokingly twirling his rope like a lasso when we approached some cattle. For a while he gave me all the rope of my horse -- full control -- and I managed to steer my horse with my fellow Far Eastern Mongolian cowboy.

Conversations with Davaabat was not so much a chore; most of the time we just pointed to single words in my dictionary. We sat out by the Tuul River and had a sort of finger-point conversation. He knew I came from New York and wanted to know more about me. He pointed to "backwards N, p, r, 3, H." Translation: "citizen."

"Yes," I said, nodding my head.

He pointed to another: "backwards R, a, X with a vertical line down the center." "How, which way, in what manner."

I pointed to "born."

He pointed to rectangular U with a tail on the right side, a, Pi, backwards N, H. "Wages, pay, salary, scholarship."

I wrote down "$30,000" in my notepad to give him an average starting salary from my estimation. I figured it was too complicated to tell him I was actually unemployed.

He pointed to "Cap." "Month, moon."

I wrote down "$2200."

He flipped through the pages and pointed to the words for "send, deliver" and "life," and spoke the word, "money." But I didn't get it. "Send money life?" "Deliver life?"

"Deliver life, like a baby?" I said.

He looked for another way to express himself, but just got frustrated with the book and told me to forget it.

FOR KICKS, we switched horses for our final leg of the day, westbound into the setting sun, through more incredible grasslands and forests, just like in some of the classic westerns. The two horses, animals I've admired for years for their incredible strength and endurance, hiked up steep mountains on rocky territory, all while we were on their backs. My new horse however, turned out to be the culprit of the day, continuing to fart its through the landscape.

The day ended when Davaabat dropped me off back at camp. Immediately, Shirka the camp cook that I met that morning, signaled me to eat the late lunch he had prepared for me -- only to serve me dinner just two and half hours later. In between meals, he and two of the Mongolian girls on staff invited me to join them in a karaoke session in the mess yurt, so I could sing them American songs that they punched in: The Beatles' "Let It Be," George Michael's "Last Christmas," Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach," and Laura Branigan's "Self Control." My little concert with them didn't last too long because that night the machine was overtaken by a Korean tour group that had come for the night.

Alone in my yurt I could hear them wailing their vocal chords out to Korean love songs and I knew that I was no longer in the Wild Wild West but the Wild Wild (and sometimes off-key) East. However, I don't know what Shirka the cook put in my Mongolian beef dish because it was me that was farting now -- just like in that Mel Brooks movie back in the West.

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