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This is Why I love Mongolians.

After a week working together near the borders of Russia and China in Choibalsan, these administrators, Ministry of Justice officials, border patrol officers, and policemen toasted and thanked one another for a week of good work by the river Kherlen with toasts, songs, hugs, handshakes, more songs, mutton with onion from a cardboard box on the hood of one of the cars, more songs, and some tears.

It was a trip somewhere between 11 and 13 hours from Choibalsan to UB. The night before, when the week's work was done with, Altangerel and the entire posse of border patrol and police chiefs/officers and me all danced in a circle of 18 people boogying out, all between the ages of 24 and 66. (Also why I love Mongolians: everybody dances, not just the hip youngsters, and they dance in friendly circles with lots of space to really groove, which my friends know is my style anyway.)

Karaoke is something I got teased for--not for the singing part (I *believe* Altai and I sang a Beatles song) but for curling up ("like an accordion!" laughed Byambaa) and napping in our booth while the Mongolian songs I didn't know were sung by swaying Mongolians.

"You slept," said Altai.

She's always been so succinct.

That morning, we all woke up early, downed tsuivan and suutetsai, and then drove for exactly five minutes to a mysterious (to me, at least) building where everyone got out and they all had a meeting. I found instant coffee. In the bathroom one of the officers was throwing up.

It was all Naranbat's fault. Naranbat's the Border Patrol Chief, and when Altai and the other ladies were on their James Bond mission near the border, Naranbat decided that I was to be shepherded by people I didn't know to every sight in Choibalsan, which was awesome for five hours, but then I needed to go find an internet cafe and work on Altai's stories. And not have people waiting for me to be done. Please.
No, I was informed, Naranbat said not to leave you alone.
At which point I had a moment of van-lagged exasperation and immaturity. Naranbat minii tukhai shiidej chadakhgui! I said. Naranbat can't decide about me.

Which was translated to Naranbat as simply "Naranbat can't make decisions."

Which Naranbat proceeded to repeat absolutely every time we saw each other to anyone who would listen (and everyone who wouldn't). I don't think Border Patrol Police Chiefs are used to hearing that kind of thing. I made the requisite correction and apology, but he was getting too much glee out of it. He never let it go, but he did call me when we got back to UB.

So anyway, it was Naranbat who, when everyone else had left for karaoke, insisted I stay and follow the several beers I had with half a glass of vodka. No one was there to defend me, and I owed him one.

It was also Naranbat who, when I tried to say it would be awesome to ride a horse in the countryside, had a horse readied for a soldier to trudge around and lead under the hot sun around the military compound just for me on Friday. I felt really bad for the soldier. But the toothless old man who owned the horse taught me some Russian, and that was fun. I looked round from atop the horse at the bright, dusty Gobi, the barbed wire fences, the run-down buildings of the compound. The soldier crunched through the dry grass, smoking a cigarette and texting on his cell phone. The horse was cantankerous and hungry. I had offended once again earlier, by leaving the military compound after the ceremony and concert held in Altai's honor (AWEsome footage coming your way soon of the soldiers in formation, footage I was then informed I wasn't supposed to have taken), when the bigwigs retreated to have a meeting and no one really knew what to do with me. I didn't want to be a burden, so texted Altai where I was going and walked past the Wrestling Palace to the internet cafe. Altai called.

"Why you left? The horse is ready for you!"

Woops.

Anyhow, after the meeting Saturday morning when one of the officers was sicker than me, we drove aNOTHER five minutes in the twelve-hour trek to the side of the Kherlen river, where two hours of toasting and hugging took place. I settled into the peace of just being there, since there was no telling really what the precedent was, while each person toasted with the special silver bowl and thanked the colleagues. The breeze was fresh, the land flat, the river a mirror and the sky patched with clouds. This crew had taken care of me for no good reason over the week. This crew had done work together the nature of which I'll never know. When language flies over, a wide-winged bird, when culture acts the scudding cloud. When the why of things isn't available, one surrenders attachment to causality and logic. I didn't know what was going on, but we all dug into the mutton and onions in the greasy cardboard box on the hood of the SUV: I didn't have to. The last half hour was all songs and hugs, sometimes with twelve people singing in a semi circle, arms around each other. Altai said goodbye and got in the car. They beckoned her back out for another song. When she got back into the car for good, a tear had coursed down her cheek.