A VISIT TO THE YURTS IN
GODSCHUR
by Jan Scheerder (Visitor Submitted), 11/02/01
High in the blue sky, a bird of prey
screams -- all around us, only grass. A sweet aromatic smell is in the air.
We ride through an endless steppe for hours, with no sign of human existence. Now we ride on a higher part of the steppe and look over a long slope valley. In the far, we see a little settlement. It is the silhouette of five nomadic yurts.
Slowly, we ride forward. It seems we are not going anywhere.
On the steppe, time is not important. Daily life does not depend on a watch, but by a biological clock that tells people when it is time to eat or sleep. When we near the yurts, a man called Baatr comes out of one of the yurts to greet us with a little bend of his head. He says, "Mende," which means "Welcome." We go into the yurt to drink the traditional Kalmyk salty butter tea. (Click Here for recipe.) Everyone is sitting on the ground around a little, 30cm high table. Maya and her daughter, Elzjata, pour the team into a bowl.
After the tea, we talk a little with our host, after which the bowls are filled with kummiss, a strong drink with alcohol made of mare milk. It tastes sickenly sweet.
After half an hour, we all go outside to sit on a big round carpet of felt. Tsagan Zam, the National Djangartschi, takes his dombre, closes his eyes, and starts to sing. A deep growing sound comes out of his throat, followed by extremely high tones. This kind of singing, on the endless steppe while sitting near the yurts, gives a man chickenskin! Specifically, the high tones are very astonishing. It is just like someone is playing on a flute.
Meanwhile, a sheep is slaughtered. A woman filled a pan with water to boil the sheep
on a stove outside the yurt.
The older men are listening to the songs of the Djangartschi with great interest. They clap their hands while listening to the great deeds of the beloved hero Djangar and his 6012 heroes. It is fascinating even when one does not understand the words; you feel yourself go back in time, for centuries. In the songs, you can hear the thundering noise of thousands of horse hooves from the horde of Djengiss Khan, trampling over the steppe.
When Tsagan Zam stops singing, some of the auditors shake his hands to thank him for the beautiful song.
An old woman begins to play on her dombre, and a few young girls start dancing. The Kalmyk dances are very static; they just trample the grass with their feet, but their hands and heads move gracefully.
Meanwhile, the cooked sheep is served.
When the men have eaten enough, we drink some Vodka, smoke a cigarette, and walk a while on the steppe. When we come back 45 minutes later, we drink a bowl of beaf-tea. After that, we eat the rest of the cold meat.
Then, a big bowl, filled with kummiss, goes from hand to hand so everybody can drink from it.
The sun touches the horizon. It has been a very warm day, with temperatures about 40c. When it gets dark, a campfire is made, and again, Tsagan Zam sings a story about Djangar. With the fire on the dark steppe it is much more impressive than before.
In the background, we hear only the sounds of the steppe... thousands of cicadas and, sometimes, the howling of a wild dog or wolf.
It is late when we go to sleep in the yurt.
I lay down and look through the smokehole and see thousands of very bright stars in a dark, bluish sky. I think of the poem of the Kalmyk poet, David Kugultinov:
When in the steppe I stand
alone
With far horizons clear to view,
Ambrosia on the breezes blown
And skies above me, crystal blue,
I sense my own true human height
And in eternity delight.
The obstacles to all my
dreams
Now shrink, appear absurd, inept,
And nothing either is or seems
Except myself, these birds, these steppe.
What joy it is to feel all round
Wide open space that knows no bound!