A Steppe in the Right Direction

“If I can’t find an ex-pat to take care of my animals when I depart, I’d rather put them all down than leave them with Mongolians,” said a middle aged Alaskan doctor we met on our last days in country. ‘Jim’, an outspoken but honest missionary, had given four years of his life to Mongolia as a teacher, doctor, animal trainer, and all around good Samaritan, on a monthly salary of $300 USD, which now is tight in an increasingly inflated economy.

Jim reminds me of someone. He’s the kind of guy that reminds everyone of someone they know but can’t place. He lives in the countryside in a ger, a humble circular felt tent the nomads traditionally use on the steppe. The three stout horses bowing their heads into bins of hand-selected grain are used twice weekly for handicapped locals to conduct therapeutic afternoon rides.

“I thank God for my time here,” Jim grinned shifting the desert to the side with spurred boots, “but I pray for the day I get to board a plane back to Alaska.”

I too bowed my head, solemnly nodding and fighting the lump in my throat. Patrick held up a hand to shield the sinking red sun from his eyes.

A gathering of young boys, dusted and stained from a summer day’s sweat arrived in Jim’s fenced in yard, tossing something back and forth as they ran in circles cheering and shouting shy ‘hellos’ in our direction. Their charm quickly evaporated when I realized they were tossing a puppy, so young it’s eyes weren’t yet opened. They shoved it around in the dirt and stuffed it into one another’s pockets, entertained by its inability to remain upright. Jim ran over and with stern Mongolian words scolded their bullying.

The boys squealed with delight and pushed the hand-sized puppy with sticks out of the yard, disappearing behind the makeshift fence. I rested a hand on the horse’s nose as Jim walked back towards us, throwing his hands in the air.

Traditionally Mongolians have a reputation of being excellent with animals, from the renowned cavalries of Chinggis Khan’s armies to the hunter’s resourceful command of golden eagles. Inherently nomadic in heart and by trade, they herded horses, sheep, camels, goats and cattle to trade fur, cashmere, leather, meat and dairy products.

However, their neighbors to the north, Russia, after losing her Imperial struggle and giving way to Soviet authority, choked them for seventy years with a red noose. Centuries of nomadic tradition were suffocated by collective farms where all Mongolian livestock became property of the State and herders were forced to work for a set monthly wage.

The winter of 2009, the coldest cold that puts my lifelong Alaskan experience to shame, was a nod to the after effects of the damaging communist regime. Over 20 million head of livestock starved and froze to death on the steppe in -55 degree weather. Needless to say, in a country with just under 3 million people, it was a devastating blow to the economy. As a foreigner I questioned this phenomenon. Was it normal to lose so many animals every winter?

We traveled through the countryside and documented the haunting reality. For decades herders were given a common salary for their labor and they are still adjusting, ever so slowly, to the open market. As the prices of meat and skins drop, the herders compensate by acquiring more livestock but some cannot or choose not to feed them well and the inadequate State reserves of hay afford little help. This, compounded with a record amount of snowfall and an inauspicious series of summer droughts, resulted in the unfortunate phenomenon referred to as a dzud.

My students ranged from age ten to seventeen. By the time they graduated they spoke fluent Mongolian, Russian, English, Chinese, Japanese and possibly German, depending on the parental involvement. After sifting through long months of student instigated pop star ambitions and Hannah Montana references we reached a conversation about pets in my handwritten curriculum. They shrugged, unfamiliar with the concept. ‘Pet’ became the day’s vocabulary word.

Sure, some of the students had dogs at their apartment or at the family ger in the countryside. “Well, what is your dog’s name?” I asked. “Dog,” was the only reply, which is interesting... even laughable.

I understand that you simply cannot and should not name all six hundred sheep, dozen camels and twenty horses, especially when each and every one ends up in the evening soup. But for an animal-dependent, carnivorous people outnumbered by livestock, at minimum, 30 to 1, they show very little compassion for animals.

There is a palpable fear of dogs evident in the small capital city of Ulaan Baatar that never failed to surprise. Granted, packs roam the streets, territorially baring their teeth when strange dogs interlope seeking out the putrid garbage heaps. But they invariably tuck tail and run when a pedestrian approaches; behavior ingrained from an early age as they dodge thrown stones and bottles.

Full-grown men hurry to the opposite side of the street as a harmless puppy approaches. Mothers clutch their children and boys stop dead in their tracks before bolting away if a curious canine comes to close.

I suspect most travelers can relate to the notion of street dogs. They are everywhere, on islands, in cities, roaming the countryside, and it’s heartbreaking. I’ve surely walked past hundreds, glancing a second time as they drag their broken bodies to avoid oncoming cars or stopping for a moment to lament their open wounds and battle scars. Each time I sadly realize they face a grim fate, especially the females.

While briskly navigating the frozen ground on our way to school in February’s bone cracking cold, it happened. It could fit in my palm. Unable to hold itself up, the only sign of life was a fading heartbeat against the dirty snow. I looked to Patrick but he said nothing, perhaps thinking the same. My stomach turned when I realized the tiny mound next to it was a frozen sibling. Spit freezes before it hits the ground here, and judging by the dusting of snow it would have died minutes before.

I stood and turned away. ‘Bad idea. Absolutely not. There’s no way we could... not with our...’ but before the half formed thought reached Patrick’s ears the puppy was in my arms.

Otherwise friendly Russian teachers scowled as we passed them on our way through the courtyard and into our barracks. This was yet another example of shameful behavior on my part. “Shameful Americans,” they mumbled under their breath, surely. I cradled the tiny gray ball from the bitter wind and the eyes of strangers. The noxious air pollution, statistically seven times greater than Beijing, had covered it in a thick coat.

We entered our crumbling Soviet block apartment on the fifth and top floor. ‘Let’s at least bathe it, even if we can’t keep it, right?’ I asked with wide eyes. Patrick turned the sputtering faucet until it ran lukewarm. The little gray ball lay paralyzed. It squeaked when I ran a little water over its back. Even after the third rubbing of Head and Shoulders, the only shampoo we found in Mongolia we were sure was shampoo, the water ran dark into the drain. After the fourth washing we stood back in amazement. A snow-white chest, paws and nose shone from raven black downy fur.

It slept for two days straight, curled up between my tattered Patagonia fleece and Patrick’s softened Carrharts. Questions arose only after it woke up. ‘What do we feed it? What if it’s sick? Is there a vet in this country? Is it a boy or a girl? Can we keep it? Do we name it?’

I picked it up gently while Patrick ran to the corner store in search of dog food. Never having examined a canine to decipher its gender I found it difficult on a hamster-sized fuzzball, but decided with much certainty that ‘it’ was a boy.

Patrick returned empty handed with an icy mustache and shrugged. My mother had sent a package from Alaska for Valentines Day and it remained unopened on the kitchen table. She had promised to send my favorite homesick cure: her canned salmon. But to my astonishment the package contained twenty-four cans with a familiar green label from an all-too-familiar cannery on the Homer Spit. She later explained that her glass jars were too heavy to ship to Mongolia.

Our unconscious unnamed pup was to experience Alaskan salmon, lucky bastard. My mouth watered as I cranked my Leatherman along the lid. The alluring smell of fish filled the air but I shrieked when the bent back lid revealed white meat. ‘What the heck? Is it bad?’ Patrick looked as if he might cry. I sniffed it again and a curse-laden prayer escaped my lips. ‘I... I think it’s halibut!’ Again, I think most will understand this spoiled girl’s eternal penchant towards salmon when her hometown’s welcome sign reads Homer, the halibut fishing capital of the world!

Frankly, I didn’t even know folks canned halibut. I cranked open another can, just in case the first was a fluke. Patrick and I soon stood shaking our heads at embarrassing numbers of half opened cans of white fish.

We called the school and convinced them that we were ill and would be for the next two days. I set the pup in front of a pile of fish as we stared on anxiously. He licked at it for about a minute on wobbly legs. It was then I noticed his nubbin of a tail as it wiggled slowly back and forth briefly before he slumped back down onto the floor. Whether it was run over or snipped by a local, of course we’d never know.

A recollection from a classroom conversation during our brief ‘pet’ review led Patrick and I, pup in arms, to an underground dive a few blocks from the school. We descended the narrow stairs from the intolerable cold and into an intolerable stench. The man below, presumably the veterinarian, asked our business in Mongolian, and we replied in our fluent sign language.

He asked about the pup’s gender and name. Patrick signed without reservation, ‘he’s a boy,’ and ‘his name is Baron.’ The vet nodded and set our tiny pup on a cold metal table, squeezing it gently all over. My eyes wandered to the pedigree charts on the walls and sealed jars of preserved animal organs.

Baron von Ungern Sternberg was a blood thirsty White Russian that invaded Mongolia in 1920 and ended the repressive Manchu regime, gaining him Khan status amongst the locals until he was betrayed and executed a few years later. We found his tragic story downright fascinating and to top it off, I was in the middle of drafting a screenplay about his life.

I heard the vet laugh and I turned back. “Not boy,” he chuckled, “girl!” Patrick and I met eyes and raised our brows in unison.

Two weeks later we visited the vet again. Baron grew stronger as did her puppy cuteness.
As she received her second round of vaccinations a Mongolian woman holding a month old German Shepard examined Baron. “What kind? How much you pay? Where you buy her?”

Over the next few months two oddly amusing things happened. First, we came up with fantastic daily responses to questions about Baron’s pedigree. Some days she was a rare Alaskan breed, others an Andean/Tibetan mix. Her price tag fluctuated between a mere $500 to an absurd $5000 USD, depending on the gullibility of the inquirer. Baron’s celebrity spread in our neighborhood like fire due to her exotic appearance: stout body, large paws, flawless coloration, shiny coat, charming floppy ears and snipped tail. Only the closest of friends knew she was a free street mutt. Second, she consumed more Alaskan fish than I had in years, though I don’t hold it against her. But I’m pretty sure my Mom does.

In June, as our teaching contracts came to a close, we fled the claustrophobic Soviet block apartment, waved goodbye to our envious Russian colleagues and moved into a spacious wooden house 20 kilometers from Ulan Baatar. The location was beyond picturesque, with a backyard stretching farther than we could ever explore and the Tuul River running by our front door.

The village of Gachuurt was our new home and almost exactly what I had pictured life in Mongolia to be, quaint, unpredictable and safe. However, the owner of the house insisted we keep Security on hand, as locals would be tempted to break in or worse once they realized a foreigner was living amongst them. After 10 months in UB where crime rates would rival NYC, I wasn’t remotely concerned, but he again insisted and we ended up keeping his trusted Security, a lion-sized Tibetan Mastiff named Richie.

Baron pissed herself when we first let Richie out of his cage. He barked and snarled as she whimpered and hid behind our legs, and we rarely left them alone for the first few days, but soon Baron was hanging off of his ears and riding around on his back, instant comrades.

The owner, a Russian educated Mongolian businessman, also insisted we adjust to the Housekeeper, an eighteen year old girl from the village that he convinced not to attend university because she would always have a job at his home and office, washing, watering his exotic trees and cooking for the dogs. This, upon principal, infuriated me, but her presence also made me uncomfortable. For a trivial monthly salary she would arrive at our house sometime between 10am and noon and go about her few chores. Boro lasted about a month before I couldn’t take it any longer. We let her go, and were relieved to hear that she had taken up classes in the city weeks later.

My mother sent another shipment of fish, this time twenty-four cans of red salmon. Baron loved the juices and leftover skin. Her raven coat remained shiny and she grew stronger, running across the steppes chasing bugs, wildlife and swimming like a sea otter at every chance given.

Before we tired of salmon sandwiches, salmon burgers, salmon salad and salmon benedict, we ran out of cans. A small market within walking distance sold Mongolia’s most common and inexpensive ingredient: lamb, and we bought it daily for the dogs.

In the summer evenings, after my script writing was done and Patrick returned from a day’s work in the city, we would swim across the Tuul with little Baron treading along side us, traverse the plains, pass fields of grazing cows and wild horses, and ascend one of the many mountains surrounding Gachuurt.

As Mongolians are primarily Buddhist, their traditional roots lay in Shamanism. Piles of stones and prayer flags adorn mountain passes and peaks, and those seeking good luck or addressing ancestors frequented such spots known as ovoos. We would circle the summit three times counterclockwise, and as tradition dictated, lay a stone or food offering as hawks, eagles and ravens also circled above.

One of my skeptical friends, a tough Bangladeshi girl my age who had cycled with her boyfriend, a French NGO volunteer, from India to Mongolia, had nagged me about adopting a street dog. “I know it’s heartbreaking walking past those pups,” she said over the phone the day we saved Baron, “but I would hate to think she’s going to end up back on the street when things don’t work out. It’s hard to admit it, but I’ve made that mistake before, and known too many people who have done the same.”

As July came to a close, Baron’s charming personality, pure bred appearance and notable manners (we taught her to sit, stay, lay down and shake hands) were enough to convince even the most cynical of our commitment to her.

However, life in Mongolia for Patrick and I became difficult, as the various jobs we had lined up fell through, over and over, we were faced with few prospects. We declined teaching offers left and right, hoping to pursue our freelance and consulting work. The two most common words in the Mongolian language became increasingly difficult to bear: za za (uh huh, sure) and maragash (tomorrow, tomorrow). Every business deal, meeting, project and paycheck was postponed, ignored, lost or worse.

Needless to say our patience had evaporated in the August heat, as had our savings. Though there was still so much more we wanted to document, experience and enjoy about Mongolia, we spent a few days applying for jobs abroad and received a handful of immediate responses. One such response was an impassible opportunity in Northern Iraq, otherwise known as Iraqi Kurdistan, but they needed us within the week.

For the record, I have never had a problem packing and departing a locale in a few days time, off to seek a grand adventure or exciting job opportunity, and Patrick was the same.
We relished in the carefree lifestyle we led. But this time, there was no escaping the reality of adulthood: responsibility. Of course, there was no question. Baron would relocate with us.

On our third trip to the vet, Baron’s passport in hand, complete with vaccinations, photo and parental information, we were met with dreadful news. From the day we first laid eyes on her we inquired about taking her out of Mongolia, so we made sure to get her the appropriate shots and documentation immediately. Now it was apparent we were misinformed. She now faced one more rabies vaccination and a 30-day ‘quarantine’ period before she could depart the country, regardless of her destination. That morning our employers had notified us that our tickets had been booked to depart out of Mongolia in 72 hours.

We tossed together our year’s worth of antique Mongolian treasures, silks, gifts, absurdly heavy expedition wear and equipment, studied it, and then tossed half of it out. We exhausted our list of Mongolian friends, ex-pats and acquaintances, but after careful consideration, realized each and every one worked 10-12 hour days and lived in cramped, crumbling Soviet block apartments. There was no safe, healthy environment in which to leave Baron. Save for one.

A mobile number that had been received, misplaced, rewritten and misplaced again was unearthed from beneath a stack of my student’s final exam papers. The French ex-pat had given us the number of an Alaskan months ago that he had met through his NGO and thought we’d enjoy his company. We dialed his number anxiously and within the hour he was drinking tea in our half-packed house.

We apologized profusely to this animated fellow, and explained our dilemma, but before I could formulate the proposed favor he grinned ear to ear. “Of course I’ll watch her... us Alaskans have got to look out for one another!”

That afternoon we visited his ger with Baron. Jim’s kind eyes followed her as she ran around his paddock, wrestling similar sized puppies and chasing bugs, but his words were harsh. “I understand what it’s like to leave a pet behind,” he scratched the ears of his loyal adopted Mongolian dog, Goya, “I left a champion back home in Alaska when I came here,” Baron sat at my feet and pricked her ears, her little dog tag blowing in the wind, “but I tell you what, if you can’t get her into Iraq I would put her down. Simple. There’s no better option for her here.”

Our last day in Mongolia was the longest. Our packing was nearly done, errands crossed off, a long walk and swim with Baron completed, and we sat in silence as Jim arrived in his Land Cruiser. Baron recognized him and wagged her tail. We were flying out early in the morning and he had come to pick her up.

Patrick handed over her passport, a thirty-five pound bag of dog food, her food bowl, and our bed sheet. I remember hearing somewhere, perhaps in a movie, that dogs are more comfortable in foreign surroundings if they have the scent of something familiar.

Baron scurried around as if nothing was about to change in her life, tugging on Richie’s furry ears and nuzzling my hand as she passed by. We discussed again our plans to file all the paperwork necessary in Iraq to bring her in, and Jim again assured us it was no problem to get her on a flight over as cargo. The lump grew in my throat until I had to excuse myself and walk behind the house to gain composure. Baron followed me and we spent a few quiet minutes recalling all our Mongolian adventures.

Jim’s horn sounded and Baron sprinted off towards the gate. Patrick and I thanked him profusely for this giant favor, and promised to contact him the moment we touched down in Kurdistan.

Patrick opened the truck’s back door but at six months Baron’s back only reached my knees, so I lifted her in and asked her to sit. She sat. In a weakening voice I told her to stay. She cocked her head to the side and pricked her charming ears up, confused. The door was closed and Jim shifted into drive. She indeed stayed while we exchanged last words with Jim and the truck rolled forward. Baron suddenly stood and rested her paws on the back window, watching us trustingly as the truck bounced away. I lost sight of her as tears filled my eyes and fell heavy on my cheeks.

It all happened so fast. Our last night in Mongolia was spent in silence. Jim’s final words rang in my ears, responsible for many of the tears shed before departing that house for good. “But if all else fails, remember friends, she’s only a dog.”

Baron.

She represents something more. As I write this from the town of Duhok, Iraq, it is much clearer than ever. Clearer than the moment we saw her, clearer than the moments we shared, and clearer than the moment we left her. We received news from the local consulate that under no circumstances would we be allowed to bring her into the country.

I admit that I am fortunate to have been raised in an environment as rich and inspiring as Alaska, by parents that supported my ambitions from an early age to the present. We are so fortunate, and we are reminded of this every day by the news, on the streets and as we travel. I have witnessed tragedy, misfortune and sorrow to extreme degrees, and always find some excuse to continue on my way, to walk by. Perhaps it’s a fear that I could never make a big enough difference, that I will never have enough money, enough time, enough energy to save each and every one, be it animal or fellow man, so why bother?

But there is hope in every action. One life does make a difference. This is what Baron stands for.

It is at this point that Patrick and I are extending our most sincere request, that if you or anyone you know in Alaska is interested in adopting Baron, please do not hesitate to contact us. Our ideal family is one that recognizes the significance of her story, is adventurous, and has a big backyard full of bugs and excitement.

We need to find a home for her as soon as possible, as ‘Jim’ will be leaving Mongolia for good by mid-October of this year. There are means to transport Baron from Ulan Baatar, Mongolia to Anchorage for the cost of an airline ticket.

We look forward to hearing from you.
Hannah and Patrick

adoptbaron@gmail.com