The Super Driver

Train 4, Ulaanbaatar to Beijing

"I'll get you one of my super drivers", Bolod had said. He didn't exaggerate.
Gorin turned out to be big, strong, stocky guy with a square grin, wrists thicker than my arm and hands like paws. It felt like a big, friendly bear was maneuvering our (well, his) Land Cruiser around the country. His English proficiency may be the only thing Bolod has exaggerated a bit. Still, it was enough to communicate and once we got used to his way of speaking we understood each other quite well. Initially very quiet, he quickly warmed up and shared good natured jokes and anecdotes with us.
Gorin also proved to be a very skillful driver. We probably encountered terrain and roads of almost any type - from asphalt (oh so easy) over flat dirt or gravel tracks (watch your cup vibrate off the dashboard) and rocky mountain trails (extremely bumpy - watch your head) to washed-away, flooded mud (feels like riding a piece of soap, stop and you're stuck). Gorin mastered all of them with his optimistic humour - "this road maybe problem", making sounds of "bump, bump". A few times we even needed the full four-wheel drive but Gorin avoided using it much as it eats lots of petrol (he explained gesturing gulp, gulp, shit, shit).
He found it amusing, it seemed, that Marc and Nicole preferred not to eat meat (Nicole being vegetarian, Marc having a sensitive stomach). It often took some effort on his part to explain owners of eateries we passed to make two bowls of rice and not to put meat inside. The reaction was generally that of bemused confusion. Mongolian life requires lots of energy, so meat is an important part of everyday food. So, I followed Gorin's example. He knew, so I chose to have whatever he picked. Typical fare was befshteaks (a chip-steak), kotlet (a steak) and most of all buuz (boiled dumplings with meat filling). Makes you strong! Gorin ordered eight every time and I followed suit. They don't look like much but I found eight more than enough. Another highlight were the peanuts - a lot imported from Germany (of all places to find Ja Erdnusse), some other kinds from China - that seem a common snack. Gorin liked them, "good for men", he told me with a wink.
Gorin also seemed to know people and have friends everywhere in the country. Maybe because he did the same tour 20-odd times per summer. So, once in a while we were introduced to the Mongolian version of public transport: hitch hiking. Sometimes, we would visit the hikers' ger afterwards and be introduced to Mongolian hospitality and customs. Don't show the host the soles of your feet, they are the lowliest part of you. If you are offered something eat or drink a bit - that is polite. If you finish your bowl you will be offered more, if you don't want more don't finish. If you drink alcohol it is customary to dip your finger in it and flick some over your left and right shoulders and then upwards. A shamanistic tradition: Offerings to earth, fire and the sky. Unique specialties included yak milk yogurt (deliciously sour!), milk vodka and home made cheese. The cheese also turned out to be the only time I couldn't finish what I had started: Silly me picked a large piece not knowing what it was. It turned out to be very sour, way too strong. I'm embarrassed to say that I never managed to finish it; I let it disappear into my pocket and disposed of it later along the road. I hope no one noticed!
In the end, Gorin was the man, who we knew we could trust with anything. He repaired the car when we had a flat tire or broken suspension, found the right road from the networks of unmarked tracks, chose the right eatery in town and found us a place to stay for the night. Still, he would always decide in his humble way saying: "maybe here good place to sleep...?" He explained to us the history of important places as best he could and told us about traditions. Don't pat a Mongol on the shoulder, it's rude. Gorin was, as a matter of fact, also the ultimate good natured "Grobmotoriker" (German for someone who prefers to use force to fix things). When we lacked a hatchet to hack firewood one night he just picked up entire logs and slammed them on a rock the break them. Finally, there was his good-natured humour that never failed to make us laugh. Making hoohoo noises in a dark cave; returning to capital he even stopped at a crossing giving us a questioning look. "Maybe Ulaanbaatar this way?" Once we encountered encountered a few Australian (?) punks wearing black heavy metal T-shirts and leather coats, speaking in very hoarse voices (too much smoking maybe). Gorin was still imitating them hours later. They thought they were the real tough guy but we knew that the true tough man was sitting humbly at our table quietly munching his rice.
It was good to have him around and I miss him now. Imagine having an uncle like that!