They purified our spirit and heart. They opened a door on new horizons, a peaceful space inside of us, freed from any bond, freed from any emotions, bringing a wave of serenity inside, in an outside world so hostile. To cross your land, we had to deal with our biggest challenge. We had to faith life at every moment, to faith life in order to pursue. To surrender in order to continue, without fighting against your sandy tracks, against your virgin and bare territories, against your dirt roads that would split up in opposite directions, against your snow storm, against the cold that set up on your soil and the powerful wind that swept your land. Inspiring, your landscapes gave us wings. They revealed themselves, illuminated by a fabulous light that seems to fade. It was so low on the horizon; it would create unexpected shadows that contrasted every formation on the ground, giving life to your sumptuous spaces. But your virgin and bitter cold territories pushed us to dive into your people’s intimacy, into Mongolian intimacy.
From the vast landscapes, we ended up confined in a truck, but it opened us the door to the world of your gers, your yourts. The warmth of a family, the cracking of wood, the smell of curd and mutton, a world protected from the hardship of your universe. In your gers, the little girl with red chicks drank tea from her bowl, sitting on the ground and using a wooden stool as a table. She looked malicious with her wild hair. The women make milk tea on the fire, brewing it by pouring it from a ladle with a precise gesture, a symbolic motion. The man with a wrinkled face carried on its daily ritual, putting on multiple layers of cloths, hats and traditional clothes. Taking time to protect his feet by enfolding large pieces of cloths before putting on its felt boots. When he left, a mild light penetrated the ger, revealing the outside cold as it mixed with the warmth, creating at once a dancing steam that encircled his body and splendid traditional fur dell.
The universe of your gers is also the link with some of the shamanic traditions of your people, singing to the spirit of the sky, invocating them, calling the spirit of the animals to enter the world of the protective spirits of your land. However, Buddhist altars are also present and on it a stick of incense was purifying the air of your ger. The same incense the lamas are using in the temple, singing sutras in the low light. At places, a faint light would reveal the swirls and dancing of the steam of tea and the smoke of incense. Universes that coexist and that create your world tinged with sobriety. You still resonate in us for your virgin spaces.
