From the Arctic Ocean to the Yellow Sea

by Julius M. Price

It is curious to note that, although Mongolia is really Chinese territory, everything is Russian, so to speak; and even the tea and silk represent an equivalent in Russian and not Chinese money. Some of the Russian merchants in Ourga have even adopted a sort of private banknote system, so as to do away with the bother of having to keep a large stock of loose cash—that is, of “bricks”—always handy. These notes represent so many bricks each, and are redeemable on demand; but I hear that the Mongols prefer the bulky article to the flimsy paper substitute. When, after a time, this currency becomes injured by hard usage, and chipped round the edges, it is used for the usual purposes of tea, and it may be imagined what a delightful beverage it makes after it has been passing from hand to hand for some months among the dirty Mongols! However, these children of the desert are not fastidious, and the greasy-looking stuff is broken up and literally put to stew in the common cauldron of the yourt, where, eaten with millet seed, it makes a dish much appreciated for some days.

This dish is to the Mongol what the samovar is to the Russian, and if one is on intimate terms enough to visit a “big man” in his yourt, almost the first thing he offers you is a basin of tea, which is usually poured out of a metal jug begrimed with the dirt of generations. I remember on one occasion, accompanied by a friend who spoke Mongolian, visiting a Mongol who was rather a swell in his way, for his yourt, which I had been anxious to see, was fitted up with some pretension to “style.” We seated ourselves in the usual manner, on the floor, and our host, after a few minutes of conversation, of course offered us the inevitable tea. This was what I wanted particularly to avoid, but there was no getting out of it this time. A particularly unwholesome-looking old hag then dived into the gloomy recesses of a sort of cupboard, and produced three wooden bowls containing some greasy-looking compound, which she forthwith proceeded to clean out with her grimy fingers, finishing up by polishing them vigorously with the tail of her gown; these tasty receptacles were then placed before us on the ground, and filled with some vile liquid which bore no more resemblance to the “cup which cheers but does not inebriate” than does the proverbial chalk to the proverbial cheese. It would have been an insult to the man to have refused his hospitality, so for the next five minutes I was racking my brain how to get out of even sipping the awful stuff. My companion, who was used to Mongolian customs, was not so delicate in his tastes, and managed to get through his bowl all right, at the same time advising me to try and do likewise, so as not to offend the man. Providentially at this moment some one came to the door of the yourt to speak to our host, and we all got up, I immediately taking advantage of the opportunity to quietly empty the contents of my bowl into a dark corner near me. We shortly after took our leave, in spite of the old Mongol’s pressing invitation to stay and have a drop more tea; and when we got outside the yourt, my companion, who had not noticed my manœuvres, but had observed the empty bowl, remarked that he knew I should like Mongol tea if I once tried it!

IN THE CAMEL AND PONY BAZAAR, OURGA.

[To face [p. 293].

It was fortunate I had plenty of work to occupy me, for there was little or nothing to do but to stroll round about a sort of market-place, where a bazaar was daily held, and where everything almost could be bought—Mongolian, of course. This market alone offered almost endless scope for my pencil, for it always presented interesting scenes. One part was devoted to camels and ponies, and it was amusing to watch the zeal displayed by the owners of some promising lot when a likely purchaser appeared. When I was at Ourga one could get a very decent-looking pony for about two pounds (sixteen roubles), which was not dear, considering; for I don’t think it is possible to get anything really good for less anywhere—this, I believe, will be conceded. In Southern Mongolia, in the district bordering on China, these serviceable little animals fetch much higher prices, especially if they show any sign of speed; and the district at certain times of the year is overrun with agents from Shanghai and Tientsin racing-men on the look-out for promising “griffins,”[1] and comparatively big sums of money are paid for them. Apart from racing purposes, the Mongolian ponies make capital hacks when trimmed up a bit and knocked into shape. I could hardly believe that the smart, well-fed, carefully groomed animals I saw in Peking, Tientsin, and Shanghai were originally rough, unkempt brutes of the desert, so great was the transformation.

[1] A “griffin” is a young untrained horse which shows signs of “speed.”

Another part of the market would be occupied by vendors of saddlery, an important and flourishing department, as well it might be, considering what indefatigable horsemen the Mongols are. But what always struck me as being the most unique part of the motley gathering, and a sight almost worth going to Ourga to see, was the hat-bazaar, a department entirely in the hands of the fair sex. A Mongol’s hat is, perhaps, the most striking feature of his toilet; and a rich man will often spend a large sum on his fur-trimmed head-gear. There is very little to distinguish a lady’s from a gentleman’s, only a tassel or two behind, and as, owing to their peculiar shape, no particular difference in size is necessary, there is any number to select from. The noisy crowd of chattering females, dressed in their quaint costume, with their multi-coloured stock-in-trade, was undoubtedly one of the most interesting sights of Ourga; and often did I hover around them with my sketch-book in hand. But although it was a quiet and inoffensive crowd in the bazaar, it was certainly a very curious and inquisitive one; and at first it was very trying to my temper to find myself suddenly the centre of a group of dirty, evil-smelling Mongols, who were not satisfied with mere observation of my movements, but would actually maul me all over with their hot grimy fingers to ascertain of what stuff my clothes were made, my corduroy coat especially coming in for the largest share of public attention. After a time, however, I got used to these practices, and usually found that the best way to put a stop to them was to catch hold of the man nearest me, and to begin turning him about, as I was being treated myself, and to examine him as though he were for sale. This nearly always raised a good-humoured laugh. If, however, it did not succeed in so doing, I had another plan, which I reserved as my grande finale, and which rarely failed, for the time, to rid me of the unpleasant crowd. I would take out my pipe and slowly fill it, every movement I made being watched with rapt attention by the bystanders; then I would produce a small magnifying-glass I always carried about me and proceed to light up with the aid of the sun—no difficult or lengthy an operation on a hot morning. This seemingly mysterious feat would simply strike the onlookers dumb with amazement, and they would generally draw back instinctively a few paces. I would then walk quietly away, leaving them to unravel the mystery as best they could.

IN THE BAZAAR, OURGA.