various rolls of rugs and carpets placed neatly on a side, the hearth for cooking positioned in the
centre of the room and the big blankets we sleep on delicately folded by the door. There were no
rooms, nothing that separated or acted as barriers. I felt free and one with the desert.
Looking out from the cafe I can see only the nearest thing, the little bakery on the opposite
road. Behind that road are towering skyscrapers and railways that hinder my view. All the little
stores have little doors that are kept closed. I do not understand how people stay inside those
shops and not feel isolated or cut off from the outside. It seems this “modern” world has created
barriers and little boxes for its inhabitants who willingly fit themselves in them. Spending much
of my life in the open makes me feel somewhat claustrophobic to be squeezed within the walls of
the tiny houses here.
I got up from my seat at the cafe and left. Half an hour inside is enough for me, listening to
other people grumble to each other of their stress from their work and families did not interest me
but did make me wonder what could possibly have caused them so much headache. I stroll down
the street, passing children who have just finished school, mothers doing some grocery shopping
for dinner and elderly people having a chat. A cluster of different shops fill the streets, there are
restaurants, bookstores, supermarkets and several boutiques. I find myself stopping in front of a
peculiar store that has animals in it. I suddenly remember an interesting conversation I had with a
friend who was curious about my life in the Gobi. “Did you have any pets?” she asked.
“Well sure, we kept animals if that’s what you mean”
“No, pets, not the animals you needed for survival, but like, as a companion”
“Yes, I had a dog named Kepzi! He was big and black and loved running all over the place”
“Where did you get him?”
“I don’t know...He’s been in my family even before I was born”
“Oh.. I have a dog too! My parents bought him from a shop near my house, he’s a small little
thing and prefers just lying in cage waiting for food all day!”
The dogs in the shop were also small dogs and were lying down in their cages. In the corner,
on a little slip of paper, it says that they are Pugs. They seem out of proportion, with lean legs
yet a plump body. Their mouths seems to curve downwards and their eyes drooped down, on a
whole, it seems like their whole face is sagging. They seem weary and fatigued. I’m not surprised,
I wouldn’t be very optimistic if I was kept in a cage.
There are also foreigners roaming around the streets. They don’t seem like they are wandering
around, they know where they are going. Perhaps they work here and are familiar with the city, I
gather. They aren’t as forthcoming as the other foreigners I had contact with before. When I was
a little boy, my family would host some foreign tourists who would stay together with us, in our
Ger. As I was only a child of a mere age of around 10 I did not know what to think of them. They
looked unlike us, with their unique and varying hair colors, some had piercing blue eyes which
looked as transparent as water while some had eyes so dark it contrasted their snow-pale skin like
night and day. My families did these hosting because it increased their cultural interactions. Sure,
we lived very much in solitary from the modern world but we never shun out the possibility of
meeting different people. We valued cultural diversity. The guests seemed interested in everything
we did. Their eyes grew in interest when Aav started rolling the dough and seemed to relish in
the taste of the noodles when it’s served. They followed me around when I took to my daily chore
of milking the camels. They seemed to think it was quite impressive that such a young boy could
do this, when really, some kids master the art at a young age of 7. I would let them have a go at
