海角大神

I聽didn鈥檛 know quite what I was looking for when I flew to Mongolia for a semester abroad. I just needed something different, far from the late-night libraries of my college town. Most different, I hoped, would be my rural homestay: two weeks in central Mongolia with a family of nomadic herders.

My host family鈥檚 ger, a round white tent that Mongolians have carried across the steppe for centuries, nestled against the base of a rock outcropping. From the top of the rocks the steppe rolled to the horizon, a vast sheet striped with windblown snow. It was late March.

Each morning, my host mom cinched the sash of my Mongolian robe snug around my waist. Then I鈥檇 trail behind her, calling 鈥渟hoo, shoo, shoo鈥� to guide our yaks over moss-covered boulders. We鈥檇 smash rocks through ice to draw water from a nearby stream and collect dried dung in nylon sacks for fuel.

In the evenings, we clustered in the warmth of the ger. It was just tall enough for me to stand up in, with two beds crowding an iron stove in the center, a set of shelves holding bent silverware and faded dishcloths, and a painted altar where photos of my host grandparents were propped next to Buddhist icons. We鈥檇 squeeze onto wooden footstools around the altar to play cards or watch Mongolian music videos on the solar-颅powered TV, while my host mom diced mutton for dumplings. I鈥檇 lose at Connect Four to my host brothers, Dalai and Dawaana, and make faces at my host sister, Lhamsuren, who straddled my lap and kneaded my cheeks like dough.

I was studying Mongolian at the time, but still, there was so much I couldn鈥檛 say or understand. We relied instead on short phrases and eager charades. As we tramped through snow behind the goats, my host mom, Tuvshintogoh, would ask me if I was cold, then giggle and pantomime a big shiver to make sure I understood. In the evenings, she showed me how to fold dumplings with exaggerated pinches and twists of her fingers. My host siblings would chatter at me, speaking too fast for me to understand, as we explored the boulders around our ger; I鈥檇 listen and nod and then, suddenly, swing them off their feet by the armpits.

This verbal obstacle was oddly freeing. In the crowded dining hall at home, meeting new people made me anxious. I鈥檇 stay quiet, measuring out my words, scrambling for something to say that wouldn鈥檛 expose me as unfunny, weird, boring. In Mongolia, I couldn鈥檛 fine-tune my words. I could only smile, hold Lhamsuren鈥檚 hand, and try out one of the phrases I鈥檇 mastered: 鈥淢ay I help?鈥� 鈥淲here is the dog?鈥� 鈥淎re you tired?鈥� My host family guffawed at my pronunciation, at the way I threw up my hands and eyebrows in a frequent gesture of confusion. But in their laughter, I felt safe, unembarrassed.

With my Mongolian family on the steppe, I found an ease I鈥檇 never felt before. The static in my head quieted. My fear of being judged 鈥� so long my nagging companion 鈥� began to wane.

We were so different, they and I, and not just in language. Their skin was hardened and darkened by sun; I鈥檇 been hidden under hats and sunscreen since birth. My host siblings grew up drawing water from frozen streams and jogging behind herds of sheep; I wiled away summers at tennis camp.

For me, these gaps made all the difference. Without shared social yardsticks, I wasted no time wondering how I was measuring up. Only real things 鈥撀爇indness, helpfulness 鈥� mattered. We were simply six humans, tiny against a vast Mongolian sky.