Mongolian Home Life, 1886
From Adventures in Mongolia by James Gilmour, 1886.
From: 1886 C.E. To: 1886 C.E.
Location: Mongolia
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
From Adventures in Mongolia by James Gilmour, 1886.
A few words about our mode of life in the tent will illustrate the manners and customs of the northern Mongols. At dawn the serving-lama rose and lit the fire. As soon as the flame blazed, slow streams of white mist became visible converging towards the fire from holes and seams in the felt sides of the tent. The Mongols call this the 'steam of the cold,' and they were correct enough, for this phenomenon was visible only in the intense cold of the depth of winter. The question is, what caused it?
Had it been vice versa, the vapour in hot air condensing in colder air, it would not have been at all mysterious. In Eiachta, when the door of a warm room communicating directly with the cold atmosphere outside is suddenly opened, the hot air is seen to flow out like a cloud of steam, and this is just what might be expected; but why should cold air entering a tent condense its moisture to the point of visibility? It was remarkable, too, that this phenomenon was never witnessed except in the morning, and lasted only for a few minutes, say ten or fifteen, after the fire first blazed up.
As soon as the fire had somewhat warmed the tent, the other inmates got up and dressed. Meantime, the servant put the pot on the fire, and placed in it a block of ice or a pyramid of snow. When this had melted, the scum and sediment were removed, and the water thus purified put on to boil, a handful of pounded brick tea being thrown on the surface. After ten or fifteen minutes' hard boiling, kept in check by occasional use of the ladle, the tea was poured into a pail, the pot swept out with a wisp of the hairs of a horse's tail, a little fat melted in the pot, the cracklings carefully removed, enough meal added to make the compound into a kind of porridge, after a time more meal added and well stirred till the mass seemed brown and dryish, then the tea, cleared from the sediment, poured in and boiled up, and the 'meal- tea' was pronounced ready. This rather elaborate process of adding fat and meal was gone through to supply the lack of milk. The lama had no cows with him, and I think that during the whole of that winter I saw milk in his tent only once, when some one presented him with a frozen piece of it, looking very much like a small cheese.
This meal-tea in the morning, and again at noon, was the only food partaken of by the Mongols till sunset, and the only exception I had them make in my favour was to secure for myself a cupful of the flour when it had reached the stage in which it resembled porridge. This they called 'Scotland,' and set aside for the use of ‘Our Gilmour.'
About sunset the servant, glancing up to the hole in the roof as to a clock, would say, 'Shall I make dinner ' The lama, nothing loth, would say, ‘Make it.' The servant needed no urging, and I, as guest, looked on with interest. Outside the tent was a strong dog-proof kind of cage, into which had been put the whole winter's stock of beef, mutton, and tripe. There it needed no salting. The frost kept it perfectly fresh, and so hard that the portions used for each meal had to be hewn off with a hatchet. Enough to serve the wants of the lama and myself was hewn off and boiled, then fished out with the fire-tongs and put into a basin or on a board. My host and myself appropriated pieces, which we ate by the help of a knife only, in true Mongol style.
While we were thus having our first course, some millet was thrown into the pot in which the meat had been boiled, in a short time was pronounced cooked, and formed our second course. The meat was frequently tough and difficult to manage, but this second course of millet boiled in soup and served up rather thin was always grateful, and I have seldom before or since tasted any preparation of civilized cookery that proved so delicious. The excellence of this soup consisted, I suppose, not so much in itself as in its surroundings. Among the most ordinary articles of civilized diet it would, I doubt not, rank low indeed =; but with desert hunger, one meal a day, and everything else dirty and badly cooked, this well-cooked millet was indeed a delicacy.
As soon as our meal was over the servants set about theirs. A huge mass of tripe, wrapped up in the stomach of a sheep and frozen solid, was brought in from the outdoor larder, attacked vigorously with a hatchet, and the detached fragments put on to boil in the pot. To see what it was like, I insisted one evening in taking my dinner with the men, but I must say it did not prove a very satisfactory adventure. The men, poor fellows! seemed to relish it greatly, and used to devour large quantities.
However cold the weather might be, these evening dinners were always a hot time both for master and men. The fire was piled up to give light, the food taken was excessively hot, and under these circumstances it was not easy to keep cool. A Mongol, indeed, does not seem to suppose that he receives full benefit from his dinner if the eating of it does not make him perspire profusely.
Most Mongols retire to rest immediately after the evening meal, but my host was a great exception to the rule in this respect, and used to sit by the fire till ten or eleven o'clock, sometimes even till midnight. When at length he did go to bed, it was the duty of the servant to see him snugly tucked into his sheepskin coat, and it used to sound strange to hear the master indicating, in Mongol fashion, by the points of the compass, the places where the tucking in was deficient.
After the master had been properly tucked, and I had drawn on sheepskin boots, buttoned up my great-coat to the chin, tied down the ear-flaps of my fur cap, and been covered up with a couple of Scotch plaids, the last act of the day was performed. The tent was closed above, the door was made fast, and a large jar filled with charcoal was produced. The charcoal was made by the care of the men throughout the day, who, during their spare time as they sat by the fire, kept rescuing and quenching the glowing embers of the wood as it burned in the grate.
Each piece, as it was quenched, was thrown into this jar, and after everything was made fast at night the whole contents were piled in one heap on the fire. In a few minutes there was a splendid glow, and, for the only time perhaps in the twenty-four hours, the atmosphere of the tent was really hot. Everyone used to lie and look at it with a glow of satisfaction and gradually drop off to sleep. In a room such a proceeding would have been dangerous, but in our tent danger there was none. Even after every exertion to stop draughts and close up holes, there was' more than sufficient ventilation to have frustrated a much more determined attempt to produce asphyxia.
Argol, the dried dung of animals, is the common fuel of Mongolia. In our tent wood was used exclusively, because we were near a forest, and my teacher, having men and horses at command, could have the wood carted more easily than he could have had the argol gathered. Wood is in some respects nicer to use as fuel, but it has one disadvantage—it gives off little explosions, which drive sparks on to the clothes of those sitting around, and even sometimes sets fire to the roof of the tent.
One night, when a stranger lama, who was our guest, was talking with me about Christianity, I had occasion to point upwards, and in a moment the whole tent was in an uproar. Following the direction indicated by my hand, they had looked up and seen that a spark had ignited the roof, and spreading over the soot-covered felt, had made a glowing patch as large as a man's hand.
The fire was rapidly spreading, and every one instantaneously proceeded to put into execution a method for extinguishing it, at the same time shouting lustily to the others to hand him such things as he wanted. Unfortunately, all the Mongols present were short of stature, and, though the tent was not a tall one, none of them could reach the burning spot, all the more so, as it was directly over the blazing fire.
Several attempts made at extinguishing it had been ineffectual, the glowing patch was rapidly spreading, and the excitement in the tent every moment increasing, when our lama guest in the confusion seized a ladle and began to dash water on the sooty roof. For the most part he missed his aim, and the inky water descending in a shower drove everybody else off the field, and sent them cowering into the sides of the tent, uttering shouts of protestation, and vainly endeavouring to protect their clothes. The burning soot was finally scraped down with a stick, and the lamas again resumed their places round the fire, regarding with rueful looks the black marks spattered all over their red coats.
The water used in the tent throughout the winter was procured by melting ice or snow. As the snow is gathered at no great distance from the tent, it is liable to contain all manner of impurities, and sometimes at the bottom of the pot in which the melting has taken place are found things which anybody but a Mongol would consider very objectionable.
The ice-water is much more satisfactory. It is usually brought from some lake where the water is clean, and being transparent any piece containing impurity can be seen and rejected. One of the pretty sights to be seen in the courtyards of Chinese places of business in Kiachta is the great square stacks of clean, transparent, crystal-looking ice, piled up in the shade of some wall, and forming the water supply of the firm during winter.
Russians out of doors, and Mongols always, protect themselves by wearing skin robes. I neglected this precaution, and, even in the Mongol tent, deemed warm underclothing and a great-coat sufficient. I had to pay for my temerity afterwards, and should have spared myself much discomfort if I had only followed the sensible advice and example of Russians and Mongols, and encased myself in a sheepskin. Even in my noonday walks a damp handkerchief would freeze in the pocket, and I would return to the tent with beard and moustache a mass of icicles, formed by the congealed moisture of the breath. The nights were of course much colder, but in their great sheepskin robes and shaggy goatskin overcoats the Mongols seemed to stand it well, and might be heard singing cheerily in the middle of the night, as the long strings of tea-laden camels defiled past our tent, crunching the frozen snow under their broad feet.
Towards spring my lama teacher finished his business, broke up his establishment, and returned home. Circumstances prevented me accepting his invitation to accompany him to Urga. I was very sorry not to be able to go with him, but it was well I did not. I learned afterwards that they had an exceedingly hard journey, and, notwithstanding their skin coats, suffered much from the cold. It is needless to say that had I accompanied them without furs I should have suffered much more. We parted with deep regret and kindly feelings; we had all got to like each other, and I have no doubt that the Mongols often look back to that winter with pleasure, and tell with glee doings and sayings of the foreigner whom they always spoke of as ‘Our Gilmour.'
Gilmour, James. Adventures in Mongolia. Religious Tract Society, 1886.
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