Since time immemorial, my kind have roamed the Himalayas, and much of the lands of Eurasia, as well as the forests and jungles of the Asian continent. Bigfoot, the Yeti, the Abominable Snowman, the humans have so many names for us. Some of those names are downright funny, others infuriate the hell out of me. Since we can't exactly go on CNN to correct those misconceptions, we have to grin and bear them. For the record, we call ourselves Sadan Töröl, it means Kindred in Mongolian...
Tales of gigantic, human-like creatures walking about in the wilderness abound in many cultures. Fortunately for my inhuman brethren, we've learned to hide in the last place where modern humans with their seemingly unlimited nosiness would think of looking for us. Thousands of us live throughout the vastness of Asia and beyond. In plain sight...
In fact, I've personally guided scores of men and women, from ordinary tourists hailing from the United States of America, Canada, Australia and the United Kingdom to cryptozoology enthusiasts and experts from The Discovery Channel on many a trail, right here in Mongolia, always on a search for mythological creatures. As always, they never find anything. Not even a gigantic footprint or a suspicious fur patch. Too bad for them, I guess.
Where would I be without tourists with deep pockets and ridiculous obsessions? Probably not living comfortably in a nice villa out here in the country. Seriously, I can't help but smile to myself as I take their money and basically lead them nowhere. They all want to see a Yeti, and they pay good money for it. It's the sweetest scam in the world. I'm in charge of finding myself, and I make sure I'm never found. Not bad for a steady job, eh?
The latest of these well-paying but foolish wanderers are a couple of Americans with deep pockets. One is a short, skinny white guy with red hair named Harold Rosenthal, formerly of Johannesburg, South Africa. The other is Omar Kensington, a graduate student from Howard University in Washington D.C. The six-foot-two, well-built and handsome young African-American Muslim scholar came to my village in the Ghorki-Terelj region of Mongolia with a most intriguing proposition, to say the least. Let's just say that he definitely wasn't what I expected...
"Miss Bagabandi, I firmly believe that the creatures that so many think are the stuff of myth exist among us today, what we call Abominable Snowmen are simply another type of humanoid, just like Homo Erectus and others, and if they're smart enough to stay away from modern humans, who can blame them? We are a savage species that kill our own over questions of color, nationality and religion," said the tall, well-dressed black gentleman, with a shake of his head.
"Please call me Mariam," I replied, and Omar Kensington smiled. When he looked at me, I didn't see the almost anthropological curiosity that I usually saw in the eyes of foreigners when they looked at me. It's something I've grown used to, for a variety of reasons. In the nation of Mongolia, most of the tour guides catering to tourists are men, and I am a woman. This definitely surprises many, as I can attest.
Indeed, when the American scholar first laid eyes on me, he bowed respectfully, instead of offering me a handshake, as is customary in western nations. Most people in Mongolia are Muslims, and I have followed the religion since my birth. Islam states that men and women who are unrelated should not touch. Americans and others tend to ignore or completely disregard social norms while in foreign lands, but not Mr. Kensington, something which peeked my interest.
By my own admission, I make for a rather unique woman. I'm six feet seven inches tall, somewhat on the heavyset side due to genetics, though I do lead an active lifestyle. My breasts are large, my hips are wide, my legs are thick, and while so have politely called me bodacious or Amazonian, I am akin to a giantess, and an anomaly in the eyes of most men.
"Mariam, I am a firm believer that nothing created by mother nature simply vanishes, I believe the creatures I mentioned earlier are intelligent, and have hidden themselves from humanity with good reason, I seek proof of their existence," Omar said enthusiastically, and he stroked his goateed chin. What is going on through this human's mind? I wondered.
I judged Omar to be handsome, from what I understood of human standards. Oh, and he also didn't reek of perfume like most human males I encountered these days. The scholar smelled of soap and water, and nothing else. This gladdens my heart. I can't tell you how much I hate perfumes. Seriously, those artificial smells irritate my superhuman senses. I leaned back on my custom-made chair, and thought long and hard before giving the man an answer. Before I could speak, however, Mr. Rosenthal interrupted our talk.
"Personally, if I see a big hairy ape up there, I'm shooting first and asking questions never," Rosenthal said, laughing, and I swear I saw Omar roll his eyes. I looked from one to the other, and noted what an odd pair they made. An African-American scholar with a Barack Obama button on his backpack, and a gun-loving white man from South Africa, traveling together in Mongolia. Strange bedfellows indeed, eh?
"Gentlemen, I do not guide people on hunting parties, only visits to carefully selected sites, if you seek to hunt wild game, perhaps you should contact one of those hunting companies, I'm sure you'll find their agents more suitable to your needs," I replied haughtily as I rose from my chair, glaring down at Rosenthal. The South African flinched and flashed me a fake smile.
"Ma'am, allow me to apologize for my colleague here, we are not hunters, this is a peaceful expedition," Omar said earnestly. I looked into his soulful brown eyes, and decided to take him at his word. Nodding, I sat back down, then laid the ground rules. There was no way I would lead these two anywhere if they didn't understand that on such journeys, the guide's word is quite often the difference between life and death for inexperienced tourists like them.
"Miss Bagabandi, I'm sorry for what I said, you know the lay of the land, this is your show," Rosenthal said through gritted teeth, and I gave him a chilly nod. We agreed to meet the next day to go over everything from supplies to topography, and then I wished them goodnight. This is going to be fun, I thought to myself as I watched the two of them go.
Just as I expected, Omar and Rosenthal were staying at the Gurkha Inn, the only motel in all of Ghorkhi. It's where all the rich, unsuspecting tourists go, and all the pickpockets, prostitutes and hustlers know it. I'd be surprised if Omar and Rosenthal had all their belongings when I met with them tomorrow. Oh, well. They already paid me...
We set out on horseback for the mountain range the following day. Omar and Rosenthal had done their homework, and their camping and climbing supplies were lightweight, but adequate. To my surprise, Omar was quite the horseman, riding his rented steed with a grace that his colleague Rosenthal, the cowboy-hat-wearing goon, definitely couldn't match. When I inquired about Omar's riding skills, he smiled at me.
"I learned to ride during summers at my aunt Cecilia's ranch near Amarillo, Texas," Omar said proudly, and he gently patted his steed, a rather tough yearling, and the horse calmed down. Rosenthal on the other hand was having a devil of a time with his rented mare, and I knew she was driven nuts by his perfume. I smiled to myself. When will those foreigners learn?
"Well, Mr. Omar, you should thank your aunt," I said with a smile, and amazingly, Omar winked at me. I nodded, and resumed focusing on the road. These dirt roads leading up the mountains date from the time of Genghis Khan, and they're not exactly well-maintained. My horse, a decade-old mare whom I affectionately call Shaitan, is tough and experienced. I could close my eyes as I ride her, for she knows this trail by heart...
"These woods are something else, I tell you, I've hunted in Vietnam and even Tibet but their wilderness is nothing like Mongolia's," Rosenthal said, and I rolled my eyes, bristling at the thought of this annoying creep wandering the world to hunt. It's not that I have something against hunting. I've hunted before, both in human form and in my other form, my true form. I don't kill for pleasure. I kill to feed, or to defend myself. That's all.
"Mongolia is unique, and unlike other countries, we don't hand out hunting licences like candy to foreigners," I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. I turned to look at Rosenthal, and he looked at me and said nothing. Omar looked from me to Rosenthal, and back at me. The expression on his, ahem, handsome face was unreadable.
Not for the first time I wondered why Omar Kensington was traveling with a fool like Rosenthal. From what I understand of western politics and culture, gun-loving middle-aged white guys aren't usually friends with men of Omar's color. Oh, well, whatever their true reasons for coming to Mongolia, I didn't care. I would take them to the Himalayas and back, and then forget about them. We continued up the road for a few hours, until we reached the woods. Night fell, and we made camp.
"This brings back memories of my Scout days," Omar said as he held his hands close to the fire, and I looked at him. I sat cross-legged, with a wolf's skin coat wrapped around my shoulders. Jeans, a T-shirt and boots plus a hunting knife, that's all I need to travel around these parts, but as a tour guide, I had to look the part. More than one westerner has objected to my having a fur coat. I usually tell them to shut up. Mongolians like myself live in harmony with nature, and don't hunt animals to extinction. Westerners go to Africa and Asia to hunt exotic animals, and lecture the rest of the world about animal rights. Such hypocrisy...
