5 PM. I adjust my gloves and beanie before heading outside. It’s feeding time for the horses.
As I open the door, the crisp air rushes in, stinging my ears and making my cheeks flush. The sky is blue. In front of me, snow-capped mountains tower over the valley. The setting is idyllic.
A horse’s neigh pulls me out of my daydream. I meet Kuku, the farmer; he greets me with a handshake and says, “Tort Tchaka Charsuluu”: four buckets of barley for the herd of Char Suluu, the dominant stallion. I nod and get to work.
In the distance, on a hillside, a herd appears. “Taylar?” (Foals?), I ask Kuku. “Ooba.” (Yes.)
Ten minutes later, they come galloping at full speed, leaving a cloud of dust behind them, rising against the horizon. They arrive; I prepare their buckets. “Uch.” (Three.) I line them up carefully.
The sky shifts from deep blue to a rich orange, and the moon and a few stars begin to appear.
Eska, Kuku’s nephew, comes to fetch me. It’s time. The herd of Besh, now full, slowly leaves the enclosure. Eska guides them toward the hillside, their silhouettes gradually fading into the encroaching darkness.
Meanwhile, I pour out the barley. Behind the fence, the herd of Tangsuluu waits impatiently, pawing at the hard ground with their hooves.
I finally open the gate. A moment of frenzy, then calm. Only the sound of grain being chewed disturbs the newfound stillness of the steppe.
Afterward, I find Kuku again. He smiles and points his finger toward the sky. I follow his gaze—a white trail cuts the sky in two. A plane.
I turn back to him. He spreads his arms wide, imitating an airplane. We laugh.
Here, human presence is overshadowed by the presence of animals. Neither on land nor in the sky does humankind appear—except for that single plane I’ve seen in three weeks.
No honking, no music, no roaring engines. Just the neighing of horses, the lowing of cows, the bleating of sheep, and the crowing of roosters waking me up in the morning.
Here, humans blend into the landscape, humbled by the vastness around them.
