"Next time, I think I'll try the camel and take my chances with the humps."
Pitt was equally sore and glad to be standing on his feet.
"A season with the herd and you'll be riding like an arat," Noyon said, referring to the local horsemen.
"A season in that saddle and I'd be ready for traction," Giordino grumbled.
An elderly resident of the village spotted the men and hobbled over on a game leg, speaking rapidly to the boy.
"This is Otgonbayar," said Noyon. "He invites you to visit his ger and enjoy a bowl of airag."
The low whine of a truck echoed off the surrounding hills, then a small faded green bus crested a ridge and turned toward the village, trailing a cloud of dust. Noyon looked toward the approaching vehicle, then shook his head.
"I'm afraid our bus has arrived," he said.
"Please tell Otgonbayar that we appreciate his invitation but will have to join him another time," Pitt said. He walked over to the old man and shook his hand. The old man nodded and smiled in understanding, exposing a pair of toothless gums.
With a loud squeal of its brakes, the bus ground to a stop and the driver tapped the horn. The playing children ceased their rough-housing and marched single file to the bus, hopping inside after its accordion side door swung open.
"Come on," Noyon said, leading Pitt and Giordino aboard.
The 1980s-era Russian-built bus, a KAvZ model 3976, was a forgotten relic of the Soviet Army. Like many vehicles that ended up in Mongolia, it had been passed along from the old guardian state long after its useful life had been reached. With faded paint, cracked windows, and bald tires, it showed nearly every one of the quarter-million miles that had been placed on her. Yet like an old boxer who refuses to quit, the beaten hulk was patched up and sent back onto the road for another round.
Climbing up the steps after Noyon, Pitt was surprised to find the bus driver was an older Anglo man. He smiled at Pitt through a white beard, his ice-blue eyes sparkling with mirth.
"Hi, boys," he said to Pitt and Giordino. "Noyon tells me that you're from the States. Me, too. Grab a seat and we'll be on our way."
The bus held twenty passengers and was nearly full after scooping up kids from three neighboring encampments. Pitt noticed the seat behind the driver was occupied by a black-and-tan dachshund, stretched out on its side in a deep sleep. The seat opposite the aisle was empty, so he plopped down there, Giordino sliding in beside him. The driver closed the door and quickly wheeled out of the village. Driving clear of the working herd, he mashed the accelerator down as he shifted through the gears. With a shrill whine from its engine, the old bus soon crept up to fifty miles per hour as it bounced over the hard desert surface.
"Bulangiin Monastery ain't exactly a destination resort," the driver said, looking at Pitt and Giordino in the rectangular mirror mounted above his visor. "You boys on one of those horseback adventure tours of the Gobi?"
"You could say that," Pitt replied, "though I hope we're done with the horseback portion of the tour. We are just looking to return to Ulaanbaatar at this point."
"Not a problem. A supply truck from U.B. will be at the monastery tomorrow. If you don't mind spending the night with a cadre of high-rolling monks, then you can hitch a ride on the truck in the morning."
"That would be fine with us," Pitt said as the bus lurched over a rut. He watched in amusement as the dachshund flew into the air, then landed back on the seat, without raising an eyelid.
"If you don't mind me asking, what are you doing out here in these parts?" Giordino asked.
"Oh, I'm helping a private archaeological foundation from the States that is helping rebuild the Buddhist monasteries. Prior to the communist takeover of Mongolia in 1921, there were over seven hundred monasteries in the country. Nearly all of them were ransacked and burned in the 1930s during a devastating purge by the government. Thousands of monks disappeared in the annihilation, either executed on the spot or shipped off to Siberian work camps to die in captivity. Those not murdered were forced to renounce their religion, though many continued to worship in secrecy."
"Must be difficult for them to start anew with their church relics and holy scripts long since destroyed."
"A surprising number of ancient texts and monastery artifacts were buried by alert monks in advance of the purge. Important relics are turning up every day as some of the old monasteries reopen. The locals are finally becoming comfortable that the government abuses of the past are not going to recur."
"How did you get from laying bricks to driving a school bus?" Giordino asked.
"You have to wear a lot of hats out in the boondocks," the driver laughed. "The group I'm helping with isn't simply a bunch of archaeologists but also includes carpenters, educators, and historians. Part of our agreement with rebuilding the monasteries is that we also establish schoolrooms for the local children. The structured education available to children of the nomadic herders is pretty spotty, as you can imagine. We're teaching reading, writing, math, and languages, in hopes of giving these rural kids a chance at a better life. Your friend Noyon, for example, speaks three languages and is a whiz at math. If we can offer him accessible schooling for the rest of his childhood, and keep a PlayStation from falling into his hands, he'll probably grow up to be a fine engineer or doctor. That's what we are hoping to offer all of these kids."
The bus crested a blunt ridge, exposing a narrow valley on the other side. At its midpoint, a splash of thick grass dotted with purple shrubs added a sparkle of color to the otherwise monotonous desert. Pitt noticed a cluster of small stone buildings built in the thicket, sided by a handful of white gers. A small herd of camels and goats were corralled nearby, while several small SUVs were positioned at the southern end.
"Bulangiin Monastery," the driver announced. "Home to twelve monks, one lama, seventeen camels, and an occasional hungry volunteer or two from the U.S. of A." He threaded his way down some coarse tire tracks, then pulled the bus to a stop in front of one of the gers.
"School's in," the driver said to Pitt and Giordino as the kids clamored off the bus. Noyon burst by, waving at the two men, before hopping off the bus.
"Afraid I need to go teach a geography lesson," the driver said after all the children had departed. "If you boys head to the large building with a dragon on its eave, you'll find Lama Santanai. He speaks English, and will be glad to look after you for the night."
"Will we be seeing you later?"