The First Ovoo

Mongolia opened in rain, which nobody advertises and I recommend. The first pass after the border had its ovoo waiting: a cairn of stones with blue khadag scarves gone ragged in the wind, the mist moving through like slow traffic.

The protocol I learned before coming: circle it three times clockwise, add a stone each round, and the road ahead is yours to ask for. I did it properly, alone in the rain, the Niva ticking behind me. Three borders to get here, one of them twice, and every kilometer of it suddenly worth the paperwork.

Eastward now, weeks of steppe ahead. The ovoo kept my stones and made, as is its custom, no promises.