A.k.a. What adds the ‘in’ to ‘dependant’?
It’s been hours and we haven’t seen a living soul. A human one that is. We occasionally pass a herd of graciously grazing camels. Seemingly endless kilometres of steppe spread out all around us. Our old van loyally makes its way through a great variety of obstacles, ranging from hills so steep that we need to get out for it to get up, to extremely rocky terrain that makes me feel like the content of James Bond’s signature drink. We squeeze through the narrowest canyon passages and low-tide river beds but push on as we are losing daylight quickly. Our mission is to safely arrive at the rendezvous to rest and restock our rations.
Several hours, many bruises and one spectacular sundown later we make it to the ger where we are greeted by our hosts. Experts who have valuable information for us about the terrain, the climate and any potential challenges we might be facing. The briefing takes place over a cup of fermented yak’s milk. We make sure to follow local customs as to not offend our hosts, who are invaluable assets on this challenging tour. We accept all food and drink given to us, use our right hand only to pass items on and do not step on the doorway of the ger, nor do we whistle inside as according to local superstition we would be inviting ghosts in.
Then it is dinner time. After living off our ration packs and camping in the wild for a few days, we are eager to eat. But when the host lifts up the lid of the pan, that hunger spontaneously disappears… A sheep’s head is staring at us, surrounded by a range of organs. We are told that the liver provides vitamins, the kidney longevity and the stomach good fats. I prefer a multivitamin. The nomads dig in and start cutting off the tongue and poking out the eyes. Out of politeness we accept small bites and wash them away instantly with home-made vodka. Not too much of course, when we are out in the field we want to be sharp, aware and fresh when we rise early.
A gorgeous night sky full of the brightest stars shines down on us. We spend some time in silence outside after dinner, trying to process sheep intestines and reflecting on the journey and its challenges. We are missing the home front, but know we are out here doing the right thing, in the name of freedom and independence. Deep sleep by the fire in our minimalistic ger follows.
The next day we are faced with an even greater challenge: extreme climate change. We pass from the 26 degrees celsius desert into the cold grasslands, with -5 during the day and a -18 degrees celsius temperature overnight. We switch from our summer uniforms to thermal clothes and cover our faces with scarves against the ice-cold wind. Our vehicle slips over the ice here and there, and struggles to start up again after short pee breaks. When we make it to our ger camp for the night, ice stalactites are hanging off the tents. We are grateful to have made it to our rendezvous in time as a massive snowstorm hits us, making it impossible to go outside. In the morning we wake up to a stunning snow-covered landscape all around, with a beautiful backdrop of white mountains. Even the cattle are covered in a thin layer of snow. Luckily they survived the night despite an attempted attack from four-legged, howling hostiles. We ride out to explore the terrain and see what we are working with but leave our regular vehicle behind for the day. This time our mode of transport is semi-wild, incredibly strong and has four legs. We gallop full-speed through the snow and the mountains. A rush of adrenaline flows freely. The terrain is unpredictable, but her harshness is overshadowed by her breathtaking beauty.
Our next mission? Find our way back and return to the homeland safely, making as many pictures and as much contact with friendly locals as possible, to gather intel about the country and its culture. Possibly retrieve valuable objects to bring back and present to the homefront.
Does this read like the diary of a soldier? Like Man wrote this post perhaps?
Fooled you there! This is a little recollection of my epic journey through Mongolia. The ‘we’ refers to my tour guide, driver and me. Every two years I take a solo trip. Two years ago I backpacked in Laos and Cambodia. This year I explored Mongolia: land of the nomads. The Australian Defence Force might call me a ”dependent” on paper, but screw that! I am fiercely independant. And travelling solo reminds me of that. It is the perfect antidote to (sometimes) getting fed up with the military moving us around, constantly sending Man away, deciding where we live etc.
Ironically enough, during this trip I read a book called “Confessions of a military wife” by Mollie Gross. The title seemed fun in the bookstore (I mean, ”Confessions of a shopaholic”, anyone?). Plus, the synopsis described how Gross loses herself in a crying, cookie dough eating mess on only day 1 of her hubby’s deployment. I completely relate. However – and this is the ironic part – the author of the book continues to waste the majority of the book stressing in one form or another that ”serving your husband” is your most important job as a military wife. How very… dependant. She is even sure to add that as a military spouse you get bonus points if you cook good meals and make your husband lunch, and make sure he can fully relax when he’s home. She throws in a bonus tip too: make sure your husband does not watch porn on deployment, that ‘garbage’ should be forbidden. Gross prides herself in being a member of the ‘Silent ranks’: military spouses who silently serve beside their men. Have I somehow missed a natural disaster that time-warped us back into the 1950’s? And don’t even get me started on the lack of LGBTIQ friendliness in this book.
Look, I often cook Man a meal, and pack his lunch. But he does my laundry, and vacuum cleans. I do not ‘serve’ the military, silently or otherwise. And I most certainly do not exist primarily to ensure Man’s life goes as smoothly as possible. I am proud of my Man. I am proud of the fact that he is a RAAFie. I love his uniform and the values it represents: integrity, respect, excellence and dedication. I believe he makes the world a better place with what he does. But at the same time: it is his calling, not mine. I have my own job, which I think is equally valuable. I educate the minds of our future leaders, soldiers, teachers. I have my own social life, my own wants and needs, dreams and desires. Yes, I follow Man around when posted from base to base, but even that is a choice in itself. I take offence to the official term ”dependant”. Honesty behoves me to say that I don’t take much offence to the perks that come with it such as higher rent allowance, separation allowance and partial healthcare benefits. I mean, keep those coming please. But can we really not come up with a better term for all those kick-ass mipa’s out there whose life purpose is more than to fill their partner’s lunchboxes? How about ”In-dependants”?
I think I’m going to write a proposal to the RAAF. After I fulfil my duty and cook Man dinner that is.
