Lester & Laura in Mongolia

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

"And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me, shine on until tomorrow."

Blinding light. The old floodlight, its protective lens missing, illuminated my face and the entire stage. I squinted out into the crowd, their faces lost in the bright white, I knew they were there, the town's culture center was filled to bursting. All had come to see the teachers perform for Mongolian Independence Day. The holiday itself would fall two days later on Saturday but the town had elected to hold the performance on Thursday, November 24th, Thanksgiving. I swallowed hard and glanced down at the loaned electric guitar I was instructed to play with. "Designed In the USA!" the headstock bragged. I stole another glance at the soundbox to see Damdin, the school's P.E. teacher and musical efficinato, eyeing me encouragingly. I inched a little closer to the microphone and summoned some Mongolian for the short speech I prepared.

Earlier that month:

My body jerked left and right as the two tailors and one child tugged on the felt belt that held my new Mongolian deel together. Finally when they were satisfied and I felt as though all the air had been squeezed from my lungs they took a step back and held a mirror in front of me. The long flowing robe went town to just past my knees, held together with simple cloth buttons and a felt belt, I was assured by the tailor that the traditional everyday Mongolian wear would be warm and make me look like a proper citizen. I expressed my gratitude for her hard and quick work in making my deel then left to head back to school. Looking for one of my counterparts I wanted to find a way to express my gratitude to the teachers and my director as well. When I was told I needed a deel for the upcoming Mongolian holiday my director promptly had the materials purchased from Ulaanbaatar and brought back to our town. When I offered payment he refused, "It is a gift from our school." So when I finally ran into Bolormaa, my fellow English teacher I asked her how I should thank everyone. She told me there would be a teacher's meeting that very night. Perfect.

Two days before concert:

"Angle hel duu!" (English song!) Damdin exclaimed excitedly when I asked him what song I should perform for the concert after just learning it was two days away. After he narrowed it down to three English songs "all Mongolian's know" I opted out of Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On", and decided to return to what has slowly been turning into my Peace Corps alma matar. As well as my performance I planned on giving a surprise intro speech to thank the school, as the teacher's meeting, unsurprisingly never occurred. I had practicing to do and new Mongolian words to learn.

Thanksgiving:

I cleared my throat and laughed nervously looking out over the silent crowd. I started out as planned, thanking my director, the teachers, and the school staff for all chipping in to buy me such a warm and beautiful deel. I carried on to thank the whole town for hosting me, helping me, and being so understanding and generous. For letting me be a part of their lives and always making sure my ger was warm. Unbeknownst to the attentive townspeople I was sharing with them the true meaning of the American holiday they knew nothing about. When I finished they clapped and I looked down to the soundbox at Damdin. He gave me a nod and the man sitting next to him, whom before the show mimed playing a Jimi Hendrix style guitar solo asking if I would play the real thing, gave me a thumbs up. He's gonna be disappointed, I thought. I strummed a C chord and played.

After the show, me and Dakraa walked home together from the culture center. Within the first several paces of our walk we exhausted the typical idle conversation our language barrier would allow. "How did you like the concert?" "Are you cold?" As we walked in silence I glanced around the dark town, seeing different shades of grey smoke billowing from the tops of gers and houses, to wisp up into a night sky full of stars. In the quiet cold night Dakraa hummed a tune from the concert as we neared our yard. Recognizing it immediately I joined in, together we hummed "Let It Be" as our homes came into view.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

You gotta wait a minute, wait a minute, Mr. Postman, deliver the letter, the sooner the better!"

The sky explodes with sound as the three F-16's streak overhead leaving colored contrails of red, white, and blue in their wake. Awestruck I drop my axe next to the pile of wood and look skyward over the roof of my ger. The jets are followed by a lumbering cargo plane and as its shadow covers my hashaa a hatch opens and a brown box descends to earth, letting loose a gigantic parachute bearing the stars and stripes as it lands with a thud at my feet. A helicopter whirls in place over my head, a cable falls to ground and a lone solider slides down to stand in front me. Red, white, and blue fireworks are shot off from somewhere beyond the mountains. He produces a clipboard, "Package, sign here."

"Sign here." I'm roused from my stupor as the mailman repeats himself again in Mongolian and pushes the clipboard across the counter, tapping the paper with a pen. The fanfare and fantastical scenarios often play out in my head every time I hear I've got mail waiting for me at the post office. I always feel like a little kid waiting to open his presents when I stand on one side of the counter staring at the mail on the windowsill I surely know is for me. Waiting anxiously for Gombojamts, our towns no-nonsense, and only postal employee to relinquish my prize to me. He'll often, as if sensing my eagerness, test my patience. "Watch my room for me, I'll be back." Taking back the now signed clipboard he walks around from the counter and exits the post office. Leaving me alone to stare at my parcel or letter still resting on the windowsill. After reading (or trying to) every poster on the wall multiple times and obsessively fantasizing about what my mail could contain he finally strolls back in and calmly sits down at his chair. Finally after some casual rustling with papers he'll push across the counter what I came for. I quickly thank him and snatch it up and bolt out the door.

I owe much, and am very grateful for the Mongolians I have met in this country. Since my arrival they have shown me guidance, generosity, love, and at the least have tolerated me. I would not have made it long without their unquestioning assistance. Though my real gratitude is to those of you back home, who often send me your written or packaged support. Whether its news of life back in the states or a package of American foodstuffs (Velvetta never tasted so good) it gives me a little slice of back home, lifts my morale and spirits, and reminds me of the life I'll return to. So to all my family and friends, thank you for all the love, support, and well wishes. Your responses are coming, I can assure you, Gombojomts is even more finicky with outgoing mail, so hang tight! All of the Mongolian kindness would count for nothing if I didn't know I had all of you behind me. Being so isolated, in one of the most sparsely populated countries in the world, knowing I haven't been forgotten and getting so much love from an ocean away, means the world to me. I could never express it enough.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

"'I'm gonna smash my way out that's all', cried the bird and smashed from wall to wall, 'There must be some way out!', he cried, and his desperation echoed down the hall, just another bird in a house, dying to get out."

Flashback: Orkhon

A lazy summer evening. Me and my host family sat in the living room. Me in the large comfy armchair, which was always conceded to me without my asking. My host mother sat on the couch next to Jarga and Mogi, while my oldest brother Moojig played a computer game from the nineties. The sun, fighting to stay skyward as it did every summer evening struggled to keep the last of its light above the mountains. The TV droned Mongolian into my ears that I couldn't understand, moths hovered around a single lightbulb. I was roused from my stupor by a familiar flapping. Not one but two tiny chickadee sized birds flew from the room with the pingpong table into the family room.

In other houses, even in Mongolia this may have seemed a peculiar occurrence, but in my house it was commonplace. My mother would often boast of how safe Orkhon was, "Not like the city!" she'd exclaim. As a result our door would idly sit open all hours of the day. Besides the frequent Mongolian visitors, everyday would also welcome in birds who would flap and hop about investigating every part of the tiny house. On more then one occasion I would have to shoo them from my room after their poor sense of direction would get them hopelessly trapped.

So I didn't give it much of a second glance when the two little birds fluttered above my head and began repetitively darting from one corner to the next looking for the exit. With the sun down the two little birds had no beacon to guide their usual way to the door. So they flapped and bounced off the windows and walls until my oldest brother growled something under his breath and both Mogi and Jarga got to their feet and began trying to coral the two little birds to the doorway. Jarga wielding a broom and Mogi waving his shirt only caused the birds to seek different routes in their endless circumnavigation of the room. They clattered behind the TV, flew through flowers and hopped over the family's altar. Dipping and diving over my two brothers heads as they laughed, side stepping and ducking out of the way.

It was too much for me to not partake. I stood up, discarded my shirt and began working up a sweat trying to shoo two birds from a house. We laughed jostling between each other trying to get in the right strategic position to get the birds towards the door. Mogi, who having climbed on the arm of the couch to improve his stature, hobbled backwards on one leg loosing his equilibrium as a bird wizzed past. Jarga, one minute swinging the broom formidably would cringe and transform it into a mock helmet when a bird dived too close. All the while my mother rocked back in forth with laughter on the couch at our comical attempts. The irony did not escape me, here I was with people born of some of the best herdsmen in the world, attempting to herd two tiny chickadees. Finally a bird clattered against the door frames and fluttered out into the night. Me and my brothers, exhausted, panting, and sweating, clapped each other on the back in congratulations. The noise carried on as we realized the second bird was still trapped. We all exchanged tired glances. My host mother having gone silent, stood up, quietly walked over to the windowsill where the tiny bird had found a perch and calmly picked it up. The bird did not struggle or chirp, merely resigning itself to be carried to wherever my host mother chose. Me and my brothers watched dumbfounded as she then casually walked to the doorway and released the bird into the darkness. She came back into the room and no longer able to keep a straight face burst out laughing. Me and my brothers couldn't help but join in. "Yaaj?"(How?) I asked. Still laughing through teary eyes she replied, "Bi eej baina."

"I'm Mom."