Lester & Laura in Mongolia

Monday, December 31, 2012

"Your eyes alight with sun shot rays. A riot of color is a banquet for your name. The worlds alight with coals aflame."

Om mani padme hum

I remember the day I met Choijamts.  It was my first August in Omnodelger.  It was a hot summer day. Cloudless blue sky.  I remember it was sunny.  Really sunny.  I was bustling back and forth around my ger.  I had just received furniture.  I remember scurrying back and forth trying to organize my life into the small space I'd be calling home for the next two years.  Bluegrass music twanged from my laptop.  My ger door hung open.  The sun's rays bursting through to soak the vinyl floor in its brilliance.  I was so caught up in giving my Mongolian home some American flavor that I didn't even hear him come in.  "Oui!" My head shot up, startled.  I looked towards the doorway and squinted against the vibrant rays.  A hunched silhouette filled the entrance to my ger.  He shuffled out of the sun's grasp chuckling to himself having caught me by surprise.  Dressed in a dark purple deel, camouflage pants, and a tattered cabbie's hat the aged figure came towards me.  He grasped my hand introducing himself.  He gripped my palm and patted my wrist with his other weathered hand.  "My name is Choijamts," he said.  I remember it was hard to understand much after that.  My poor Mongolian mixed with his low mumbled voice caused me to strain to understand every word.  He said the weather was nice.  It was hot.  It was sunny.  He gestured towards the bright doorway slowly with a crooked finger.  Did I like the furniture?  Do I need more?  Is there anything else I needed?  Can I make a fire?  He said he'd come back when it got colder and teach me.  Just like that he was gone.  He shook my hand again.  Waved goodbye then moved at a snails pace onto the sun dried grass and back into the street.
I remember I stood in my sunny doorway and watched him go.

A creaking.  Plastic and wood stretching, then a clatter.  Metallic rustling of knives, spoons, forks and utensils tumbling down as the shelf of my food cabinet collapsed in on itself.  "Damn it, again?!?"  I shouted aloud.  My furniture had been on its last legs for months now.  It was the middle of winter and the Chinese furniture I inherited from my predecessor was worse for wear.  My kitchen cabinet's shelves continued to collapse and break apart on regular intervals.  The wood so full of holes from me poorly hammering it back together made it look like swiss cheese.  My clothes dresser was also in shambles with the doors detaching every time they swung on their hinges.  I decided to take action before I too started cursing China.  I stormed off to school.  I found Munkhkherlen.  Explained my predicament.  The American wanted furniture and he wanted it now.  She just shrugged at me.  "Lets go see Choijamts."  So we did.  Trudged from the school through the snow to the dormitories where we entered a tiny room upstairs.  I was met with the sound of a rasping cough as I entered.  Simple Mongolian furnishings lined the walls.  A painted chest, carved coffee table, a decorated mirror.  I passed an altar with piles of spent incense.  There in the back of the room on a wooden bed was Choijamts.  For the first time I noticed I could see my breath in his room.  It was freezing.  He was huddled on the bed clutching the purple deel up to his chin and stifling another cough.  I could see he was ill.  He reached up to shake my hand from the bed.  Suddenly my trivial problem of cheap furniture was forgotten.  Forget me, someone get him a blanket!  I screamed in my head.  But it was already too late.  Munkhkherlen without any introduction began rambling off my grievances.  I waved my arms behind her whispering under my breath for her to just forget it, it wasn't important.  The point had already come across though, he nodded from his bed.  "I'll find you good Mongolian furniture."  he said, coughing into his deel.  I remember being so grateful, I didn't know how to show my gratitude.  I don't know why but I said the first thing that popped into my head.  "Do you like to play Mongolian cards?"  I asked.  His eyes lit up.  "Of course!"  he exclaimed, "But I have no cards."  Fifteen minutes later I was back in his room, having fetched a deck of cards from my home.  He sat up on the bed and we played cards on the tiny coffee table.  I never won.
The next day.  I was in my ger grading papers.  When a knock resounded against my door.  Thats weird, I thought, no one knocks here.  No sooner had I opened the door then bursting through came a convoy of school workers all carrying beautiful pieces of Mongolian furniture.  Setting them down where I asked, they turned to leave.  As the last worker exited my ger he turned to me.  "Choijamts says if you need anything else please tell him."

Days went by.  Weeks went by.  A year and five months went by.  Every time I saw Choijamts he greeted me with that handshake.  Always sporting his signature purple deel and cabbie hat.  "Do you have enough wood?"  he'd ask.  "Do you need more coal?" he'd inquire.  "Lets play cards!"
When I encountered him on the street he'd greet me and walk with me to school.  He'd wrap one hand into the crook of my arm and I'd walk at a snails pace with him chatting the best I could while minding the ice.  As my second Mongolian winter set in he came with a bundle of cardboard, pulled up a stool next to my stove and proceeded to make a fire.  I remember between one of our frequent card games I paused to demonstrate a card trick to him.  I remember him cackling uncontrollably, rocking on his stool with laughter after the convoluted magic trick finished and I revealed the only remaining card on the table to be the one he had chosen.  Times beyond counting I remember being seated somewhere in our teacher's room.  Caught up in grading or lesson planning, mesmerized in some task, when I'd look up to see his hunched figure over me.  Hand extended.  Ready for that handshake.

This year I celebrated Christmas in the Gobi Desert with other volunteers.  After the interesting but joyous celebration was finished I made my trek back east alone.  A fifteen hour car trip, I sat on the bus and listened to music.  Snow drove out of the sky, whirling outside my window and beating against the road.  My daydreaming was interrupted when I pulled my phone from my pocket.  I had a text message.  It was from Tuya.  The first part of the message was standard.  My cat was fine and hadn't frozen while I was away, but he was low on food.  The second part of the message was what shook me.  It was about Choijamts.  Two words together stuck out to me.  The first being "nas".  The second being "barsan".  Separately I knew them both, (age) and (expired).  I didn't need a dictionary to understand that when you put them together in Mongolian it translates to "deceased".  Downcast after confirming my suspicions with Tuya.  I just rested my head on the window, let the music drone on, watched the snow drive on,  and let my thoughts carry me on to Omnodelger.

I dragged myself from my bed at seven in the morning.  Bundled up as warmly as I could.  I gave a quick hello to friends and family stateside via the internet then trudged out into the morning darkness.  I headed to meet at Munkhkherlen's home, not understanding why I was instructed to leave so early.  I only knew we would meet to say a last goodbye to Choijamts.  The morning was cold, the air crisp and frozen.  I walked across town and met Munkhkherlen outside her yard.  Together we walked to a relative of Choijamts' ger.  As we approached I saw how crowded it was.  People huddled in deels and winter jackets congregated outside of the hashaa fence.  Cars were parked at every which angle all throughout the street.  It seemed as though the whole town was here.  Either through tiredness or the somberness of the occasion people were quiet.  Hushed whispers and mumbled conversations.  We stood and waited with the crowd.  I bounced back and forth slowly on two feet to keep my blood moving.  "Whats happening?" I asked my counterpart Enkhtor, "What are we waiting for?"  She gestured with her hand towards the eastern horizon.  "We are waiting for the sun,"  she explained.  "Then we can say goodbye."  The beauty of what she said dazzled me.  I didn't know how to respond. I could only nod.  From the crowd my director's wife, Naranjargal took me and three other teachers by the arm.  "My home is right there,"  she said, pointing at the hashaa over.  "Lets have tea and wait inside, its warm."  We drank tea in her house in silence.  I sipped the white milk tea slowly letting the steam rise and warm my face.  Pulling back the curtain Naranjargal turned to us, "It's time, lets go."  When we got back outside everyone was lined up side by side flanking the entrance of the hashaa gate.  We stood in with the long rows of people and waited.  Everyone was quiet.  All eyes to the horizon.  At first just stains of pinks and oranges.  Long streaks of watercolor yellows and reds.  Then suddenly, a burst of illumination came from the peak of a distant mountaintop.  Then another.  And another.  Until the tell-tale rim of humanity's most precious star lit up the horizon.  As if on cue a chanting began sounding from inside the hashaa.  As the sun continued to rise a procession exited, men bore the simple wooden coffin on their shoulders as they made their way from the gers and into the street.  Behind them walked two monks, bareheaded and in simple red robes, chanting in Tibetan and ringing a bell.  Behind the monks walked two women in deels.  One carried a large platter of Mongolian boov, fried dough inlaid with designs and arranged on a dish in a symbolic way.  She held it out in front of her moving the plate in tiny circles.  The other woman carried a bowl of milk and as she followed the coffin she ladled little droplets out, tossing them up towards the sky.  The coffin was hoisted into the back of a waiting microbus, the men jumped in behind it to hold it in place, then the large van pulled away slowly at a crawl.  The crowd turned and followed.  The deel clad people of Omnodelger clutching their prayer beads and walking in silence, followed the procession towards the town's limits.  The monks chanted.  The bell rang.  The women offered their boov and milk.  When we reached the edge of town the microbus picked up speed and drove out towards the steppe.  No doubt silently giving one final goodbye to Choijamts, the crowd stopped and we all looked on.

I stood on the sunny street and watched him go.








Sunday, December 16, 2012

"You'd think that I could muster up a little soft shoed gentle sway but I don't feel like dancin', no sir, no dancin' today."

"What country is that?"  I asked, pausing from painting the vast expanse of northern Canada.  I gestured towards Ulzii-Bayar as he colored a long peninsula forest green.  He stopped painting and pondered the landmass.  "Hmmm, I don't know," he admitted shrugging his shoulders.  I pointed to it with my brush handle.  "It's Thailand," I added.   "Ah, right," he smiled.  "It's warm there, I'll go there some day," he added this with an air suggesting that this had been determined for some time.

It has been over a year in the making.  The World Map Project.  I first got the idea browsing our Peace Corps resources website many many months ago.  After making multiple forays out to the city to get the appropriate supplies, helping another volunteer do the project in a neighboring town, and gathering support and interest in my school, my English Club and I were finally ready to tackle the task.  To my students it meant a really hands on English/Geography lesson.  As we painted I asked them personal questions about what we were creating.  What countries have you visited?  What countries do you want to visit?  What's this island?  What's that continent?  Do you think its as cold as Mongolia here?  After the three day project finally finished they ended with enthusiasm and I'm hoping further knowledge of our world.

To me the project meant all those things too.  Sharing two things I'm pretty good at English and geography, but it also meant something a little more.  Multiple volunteers have called Omnodelger home over the years.  A small handful of women, one man, and now me.  I am to be the last of Omnodelger's Peace Corps volunteers.  The town has met its cap.  Time for other places to get a turn.  As I roam the halls of our little school physical evidence of those past volunteers is almost nonexistent.  Every once and while whilst rummaging and searching for some forgotten resource I'll stumble upon an old photo or a lost lesson plan of one of my predecessors.  It is sobering to say the least.  For me the map project is something physical.  Something that will stand through time if appreciated.  It isn't a legacy or a testament to myself.  It simply echoes in a colorful way that the Peace Corps was here.  That a handful of foreigners were here.  That individuals wanted to help and came here.

That we were here.






Thursday, December 6, 2012

Halfhearted

He came down the mountain,
Frosty beard and smokin' breath,
It was such a long road,
His shadow asked him for a lift,
It said, "I don't mean to be a trouble now."
"But, can you take me to where evening lasts?"
He said, "You know I'm here to help you."
"Just no ones had the sense to ask."

She came up the river,
Made her way on broken strings,
She had such long hair,
Smooth fingers and golden rings,
"We oughta live for tomorrow."
Catch the wind without a care,
She said, "You know I'm here to help you."
"But first meet me halfway there."

He walked into the country,
Worn boots and dirty nails,
Seems like he was running,
But from what, I can't tell,
A young mother, she's shivering,
Shakes her fists up to the sky,
They say, "You know we're here to help you."
She says, "Leave us be, we'll get by."

Halfway spent,
You know I'm halfway home,
Halfway frozen to the bone,
Halfway gone,
You know I'm halfway there,
Lord don't make me,
A halfhearted man.


Monday, October 29, 2012

"You can take a trip to China or take a boat to Spain. Take a blue canoe around the world and never come back again..."

We sat around a small table.  Crowded with food, tea, wine and vodka we chatted after a hearty meal.  A fire crackled in the small stove that heated the one room house.  The house belonged to Enkhtor, one of our school's newest English teachers.  Her, myself, Kherlen, Saruul, and Bolormaa spent an evening meal and drinks together, as fellow English teachers, colleagues, and above all, friends.  Conversation had lapsed into a now new but reoccurring topic, my inevitable departure from Mongolia.  Trying to convince me I should stay another year they playfully argued with one another.  "He can move his ger into my hashaa."  Kherlen suggested "Its the biggest!"  Bolormaa cut her off before she could continue, "Justinaa!  Move into my yard, it's closer to the school!"  Trying to remain neutral I laugh and give them an impossible task, "The first person to build me a house, I'll move into their hashaa."  The room erupts in laughter and Kherlen jokingly smacks me on the shoulder.  When quiet seizes our group again, Saruul looks at me and asks in all seriousness, "What will you do when you leave Omnodelger?"    Before I could even ponder this Kherlen interjects on my behalf.  "He'll go to America, he'll get a job, he'll find a wife."  She counted each task on her fingers, like each action was already preordained.  "Will you go to another country after Mongolia?"  Bolormaa enquired.  Kherlen once again acting like my press secretary intervened.  "No, he'll buy a home and live in America."  She looked at me expectantly as if to say, isn't that so?  Her words sent a pang of emotion through my chest, that pang of emotion you get when someone just told you bad news.  I gathered my thoughts as quickly as I could.  Took a breath and opened my mouth to speak.

There is a book out there.  Its by Ken Jennings.  You know, the Jeopardy guy.  Its called Maphead.  I gave it a try out of curiosity and my inherent love for geography.  This short well written book happens to be all about people just like me.  A curious if sometimes nerdy group of individuals who happen to take a keen interest, a slight obsession, a refined passion for maps, geography, places.  People who memorize the shapes of states and countries.  Who list capitals and cities.  Can ramble on about interesting factoids about the lesser known places of our world.  People who go beyond just memorizing locations on a map but sit and create geography of their own.   From the imagination of a child to the mind of J.R.R Tolkien.  When I finished the volume I certainly considered myself to be thrown in with the lot the book described but something inside me told me I took it further.  While sitting and memorizing places on a map is good fun, I wanted more.  I wanted to go to these places.

"But traveling don't change a thing, it only makes it worse.  Unless the trip you take is to change your cruel course..."  

There's an English word adapted from German.  Wanderlust.  The strong desire or impulse to wander or travel and explore the world.  Before I had crossed oceans.  Before I had known what it was like to be in places like Berlin, Galilee, Bayeux, or Jerusalem.  Before I floated in the Dead Sea, crossed the Danube or waded in the Jordan I traveled stateside.  Working in archaeology had me visiting a different town almost everyday.  Small farm towns, quiet New England villages, landscapes of backwoods Americana.  I took pleasure in traveling, living, and working in these lesser known nooks.  Brandon, VT, Frenchtown, NJ, Clark's Summit, PA, Delmar, MD.  Every town, no matter how small was special if only briefly adding to my nomadic pleasure.  The Ramat Rahels, Orkhons, and Omnodelgers of the world only broadened my knowledge further.  A whole new level outside my comfort zone, I was traveling, I was subconsciously checking these places off in the map in my head but at the same time I was learning.  Absorbing culture, religion, and language, I didn't just want to understand these places I wanted to be a part of them.   What I didn't count on was them becoming a part of me.

"Cause every town's got a mirror, and every mirror still shows me..."

Now sitting across from my co-workers and friends that pang of emotion tore at my chest.  I don't want this to be it.  The atlas in my mind spread out to show the possibilities were endless.  "I think I'll want to see more of the world."  I said in a low voice.  "I've learned so many things from Mongolia and all of you, I think I'd like to learn from other places too."  Bolormaa pondered this, "Where?  Africa?"  I couldn't help but smile at this knowing the reaction my answer would instigate.  "Wherever.   I would like to go to places in Africa."  Kherlen let out a little gasp, "Oui, Yanaa, who will you go with?"  I shrugged my shoulders in indifference, "I don't know, maybe I will go alone."  Another gasp.  "You can't go to those places alone, it's too dangerous."  I spread my arms out before myself, the gesture made words unnecessary.  Here I sat, the lone American in Omnodelger, as I have been for more than a year.  "Sometimes you learn more when you are alone."  I added.  They all seemed to nod in understanding.  "If I meet people in other places as kind as you have been to me I know I will be okay." I added for reassurance.  Bolormaa made a clucking sound with her tongue and said with a smile, "Other countries will be lucky to meet you."  Truth or not this made me smile right back.    

  1. "I am my own ragged company."
     

Friday, October 12, 2012

"Been on the road 'till tomorrow. Been through the joys and the sorrow. Came through the flood and I pulled through the mud, but I still got a long way to go."

I have lived, dwelt, worked, and breathed Mongolia now for one year four months and eight days.  From the inspiringly uplifting to the teeth grindingly frustrating.  I've spent the majority of that time doing things I never imagined myself doing.  Living in ways I never imagined myself living and forging relationships with people I never imagined meeting.  I'm in my second year so when a member of the Peace Corps staff dropped by for a site visit he exclaimed that visiting second year volunteers was a lot easier.  We seem less stressed, more settled in, more savvy.  I'd like to think that true for the most part, fires start a little quicker, conversations are a little less confusing, goat innards are a little more tasty (not much), car rides are a little less frustrating.  For all Mongolia has given me it still tests me everyday.  Its one of the aspects of living here that makes it all so rewarding.

October in New Jersey was always mild.  Sporadic windy days that sent the golds, oranges, and browns swirling about.  As a kid I remember jumping in the leafy piles and flailing about spastically trying to pluck the colors from the air.  In Vermont it was even more spectacular, colors that painted landscapes and mountainsides.  I remember working on the ferry gazing out the window as we chugged across Lake Champlain, streaks of red and gold dripping down the Adirondacks.  I remember thumbing through a book about Aztec history as the tourists from down south, the "Leaf Peepers" fired off photographs.

Omnodelger doesn't have trees.  Well we do but there is like four, and they were planted, and all the same color.  So it isn't exactly the color show of rural Vermont.  October usually brings on the first of various snowfalls that would mark winters coming.  I awoke this morning, throat scatchy, body aching.  One of many imminent winter colds, my own personal mark that winter was coming.  I also awoke to a peculiar sound.  Like the tiniest most minuscule of pebbles being softly dropped on glass.  Frequent gusts rocked my ger and my stove pipe clanged.  I got up and dressed, warmer than usual.  I knew what the sound meant.  Mongolia couldn't pull a fast one on me this morning.  I exited through my ger door, then through the door of my wooden shed I use for storing wood in winter.  Outside the wind blew, snow fell in a swirling fury with each gust.  The wooden planks of our hashaa's fence swayed, snow caked in its weathered cracks.  I sighed into the snowy abyss.  Not yet!  I'm not ready!   It was warm and sunny only days ago.  Winter had come and snatched Omnodelger in its grip, I knew it would be a great long while before it let go.

I taught my classes.  Attendance was pitiful.  The further dwelling students not wanting to brave the trek.  Still feeling under the weather I immediately went home after teaching.  The blustery blizzard still raged on.  I made a fire.  I took a nap.  I awoke in the early evening.  Pulled on some boots and a jacket prepared to make my cross hashaa journey to the outhouse.  I exited my ger into my tiny supply shed.  Into almost a foot of snow.  The winds persistence had sent the tiny flakes blowing through every crack and crevice in the wood.  My wood was snowy and frosty, my ger door entombed in a white blanket.  I sighed and kicked through the powder to the sheds door.  Unlatched it.  Pushed.  Resistance.  I tried again.  The door opened a crack then stopped.  The wind had formed a snow bank outside my door, higher and deeper than my waist.  I was trapped in my own home.  Snowed in.  I stuck my head through the crack and saw movement in the yard.  Dawkraa was trudging to the family car in an old worn grey deel.  "Dawkraa, help!" I yelled sticking an arm through the crack to wave him over.  He trudged towards me chuckling at my predicament.  He started kicking at the snowy bank with his boots.  "Go get a shovel!"  I demanded.  He kept on kicking, "There is no shovel."  I laughed and rolled my eyes, "of course."  Finally freeing me from my house, he pried the door open and upon seeing the snow accumulation in my supply shed made a disapproving groan and went about kicking the snow from my wood back outside.  We both flailed about kicking snow and ice until the shed was as snow free as two men can make it using only their boots.  As Dawkraa turned back towards his own home he asked, "Are you okay?  Is your ger warm."  I thanked him and told him I'm fine.  "Good, come to my home tomorrow."  he added, "We'll eat marmot!"  I laughed as he walked back towards his house, of course we will.  Closing the door against the biting wind and snow,  I shook my head at the damp wood and icy door.  Man, I still got a long way to go. 

Now late in the evening the clock ticks towards midnight.
One year.
Four months.
Nine days.

I wouldn't give a single one back.

       

Thursday, September 27, 2012

"This ain't no joke, the motor runs but the gears are broke. This ain't no lie, wheels won't turn, damn thing won't drive. This ain't no good, at all"

Flaskback: June, Election Day
Somewhere in Sukhbaatar Province, Mongolia

9:30pm

I could only blink at the two tires and clench my fists.  No need to ask questions.  No need to even speak.  I knew what it meant.  Staring at the two deflated tires I new it spelled doom for the rest of the evening.  The fact that all of the cars passengers were wandering aimlessly around the steppe, arms raised, cell phones pointed skyward, like technology obsessed zombies was no consolation.  It would have looked comical, if I didn't know what they were searching for.  A drop of service.  A bar of signal.  To call for help.

Earlier that day: Ondorkhaan, Mongolia

Me and Elliot stood at the bus station, waiting.  We had been waiting well past the time the bus was to arrive.  On its way from Ulaanbaatar we sought to hop aboard the bus and ride it a short five hours to Baruun-Urt, the capital of Sukhbaatar province to help out at a summer camp put on by one of our fellow volunteers.  Except the bus never came.  Contributing this to elections, we sat, half irritated, half unsurprised.  When up pulls a car.  "Going to Sukhbaatar?"  the driver asks.  We sure are, accepting his offer for a ride and thanking our good fortune.  After a handful of errands, packing the car to bursting with passengers, and a small intermission at the drivers home we set off for Sukhbaatar.  I turned to Elliot commenting how at this rate we'd be there while the sun was still up.  In a way I was right.

Afternoon: East of Ondorkhaan, Mongolia 

I saw it coming.  It came on almost in slow motion.  Out of all the rocks that I spied out the windshield this one seemed to glow.  Seemed to stand out amongst its stony brethren.  Perfectly positioned it sat, then it was upon us.  I cringed as it approached.  A sickening thud.  The sound of metal smacking against the resilience of stone.  We skidded to a halt.  Assessed the damage.  One tire deflated, the foreboding sound of hissing air could be heard before I even stepped from the car.  The driver set to work, taking tools out of the trunk.  The rear tire, also having not been spared the impact sat askew in its rim.  He gave it a short inspection, a little kick then moved on to the flat front tire.  After about half an hour the spare was on.  A spare that looked like it would be more at home on a ride around lawn mower than an automobile.  We continued our journey.  Each bump made me wince, always expecting our John Deere sized tire to explode upon the slightest disturbance.

The mountains that had always served as the backdrop to Khentii disappeared.  Now just horizon, blue sky over a sea of grass.  Flat expanse.  Nothing.  Sukhbaatar.  We hadn't been driving long when the driver suddenly made a hard right off the main road.  Instead of east towards Baruun-Urt we were now headed south.  The tall waves of grass, rippled in the wind as we left that main artery to our destination behind.  "Where are we going?", we asked.  "Don't worry my two friends," the driver exclaimed jovially, "I have to vote."  Not wanting to be one to withhold the man from his civic duties I sat back as we sped two hours out of our way to the nearest soum.  We arrived in a tiny town nestled between rare changes in elevation, but no one voted.  Instead we stopped to repair the damaged tire.  Elliot and I munched on a loaf of bread and watched. With new peace of mind and a full sized tire we set out the way we came.  This time veering off again into nothingness to stop at a lone building.  An island in a void of grass.  This is where our driver would vote.  In under thirty minutes he cast his ballot and we were off again.  It was after 9pm.  My head rested against the car window.  I no longer cringed with every bump.  The sun crept below the horizon.  Still far from the main road we had turned off of earlier I knew we'd never make Baruun-Urt before dark.  The bumpy road and soft radio began to lull me to sleep.  I started to doze.

I was jolted awake.  Familiar sound.  Metal against stone.  Skidding tires.  The hiss of rapid expelled air.  Next thing I know I'm standing aghast, blinking dumbfounded at our newly crippled vehicle.  Our pathetic spare could only remedy one of the lame tires.  We were stranded. It wasn't until after dark that we got the news.  The driver had found signal on his phone.  His friend would come get him.  He'd be back later with a new tire.  After midnight he was finally fetched by an old Russian truck.  We watched as it sped off into the night.  So with nothing to do but wait we sat in the car.  Hours crept by.  The other abandoned passengers slept.  Our minds raced.  Would he come back tonight?  Would we be stuck here until tomorrow?   We were truly deserted.  Lost in a sea of grass.  At least in the ocean you drift.  It was  after 3am when Elliot stirred me from attempted sleep.  "I think I see lights!"  I sat up.  Indeed two beams shown in the distance.  We watched in awe as a truck pulled up and out hopped our driver.  In no time they had two new tires attached, and after a cigarette and small talk with our rescuers he was ready to go again.  As we got back in the car to continue to our destination I saw the light of dawn begin to creep above the horizon.

6:00am: Baruun-Urt, Mongolia

Baruun-Urt was sleepy at 6am.  Streets were quiet.  No dogs barked.  No engines groaned.  We pulled into the bus station.  As we exited the car our tired looking friend came around the corner to meet us.  The driver handed me my bag and guitar and I took them greedily, fearing that a moment longer in the car's possession might trap me again with its next ailment.  Exhausted and frustrated I wanted to kiss the paved streets of Baruun-Urt and kick our unlucky instrument of transportation all at the same time.  As the car began to pull away, the driver stuck his head out the window.  "Call me when you want a ride back," he exclaims happily.

I could only fake a smile, blink, and clench my fists.  


Wednesday, June 13, 2012

"Father, whose arms extend eternity. A sky of blue above the human family. We gather now in circle ’round the foot of thee. You, the giving tree."


There is a place in Khentii.

A place Omnodelger claims as its own.  Its miles away though.  Over rough terrain, tall mountains, and through shallow rivers.  Wind through the valleys and rugged trails long enough and you'll find this place.

Its called Baldan Bereeven, and once upon a time it was the top religious center in eastern Mongolia.  It boasted as many as 3,000 monks and its population swelled further with frequent visiting pilgrims.  The small monastery, nestled in the mountains was a community in itself.  The monks and pilgrims lived and prayed together in this monastery by a lake.  That was so long ago.

Change swept through Russia, then through eastern Europe, then central Asia.  It wasn't long before the change came to Mongolia.  "No religion!"  So the change said.  The change found Baldan Bereeven, next to its mountains and little lake.  They came.  The pilgrims fled.  The monks, jailed and murdered.  The old stones of the monastery smashed and toppled to rubble.  That was all so long ago.

Today the central monastery has been restored, proving that tradition, religion, and customs can't be snuffed out so easily.  Though resilient, beautiful, and still alive, walking through Baldan Bereeven lets on a somber feeling.  Moving past the ghostly foundations of buildings that once housed dozens of monks one takes on the sense that Baldan Bereeven is now a shadow of its former self.  Though restored, it is a fraction of what it was, with only a hundred or so monks coming to pray in the monastery only in late summer.

The real magic of Baldan Bereeven lies in the things that could not be destroyed and toppled.  The shamanistic mixed with the Buddhist.  Things that withstood the test of time and the atrocities of man.  Walk around Baldan Bereeven and one will come across these sacred places.  Places that hold mystical wonder.  A rock when laid upon that cures a bad back.  A mediation place in a field that soaks energy from the sun.  A split boulder that when walked through restores health.  Stones carved with script, Buddhas, and symbols.  Faded paint and weathered edges.



At the base of Baldan Bereeven's mountains sits a tree.  A tree that grew through the ages.  Stretched skyward through decades.  Extended roots and branches through centuries.  Its called the Wishing Tree.  Be silent, stand close, make a wish and the tree will make it so.  I stood with my palms clasped and leaned into the ancient tree.  I could feel the cool bark against my forehead.  Eyes closed I could hear birds chirp.  A breeze rustled the wild flowers at my feet.    I strained, leaning in further for emphasis.

I made my wish.

Get well soon Dena.


Thursday, May 17, 2012

"Who knows what you're gonna find. When you aren't even tryin'"

I trudged home from school in the early afternoon.  The sun was high in the blue sky.  The spring wind blew in from the steppe, sending swirls of sand and dirt along the road.  Involuntarily using a hand to shield my eyes and mouth I rounded the corner near the hospital and approached mine and Dakraa's hashaa.  I was greeted by Tuya and five of the loyal and resourceful school workers.  The last combined rain and snow storm had completely ruined my ger's felt roof.  The soaked wool had become streaked with mildew, resinating an unhealthy smell that seems to induce headaches and sore throats.  The workers had come to right this injustice.  Immediately setting to work.  They began disassembling my house.  Piece by piece, they took apart my sanctuary.  My things quickly becoming a scattered debris field across our hashaa.  The wind blew through the hashaa billowing the felt and lining of my ger like sails on a ship.  They reassembled it with just as much methodology as when they dismantled it.  Good spirited they jostled, laughed, and joked with one another as they worked.  As I helped where I could I watched in amazement as they put together my home as if it were a puzzle.  "Hetsuu baina uu?" (Is it difficult?)  I asked one of the workers as he stood struggling to hold the two center poles upright.  "No, its easy," he said matter of factly.  "Burdensome?"  I asked.  He narrowed his eyes at me and burst out laughing.  "Yes, yes."  Chimgee, my school's librarian and invaluable ally showed up out of the blue, diving in to help build my home as well as sweep the floors.  The whole process of tearing down and reassembling my home took around three hours.  Before I knew it I had a completed ger.  Now with a full sized floor and waterproof felt.  One of the workers gave the felt a hard slap, "If rain comes it is no problem for you anymore,"  he exclaimed.  I laughed and expressed my gratitude.  Sitting on the edge of my bed, my home although almost the same as before felt new.  Fortified against the weather I felt energized.
Let the rain come.
Let the wind blow.


Saturday, May 12, 2012

"Forecast says there's a calm ahead. Mild days and sunny rain. Mountain breeze, days at ease. Clear skies overhead."

Flashback: Orkhon

A hot and sunny Saturday.  Barely a breeze and clouds were sparse.  It was to be our most distant hike yet.  Orkhon, nestled in its valley between rolling hills and far-off  mountains we often picked a hilltop not yet explored by our American eyes and set out every weekend.  We branched out hiking to farther peaks and crests, eager to experience a new view.  We headed out one sunny Saturday.  Five of us, armed with water bottles and backpacks.  Past Orkhon's rickety haashas and wooden houses.  Over gentle slopes and through dried up creek beds.  Into forgotten fields of Orkhon's discarded relics.  Weaving around herds of grazing goats and wandering sheep.  Orkhon became a distant speck at our backs.  The sun was hot, eagles circled overhead, and a breeze rustled through the wild grasses.  With  each pace of our sandaled feet sent a flurry of grasshoppers and insects jumping about.  Hopping alongside our toes with each step.  Like dolphins chasing the bow of a ship.  The elevation steepened.   Up the slope we went.  The Orkhon River snaked its way into our peripheral vision.  Lazily flowing through grassy plains and alongside mountains.  We skirted past a forest of boulders.  A few resting at awkward impossible angles.  Tossed aside by some ancient glacier.  It was all so peaceful.  The breeze picked up, billowing our shirts and accelerating clouds over head.  As we neared the summit we were met with quite a view.
A colorful ovoo,
A rocky slope,
and a sky divided.

"Forecast says there's a storm brewing. Heavy rain and heavy wind.  Batten down and board them up.  Best stay overhead."

As we looked out over the valley our blue sky changed to black.  The rolling white clouds turned dark and menacing.  The storm system extended for miles.  Far away we could see lighting streak down into the countryside and the unmistakable haze of a distant downpour.  Judging by the winds direction it would only be a matter of time before it passed over us.  Too far to make it back to Orkhon, we headed down the far slope to an outcrop of boulders.  We took shelter amongst the rocks and a lone tree as the first giant droplets began to fall.  The sky rumbled and the wind howled.  We laughed at our luck, at our situation, and nervously at the raw power of nature.  Drops splashed down the face of our boulders.  Lightening sizzled in the sky behind us.  It was easy to see why Mongolians and many other cultures held the sky as their most revered god.  Never before has nature impacted me the way it has in Mongolia.  I feel humble and mortal beneath its beauty and fury.  For me, its a necessary piece of perspective.  As quickly as the storm had set upon us it drifts away.  The rain settles to a drizzle then stops.  The sky changes from dark to light again and the storm moves onward to drench another remote hill.  Moving away from our primitive shelter, we continued our hike heading back towards Orkhon.  It was just another Saturday in Mongolia.  Just another memorable experience.

Omnodelger: Present day

I lie awake in bed.  Candle light flickering off the metal of my stove pipe.  My power is out.  It's been out for hours.  The candle light is usually therapeutic, relaxing.  Not tonight.  Wind billows outside.  Gusts sending the stove pipe clanging against the opening at the roof of my ger.  It stormed all day, now temperatures plummeted, that same rain has turned to snow.  My ger ceiling, made of sheep felt and wool has soaked through.  I don't have enough pots and pans for all the places it is dripping.  It streaks the walls and puddles on the floor.  Every so often a drop hits my stove.  Still hot with the evening's fire it lets out a hiss and a puff of steam.  I scrunch my feet aside in my blankets to avoid getting dripped on.  Once again I'm at the mercy of nature.
I lean over and blow out the candle.
Close my eyes.
Drift back to that day in Orkhon on the hill.

       

  

Friday, April 27, 2012

"Sure as I'm breathing. Sure as I'm sad. I'll keep this wisdom in my flesh. I leave here believing more than I had. This love has got no ceiling"

North of Omnodelger: February

I crunched uphill.  My boots the first to scathe the undisturbed snow.  Snow that fell months ago.  Dakraa was paces ahead of me, occasionally slowing and asking if I was tired or cold.  Marching uphill for the past hour with the heavy Mongolian deel and boots I was tired, and with temperatures in the negative forties I was cold.  These discomforts I didn't express to Dakraa though, I'd smile dutifully and assure him I was fine.  So we trudged upwards, towards some distant crest.  Passing by sparse trees I'd brush my hand along their branches as I passed.  It'd been so long since I had been around so many in one place.

We left hours earlier, stepping out into the cold from Tuya's mother's ger at the base of the Khentii Mountains.  Stepped out into the hodoo, the countryside, the backlands of Mongolia.  Tuya's mother, older brother, and two sisters, were nomads.  They dwelt miles outside the confines of Omnodelger, alone, save for the animals they herded.  When the livestock had expended the area's grass, they'd get up and move again.  I was invited to the solitude to help make preparations for the coming holiday Tsagaan Sar.  After an hour or so of pressing, kneading, and stretching dough Dawkraa grabbed up his rifle and exclaimed joyfully, "come Justin, lets go hunting."  As we exited the ger I saw Tuya shoot her husband a sidelong glance as if to say "typical".  Slinging the weapon over his shoulder I looked at him curiously, "What will we hunt?" I asked.  He just shrugged at me, "It doesn't matter."  I laughed nervously aloud at the prospect of marching off into the wild with a trigger happy Dakraa.  I thought better of trying to explain how hunting laws in New Jersey worked and how he'd surely be violating all of them and just mimicked his shrug of indifference and followed him up towards the mountains.

As we journeyed heading up the mountain's western face,  Dakraa began hooting and hollering into the void.  We hadn't encountered a living creature since setting out, making Dakraa's hunting rifle just a heavy prop.  He continued shouting hoping to stir some creature from its stationary roust.  Suddenly he stopped his whooping and called me to his side.  "There," he pointed, "a fat bird."  It certainly was.  Perched on a branch a couple dozen yards away, I could make out the silhouette of a  bird, with a large round body and tiny head, I was shocked the branch held its bulbous frame.  It was like a beach ball with a head.  "Here," Dakraa said, extending the rifle towards me.  The lack of chicken in my diet for sometime compelled me to take the weapon from him.  I crouched and held my breathe as I tried to judge the shot as best I could.  It wasn't fair that the bird was allowed to be so gluttonous, I would impart his sin unto me.  Pulling the trigger, I heard the thud of metal against wood and saw bark shear from the bird's tree.  Startled, it fluttered off towards the setting sun.  Dakraa laughed behind me.  I stood up and growled under my breath, I was less angry with my embarrassing shot then the fact that the bird, in its obese state was actually able to take flight.  Handing the gun back to Dakraa we set out at our continued pace towards the top of the mountain.

He stopped when we finally reached the summit.  Turning and gesturing for me to hurry up, I sprinted the last couple paces and was met with a mind boggling view.  Our small mountain gave way to a never ending expanse of ones just like it.  They were so vast and expansive that many seemed like mere bumps in the distance.  No roads, power lines, buildings or semblance of infrastructure could be seen anywhere.  Distant forests looked miniature and blurry, the horizon expanded to a hazy white.  If the landscape was daunting, the sky was even more so.  Mongolia's nickname "The Land of the Eternal Blue Sky" rang as true as ever.  A wash of spectacular blue that dwarfed the land it covered.  It seemed there was nothing blocking me from floating away into the blue void.  I was overcome with a feeling of being alone on the top of the world and I resisted the euphoric impulse to yell at the top of my lungs.  "Khentii,"  Dakraa said with a gesture of his hand, sweeping it towards the view that lay before us.  "Its beautiful," I answered just above a whisper.  He chuckled at my stupefied reaction, "Yes, it is," he said with an air that suggested he'd seen it a million times before.  "Lets go," he added and began trekking towards the mountains western rim.  I hung back until his footsteps had faded, until the silence engulfed me, a quiet so encompassing you can almost hear it.  I couldn't take my eyes away from the view, I snapped a picture, then followed in Dakraa's wake.

The sun was all but set as we neared Tuya's mother's ger that evening.  We had been gone the better part of the day.  As we got closer to the tiny round structure I saw a figure step outside.  It was Tuya, discarding some dirty dish water.  Uh oh, I thought remembering her look from earlier.  Dakraa's going to get it for being out so late, leaving them to work all day.  She looked up and to my surprise her face lit up as she saw us approach.  Quickening his pace to meet her, he stopped a step from her and with just as an animated expression as her's he began excitedly rattling off the events of the day.  She let him speak, without saying a word, just smiling up at him.  I'd never seen them show any kind of affection towards one another before but in that moment he took up one of her hands in his as he chattered on, playfully swinging it back and forth.  Suddenly, I took an unconscious step back.  Like my presence was somehow ruining the perfect moment.  The surprise of it all made me feel sentimental and cliche.  In a world where people marry for money, prestige, and insurance, here were two people in a small corner of our planet who had none of those things to fall on.  As I caught some words, Dakraa retold how I missed the fat bird then mimed my facial expression as I stood dumbfounded in front of the extensive mountains and endless sky.  Tuya made some jest back at him and they both went giggling and stumbling over each other as they ducked back into the ger.  At that moment I realized how much they really care about each, how lucky I am to live next to such warmhearted people, to share in their relationship.  It amazes me everyday, the things I learn from this place.

Love, like Mongolia, has no ceiling.

Congratulations Kelly and Sean.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

"Sittin' down here, fallout shelter. Paint my walls, twice a week."

"Justin!"
Over the howl of the wind I could hear Tuya calling from behind me.
"Come here, hurry!"
I struggled to hold the camera steady, to take one more picture. I could taste the grit of sand and dirt on my tongue. The acrid smoke filled my nostrils. It stung my eyes and burned my throat. The wind had changed again. Blowing north. Sending it hurdling forward on a collision course with Omnodelger. Someone do something! I pleaded in my head.
"Justin! Quickly!"
I turned and ran back to where Tuya was standing, struggling to close the gate against the wind. Inside the small enclosure housed the towns meteorological instruments. Having taken the pictures like she instructed me to, I rushed to her side to help close the gate.
"This happens sometimes" she said. "Its very windy, its moving very fast," she exclaimed as the gate clanged shut.
"I'm scared," she said.
"Me too," was all I could answer.

Earlier that morning

Spring in Mongolia is windy, very windy. Occasionally this wind manifests itself in the form of dust storms or in the Gobi Desert, sandstorms. Flying dirt, sand, grit, and pebbles propelling themselves into your body and face is unpleasant. Thats why I was content to let the wind rock my ger while I hunkered inside and worked on making exams one Saturday morning. It was around eleven o'clock when I decided to brave the gusts for a much needed bathroom break. I made it several strides before I stopped dead in my tracks in the center of my yard. The "eternal blue sky" was marred by an enormous plume of smoke. It poured upwards, ominously billowing out, its clouds rolling and expanding, threatening to blotch out the sun. My bathroom break now forgotten I ran over to the fence that separates my hashaa and climbed onto it to get a better look. The steppe was alight. The tall grasses burning wildly outwards in a dark menacing circle. There was no one else around to express my concerns to, the streets were quiet save for the roaring wind. I jumped down from my perch and scurried over to Dakraa's. Tried the door. Locked. Since living in Mongolia I've grown accustomed to tolerating things that seem out of the ordinary or dangerous. But I needed to know if this was normal. Banging on the door fruitlessly, I realized there was no one home.
Ducking back inside my ger I grabbed up my phone and texted Tuya asking what was going on. As I attempted to make myself lunch waiting for a reply I tried justifying the fire in my head. Mongolians are always burning trash, maybe its Super Trash Day? I can't be the only one to have noticed it. It must be controlled? Right? A familiar sound tore through the air, giving me my answer.

Air raid sirens.

Blaring somewhere from my towns center, they wailed their warning of imminent danger. The knife I was holding landed with a clang onto the cutting board as I burst back out into daylight and climbed back atop my perch. The sight I was met with shocked me. The wind had accelerated the fire at an alarming rate. In the fifteen or so minutes since I had been inside, the fire had spread, defining the topography of the steppe with blackened grass and scorched earth. From my high and distant position I could actually see it moving. The ring turning the steppe black, crawling towards Omnodelger. As I gaped, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Tuya. After translating I laughed nervously aloud at her reply, reading her message only added to the drama.  "A mighty conflagration is coming, stay there, I'm coming." When Tuya finally arrived some minutes later, she told me that the soum's men would go out to fight the fire. I clutched for my jacket and stood up asking where I could meet them. "No, she said, I need your help," shaking her head. "Please watch Misheel, I must go to work and check the wind."
So I sat on the floor of my ger with six year old Misheel and we played shagai. She hummed and giggled to herself as she played, the air raid sirens continued to blare their warning outside. I put on a smile and tried not to let on my concerns. Ten minutes later Tuya was back with her mother. "Justin, please bring your camera and come to work with me, I need your help." So we left Misheel with her mother and began walking briskly towards the edge of town. "If it gets close we will go to my mother's home in the countryside" she said as we reached the tiny fenced in area holding all of the Soviet hand-me-down weather predicting elements. We were closer to it now, smoke billowed and poured over the gentle hills of the steppe. The wind whipped wisps of grey and black through the air. It looked apocalyptic. She instructed me to take as many pictures as I could while she read her instruments. I jogged out several paces closer to the blaze and began snapping away.   How would they put a stop to it? Omnodelger has no fire department, no trucks, not even a consistent water supply.  

Minutes later we were headed back towards my ger.  Tuya had me e-mail her wind statistics and the pictures I took to a meteorologist in the closest town to the south.  "A warning," she said sternly.  I took it as it served as a way for them to be prepared if it started heading in their direction.  To this day I still don't know how the blaze was stopped.   Later Bolormaa and Munkhkherlen came bursting into my ger coughing and exhausted.  They too had been called to combat the fire.  I gave them tea and made soup, feeling guilty that my role was so minor in assisting our tiny town.  They explained that Omnodelger was safe now, the fire was under control and nothing was damaged save for a garbage dump just outside of town.  The fire, they said was probably started by a careless herder, tending his flock and discarding a dying cigarette.

The next morning a smoky haze could still be seen lingering over the steppe.  The dark blackened smear ending mere yards away from the closest hashaa.  I couldn't help but reflecting that months before I was praising fire, our ability to harness it, how it warms us, fights the unforgiving cold, makes us comfortable and safe.  The scarred landscape outside of Omnodelger serves as a reminder that it has the power to take all that away.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

"Ah Mary. She'll bake you cookies then she'll burn your town. Ah Mary. Ashes ashes but she won't fall down."

New Jersey, United States of America

I could feel my heart racing, my palms getting sweaty. The Best Buy clerk looking at me expectantly, presenting two of the fifty options for headphones in each of his hands. He started repeating maybe for the tenth time what all of the different varieties did. Wireless ones, not wireless ones, Bluetooth ones, ones with microphones, ones without, ones that "lock" in your ear, black ones, red ones, white ones, ones that apparently massage your neck while you listen. I screamed inside my head, Christ, I just want to hear my music! I wanted to apologize, somehow explain my indecisive breakdown. How I'd been in a place for ten months where when I went in a store and asked for something the clerk hands me the one option there is, I smile, say thank you, slap money on the counter and I'm out the door.

Up until this point I felt like I had handled the reverse culture shock well, that I hadn't been affected by the re-acclamation from an underdeveloped country back into a developed one. New things like phones that talk to you and make your life choices and little pods of Tide laundry detergent (Tidepod?) amused me rather then made my head spin trying to comprehend them. People often asked, "Is it weird being back?" The only answer I could give that sums up my feelings best was it feels familiar but entirely unfamiliar. I went home knowing I would appreciate my mother country all the more. Things like running water, constant electricity, and climate control were much more well received then when I left. Those things I expected though. What I didn't expect was how much more the consumerism stuck out, the advertising, the countless options of everything from headphones to toothpicks. Is this one of the many ways America stays on top? Is this why Mongolians I associate with hold my country in such awe? Why the average American can't place Mongolia on a map? I chuckle at the thought of having Dakraa or one of my coworkers standing beside me in the mall, just to watch their reaction.

Being home, while giving me new perspective also refreshed me beyond measure. My fears about whether or not I'd appear different in my family and friends eyes seemed to extinguish the minute I stepped back in my house. Everyone seemed the same, and I hope I seemed the same to them too. Within days it was like I had never left. Old routines with people I shared my time with ten months ago were the same. I only wish I had more time. I felt as though I wanted to see everyone all the time all at once. The two weeks back in New Jersey was just what I needed. The generosity and curiosity of the people I care most about surprised and humbled me. I'm so blessed to have so much love coming from two continents. So to my friends and my family you have all my gratitude. I hope to see you all next time I cross the gap.

"I'm crossing the gap on my way home. Above my head just sky and stone. Cross the river from the Jersey side. At the end of a long, long ride."

Beijing, China

I stare out the window. My own music blares in my ears. I can't hear the people passing by. No matter, they speak neither English nor Mongolian. No one pays notice to me. An American in China is no strange thing. Beijing is no Omnodelger. The airport itself could swallow my little town whole. These thoughts seem minor compared to the destination at hand.

Home.

Its never seemed so exotic. Like the roles of the two major places in my life have been flipped. In my impending days before departing for Mongolia I daydreamed of my life there. How I'd live, things I'd do, and people I'd meet. Now the days leading up to this moment have been filled of daydreams of America. Food, friends and family, good beer, warm showers. Places I used to frequent and people I used to share company with. Would it all still be there? Would I see the USA through new eyes? Would people think me different? Most daunting of all, how could I ever begin to share my experiences to those back home I care most about? How could I make them understand? Make Mongolia not just a place on a map anymore? The anticipation of seeing those I loved again burned my brain and kept me awake. I gazed out the window, watching the ground crew prep the massive 777 aircraft that would carry me across the Pacific Ocean.
Carry me across continents.
Carry me home.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

"Mama raised me to be honest, she taught me well. Living high up in a castle, she said, "Climb that hill."

Jerusalem, Israel: 2009

I stared in awe up at the Dome of the Rock. The massive mosque, with its golden cap and intricate mosaic walls was a feast for the eyes. It was one of the most beautiful structures I'd ever seen. I ran my eyes over the Arabic verses along the facade and down its electric blue columns again and again. Standing there on the Temple Mount my senses were alive, the air smelled crisp and clean, the sun glistened off the mosque's golden dome, Arabic chanting echoed in my ears as the faithful had begun being called to prayer. My revelry was shattered as I caught the sight of three armed soldiers marching in my direction, pointing at the exit to the Temple Mount and shouting in very stern Arabic. I quickly slinked towards the exit, stealing one last glance of the mosque over my shoulder as I left. The forbidden aura adding further to its wonder. The picture was clear, it was prayer time, I was a non-Muslim. I would be no where near religious practices, no matter how interesting or how beautiful I thought they were.



Khutul, Mongolia

I squinted through my own foggy breath as I stared out towards the rising sun. Outside of my host family's Khutul apartment it was the first day of Tsagaan Sar(White Month), Mongolian Lunar New Year. A time for renewal, rebirth, and connecting with those closest to you. I strained my eyes further, in the distance I could make out the tiny figures of people walking up a far off mountain. Scores headed uphill, making a pilgrimage to the top to pay respects at an ovoo, a religious totem of rocks and colored silk that crown the tops of many peaks and summits. The sun illuminated the white ice and snow. Watching the dozens of black silhouettes march upwards towards the sky was mesmerizing.

"Justin brother."

Jagaa, my host brother, nudged me on the arm. "Please, read again." Apologizing, I looked down at the piece of paper my host mother had sent me outside with. A special prayer she had written down just for me and my birth year, the year of the rabbit. I began repeating the few lines yet again. The Tibetan chant was unfamiliar on my tongue, which had only grown accustomed to Mongolian. Jagaa quickly helped me sound out each word. "Follow me", he said taking my wrist as we started the chant again. To the unfamiliar onlooker it appeared as if we zigged and zagged in nonsensical direction, I learned earlier that these steps were necessary to starting my new year and went hand in hand with the prayer that reverberated from my lips. The ritual having finished, we marched back up the steps to my family's third floor apartment. Three rooms with bathtub and toilet, these luxuries were a far cry from how we lived together in Orkhon, my former village only 15 minutes away. My host mother and youngest brother rented the apartment every winter so my brother could attend Khutul's private school. As we reentered, I was greeted by the bustling sight of my host mother, scurrying from room to room to throw a bowlful of milk out each window, up towards the sky. The ritual, one repeated during many occasions is an offering for safety and good fortune. Milk, a sacred liquid, for its symbolic color is often used. As the last bowlful was tossed skywards, the family gathered in the living room, lining up in front of the tiny altar. Adorned with candles, incense, an idol of Buddha, pictures of the Dalai Lama, and a small copper prayer wheel, my host family assembled oldest to youngest, each taking turns bowing and praying in front of the religious objects. I watched, grateful to just be present to witness their worship, something so unfamiliar from my own. When Mogi had finished spinning the tiny prayer wheel three times he turned to me. "Justin brother, it is your turn." Taken aback, I didn't know how to respond. My host mother urged me forward in front of the altar. "I don't know how," I exclaimed, "I am a Christian, is this okay?" My mother only chuckled at me, "Of course, just think about the new year." Hands clasped I bowed my head and closed my eyes. I thought about my family back home, my friends I left behind, the new family crowded around me, and the new friends I'd made living across the steppe. I wished good fortune on all of them. As I lifted my head and opened my eyes, I stepped forward and spun the tiny copper wheel three times. The metal was warm to the touch.


It may seem a peculiar thing, but moving into a culture so much different then the one I came from I often compare my time spent those first three months in Orkhon as being born again. I was taught right from wrong, I learned to speak, how to cook, clean, and build a fire, how to survive the winter, and how to keep myself safe. My host family essentially raised me to be a half competent resident of Mongolia in only three months. It touches me to my core when I realize the shared impact we've had in each others lives. What they've shown me since I arrived in a land both scary and beautiful has been nothing short of love and compassion. People I know I can always turn to when I feel like Mongolia could swallow me whole. Words neither written nor said could describe the gratitude I have for them.

After three days of feasting, card games, and visiting Orkhon, friends, more family, and my teacher it was finally time to say goodbye. Hugging my brothers goodbye, they made one last attempt to get me to stay longer. If only travel were that easy. As I said goodbye to my host mother she hugged me and waved me out the door, "I will throw milk for you", she exclaimed as the door shut behind me. Trudging out towards the oversized van that would carry me back towards Ulaanbaatar, I stole a glance over my shoulder. My host mother stood at the apartment window making good on her promise. Holding a bowl in her hand she prepared to give an offering for my safe journey. She smiled and waved at me, then with a flick of her wrist and a small gasp she sent milk towards the heavens. It sparkled in the sun as it fell.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

"Sometimes it gets a little rough. Like wheels made of steel going uphill mountain. Better stand tall, if you're gonna stand at all. And if you're gonna fall, well you might as well fall."

I reread the text message thinking I misunderstood. My Mongolian is bad, but its not that bad. I read it loud and clear. Shijirbaatar was telling me that today there was no coal. What I didn't understand was how that could be so. I pass the behemoth pile I leech my coal from every day outside the school. The huge black megalithic chunks casting shadows on me as I stride past, looking up longingly. The massive hoard of fuel only seems to laugh back at me, I'm at the mercy of my school, which chooses to spoon feed me portions of coal by the wheelbarrow full, once or twice a week. After four days of pestering Shijirbaatar that my supply was dangerously low, I was now running on empty. I silently cursed the spring for not coming sooner, and for Tsagaan Sar, the Mongolia holiday fast approaching next week which surely has kept every Mongolian in my soum busy. Deciding it would be fruitless to give Shijirbaatar a weather and temperature reminder, I step outside to assess my fuel situation. Going out into the fading evening light I sigh at the sight before me, a few meager branches make up the last of my wood stockpile, that main source of fuel also near depleted. My coal pile is even more pitiful, merely a black stain in the snow where coal once sat. I kicked the dust in frustration, how could something seemly so easy to fix be so difficult. I needed help. I'm lucky to have so many allies. Marching past Dakraa's limitless pile of wood I entered my neighbor's house, pulling the door shut against the snow and wind behind me.

"Yasan be?" (What's the matter?) Tuya greeted me, sensing my mood and expression. She stopped mid-meat carving, telling me to sit down and brought me tea. In the background Misheel, her six year old daughter waved at me from the floor in front of the TV. I smile and wave back. Janii, our teenage neighbor boy tinkered on the computer, barely acknowledging my presence. I showed Tuya the message I got. "There is coal at the school", she said confused, "why did he say that?" I told her I didn't know and explained I didn't understand and was frustrated. She pondered a moment then gave a sidelong glance at Janii, still lost in his computer game, oblivious to her gaze. "Today is very cold and very windy", she muttered to herself, glancing out the window at her house's cache of wooden logs and branches.

"Janii" she said.

"Go chop wood."

I'm warm tonight.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

"Have no fear, for when I'm alone. I'll be better off, then I was before. I've got this light, I'll be around to grow. Who I was before I cannot recall."


When I was a boy there were two school subjects you could often find me reading ahead in the school textbook. History, of course, and literature. From as far back as I can remember one author was always included in that required tome, whatever the year, whatever the grade, Jack London. So as my teacher would drone on about some dry love affair in Wuthering Heights, I was in the Yukon, the wilderness, the frontier. London would take me on dangerous, thrilling, adventures. I still enjoy reading them today. One short story always struck me as my favorite, "To Build a Fire". A man and his dog are traveling alone in the north Canadian wilderness. Its winter, its cold, very cold. Through folly of his own the man missteps and his foot plunges through ice, soaking his leg. The temperatures are extreme, time is of the essence, he must build a fire. Misfortune befalls the man a second time when his first fire is accidentally snuffed out. He becomes frantic in his attempts to build a second fire knowing that delaying has already cost him his toes. I remember reading London's words, getting caught up in the man's desperation. I could almost feel the cold, almost see my breath materialize as I turned the pages. His hands now too numb to strike matches or break branches or even throttle his own dog to use its intestines for warmth, he makes one final effort to save himself. He runs, in denial that the exertion will warm his body, he finally gets tired and drifts into a final frozen sleep. All because he couldn't make a fire. Awestruck by the tale I remember closing the book and thinking something along the lines of "My God, I hope I never have to experience cold like that."

I grew up in a temperate climate, summers were hot and winters were cold. I'd play outside in the snow with my brother and neighbors till our noses were red and our cheeks stung. I remember coming inside our warm house afterwards to a cup of hot chocolate my mom would have waiting for me. At my grandmother's house it was always our special ritual, starting that first fire of the winter in her fireplace. We'd huddle around the hearth and she'd let me light the newspapers that would ignite the kindling, she'd even throw in special minerals to make the flames change vibrant colors. I'd sit dazzled and amazed, what an entertaining thing fire was. Snow, the cold, warm fires, it was a novelty, something that came around briefly once a year that you enjoyed. It meant days off of school, days experiencing the outdoors in a different way. It was never unbearable, it never scared me.

Then I moved to Vermont. Winters were longer, and colder. With the destituteness that comes with being a college student in an old apartment I spend the better part of the year huddled around a space heater. It couldn't have been less then fifty degrees in our apartment, but it was cold to me then. Walks to classes were taken at a quick pace and bundled up. It was cold, colder then I'd ever experienced previously but it was still doable. I still went out on weekends, I still walked downtown, but it certainly made me ready for summers a lot sooner. After graduation and my final summer at work drew to a close, I drove back home to New Jersey for the last time. I remember chuckling to myself as I headed south down the highway, the Green Mountains at my back, "Well at least I'll never have to be in cold like that again." The irony hasn't escaped me now.


Today I live in a ger, a yurt, a glorified tent. A round structure with a wooden skeleton and a sheep felt exterior. It is a sanctuary I've grown to love and make my own. I might dare say it may be my favorite place that I've hung my hat, so to speak. For all its romantic primal appeal it is not without its disadvantages. Mongolians have lived in gers for centuries, before the time of Ghengis Khan and up until the present day. A cozy space that keeps in warmth, but without special attention and care to that source of heat, the cold quickly creeps in. Cold that I've never felt or could have imagined before. My sanctuary freezes overnight or during prolonged periods of absence. Water, toothpaste, cooking oil, fruits and vegetables, milk and liquid soap. They all freeze. Cracking open my eyelids each morning, often times the first thing I see is my own breath. It is hard to will myself to get out of bed. When the wind rolls through the steppes and the temperature plummets further still, getting around town is excruciating. Walking from Point A to Point B, often distances of less then one hundred yards, is taken nearly at a running pace. Nostrils, face, and eyelids sting, extremities numb, and ice forms on facial hair. My body seems to scream "Get inside you fool!" I do with the utmost urgency. I tell you all this not for pity or praise but for recognition, I've been living here for a mere eight months. The people I have come to know have lived here they're whole lives. Enduring the same extremes every year. They do it and they survive. I look at the bundled up figure of a six year old and realize they're more hardened then I'll ever be.

I stand just inside my school's doors, poised to endure the elements. Ready to go home for the evening, I pull on my gloves and secure my hat. I stare at the wooden double doors, a testament to the fact that the cold can batter through any defense. Every crevice between the frames is encased in ice and snow. The wind swept draft entombing the wood in a frozen prison. The door and the walls sparkle with ice crystals. The glass above long obstructed by water turned solid. I take a breath and push out into the night.


I'm home, crouched in the center of my ger. Huddled next to my stove, I'm going through a ritual I go through multiple times everyday. A ritual I've come to appreciate: gathering wood, breaking up paper and cardboard, emptying ash. The stove, my lifeline, my key to survival. The creation of one of our universes oldest elements. I've never appreciated it more. My world is frozen, it will take time to thaw. It is warmer in my refrigerator then where I am sitting. I crouch, blowing on the hot coals, the blaze grows, the wood ignites to a therapeutic crackle. I smile in satisfaction, it's all okay, I'm okay, all because.....

bi gal tulj chadna.
(I can build a fire)

Monday, January 30, 2012

"If I'm bound or gagged. If I'm lost or losing. I might want to leave from here. Until then, I'll still be cruising, high above the atmosphere."


Saturday morning, my eyes shot open at the familiar but unrelenting sound. Shuffling, wood trying against metal. Someone was continuously pulling on my ger's door handle, impervious to the fact that it was locked. I rolled out of bed with a groan, pulling on pants as I hobbled towards the door, shouting "Hen be?" (Who is it?). No sooner did I release the latch then Shijirbaatar burst through the threshold into my ger. Ignoring my "frazzled and just abruptly awakened state" he fired off into a monologue. "Justin, will you help me?" "My brother is sick, I need to herd his goats." "There are many goats, with one person it is difficult." I pondered this, I was sick myself, looking forward to a weekend of recuperation and spending little time outside in the subzero temperatures. I have found that it is often hard to say "no" in Mongolia when someone asks for help, and I often never regret the decision. "Yes, I'll help you." I exclaim as I quickly get myself ready to go. Reaching for my winter jacket he stops me, "No, it is cold outside." Without saying anything I begin wrapping myself in my Mongolian deel, he nods in approval and instructs me to bring my camera. "The countryside is pretty today" he adds, and with that we trudge out towards the edge of town.

We entered a large hashaa filled with goats and a small ger. Shijirbaatar brought me inside where I was greeted with the sight of a man laying in bed, much older looking then his younger brother and at our entrance he scrambled to get up, jostling over to the kitchen area to make us tea. "How are you feeling?" I asked as we sat down and I was handed a hot bowl of milk tea. "Alright", he answered "I just need rest" he exclaimed stifling a cough. After being introduced by Shijirbaatar the man nodded his thanks and finished our tea and back outside into the January morning. I opened the gate while Shijirbaatar funneled the goats through the opening waving a stick and hollering. We were soon joined by Shijirbaatar's friend and fellow school coworker, "I heard your brother is sick, I came to help." As we walked out away from the town Shijirbaatar handed me a handful of bread nuggets. "Show them these" he explained "and they will follow you." He demonstrated holding a nugget out in his hand and the goats immediately clustered around him, none attempting to stray off or run out into the steppe. I followed his example and was soon engulfed by goats all rustling against each other standing on hind legs and using my body for leverage as they strained to reach the bready prize in my hand. After we had lured the goats far enough from the town and our nuggets had been expended we stood and relaxed while they grazed from the tall steppe grass that had somehow managed to poke its way up through the snow.
As we stood a man on a small white horse rode up from a nearby herd of cows and beckoned us good morning. After conversing with Shijirbaatar he climbed down from the saddle-less steed and instructed me to get on the horse. "You can ride my horse" he said with a gesture towards his mount. So with a boost from Shijirbaatar, I climbed atop and expecting a pony ride waited for him to grab the reins to lead me around. Instead Shijirbaatar gave the horse a light pat on the rump and it began walking along leaving me as the sole driver and briefly terrified. My last horse riding experience having been many moons ago on a family vacation to Yosemite I was not exactly comfortable on the beast. After nervously trotting about I managed to steer the horse back to Shijirbaatar where he promptly made me pose for a "Mongolian picture" before stepping down from the animal. Relinquishing the horse back to its owner the herder said goodbye and with one fluid motion was back atop his horse and galloping off towards his cattle.


It was quiet, I gazed out at the steppe, the mountains, and the sky, never ceasing to be amazed by the expansivness of it all. Goats grazed around me, a horse brayed in the distance, the sun gleamed off the snow. It was so meditational, so peaceful, a landscape that always makes me feel happy and content. Shijirbaatar broke the silence, "Lunch time." With that we circled around the herd and led them back towards the hashaa. When the last goat cleared the gate Shijirbaatar patted me on the back, "Mash ikh bayarlalaa, Justin."(Thank you very much, Justin) He repeated this several times, thanking me again and again for my help. I shook his hand and thanked him instead. He gave me a confused look. I could only laugh. He had done so much more for me that day then I had done for him.