Shout Out to the Courageous

I wasn't planning on posting today but I read something that was so moving I couldn't help it. Today's CNN International page featured what I think is a very important article about blogging around the world and the challenges bloggers face in restrictive countries. It featured photographs and mini-biographies of five courageous men and women from all over the world who have been persecuted for their blogs. In their blogs they broach a variety of controversial topics- some post videos of police brutality, others speak out for homosexuality, all are advocates in their own right. Because of their free speech many have been jailed, some faced torture and even more were detained without cause. One of these people is a 19-year-old Syrian girl. Blogging is something I just happened to fall into. It is something I truly enjoy but not something that defines me. Yet I am struck by the camaraderie I feel with these people who also 'take up the pen' online. I admire their staunch perseverance and brazenness courage and feel slightly honored to be amongst the ranks of a community called 'bloggers' of which they are also a part. So in honor of these people who tempt the unspeakable by speaking I'd like to pay tribute to their lives in reverence and solidarity. May we all have the courage to be so brave and may the five here, added to countless others the world over, never stop blogging for justice.

Shades of Edith

We have reached October and thus my favorite time of year: fall. There is something about it- the changing of the seasons and the way that the world explodes in vibrant colors is so intoxicating. There's a crisp breeze in the air and everything feels fresh. My inner foodie dreams of frolicking naked in a ball pit of fresh picked pumpkins, apples and squash. In Hovd all of the leaves turn a luscious gold color, lining the streets with brilliant flaxen cascades. And later, when the leaves drift downward, they litter the ground to like a wild west miner's sweetest dream. I can't help but shuffle through the leaves on the side of the road, relishing the organic smell and the familiar crunch. Feeling the foliage underfoot and the wind on my face conjures memories of autumns past. I don't quite know why wanderlust sets in so steadfastly in fall. Maybe it's the wind, maybe it's the drop in temperature or maybe it's something purely biological that is so invigorating; perhaps it is simply nature making my bones yearn for motion. When I was growing up, the chill in the air signaled to my family to load up the car and head to Highlands, North Carolina for long weekends filled with hiking, long dinners and boutique scouring. Later, in college, I drove with friends to Ultimate Frisbee tournaments where we played til we dropped- only the prospect of later parties put us back on our feet. And last year, in perhaps my fondest of fall field trips, college girlfriends and I would head up to Gettysburg, PA to visit one of my best friends, Ashton. Making the leaves swirl in our wake, we drove through long conversations and soulful ipod singalongs, then subsequently tore apart the antique town with debauchery and girl talk. No words can really describe how strange it is to eat a rather tequila saturated brunch at a table across from Civil War reenactors dressed to the nines. Once we even went to the local Apple Festival. So bumping over dirt roads on the way to a neighboring province for Eagle Festival  last week felt right, foraying out into the world to see something new with the autumn breeze at our backs. Gazing out at the stark landscape I was moved to listen to Edith Pilaf's 'Autumn Leaves'- a classic for any time of year, but espeically apropos now. Her deep warble washed over me and transported me to a different place and time. It drew my mind back to a half forgotten place I didn't expect: fall two years ago when a friend and I spent a week in France. Visions of autumn leaves falling over street markets, delicate marble facades and classic scenes along the Seine, complete with street painters and lovers nestled into their scarves, floated in front of the rocky hills before me. It was a wonderful trip, I don't think you can ever go wrong staying in the French Quarter and exploring Paris on the cheap with other youngsters. My memories from that time are truly escapist and I allowed myself to become saturated in them. Thinking about autumn journeys past made me anticipate later trips and the six hour journey was easily passed with fantasies about forays with friends State-side and wondering what fun there will be next year when I venture southward. It is truly comforting to know that fall will always come, though I will probably not be in the same place for any length of time in the foreseeable future. But looking forward to fall and the vigor that it brings is a wonderful constant no matter where I find myself. It imparts the same richness of feeling and feast for the senses the world over- across oceans and over thousands of miles. And now, as I sit at my desk, smiling at the adventures of years past and wondering what future Octobers hold, I can't help but gaze at the leaves bathing in sunlight and luxuriate in the aureate glow.

Spectrums and Slaughter

Nothing is completely analogous to a rock crashing through your window. It feels like nothing else in the world. The otherwise silent night being sliced by shards of glass cascading into your seemingly safe, impregnable space makes you jolt. It shakes you to the core. The idea of someone actively choosing to shatter your world is confusing and you feel deeply violated. True, it's not like being physically assaulted in any way, but the violent surprise and ensuing shock takes you back to being startled as a child when the wind was knocked out of you. Like a childhood spill, you cry a little because of your shaken state.

One night last week, I had the misfortune of experiencing a rock soaring through my window. Taking a 'chill' night, I had headed home after work and was slaving over a project proposal. All of a sudden, I heard a crash and glass showered everywhere. Before I had time to think, my body reacted, sinking out of my chair and onto the floor. Though my room was covered in a surreal glitter, the strangest part was the silence. Crouching on the floor, I strained to imagine the person on the other side of the glass but the night was eerily silent. I expected something: running, yelling, vomiting, high fives? There was a nothing. Shaking, I called my site mate in the next building and he came over to help with damage control. He scouted the area behind my building and found no one. He helped me clean up the mess, gave me a firm hug and went home. Later I started talking to my Mongolian friends about what had happened and a guy my age confided in me that he used to throw rocks through windows to either kill the boredom or avenge his latest break-up. Having a rock thrown through your window was not uncommon, he implied. The casualness of his admission and his cheeky grin got me thinking about the widespread violence in Mongolian culture and why it's accepted.

Mongolia is a country built on the backs of warriors. The national hero, who celebrates a near God-like status, is arguably the most prolific serial rapist of all time: Chinggis Khaan (or to the rest of the world: Gengis Khan). It is an intensely physical culture- sitting in a dog pile is expected in crowded Jeeps, shoving en route is not a faux pas and a fist fight is something many little boys never really grow out of- in short, the space bubble is nonexistent. It is something to get used to but not something that normally bothers me. What is extremely difficult to grapple with, however, is when the custom of lack of physical sensitivity spills over to other places. For example, at the Eagle Festival last weekend, someone brought a wolf for the eagles to kill. True, wolves pose a serious threat to the livelihoods of many people here, but the wolf they brought to the slaughter was barely more than a cub. Stolen for it's mother at an early age, it was an uncomfortable feeling knowing that the smiling people around me were perfectly comfortable seeing this rather defenseless animal die in an unfair fight after being extremely roughed up for two days. My urge was to free the it E.T. style, but a physical fight, no matter the odds, was a thrilling prospect for the locals.

I am not saying every Mongolian has a lust for violence. Not at all. It is absurd to think I can make an accurate blanket statement about a whole culture. However, there is certainly a back and forth that keeps my thoughts about the resistance and acceptance of Mongolian brutality in perpetual swing. Many of my students think it's rude to push and plenty of my friends were aghast when I told them about my startling experience last week. However, the bitter irony of having someone throw a rock through my window while working on a community development project is a tough one to shake. This feeling of betrayal was exacerbated by the three gentlemen flagging down cars of foreigners on their way to Eagle Fest and making us pay an exorbitant fee to line their pockets, all the while ignoring buses full of locals and the fact that we are low-salary development workers. Having someone throw their weight around for unjust reasons can feel like a physical blow and can smack of violation just as much.

Through all this I strive to remember that this is a life I have chosen for myself and one that I chose again every day. No one owes me anything and I am not a victim. Self-righteous rage is not my style at all and never has been. I think what is throwing me off is the process of getting used to a different cultural spectrum. In the West I know what is normal behaviour and what is not- here everything is altered. Even after living here for a year already I stumble upon things and have trouble placing them in either the 'appropriate' or 'inappropriate' box in my head without judging them by Western standards. Cultural relativism sticks like glue but is a force worth fighting against. And while I now know where wolves and windows stand, I think my next year will remain a puzzle of collecting events and attempting to place mentally them where they belong.

Echos of a Bus Ride

Incident 

by Countee Cullen

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee;
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, "Nigger."

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember. 

I stumbled on this poem during the Great Swine Flu Epidemic of '09. Nestled into a comfy, leather chair, I spent the better part of two months reading literature anthologies. The decadence justified because all classes were suspended. I must have read dozens of works but a year later this poem is the one that stuck with me the most. The way in which the youthful narrator uses simple words to convey such an adult experience really struck me. The story it tells is of a kind of tiny tragedy and I'm a sucker for that sort of poesy. Even though the words were written 85 years ago they still ring true today. Perhaps because we all run into bits of life that are uncanny reflections of this poem.
This summer I was frolicking with a group of new found friends on the beach in Fiji. Beers in our hands and songs on our lips, we were having a great time. But later I was wounded when the others started whispering loudly enough so I could hear that they had given me the nickname Velma. I was the only person on the island with short, brown hair and glasses; apparently I was a perfect doppelganger of the Scooby Doo character. Another incident this summer occurred when unkind words about my body were used in front of me; also bringing a sharp kick to my pride and self-esteem.
But after the second run-in with the mean boy from Baltimore I thought about the poem from a year ago and pulled up my big girl panties. Just feeling crappy about incidents wouldn't help. Even though I am no longer eight like our miniature narrator, it was so easy to let nasty feelings seep out of specific comments and color entire days. But they were my days and I'd be damned if I'd let some haters ruin the beaches or the morning bagels that I intended to relish. I should be the one to decide if I felt crappy about my glasses, pale skin or hips. Eff that! Especially since the things I was ridiculed for were byproducts of my time in Mongolia- resulting manifestations of a physically harsh year in service to others. In the poem the boys' parade had gotten rained on and he was too young to have the wherewithal to pop up an umbrella. His days from May until December was shrouded in one act of unkindness. Instead what I chose to take away from my Baltimorian experiences was that there are eight-year-olds everywhere, some of them just don't look their age. But what I can do to counter these people is to grow up and not let the clouds idle over my days. My friend has a blog called Be Excellent To Each Other. I like that title and have decided doing just that is the best way to live. In striving for excellence I'd argue that there are fewer hateful moments with fellow passengers. And really in the end aren't we all on the same bus?

Something to Blog About

Here in Hovd the leaves are starting to fall and the kids are suiting up in their little French maid outfits and shiny three piece suits. What does that mean? School's in! Mongolian schools are all about being the best. The best chess player, the best English speaker, the best teacher, you get my drift. So as school begins and everyone is reving up for another year of fighting to the top, I've put together some superlatives of my own. I'm not too versed in the ways of the blog world but these are some really good ones I've found so far. If you know about any cool blogs, throw them up! I'm super interested in reading new and interesting ones. Let me know what you read! Or, if you're feeling super competitive, vote for your favorite blog below:

Best Way to Drive Foodies to Distraction/Best Food Porn. Ever.: The Kitchn

Most Funky and Informative Way to Get Your Eclectic Pop Culture Tidbits: Open Culture

Best Beach-y Updates/Artsy Creations/Coolest Blogging Family Member By Far: Linda Davick!

Sweetest and Smartest Wedding Blog/Most Amazing Blogging Friend (Warning- Careful of Incessant and Fantastic Daydreaming): Once Wed

Super Great Way to Flaunt Your Girlyness and Procrastinate Simultaneously: The Frisky

Best Way to Get Fair, Balanced and Visually Exciting Movie Reviews: Metacritic

Most Convincing Argument for That Early Morning Run: Early Monring Run

Most Intriguing and Intelligent Travel and Photo Blog: The Travel Photographer

Best Social Experiment Ever/Most Readable and Addicting Blog: Post Secret

Most Fun Dose of Absurd Photos and Pop News/Silliest Blog by a Friend: Southern Bellz

Sweetest Art Design Site/Most Badass Friend with Lots of Talent: Sticky With Rage

Just Cause It's Awesome: King of Pops

My Boots, My Home

I've been back in Hovd for about a week and a half now. Though it doesn't seem like such a long time, so much has happened- countless meeting, three couch surfers (two of which were bona fide gypsies...seriously. they brought their own accordion), a total apartment move and lots of joyful reconnecting. For a while I kept waiting, wondering when the difficult times would start. In the fall of last year I had a rather rough go of it. Painfully lonely and perhaps a little too sad, I longed for someone to share my experiences with. Trudging up 5 flights of stairs to a cold, dark apartment every night is not something anyone would look forward to. Even less so with the isolation, culture shock and relative poverty that volunteering abroad wrecks. But thus far...nothing this year. I keep wondering what it is- why am I so darned content? One would think that the exquisite pain of being left by someone they care about so deeply would be a beast to battle. And it has been. But so far my friend has been as present and supportive as humanly possible though he is a continent away and dealing with changes of his own. So perhaps it's the fact that it's still a comfortable temperature outside? Or that I have a brand new and certifiably warmer apartment? Or is it that Hovd has received the gift of four awesome new Peace Corps Volunteers this year? (Us ladies ate soy burgers, gabbed and watched Sex in the City til the wee hours last night. A joy for sure.) Or is it the pheromones pulsing through my brain resulting from a week of thoroughly satisfying runs? Maybe it's one reason. Maybe all of them. I think I'm just more comfortable here. Knowing what lies ahead. and not having to rely on the enigmatic 'here there be monsters' scrawled across my looming year makes a huge difference. As I watch many of my friends decide to terminate their stint in Peace Corps early and return to America, it has thrown into sharp contrast so many things I am be grateful for in my experience here. First there are the basics- great site mates, a really interesting job, brilliant students and an interesting town. But then there is one of the best thing a girl can hope for: support. Parents who tirelessly send care packages and friends who cheer me on at every step are in my corner. Many of my fellow volunteers have parents are unimpressed to say the least and friends who dog them for not being at concerts together in Manhattan. Not me. At this point I'm starting to feel like Jimmy Buffet might have writing his autobiography. Not a cloud in the sky. But really I know there will be hard times ahead. The weather will cool and things will get lonely. But that is later. Right now coming back to Hovd feels like slipping on an old leather boots- the footprint right where I left it, snug and just right. Later my feet might be miserably cold in those boots but this I know right now for sure: the sun is shining warm on my face today. And it's good to be back home.

A Year in Pictures

Firstly I'd like to apologize for not posting for so long. The summer was many things: wonderful, tempestuous, difficult, enlightening- in short it was a big, thought provoking three months. But I'm back in Hovd now and have resolved to be a better, more diligent blogger. My new years resolution so to speak. So please come back and read my blog!

So I know I didn't post any pictures on my blog last year. It was intentional- I thought that the Mongolia I described probably wouldn't match up to the one in photographs. If I posted pictures then it would negate the power of written words. That and haven't figured out how to post photos on the blog yet. But I figure there's no time like the present to learn and it might be a neat experiment. And since last year has come and gone I thought I'd put up some throwbacks. The pictures are in vague chronological order and are a random smattering of things that may have and have not ended up in the blog.

My host families house

My host sisters and nephew!

Host family appreciation event.

My host mom Burmaa.

Little horseman at Nadam.

A Nadam wrestler.

My first day in Hovd.

Horehog for Jake's school.

Pretzels: baking victory!

The Kazakh cemetary outside town.

An 'eme' at the circus.

Sunset at the market.

Relaxing after our library horehog.

Teaching me to make buuz.

Hanging out in the countryside.

Bananagrams with Access.

Phantom during Swine Flu.

Performing Phantom of the Opera.

American Center Open House!

Shakespeare in Book Club.

First snow at the market.

Our environmental rally.

Cooking club.

The finer points of pizza dough.

Such a shiny New Years.

Campfire by the river.

Happy Tsagaan Saar!

Sporting our deels.

Milk tea before her cutting hair.

Hair cutting ceremony.

Pickle Jar. Hah!

Hanging out with friends in Olgii.

View from the 'Swiss Chalet'.

English teacher's seminar in Hovd.

Near the river in Hovd.

Baseball with the Access classes.

And the world thaws.

Treecat!

World Cup at Sunrise.

My friend :-)