When I started this blog entry is was 7:44 am and I was with my friend at the hospital. My friend awoke at 2 am with earth shattering pain in his abdomen. It continued, coupled with vomiting and sleeplessness until he admitted himself into the local hospital. I was relieved when he finally gave in to the idea of going to see a doctor, as I had no idea what to do and was beginning to panic a little. So with the help of my friend's lovely roommate, Batsetseg, who served as translator on this bleary morning, we piled into an SUV and headed to the hospital.
Contrary to what popular opinion might hold, hospitals in Mongolia aren't all that bad. True, it is a poor country wracked with poverty and hunger, but the Soviets left many infrastructural blessings, such as hospitals, that local populations maintain with vigor. The hospital in Hovd is not too warm but clean and friendly nevertheless. It's neither sketchy nor grimy.
When my friend was admitted, he was shown to a wooden bed in the room next to the check-in desk. After a while a doctor entered. Doctors in this country are all female and are paid the same pittance as teachers. The woman who walked in had a round, shining face lined with good-natured wrinkles. She barely cleared my shoulder but walked with great competence. Something tells me she's birthed a lot of babies and let many an ailing patient slip away; she's seen it all. My friend then proceeded to vomit and feeling proudly useful after a morning of medical impotence, I procured a bed pan with lightening quick reflexes. I then washed the contents of the pan down the sink. Unfortunately it turns out that the doctor needed the products of my friend's heaving and tisk-tisked me gently. Oh to be good at medical stuff.
Our little band was shown to a room across the hall where my friend was injected with muscle relaxers and an IV drip. My friend started shivering violently which was most concerning, as he was shifting in and out of consciousness. But the doctor just creased her brow, leaned over him, tucked the blankets in around his body and took up his hand. She used her aged fingers to rub life back into his hands and thus the rest of his body, kneading his palm with her strong thumbs. Watching her do this, I was reminded of a day earlier in my Mongolian life. In October or so the library where I work was in a volleyball competition. Before they discovered that my volleyball skills are seriously limited and deemed that I was of no use on the court, I was made to attend practices. One afternoon, I stood waiting my turn to play watching tipsy men and rotund women in tiny track pants dove aimlessly after stray balls. There is no heat in the gym so I was left chattering my teeth and bouncing to avoid freezing to death on the sidelines. An older woman I'd never seen before nor have seen since was standing next to me and eyed my futile attempt to warm up in her periphery. Without glancing from the game, she took my hand in hers and proceeded to rub it, squeezing and pressing away the cold. Mildly uncomfortable at first, I let myself give in to this gesture and stilled myself. The woman's hands were similar to the doctor's, strong and deeply wrinkled. The kind of hands that are soft to the touch but underneath the velvety skin, incredible strength resides. These hands can no other be but a product of a lifetime carrying water, kneading dough, holding children and chopping wood. They are the hands of the women who have watched Mongolia become what it is today, marking history wrinkle by wrinkle. In her touch my body warmed and my chilly, jittery mind slowed. It was bizarre and wonderful to give over to such motherly intimacy from a stranger. When my masseuse was finished, she dropped my hand from between hers and didn't move. She simply stood there as she had before, watching the practice. I smiled sheepishly and thanked her before jogging onto the court to take my place in front of the volleyball net. She simply smiled.
Sitting in the hospital room I watched the doctor roll my friend's hand between hers and I could feel the way it must have felt, though the doctor had never touched me. I see these woman as having the same hands in a way, they simply do what they can with what they've got and this gesture of giving unites them. My friend's shivering stopped; I think he subconsciously responded to the strong matriarchal grasp just as I had. Shortly after he was asleep.
It turns out that my friend had a rockin' case of food poisoning and within a couple of hours there was color in his face and pep in his step. We left the hospital as the sun peered over the mountains and drove off through sparse coal smoke and bird songs. Now a few days have passed and my friend thankfully is in full commission. Even though that panicked morning is all but a distant memory the strong touch of wrinkled hands echoes in my mind.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Success!
Yesterday I loved being in Mongolia more than I have in a really long time. I felt super productive and useful- like people needed and wanted my help. Like I was a valuable member of Hovd with things to teach and share. Unfortunately it's not often that I feel that way, as many of my students don't feel the need to come to class all the time (due to things like Tsagan Saar and the English Olympics) and the fact that there's not really any heating at my work helps to beat in exhaustion and the effects of various frustrations. But yesterday was huge.
It started early, I had to get up, look presentable, fill gigantic Mongolian thermoses with boiling water, collect the 50 or so cookies I'd cranked out the night before and get to the library sometime around 8. We had the first English Teacher's Workshop starting at 9. Well, kind of at 9. Apparently some of the English teachers had gotten invitations that had said come at 10 to a different location. God only knows why. But after a flurry of cleaning, organizing, signing in and outfitting teachers with appropriate stickers for their discussion groups, the workshop began around 9:30 or so. It started out reasonably well. I have this problem with always feeling like I'm being condescending when speaking slowly to a large group of adults. But beside the initial second guessing, everything flowed smoothly. The workshop was about classroom management. The point was to address a pressing issue with all of the Secondary School English teachers in Hovd. There are so many competitions among teachers (there was even a resource competition recently where basically everyone printed out all their 'resources'-none of which anyone really uses- and put them on a table. The winner wasted the most paper.) but not really any collaborating or conversing. So we, Jake and I along with our counterparts and one of the Directors of the Education Department, set out the change this. We had been discussing this teacher collaboration idea since December and that alone was enough to make me lose all faith in the Democratic process. But finally we settled on a monthly workshop for about a half day and that Classroom Management would be the topic. Jake and I led several sessions with role playing, discussing and solution sharing. An sage old teacher even came in to share her secrets of controlling the youthful masses. (She was the kind of woman a girl wants to be one day- unabashedly sporting her belly under a cashmere sweater and track pants 3 sizes too small, she wore Jackie O shades the entire time and pared them with snakeskin cowboy boots. She was dignified the entire time; the teachers clung to her every word.)
The aforementioned boiling water and cookies were for the tea break half way through the morning. I was in charge of that and after frantically setting everything up, I proudly watched my cookies disappeared like free beer in a frat house. And I swear this is true, women flocked to me asking if I could teach them how to make the heavenly 'cakes' (really just Quaker's Vanishing Oatmeal Raisin Cookies from the bottom of the oat can). So it looks like Cooking Club will get a little bigger next time. Horray!
But the positive feed back didn't end there. After the workshop a teacher I'd never met before came up to me and gushed about how helpful she found everything we had done that day. She excitedly suggested ideas for next month's workshop and while she declined to teach any of the future workshops (as did all the attendees), she expressed great enthusiasm. 'Oh God. This is it,' I thought.' I've reached Volunteer Nirvana. After months of training, struggling, freezing, improvising, floundering, iterating and reiterating, begging and just being confused, I matter here.' The workshop and this woman's words made me feel valuable, needed even. This is a special thing; I've grown used to being ignored by my busy counterpart or condescended by those who see me as inconsequential due to my white skin and poor language skills. I am overly alien to many. Since the earthquake in Haiti, I've been fighting the feeling that more help is needed elsewhere. If I could be digging infants out of collapsed parking decks, why am I sitting around a library? But this woman checked me. She, as a representation of the entire day, reminded me that I am helpful here. There are already people cradling Haitain orphans, perhaps not enough, but there are people there. But there's no one in this little corner of the world to help teachers be better influences and more positive mentors to impressionable young students, students who will one day hold the fate of Mongolia in their hands. Though I wanted to stay and chat with the woman, the room was a mess and plastic tea cups littered the floor. Time for cleaning up.
After a frantic lunch I had a session with my younger class. Unfortunately many of my students are in the English Olympics, a cutthroat competition between the best 9th and 11th grade students from each school to see who can master the bad English tests they are administered. (Bad as in sometimes the questions have no correct answers or sometimes they have many of them. The test also features outdated or nonexistent colloquial phrases the students are expected to know.) In order to prepare, the participating students are excused from all classes for months and study around the clock. If they win, it's a great honor. If they lose, their parents, friends, teachers and school administrators give them shit forever. So my classes have been rather small recently as many students have skipped to study with their school English teachers, not an option for the students. Four children came and after mulling it over for a while, I decided to teach them how to write a good essay. There's an essay portion of the Olympics and while they're never taught how to write an essay, they are expected to anyway. So I set about to teach them. We talked about 3 paragraph essays, essay structure, what will set you apart in terms of content and other valuable ideas. I tried to introduce the concept of an outline and got many a blank stare. But I persevered and by the end of class, the more hopeful students were on their way to mastering the art of the essay. While teaching this class I realized that I really liked teaching writing. Not enough to consider a change in profession, mind you. But it was fun, exhilarating even to see the students light up with the concept and scribble away with their own ideas. One student wrote a 3 paragraph essay on death, another girl wrote about religion. And even though I'll certinly need more writing drills in the future, this class, useful for the students and illuminating for me, was a really great way to top off a very fulfilling day. A day spent loving my rather bizarre job in a far flung corner of the world.
It started early, I had to get up, look presentable, fill gigantic Mongolian thermoses with boiling water, collect the 50 or so cookies I'd cranked out the night before and get to the library sometime around 8. We had the first English Teacher's Workshop starting at 9. Well, kind of at 9. Apparently some of the English teachers had gotten invitations that had said come at 10 to a different location. God only knows why. But after a flurry of cleaning, organizing, signing in and outfitting teachers with appropriate stickers for their discussion groups, the workshop began around 9:30 or so. It started out reasonably well. I have this problem with always feeling like I'm being condescending when speaking slowly to a large group of adults. But beside the initial second guessing, everything flowed smoothly. The workshop was about classroom management. The point was to address a pressing issue with all of the Secondary School English teachers in Hovd. There are so many competitions among teachers (there was even a resource competition recently where basically everyone printed out all their 'resources'-none of which anyone really uses- and put them on a table. The winner wasted the most paper.) but not really any collaborating or conversing. So we, Jake and I along with our counterparts and one of the Directors of the Education Department, set out the change this. We had been discussing this teacher collaboration idea since December and that alone was enough to make me lose all faith in the Democratic process. But finally we settled on a monthly workshop for about a half day and that Classroom Management would be the topic. Jake and I led several sessions with role playing, discussing and solution sharing. An sage old teacher even came in to share her secrets of controlling the youthful masses. (She was the kind of woman a girl wants to be one day- unabashedly sporting her belly under a cashmere sweater and track pants 3 sizes too small, she wore Jackie O shades the entire time and pared them with snakeskin cowboy boots. She was dignified the entire time; the teachers clung to her every word.)
The aforementioned boiling water and cookies were for the tea break half way through the morning. I was in charge of that and after frantically setting everything up, I proudly watched my cookies disappeared like free beer in a frat house. And I swear this is true, women flocked to me asking if I could teach them how to make the heavenly 'cakes' (really just Quaker's Vanishing Oatmeal Raisin Cookies from the bottom of the oat can). So it looks like Cooking Club will get a little bigger next time. Horray!
But the positive feed back didn't end there. After the workshop a teacher I'd never met before came up to me and gushed about how helpful she found everything we had done that day. She excitedly suggested ideas for next month's workshop and while she declined to teach any of the future workshops (as did all the attendees), she expressed great enthusiasm. 'Oh God. This is it,' I thought.' I've reached Volunteer Nirvana. After months of training, struggling, freezing, improvising, floundering, iterating and reiterating, begging and just being confused, I matter here.' The workshop and this woman's words made me feel valuable, needed even. This is a special thing; I've grown used to being ignored by my busy counterpart or condescended by those who see me as inconsequential due to my white skin and poor language skills. I am overly alien to many. Since the earthquake in Haiti, I've been fighting the feeling that more help is needed elsewhere. If I could be digging infants out of collapsed parking decks, why am I sitting around a library? But this woman checked me. She, as a representation of the entire day, reminded me that I am helpful here. There are already people cradling Haitain orphans, perhaps not enough, but there are people there. But there's no one in this little corner of the world to help teachers be better influences and more positive mentors to impressionable young students, students who will one day hold the fate of Mongolia in their hands. Though I wanted to stay and chat with the woman, the room was a mess and plastic tea cups littered the floor. Time for cleaning up.
After a frantic lunch I had a session with my younger class. Unfortunately many of my students are in the English Olympics, a cutthroat competition between the best 9th and 11th grade students from each school to see who can master the bad English tests they are administered. (Bad as in sometimes the questions have no correct answers or sometimes they have many of them. The test also features outdated or nonexistent colloquial phrases the students are expected to know.) In order to prepare, the participating students are excused from all classes for months and study around the clock. If they win, it's a great honor. If they lose, their parents, friends, teachers and school administrators give them shit forever. So my classes have been rather small recently as many students have skipped to study with their school English teachers, not an option for the students. Four children came and after mulling it over for a while, I decided to teach them how to write a good essay. There's an essay portion of the Olympics and while they're never taught how to write an essay, they are expected to anyway. So I set about to teach them. We talked about 3 paragraph essays, essay structure, what will set you apart in terms of content and other valuable ideas. I tried to introduce the concept of an outline and got many a blank stare. But I persevered and by the end of class, the more hopeful students were on their way to mastering the art of the essay. While teaching this class I realized that I really liked teaching writing. Not enough to consider a change in profession, mind you. But it was fun, exhilarating even to see the students light up with the concept and scribble away with their own ideas. One student wrote a 3 paragraph essay on death, another girl wrote about religion. And even though I'll certinly need more writing drills in the future, this class, useful for the students and illuminating for me, was a really great way to top off a very fulfilling day. A day spent loving my rather bizarre job in a far flung corner of the world.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Shout Out
If you want to read a really amazing article by my fellow Hovd-ite, good friend and American Center predecessor, Andy Cullen, now would be a great time. He just went out to the countryside to document the dzud (Mongolian for 'crazy cold winter in which everything dies') and got it published by EurasiaNet.org. Here's the link: http://www.eurasianet.org/departments/civilsociety/articles/eav031010.shtml#. He took the photos and wrote the article, both of which are very illuminating.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
A Conversation with Ms. Fitzgerald
Firstly, I am so sorry for being terrible about posting on the blog. I realize it's been a while since I've written and though I know all God's children are busy- I really am. I'm currently at various stages in the midst of a myriad projects, requests and assignments. At any rate, my older class is graduating tomorrow and my younger class is currently mired in the English Olympics. So soon enough I hope to have more free time.
In the vein of my older class graduating, I have been enjoying doing fun classes with them (or what I consider to be fun). So, for example, we recently spent two days discussing art. I asked the what they think art is, what makes art good or bad and so on. Then I had them debate a Pollock, one team was assigned 'yes! it is art' and the other was 'hell no, spatterpainter!'. We then moved to Picasso and I had them try and decipher 'Guernica'. We talked about what it might mean and what Picasso was trying to say. They were surprisingly good at panting analysis; I had planned on 15 minutes, they gushed over the painting for 45. The next day we did a wrap up with the history of Picasso's epic work and a little more discussion. Today my idea of fun was a lesson on jazz and blues, the differences between the generas and the history therein. (I knew my stint at a liberal arts college would come in handy some day! In one week I successfully tapped into mental residue from both Art History 101 and History of Jazz.) My students knew precious little about the topic at hand which was neat because that meant I was exposing them to something completely new and different. First we talked about music, what they like and know and what they don't. Then I doled out copies of lyrics from Summertime, a ballad from Porgy and Bess, as covered and remade as it is sublime. We listened to Billie Holiday's distinctly jazzy, saxy version of the song, then switched to Ella Fitzgerald's slow, mournful cover. The kids weren't hugely impressed with the songs- they chuckled at Billie's high pitched voice, all cracked and retro and seemed to be lulled into a collective coma by Ella's thick song. But the class was ultimately successful. In the end I played Kanye West's recent hit "Golddigger" and Amy Winehouse's chart topper "Rehab" to prove that blues and jazz are still pretty darn sweet today. Overall they really latched onto the concepts and seemed excited by the whole lesson. Score.
Teaching the song 'Summertime' really gave me pause. It's followed me through my life with dogged persistence and had grown near and dear to my heart. It reminds me of my childhood, especially Ella's slow, sweet version. The low notes and soft words take me back to hot nights in Atlanta. Nights with humidity so bad you could cut it with a knife. My mind clouded with summer evenings when cicadas sang in my backyard and fireflys illuminated the firmament. For a moment, while teaching, all of this rolled over me and I stood there, dazed. I heard my freinds calling to me from next door, felt the swing in my hands, breathed the basil, charcoal and honeysuckle in the air, felt the weight of the heat. In the context of Ella and this melodious lullaby it seemed so strange to live in this cold desert place, a place devoid of Southern hospitality, oak trees, big hair or even sweet tea. These days my skin is caked with dust and smells of trash fires instead of being heavy with sweet sweat born of the South's oppressive moisture. My hands are always cold now and even though it's March, warmth is still a stranger. It seems ludicrous to think, with Ella's voice caressing the air around me, that I would ever dream of leaving place the place that I came from. A place where the fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high, a place where nothing can harm you. If you were born from sticky nights and loving arms, why would you leave? But then again, as Ella poses the questions, she ever so slowly croons the answer: you must spread your wings and take to the sky.
In the vein of my older class graduating, I have been enjoying doing fun classes with them (or what I consider to be fun). So, for example, we recently spent two days discussing art. I asked the what they think art is, what makes art good or bad and so on. Then I had them debate a Pollock, one team was assigned 'yes! it is art' and the other was 'hell no, spatterpainter!'. We then moved to Picasso and I had them try and decipher 'Guernica'. We talked about what it might mean and what Picasso was trying to say. They were surprisingly good at panting analysis; I had planned on 15 minutes, they gushed over the painting for 45. The next day we did a wrap up with the history of Picasso's epic work and a little more discussion. Today my idea of fun was a lesson on jazz and blues, the differences between the generas and the history therein. (I knew my stint at a liberal arts college would come in handy some day! In one week I successfully tapped into mental residue from both Art History 101 and History of Jazz.) My students knew precious little about the topic at hand which was neat because that meant I was exposing them to something completely new and different. First we talked about music, what they like and know and what they don't. Then I doled out copies of lyrics from Summertime, a ballad from Porgy and Bess, as covered and remade as it is sublime. We listened to Billie Holiday's distinctly jazzy, saxy version of the song, then switched to Ella Fitzgerald's slow, mournful cover. The kids weren't hugely impressed with the songs- they chuckled at Billie's high pitched voice, all cracked and retro and seemed to be lulled into a collective coma by Ella's thick song. But the class was ultimately successful. In the end I played Kanye West's recent hit "Golddigger" and Amy Winehouse's chart topper "Rehab" to prove that blues and jazz are still pretty darn sweet today. Overall they really latched onto the concepts and seemed excited by the whole lesson. Score.
Teaching the song 'Summertime' really gave me pause. It's followed me through my life with dogged persistence and had grown near and dear to my heart. It reminds me of my childhood, especially Ella's slow, sweet version. The low notes and soft words take me back to hot nights in Atlanta. Nights with humidity so bad you could cut it with a knife. My mind clouded with summer evenings when cicadas sang in my backyard and fireflys illuminated the firmament. For a moment, while teaching, all of this rolled over me and I stood there, dazed. I heard my freinds calling to me from next door, felt the swing in my hands, breathed the basil, charcoal and honeysuckle in the air, felt the weight of the heat. In the context of Ella and this melodious lullaby it seemed so strange to live in this cold desert place, a place devoid of Southern hospitality, oak trees, big hair or even sweet tea. These days my skin is caked with dust and smells of trash fires instead of being heavy with sweet sweat born of the South's oppressive moisture. My hands are always cold now and even though it's March, warmth is still a stranger. It seems ludicrous to think, with Ella's voice caressing the air around me, that I would ever dream of leaving place the place that I came from. A place where the fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high, a place where nothing can harm you. If you were born from sticky nights and loving arms, why would you leave? But then again, as Ella poses the questions, she ever so slowly croons the answer: you must spread your wings and take to the sky.
Friday, February 26, 2010
My Birthday...Or, Sometimes You're the Pegion, Sometimes You're the Statue- But Always Blessed
I recently began a long and detailed entry about my recent 23ed birthday but then decided to re-nig. It was heading down the path of swan song and the only thing that seemed to be lacking was a violin. So here are the basic events of the day: the good, the bad and the ugly. And then some reflections.
I try so hard to be optimistic but realized that sometimes things just don't go your way. Until this last one, my birthdays have always been marked by amazing parties with themes like Flappers and Gangsters and Graffiti (think black lights and lots of sharpie markers). My college apartments were thronged with friends all vibing and pulsing to the music. This year was a stark contrast to the birthdays past, I suppose. I've always been the pigeon, this year I suppose I was just going to have to settle for the statue. I don't need presents or parties necessarily, that's not my point here at all. But just feeling special when you are in such a strange environment, having a day that people notice you and thank you, is what I had been hoping for. I don't want to come off spoiled; I was just hoping for a special day.
However, about a week after my birthday, I got a call from the woman at the Post Office. Forever infernally grumpy, she demanded that I come to retrieve my packages. I arrived to find two packages waiting for me- one from my cousin Linda in San Fransisco and one from my parents. I toted them home and lo and behold there were the kindest things. My parents had collected birthday cards from family members and family friends all wishing me luck and love in my next year. As I opened the cards one by one, I felt a circle of people forming around me. I saw the kind, proud faces of my grandparents, the toothless grins of my little next door neighbors, felt the plump and comfortable arms of family friends. I knew then that most loving birthday in the world had just been delivered in a box. My parents had also sent an amazing assortment of new clothes and luxury food items. Unwrapping the presents slowly, I felt like I was back at home again, sharing a birthday dinner with my parents and sister just like I had for years until I went away to school. Birthdays in which I was made to feel infinitely special. The box from Linda was also spectacular. (I am currently munching on the delightful English Toffee she sent me.) The contents of the package are truly wonderful but what touched me the most was that she had taken the time and energy to lovingly put it together. It was the same with my Aunt and Uncle and my Godmother; I recalled the birthday packages from them I had received earlier. They had put what I would consider substantial effort into a package then sent it out into the world with a prayer that it would reach Hovd. All that just for me; it was baffling. I sat surrounded by wrapping paper and envelopes; I was alone but at the same time not alone with the love and well wishing of my friends and family around me.
Recently I have befriend the local missionarys. We have never talked about religion but they're about my age so we have plenty to chat about when we see each other in passing. They are leaving the country soon due to visa issues and I asked them if they were sad. One girl piped up and said that she just feels blessed to be here for now. That stuck with me, that idea of blessed. I've never been religious and it would even be a stretch to call me spiritual. But I'd been pondering this "blessed" since in popped up in January. And then it came to me, this is what it was to be truly blessed. To have a circle of people care for you this much and support you so unconditionally is to be blessed. I know Mona will be alright and I will graft a life around her absence. The children will grow hair again and come to terms with the events of their youth. I will have more birthdays in years to come. But to have people who care about you this much, people who care enough to tell you how much they love you and how proud they are of you, that is lasting, that is blessed.
- Woke up at 8am to go to the library for the fourth day of Tsagan Sar-ing and a Hair Cutting Ceremony. Arrived at the library (in deel) at 8:30 (why, Baby Jesus, why?!) to Russian chocolate and vodka shots. (Note to self: grain alcohol is NEVER an acceptable replacement for a soy chi latte. Ever.)
- Went to visit a ger with about 15 people from the library. Was served vodka by a 4 year-old girl who was being cheered on by her mother and grandfather. When said child put her head in her hands and started to plead with her parents to stop serving vodka, the entire ger population of approx. 20 started yelling at her. She then picked her young self up and finished serving shots. I took a polite sip of my shot (see: 9am!!) and handed it back to the youngster, she then shook her head and motioned with her little hand, palm upward, that I drink down the glass. Shocked by her gesture and implication, I did so and then heard the girl's mother tell the girl what a good job I had done. Lordy, this day isn't starting well. Also, in the same ger watched a grandfather grab the arm of his 12 year-old grandson way too hard in front of everyone. Then observed how the boy tried to be brave and hold back his tears of pain and shame. Serious thoughts about childhood and culture ensued.
- Went across the street to the Children's Library where we all ate and drank more. Highlight: a Mongolian friend calling to say Happy Birthday.
- At about noon, it was time to migrate to the Hair Cutting Ceremony. However, somehow our group, which started out at about 15, dwindled as people wandered off en route. Finally I was left walking arm-in-arm with two strange women, baffled as to where everyone else went. Cest' la Mongolia.
- After 30 minutes everyone appeared at the appropriate apartment and the Hair Cutting Ceremony began complete with more food and vodka. Each person, starting with the elders, fed the three-year-old girl milk tea, drank some themselves, dipped their finger into the tea, smeared a little tea on the child's head, gave the child 2,000 tugrigs, cut a piece off of her hair and put the clipping into a little bag. The little girl, amazingly well behaved, circulated around the group until she had a haircut that looked like some hipsters I know. She only once tried to make a run for it and didn't cry at all. It was really a nice ceremony despite a man in attendance who groped every breast in range. Everyone was kind to the girl and there was a sort of reverence in the air.
- After the Hair Cutting Ceremony, I put on my coat thinking I'd head home. I hoped to be back with my friend hours ago. But no- time to visit my counterpart's apartment for more buuz and vodka. However, no sooner had I sat down on the couch and intercepted my 4th potato salad of the day, my phone rang. It was Mona, my best friend in Mongolia; she's my partner in crime and site mate extraordinaire. She was in the capitol letting her lungs recuperate from bronchitis. But it wasn't birthday love she wanted to share, rather the fact that she had been medically separated from Peace Corps. Mona was being sent strait home; do not pass go, do not collect 200$. I wouldn't see her again. She was crying and I immediately dissolved into tears, as well. We were each others rock. I didn't know what I would do without her. We were going to have a mock engagement party in the spring we were so inseparable. We had planned projects and conducted cooking club together. We had laughed and cried together; watched countless episodes of Sex in the City and talked about absolutely everything. After the brief phone call, my counterpart found me in her room, my eyes red with tears. She hugged me and told me that at least Mona wasn't dead. I then excused myself and stumbled off sniffling to my friends apartment for a nap.
- After I reached my friend's apartment, I managed to blurt out the news before slipping into a snotty, vodka induced slumber as my friend rubbed my back and told me it would be alright.
- Upon waking, I realized a couple things. 1. I had a rocking hangover. 2. I needed to go help my site mate Kat and our Peace Corps friend visiting from a nearby town, Laura pack up Mona's apartment.
- I went to Mona's where all of her things had been put into boxes and bags. Kat, her boyfriend Andy and Laura had almost finished the packing process. We left after the packing was done; I didn't really want to spend too much time lingering in the empty apartment which until recently been a place of such joy.
- Laura and I then went to the market to pick up some things for my birthday dinner. That night we feasted on curry, spiced chickpeas and a Boston Cream Pie that looked like a Dr. Seuss creation but was tremendously delicious. My birthday dinner was small albeit tasty. I appreciated endlessly Kat, Andy and Laura's efforts at a phenomenal feast; it really was wonderful. But my friend from the nap had been sick for a few days thus couldn't come and two of my other site mates were recovering from morning benders with their co-workers and were too drunk or hungover to bother to come. Without Mona and the rest we had fun but the gaps in attendance made me pretty sad after a strange and tough day. So four Americans and one Mongolian sat around Kat's table and celebrated the beginning of my 23ed year.
I try so hard to be optimistic but realized that sometimes things just don't go your way. Until this last one, my birthdays have always been marked by amazing parties with themes like Flappers and Gangsters and Graffiti (think black lights and lots of sharpie markers). My college apartments were thronged with friends all vibing and pulsing to the music. This year was a stark contrast to the birthdays past, I suppose. I've always been the pigeon, this year I suppose I was just going to have to settle for the statue. I don't need presents or parties necessarily, that's not my point here at all. But just feeling special when you are in such a strange environment, having a day that people notice you and thank you, is what I had been hoping for. I don't want to come off spoiled; I was just hoping for a special day.
However, about a week after my birthday, I got a call from the woman at the Post Office. Forever infernally grumpy, she demanded that I come to retrieve my packages. I arrived to find two packages waiting for me- one from my cousin Linda in San Fransisco and one from my parents. I toted them home and lo and behold there were the kindest things. My parents had collected birthday cards from family members and family friends all wishing me luck and love in my next year. As I opened the cards one by one, I felt a circle of people forming around me. I saw the kind, proud faces of my grandparents, the toothless grins of my little next door neighbors, felt the plump and comfortable arms of family friends. I knew then that most loving birthday in the world had just been delivered in a box. My parents had also sent an amazing assortment of new clothes and luxury food items. Unwrapping the presents slowly, I felt like I was back at home again, sharing a birthday dinner with my parents and sister just like I had for years until I went away to school. Birthdays in which I was made to feel infinitely special. The box from Linda was also spectacular. (I am currently munching on the delightful English Toffee she sent me.) The contents of the package are truly wonderful but what touched me the most was that she had taken the time and energy to lovingly put it together. It was the same with my Aunt and Uncle and my Godmother; I recalled the birthday packages from them I had received earlier. They had put what I would consider substantial effort into a package then sent it out into the world with a prayer that it would reach Hovd. All that just for me; it was baffling. I sat surrounded by wrapping paper and envelopes; I was alone but at the same time not alone with the love and well wishing of my friends and family around me.
Recently I have befriend the local missionarys. We have never talked about religion but they're about my age so we have plenty to chat about when we see each other in passing. They are leaving the country soon due to visa issues and I asked them if they were sad. One girl piped up and said that she just feels blessed to be here for now. That stuck with me, that idea of blessed. I've never been religious and it would even be a stretch to call me spiritual. But I'd been pondering this "blessed" since in popped up in January. And then it came to me, this is what it was to be truly blessed. To have a circle of people care for you this much and support you so unconditionally is to be blessed. I know Mona will be alright and I will graft a life around her absence. The children will grow hair again and come to terms with the events of their youth. I will have more birthdays in years to come. But to have people who care about you this much, people who care enough to tell you how much they love you and how proud they are of you, that is lasting, that is blessed.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Smiles and Sighs
So for a couple of things that have been happening around here...Firstly, it's pretty darn cold. It really only inconveniences me, as I have to put on literally 10-11 layers before leaving the house every day (really- I counted them). But unfortunately, the herders in the countryside have had a much harder time of it. Apparently this has been the coldest winter in Mongolia for 40 years and over a million livestock has died already. Mongolia's economy revolves around meat and dairy products so this sucks for everyone- from the herders in the remotest corners watching their livelihood slowly starve to people like my counterpart's mother who owns a yogurt factory in town. Some schools have been collecting goods to donate to the herders and their families- I hope it will be enough. Strangely, they don't really like accepting clothes as donations, even though I am sure they would be useful. Mongolians believe that the original owner's spirit inhabits the clothes forever. That goes a long way to explain the clothes littering the ground on the streets.
In other news, I had Martin Luther King, Jr. day with my kids recently and it went beautifully. My mom had sent me a wonderful book with stunning paintings and real photos of the Civil Rights Movement. In easy terms, it outlines the basics of segregation and prejudice in the South in addition to describing the March on Washington and expounding on King's character. The kids went around in a circle reading to each other and showcasing the illustrations. We talked about racism and hate. The students grasped the concepts with sharp, open minds that day and the discussion, while limited by halting English, was nevertheless fascinating. My heart fairly burst at one point when I asked the class (this happened twice!) where racism came from and both times I heard students chirped back 'parents!'. And when the book showed a photograph of a 'whites only' water fountain (which looked like a porcelain bathtub) next to the 'blacks only' one (a dirty bucket of sorts) they gasped and said in Mongolian: how ugly is that!. We then went on to hear an excerpt of the "I Have a Dream" speech; the students listened as they followed along with the words on handouts. Then we talked about what made an effective speaker, what it is to have a dream and how brave King and his followers had been. Just before the kids left, I played a recent hip hop song by Common feat. Will.i.am. that samples Kings speech heavily. They loved it. It was one of the most rewarding days I've had thus far. I really felt like they learned about both English and life and, most importantly, stretched their minds a little.
Next came the weekend. A mostly lazy affair, I did lots of work on my AIDS project and hung out with friends. But Saturday was cooking club. People arrived late, perhaps hoping to show up to a hot meal all ready instead of two Americans in need of onion choppers. Although I think the tardiness is more due to the fact that they were busy. We made onion rings, which were devoured with real gusto, and hamburgers, which did not go over as well as had been expected as Mongolian food is devoid of any sort of sandwich. Even after Mona had instructed them on the finer points of hamburger assembly, I walked into the living room to find people eating a potpourri of burger sculptures. One woman was nibbling on a naked burger atop a piece of bread with three pickle slices daintily arranged at the other end of the bread. Despite the confusion they seemed to like the food and although it wasn't the rousing success of last time (mostly, I think, due to the foreign fare) they all vowed to come back next time and begged for a cake demonstration. So possibly stir-fry or chili with cornbread next week and definitely a cake. In other club news, I flew solo for the first time during my advanced English book club. My partner was sick so that left me, Shakespeare, a giant Thermos of tea and six Mongolians thirsting to learn. It went over pretty well; people are beginning to open up during class and have caught onto the flow (or lack thereof) of stopping to discuss and ask questions every couple of pages. We even got into sacrifice in marriage, teenage libido, young motherhood and the different experiences of women due to socio-economic standing. It felt good to engage people on that level; I have felt rather useless as a graduate in literary studies with no literature discussion outlet. I also got some really great feedback and the class attendance is finally rising after a recent push to publicize our group. Hopefully these clubs are something I can continue for a long time to come.
The other night I stumbled upon something rather unexpected: America. I was feeling a wee bit lazy and very broke so I decided to make mashed potatoes to take to my friend Jake's little get-together on Saturday night. With the help of whole milk, butter, garlic, onions and a little nutmeg, the potatoes were fabulous. But stopping in a grungy, local delguur (the name for the corner stores that populate the country in mass amounts) for potatoes, I happened to look over at the t.v. in the corner of the store blaring Mongolian commercials for beer and bread (the only thing available now...I went to 4 delguurs looking for something green yesterday and all I came up with was canned peas and pickles). But after I had paid for my 'taters and was on my way out, passing the t.v. as I went, a program sprang to life on the screen that took me aback. It was a baseball game. I hadn't seen one in months. Immediately, all the baseball games of my life flashed before my eyes: going to see the Braves with my father as a kid, watching the Marlins beat the Braves the day my house burned down, sitting in the nosebleeds with boyfriends, taking refugees for their first taste of the American past time and most recently going with friends just before coming to Mongolia. I was immediately reminded of the lights and humidity, the bugs and smells, and the sounds and songs of games past. The t.v. crew even got a mug shot of a true-blue American baseball player gnawing away, open mouthed, on a piece of bubble gum. I hadn't seen anyone who looks truly American (Peace Corps Volunteers don't count- we don't shower enough to look American) in months. I had forgotten what it meant to look American, how clean and polished even the dirtiest of Americans look. Then the announcer informed the crowd that Jay-Z and Alicia Keys would be performing their latest hit single. My heart skipped a beat. It's my favorite song right now! As the pop stars began bouncing to the beat, I stood, transfixed. The song is "Empire State of Mind" and it's about New York City. "My home!" I said in Mongolian to a woman about my age who was glued to the t.v. as well, taking a respite from scrubbing the floor. She smiled and nodded politely. I don't think she can imagine being in a place like New York. Images of the Big Apple flashed across the screen and Key's voice dripped honey as she crooned about a city that holds so many wonderful memories for me. I stood there, frozen among the dirty carrots and dusty onions, the Russian cookies and Mongolian vodka, unable to take my eyes off of a city I could only see though a tiny window. On the screen I saw places I had been in a former life, places in a city far out of my reach. Memories of apartments, delis, parties, streets and parks from my time in the City rolled around my mind. It wasn't homesickness or even nostalgia that I felt in the delguur that night, but merely a recognition of things not-too-long past and hopeful things to be. I'd like to move to New York after the Peace Corps; the video tossed my mind back and forth, from the past to the future. Ultimately it reminded me that sometimes, if you are to reach your goal, you must walk away from it first. Before the song had ended, I picked up my 2 kilos of tubers, smiled, sighed and walked out into the cold.
In other news, I had Martin Luther King, Jr. day with my kids recently and it went beautifully. My mom had sent me a wonderful book with stunning paintings and real photos of the Civil Rights Movement. In easy terms, it outlines the basics of segregation and prejudice in the South in addition to describing the March on Washington and expounding on King's character. The kids went around in a circle reading to each other and showcasing the illustrations. We talked about racism and hate. The students grasped the concepts with sharp, open minds that day and the discussion, while limited by halting English, was nevertheless fascinating. My heart fairly burst at one point when I asked the class (this happened twice!) where racism came from and both times I heard students chirped back 'parents!'. And when the book showed a photograph of a 'whites only' water fountain (which looked like a porcelain bathtub) next to the 'blacks only' one (a dirty bucket of sorts) they gasped and said in Mongolian: how ugly is that!. We then went on to hear an excerpt of the "I Have a Dream" speech; the students listened as they followed along with the words on handouts. Then we talked about what made an effective speaker, what it is to have a dream and how brave King and his followers had been. Just before the kids left, I played a recent hip hop song by Common feat. Will.i.am. that samples Kings speech heavily. They loved it. It was one of the most rewarding days I've had thus far. I really felt like they learned about both English and life and, most importantly, stretched their minds a little.
Next came the weekend. A mostly lazy affair, I did lots of work on my AIDS project and hung out with friends. But Saturday was cooking club. People arrived late, perhaps hoping to show up to a hot meal all ready instead of two Americans in need of onion choppers. Although I think the tardiness is more due to the fact that they were busy. We made onion rings, which were devoured with real gusto, and hamburgers, which did not go over as well as had been expected as Mongolian food is devoid of any sort of sandwich. Even after Mona had instructed them on the finer points of hamburger assembly, I walked into the living room to find people eating a potpourri of burger sculptures. One woman was nibbling on a naked burger atop a piece of bread with three pickle slices daintily arranged at the other end of the bread. Despite the confusion they seemed to like the food and although it wasn't the rousing success of last time (mostly, I think, due to the foreign fare) they all vowed to come back next time and begged for a cake demonstration. So possibly stir-fry or chili with cornbread next week and definitely a cake. In other club news, I flew solo for the first time during my advanced English book club. My partner was sick so that left me, Shakespeare, a giant Thermos of tea and six Mongolians thirsting to learn. It went over pretty well; people are beginning to open up during class and have caught onto the flow (or lack thereof) of stopping to discuss and ask questions every couple of pages. We even got into sacrifice in marriage, teenage libido, young motherhood and the different experiences of women due to socio-economic standing. It felt good to engage people on that level; I have felt rather useless as a graduate in literary studies with no literature discussion outlet. I also got some really great feedback and the class attendance is finally rising after a recent push to publicize our group. Hopefully these clubs are something I can continue for a long time to come.
The other night I stumbled upon something rather unexpected: America. I was feeling a wee bit lazy and very broke so I decided to make mashed potatoes to take to my friend Jake's little get-together on Saturday night. With the help of whole milk, butter, garlic, onions and a little nutmeg, the potatoes were fabulous. But stopping in a grungy, local delguur (the name for the corner stores that populate the country in mass amounts) for potatoes, I happened to look over at the t.v. in the corner of the store blaring Mongolian commercials for beer and bread (the only thing available now...I went to 4 delguurs looking for something green yesterday and all I came up with was canned peas and pickles). But after I had paid for my 'taters and was on my way out, passing the t.v. as I went, a program sprang to life on the screen that took me aback. It was a baseball game. I hadn't seen one in months. Immediately, all the baseball games of my life flashed before my eyes: going to see the Braves with my father as a kid, watching the Marlins beat the Braves the day my house burned down, sitting in the nosebleeds with boyfriends, taking refugees for their first taste of the American past time and most recently going with friends just before coming to Mongolia. I was immediately reminded of the lights and humidity, the bugs and smells, and the sounds and songs of games past. The t.v. crew even got a mug shot of a true-blue American baseball player gnawing away, open mouthed, on a piece of bubble gum. I hadn't seen anyone who looks truly American (Peace Corps Volunteers don't count- we don't shower enough to look American) in months. I had forgotten what it meant to look American, how clean and polished even the dirtiest of Americans look. Then the announcer informed the crowd that Jay-Z and Alicia Keys would be performing their latest hit single. My heart skipped a beat. It's my favorite song right now! As the pop stars began bouncing to the beat, I stood, transfixed. The song is "Empire State of Mind" and it's about New York City. "My home!" I said in Mongolian to a woman about my age who was glued to the t.v. as well, taking a respite from scrubbing the floor. She smiled and nodded politely. I don't think she can imagine being in a place like New York. Images of the Big Apple flashed across the screen and Key's voice dripped honey as she crooned about a city that holds so many wonderful memories for me. I stood there, frozen among the dirty carrots and dusty onions, the Russian cookies and Mongolian vodka, unable to take my eyes off of a city I could only see though a tiny window. On the screen I saw places I had been in a former life, places in a city far out of my reach. Memories of apartments, delis, parties, streets and parks from my time in the City rolled around my mind. It wasn't homesickness or even nostalgia that I felt in the delguur that night, but merely a recognition of things not-too-long past and hopeful things to be. I'd like to move to New York after the Peace Corps; the video tossed my mind back and forth, from the past to the future. Ultimately it reminded me that sometimes, if you are to reach your goal, you must walk away from it first. Before the song had ended, I picked up my 2 kilos of tubers, smiled, sighed and walked out into the cold.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Training!
Finally! A post about Peace Corps training. Hopefully to be quickly followed by a low-down on the wonderful Christmas in UB.
It was an early morning on Sunday; early as in about 6am (the you-know-what crack of dawn as far as I'm concerned). However, I managed to snag some extra sleep as the plane was delayed so we didn't leave for the airport until 8. Still bleary-eyed, I found it in myself to drag my backpack down to the car and into the airport dispute these two heaven-sent hours. After locating the other Volunteers (not difficult considering the size of our local airport) we holed up in the local guanz, which is like a Mongolian cafe, sort of. There we got to spend some time chatting with Tuya, the charming and hilarious francophone from the previous entry about our cooking club, nursing tea and instant coffee until it was time to leave. The plane flight was lovely. Mona and I read the Glamour magazine that my parents had sent and gave Jake (another PCV from Hovd) a hard time about being too tall for the bathroom for about 15 minutes. Mona and I cackled so loudly at the magazine that we noticed after 30 minutes that everyone within a 3 seat range had found a new spot on the plane. Oops. I know it was sad that that our remote location had made it impossible for us to have Thanksgiving with our friends in UB and being so far it is difficult to bond with other Volunteers, but the entire air traffic time I was filled with gratitude at being at a fly site. Many people have to sit on a bus, sometimes next to rowdy, vodka saturated men, experiencing frequent break downs and a host of other delays, for up to 20 hours to get to the capitol. For us it was just a quick hour and a half ordeal with fresh coffee accompanied by a soothing "whirr" of the propellers powering the plane. It was so nice to just sit back, close my eyes and feel the vibrations against my back, knowing that we have possibly one of the easiest commutes in Peace Corps Mongolia. The planes flies low to the ground so it's easy to see the sweeping stretches of frozen tundra and the enormous mountains folded like napkins from the little plane window.
After we landed, it was a blur of cramped taxi rides, seeing too many people in not enough time at the Peace Corps office then off to find Mona a coat at the huge Sunday market. We chose the Sunday market and not the normal black market, as the latter is outside and the weather was literally freezing. The market was nothing spectacular- just stores like cubbies in the wall piled high with clothes of all sorts and some atrocious New Years dresses. Then came the really great part of the day. Mona and I took ourselves to a place simply called Charming which we heard had really great at haircuts for relatively cheap. When we got there (after a rather frustrating taxi ride) we found an immaculate spa-salon not fit for the likes of us dirty hoodo travelers. Nevertheless we booked the next available appointments and headed to the Irish pub/Western restaurant and bar downstairs. Sinking onto bar stools, Mona ordered a glass of red wine and I got a ridiculous cocktail (with real fruit!!) in addition to splitting a salad (with cheese and tomatoes!!) and nachos (nachos!?!). The familiar atmosphere of the restaurant acted like a tonic, even though neither of us had ever been there before, and added to the food and drinks, we quickly relaxed after the hectic day. It's amazing how simple things like bottles of Tabasco scattered across the bar, mahogany tables and waiters in uniforms make one feel at home even after being away for so long. Finally it was time to abandon our padded(!) stools and head up for our haircuts. I truly felt like Cinderella. I had a hair wash with warm water and the stylist did an excellent job shaping a bob of sorts. I emerged from behind the partition of mirrors no longer dirty and scraggly-banged but polished and fresh feeling. It was both literally and figuratively a weight off; not only to feel that pretty again but also be shorne after all the months of hair growth. We then raced over to the Peace Corps Office, grabbed our stuff then I dashed to an Indian restaurant where I met lots of other friends I hadn't seen in months. It was wonderful to chat with everyone- we all sat at a table so long that it stretched the length of the entire restaurant. Abuzz with conversation and quips, we dined on exotic things like chickpeas and eggplant for the first time since boarding the plane to Asia. After we had our fill of naan and finished stories of sheep, gers and students, the party dispersed and I grabbed another taxi to my friend Cassandra's apartment. Her apartment is amazing! It's like discovering Mongolia's secret Ikea branch. I suppose that's what you get when you live in UB. It was so wonderful to see her! Wine and conversation flowed freely as we chatted late into the night about absolutely everything. She is definitely one of the people I wish I were better friends with but as she is so far away, it is difficult to maintain a close relationship. It is always wonderful to reconnect though and we thoroughly enjoyed the evening.
It was another early morning, as I had to board the bus at the Peace Corps office at some ungodly hour like 8. Somehow with 44 PCV's and 44 counterparts, my counterpart was the only one who almost missed the bus. We had to pick her up on her way out of town she was so lost, even though she told me she knew just where the Peace Corps office was the day before. Anyway, we got to the resort just out of town and it was beautiful. Submerged in snowy mountains and surrounded by birch trees, it was warmer than any building I'd ever been in to in Hovd and I resolved not to go outside until either a fire or the end of training forced me. Sadly, the exotic fare from the night before had caught up to me and had evolved into exotic nausea. So unfortunately I had to spend much of my first day of training in bed or hugging the (Western!) toilet due to a mild case of food poisoning. That night I had a bunch of my friends to the room that Mona and I were sharing and we had an all out girls night. We watched the classic "Diary of a Mad Black Woman", collectively laughing and 'ummhmmm'ing at the cute boys and villainous ex-husband. My Glamour magazine must have changed hands at least six times that night, too. I don't think any single issue of that magazine has been so well reused or gushed over. We giggled into the wee hours until every dispersed, thinking of the training that the early morning would bring.
Luckily by the next morning, my sickness had passed. It turned out to be a rather enlightening day. I learned that in many schools, the teachers salary gets docked if their students are caught drinking or behaving badly outside of school. The police contact the child's school Director who then lays into the child's Home Room Teacher because they think it is her fault. Also, I discovered that I live in probably the only country where people ask Americans if the term Morning Wood means making a fire when you wake up...That night we had something of a little party which consisted of a handful of PCV's and what seemed like half the of Mongolian and Kazakh counterparts. It was in the room Mona and I shared and within a matter of hours about 2 liters of vodka disappeared, a whole horse worth of horse sausage had been eaten (a Kazakh counterpart had brought it all the way from Bayan Olgii) and an opera's worth of Mongolian songs were sung. I didn't take part in the former two endeavors due to my shaky stomach but it was nice to see my counterpart socializing and host a slew of Mongolian and Kazakh women who just wanted to have a good time. Unfortunately, I made it to the lobby just in time to see my site mate, Tyler, mess his knee up horribly as he wrestled another PCV. He's currently in Thailand getting medical attention, unsure if he and his wife will be able to continue their service in Hovd or will be forced to go home for treatment. So it was a breath of fresh air making new friends for some but a horrible night for others.
Wednesday was also a very productive day of training. My counterpart and I collaborated with Jake and Mona and their respective counterparts in addition to Tyler's lone counterpart on a sort of Hovd Teacher's Club, the purpose being that teachers at different schools could share ideas and resources. There are so many local competitions between teachers that there is really only hording of teaching materials and a huge lack of conversation about teaching methods or anything else. No one is willing to share ideas and supplies because winning a local competition is such a great honor. A teacher at Mona's school is in an upcoming competition and she swears that each of the other English teachers at the school have put in about 25 hours on this one lesson in order to outshine other school's English teachers with a PowerPoint presentation. So our counterparts decided it was past time for the teachers to collaborate between and within the schools. We settled on having a committee of one teacher from each school and to perhaps hold a seminar in March or April for Hovd English teachers. Later on we want to invite teachers from the whole of Hovd aimag to participate. It's still in the works now and I hope that this project sees itself to fruition one day.
That night I got a text message saying that I should go down to the resort's sauna. There I met up with a few of my friends and we spent several hours sweating, chatting and laughing. The latter hour was pretty much dominated by a conversation I got into with the girls about Shakespeare in text and performance and how Geoffry Chaucer figures into literary history including his similarities and differences with Shakespeare. Our group consisted on two boys and three girls. During the conversation about Early Modern Literature, the boys just sat there, literally stunned in shock and awe that we could carry on a heated and well-informed conversation about such a topic. Needless to say, they were rather impressed and even taken aback. From there the night descended into debauchery and fun was had by all.
Friday was the final full day of training. We worked more on the Teacher's Club, arguing logistics and grafting a list of short term tasks in addition to discussing long term goals and objectives. We discovered that having so many people give input, factoring in the cultural differences, in addition to trying to summit such a huge project can be something of a challenge. The project moved steadily albeit slowly for much of the day. That night there was a talent show and dance party. Throughout all of training, I found myself getting to know many PCV's better and Friday night was no exception. It's really nice to build new relationships even after being here for such a long time already.
The next day at noon we all boarded the bus and took the short ride into the city. We were dropped off at the Peace Corps office where I was the lucky recipient of 4 different vaccines at once and met up with my friend Laura. There I will leave you for now, as my Christmas adventures with Laura, Ashley, Deborah, Alana and others I will save for another (forthcoming) blog post.
It was an early morning on Sunday; early as in about 6am (the you-know-what crack of dawn as far as I'm concerned). However, I managed to snag some extra sleep as the plane was delayed so we didn't leave for the airport until 8. Still bleary-eyed, I found it in myself to drag my backpack down to the car and into the airport dispute these two heaven-sent hours. After locating the other Volunteers (not difficult considering the size of our local airport) we holed up in the local guanz, which is like a Mongolian cafe, sort of. There we got to spend some time chatting with Tuya, the charming and hilarious francophone from the previous entry about our cooking club, nursing tea and instant coffee until it was time to leave. The plane flight was lovely. Mona and I read the Glamour magazine that my parents had sent and gave Jake (another PCV from Hovd) a hard time about being too tall for the bathroom for about 15 minutes. Mona and I cackled so loudly at the magazine that we noticed after 30 minutes that everyone within a 3 seat range had found a new spot on the plane. Oops. I know it was sad that that our remote location had made it impossible for us to have Thanksgiving with our friends in UB and being so far it is difficult to bond with other Volunteers, but the entire air traffic time I was filled with gratitude at being at a fly site. Many people have to sit on a bus, sometimes next to rowdy, vodka saturated men, experiencing frequent break downs and a host of other delays, for up to 20 hours to get to the capitol. For us it was just a quick hour and a half ordeal with fresh coffee accompanied by a soothing "whirr" of the propellers powering the plane. It was so nice to just sit back, close my eyes and feel the vibrations against my back, knowing that we have possibly one of the easiest commutes in Peace Corps Mongolia. The planes flies low to the ground so it's easy to see the sweeping stretches of frozen tundra and the enormous mountains folded like napkins from the little plane window.
After we landed, it was a blur of cramped taxi rides, seeing too many people in not enough time at the Peace Corps office then off to find Mona a coat at the huge Sunday market. We chose the Sunday market and not the normal black market, as the latter is outside and the weather was literally freezing. The market was nothing spectacular- just stores like cubbies in the wall piled high with clothes of all sorts and some atrocious New Years dresses. Then came the really great part of the day. Mona and I took ourselves to a place simply called Charming which we heard had really great at haircuts for relatively cheap. When we got there (after a rather frustrating taxi ride) we found an immaculate spa-salon not fit for the likes of us dirty hoodo travelers. Nevertheless we booked the next available appointments and headed to the Irish pub/Western restaurant and bar downstairs. Sinking onto bar stools, Mona ordered a glass of red wine and I got a ridiculous cocktail (with real fruit!!) in addition to splitting a salad (with cheese and tomatoes!!) and nachos (nachos!?!). The familiar atmosphere of the restaurant acted like a tonic, even though neither of us had ever been there before, and added to the food and drinks, we quickly relaxed after the hectic day. It's amazing how simple things like bottles of Tabasco scattered across the bar, mahogany tables and waiters in uniforms make one feel at home even after being away for so long. Finally it was time to abandon our padded(!) stools and head up for our haircuts. I truly felt like Cinderella. I had a hair wash with warm water and the stylist did an excellent job shaping a bob of sorts. I emerged from behind the partition of mirrors no longer dirty and scraggly-banged but polished and fresh feeling. It was both literally and figuratively a weight off; not only to feel that pretty again but also be shorne after all the months of hair growth. We then raced over to the Peace Corps Office, grabbed our stuff then I dashed to an Indian restaurant where I met lots of other friends I hadn't seen in months. It was wonderful to chat with everyone- we all sat at a table so long that it stretched the length of the entire restaurant. Abuzz with conversation and quips, we dined on exotic things like chickpeas and eggplant for the first time since boarding the plane to Asia. After we had our fill of naan and finished stories of sheep, gers and students, the party dispersed and I grabbed another taxi to my friend Cassandra's apartment. Her apartment is amazing! It's like discovering Mongolia's secret Ikea branch. I suppose that's what you get when you live in UB. It was so wonderful to see her! Wine and conversation flowed freely as we chatted late into the night about absolutely everything. She is definitely one of the people I wish I were better friends with but as she is so far away, it is difficult to maintain a close relationship. It is always wonderful to reconnect though and we thoroughly enjoyed the evening.
It was another early morning, as I had to board the bus at the Peace Corps office at some ungodly hour like 8. Somehow with 44 PCV's and 44 counterparts, my counterpart was the only one who almost missed the bus. We had to pick her up on her way out of town she was so lost, even though she told me she knew just where the Peace Corps office was the day before. Anyway, we got to the resort just out of town and it was beautiful. Submerged in snowy mountains and surrounded by birch trees, it was warmer than any building I'd ever been in to in Hovd and I resolved not to go outside until either a fire or the end of training forced me. Sadly, the exotic fare from the night before had caught up to me and had evolved into exotic nausea. So unfortunately I had to spend much of my first day of training in bed or hugging the (Western!) toilet due to a mild case of food poisoning. That night I had a bunch of my friends to the room that Mona and I were sharing and we had an all out girls night. We watched the classic "Diary of a Mad Black Woman", collectively laughing and 'ummhmmm'ing at the cute boys and villainous ex-husband. My Glamour magazine must have changed hands at least six times that night, too. I don't think any single issue of that magazine has been so well reused or gushed over. We giggled into the wee hours until every dispersed, thinking of the training that the early morning would bring.
Luckily by the next morning, my sickness had passed. It turned out to be a rather enlightening day. I learned that in many schools, the teachers salary gets docked if their students are caught drinking or behaving badly outside of school. The police contact the child's school Director who then lays into the child's Home Room Teacher because they think it is her fault. Also, I discovered that I live in probably the only country where people ask Americans if the term Morning Wood means making a fire when you wake up...That night we had something of a little party which consisted of a handful of PCV's and what seemed like half the of Mongolian and Kazakh counterparts. It was in the room Mona and I shared and within a matter of hours about 2 liters of vodka disappeared, a whole horse worth of horse sausage had been eaten (a Kazakh counterpart had brought it all the way from Bayan Olgii) and an opera's worth of Mongolian songs were sung. I didn't take part in the former two endeavors due to my shaky stomach but it was nice to see my counterpart socializing and host a slew of Mongolian and Kazakh women who just wanted to have a good time. Unfortunately, I made it to the lobby just in time to see my site mate, Tyler, mess his knee up horribly as he wrestled another PCV. He's currently in Thailand getting medical attention, unsure if he and his wife will be able to continue their service in Hovd or will be forced to go home for treatment. So it was a breath of fresh air making new friends for some but a horrible night for others.
Wednesday was also a very productive day of training. My counterpart and I collaborated with Jake and Mona and their respective counterparts in addition to Tyler's lone counterpart on a sort of Hovd Teacher's Club, the purpose being that teachers at different schools could share ideas and resources. There are so many local competitions between teachers that there is really only hording of teaching materials and a huge lack of conversation about teaching methods or anything else. No one is willing to share ideas and supplies because winning a local competition is such a great honor. A teacher at Mona's school is in an upcoming competition and she swears that each of the other English teachers at the school have put in about 25 hours on this one lesson in order to outshine other school's English teachers with a PowerPoint presentation. So our counterparts decided it was past time for the teachers to collaborate between and within the schools. We settled on having a committee of one teacher from each school and to perhaps hold a seminar in March or April for Hovd English teachers. Later on we want to invite teachers from the whole of Hovd aimag to participate. It's still in the works now and I hope that this project sees itself to fruition one day.
That night I got a text message saying that I should go down to the resort's sauna. There I met up with a few of my friends and we spent several hours sweating, chatting and laughing. The latter hour was pretty much dominated by a conversation I got into with the girls about Shakespeare in text and performance and how Geoffry Chaucer figures into literary history including his similarities and differences with Shakespeare. Our group consisted on two boys and three girls. During the conversation about Early Modern Literature, the boys just sat there, literally stunned in shock and awe that we could carry on a heated and well-informed conversation about such a topic. Needless to say, they were rather impressed and even taken aback. From there the night descended into debauchery and fun was had by all.
Friday was the final full day of training. We worked more on the Teacher's Club, arguing logistics and grafting a list of short term tasks in addition to discussing long term goals and objectives. We discovered that having so many people give input, factoring in the cultural differences, in addition to trying to summit such a huge project can be something of a challenge. The project moved steadily albeit slowly for much of the day. That night there was a talent show and dance party. Throughout all of training, I found myself getting to know many PCV's better and Friday night was no exception. It's really nice to build new relationships even after being here for such a long time already.
The next day at noon we all boarded the bus and took the short ride into the city. We were dropped off at the Peace Corps office where I was the lucky recipient of 4 different vaccines at once and met up with my friend Laura. There I will leave you for now, as my Christmas adventures with Laura, Ashley, Deborah, Alana and others I will save for another (forthcoming) blog post.
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