The blog has passed 300 non-me hits! Thanks for reading!
Brandon's a good sport, either that or a complete moron. Actually, it's perfectly possible to be both at the same time, so we'll include that option.
On the way up to Sukhbaatar, Daggi (the church member who went with us) and I were talking. His English was basic, and my Mongolian was basic, so we spent most of our time defining terms. Something like this:
-in yoovay?
-nar jaarison
-what English?
-sun set
And so on for several hours.
One of the phrases that I learned was "Champt nahoor herectayoo?" or "Do you need a husband?"
'Husband' was the only new word actually, but it proved to be a fun one. Daggi and I taught the phrase to Brandon, and he proceeded to directed it at random people, animals and inanimate objects. He even got some takers, some of whom weren't dogs!
We also taught him "Be champt harte" (I love you), as we as a dozen or so more useful words.
The train ride was about eight hours, and quite pleasant on the whole. It was really cheap too, only about $10 per person.
Sukhbaatar was a relatively small place. It has a population of about 30,000; small enough so that it isn't an interesting town and large enough so that the surrounding countryside has plenty of trash.
We took a taxi out of town to the Russian border. It was about 25 km away. The border appeared as a massive line of trees marking the place where there aren't any Mongolians grazing their cattle. The Russians had also made a point of building a large, white Catholic church just across the border to drive the point home. This was not an Asian country.
It also wasn't a country that liked Americans. We were told that we could approach the border if we paid $16 (or 200 rubles) each, but that we would have to wait for hell to freeze over before we could cross it. We were running low on cash and slightly ticked at Russia in general, so we settled for snapping pictures of the border guards just to be obnoxious.
The border guards informed us that we were being obnoxious, looked at our ID, dragged Daggi away for a good scolding, then told us to leave immediately. They did not, however, take our cameras and fine us as we were later told they sometimes do.
The crazy thing here is that there's absolutely nothing to see at the border except for a showy fence (which, while high and covered in barbed wire, only runs for a few hundred yards) some guard towers (all four of them) the spires of the Catholic church, and lots of trucks full of logs.
However, as Brandon repeatedly stated, the Russians know they must DEFEND THE MOTHERLAND!
Other than that not much happened. The trip was pleasant enough, and dirt cheap, but I think the next one we take will probably be to China, where they aren't quite so communist.
No, that wasn't a joke, it was a carefully thought out statement.
Daggi liked to have pictures of himself taken where he looked artistic, thoughtful and contemplative. I have about a dozen such pictures of him, so I thought I should post at least one.
This is about as close as we managed to go to Russia.
The dogs at the train station were really friendly. Maybe it's because I kept on feeding them... or something. Me holding my ticket after not shaving for four days. I had a reeeeeeeeeeeally nice hot shower though.
No dotted line for you! This is still part of the post!
Please consider donating to the advertising fund of the school. We need to reach a wider audience with the gospel. Right now most of the students are Korean expats and friends of school staff.
Yesterday was the last day of classes, so we had 'parties' for all of our students to attend. I put parties in quotes because the parties consisted of people sitting around drinking juice, eating chips and chatting in the classroom. The power went out during the last party of the day, leaving us in complete darkness. The Mongolians were used to such outages, and didn't even comment on it. I, on the other hand, was totally psyched. I ran up to my room and grabbed some candles so that we could continue the party by candle light. It was really fun.
The students from the last class invited us out to a pub.
Before my my grandparents and their friends start throwing things at me, I would like to clarify that every restaurant in Mongolia is a pub. The traffic was very thick on our way there, and as the driver tried to change lanes she managed to scrape another car. I wouldn't call it a fender bender, but there was some slight damage and it took quite a while to sort things out. The 'pub' that we went to was the Old English Inn - Restaurant and Pub. It was a nice place, with live music and leather seats that almost looked real. We got juice and milkshakes, while the students ordered beer. We also had fries (with Russian ketchup, which was downright nasty) and pizza (which had pickles and pineapple, also nasty). Each of the students with us drank between 1 and 1.5 liters of beer, not enough to make them tipsy drunk, but enough to make them bubbly drunk. The conversation turned toward religion, which surprised me. I didn't expect to be asked such questions as "why doesn't God heal all blind Christians" by a slightly drunk student who never cared otherwise. They said they would come to church Sabbath after next, I hope they don't change their minds after the buzz wears off. At one point during the conversation the woman next to me burst out laughing, spewing a fine spray of beer all over Brandon's jacket. I would like to point out that this is the same jacket he had worn when we went to the place across the street with the table tennis and pool; the place that reeked of cigarette smoke. His jacket now smells like smoke and beer: truly an upstanding person's jacket. As we prepared to leave I contemplated my odds of making it home unscathed, since the driver who had gotten into a small accident on the way over was now a liter and a half of beer worse for the wear. I was just about to ask Chimba (one of the non-drinkers in the group) if he could drive, when it was announced that we would be walking back.
Oh well.
It was just above zero at the time, and the walk was about 15 minutes. We had come prepared though, so it was enjoyable. When we got back we found out that the power was still off, but now the heat was off too. The building cooled over the course of the night, but some time in the early morning they turned the heat back on. This morning it was -5 F, and it's only October.
Please consider donating to the advertising fund of the school. We need to reach a wider audience with the gospel. Right now most of the students are Korean expats and friends of school staff.
The city of Ulaanbaatar isn't very pretty, at least during the winter. The spectrum is reduced to shades of grey and brown, and the skyline becomes obscured by a thick haze of coal smoke. The trees lose their leaves, but snow fails to fall because the climate is semi arid. Fashion struggles bravely on into late November, but eventually gives up and concedes the simple truth that forty below is indeed cold. By January everyone looks pretty much the same.
So, I won't say that the city is a feast for the eyes. I will, however, say that it is downright weird.
A few days ago I decided to make a fuss until someone unlocked the display of deodorant at the supermarket and let me buy some. I communicated my desire to buy the deodorant, then stood there and waited. After about ten minutes one of the cashiers was persuaded to leave her post and get the fabled deodorant case key. She disappeared into a dark closet and came out with a bundle of keys so large and disorganised that it resembled a lap dog cuddled in her arms. I stared in disbelief as she began going through the keys one by one, scrutinizing each as if she had not seen them in a while.
After several unsuccessful attempts she succeeded in finding the correct key. I selected the deodorant that I wanted (two of them, to be on the safe side), and she took them out of the case. She then took the caps off and demonstrated that they were both sealed. This action struck me as somewhat odd. I had never considered the possibility that anyone would WANT to mess with my deodorant. What's the point?
She handed the two sticks of deodorant to me, and I continued my shopping. As I moved through the aisles, I noticed I was being shadowed. A second sales person was following me, and watching closely to make sure that I didn't try to shoplift the deodorant I had just gotten.
When I checked out the cashier's hands moved quickly, until she came to the deodorant. At that point she paused, hesitating. Suddenly she rushed over to another checkout and got a small bag. She placed the deodorant inside it's own special bag, placed that bag gently inside the larger grocery bag, and continued scanning my items.
The entire scene was escargot for the eyes.
Another odd scene met my eyes today. Brandon and I tried to head across the street to a place that has table tennis and pool. All the tables were full, and the wait was long, so we headed back. The traffic was thick and steady, so after waiting for a while I headed out into the thick of it. The idea behind this strategy is that cars generally avoid pedestrians, and though there are no lanes they tend to move in relatively straight lines.
In the middle of the road (which, if it had lanes, would have three) a bus and a mini van came towards me. I stood still, so that they would pass around me. They had other ideas. For some odd reason, they both decided they would like to occupy the spot of asphalt upon which I stood. In a matter of seconds the gap between the bus and the van narrowed from five feet to about one foot. They both honked as they barreled towards me, but I couldn't go forward or back. I stood there, struck by the madness of it all. Buses should go around pedestrians, not aim for them like kamikaze steel monsters bouldering haphazardly across the landscape. At the last possible moment the van stopped, putting a halt to the three way game of chicken. I was allowed to live. I walked in front of the van, onto the median, and prepared to cross the next three lanes of traffic.
One of my students showed her paintings for the term project on hobbies. I asked her if I could post this.
Please consider donating to the advertising fund of the school. We need to reach a wider audience with the gospel. Right now most of the students are Korean expats and friends of school staff.
There are two ways to portray yourself in a new social situation. These two ways lie at opposite ends of a spectrum of possible actions, so 'failure' in a social situation generally means that you have aimed for one method, missed, and slid unintentionally towards the other. The first way to portray yourself is as an insider: someone who understands and respects the accepted norms of the group your are entering. The second way to portray yourself is as an outsider: a well meaning fool who hasn't the foggiest idea what's going on but will gladly accept any instruction. Either method generally works, unless there are special conditions, such as a formal banquet (where one is expected to be an insider) or a private conversation in a foreign language (where one is expected to be an outsider). Today I went for a walk with a goal: to find some people and chat with them. Generally one does not set out from home with the firm intent of finding casual conversation, but of course most situations in Mongolia don't fall under the "general" category. My problem is that most of the people here play two sports: basketball (tsaksanboombuk) and soccer (don't know that word yet). They are very good at both of these sports, and prefer to play them with people that are equally skilled. I stink at both. I don't stink at soccer by American standards, but unfortunately American standards don't cut it as far as the rest of the world is concerned. My walk took me past apartment complex after apartment complex. I passed countless games of basketball, and a few of soccer. I hung around the soccer games, but when no one invited me to join in I moved on. Eventually I saw a group of about half a dozen old men gathered around a table. This is a familiar sight in every city in the world. It generally means that a game of chess or checkers is being played, though in some countries it means mahjong or backgammon. Mongolia is not one of those countries. In Mongolia, a group of old men gathered around a table means chess. I approached the table and began watching the game in progress. I was not acknowledged except by a few casual glances, as is usually the case with a group of old men playing chess. The game progressed slowly, with a lot of input from the group. Despite the slow pace of the game, the old men both followed an aggressive strategy, and soon there were not enough pieces on the board for a checkmate, ending the game in a stalemate. At this point something happened. A bad something. One of the men came over to me and introduced himself in English. I shook his hand. He then offered me a bottle of snuff, and asked me if I spoke French, as his French was better than his English.
Do I look like I speak French?
I know what to do when I'm offered snuff, really. However, the whole thing caught me rather off guard. There's something about being in a group where you believe you are the only one who speaks English. It puts you in your own world: a comfortable world, though sometimes a boring one. I stared at the bottle of snuff, frozen. My mouth moved unbidden, and unintelligible noises came out of it. Seeing this, the man assumed that I was a stupid tourist. In most circumstances this assumption would have been fine with me, but snuff was involved here. He kindly proceeded to explain in broken English what the snuff was, and to place some on my finger.
Dangit.
I sniffed the snuff. It was rather like snorting dust. He then asked me if I was a tourist. This is where the two methods of interacting with a new group come into play. I should have said yes, but I didn't. I said (in English and broken Mongolian) that I was a new teacher at the English school, and that I had lived in Mongolia for six years as a child. He asked me if I played chess. Again, I should have said no, but I said yes. Fortunately I was intelligent enough to add that any game between myself and a member of the present group would be a short one. The man said his name was Batsukh, and offered me his card. He was an opera singer, and according to his card, composer. I asked him if he sang Mongolian opera. He replied that no, he was a tenor and sang Italian and Russian opera. His most recent project had been to translate opera into Mongolian. He proceeded to list a few composers that I recognised, such as Tchaikovsky and Puccini, along with several more that I didn't recognise, and gave the works of each composer that he had translated. Since he kept on struggling for words in English and saying the words in French, I asked him if he spoke any Spanish. I thought that perhaps if we broadened the conversation to include three languages it might be easier, though my Spanish was minimal at best. He replied that no, he did not speak Spanish, though he occasionally sang in Spanish. He proceeded to demonstrate, and sang beautifully, though somewhat softly because the chess game was still going on. I began to get the distinct feeling that I was a boy among men. Most of you are probably thinking something along the lines of "no dur, it's a chess game". This is true, but it's still an unpleasant feeling to encounter. This feeling increased when they asked me if I would like to play. I said that yes, I would, but that it would be a "short game" as I said before, since my skills were very much inferior to theirs. It was indeed a short game, and it ended in a checkmate that I hadn't even seen. True, the pieces were unfamiliar, I hadn't played in several months, and my concentration was divided between the board and the man I had been conversing with, but the facts stand. I was a boy among men at that table. All things are forgiven when you speak English however. Batsukh invited me to come visit him in his apartment and play chess some time. I accepted this invitation, and told him when I had breaks in my schedule. One of the many reasons that I came to this country was to get away from the cultural norms of America. I can't stand having to think about what is polite and what isn't, since I would much rather just try to be nice. I failed to realize that they have standards of class here too, except that here the standards are influenced more by Europe. Oh well, so much for that. The telivision broadcasting tower next to our apartment lit up at night
---------------------------------------------------------------- Please consider donating to the advertising fund of the school. We need to reach a wider audience with the gospel. Right now most of the students are Korean expats and friends of school staff.
I've been asked by several people to say some stuff about the church here. I've avoided doing so before because it has taken me a while to get a feel for what the church here is like.
There are a few things I've noticed about the church members here so far. They are all young and enthusiastic, and they vehemently reject the things that have been tearing apart Mongolian society (i.e. drinking, family problems, and utter disregard for welfare of the system). I have been surprised at how they avoid anything that has to do with alcohol. I asked one church member what a certain restaurant was like, and she said that the food was ok, but that it had a bar so she didn't like it. Is it possible to find a restaurant in this country that doesn't have a bar? I'm not sure it is.... This is not to say that they are all extremely conservative. We ordered some pizza, and one pizza had pepperoni on it. Though everyone in the group was a church member (or at least attended) both pizzas disappeared entirely. Still, one issue at a time. I have been teaching (or trying to teach) a Sabbath school for the past two weeks. The thing that really surprises me about the people who attend is how original their views are. They aren't necessarily better or more biblically sound than opinions one would hear in a Sabbath school in the US, just more original. The atmosphere of the church is really relaxed. Most of the people wear jeans, except for the people who are on the platform (who wear more formal clothes) and the poor people who attend (who wear whatever they throw together). Song service takes up almost half of the church service. Several people play guitar, and there's also a keyboard. People sing with enthusiasm, especially one poor guy, who sings at the top of his lungs and only marginally off key. I really wish I could master the alphabet and sing along. I'm getting there, but it's slow going with no one to teach me. My mom said it should only take an afternoon, so I'm slightly embarrassed that I still haven't figured everything out. However, I recently realized that I can't read the English alphabet either; I just read words. Starting from square one so to speak. Today I taught Sabbath school and preached. The sermon went well, except for one key point that I had meant to include but left out. I was terribly nervous before the sermon, and I could feel my heart pounding so hard that it made my tie feel too tight. This lasted until I sat down after a prayer, when everyone else remained standing. I stood back up again, realised the whole thing was ridiculous, and wasn't nervous any more. Speaking through a translator is great: it gives you the opportunity to carefully construct each sentence before you say it. After church I was supposed to 'teach' a Bible study. No one had told me what the Bible study was on, and I wasn't too confident. When I got there I found out that they really only wanted me there to define terms, and that 95% of the study was in Mongolian. I have a hard time following Mongolian for anything other than everyday topics, so I wasn't looking forward to the idea of spending an hour and a half in there, picking out random familiar phrases and trying not to fall asleep. Fortunately Brandon showed up at that time and offered to define stuff for them and give me the afternoon off. I thanked him, went to my room and slept. Really, they aren't kidding when they say that preaching a sermon makes you want to participate in 'lay activities' for the rest of the afternoon.
In case anyone is wondering, this donation button is now automatically generated at the end of each post. Also, I've discovered that the hit counter doesn't count me when I view the blog to check for errors after I post. That means that almost all of the 230+ distinct hits are people other than myself viewing. Thanks for reading! ------------------------------------------------------------------- Please consider donating to the advertising fund of the school. We need to reach a wider audience with the gospel. Right now most of the students are Korean expats and friends of school staff.
I stared intently at the shrewd negotiator before me. He had caught me as I tried to make my way through the monastery complex, and now I was trapped in his web.
"Would you like to buy some grain, elder brother?" the small boy asked in Mongolian, offering me a packet of crushed grain to feed the pigeons.
Drat, he was polite on top of it all. I had promised myself that I would never give in to the empty sales pitch of 'want to buy some grain?'.
"No." I replied (also in Mongolian), shaking my head.
"Buy grain?" he asked, smiling.
"No"
"Buy grain?" The tone was almost sing-song now. The little beast was mocking me.
"No." I said.
"Buy grain?"
"No" I said, as I my hand reached unbidden for my wallet. Blast the fiend for his cherubic smile!
"Buy grain?" he asked, triumphantly.
"No." I said with an air of finality, as I handed him a 500T bill (about 50c)
"Thank you!" he said, as he scurried off. I had kept my promise to myself, and bought no grain.
-------------------------------------------------
Please consider donating to the advertising fund of the school. We need to reach a wider audience with the gospel. Right now most of the students are Korean expats and friends of school staff.
Surrender now, or face the wrath of my ...rice cooker
Asia is absolutely brimming with mistranslations, from the ten foot high signs throughout Seoul announcing the "Grand Open!" of a major store chain, to the label on my washing machine that proudly declares it uses "fuzzy logic". These mistranslations have always bothered me. If you're going to spend thousands, or perhaps millions, on advertising and packaging for a product, why not go through the small trouble of asking a native speaker to look for errors? In most cases this could probably be done for free: someone's uncle's roommate's ex-girlfriend's sister always knows someone who speaks English, why not ask them?
As I sat in a crowded microbus I stared at the box which the person facing me held in their lap. It was a rice cooker, or so it seemed to claim. This may have been a misunderstanding on my part, for it also said it was "constructed eternally" and had "many levels". I was forced to conclude that the person across from me was holding a miniaturized version of Buddhist heaven.
Reading on, I revised this idea to include the notion that the box also contained various levels of hell. At the top of the list of features it read "NOW WITH MORE FIREPOWER!"
I realized that the thing in this box must be very valuable indeed: a weapon of awesome destructive force forged on the anvil of the heavens by the ancient gods, a weapon to command respect and obedience for all mortals.
And truly, a fine rice cooker.
I think I've figured out why there are so many mistranslations. No one cares. The purpose of the English words in ads and on boxes is like the purpose of French words spoken by an American guy to his girlfriend. He could be (and probably is) reciting his grocery list verbatim, but that's not the issue. The thing is, it's in French.
Likewise a t-shirt can say "Get used" here, and draw odd looks from passing Aussies, Americans and Brits. The looks don't matter. The shirt is in English, and English is almost as popular as Hello Kitty. Meaning, in contrast, is decidedly less popular, and is usually relegated to dusty places such as this staff room.
Small side joke for those who speak some Mongolian: I was teaching class just now and ran across a sentence that included the name "Bob". After I read the sentence the two guys in the class tried to hold back snickers, then burst out laughing. I quickly realized what I had done, which didn't help matters because then I burst out laughing. The two women in the class looked on the scene with disdain. It took quite some time to restore order and move on. I told the other teacher about the occurrence, and warned him not to use the name Bob. He checked to make sure his pronunciation of the related Mongolian word was correct, then went off to try it out on the unsuspecting staff.
Yea... if you don't know Mongolian you probably get it anyway.
There are many levels of bad. There's slightly annoying, mindlessly evil, maliciously evil, and "....?". My washing machine belongs to the "....?" group. The first time I washed my clothes, I was disappointed in the results. The clothes were clean, after a fashion. That is to say, smell and stains had been removed, but they were covered in a fine layer of lint. Light clothes were covered in black lint, and dark clothes were covered in white lint. "oh" you say. "But of course that's what it looked like, light lint only shows up on dark clothes, and vice versa." Oh really? Not so. I carefully removed lint from said clothes, and found that the white clothes had indeed been covered only in black lint, and the dark clothes in white. There was something truly evil at work in my bathroom. I imagined the washing machine directing the whole process as it sat there humming and thumping in my bathroom. "Hurry! Shred the socks! Ok, now white lint on the black dress shirt, dark lint on the khaki pants! Make sure to twist everything and turn it all inside out!" The next load I did was worse. Like the first time, I found all my clothes had been covered in lint, but this time the lint was thicker. On top of that, stains had not been removed. Even minor stains, such as spots from a mud puddle that had splattered my pants, were still there. However, the thing that revealed the truly malicious and evil intent of the washing machine was my pants. The washing machine had eaten my pants. Apparently the pants were not to the machine's liking, for it spat them back out again (this is how I have retained the pants as evidence), but not before it had torn a gash right down the pants leg. How does that even happen? I think my washing machine has been sent to me from the bowels of hell, armed with razor sharp teeth which it uses to shred my clothing, tearing it thread from thread. I followed the theme of my life: "when all else fails, assume you're an idiot". I carefully considered the possibilities, and concluded that I must have overloaded the washing machine. I did another load, this time filling the washing machine only half full. The results appeared to be encouraging, in that no black lint covered my clothing. I was filled with joy, until I realized this was due to the fact that I had not included any dark clothes in the load. I inspected the clothes. Sure enough, stains remained. On top of that, the washing machine had torn a hole in the seat of my only pair of jeans.
Bowels of hell I tell you, bowels of hell.
So... umm, does anyone have some advice on how I may keep my clothing both clean and intact? I'm open to any theories, because Brandon uses the same washing machine, so I can test them when he does his laundry.
(This post has a Chris Rating of 6) There are a few things that bug me about the book this program uses. One is the fact that there are grammatical errors. Most of them aren't really errors, they're technically correct. They are merely slightly weird phrases that show the sentence wasn't written by a native speaker. Some, however, are simply errors, such as things failing to agree in number or tense (i.e. is happened). It's really embarrassing to pause in the middle of an exercise, explain the book is wrong, and correct the sentence before going on.
Another thing is that the book is simply soaked in Korean culture. This is all well and good in Korea, but we aren't in Korea, we're in Mongolia. The Mongolians struggle with Korean place names, foods and brands, then look to me for guidance. I explain to them that the word is Korean, that I have no clue how to say it, and that they can refer to it as The Magical Land at the End of the Sewer pipe for all I care. Actually I just tell them to make up a Mongolian name, which they then do.
A third thing that bugs me is that the book is soaked in Korean culture. I know, I've been over this, but this time I mean something different. I mean that it is from the Korean worldview. Since Korea (like America) is a first world country, Korea's world view tends to be rather... um... patronising. In questions that ask for a comparison of Korean and western cultures (or products, or whatever) the suggested answers tend to be a "heads I win, tails you lose" kind of deal. For instance:
Do you prefer iPod or iRiver (a Korean brand)?
A: I prefer iRiver. I have one and I really like it.
B: I don't have a preference, I dislike mac products.
Firstly, the second answer doesn't really make logical sense. If you dislike one but not the other you have a preference. Secondly, what if someone wanted to say they liked iPod?
There's another question about Korean and American houses with a similar answer set: either Korean houses are good because they're so close together, or American houses are bad because they're all the same.
Whatever.
I would like to take this opportunity to point out to Americans that this is what you sound like to the rest of the world. Quit it, it makes me gag.
I find it amazing how the weather influences the mood of the students. When it snowed day before yesterday the students came in like zombies. No one wanted to say a word. I spent the entire day trying to be the energizer bunny, and it DRAINED me like you wouldn't believe. The junior class was the worst. The students sat there either glaring at me or drooling on their desks, and absolutely refused to speak anything but Korean. The one Mongolian student has given up on saying much of anything because the Koreans dogpile on her whenever she does and tell her she's dumb. I then explain to them that they're a bunch of puerile moronic imbeciles, but unfortunately my explanation is beyond their understanding of English.
Or perhaps it's fortunate. Keeping one's job is a good thing.
Still, when the last two classes of the day roll around and the studying professionals (the one's who are here because they actually want to learn English) come in, it makes the job like heaven.
There was a question in the junior class book, "Have you ever sent an email in English?" No one had, so I gave them my school address and told them that I would give them candy if they sent an email in English. Out of five kids, I got three emails (maybe I'll get more before class, but it's almost nine so I doubt it). Here's one of the replies:
hello teacher i'm ellen it homework give me candy tomorrow good bye
ROFLOL! -sigh- Self centered simplicity is so funny in kids, I wish it could be funny in adults.
Kids playing 'red rover red rover' outside the school.
Ulaanbaatar traffic isn't particularly thick, it's just particularly accident prone. Basically, this city is what happens when you give a bunch of middle aged people keys for the first time, stick them in SUV's, and tell them it's a race. The vast majority of the cars on the road have nasty scrapes and dents on them. The rest are brand new, but that condition won't last for very long. Today it snowed. I don't know if it was because of the snow (seems unlikely) or some other reason, but the traffic ground to a halt in the intersection near the school. Usually crossing the street is difficult, today it was easy. You just had to walk around the cars when the weren't moving, which was most of the time.
I had to go to the store again today, as I do practically every day. It appears to me that Mongolians value appearances highly. Not necessarily the appearance of the city in general, but definitely their part of it. The stores put a good deal of effort into looking western, though they sometimes have to put on a bit of a show. For the last week I've been keeping my eyes pealed for deodorant in anticipation of the day when I will run out. A few days ago I found some. There were all the normal American brands, carefully lined up in a locked display case. This would not have been a problem if it wasn't for the fact that Mongolians have taken to using the supermarket style of store. There was no one around to unlock the display case. There the deodorant sits, and there it shall stay, loudly declaring the the store is as western as it can possibly be under the circumstances.
I found one other shop that has it though. I shall prevail!
Because the snow and fog looked so nice I headed out and took more pictures of the Gandan monastery, and the city in general. I was taking a picture of these pigeons when some monks started walking up the steps. I just waited a few seconds until they were in the frame, I think monks look really cool.
This particular monk was talking on his cellphone as he got into his car. I guess the higher level monks are in more of a management position, so they can't give up the things of this world. Things to do! Places to go to! Yessir, these are modern times and they call for modern monks. and video:
Ulaanbaatar is a city of a thousand smokes. The clouds of coal smoke which billow from three power plants mix with the ground-hugging haze coming from the fires of the ger communities. All this coal smoke then settles as a thick smog which hugs the valley floor. It isn't the number of fires that makes the smoke interesting though, it's the variety. True, most of the smoke comes from the power plants and cook stoves, but there is also cigarette smoke, smoke from dung fires, smoke from burning trash, incense smoke, and sometimes smoke from smoldering hair, which is burnt after the first haircut a young Buddhist boy receives.
Unfortunately, it's still smoke. There have been two days since I came here when an air mass came over the city and covered the valley like a hand, trapping the smoke. Visibility then dropped to around half a mile, which is impressive considering the fact that there's almost no humidity in the air. Because of this smoke we decided to go to the countryside for the weekend. "We" were Brandon (the other teacher), a half dozen church members, and myself. "Countryside" was supposed to be Terelj, a national park north of the city. However, as we were leaving I began to understand from their broken English (and my limited understanding of Mongolian) that they had no intention of going to Terelj at all. I wasn't too pleased about this, but since they were the ones that spoke Mongolian and could plan such a venture I grumbled a little and got in the taxi. After the taxi we took a microbus, which is essentially a minivan with hard seats and no legroom. After bouncing around in a microbus for an hour, passing barren hills and trash heaps, we arrived at a ger camp, which was only moderately touristy, and was next to a monastery. The place was situated in a stunningly beautiful valley. I shut up.
That night we sat on our beds in the ger. Brandon taught the church members to play Texas hold'em poker, and there was a great commotion as the entire group (myself excluded) headed out to collect "chothlo" or rocks, with which to bet.
We then ate. As I sat eating out of a can of Pringle's knock-offs, I began reading the ingredients (as is my custom).
Potatoes
-munch munch munch munch-
...Edible oil
-munch.. munch... munch..-
I looked warily at the can of pringle's knock-offs. There's something deeply disconcerting about being told your food is edible. It's something one generally assumes. It's like being told your washing machine won't suddenly burst into flames; the question of whether or not the washing machine could burst into flames simply doesn't normally enter into one's mind, and if it does the washing machine should probably be replaced.
The can of pringle's knock-offs noticed my concern, and hastened to explain exactly what it meant by 'edible oil'.
...(refined, bleached, deodorized palm olein)
Palm olein is essentially diesel waiting to happen, but the chips tasted good, really good in fact.
-munch munch munch-
The can continued to expound eloquently on it's contents.
...salt
-munch munch munch-
...permitted flavor enhancer 621.
I stopped chewing. This brings us back to the issue of "edible". Like 'edible', 'permitted' is not something you want to see on your food, unless you happen to be heavily into semi-legal body building drugs, and in that case no one wants to know your opinion anyway. In any case, semi-legal body building drugs are generally not regarded as food, even if they are consumed in large quantities.
Still, the chips were good.
That night there was great confusion as the beds were arranged in the middle of the ger. This act of arranging the beds in the middle of the ger struck me as odd, since I was used to the semi-traditional notion that men stayed on the left side of the ger, and women stayed on the right. I was also used to the semi traditional notion that singles on a church outing don't form a mixed gender heap in a small round tent, but hey, these are city people.
I chose to sleep on the floor, not because I have a great aversion to sleeping in a mixed gender heap, but because I like to sleep on the floor, and because I dislike heaps in general. I was glad I had made this decision, because the beds kept on collapsing at random times during the night, throwing the mixed gendered heap into a state of confusion.
A confused mixed gender heap.
The next morning I woke to find that I had been sleeping next to a half full bottle of scotch. We tried to light it on fire, and succeeded.
The rest of the day was spent in hiking, wandering around the monastery, eating, and generally participating in a wild orgy of unbridled tourism. The monastery was like most other monasteries I have been in, only more so, because it was a tourist attraction. To encourage tourism every attempt had been made to make the monastery even more like a monastery than a monastery should be. For instance, some of the remains of a deceased holy woman were on display, and there were statues with piles of money in every corner. For your viewing pleasure, here is the top of a good woman's skull:
...in addition to some of her personal belongings, and a leg bone, which I am told they made into a flute. I will tell you this much: when I die, I want my leg to be made into a flute.
There were also lots of golden statues with relatively worthless piles of money in front of them. It's interesting how the taste's of the spirits change with the times. After the fall of communism the spirits took to drinking heavily, or so one would think from the many empty vodka bottles offered to them at the hilltop ovoo (rock piles / shrines). More recently, however, they've gone on a diet, as modernism has turned the animism / Buddhism combination into more of a tourist attraction than anything else. Most of the ovoo I've visited so far were just rock piles, with no gifts left at all.
The woods reminded me of Maine, only with fewer trees. There were large black squirrels running about through the woods, which look almost exactly like the large black squirrels one sees in the ponderosa pine forests of Arizona and New Mexico.
The little buggers are almost impossible to photograph. They're always ducking and hiding: running from tree to tree and making mad dashes in random directions. This picture is the result of about ten minute's work and at least a dozen deleted attempts (mostly distant, blurry black blobs).
Towards the middle of the day we climbed the mountain, on the slopes of which the ger camp lay. It was steep and rocky, quite a nice mountain. Brandon and I did a little rock climbing, or rather Brandon did rock climbing and I got interested, so I clambered after him in whatever unconventional fashion suited my fancy.
The peak was 1,920 meters above sea level, or 6,300 feet, whichever sounds cooler. The shot at the beginning of the blog post was from the top, but I took some more so I'll post a few.
I leave you with some random video. Have fun with life. Video of the Valley:
This is inside the ger.
More video of the valley!
A bumpy road. I think I did a good job of holding the camera steady, considering it all. Just thought you'd like to see a bumpy road, and cows.
I have some random pictures I took with no goal in mind. I've avoided wandering around the city with a camera because I don't want to look like a tourist, doing so is dangerous. The only reason why I'm uploading these is that I installed the program for the camera onto one of the office computers and I thought I might as well upload the random shots. I'll upload pictures of our trip to the countryside on Monday, which would be Sunday for everyone else.
This is the view out my apartment window. The white building is the Mongolian National University, and the people gathered on left side are playing basketball. The blurry area is not my thumb, the camera just does that. There's a plastic thingy stuck over the lens, I'll see if I can do something about it before I start taking pictures tomorrow.
This is what my wallet looked like before I changed all my money at the bank. Now it just has tugriks.
There's one more but I'm not going to bother with it because this program is a complete pain and I'm hungry. ttyl.
Oh, by the way: this blog has had over 100 distinct views since I came to Mongolia, and only about a dozen of them were me. Thanks for reading!
We are attempting to raise money for advertising at this school. Currently the advertisment program for this school consists of three signs out front, really just one sign. Because of this it has very low enrollment, despite the fact that it is the only school with native english-speaking teachers in Mongolia (assuming you don't count teachers from India, which I don't). Please consider donating to this advertising fund, so that we can have the opportunity to reach more people with the gospel.
Include a note specifying what you are donating to, I won't know what to do with money that just appears. We really don't need much, just a few hundred dollars should be enough for the plans we have so far. If you would like to send someone to this page the address of this post is http://lettersfrommongolia.blogspot.com/2008/10/what-school.html
Southern Adventist University taught me to have an adventurous pallet. This is not because Southern had a great variety of food, in fact meals have a one week cycle and most of the days are pretty similar. No, it's because the food at Southern is so uniformly bad that it taught me to totally ignore the taste, smell and texture of anything I'm eating.
It was in this spirit that I, a vegetarian, ate beef last night.
After my last class I was exhausted and really wanted to go to bed. However, when Brandon invited me out to eat pizza with a bunch of students I jumped at the chance. I had wanted to be able to explore the city at night, but they had discouraged us from going out alone. Going out with the group would let me explore, and perhaps pick up some more Mongolian.
We walked down the street, passing stumbling drunks and begging street children. I was surprised to see them, as I had never seen either drunks or street children in that area during the daytime. Perhaps Mongolia has simply gotten better at hiding it's dark underside.
We continued down the street through the forest of flickering signs, passing brightly lit bars and dark, dusty construction sites. We had to cross the street, which was interesting since it was rush hour (as it always is). The speeding cars formed a river of blurred lights as they rushed past. fortunately our group was large. As we stepped out into the road the river of cars stopped and let us through, something that they rarely (if ever) do for a lone person.
We made it to the pizza place, which was actually a restaurant and bar. Unfortunately it was full, as was the next place. The students proposed that we go to a Mongolian restaurant, since it was cheaper anyway. Brandon was a bouncy ball of enthusiasm, which is saying something since he usually has all the expression of a wet beagle. I was just trying to keep my cookies down.
The restaurant smelled strongly of mutton and milk. This is distinctly different from lamb and American milk. Mongolian milk has it's own distinct smell, and mutton is... mutton. People describe it as "strong and gamey". I'm not exactly sure what the phrase "gamey" means, since dead sheep smells nothing like live deer, but that's what they say.
We sat down at a table and the Mongolians began enthusiastically discussion options as Brandon and I stared awkwardly at the all-mongolian menu. Hothlan, a girl from the school, soon began throwing options at us. I ordered egg and corn tea, having no idea what form of 'egg' I was getting, or what exactly 'corn tea' was.
Corn tea turned out to be an extremely dilute form of oatmeal, or perhaps sweetened milk with oats floating in it. It could be eaten or drunk, depending on one's mood. The egg, unfortunately, never arrived. Instead I relieved a plate of beef, potatoes, and pickled vegetables. I stared at the beef. It appeared to be mostly fat. Most of my experience with animal fat had come from dissecting dead things for purposes other than consumption, like study, or even for consumption by others.
But hey, as Brandon told me with a hint of disdain (aimed in my direction) this was Mongolia.
I, a vegetarian, ate several chunks of the extremely chewy beef. I continued this exercise of willpower until some of it got stuck in my teeth. At that point I began wondering exactly what manner of cow-bit was stuck in my chompers, and that was about enough. Still, I downed more than half of it.
Besides, the other people at the table (who were taking things from each other's plates) didn't want any of the beef off of my plate.
This blog documents my experiences as a student missionary teaching English in Mongolia. The year is set aside as a time for me to strengthen my relationship with God, define myself as a man, and do a whole bunch of things I would never do in the US. Not counting those things... pervert.
Please consider supporting the sponsors of this blog
