The school should have internet service tomorrow, so that means I'll stop coming to this internet cafe, stop having to save all my class documents to flash drives, and stop having to worry about my information popping up for the next person who signs on. Unfortunately, it also means I'll stop having a reason to take a walk every day, but I suppose that's just a matter of motivation.
As I take the five minute walk to this internet cafe I spot the swastika spray painted on buildings all over the place. In Asia the swastika is a complicated symbol, depending on context. One of my students has a gold swastika that dangles from his cellphone on a red cord, but that doesn't mean he's a Nazi, it means he's a Buddhist. However, Buddhist ideology doesn't generally get spray painted onto buildings, so I have been wondering about the graffiti.
Invariably, the words Aries M.Y.H. are spray painted next to the swastika. I have asked my friends what Aries M.Y.H. means, but no one has been able to understand my questions. A few days ago I finally gave up on my friends and looked it up on the internet. M.Y.H. stands for Mongol Ulsiin Naxi, one of the three main ultra-nationalist groups in Mongolia. So, it appears that the the most common form of graffiti in Ulaanbaatar is in fact Nazi.
The scary thing is that it seems most people have no problem with it.
Granted, Nazi ideology has been adopted to suit Mongolian purposes, but hatred for foreigners, specifically the Chinese, seems to be growing.
I know I have very little to base that statement on. When I lived in Mongolia from 1994-1999 I was just a child. I was aware that Mongolians hated the Chinese, and quickly picked up the same hatred, but in my mind it was more like rival sports teams. It did not seem to me then that Mongolians were particularly likely to be violent towards Chinese immigrants, though I had no doubt that China was waiting for a chance to attack Mongolia.
I still have little doubt that China would like to attack and conquer Mongolia, but my opinion is now based on the fact that China wishes to extend it's international influence in general, and has no problem with continuing to control Tibet. The arrogance of a rising China is quite similar to America's arrogance during the same developmental period, and likely indicates the same willingness to take first, justify later (referring to Indian lands, the Mexican war, and the last gasps of the Spanish Empire).
Where was I.... Mongolian Nazis. Right.
Most of the students at the language school are from the upper crust of Mongolian society. A typical class includes doctors, teachers, business owners, and their family members. I'm going to assume that their views are more moderate than those of the average Mongolian, because they tend to work with (and therefore depend on) foreigners more, especially the business owners who make regular trips to China.
Even so, nationalist ideas emerge in conversation regularly. Are the Chinese inherently dumb or evil? Are they weak? How about Koreans? If a person celebrates the Chinese lunar new year instead of the Mongolian lunar new year (tsaagan sar), are they still Mongolian, or are they betraying their country?
Most of the people in my classes are of the (spoken) opinion that there are good and bad people in every country, and that people can chose which holidays to celebrate without being called traitors. Some, however, are not. Remember, also, that this is their stated opinion. Most people (including myself) discriminate more than they want to admit, even to themselves.
Also, keep in mind that all of the students at our language school are in the financial position to pay for language classes. Some of them even take the classes as a hobby. All of them have a steady source of income, or at least a family member with a steady source of income.
News articles say that most of the swastikas were spray painted during the summer. The only place where I have seen any attempt to remove one was from one of the government buildings. The attempt was unsuccessful.
It all makes me wonder, what is going to happen when the global slowdown spreads to Mongolia even more? Prices for metals and coal (Mongolia's main cash exports) are down, and aid inflow will soon be dropping. I fear that any riots, instability and targeting of Chinese immigrants could lead China to interfere for the sake of "security". In the current global climate, the international outcry would probably only amount to a soft whimper. America would glance over, invoke the commonly held American assumption that all Asian countries are the same, and go back to destabilizing the Middle East.
Great, isn't it?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
The mind is an illusion, and so are pickpockets.
Time seems to go so much faster at an internet cafe. Every few minutes I glance at the clock, trying to figure out if I have enough time to finish the work I have to do. Internet cafes are also slightly more stressful than the staff room at the school. A few minutes ago I suddenly realized that my wallet was sitting unguarded in my inner coat pocket. Usually this would be the perfect place for it, but I had taken my coat off and put it on the back of my chair, which is just stupid.
I felt the pocket, and found it was empty. Frantically I checked the other five pockets in my coat. Nothing. I stood up, ashen faced, and looked frantically about the room. About a dozen 10 year old boys were playing video games. I thought the two credit cards I had in my wallet, and let loose an expletive. One of the boys helpfully translated the expletive for the others (every group has a translator). They all looked at me, waiting to see what my problem was.
I then realized my wallet was in my pant's pocket, and felt rather foolish. I sat back down, breathing heavily.
But give me a break, I had been primed for a heart attack.
Yesterday we went to the larger of the two open air markets here in Ulaabaatar, and I bought a full outfit to wear for Tsaagan Sar, which will be next month. I came to the market with about $130, which is foolish to the point of insanity. Still, I didn't see another option. I needed to buy a lot of very expensive stuff. I took the precaution of dividing my money between the pockets of my coat; T20,000 bills in one pocket, T10,000 in another, change in the outer pockets to give a diversion. In this way I could hand people the proper bills without bringing any money into plain sight. It seemed like a bright idea.
The shopping went well. I bought a light winter dell for about $30, a fur hat for $5, and double layer leather boots lined with sheep's wool for another $30.
The boots were my only problem. My feet are size 11 1/2 US, size 44-45 here. My friends were doing the bargaining for me (which probably saved me a bundle) and when they said the size they needed the shop keepers would go goggle-eyed.
"You want boots in WHAT size?! I might have one pair... maybe, it will cost you T90,000".
Invariably, the boots were so cramped that my frozen feet would get stuck in them, and it would take two people to pull them off. Finally I settled for a slightly cheaper pair of boots without all the fancy leather decorations. Still, they fit, they're real leather, they're warm.
After my friends had finished helping me wade through my cluelessness about clothes in general, and Mongolian clothes specifically, we made our way toward the center of the market. We weaved our way between shops, through open and tight spaces, but always through crowds.
At one point we walked through a particularly narrow space, and two people tried to go on either side of me. Instantly I glanced at my exposed pocket, something I had done about a hundred times that day, and one of them reaching inside it. I grabbed his wrist.
In retrospect I probably shouldn't have done that. It's quite possible to get a punch in the face from grabbing a pickpocket's wrist, or even get slashed by razor blades. On top of that, since he was reaching into the pocket with my change the most he could have gotten was $10. Fortunately for me, however, he noticed that his haul wasn't worth fighting for, struggled weakly, then let go with a little mild swearing.
I rejoined the others, and found that one of them hadn't been so lucky. He'd gotten his entire wallet stolen. I told my tale with a bit of smugness (I can be a bit of a jerk). One of the Mongolians had gotten pick-pocketted and I HADN'T.
I felt the pocket, and found it was empty. Frantically I checked the other five pockets in my coat. Nothing. I stood up, ashen faced, and looked frantically about the room. About a dozen 10 year old boys were playing video games. I thought the two credit cards I had in my wallet, and let loose an expletive. One of the boys helpfully translated the expletive for the others (every group has a translator). They all looked at me, waiting to see what my problem was.
I then realized my wallet was in my pant's pocket, and felt rather foolish. I sat back down, breathing heavily.
But give me a break, I had been primed for a heart attack.
Yesterday we went to the larger of the two open air markets here in Ulaabaatar, and I bought a full outfit to wear for Tsaagan Sar, which will be next month. I came to the market with about $130, which is foolish to the point of insanity. Still, I didn't see another option. I needed to buy a lot of very expensive stuff. I took the precaution of dividing my money between the pockets of my coat; T20,000 bills in one pocket, T10,000 in another, change in the outer pockets to give a diversion. In this way I could hand people the proper bills without bringing any money into plain sight. It seemed like a bright idea.
The shopping went well. I bought a light winter dell for about $30, a fur hat for $5, and double layer leather boots lined with sheep's wool for another $30.
The boots were my only problem. My feet are size 11 1/2 US, size 44-45 here. My friends were doing the bargaining for me (which probably saved me a bundle) and when they said the size they needed the shop keepers would go goggle-eyed.
"You want boots in WHAT size?! I might have one pair... maybe, it will cost you T90,000".
Invariably, the boots were so cramped that my frozen feet would get stuck in them, and it would take two people to pull them off. Finally I settled for a slightly cheaper pair of boots without all the fancy leather decorations. Still, they fit, they're real leather, they're warm.
After my friends had finished helping me wade through my cluelessness about clothes in general, and Mongolian clothes specifically, we made our way toward the center of the market. We weaved our way between shops, through open and tight spaces, but always through crowds.
At one point we walked through a particularly narrow space, and two people tried to go on either side of me. Instantly I glanced at my exposed pocket, something I had done about a hundred times that day, and one of them reaching inside it. I grabbed his wrist.
In retrospect I probably shouldn't have done that. It's quite possible to get a punch in the face from grabbing a pickpocket's wrist, or even get slashed by razor blades. On top of that, since he was reaching into the pocket with my change the most he could have gotten was $10. Fortunately for me, however, he noticed that his haul wasn't worth fighting for, struggled weakly, then let go with a little mild swearing.
I rejoined the others, and found that one of them hadn't been so lucky. He'd gotten his entire wallet stolen. I told my tale with a bit of smugness (I can be a bit of a jerk). One of the Mongolians had gotten pick-pocketted and I HADN'T.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
cold.
I woke up at about six-thirty and stared out at the pre-dawn darkness, feeling like it was six thirty. Because this feeling was, after all, correct, I proceeded slowly ooze through my morning routine like a migrating slime mold. It was -30 outside, with howling wind that blasted dust and snow against the windows, making a soft hissing noise.
At 8:50 I made my way down to the class room, just as the sun was starting to climb above the mountains. The students started trickling in, and one of them greeted me warmly with an ear to ear smile.
"It's a beautiful day outside!" he said with genuine enthusiasm.
I looked at him in amazement. Did he live in the same world I did? Hadn't he just been outside?
He saw my quizzical look. "The smoke is gone!" he said.
I looked out the window. The coal smoke was indeed gone.
"Isn't it a bit cold out?" I asked.
"It's...... fresh!" he said.
Ah. -30 is now "fresh". I have been surprised by the way Mongolians react to cold. When it was thirty degrees out (Fahrenheit) they complained and bundled up. At zero degrees they complained more. At -20 they became somewhat sullen and stopped talking about it all together. However, as soon as the temperature dropped below -20 they brightened. Zero degrees is "freezing", but negative thirty is "fresh".
I think they're all insane. My definition of "cold" begins at zero degrees, but from there it progresses in a predictable fashion. Zero is cold, negative ten is colder, negative twenty is unpleasant, negative thirty burns, and negative forty is miserable, at least until you freeze.
The internet has been down for several days (I'm writing from a cafe) so I haven't been able to make activities for the children's class or look up Bible verses online.
On Tuesday I had the junior class make chocolate chip cookies instead of reading a story and doing grammar work. I told them we were going to make cookies, and they all followed me upstairs as if I were leading them to a pit of eternal suffering. However, as I organised them to do various tasks that involved making a mess of things, they brightened. After a short time they were talking up a storm in three languages and laughing at everything in general.
I got a greased cookie sheet and told them to put balls of dough on it. I turned around to get a spoon, and when I turned back five seconds later the sheet was absolutely covered in large balls of dough. Apparently they had never made chocolate chip cookies before. I removed some of the balls, but I guess I didn't remove enough, because when the sheet came out of the oven it was all one solid mass of cookie... not that they cared.
Later, when I came back to get my things after my last class I saw that Mogie (cook, cleaning lady) had observed the mass of cookieness and helpfully spread the rest of the batter across another cookie sheet.
Whatever. It still tasted good.
It was -40 this morning. I'll upload the video when the school gets internet on Monday. I can't upload it from the cafe because I can't save anything to internet cafe computers.
later y'all.
At 8:50 I made my way down to the class room, just as the sun was starting to climb above the mountains. The students started trickling in, and one of them greeted me warmly with an ear to ear smile.
"It's a beautiful day outside!" he said with genuine enthusiasm.
I looked at him in amazement. Did he live in the same world I did? Hadn't he just been outside?
He saw my quizzical look. "The smoke is gone!" he said.
I looked out the window. The coal smoke was indeed gone.
"Isn't it a bit cold out?" I asked.
"It's...... fresh!" he said.
Ah. -30 is now "fresh". I have been surprised by the way Mongolians react to cold. When it was thirty degrees out (Fahrenheit) they complained and bundled up. At zero degrees they complained more. At -20 they became somewhat sullen and stopped talking about it all together. However, as soon as the temperature dropped below -20 they brightened. Zero degrees is "freezing", but negative thirty is "fresh".
I think they're all insane. My definition of "cold" begins at zero degrees, but from there it progresses in a predictable fashion. Zero is cold, negative ten is colder, negative twenty is unpleasant, negative thirty burns, and negative forty is miserable, at least until you freeze.
The internet has been down for several days (I'm writing from a cafe) so I haven't been able to make activities for the children's class or look up Bible verses online.
On Tuesday I had the junior class make chocolate chip cookies instead of reading a story and doing grammar work. I told them we were going to make cookies, and they all followed me upstairs as if I were leading them to a pit of eternal suffering. However, as I organised them to do various tasks that involved making a mess of things, they brightened. After a short time they were talking up a storm in three languages and laughing at everything in general.
I got a greased cookie sheet and told them to put balls of dough on it. I turned around to get a spoon, and when I turned back five seconds later the sheet was absolutely covered in large balls of dough. Apparently they had never made chocolate chip cookies before. I removed some of the balls, but I guess I didn't remove enough, because when the sheet came out of the oven it was all one solid mass of cookie... not that they cared.
Later, when I came back to get my things after my last class I saw that Mogie (cook, cleaning lady) had observed the mass of cookieness and helpfully spread the rest of the batter across another cookie sheet.
Whatever. It still tasted good.
It was -40 this morning. I'll upload the video when the school gets internet on Monday. I can't upload it from the cafe because I can't save anything to internet cafe computers.
later y'all.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Sabbath
I have about 10 minutes to write this post, because it comes at the tail end of a two hour internet cafe session. The internet is down at the school, but I still have to download things from the internet for class activities, so I have made the journey down here.
I have a funny / happy post to write, but I don't have time to write it. Instead, I'll write about the sad and worrisome thing that happened on the same day.
I was sitting in the staff room after my last class (which now ends at 8:30) and one of my students came in. This is somewhat unusual, usually the students don't come into the staff room, because they never need to ask me things outside class. She was trying to communicate something that she found difficult to say.
"You... Saturday... Happy?" she asked.
I stared at her, mostly expressionless, waiting for more info.
"What you do Saturday" she asked.
I listed my Sabbath activites.
"You like Saturday?"
"yes" I said.
"Why you unhappy Saturday? Monday happy, Tuesday happy, Wednesday happy, only Saturday not happy."
It suddenly struck me. This student, who wasn't a church member and had never attended church, knew that I found Sabbath increadibly stressful. I asked her who had told her this.
"All church member" she said.
Great.
I have been finding Sabbath stressful. For one thing, I'm not comfortable leading a group. For another, I'm terrified of saying something that is theologically wrong. Also, I specifically dislike teaching new people who come to church, because they want to be fed basic facts in a lesson style for an hour at a time. Frankly, I feel like a new Christian myself in many ways, and I find it hard to teach them.
Also, there is the fact that I've been finding it hard to have genuine excitement for spiritual things lately. My mind is tired. I have prayed, desperately, for God to give me energy for things like this, and to strengthen my faith, but so far it hasn't helped.
Clock's running out
Please pray for me.
I have a funny / happy post to write, but I don't have time to write it. Instead, I'll write about the sad and worrisome thing that happened on the same day.
I was sitting in the staff room after my last class (which now ends at 8:30) and one of my students came in. This is somewhat unusual, usually the students don't come into the staff room, because they never need to ask me things outside class. She was trying to communicate something that she found difficult to say.
"You... Saturday... Happy?" she asked.
I stared at her, mostly expressionless, waiting for more info.
"What you do Saturday" she asked.
I listed my Sabbath activites.
"You like Saturday?"
"yes" I said.
"Why you unhappy Saturday? Monday happy, Tuesday happy, Wednesday happy, only Saturday not happy."
It suddenly struck me. This student, who wasn't a church member and had never attended church, knew that I found Sabbath increadibly stressful. I asked her who had told her this.
"All church member" she said.
Great.
I have been finding Sabbath stressful. For one thing, I'm not comfortable leading a group. For another, I'm terrified of saying something that is theologically wrong. Also, I specifically dislike teaching new people who come to church, because they want to be fed basic facts in a lesson style for an hour at a time. Frankly, I feel like a new Christian myself in many ways, and I find it hard to teach them.
Also, there is the fact that I've been finding it hard to have genuine excitement for spiritual things lately. My mind is tired. I have prayed, desperately, for God to give me energy for things like this, and to strengthen my faith, but so far it hasn't helped.
Clock's running out
Please pray for me.
Friday, January 16, 2009
This is why I haven't been taking pictures
Mongolia isn't pretty during the winter. This picture may be a particular kind of ugly (waste water dump at the edge of a ger community) but it's not necessarily more ugly than the rest of the city. Everything is covered in coal soot, frozen spit, motor oil and dismembered bits of animals.
But I'm enjoying myself again.
I'll admit I'm having a bit of a power high at the moment. Granted, it isn't justified, but I'll enjoy it while it lasts. Since Brandon decided not to come back I'm the only English teacher, which means that I get to decide how things work. It's quite fun. I've gotten to observe human character traits from a different perspective. I hope I'm not acting like a complete jerk, but I probably am.
A few days ago some people asked to be transferred up from level one to level two. They said that level one was boring. I was astounded by their request because they spoke almost no English, and the first lesson of level one had been amazingly difficult.
I have found that students usually overestimate their language abilities. Only a few have told me how good they think their English is (most say just the opposite) but the general trend is that the worst students want to move up, and the best students want to slow down.
Itgil and I talked to these students, and I finally offered to teach them from the level two book for a day and let them decide after they had experienced it. We showed them some level two books. One of the students leafed through the book, then handed it back to Itgil. She spoke in Mongolian that I couldn't follow. Itgil translated for me; "She says that the book is different. She doesn't understand some words".
no.....dur.....
I thought that the issue had been settled, but the next day they all showed up with level two books. It was... interesting. I must say I was impressed by their ability to learn despite the fact that their knowledge of English appeared to be roughly equal to my knowledge of Mongolian (that is to say, quite pathetic). One of them taught Japanese at a nearby university, so her general knowledge of languages may have helped a bit.
We slowly, painfully struggled through a few exercises, dissected the conversation period as if it were an animal on a lab bench, and eventually ran out of time. It wasn't a normal class, but like I said I was impressed at their determination. It's the first time I've seen someone choose to skip a level against our advice and actually TRY. Most people skip a level then sit back and expect me to shove knowledge down their throat, which doesn't work.
I tried to go out and buy a pie pan (or something that could be used as a pie pan) yesterday. I went to the State Department Store and looked around until I found something that might work. I then looked at the price. The exchange rate between the dollar and the Tugric is about 1200:1, so it takes a while for my brain to assign an actual value to the prices I read. This particular price was T90,000. $80 for a cheap cooking pan.
I glanced around at the other prices, and was shocked to find that they were all the same. The cheapest things in that section of the store were $30, and they were mostly plastic. When we lived here the same exact pots and pans were selling for $10 each!
Minimum wage here is about $90 a month. A fair number of people make that, and some make even less (or nothing). It pisses me off that someone would have the audacity to sell an ordinary pan (the kind that ordinary people stuff their cupboards with) for a month's wages. I also can't understand why on earth Mongolians buy them.
The state department store is an interesting place. Most of the stuff it sells is the same cheap crud from China that every other store sells, but the prices are higher than the prices in the US. Most of the people who shop there are upper class Mongolians, eager to demonstrate the fact that they can buy expensive junk.
To each their own.
I went back home, got the key to Brandon's apartment, and found that he had another pan. He also had some cough drops, of which I stole a few. I don't think he'll mind.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Long video that I find terribly embarassing
This happened a few days ago but I haven't gotten around to uploading the video. The video pretty much says what happened, so I won't bother writing it. I'll just say that I'm never going to make a bet involving $20 again, no matter how ridiculously sure it is. I'm not exactly sure why I did it this time, I usually don't do things like that.
Afterward she told me that she had to take really disgusting medicine for a long time, and that she's gotten used to ignoring unpleasant tastes. I'm still amazed. The spiciest thing in Mongolian cooking is finely chopped soggy onion (meaning nothing).
Afterward she told me that she had to take really disgusting medicine for a long time, and that she's gotten used to ignoring unpleasant tastes. I'm still amazed. The spiciest thing in Mongolian cooking is finely chopped soggy onion (meaning nothing).
Monday, January 12, 2009
-Dies-
I really should be making worksheets for tomorrow's junior classes. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to make them. Since I got here the junior classes have been... difficult. I'll use the word difficult because some people might disapprove of the words I wrote first.
So, difficult.
This morning I asked Hishge how long she would spend teaching each of the junior classes. The pastor had told me she would teach the first half, and I would teach the second half.
"I'm sorry, I'm busy" she said.
My heart rate instantly went through the roof. This meant that instead of teaching two half hour classes, I had to teach two full hour classes. I got on the computer and started madly adding to the worksheets I have prepared.
One of the major differences between the junior classes and the adult classes is that the students in the junior classes don't talk. Now, the adults don't talk much either, but if you ask them a direct question they will flounder around and try to answer it. The floundering is the point of the whole thing; if they have to think about it they are learning. It also gives me a point to correct their grammar and suggest words.
When the students in the junior class are asked a question they give a long, mournful sigh, stare just past your right shoulder, and then mumble to themselves in one of many non-english languages. This means that if I don't have something for them to do during every second of class it is absolutely miserable.
I looked at the schedule. There were two classes, Child III and Child V. The last term we had had Child I and Child II (I thought), so I was somewhat confused as to how these had morphed into III and V. However, I decided not to be concerned about it. I downloaded stories off the internet, wrote questions, made scrambled sentences, made grammar questions and created a word search using an online word search generator. I then repeated the process for the second class, trying to make the questions slightly harder, but not too hard.
Then, knowing we'd be stuck with 15 minutes at the end of each class, I created a matching game to build vocabulary.
After three hours of work I rushed downstairs to get the printer, so that I could print off the 40 odd pages of activities. Itgil protested, saying that she needed the printer. I promised I would bring it back in five minutes. That promise part wasn't very wise.
The Hindu god Callalamma has one purpose: to guard the buttermilk. I'm not exactly sure what supernatural calamities would befall the buttermilk if Callalamma were to cease guarding it, but who really wants to find out? Buttermilk is already odd enough without supernatural calamities.
Unfortunately, due to my Judeo-Christian beliefs, I cannot accept the idea that there is a god specifically devoted to the care of printers. I can, however, easily believe that there is a demon who's sole purpose is to cause difficulties with printers. The absence of a printer god and the presence of a printer demon might explain why printers behave the way they do.
The printer demon was hard at work on this day.
As quickly as I possibly could I began opening documents, selecting the appropriate options, and sending them to the printer. I then waited as the printer hummed and churned for the next few minutes, printing out an impressive stack of papers. I then took the stack and started organizing the papers so that they could be stapled.
To my horror, I saw that the words on the pages were barely visible. The printer had run out of ink somewhere around page two, but it wasn't self-aware enough to notice. It had continued printing the other three dozen pages, dutifully piling up blank garbage for me to throw away. That's the other problem with printers, they aren't self aware.
I ran back downstairs to ask Itgil if we had replacement ink cartridges. She looked at me blankly.
"Ink cartridges?"
"Yes!" I said. "Ink for the printer."
"No, ask Gaana order them" she said.
"I did, last month" I said.
The last comment went unnoticed. Itgil has learned to tell the difference between me trying to explain something I'm frustrated about and me simply complaining. She ignores the complaining, which has done little to shut me up.
I went to Gaana. "My printer is out of ink", I said.
"Your printer is new!" she said.
I was somewhat confused by this. For one thing, the printer wasn't really mine. For another, it certainly wasn't new, not even in the broadest sense. I looked at her blankly.
"Your new printer, upstairs" she said. She then proceeded to take me upstairs and show me the new printer, which had been hiding in a large Hewlett-Packard box on the desk next to mine for the past month. Ah.
Glancing at the clock I saw that I had half an hour left. I tore into the box, took out the printer, put the installation CD in, and nearly broke down. The entire thing was in Korean.
I stumbled blindly through the installation process, but eventually I got through the Korean part. A familiar windows printer wizard then opened, and cheerily told me that if I were to install the printer the computer would spontaneously burst into flames... or crash, which is pretty much the same thing.
I panicked. I ran downstairs, and again begged Gaana to let me use her printer. This time she consented, and I quickly emailed everything to myself. Sweet success! Three minutes before class I had my stories and activities.
I went upstairs, and saw that there was only one student. This was bad. Not only was it bad because the student was alone, but it was bad because she was the wrong student. This student had been in the upper level classes before, and this was the lower level class, wasn't it?
Unfortunately, it wasn't. Two hours later, after stumbling through classes consisting of people who couldn't even understand the worksheets I had made, I went back down to Itgil.
"Umm, Itgil", I said. "Why is it that the students in level V are behind the students in level III?"
"the students in level V were level IV last term, and the students in level III were level II last term" she said, looking at me as if it was the stupidest question she'd ever been asked.
Ah. Of course. Why on earth would a level number have anything to do with one's degree of skill?
So now I have to rethink how I'm going to teach these classes. One of them used to be Brandon's class, that's why the level numbers are different. Both of them are going to be a real pain. The youngest student in Brandon's class is nine, so I'm not sure she could handle the worksheets even if they were in Mongolian.
Now I have three hours to make worksheets for both classes, but all this rambling has given me a few ideas.
Ciao.
So, difficult.
This morning I asked Hishge how long she would spend teaching each of the junior classes. The pastor had told me she would teach the first half, and I would teach the second half.
"I'm sorry, I'm busy" she said.
My heart rate instantly went through the roof. This meant that instead of teaching two half hour classes, I had to teach two full hour classes. I got on the computer and started madly adding to the worksheets I have prepared.
One of the major differences between the junior classes and the adult classes is that the students in the junior classes don't talk. Now, the adults don't talk much either, but if you ask them a direct question they will flounder around and try to answer it. The floundering is the point of the whole thing; if they have to think about it they are learning. It also gives me a point to correct their grammar and suggest words.
When the students in the junior class are asked a question they give a long, mournful sigh, stare just past your right shoulder, and then mumble to themselves in one of many non-english languages. This means that if I don't have something for them to do during every second of class it is absolutely miserable.
I looked at the schedule. There were two classes, Child III and Child V. The last term we had had Child I and Child II (I thought), so I was somewhat confused as to how these had morphed into III and V. However, I decided not to be concerned about it. I downloaded stories off the internet, wrote questions, made scrambled sentences, made grammar questions and created a word search using an online word search generator. I then repeated the process for the second class, trying to make the questions slightly harder, but not too hard.
Then, knowing we'd be stuck with 15 minutes at the end of each class, I created a matching game to build vocabulary.
After three hours of work I rushed downstairs to get the printer, so that I could print off the 40 odd pages of activities. Itgil protested, saying that she needed the printer. I promised I would bring it back in five minutes. That promise part wasn't very wise.
The Hindu god Callalamma has one purpose: to guard the buttermilk. I'm not exactly sure what supernatural calamities would befall the buttermilk if Callalamma were to cease guarding it, but who really wants to find out? Buttermilk is already odd enough without supernatural calamities.
Unfortunately, due to my Judeo-Christian beliefs, I cannot accept the idea that there is a god specifically devoted to the care of printers. I can, however, easily believe that there is a demon who's sole purpose is to cause difficulties with printers. The absence of a printer god and the presence of a printer demon might explain why printers behave the way they do.
The printer demon was hard at work on this day.
As quickly as I possibly could I began opening documents, selecting the appropriate options, and sending them to the printer. I then waited as the printer hummed and churned for the next few minutes, printing out an impressive stack of papers. I then took the stack and started organizing the papers so that they could be stapled.
To my horror, I saw that the words on the pages were barely visible. The printer had run out of ink somewhere around page two, but it wasn't self-aware enough to notice. It had continued printing the other three dozen pages, dutifully piling up blank garbage for me to throw away. That's the other problem with printers, they aren't self aware.
I ran back downstairs to ask Itgil if we had replacement ink cartridges. She looked at me blankly.
"Ink cartridges?"
"Yes!" I said. "Ink for the printer."
"No, ask Gaana order them" she said.
"I did, last month" I said.
The last comment went unnoticed. Itgil has learned to tell the difference between me trying to explain something I'm frustrated about and me simply complaining. She ignores the complaining, which has done little to shut me up.
I went to Gaana. "My printer is out of ink", I said.
"Your printer is new!" she said.
I was somewhat confused by this. For one thing, the printer wasn't really mine. For another, it certainly wasn't new, not even in the broadest sense. I looked at her blankly.
"Your new printer, upstairs" she said. She then proceeded to take me upstairs and show me the new printer, which had been hiding in a large Hewlett-Packard box on the desk next to mine for the past month. Ah.
Glancing at the clock I saw that I had half an hour left. I tore into the box, took out the printer, put the installation CD in, and nearly broke down. The entire thing was in Korean.
I stumbled blindly through the installation process, but eventually I got through the Korean part. A familiar windows printer wizard then opened, and cheerily told me that if I were to install the printer the computer would spontaneously burst into flames... or crash, which is pretty much the same thing.
I panicked. I ran downstairs, and again begged Gaana to let me use her printer. This time she consented, and I quickly emailed everything to myself. Sweet success! Three minutes before class I had my stories and activities.
I went upstairs, and saw that there was only one student. This was bad. Not only was it bad because the student was alone, but it was bad because she was the wrong student. This student had been in the upper level classes before, and this was the lower level class, wasn't it?
Unfortunately, it wasn't. Two hours later, after stumbling through classes consisting of people who couldn't even understand the worksheets I had made, I went back down to Itgil.
"Umm, Itgil", I said. "Why is it that the students in level V are behind the students in level III?"
"the students in level V were level IV last term, and the students in level III were level II last term" she said, looking at me as if it was the stupidest question she'd ever been asked.
Ah. Of course. Why on earth would a level number have anything to do with one's degree of skill?
So now I have to rethink how I'm going to teach these classes. One of them used to be Brandon's class, that's why the level numbers are different. Both of them are going to be a real pain. The youngest student in Brandon's class is nine, so I'm not sure she could handle the worksheets even if they were in Mongolian.
Now I have three hours to make worksheets for both classes, but all this rambling has given me a few ideas.
Ciao.
Royally pissed
I'm royally pissed. I really don't understand why America isn't royally pissed along with me. Well, maybe that's not true. I understand why, I just wish it wasn't so.
In the past two weeks the Israeli offensive into Gaza has killed 900 people (898 last time I checked, but by the time anyone reads this the number will be above 900). Interestingly, that's almost exactly the same number of deaths as the total number of Israelis killed by Palestinians since 2002 , both military and civilian deaths: 906.
I would really like to ask, why is Israel even there? Israel wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for US support and military aid.
"Oh," they say. "We have to give Palestine back to them, because it's their ancestral homeland."
Yes, it is. We should give Palestine to them. However, considering the fact that they haven't lived there for over a thousand years, it seems only fair that we should give New York city back to the Manhattan indian tribe (of the Wappinger confederacy), since it's only been about 350 years since they lived there. I'm sure their descendants can come up with the $25 worth of junk they were originally paid for it. The actual sum was 60 dutch guilders, but I've been told that would be $25 today. Something tells me the terms of the sale weren't made clear.
While we're at it, we should give the indians F-16's, missiles and tanks with which they can control "acts of terrorism" aimed against them as they take over the city. Of course they won't need all of it, New Yorkers can keep the Bronx. However, it may be necessary to build a giant wall all around the Bronx, to keep the people from, say, trying to retake the island.
See? Americans don't really care about who has historical claim to land. If it's their land they switch gears and say that the idea of handing property over to people who's ancestors lived on it is absurd, because they themselves never lived there and they themselves didn't build the houses or infrastructure.
The real reason why America supports Israel is that some Christians think the nation of Israel needs to exist in order to fulfill prophecy. Specifically, it needs to be there so that Jerusalem can be trampled under the feet of gentiles (Revelation 11:2), so that the battle of Armageddon can occur (not really sure where they get that idea), and so that the antichrist can put a stop to sacrifices in the temple, which is a terrible interpretation of Daniel 9:27.
First of all, anyone who thinks that references to Israel and Jerusalem in Revelation are literal should give up and join the dark side now before all the cocaine is gone, since Revelation says that those saved at the second coming are from the tribes of Israel (and that there's only 144,000 of them). Second, if God says something is going to happen then governments don't need to lend him a helping hand. Thinking we can change the future by supporting the state if Israel is absurd, arrogant, and foolish.
Wow, I should really stop talking about politics.
In the past two weeks the Israeli offensive into Gaza has killed 900 people (898 last time I checked, but by the time anyone reads this the number will be above 900). Interestingly, that's almost exactly the same number of deaths as the total number of Israelis killed by Palestinians since 2002 , both military and civilian deaths: 906.
I would really like to ask, why is Israel even there? Israel wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for US support and military aid.
"Oh," they say. "We have to give Palestine back to them, because it's their ancestral homeland."
Yes, it is. We should give Palestine to them. However, considering the fact that they haven't lived there for over a thousand years, it seems only fair that we should give New York city back to the Manhattan indian tribe (of the Wappinger confederacy), since it's only been about 350 years since they lived there. I'm sure their descendants can come up with the $25 worth of junk they were originally paid for it. The actual sum was 60 dutch guilders, but I've been told that would be $25 today. Something tells me the terms of the sale weren't made clear.
While we're at it, we should give the indians F-16's, missiles and tanks with which they can control "acts of terrorism" aimed against them as they take over the city. Of course they won't need all of it, New Yorkers can keep the Bronx. However, it may be necessary to build a giant wall all around the Bronx, to keep the people from, say, trying to retake the island.
See? Americans don't really care about who has historical claim to land. If it's their land they switch gears and say that the idea of handing property over to people who's ancestors lived on it is absurd, because they themselves never lived there and they themselves didn't build the houses or infrastructure.
The real reason why America supports Israel is that some Christians think the nation of Israel needs to exist in order to fulfill prophecy. Specifically, it needs to be there so that Jerusalem can be trampled under the feet of gentiles (Revelation 11:2), so that the battle of Armageddon can occur (not really sure where they get that idea), and so that the antichrist can put a stop to sacrifices in the temple, which is a terrible interpretation of Daniel 9:27.
First of all, anyone who thinks that references to Israel and Jerusalem in Revelation are literal should give up and join the dark side now before all the cocaine is gone, since Revelation says that those saved at the second coming are from the tribes of Israel (and that there's only 144,000 of them). Second, if God says something is going to happen then governments don't need to lend him a helping hand. Thinking we can change the future by supporting the state if Israel is absurd, arrogant, and foolish.
Wow, I should really stop talking about politics.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Me rambling on about me
Yesterday was interesting. Not interesting for you perhaps, but interesting for me. It was the kind of interesting I could have done without though.
My Sabbath duties have become more and more unpredictable. On any given Sabbath it is possible for me to teach either of two Sabbath school groups, preach the sermon, or give a Bible study (which has to be adjusted on the spot depending on who shows up). Quite frankly, I stink at it. We were talking about heaven yesterday and I tried to find the verse that says there will be no more crying or death. I couldn't remember if it was at the very end or Revelation, or one of the other two "ends" in the middle of the book. Finally Beaver Eller (yes, that is his name) found it for me. Later, in the Bible study I needed to find where Jesus says whoever drinks the water he gives them will never be thirsty again (it's John 4). It seems I spend half my time flipping madly through my Bible finding things. The other half I spend scrambling to put together some kind of meaningful topic progression. I'm worried that it makes me come across as somewhat cold.
On top of this, the treasurer from somewhere came to give the sermon yesterday, bringing his whole family. They decided (of course) to sit in and listen to me flounder in the introductory Sabbath school.
great.
I know that I'm not the one teaching people, that if anyone is led they are led by the Holy Spirit. I know that, but it's hard to remember I know it. If things go well, I feel proud, and then I feel bad for feeling proud. If things go badly I feel terrible (and no, I don't feel good for feeling terrible).
People on the level of my boss's bosses (like the treasurer) are always showing up here. Once my boss's boss's boss's boss's bosses showed up, making me think thoughts to the effect of "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!".
I used to just push Brandon in their general direction and pretend I had stuff to do, but now Brandon is gone. Brandon left to have surgery in the US, and when he left I predicted that he wouldn't be back.
He hasn't come back.
He has yet to tell the pastor that this absence is permanent, but I'm going to bet that he'll do that too. Most of his SM friends are serving in places like Micronesia, which makes him very jealous and a bit bored.
I'll be teaching alone for the next two months. I asked for extra pay (in the Korean school they pay an extra $600 a month for one extra class) but I don't think I'll get it. This is a slow month, and it turns out that I won't be teaching any more classes than I did last term. Here's my schedule:
9:00 - class
10:00 - sit and veg
11:00 - sit and veg
12:00 - sit and veg
1:00 - lunch
2:00 - lower level junior class
3:00 - upper level junior class
4:00 - class
5:00 - class
6:00 - Bible study
7:00 - class
There are two changes that have been made since last term. The first is that I will only be teaching for half an hour during the Junior class. This is a good change, the kind of change that makes choirs of angels sing. Hishge will teach grammar for the first half of the class, which should soften them up a bit. I can then come in and seem like a breath of fresh air simply by virtue of the fact that I'm not teaching grammar.
The second change is that there are no classes on Friday. Instead we will have a general activity day. I'm planning on alternating between cooking and movies. I like the idea of cooking better because it allows for more informal conversation, and because it means I don't have to type up any question sheets or set up the projector. I think I'll have them make quiche this Friday, so I should probably make some today to make sure I can do it myself. If I fail we'll make cinnamon rolls.
Classes begin tomorrow, wish me luck!
My Sabbath duties have become more and more unpredictable. On any given Sabbath it is possible for me to teach either of two Sabbath school groups, preach the sermon, or give a Bible study (which has to be adjusted on the spot depending on who shows up). Quite frankly, I stink at it. We were talking about heaven yesterday and I tried to find the verse that says there will be no more crying or death. I couldn't remember if it was at the very end or Revelation, or one of the other two "ends" in the middle of the book. Finally Beaver Eller (yes, that is his name) found it for me. Later, in the Bible study I needed to find where Jesus says whoever drinks the water he gives them will never be thirsty again (it's John 4). It seems I spend half my time flipping madly through my Bible finding things. The other half I spend scrambling to put together some kind of meaningful topic progression. I'm worried that it makes me come across as somewhat cold.
On top of this, the treasurer from somewhere came to give the sermon yesterday, bringing his whole family. They decided (of course) to sit in and listen to me flounder in the introductory Sabbath school.
great.
I know that I'm not the one teaching people, that if anyone is led they are led by the Holy Spirit. I know that, but it's hard to remember I know it. If things go well, I feel proud, and then I feel bad for feeling proud. If things go badly I feel terrible (and no, I don't feel good for feeling terrible).
People on the level of my boss's bosses (like the treasurer) are always showing up here. Once my boss's boss's boss's boss's bosses showed up, making me think thoughts to the effect of "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!".
I used to just push Brandon in their general direction and pretend I had stuff to do, but now Brandon is gone. Brandon left to have surgery in the US, and when he left I predicted that he wouldn't be back.
He hasn't come back.
He has yet to tell the pastor that this absence is permanent, but I'm going to bet that he'll do that too. Most of his SM friends are serving in places like Micronesia, which makes him very jealous and a bit bored.
I'll be teaching alone for the next two months. I asked for extra pay (in the Korean school they pay an extra $600 a month for one extra class) but I don't think I'll get it. This is a slow month, and it turns out that I won't be teaching any more classes than I did last term. Here's my schedule:
9:00 - class
10:00 - sit and veg
11:00 - sit and veg
12:00 - sit and veg
1:00 - lunch
2:00 - lower level junior class
3:00 - upper level junior class
4:00 - class
5:00 - class
6:00 - Bible study
7:00 - class
There are two changes that have been made since last term. The first is that I will only be teaching for half an hour during the Junior class. This is a good change, the kind of change that makes choirs of angels sing. Hishge will teach grammar for the first half of the class, which should soften them up a bit. I can then come in and seem like a breath of fresh air simply by virtue of the fact that I'm not teaching grammar.
The second change is that there are no classes on Friday. Instead we will have a general activity day. I'm planning on alternating between cooking and movies. I like the idea of cooking better because it allows for more informal conversation, and because it means I don't have to type up any question sheets or set up the projector. I think I'll have them make quiche this Friday, so I should probably make some today to make sure I can do it myself. If I fail we'll make cinnamon rolls.
Classes begin tomorrow, wish me luck!
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Odd? Yes. Good? well......
Perhaps I shouldn't take the last post too far. Go ahead, read the last post. I'll wait.
I was talking about the part about spurning one's genes in favor of a more self-deterministic outlook on life. There are a few things that I am, and a few things that I am not. One of the things I am not is a social person.
Unfortunately I forgot that today, and when I found out that there was a Indian / Mexican restaurant in Ulaanbaatar I invited a few people out to eat. In retrospect I suppose I knew this was a dumb idea, I've just taken to ignoring my gut instincts in favor of a more interesting life.
Los Bandidos claimed to be an exotic restaurant offering both Indian and Mexican food. A review or two had warned me that it was more expensive than the average UB restaurant, but this was not surprising considering a meal in the average UB restaurant will set you back less than $5. Before my family moved to Asia I had been raised mostly on Mexican food and Adventist style veggie meat, so those are the two things I've been craving. I was willing to pay American prices for some good Mexican food.
Five of us went to the restaurant, crowding into a single taxi which weaved it's way through the crowded streets, toying with death at the chaotic intersections. After a little searching we found the restaurant and walked in.
The first bad sign met me at the door. Next to a small marker board with the specials on it (in English) there was a dish of sugar-coated fennel. The dish of fennel was unapologetically Indian. It wasn't even trying to pretend that it was Mexican.
The feel of the place was not helped by the Indian paintings on the wall, the statues of elephants and gods that stood on every available surface, or the smell which wasn't Mexican at all. It may have been a good Indian restaurant, but it was most assuredly not a Mexican one by any stretch of the imagination.
A second problem came to my attention when we sat down and ordered. I had brought the wrong people along. Mongolians have the least adventurous palate of any people I know. Of course they would probably say the same thing about me, because of the interesting colors I turn when I unexpectedly bite into a mutton-paste stuffed dumpling, but we'll let you be the judges on this one. My friends examined the Mexican menu, discussed it at length, examined the Indian menu, discussed it at length, then decided to order tea and some salads.
One of the problems may have been the price. Reviews had given me the impression that the prices were American (outrageously expensive here), but those reviews were out of date by a few years. The prices were, in fact, high even by American standards. My friends expected me to pay (because I had the last time, when the total bill for the five of us was about $15), and this may have contributed to their assertion that they had "already eaten".
I ordered vegetarian burritos, mostly because they looked like they were the thing on the menu most likely to contain large quantities of refried beans.
As we sat around waiting for the food to arrive I became more and more uncomfortable, mostly because I felt like I should talk to people (since I had invited them all out) but my language skills dictate that I can only comment on what other people say, because I can usually understand but hardly ever construct my own complete sentences. This results in a conversation which is mostly in Mongolian where I make occasional comments in English.
Eventually the food arrived, but we didn't eat because someone had gotten up and gone to the bathroom. If left to our own devices both the Mongolians and myself would have dug right in, but both of us were too busy getting used to the weirdness of it all to do what we would have normally done.
Eventually the person got back, we prayed, and began to eat. My burritos were interesting, rather like the way that the "Mexican" music and the statues of hindu gods were interesting. The burrito was stuffed with mushrooms, kidney beans, cheese, corn, tomatoes in various forms, potato bits, and paneer; a squishy white Indian cheese.
I was disappointed by three things: the fact that there were no pinto beans, the fact that there were kidney beans, and the fact that the burrito contained potatoes and paneer. We'll count the potatoes and paneer as one thing because they are bad for the same reason: they aren't Mexican, they're Indian (at least in the form in which I encountered them).
This, combined with the fact that the things were small, that they didn't come with a side of beans and rice or salsa, and the fact that they cost me eight dollars, had me rather depressed. Then Gerthle found a hair in her kofta, and that pretty much did it. We finished, I paid $25 (which is a lot considering I was the only one who got a full meal) and we left.
I suppose I shouldn't be annoyed. This is Mongolia. The only way to make sure you have supplies for a restaurant like that is to ship them all in yourself. Still, at prices like that you'd think they would be able to do that.
< / griping session >
I was talking about the part about spurning one's genes in favor of a more self-deterministic outlook on life. There are a few things that I am, and a few things that I am not. One of the things I am not is a social person.
Unfortunately I forgot that today, and when I found out that there was a Indian / Mexican restaurant in Ulaanbaatar I invited a few people out to eat. In retrospect I suppose I knew this was a dumb idea, I've just taken to ignoring my gut instincts in favor of a more interesting life.
Los Bandidos claimed to be an exotic restaurant offering both Indian and Mexican food. A review or two had warned me that it was more expensive than the average UB restaurant, but this was not surprising considering a meal in the average UB restaurant will set you back less than $5. Before my family moved to Asia I had been raised mostly on Mexican food and Adventist style veggie meat, so those are the two things I've been craving. I was willing to pay American prices for some good Mexican food.
Five of us went to the restaurant, crowding into a single taxi which weaved it's way through the crowded streets, toying with death at the chaotic intersections. After a little searching we found the restaurant and walked in.
The first bad sign met me at the door. Next to a small marker board with the specials on it (in English) there was a dish of sugar-coated fennel. The dish of fennel was unapologetically Indian. It wasn't even trying to pretend that it was Mexican.
The feel of the place was not helped by the Indian paintings on the wall, the statues of elephants and gods that stood on every available surface, or the smell which wasn't Mexican at all. It may have been a good Indian restaurant, but it was most assuredly not a Mexican one by any stretch of the imagination.
A second problem came to my attention when we sat down and ordered. I had brought the wrong people along. Mongolians have the least adventurous palate of any people I know. Of course they would probably say the same thing about me, because of the interesting colors I turn when I unexpectedly bite into a mutton-paste stuffed dumpling, but we'll let you be the judges on this one. My friends examined the Mexican menu, discussed it at length, examined the Indian menu, discussed it at length, then decided to order tea and some salads.
One of the problems may have been the price. Reviews had given me the impression that the prices were American (outrageously expensive here), but those reviews were out of date by a few years. The prices were, in fact, high even by American standards. My friends expected me to pay (because I had the last time, when the total bill for the five of us was about $15), and this may have contributed to their assertion that they had "already eaten".
I ordered vegetarian burritos, mostly because they looked like they were the thing on the menu most likely to contain large quantities of refried beans.
As we sat around waiting for the food to arrive I became more and more uncomfortable, mostly because I felt like I should talk to people (since I had invited them all out) but my language skills dictate that I can only comment on what other people say, because I can usually understand but hardly ever construct my own complete sentences. This results in a conversation which is mostly in Mongolian where I make occasional comments in English.
Eventually the food arrived, but we didn't eat because someone had gotten up and gone to the bathroom. If left to our own devices both the Mongolians and myself would have dug right in, but both of us were too busy getting used to the weirdness of it all to do what we would have normally done.
Eventually the person got back, we prayed, and began to eat. My burritos were interesting, rather like the way that the "Mexican" music and the statues of hindu gods were interesting. The burrito was stuffed with mushrooms, kidney beans, cheese, corn, tomatoes in various forms, potato bits, and paneer; a squishy white Indian cheese.
I was disappointed by three things: the fact that there were no pinto beans, the fact that there were kidney beans, and the fact that the burrito contained potatoes and paneer. We'll count the potatoes and paneer as one thing because they are bad for the same reason: they aren't Mexican, they're Indian (at least in the form in which I encountered them).
This, combined with the fact that the things were small, that they didn't come with a side of beans and rice or salsa, and the fact that they cost me eight dollars, had me rather depressed. Then Gerthle found a hair in her kofta, and that pretty much did it. We finished, I paid $25 (which is a lot considering I was the only one who got a full meal) and we left.
I suppose I shouldn't be annoyed. This is Mongolia. The only way to make sure you have supplies for a restaurant like that is to ship them all in yourself. Still, at prices like that you'd think they would be able to do that.
< / griping session >
House Arrest
I used to believe in a kind of predestination. I didn't believe that grand forces had determined what our lives would be, or that free will was an illusion, but I had come to the subconscious conclusion that everyone was born as a "type" of person with an unalterable set of strengths and weakness.
I believed that because of my type, I was predestined to be good at science, creative, slightly loopy, and to have strong ankles.
In reality all I was really doing was taking traits of my relatives that I found interesting and assuming I would have them.
Once during high school a friend and I were walking down the stairs to morning worship (along with everyone else) and talking about stupid things we were capable of doing without damaging ourselves. The conversation covered stupid things involving machines, stupid things involving nature, and stupid things that we managed to do all on our own.
To demonstrate a skill of mine in the last category, I showed how strong my ankles were. I jumped the last two steps and landed with both ankles crooked. It certainly won me points in the "stupid things" category, but unfortunately my ankles had about had it. I heard one of my ankles give a loud "pop". There was no pain, but as I sat through worship I could feel it coming. My ankle quickly swelled to an impressive size, and I spent the next several weeks on crutches.
Since then both of my ankles have been "loose" so to speak. Hitting them at the wrong angle causes instant pain and swelling.
So much for the superman complex.
A little over a week ago when we went sledding I hit one of my ankles at the "wrong angle". I didn't notice it at first, but over the course of the day it became more and more sore. When I finally took weight off of it that night I found I could hardly walk. This combined with a shoulder injury I might have mentioned (my shoulder is still popping) to make me quite miserable.
The next day I came down with the flu, which I believe I have also mentioned.
So for the past week I've been sitting on the computer all day listening to books on tape. When I got over the flu I tried to go skating, but my ankle couldn't take it. The rest of the country is engaged in a string of holidays, and the school is pretty much empty. It's still below zero all the time, so it's no fun to be outside if you aren't doing something active. There's absolutely nothing to do.
Nothing, that is, except for argue with my shower.
Ulaanbaatar gets it's hot water from a central coal-burning power plant which contributes an abundance of smoke to the already choking valley. This plant is about four miles away from the school, so you would think that by the time the water got to us it would have made up it's mind about what temperature it wanted to be. Unfortunately, Mongolian water is very indecisive.
When I go into the bathroom in the morning I turn on the shower and wait. I wait for the cold water sitting in the plumbing of the building to run through, so that the promised blessing of hot water might shower itself upon me. After about five minutes the hot water (usually) shows up. I get into the shower.
This is where the argument begins. The hot water remains hot for a few minutes, then without warning it becomes scalding hot. I jump back, holding as much of my body as possible out of the boiling steam, and try to reach around the water to turn the handle more in the direction of "not lethal". I am a firm believer in non lethal showers.
After another minute or so the shower goes back to cold. This may not seem odd at first, but think of this: the heat source for this water is several miles away. The massive boiler the size of an apartment complex goes at a (fairly) constant rate. Somehow, despite this, my shower manages to go from cold, to hot, to very hot, to cold. The climb towards "very hot" makes sense, the abrupt fall back down does not.
I turn the shower back to warm, and enjoy a minute or so of bliss. After that the shower decides that bliss is boring, and changes the water back to boiling hot. I jump back, slip, bash my head into the tiled wall, slide helplessly into the scalding cataracts of death, and desperately turn the handle to cold.
No dice.
Going against all known laws of nature, my cold water has become hot! To make matters worse, the hot water is still hot, which is not what one would expect for some reason. My shower is a demented freak of nature. No matter what kind of water I demand, it gives me scalding hot water.
I have taken to running the shower into the tub. Interestingly, if all the water is allowed to mix the insane extremes cancel each other out and the result is perfectly comfortable.
Going back to the original topic of predestination, I have recently drifted more towards nurture in the "nature vs. nurture" argument. This drift is the result of "Your Brain on Music" and "The Brain That Changes Itself", two books that have shown (among other things) that the brain is a much more flexible organ than people have previously believed. Instead of "you are what your genes say you are" or "you are what you make yourself", it seems much more accurate to say that "you make your genes determine what you are", if that makes any sense at all. I would recommend The Brain That Changes Itself as the better of the two books if anyone is interested. A prior interest in music is a good reason to avoid Your Brain on Music. A review had said that it wasn't for musicians, and I had bought it thinking "That's me!". Apparently "musician" means anyone who has ever payed any attention to anything relating to music or the physics of sound. Ever. The first half of the book is mind numbingly dull.
Anywho, back to the doldrums. I'm currently restricted to the school building by another circumstance: the fact that this is interviews week and I have to stick around in case any new students show up so that I can recommend a starting level for them. So far a grand total of three people have shown up. Yay. (heavy sarcasm).
I believed that because of my type, I was predestined to be good at science, creative, slightly loopy, and to have strong ankles.
In reality all I was really doing was taking traits of my relatives that I found interesting and assuming I would have them.
Once during high school a friend and I were walking down the stairs to morning worship (along with everyone else) and talking about stupid things we were capable of doing without damaging ourselves. The conversation covered stupid things involving machines, stupid things involving nature, and stupid things that we managed to do all on our own.
To demonstrate a skill of mine in the last category, I showed how strong my ankles were. I jumped the last two steps and landed with both ankles crooked. It certainly won me points in the "stupid things" category, but unfortunately my ankles had about had it. I heard one of my ankles give a loud "pop". There was no pain, but as I sat through worship I could feel it coming. My ankle quickly swelled to an impressive size, and I spent the next several weeks on crutches.
Since then both of my ankles have been "loose" so to speak. Hitting them at the wrong angle causes instant pain and swelling.
So much for the superman complex.
A little over a week ago when we went sledding I hit one of my ankles at the "wrong angle". I didn't notice it at first, but over the course of the day it became more and more sore. When I finally took weight off of it that night I found I could hardly walk. This combined with a shoulder injury I might have mentioned (my shoulder is still popping) to make me quite miserable.
The next day I came down with the flu, which I believe I have also mentioned.
So for the past week I've been sitting on the computer all day listening to books on tape. When I got over the flu I tried to go skating, but my ankle couldn't take it. The rest of the country is engaged in a string of holidays, and the school is pretty much empty. It's still below zero all the time, so it's no fun to be outside if you aren't doing something active. There's absolutely nothing to do.
Nothing, that is, except for argue with my shower.
Ulaanbaatar gets it's hot water from a central coal-burning power plant which contributes an abundance of smoke to the already choking valley. This plant is about four miles away from the school, so you would think that by the time the water got to us it would have made up it's mind about what temperature it wanted to be. Unfortunately, Mongolian water is very indecisive.
When I go into the bathroom in the morning I turn on the shower and wait. I wait for the cold water sitting in the plumbing of the building to run through, so that the promised blessing of hot water might shower itself upon me. After about five minutes the hot water (usually) shows up. I get into the shower.
This is where the argument begins. The hot water remains hot for a few minutes, then without warning it becomes scalding hot. I jump back, holding as much of my body as possible out of the boiling steam, and try to reach around the water to turn the handle more in the direction of "not lethal". I am a firm believer in non lethal showers.
After another minute or so the shower goes back to cold. This may not seem odd at first, but think of this: the heat source for this water is several miles away. The massive boiler the size of an apartment complex goes at a (fairly) constant rate. Somehow, despite this, my shower manages to go from cold, to hot, to very hot, to cold. The climb towards "very hot" makes sense, the abrupt fall back down does not.
I turn the shower back to warm, and enjoy a minute or so of bliss. After that the shower decides that bliss is boring, and changes the water back to boiling hot. I jump back, slip, bash my head into the tiled wall, slide helplessly into the scalding cataracts of death, and desperately turn the handle to cold.
No dice.
Going against all known laws of nature, my cold water has become hot! To make matters worse, the hot water is still hot, which is not what one would expect for some reason. My shower is a demented freak of nature. No matter what kind of water I demand, it gives me scalding hot water.
I have taken to running the shower into the tub. Interestingly, if all the water is allowed to mix the insane extremes cancel each other out and the result is perfectly comfortable.
Going back to the original topic of predestination, I have recently drifted more towards nurture in the "nature vs. nurture" argument. This drift is the result of "Your Brain on Music" and "The Brain That Changes Itself", two books that have shown (among other things) that the brain is a much more flexible organ than people have previously believed. Instead of "you are what your genes say you are" or "you are what you make yourself", it seems much more accurate to say that "you make your genes determine what you are", if that makes any sense at all. I would recommend The Brain That Changes Itself as the better of the two books if anyone is interested. A prior interest in music is a good reason to avoid Your Brain on Music. A review had said that it wasn't for musicians, and I had bought it thinking "That's me!". Apparently "musician" means anyone who has ever payed any attention to anything relating to music or the physics of sound. Ever. The first half of the book is mind numbingly dull.
Anywho, back to the doldrums. I'm currently restricted to the school building by another circumstance: the fact that this is interviews week and I have to stick around in case any new students show up so that I can recommend a starting level for them. So far a grand total of three people have shown up. Yay. (heavy sarcasm).
Friday, January 2, 2009
Slightly off topic
Al Frankin appears to be winning the senate race in Minnesota. The interesting thing is that Al Frankin is (in his own words) in the same business as Rush Limbaugh: attack based political humor. The only difference is that Al Frankin is a democrat.
Back in the fall of 2007 I predicted that Obama would become president because of a statement he made saying that God needed more of a role in the government. I've just spent an hour looking for the quote, and I can't find it, but it was there; buried in plain view in an article on a major news network website. At the time I thought he might be another step towards the end times.
Since then Obama's statements have been carefully controlled by his handlers, and it's hard to tell exactly what he thinks about church and state.
But I was probably wrong.
Still, it seems strange that we have had so many odd people elected recently. By "odd" I mean people who are not white, male, and over the age of 50.... and Arnold Schwarzenegger (who is 61).
People talk about how wonderful all this is. I have a cautiously pessimistic take on the whole thing. Have you noticed that many of the people who voted for the interesting politicians didn't vote for them because of their stated policy, but rather because they were interesting? I think people are just bored.
Personally, I think that the internet and television have created a basic change in how people view the world. It seems that people have created a category of "things I see on the internet and TV" in their minds. As entertainment has become more like reality, reality has become more like entertainment. We may have reached a tipping point, where people forget that they have an effect upon the world around them. This results in such absurd trends as millions of people buying "green" products; essentially normal products with green logos. See, if the world was the internet that would work.
The same thing may have happened in politics. People just want to see something interesting happen. A woman, a black man, an ex action star / juicer and a comedian are interesting picks for political office. I have nothing against them, I'm just saying it's odd they all came at the same time. People are forgetting that it doesn't go away if you refresh the page.
I also think that it's odd 76% of Americans think Obama is a strong and decisive leader. I'm hopeful about Obama, but last time I checked our president elect hasn't done much. The most major issue since the election has been the Israeli bombing of Gaza (the crash of the investment banking system doesn't count, since that started before the election). Obama hasn't even made a statement on that. How exactly is he being a strong leader? Just a thought.
Posts on topics not relating to politics will now resume.
Back in the fall of 2007 I predicted that Obama would become president because of a statement he made saying that God needed more of a role in the government. I've just spent an hour looking for the quote, and I can't find it, but it was there; buried in plain view in an article on a major news network website. At the time I thought he might be another step towards the end times.
Since then Obama's statements have been carefully controlled by his handlers, and it's hard to tell exactly what he thinks about church and state.
But I was probably wrong.
Still, it seems strange that we have had so many odd people elected recently. By "odd" I mean people who are not white, male, and over the age of 50.... and Arnold Schwarzenegger (who is 61).
People talk about how wonderful all this is. I have a cautiously pessimistic take on the whole thing. Have you noticed that many of the people who voted for the interesting politicians didn't vote for them because of their stated policy, but rather because they were interesting? I think people are just bored.
Personally, I think that the internet and television have created a basic change in how people view the world. It seems that people have created a category of "things I see on the internet and TV" in their minds. As entertainment has become more like reality, reality has become more like entertainment. We may have reached a tipping point, where people forget that they have an effect upon the world around them. This results in such absurd trends as millions of people buying "green" products; essentially normal products with green logos. See, if the world was the internet that would work.
The same thing may have happened in politics. People just want to see something interesting happen. A woman, a black man, an ex action star / juicer and a comedian are interesting picks for political office. I have nothing against them, I'm just saying it's odd they all came at the same time. People are forgetting that it doesn't go away if you refresh the page.
I also think that it's odd 76% of Americans think Obama is a strong and decisive leader. I'm hopeful about Obama, but last time I checked our president elect hasn't done much. The most major issue since the election has been the Israeli bombing of Gaza (the crash of the investment banking system doesn't count, since that started before the election). Obama hasn't even made a statement on that. How exactly is he being a strong leader? Just a thought.
Posts on topics not relating to politics will now resume.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
'09
Chinggis Khan looks down upon people lighting off chinese fireworks to celebrate a western holiday
I told my dad that there were some serious fireworks going off, and the first thing he said was "I can't imagine that Mongolians and fireworks mix well". He was painfully right.
I walked to Sukhbaatar square to see the New Year celebration. When I got there people were lighting off fireworks all over the place, big ones. Most of them were either rockets or small shells that fired out of tubes. The people had an odd way of launching the shells though. They would light the fuse then hold the tube, shaking it vigorously back and forth. There may have been a point to this shaking, but I doubt it. The effect it did have was that the tube would shoot off in random directions, depending on what point in the arc it was at. Quite often the shaking would catch the projectile as it left the tube, making it fall lazily back to the ground and explode joyously in the crowd. The crowd would gasp and scatter, long after the thing had exploded of course.
Picture of fireworks exploding in the crowd
Another time I saw a woman stick a rocket (a big one, more than an inch in diameter) into some snow and light the fuse. I was about five feet away at the time, and was somewhat concerned with how deep she had stuck the rocket. Sure enough, the thing failed to launch. I turned and ran as it sprayed the ground with sparks, then exploded, showering the back of my pants. Some people were about three feet away from it, but they seemed to be Ok.
Pretty lights I saw on the way there (not on the way back).
I told my dad that there were some serious fireworks going off, and the first thing he said was "I can't imagine that Mongolians and fireworks mix well". He was painfully right.
I walked to Sukhbaatar square to see the New Year celebration. When I got there people were lighting off fireworks all over the place, big ones. Most of them were either rockets or small shells that fired out of tubes. The people had an odd way of launching the shells though. They would light the fuse then hold the tube, shaking it vigorously back and forth. There may have been a point to this shaking, but I doubt it. The effect it did have was that the tube would shoot off in random directions, depending on what point in the arc it was at. Quite often the shaking would catch the projectile as it left the tube, making it fall lazily back to the ground and explode joyously in the crowd. The crowd would gasp and scatter, long after the thing had exploded of course.
Picture of fireworks exploding in the crowdAnother time I saw a woman stick a rocket (a big one, more than an inch in diameter) into some snow and light the fuse. I was about five feet away at the time, and was somewhat concerned with how deep she had stuck the rocket. Sure enough, the thing failed to launch. I turned and ran as it sprayed the ground with sparks, then exploded, showering the back of my pants. Some people were about three feet away from it, but they seemed to be Ok.
One guy wasn't ok. One of the shells fell out of the tube and exploded in his arms. His face was fine, but his coat was singed and when I left some of his friends were helping him up off the ground. He looked dazed.
The coal smoke grew thicker and thicker, until I could only see about 30 feet. I couldn't tell which street was which, or get a good idea of what the buildings were. Eventually I decided I had missed my street, and that I should go down one of the streets headed west until I found something I could identify. I walked on and on, not able to tell what was across the street, not being able to recognize the buildings I could see, and only occasionally seeing the fleeting figure out some other poor lunatic out at this odd hour.
I beginning to seriously debate whether or not I should head all the way back to the square and start over, when I saw the dimly flashing lights of the television broadcasting tour on the hill behind the language school. On a normal night these lights would have been visible from most of the city, but now I could hardly make them out. I headed toward the light, and as the ground slowly ascended the smoke cleared. I began to see the irregular and ramshackle fences of the ger community haashas across the street. I had missed my street, missed the street after it, and gone all the way to the edge of the city.
My ankle is sore.
Pretty lights I saw on the way there (not on the way back).
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