Rivers and Roads

Rivers and Roads :

a year from now we'll all be gone

all our friends will move away

and they're going to better places

but our friends will be gone away

nothing is as it has been

and i miss your face like hell

and i guess it's just as well

but i miss your face like hell

been talking bout the way things change

and my family lives in a different state

and if you don't know what to make of this

then we will not relate

so if you don't know what to make of this

then we will not relate

rivers and roads

rivers and roads

rivers 'til i reach you

And look! A river, a road, and a river-road!

Family Time

I had been sitting silently in our family living room, sandwiched between 40 Mongolians, all members of my grandmother’s family.  Two months into language lessons, I feel confident enough in my Mongolian to struggle through basic conversation one-on-one or in a small group, but 40 members of my extended host family had intimidated me into quiet hellos, heartfelt smiles, and an attempt to stay busy washing dishes so I wouldn’t need to navigate the seating arrangement.  Unfortunately, after we had finished off several varieties of salads, different rice plates, and a huge platter of meat, the power went out, making dish washing impossible.
So I sat with my extended family, as one by one, each person took a small glass of vodka and led the entire group through a traditional Mongolian song.  I knew some of the words to the two most common songs, and I sang along with the choruses.  As voices echoed off the walls, the songs seemed a little to big for such a confined apartment, and I pictured us all on the steppe, with the music stretching across the grass and into the sky.  I felt encouraged and a little less silent as I appreciated this family reunion and Mongolian tradition.  I even started to think of ways to introduce the tradition to my own family.
Then, one of the uncles called me out.  It was my turn to sing.
I stared at him.  What! No. Noooo I said.  You have to they said, and my heart began beating rapidly.  I began to rack my brain for songs to which I knew all of the lyrics, and all I could think of was the Lion King.  “I Just Can’t Wait to be King” is just not as magical as a Mongolian folk song.  I can’t I said, and the group moved on, disappointed in their relative’s American student.  I felt deflated.  My time to shine, my golden opportunity to be part of my Mongolian family had passed, and as I continued to sit, I desperately strained into the dustiest corners of my brain for an acceptable number of words of an atmosphere appropriate song.
Suddenly, I stood up and took my little glass.  I had it; I was ready.  The room quieted, surprised mostly, and I launched into a horrible rendition of “Rivers and Roads,” a song my sister introduced me to last fall.  To the chagrin of my fellow classmates, I had been singing it nearly constantly for weeks while sitting in trains, while reading menus, while riding camels, while walking to class.  As I struggled through my solo, I forgot words, skipped lines, missed notes, confused keys, and only sang one verse. I sat down knowing that I had successfully embarrassed myself in front of a family of meadowlarks and gold finches.  The room remained quiet, surprised and probably a little horrified that a member of their family could sing so terribly albeit a temporary relative they had never met before, couldn’t talk to, and will probably never meet again.
As they sat in shock, I felt that without any rehearsal or backup, I had successfully soloed my way into my extended Mongolian family, if only for one evening.  I relaxed into my chair and looked around.  I felt less sandwiched, less intimidated by the relatives crowding the apartment, and I sat among my family, occasionally sharing a smile with an auntie squeezed on the other side of the room.

Adventure Time

“For a few moments we discover that nothing can be taken for granted…and our journey here on earth, able to see and touch and hear in the midst of tangible and mysterious things-in-themselves, is the most strange and daring of all adventures.”
-Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire 

The constant feeling of discovery in each present moment infuse each day with a acute sense of life.  The colors are more vibrant, the smells are sharper, the light is brighter, small moments hold more meaning, vast landscapes are more overwhelming, people‘s lives are more worthwhile, old people are more beautiful.  Every aspect of living is oversaturated with life.  Fall’s yellow leaves drip with color, as if each tree was dunked in paint and is still drying against the vibrant blue of the sky or heavy gray of the clouds.  People’s faces wear the sky and the earth in dignified wrinkles, and their eyes reflect years under the sun in understated sparkles.  Traditional Mongolian music celebrates nomadic spirit as the horse hair violin, the morin khuur, channels the spirit of the horse itself, and Mongolian throat singers capture man’s place in the vastness of nature.
I excuse inconveniences that I would never accept in the States as simply another aspect of experience and adventure.  The bus is late, but the bus is late in Mongolia.  The roads are terrible, but the roads are terrible in Mongolia.  The food is bland, but the food is bland in Mongolia.  The weather is extreme, but the weather is extreme in Mongolia.  This acceptance of the present moment as just part of the adventure endows each experience with its vibrancy.  I have little thought of the future; it is a hazy tomorrow that only deserves are hazy acknowledgement because right now, I am in Mongolia.
In Mongolia, the sense of each small moment is so overwhelming that concentrating on the big picture that incorporates the past, present, and future is impossible for me right now.  Each present moment is enough for me.  In the United States, the feeling of manageable, even boring, everyday routine necessitates a more acute awareness of the future in order stimulate a sense of wonder and possibility.  My expectations and concerns for the future are a product of a lack of awareness of the present.  I’m sure that as I become more comfortable to everyday Mongolian living, filled with all of its inconveniences, my awareness of the present will become more dull and my sense of the future will grow sharper.  My challenge will be to continue to live with acute awareness of the present with the same sense of discovery that has made each moment up to this so alive.

Living Well

    Oftentimes, I wonder if I am on the right path, and if I am living well.  I want to go up to someone, someone who has a deep understanding of me, an awareness of what is to come, and knowledge of what is right, and I want to ask them if I am doing it right.  I think we all want that reassurance, at some level.  I’m finding though that those nearly omniscient sources are hard to come by.  But what if I told you about Paul: a vegetarian from London, a practitioner of many spiritual arts, and the first none-Mongolian shaman to use Mongolian traditions to accept a spirit into his body.  And what if I told you about Joshua Roosevelt, an ancestral spirit from 17th century Russia who Paul successfully linked with, and the time I asked Joshua how to live well.
Our group had met Paul before his ceremony, and we were bubbling over with questions about shamanism, which he answered graciously and thoroughly. Shamanism is not a religion, it is a belief and a practice that connects our world with the spirit world.  The shamans themselves spend their lives helping others by using that connection with the spirit world to relieve suffering here on earth.  Every civilization around the world has its own unique type of shamanism, and Mongolian shamanism is considered to be one of the strongest types of shamanism in the world.  When we met with Paul the second time, we were much more hesitant and shy.  This time we knew that he had connected with his ancestral spirit, and I personally was wondering if Joshua was close by and could hear our questions.
We were the first people with which Paul called down Joshua without the help of his teacher.  He wore a loose black outfit embroidered with golden dragons, a large silver medallion, and several necklaces and rings.  Around his head he wore a black headdress with a feathers sticking up in the back and an embroidered face of white thread and seashells while black tassels that hung down in front of his own face so we could not see him.  We were quiet, tense with anticipation of the unknown.  Paul sat in front of our makeshift alter, prayed three times, then he took his animal hide drum and drum stick, sat deeply bent in a chair, and began to drum.  His head swayed back and forth like a snake, the headdress moving back and forth while the drum beat faster and faster until BAM! Joshua jumped up with a roar, crouching like a warrior, drum and drum stick extended like weapons next to our whiteboard.  One of the students led him to the seat we had prepared for him, and he asked for vodka and tobacco, which we also had waiting.  (Paul had told us that Joshua liked to drink and smoke.)  Calm after smoking his pipe and enjoying several shots of vodka, he called us to him, one by one.

It’s hard to know what to ask a spirit when the time actually comes.  What is the spirit world like? Why are you here? Why am I here? Am I doing the right thing? Am I living the right way? What should I be doing? Will everything be alright?  The room was quiet and respectful as we each revealed our deepest worries, questions, and confusions while we asked for reassurance and guidance.  Joshua answered in chopped sentences and a husky, barking voice, grunting loudly on nearly every exhale.  He was here to help us and would stay for as long as we asked him, taking vodka and tobacco breaks between each consultation.  The warm smell of juniper and tobacco filled the room, and as Joshua talked, the headdress that Paul wore seemed to become more animated and alive in the darkness.  Its eyes could see me, its ears could hear me, and its mouth was talking to me.   Eventually I found myself talking not to the tassels hanging in front of Paul’s face, but the seashell face.
I sat cross legged in front of Joshua, so close that our knees touched each other’s and I could feel warmth radiating between us.  He took my head with his hand and held my forehead against his own, the feathers in his headdress brushing my hair softly.  How can I live well? I asked.  He told me in halting sentences to sit quietly every day and reflect and think  What did I do well today? What did I do badly? How can I change?  It is a simple way, but a right way in the complicated times we are living in today that make our hearts and minds crazy.  He then gave me his blessing, blowing tobacco onto my head, and as the sweet smoke tendrils weaved through my hair, he took a colorful cloth whip and brushed the my back several times.
To get rid of bad energy he said.  I asked him if there was a lot of it.
Relative.

These are from a different shamanic ceremony from the countryside, but they have the same drums and masks..

Little Bo Peep and Other Lies

Ten hours into the twelve hour car trip from Moron to Erdenet, the driver of our Russian van noticed an animal running across a hillside.  The low sun stretched the figure‘s shadow, and we started to argue: Wolf! Dog! Wolf? Dog!  The animal looked too small to be a wolf, and we continued along the dirt road until our sharp-eyed driver noticed a herd of sheep and goats swell, tighten, and then flee the encroaching shadow.  Wolf! We tumbled out of the van to get a better look through camera lenses, and against the dried grasses covering the hillside a wolf crouched over a freshly killed sheep.

Sheep and goats in Mongolia are indispensable to herding life.  They provide herders with wool, cashmere, leather, and food, and I have to admit this: I hate them.  The endearing stories of Little Bo Peep’s little lambs and Billy the Goat are lies.  These dirty creatures complain constantly, bleating late into the night, and they emphasize their complaints with gaseous intestinal tracts that seemed to mock me every time I had to herd them back towards the ger.  After putting up with the challenges of these animals, I thought that I would enjoy eating them out of spite, just to prove that I had the ultimate upper hand.

I began to question that upper hand the moment I started helping my family butcher a goat.  My family would butcher their goats on the floor of their ger- peeling off the animal’s hide, separating organs, severing the head- without spilling a single drop of blood.  I helped my mom and sister clean the organs.  This means I ladled water down and through lengths and lengths of intestines, cleaning out any grass that was not “fully processed” and held the stomach (turned inside out) so my sister could scrape off its weird, papery membrane with a knife.
My upper hand grew weaker when I saw exactly what parts of the goat I had to eat.  Stomach lining, liver, heart, kidney, intestines, intestines stuffed with other organs, other organs wrapped with intestines all jumbled together in a large bowl.  Thankfully, it was dark.  I sat eating, nibbling on some liver here, some stomach there, occasionally stumbling over a treasured piece of actual meat, and morbidly, I imagined the animal I was eating.  I was already intimately acquainted with it, inside and out, and I remembered poop clumps that had dried into the fur that would have been processed into a cashmere sweater.  I thought of the pitiful bleats and constant farting that I could hear as I tried to fall asleep, and slowly (very slowly) the gerdis (what I was eating) started to taste a little less awful.  Spite works in mysterious ways.
However, the smell had soaked into me, and everything I smelled or tasted had slight hints of goat.  This pervasive smell was only compounded after I spent four hours wrestling, dragging, and throwing sheep and goats into a muddy, de-tick and de-flea wash.  In some ways, it was beautiful; the sun sank below the horizon and after a nearby pond reflected the sky’s fiery array of colors, the stars began to sparkle against the night.  But, as with everything in Mongolia, those beautiful moments were contrasted by the less beautiful as each animal had to be individually dunked in this concrete canal which they all actively resisted by kicking, bleating, and running away.  And, as if the memories alone were not sweet enough, I will carry the scent of goat with me everywhere, as the smell has soaked through my boots.
Whenever we drive through a grazing herd of goats and sheep, I don’t see a hint of Bo Peep or Billy.  Instead, I glare at the weak crook of the sheeps’ necks and their weird, floppy tails, and I grimace at the sound of bleating.  I remember stray hind legs landing and hoof shaped bruises, ribbons of intestines and bowls of blood.  Sheep and goats are not warm cotton balls that will lull you to sleep; they are beasts to be sheared, herded, and eaten with a small side of accomplishment. And needless to say, when I watched the herd flee from the wolf and saw the wolf’s fluffy, woolen victory, I cheered for the wolf.