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.

                                                       

All the Small Things

My time in the countryside was not one of sweeping epiphanies and life changing experiences.  Going into the homestay, it was hard not to have those high expectations because of the nature of the environment and the lifestyle.  I think I expected the sky to cleave in two and Mongolian spirits to descend from mountaintops to personally tell me the meaning of success, man’s relationship with nature, and what I should do about it.  I tempered those expectations with doses of reality, and unsurprisingly, it was the day to day life of the steppe that shaped my experience there, not thunder nor lightning nor shamanic spirits.  Undoubtedly, it is part of a life changing experience, but I don’t think I will realize extent of its influence for months and years

A short list of little things:

My mom boiling milk on the black wood stove in the ger.  The stove has a built in hole in the top that large metal pans, like woks, can fit into.  After the milk boils, it has to cool, and so my mom would stand over the milk with a pink, plastic ladle, scooping up milk and pouring it back into the mix, a white ribbon releasing steam into the ger.  The steam would curl over the pan and up and around my mom, softening the bright colors of the ger.

Slurping milk tea out of bowls.  My mom would make the tea every morning, boiling water and adding an unnoticeable amount of tea leaves and just enough milk to color the water white.  It was delicious and comforting, even though hers had little taste, and we kept it hot in thermoses all day.  The Mongolians are not quiet eaters, and something is wrong with the food if you don’t loudly slurp it up.  And the thermoses were very effective at keep the tea hot, so slurping was the most effective cooling method.

My brother wrapping himself in his deel every day.  Urban Mongolians don’t really wear deels, but herders do, and my brother had two he would alternate between.  He would put the deel on over his street clothes and then wrap a golden, dirty sash around his waist.  He would wrap the sash a few times, locking it into place, and then he would twist and turn clockwise, adjusting the width of the sash with each turn.  His method was expert, the product of thousands of days on the steppe.

The stars at night.  With no light pollution, they sparkled like a million pieces of glitter, with the milky way slashed right down the middle.

My brother and sister standing on the small wooden stools used in the ger for just about everything, relaxing, cooking, milking, eating, and talking, and text their friends on their cell phone.  The service on the steppe is very poor, so the cell phone would be tied to a rafter in the ger, with a small piece of wire rigged to the antenna for slightly better reception.  The cellphone’s blue light would illuminate their faces, in stark contrast to the warm yellow light of the ger, as they looked at the screen.  When someone would call, they would put the caller on speaker phone so the phone could stay as high as possible and talk loudly into the speaker.  Still, the caller would fade in and out of static, and most calls were dropped a few times.

Heating leftovers in the morning.  Usually for dinner we would eat simple flour and water noodles with meat, and sometimes potatoes.  When we didn’t everything,  the next morning we would scoop some noodles into a bowl and then pour in some milk tea.  It was surprising ling effective and delicious, and as I ate, I couldn’t help but imagine reheating an American dinner in the same manner.  American food has too many flavors, few of which are complimented by a weak tea, and American kitchens have so many amenities that we would have never been forced to reheat with tea in the first place.

It is hard to describe the vastness of the Mongolian countryside.  Nothing provides perspective; the valleys sprawl for miles, the mountains grow into the horizon in the distance, the plains betray the curvature of the earth.  The land’s vastness is only compounded by the sky; by day the clear blue reflects the land’s width and by night the stars reflect the land’s depth.  Human presence on the land leaves little impression on nature, and unlike cities which dominate the natural landscape, the few gers, round white spots against the steppe, emphasize nature’s greatness.
Those gers, however, reveal man’s ability to live lightly on the land, and I think these nomadic people’s relationship with the land is what makes the steppe so easily romanticized.  Throughout history, man’s relationship with nature has centered around the environment.  We moved with the seasons, with the pasture.  In the modern world, that relationship has shifted to center on humans as we have exploited and extracted more and more from the environment around us.  We have cut down mountains, overturned plains, manipulated plants and animals.  As we shift this relationship from its historical focus, I think that we industrialists yearn for past ways of life at some level.  Mongolia’s nomadic herders have been slow to shift their relationship with the land- they have done what we did not- and I think that the modern world is jealous.  I know that I am.
Nomadic herders still leave their mark on the environment, and with each year, they embrace more and more aspects of modernization and globalization.  Herds of animals graze the land, people litter and burn plastic, and today, cars and motorcycles carve ribbons of roads into the steppe.  But, they eat the foods they grow, or that their neighbors grow, with the exception of sugar, oil, rice, and flour.  They are expert reusers- my mom used the ribbon I tied a present with as a belt to tie her deel, and then it became a toy for a cousin.  They generate little trash and besides gasoline to fuel motorcycles (that get 100km per liter) use renewable energies to heat their gers and power their few electronics.  Dried cow poop fuels the stove that feeds them and warms them, and solar energy charges reuseable batteries that are channeled into televisions and cell phones.
I think that humankind is filled with greatness; we are powerful beyond measure.  We have bent the world to our will.  But we have also abused the earth that has enabled our great civilizations and societies, and we know it.  We know that soon, if not already, we will face the consequences of our heavy foot prints.  Mongolia’s nomadic herder’s of life is harder and quieter than the modern world’s, but it is more sustainable and long lasting. It has already proven the test of thousands of years, while the modern world’s way of living has only proven itself against hundreds of years.  They have manifested their greatness in a way that does not exploit their relationship with the earth, but rather respects it.

Country Living

 I have spent the last two weeks in the countryside southeast of Ulaanbaatar near a small town (population 900) called Delgerhaan living with a nomadic herding family in a ger.  It was filled with bright colors, vast expanses of land, eagles, horses, goat, sheep, and cows, yurts, dairy products, animal organs, sunsets, and stars.  It is a romanticized place, filled with dreams of freedom and adventure, and it deserves much of its praise.  It is also a place filled with families who work hard seven days of week, with people who collapse into a hard bed or onto the hard ground nearly every night.

Best sunsets ever

Inside of the ger

 I would wake up every morning within a few minutes of 7:00 and usually walk to a disconcerting pond filled with grasses, algae, and animal dung to get water to boil for our daily milk tea, which my mom would make in the morning and keep hot in thermoses all day.  After a bowl of tea and homemade yogurt sweetened with sugar, I would help my mom and sister milk cows.  They would do the milking, and I would shovel cow poop (called argol), keep the cows from wandering away, and occasionally round up the herd of goats and sheep.  I would do homework and some chores until the afternoon, then walk through the steppe near our ger to gather dried cow poop to fuel the stove.  I would just spend time with my family in evening as it got darker, listening to them talk and laugh together, talking (or giving it my best attempt) and laughing  with them more and more as  I became more and more a part of the family.  Everyday had plenty of do and also plenty of time to rest and reflect, although somehow I still found little time for homework.  

My family!

 My family was kind and caring, and they welcomed me into their family graciously.  I lived in a ger with my mom and 26 year old brother, and my sister, her husband, and her baby lived about 20 feet away from us in another ger.  My mom would yell from our ger to my sister’s, and somehow they could understand each other through the layers of felt.  In the last few days, my younger brother came to visit from UB, and although he seemed out of place in his collared shirts and sweaters, he could still jump on a horse and gallop across the steppe bareback.   He and my older brother constantly teased each other, and every wrestling match ended in laughter.  My older brother was a competent herdsman who is respected in the family and community.   He could sleep through anything, and he was one of the most patient language teachers I’ve met.  My sister had been a cook in UB until she had her baby, and she was always checking my Enligh-Mongolian dictionary to communicate better.  My mom had a sparkly smile, and she was always working, always busy.  She was almost always in front of the stove, but she was also one of the few women I saw on horseback.  She was constantly telling me to eat more and was proud when I stomached gerdis, boiled intestines and organs.  

Basecamp Rainbow

  Now I am back in UB and I feel like I have been plunged into a cold shower (actually we had cold water in the apartment last night so that is just as much fact as metaphor).  I no longer see the open steppe but rather apartment buildings and construction.  I no longer wake up to my mom starting the morning fire but rather to the beep of my alarm.  I no longer wander around the ger looking for argol to burn but rather walk to school on the busy streets.  Compared to almost anywhere in the world and especially the chaos and bustle of UB, the countryside is a beautiful and inspiring place where daily life is earned in quiet moments and hard work, and I hope I will keep some of that same spirit for the rest of my time here.

 

UB Living

I have been here for just under a month, and so far, I have experienced a little bit of both city life and country living.  In Ulaanbaatar, I live on the top floor of a 16 story apartment building with my 13 year old sister and her two grandparents, as well as her mom who splits her time between our apartment and her own.  The apartment has two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a living area with a kitchen, dining table, and large couch and tv.  The building is new (there is even a combination code to get into the elevator), and I have a fabulous view of the city from my window.  Apartment buildings stretch out through the valley, transitioning to a colorful ger (yurt) district  on the hill sides to the north while two coal factories border the view to the West.  Two other SIT students live in the same apartment complex, and sometimes we walk the 45 minutes to school together.

This is the view from my window.

UB

 The city itself is manageable so far.  The traffic is terrible, and the dust and pollution are already noticeable.  I always see a few people wearing masks when I walk outside, and I always wonder if I should be wearing one as well.  The people here don’t smile as much as Americans do, and not speaking the language makes everything a little harder.  But that makes everything an adventure.  The people don’t smile much, but they are kind and helpful.  The weather has been a nice fall with cool mornings and mostly dry hot afternoons.  I have enjoyed the weather and cherished every walk, knowing that soon I will be so bundled up in layers that it will take me ten minutes to take off all my jackets.  The buses and trolleys are not too intimidating, and I haven’t had anything pick pocketed yet.  I am even enjoying the food here which is an accomplishment in itself.