Under Mongolian Blue Sky

Letter from Olgii

Hello, you. I'm now in Olgii city of Bayan-Olgii ("Rich-Cradle") province after much ado. It is the western most province of Mongolia and 90% Muslim Kazakh. Mongolian is their second language, so that puts us in the same boat. Being here is like being in a new country all over again. The people are lovely, but very surprised to see me here and alone.

Olgii is a small town replete with concrete, nestled among the Altai mountains and sprawling along the luscious Hovd river. I've come to collect poems, meet poets and to see the tallest mountain in Mongolia, the Altai's Tavan Bogd (Five Holy). Yesterday I met with the main Kazakh poet, also the director of the Bayan-Olgii branch of the Union of Mongolian Writers, R. Suragan, that I had meant to meet with in Bayan-Olgii and we had a good talk. He told me I must see Tavan Bogd and write poems while I'm there. Thus I leave for the mountain tomorrow after lunch with warm clothes, food, a national park permit and a border permit as the mountain lies on the borders of Mongolia, Russia and China.

I also realized, though I should have known before, that all the poems the poets here write are in the Kazakh language, one that I don't know. While I go to Tavan Bogd, Suragan is going to collect the poems that have been translated into Mongolian so I can read them. Then, I may translate two or three of the poems into English for him. I don't know how that will work since I'm translating from Mongolian and not the original language but I will do it because I've heard he's a really great poet and I'm interested in what he's writing.

Actually, today I found an anthology with three of his poems in it at the province library where I had to 1) pay 100 togrog per book just to look at them, 2) leave the library while the librarians went out to lunch, and 3) wait outside the library for 45 minutes when the librarians returned late from lunch. Suragan knows Mongolian very well and I hope he'll be able to comment on the quality of the Kazakh-to-Mongolian translations.

It's fantastic how everyone here knows the name of their country's poets and how they hold them in such esteem. I was in the middle of nowhere in the countryside of Bayan-Olgii and said I was going to meet Suragan and all the people knew who he is. Once I mention that I too am a poet, they softly exhale, "Oh," and look at me a little differently.

Now for the "much ado" and "the middle of nowhere in the countryside" to which referred earlier. Well, I had a new experience in Mongolia on my way to Olgii from Hovd: a car accident. At about 10 PM on Monday night the Russian jeep (a "жаран ес" for those of you who know what that is) I was riding in with one young Kazakh driver went off the road and landed upside down in a dry river bed. Actually we were about halfway down into the river bed when the car first stopped. I opened my door to try to get out at the driver's suggestion and then we flipped over. My door was open so I scuttled out quickly.

We both walked away physically unscathed. I felt strangely calm; however, the driver was freaking out because he was a student, only 22 year old, and it was his parent's jeep. Let's just say I could relate to what he was going through from past experience.

It was dark so I suggested we set up my tent, try to sleep and go look for help in the morning light. I hardly slept, but at some point Boldoo, the driver, went off to find help before I woke up. Thus when I awoke he was gone and I went about packing up the camp, taking pictures of the accident scene (which I'll post when I get back to UB) and eating some breakfast. Boldoo returned on a motorcycle with another Kazakh man and said more were coming.

Eventually about 12 more Kazakh men came, righted the jeep with another jeep and got it started again. Since the jeep I originally left Hovd in was now a mess (no windshield, no passenger side door, etc.) I rode with some other folks to their camp and Boldoo arranged for a couple of them to take me on to Olgii so he could return to his parent's home in Hovd.

The Kazakh people were very, very nice, especially when they found out what had happened, and had me drink a lot of Kazakh tea, eat homemade cheese and bread and hold their eagle. (Kazakhs are eagle hunters and are very proud of their birds.) After stopping at many, many homes along the way and after many, many bowls of tea, two Kazakh men of my age, though seeming much older, eventually ferried me to Olgii and helped me find a place to stay when we discovered that all the hotels were full.

Currently, I'm staying with a Kazakh family that is going to host me while I'm in Bayan-Olgii through the American Center for Mongolian Studies, and my work continues.

Offline... in Hovd and Bayan-Ölgii

It's a shame I haven't been able to post more about my work in Hovsgol. I have been working on it offline and I still plan to back-post several items. However, I'm now off on my next (and last) Fulbright-related trip to the countryside. I leave this evening to head over land to Hovd and Bayan-Ölgii aimags to meet writers and poets and study the landscape while I translate and write. I'll be back in the city around September 3.  Until then, go easy.

Is It Love?

Not for me.

Maybe for you.

These goats drove me crazy during my three-week stay in Hovsgol aimag, the most beautiful of all Mongolia's provinces in my opinion. I spent the time writing, translating, studying Mongolian, hiking and observing. These darling goats loved the grass around the ger I inhabited by myself and came to visit every late afternoon.

Hovsgol is a large province, so let me narrow it down a bit for you. In Hovsgol is one of the largest freshwater lakes in Mongolia, aptly named Hovsgol Lake. This lake is shaped a bit like an upside-down teardrop, and at its base is the small town of Hatgal, populated by about 3000 people. The family from whom I rented my ger had a small house and grocery shop in Hatgal where part of the family lived and worked.

The other part moved with the herds in the hills to the west of Hatgal. While I was there, the family was at their summer camp, a one-room log cabin near a small stream in a valley surrounded by forest and wildflower-covered meadows. I resided in one of the two gers that they leave open in summer for the occasional traveler, usually French since their youngest son speaks that language, for whom the aforementioned son leads horse treks from the summer camp to the lake 30 km or so away.

Being a poor artist, I didn't go on any horse treks, but I hiked around a lot. However I didn't bring my camera on any of my hikes, so unfortunately I was unable to attempt to capture the stunning masses of colorful mountain flowers.

I filled every page of blank paper I had with words.

I felt the unceasing steppe winds.

I saw yaks for the first time and helped rassle their young at milking time.

I also lived without running water and electricity, and thus lit my own cooking and heating fires and gathering wood and water on a daily basis.

Oh, there's so much more to tell, but it's lunchtime and a girl's gotta eat! I'm going to have a gyro from the Kola and Kebab joint around the corner. It's not the Juicy Lucy and jo jos I crave, but it'll have to do.

Khentii Aimag/Хэнтий Аймаг

This past Friday (October 20) myself and five other foreigners who lived or were traveling in Mongolia were set to take off for Khentii aimag, located in the northeastern corner of the country, at 9 AM. However, we didn't leave until at least noon because we were waiting to get stamps for photocopied versions of our passports in case we were stopped by Russian border guards.

The stamps are required if you're going near the border and we planned to stay some 50 km from it with a Buryat family. However, someone from the Russian office had gone home with the stamp the day before so we had to wait until he came in for the day. I've been told numerous times, mostly by foreigners, that this is the Mongolian way: there are no set times for departure or arrival, especially when traveling to the countryside. Despite this, the four days I spent en route, in and on the way back from Khentii aimag were wonderful.

On our way we were hit with a small snowstorm. We didn't get to our destination until around 10:30 PM after getting lost multiple times, driving through heavy snow. Our Mongolian driver, Bimba, was a miracle worker. About 50% of the road wasn't paved and we were jostled around consistently as we cruised over juts in the road.

In Khentii, I played my first game of frisbee golf ever. I don't usually play games that involve a lot of running, but the snow was very enticing. We had snow fights, made snow people and snow angels and just frolicked in general in the snow. When the others went to go sliding, I nestled down in the ger to read and nap.

We also went horseback riding and rode in a sledge that was pulled behind a horse. The landscape was bewitching, as you'll see from some of the shots in the Countryside photo album.

On the way to and from the location of the Buryat family's camp, we stayed in Bat Shiret sum. In Mongolia, a sum (сум) is a small administrative unit. Each aimag has several of them. It's more or less a small village. Bat Shiret was very charming. The local folks were very kind and helped us find fresh bread and warm boots for those of us who needed them.

Bat Shiret also had a small monastery. The caretaker and his granddaughter generously invited us inside. It was small but very nice. Everywhere there were images in paper and metal of Buddhas. There were some small birds living in the loft; they brought the space to life.

Chingün the Baby

Part One.

Door creaks. Baby cries. Dog sits just before threshold. Flies bounce. Horse neighs. Door creaks. Wind pushes door to and fro. Birds fret. I write. I drink tea. I eat bread and butter. Mint. Peanut. Swallow vitamins. Door opens more. Closes more. Imperceptibly. Door creaks and creaks and creaks. Mother sings. Baby chats. Stomach gurgles. Mother praises. Baby is silent. Tea shimmers as my writing arm moves table. I write. I sniffle. I drink tea. Cows call. Baby eats. Baby snorts. Horse neighs. Baby hums. Birds fret. Birds intimidate. Baby roars. I drink tea. I blow nose.

Part Two.

The baby laughs in his sleep and smiles a gummy smile. Oyuna holds the baby on her lap and lets him pee, and sometimes poop, on the linoleum kitchen floor. After he wakes up from a nap, after he has eaten, she takes off his little pants and booties or socks and holds him halfway on her lap and halfway between her legs until he pees a strong stream onto the floor.

Excerpt from a Countryside Journal

2006.09.18

Flies buzz around. Kids buzz around. It’s very windy today. Every time I try to write in this book someone interrupts me: “Lisa! La la la (something in Mongolian).”

Yesterday I was feeling sick, like I might throw up and/or poop my pants. [Must’ve been the water from the day before that Odgoo scooped up off the ground where the sheep graze. Ah, feces water. I knew to say no to it, but I didn’t have the energy to explain why, so I took it.)

Later Shiwa, Odgoo’s husband, came back with a sheep in the trunk of the car. He proceeded to slaughter it. He killed it by making a small incision in its belly and somehow piercing its aorta. There’s a specific verb for this action in the Mongolian language: хонины гол таслах (khonini gol taslakh). This quick process in death was very clean; I didn’t see any blood. However, it was a bit haunting to watch the life drain from another being, to see it struggle until suddenly the limbs began to slow and eventually be still.

First, Shiwa removed the skin, or hide. Next, he cut the sheep’s body open in a straight line on the belly aligned with the spine. He removed the intestines, organs, etc. Nothing major was thrown away, only one or two handfuls of miscellaneous pieces of entrails or fat. The stomach and intestines were washed. These were then filled with blood and the heart, which Shiwa mashed up with one hand while he smoked a cigarette with the other.

Everything except the meat, sheep feet and head was boiled over a hot fire in the ger to the east of the house where no one lives. The liver—traditionally, an important organ to Mongolians—was barbecued and we ate that right in the ger. The cooked entrails and other organs we brought back to the house where they were cut up and dished out. Two large bowls of this were brought over to Shiwa’s brother’s house; Jamai lives next door with his wife Duuya, their two kids and one worker who helps milk the cows named Odnaa.

I ate liver, kidney and blood-filled intestine, which I assume is called blood sausage among English-speakers. I ate this last night AND this morning for breakfast. I am embarrassed to say that some of the fat and miscellaneous entrails—I think maybe it was the colon—I have in my pocket as I write this. I hope to feed it to the dog later or to put it in the large bowl of food that’s left. In my bowl, I left a large chunk of blood sausage that I felt was somewhat edible.

It’s strange what one finds easier to eat. For example, blood sausage didn’t make me gag, but the fat and colon did. This is all about texture. If the feel of the food in my mouth isn’t reminiscent of what it originally was, I’m okay; I can put out of my mind that I’m chewing blood and heart chunks. However, I now have a lump of fat and miscellaneous entrails covered in a biscuit wrapper in my pocket. The juice from it is probably leaking into my pants. Soon the dogs will be all over me.

(Note: Later Odgoo took the abandoned piece of blood sausage from my bowl and put it in the bowl with the other leftovers. When no one was looking, I snuck the fat and entrails from my pocket into that bowl as well. After a few days, I stopped trying to hide the fact that I just wasn’t going to eat certain food items, e.g. fat.)

Ходоо (Khodoo)

I'm checking in from the countryside where I've been staying for one week with Shiwa, Odgo and their family. They have three kids. The oldest, Chamiddorj, is a lama and I've only seen him once. He stays at the Gandan monastery. The second, Khishigdorj, and third, Moogii, go to school in UB during the week and come home on the weekends.

Today we're in the city to pick up Moogii. She's here with me in this Internet cafe, so she can get acquainted with the Internet. Her mother, Odgo, really wants Moogii to study in the US after she finishes secondary school. In fact, Odgo wants a large part of her family to move to the States. I've tried to be supportive, while sharing some parts of American life that go unadvertised in music videos and Hollywood movies. Of course, in America, Moogii would most likely get a good education and would possibly have more opportunities in the long run. (Dear readers, please feel free to share your knowledge/experience regarding this particular subject in the comments section.)

Thus far I have thoroughly enjoyed the countryside. It's amazingly beautiful and serene. In many ways, it reminds me of my childhood, which was spent on a dairy farm in Independence, MN. Odgo has been particularly wonderful. She is like a sister and a mother. In many ways, she reminds me of my own mother: always the last to sit down at the table, always the last to rest at the end of the day. Odgo does all of the milking by hand. I have helped a bit, but I can only milk one, maybe two, cows before my hands cramp up.

I now know the meaning of the phrase "when the cows come home". When I was a kid, we brought the cows in from a fenced yard. In the barn, they stood in their own stalls and were milked by machine. Here we wait until the cows come home. Usually that's around 9 PM, which means Odgo is milking in the dark, usually under a brilliant sky awash with stars. The morning milking takes place around 7 AM. The cows usually stick around over night. I'd imagine they do so to be near their young, but I don't really know. After the morning milking we separate the cows from their calves and send them to pasture in different directions.

In some ways the whole herding culture seems really attractive since one never has to plant fields and harvest food for the animals. You just send them off to graze. Not to imply that these people don't work hard. They do. But a lot of effort goes into working fields. Of course, at the same time, we didn't have to wait for the cows to come home; we dictated when they would be milked. Overall, the herding system seems a bit more natural and fair to the animal. The whole experience has caused me to spend some time in thought about the concept of non-harming and animal husbandry, dairy farming, herding, etc. I haven't come to any conclusions yet, but I'm sure I'll have something more to report on the subject when I return to UB for good. I've got one more week to go. I already look forward to getting back to the countryside, or ходоо (khodoo).

Shopping List

Tomorrow's to-do list includes hunting down these items for my upcoming two-week stay in the countryside:

• Warm clothes (I've been warned that it's going to be cold.)
• Lemon tea
• Apples
• Scarf (for дээл, or del, a tradition Mongolian garment)
• Anti-constipation tea
• Pepper spray (for wild dogs and drunk people)
• Padlock (for the ger)
• Flashlight (to find my way to the "outhouse")

Sounds & Sights of Mongolian Countryside

Groundhog… magpie… grasshoppers… crows… one small spider… men talking… dogs barking… flies buzzing past my head… the TV… Ganaa and Gereltod, her son, in the house behind me talking and laughing… the wind, салхи… bird chirps… grasshopper clicks and songs…men hammering, taking a ger down… the cows are small black dots grazing in the foothills.

ЗУСЛАН

I spent last weekend at Ganaa's summer home. I forgot my camera, so I don't have pictures, but I hope to return there briefly to get some photos of this peaceful place. I know why Mongolians love the countryside. The air is so fresh; every cool breeze is a gift. The old mountains stand guard all around. Clouds hang low over them. Birds call from the mist. It's cold, but refreshingly cold. It's autumn now–my second favorite season, after spring.

There is electricity here, but no running water. The outhouse is very, very deep. You can see long, yellowish maggots squirming around at the bottom. (Sorry to those of you with squeamish stomachs, but one just can't leave out such concrete details. Well, I can't.) The door is latching shut by turning a nail that's bent into the wooden door. Once when I went outside to use the outhouse in the middle of the night, I saw the most amazing stars––so clear and glittering. I kept blinking as if it wasn't real. If it had been warmer, I might've laid down out there and gazed for a while.

The food was… interesting. There was a lot of dairy involved. In particular, I recall ором. This is the substance that collects on the top of milk after it has set out unrefrigerated all night. At first I thought I liked it, but my body has taught me otherwise. Another Fulbrighter told me she tries to stay away from ором at all costs. I may follow her example.

On a happier note, Ganaa, who is a doctor in UB, told me about a flower, сøд, that aids in digestion that happened to grow around her little summer home. We went out and picked some and she brewed a tea for me from it. I brought the leftover flowers home to take over the next few days. If diarrhea persists, one should drink roughly 6 ounces of сøд tea every hour.

We had other dairy products as well that proved less hazardous to my lactose-intolerant system: boiled milk and a substance that was like a mixture between butter and cream. I can't recall their names in Mongolian.