Under Mongolian Blue Sky

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.

Tsagaan Sar Revisited

Сар шиниин мэнд хүргье!
Sar shiniin mend hurgeye!
Have a healthy new moon! 

Today is the start of the new year in Mongolia. Apparently I was off a bit on some details  about Tsagaan Sar (White Moon), Mongolia's National Lunar New Year celebration. It is not kosher to get drunk on the holiday. However, I do know they give you many shots of vodka to drink as I visited one family tonight and the other Westerners had to drink at least six shots of vodka. I feigned an allergy to alcohol and said I'd die if I drank it which is pretty much true. See other DON'Ts During Tsagaan Sar below.

There was a boov, a pile of ceremonial bread in an odd number of layers tooped with aruul and other "white foods", and a huge grilled side of mutton, the massive fatty tail draped over the edge of the plate, in the center of the table. These were surrounded by platters of buuz and a variety of salads. Apparently, they don't eat the entire sheep's tail during Tsagaan Sar. It's mainly present for tradition, but they can freeze it and melt it down in small parts later to cook with. One sheep's tail can last a family until June.

      DON'Ts During Tsagaan Sar…

• Don't wear a black-colored deel
• Don't drink too much alcohol
• Don't spend the night in another ger (not at home)
• Don't leave animals out to pasture overnight (animals should be close to ger)
• Don't greet your husband or wife
• Don't get a haircut
• Don't embroil or fix old clothes
• Don't get anything from another ger
• Don't kiss during greetings (old people may kiss their children and grandchildren)

       From e-Mongol.com: the best of Mongolia

For more background information and to see a photo, check out this recent UB Post article, "History and Customs of Tsagaan Sar National Holiday".

Allison and I may go fly kites in Sukhbaatar Square during these three days of Tsagaan Sar. I'm writing a poem with the kite as a central metaphor for self so when she suggested it I thought it was a great idea. Then I read this great sketch by Brad Zellar that included a kite in The Rake's January fiction issue that another Fulbrighter from Minnesota brought for me.

Ah, life's patterns...

The moon is waxing. Tonight it was eery since the streetlights were cut off in part of the city and the moon dangled in the sky like someone stuck it up with a tack next to one brilliant star. It was barely a sliver but my brain fooled me into thinking I could see its full roundness. Years ago when I went out to a field with some friends to use a telescope I learned that this was an optical illusion known as "the old Moon in the new Moon's arms." We can't really see any other part of the moon than what is lit up.

Soon I'll be starting translations of L. Ulziitogs poems to try to take advantage of these auspicious times. She just came out with a new book that features her in front of the ocean on the cover. The waves uncurl behind her. I'm looking forward to diving into a new poets work. And soon completed translations of eight of Ayurzana's poems will be submitted to some literary magazines in the US.

Tomorrow I will visit Ayurzana and Ulziitogs's home for Tsagaan Sar. The holiday goes on for three days of visiting family, eating and drinking, etc. I look forward to it very much. They are great people and wonderfully talented. Thus I will leave you with an excerpt of my translation of Ayurzana's poem "Vagrant Train", followed by the Mongolian version and English transliteration:

  Having closed my eyes to hear the first sign of daybreak,
  Somewhere’s sound of a vagrant train knocking its path
  Is disruptive, dying away to an unknown somewhere
  Like a naive love of five, six, seven years ago.

  Тэмдэгрэх үүрийн гэгээг сонсох гэж нүдээ анихад
  Тэнэмэл галт тэрэгний замаа тогших хаа нэгтээх дуу
  Тав, зургаа, долоон жилийн өмнөх гэнэхэн дурлал шиг
  Тасалданги, замхранги, мэдэхгүй нэгэн тийш.

  Temdegrekh üüriing gegeeg sonsokh gej nüdee anikhad
  Tenemel galt teregnii zamaa togshikh khaa negteekh duu   
  Tav, zurgaa, doloong jiliing ömnökh genekheng durlal shig
  Tasaldangi, zamkhrangi, medekhgüi negeng tiish.

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.)

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.

Nartai Odor

It's sunny today. The sky is clear. One of those 300 blue sky days. I know I haven't written for a bit. That's because I was out in the countryside for the weekend. Before that, on Tuesday and Wednesday, I was in the countryside as well.

Last week I went to a place called Tov aimag. In Mongolia there are 19 aimags. I think they're similar to provinces or states. (Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.) Anyway, within each aimag are many small villages and other smaller groups of gers settled down together. That's what I've observed so far.

Anyway, I went with some Americans: two Fulbright scholars (Retta and Ben), Retta's brother, J.F., and Retta's best friend from home, Jenny. Ben phoned me up on Tuesday and asked if I wanted to go camping with them that night. I had about 30 minutes to get ready, but I was up for it.

At about 7 PM, we took a cab out of the city to Zuunmod, one of those small villages, in Tov aimag. On the way, we had a few pitfalls: the cab was almost ran out of gas and we hit a major traffic jam when a train hit a car--somehow no one was hurt. We made it there in one piece and hiked up into the forest. Check out the Bogdkhan Uul photo album for the pics.

We did some hiking. (My calf muscles were sore for about four days.) I laughed a lot. At the top of one of the boulder piles we climbed, I shared that I am afraid of heights. After having revealed that I am also lactose intolerant and was vegan, one of my companions declared, "Why did you come to Mongolia?" What could I say? I'm a glutton for punishment? I'll do anything for poetry?

I just smiled.

After much hiking and eating American-like food, we hiked back down Bogdkhan Uul, briefly visited the Manzushir Khiid, a monastery that's been partially rebuilt, hiked the 5 km back to Zuunmod and caught a bus back to UB.

Ox Tongue Salad

Last night I dreamt about cats. I was in the new barn at my parent’s farm and there were many different cats: small ones, old ones, very round cats, mother cats with their young. For some reason, it was my job to put outside any cats that were in the barn. The cats always tried to sneak back in the barn, so I had to close the door very quickly as I made sure each cat wasn’t caught in it.

One cat in particular was orange and very round, and I was afraid to pick it up because I thought it might bite me.  Eventually, I did pick it up and brought it outside. I walked between the new barn and the shed where the steers were when I lived there–there is really no way to walk through this way in reality since there’s a very steep hill and it’d be very hard to walk up the hill while holding a large cat. That’s all I remember, but I wonder if the cats signify something or if it’s just because I miss my cats.

Mongolians don’t like cats. Can you believe it? Every time I show a Mongolian a photo of my beloved little kitter-cats, they shudder. In Mongolian, the word for cat is муур, which stems from муу, bad. Someday when I remember to bring photos of them to this cafe I'll post them.

Yesterday I ate ox tongue salad. This is something I never would have thought I’d ever experience. The act of eating ox tongue is actually okay as long as you diligently push the image of the ox’s tongue in the live ox’s mouth as you chew. And also try not to pay attention to the texture of the meat. The dish’s seasoning was good and it was served with mayo, which helped a lot. A few times I slipped–I grew up seeing a lot of cow’s tongues– and nearly gagged, but all in all I think it held myself together fairly well.

I have never eaten so much meat in my life as I have in the past four days: ox tongue salad, huurshuur (similar to a calzone but with only meat in it and the breading is much lighter or thinner), buuz (steamed dumplings with meat in them), potato soup with meat, etc. I’m already getting sick of it. Thus far, my favorite is buuz, which is a traditional Mongolian food.