Sunday adventure

 This past weekend K and I decided to do some adventuring. We woke up early on Sunday, ate a breakfast of yeven (giant, hard-ish cookies) dunked in coffee, packed a picnic snack of sausage, cucumber and cheese (at my insistence--all proper adventures include food) and headed out. We caught a bus headed out of town, but got off only two stops later, as our chosen destination of Zaisan is not really that far. But what Zaisan lacks in distance from the city it more than makes up for in height.

A Soviet-era monument to the friendship between the Soviet Union and Mongolia, Zaisan perches upon the peak of a hill located just south of the city. You get there by hiking up a series of steep staircases circling the hill to the top. Along the way you pass the statue of the Mongolian tank that traveled all the way to Berlin during World War II, several ice-cream and fast food vendors (there is a branch of the restaurant chain "Coca Cola and Kebab" at the hill's base) and a few sellers of Mongolian landscape paintings, postcards, old Soviet metals and metal coins.

After a long, hot, tiring (but adventurous!) climb we reached the top. From the overlook pavilion there you have wonderful vistas of the city sprawling out below. Just a few steps above this patio sits the great round monument itself. The outside of the elevated ring is carved with Soviet symbols, while a colorful mosaic portraying Soviet/Mongolian harmony and achievements (including the Mongolian astronaut and victory over Japan and Germany) covers the inner face of the ring.

The peak that Zaisan sits on is actually a ridge that tapers back into a valley, so that on either side of Zaisan there rise hilly ridges framing the valley/canyon. This valley surrounding Zaisan to the east, south and west was (to my memory) almost completely undeveloped in 2002. Now the city has expanded into it, with expanses of new construction (apartments, mostly) and ger dwellings within fences filling the valley floor. K and I walked back along this ridge to continue our adventure. It was covered with wildflowers and interesting rocks, which made me very happy. We found the perfect picnic rock for sitting on while we ate our picnic, then headed back up to the monument. As we headed to the stairs for the long (but infintely less arduous) trek down we overhead a Mongolian man ask an African-American tourist if his son could pose with him for a photograph: "Like Barack Obama!"

Rain

It has been raining steadily for the past two days. In most of the places I have lived this would not be much cause for concern. The rain, for the most part, hasn't been too heavy and it has even paused at times. Yet this great sprawling desert city was not engineered for handling even a good shower, let alone two days of precipitation. If even the afternoon thunderstorm that I wrote of last time was enough to make my walk into more of an obstacle course adventure imagine what two days of rain could do!

Yesterday it began sprinkling late morning and by noon was a full-on downpour. A ten-minute walk/run/scramble to the central post-office left K and I soaked, even with an umbrella shared between us. The trickiest thing was not so much what was coming down from the sky as what had already fallen. Ulaanbaatar has no storm drains that I can tell and no culverts designed for handling runoff. Therefore, all the rain that falls in the city runs downhill until it either is absorbed or reaches the river. This means that the roads essentially turn into giant culverts. Any depression in the sidewalk or street (of which there are many) fills with water, creating ever larger and more impassable puddles.

Somehow despite the inconvenience of trying to navigate flooded and/or muddy sidewalks and roads (or maybe because of it), strangers have seemed generally more friendly these past couple days, more often making eye contact and being more forgiving of my broken Mongolian. Perhaps the shared struggle to make it home with dry feet breaks down some barriers that we (both myself and Ulaanbaatarites) have put up because of my foreignness. 

This evening I was nearly home when I reached the construction site that I have to cross every day to get from our apartment complex to the main road. As is the nature of a construction site the ground is dirt and filled with holes, making for an interesting crossing after two days of rain. Some thoughtful construction workers had placed bricks and other large stones in the middle of the largest puddles to create ways of safe passage. I had just reached the edge of one of the small lakes and was looking around to find the best navigation route. Just as I spotted the single crossing stone in the center of the water I also noticed a young woman about my age surveying the puddle from the other side. We caught each others' eye and laughed at our predicament before she motioned to me to cross.

Parades, Cows and Coffee

Over the past few weeks I have been gradually settling in to life in the city. We've established something of a routine: either riding the trolley (slower but cheaper than a bus) or walking into the city center in the morning, working for a few hours, eating lunch in the student cafeteria (can't beat the price and tasty too!), then working a couple more hours before heading home for the evening. Slight variations occur to this pattern, for example when I gave a presentation on map libraries last week to a group of thirty Mongolian librarians, but for the most part the days follow a settled rhythm. Yet despite this general sameness on paper (or screen, rather), each day little things surprise me and help distinguish one day from the others.

This past Tuesday we were walking to work along Peace Avenue--the main street in Ulaanbaatar--when I began to hear marching band music. Looking down the alley to my right, sure enough, there was a small marching band and a host of other people festively dressed in red and white, some in fuzzy red costumes. They flowed confidently out of the alley directly into Peace Avenue, stopping traffic while they marched down the center of Ulaanbaatar's busiest road during rush hour. Since we needed to cross there anyways, we tagged along in the wake of the parade's momentum, alongside other ordinary pedestrians that happened to be going to the same way as the parade.

It turns out that this was a parade with a cause, to raise awareness and public participation in blood drives. Hence the people dressed up as giant fuzzy drops of blood and the plethora of red and white. It was a completely unexpected bit of cheer on my morning commute.

Another tale (tail?) from my pedestrian commuting came from my walk home one evening. Our apartment complex stands on the opposite side of a river from downtown proper; therefore we have to cross the Peace Bridge to get back and forth. Looking down a few days ago from the bridge to the grassy riparian area below I was startled to see a herd of cows munching away. The contrast of the cows' green setting with the road, under-construction petrol station and towering buildings rising behind them made for an irresistible photo op.

Finally, the other afternoon after a long day on the computer searching book titles I decided to take an hour-long break before the weekly Thursday evening lecture. This past week has been a rainy one, with mostly sunny days punctuated by afternoon and evening thunderstorms. Therefore, although as I left the building it was just sprinkling, five minutes into my walk the sprinkles turned into a legitimate downpour. Luckily I was carrying an umbrella with me so my rainy ramble was pretty fun for a while. The puddles covering the sidewalk and street, however, were getting more enormous by the minute. When I walked by a little French cafe with covered open-air seating I grabbed the opportunity to get out of the rain and puddles for a while, rewarding myself for a hard day's work and capping off my rainy adventure with a picture-perfect latte. I finished off my break by sipping contentedly while watching the world traipse by my little table.

Countryside Reunion, Part Two

A brief re-cap: I am recounting my weekend in Dundgovi province exploring the countryside with two other American students as guests of my Mongolian language teacher and her relatives, who are visiting other family members in their homeland.

After visiting the relatives in Deren our caravan traveled to an ovoo (sacred cairn) on the top of a hill not too far away. The Mongolians left offerings of milk, candy, vodka and incense, and added rocks to the pile, circling clockwise around the ovoo three times. The views from the hill of the surrounding countryside were magnificent with the desert spreading out around us in all directions, gently rolling out to the mountains in the far distance. After a picnic we headed back into town.

The car I was riding in made a slight detour first, though, to visit another family in their ger. Although at first I thought this was just another social visit, it quickly became clear that this stop was slightly different as two of the children began trying on clothes and polishing up their shoes. In fact, we were them with us back to Ulaanbaatar. After their mother had packed their bags the two brothers climbed with us back into the car and we were off!

We made a brief stop back in Deren for more tea and company, then started back home. On our way we made two very interesting stops. The first was a beautiful spot in a small canyon where gnarled trees lined the dry riverbed at the bottom. Although the grove was greener than the surrounding landscape, none of the trees was larger than ten or fifteen feet and many were dead or dying. One of the men in our party told us, "When I was a boy this canyon was filled with tall thriving trees, but the climate has gotten drier, and, eh," he gestured at the dry riverbed landscape and dead wood, "now these trees cannot live."

 
Resuming our travels once more, we made one final stop on the way home to fill up water bottles and refresh ourselves at a well. The fresh mineral taste of the water and its bracing cold provided a welcome contrast to the bright sun and dusty road.

Almost as soon as we got back that evening to the khot ail (family camp) where we were staying a dust storm hit. Luckily it was not a very long one, and blew over before we had finished our naps. When we woke up it was time to feast on some real Mongolian barbeque (called khorkhog). To prepare khorkhog you heat a bunch of round river stones in a fire. Then you place the hot stones into a big canister with fresh meat, vegetables, some seasonings and water. When everything is in you tighten down the lid of the canister, letting the hot stones and steam do the cooking. The result is amazing, deliciously tender meat. Before enjoying the meal, though, everyone gets a hot rock to toss back and forth in your hands, which has some therapeutic benefits and feels very nice.

After dinner we Americans went on a small stroll to digest and enjoy the sunset. Others around the camp were playing volleyball, herding back the livestock for the night and slaughtering a couple sheep for the city relatives to take back with them. The twilight air was so refreshing that none of us wanted to go back inside the ger quite yet. Arranging ourselves on some old tires and small stools just outside one of the ger, a small group of us sat chatting and enjoying the evening with occasional toasts of vodka. As others finished their activities and the light grew more dim, our group slowly grew larger. Finally, someone called for a song.

And so we finished off the night with an hour or so of singing. Thanks to our language teacher's insistence on learning Mongolian songs and customs in addition to the language, the singing allowed all of us a common ground, Mongolians and Americans alike. The darkness of the cloudy night--lit up only by the crossbeams of two motorcycles--and the common language and fluency of our songs made it oddly one of the most comfortable and unifying times of the trip.

Countryside Reunion, Part One

My language teacher in America is home visiting Mongolia for a few weeks. This past weekend she invited her American students currently in Mongolia (me, K and T) to travel with her and her family to the countryside for a family reunion of sorts. Our party of ten traveled in two SUVs, leaving Friday afternoon. But before we could actually leave the city we had to find a filling station that hadn't yet run out of diesel. This proved remarkably difficult so K and I passed the time by playing games with the six-year old girl who was traveling in our car to the countryside. The two favorites by far were one person making an animal noise and the other two guessing what it was, and her saying to one of us (in Mongolian), "Look there out the window. Now look here," and when we turned back to look at her she would jump into our face with her hands up like claws and scream "Ahhhh!!" before falling back in a fit of laughter. It never failed to amuse.

After driving around (in city traffic) for probably two hours we finally found a place that had diesel and were on our way! Quickly leaving paved roads behind us, our drive took us south of the city toward Dundgovi province. As we drove the gentle green-ness of the hills surrounding Ulaanbaatar gradually transitioned to a sandier, sparser landscape. At sunset we stopped for a bit to stretch our legs, "fix our bodies" and enjoy a snack of bread, sausage, cucumbers and tomatoes. It also provided an ideal photo op.

Well after dark we arrived at the ger encampment of the family who we would spend the next couple nights with. The night sky was amazingly beautiful with millions of stars. I can't remember the last time I saw the milky way so clearly. After greetings and a friendly welcome from the family with tea and dried meat/ noodle soup we all tucked in to bed.

The next morning we drove to visit more family in the sum center of Deren (sort of like a county seat) which has a population of about 500, its own school, a hospital and several stores. It also has a public garden (established in the past few years) with an orchard of seabuckthorn bushes and what maybe were some little willows. A group of volunteers was planting more seabuckthorn bushes, grass lawns and some flowers while we were visiting. It was a nice little spot of green in the middle of the Gobi. And gardening in the desert, well that's something I can relate to.

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion to my weekend in Dundgov...

Welcome to Mongolia

This is my first time traveling back to Mongolia since my first visit here nearly nine years ago. Ulaanbaatar is in many ways almost unrecognizable. The very energy of the city seems more intense. It has been nearly a week since I arrived and the city still overwhelms me each morning with brightness, traffic and crowds.
It may be that I arrived this time into the bustle of the summer season ramping up whereas in my last memories of the city it was wrapped in the icy numbness of December. But this energy is not merely seasonal, it is the result of half a million more people, exponentially more cars, and all that comes with it. Cellphones, ten years ago a rarity, are omnipresent now. New construction has sprouted up everywhere with towering apartment buildings popping up on the city's southern edge and glass skyscrapers looming over downtown. None of this is surprising, really. After all, Mongolia is now nearly twice as long removed from the socialist era as when I was here last.

Yet despite these monumental changes, the city still feels familiar in so many ways. Many of the landmarks are the same, allowing me to orient myself somewhat in my old mental map of the city. But mostly it is the little details that feel familiar: the distinctive odors (some good, some bad), the taste of the food, the sing-song calls of the microbus drivers, the particular shades of blue paint.

I'll end this first blog post with my two favorite moments of the trip so far. Both have been on the bus, oddly enough (but perhaps not so odd--it's one of the only times to stop and observe). The first was an old man reading a book about wildflowers. The second was a young boy travelling home with his mother and grandmother. He had one of those whirly-gigs and as the traffic inched slowly along he held it up to the window to catch the rare breeze.