48 Hours

Camel polo...fire...suicide.

The day began well. I awoke early with vigor and my water was timely delivered. You see, I would rather support the local economy instead of hauling water myself. As the job situation is scarce, I pay the going rate of a dime a barrel 3 times a week for water to the waterman. He makes $30 a month perhaps, roughly calculated...I don't know. So it was off to the camel races followed by camel polo. Interesting stuff, they played much better than I would've thought. Its tough to whack a ball with a long stick whilst atop a camel. Of course you can't go to an event without being hassled by a drunk. So...camel polo.

On to the flames. I head back to the good 'ol ger and am distressed to find my smoke alarm going off. I pretty much have the forsight to envision exactly what is going on behind that door...I foolishly had lit a fire before going off to the races. So a den of smoke is my ger, as I put out the fire in my dung box. Apparently it caught fire from the stove. And so now everything smells terrible. Had I arrived later, there would've been nothing. I was angry with myself more than anything. C'est la vie, eh?

Finally, I sit down to use the 'Net, and the policeman has me assist him in printing photos, as evidence. Simple. However, the photos are of a man who has just committed suicide by tying himself to a fence, while he was drunk. Great way to end the day, eh?

That's 48 hours for you in Mongolia...camel polo, fire and suicide...

Into the Fray

Peace Corps is like the Marine Corps, except that the pen is mightier than the sword. Building bridges has always been better than burning them. We are dropped into the thick of the forest, the center of an ocean and the top of a mountain (or in my case, next to one). We’re told to find our own way and the Mikr rolls on leaving me in dust with my temporary Mongolian family and the two words of Mongolian that I know. I was born in Chicago, re-born Croatian by spending a number of years on that beautiful coast and finally, to the East, I’m re-born Mongolian in Bayangol (Rich River). After seven months, I believe I’ve made it down here in the Kingdom of the Middle-Gobi.

I came here with a fistful of expectations only to have them scattered by the brutal wind of Chinggis. It’s a tough life, one immeasurably unpredictable (a ger burned down just last month). Predictability and the routine are fine and dandy, but I like to fly by the seat of my pants. Life here is spontaneous; I just made my debut concert performance playing some tunes on guitar due to the insistence of community members…and whatever! Despite many “what on Earth are they thinking?!” moments I have with Mongolians, some things are to be learned from them. Think of the big picture but don’t plan too far ahead. Live for the moment (you never know when your ger will burn down). Never hold anything back, give all you got. I’ve never had such a hospitable neighborly experience in America (unless they were immigrants) as I have here, where they make you eat and drink ‘til you can’t stand up! Much is to be learned crossing the time and space of history and culture.

I drive “home” hours in a general direction, for there are no roads. The terrain can be rough and things break down. There is no flipping out; it’s called patience. There is no rush to life, no running to stand still. The children here are beautiful, hard-working and can play volleyball eight hours straight without getting bored. I see my breath in the morning and my water bottle is frozen solid. It’s a wonderful life. I’ve eaten all kinds of meat (camel, marmot, horse, etc.) and the fat...ugh. I’ve done dairy and vodka in all manifestations. What was it the Westerner turned nomad (W. Siegfried?) once said, “[the harder a man’s life, the better his character].”

“Life is calling…” the brochure says. The kingdom has been calling me for a long time.