Volley-BALLS.

"What was that?" I clumsily thought to myself, still stuck in that half-world between slumber and reality. "It must be 6 am or so". The dog's barks filled my consciousness. "Wait, barking dogs?". Barking dogs means one of two things; one, a man is outside my ger, or two there's nothing there. I heard a whistle. "There's a man outside my ger". Reality stepped in. I still don't have locks on my doors. I picked my phone up and checked the time. "2:23" it reads. "Fuck". I stare at my door, half expecting a drunk man to stumble in. Ten intense minutes later, filled with barking dogs and fear, my hashaa mother comes outside. The following is a rough translation from Mongolian:
"Who's there?"
"Hey! Do you have vodka?"
"No, we're all out."
"All out?"
"All out."
"...all out?"
"ALL OUT."
"...all out?"
"Yes, all out."
Pause.
"All out?"
"All out."
"Za." (Mongolian Za, meaning alright in this case)
Yes, I counted how many times my hashaa mother said "Baixqui", and it was five. I heard the door close, she had gone back inside. I was left alone again, with the stranger. I heard mumbling, there were at least two of them. Apprehensive, I was still expecting a drunken visitor. Their voices slowly faded up the hill till silence returned, beautiful silence.

I went to the Postman's house to pick up two packages my Uncle Bill and Aunt Maryann had graciously sent. My hashaa mom accompanied me on the 30 second walk. I enter the house and do the normal Mongol thing: sit, drink tea and eat bread, pretending I really don't have business in being there, till at least a little later. We take our obligatory seats and begin the custom. "Woah, who's this?". A man stumbles into the room. His legs ceasing to work, synapses were failing to fire. He somehow makes his way across the room towards my hashaa mom. He grabs her head and brings it violently towards him, smelling her head, a traditional mongolian custom when greeting relatives you haven't seen in a while. My hashaa mom yells "Get away from me!". He looks at me.
"HO! Who's this!?".
"I'm called Kevin".
"Are you studying Mongolian?".
"Yes, I'm studying very well".
He pauses, like he didn't understand, and turns to my hashaa mother
"His he studying Mongolian".
"He said YES, listen!".
"How is Mongolia?".
"Oh, it's very cool, I like it a lot".
"What'd he say?".
"HE SAID IT WAS COOL, LISTEN YOU DRUNK!".
"Do you speak Russian?".
"No I don't know Russian at all.".
He begins firing questions at me in Russian.
"I don't understand you, I said I don't speak Russian."
"He DOESN'T speak Russian, talk in Mongolian he understands Mongolian".
He grabs my hand and I pull away. He tries to take my packages and I yell at him. He's getting semi-angry now. The postman, his wife and a random younger girl try to get him to go outside, eventually physically removing him. The little girl turns to me and quietly says "Sorry". I laugh and tell her not to worry about it. The man is outside struggling with the Postman and the younger girl. We wait inside hoping for the hurricane to subdue. Eventually they get far enough away, so we sneak out the door. Unfortunately, he knows exactly where I live and is struggling to get into my hashaa, while the Postman and this strong Mongolian girl hold him back. My hashaa mother and I sneak in the back door of my hashaa. I run into my ger. I don't have locks on my door, "Where's the nearest piece of wood?".

Ah, that familiar, dreaded sound, the alarm. I try and blink my bloated eyes into life. I can't tell what time it is, I'm still in my sleeping bag with a blanket over my head, though I vaguely remember setting it for "7:10". Ah, the illusion that right outside these blankets the world is just as toasty as I am; it's a wonder feeling. Crap, I gotta teach in fifty minutes. I hop out of my sleeping bag and blanket helmet, it's the only way to do it. It's like jumping into a freezing pool of water, don't waste time easing yourself in, just get it over with already. My breath flows freely and visibly around my ger. I scamper around searching for pieces of clothing. First wool socks. Then, the first layer, long underwear. I quickly add additional layers. I do my morning routine of pushups to warm up and get the blood moving. I quickly assemble wood and let the fire do it's thing. I'm just going through the motions. It doesn't matter, I'll be out of here before it's warm. I eat some dried cranberries I had picked up from relief packages, dropped from Peace Corps relief planes when they do their monthly air drop. I am exiting my hashaa when my duu told me to wait for her and my older sister. I tell them to hurry. I go inside their toasty house.
"What are you doing up?".
"I gotta teach at 8".
"Who said that?"
"I always teach at 8." Kevin you fool. On the journey to school, my eyes watered. They always water when they're freezing, asking the air for some sort of relief or at least sympathy. They got neither. The tears froze to my cheek. The snot in my nose froze. By the time school is in sight, my face is numb and my bones ache. The three of us barely talked, it was difficult to move one's jaw. Had there been a thermometer on my face, it would have read absolute zero. I walk into school and check my classroom; it was vacant. My frozen heart sank. I cursed myself. My older sister walks over "See I told you". I hear a nearby laugh, it's my hashaa father. "Haha! sleep! sleep!". I struggle to move my face muscles into a smile. "Damnit!". I bundle myself up as much as possible and begin the long trek home.

Other news, the American ambassador to Mongolia and I hung out for a day. We ate cheese and crackers and drank wine in front of a centuries old monestary. I'm in UB for the weekend for the PC thanksgiving dinner. Who thought it was a good idea to get 70+ Americans, weary and lonely from the land of blue sky, together in one place all at once?