I am not right. Morning has come. Something is wrong. A dog, I smell that foul, something's awry, stench. I cannot say what but I know it's there. A tremulous body, I text my counterpart. I cannot work today, something evil this way comes, instinct whispers to me.
I am a ball of nothing, energy has depleted completely. Flesh has turned warm, a crimson face stares across the room. Any which way I lie ends uncomfortably. Body indiscriminately rejects liquids and solids alike. I need to take a leak, but my body has collapsed, I am trapped in my bed. Eyes shut. I am traveling a bright dreamscape.
I am in pain. My eyes open. Fever is reaching epic proportions, the most pain I have ever been in. Muscles and body will burst under the pressure. I ponder if death would be preferable. I find myself taking short quick breaths. A deep breath is greeted by a thousand knives of fire stabbing the lungs, with a kick to the face, to boot. The heart of a marathon runner beats, but I don't run. Body struggles to attain enough oxygen. My lungs are filling with liquid, I am slowly drowning in my ger, far from any large body of water. Help me. Eyes close again.
I am in want of death. Eyes slowly open. Hard to comprehend, but the situation has deteriorated further. I struggle to scrounge enough energy to reach the medical kit across the room. An old man with two bad legs, I finally retrieve it. It reads 102.3. A bright crimson face takes some un-aspirin. Trapped, alone in a ger on the Mongolian steppe, hours from the Peace Corps doctor. I conjure up a little more energy and manage the journey to the outhouse. The hashaa mom sees me "Did you go to school today?" No, I'm dying. Upon return to my ger, the hashaa mom bursts in, "I'm sorry I didn't know you were sick". I just need sleep. (The events that follow are blurry, for my fever reached 103 and I was on a plateau, fading in and out of consciousness). I begin to have various hashaa family members visiting, every 20 minutes. They advise me to call the Peace Corps doctor; delirious, I refuse. I am in another world, our reality is a distant window. All I want is sleep.
I am unhappy. Many hours have passed, the fever subsides a bit. I manage to swallow a bit of water but that too eventually reemerges. I have blessed the governor of my soum's milk in my ping before. On this day he had come for that precise reason. (The family asked me to do it again, but I believe I was unable to answer). Suddenly 5 or 6 people are coming and going in my ger. I don't care, I am somewhere else. My hashaa sister locks me in my ger, thinking it's dangerous to leave me alone. My body won't move anyway. Sleep is hard to come by in a feverish and aching body, with a cough that comes from the depths, tearing through lungs filled with liquid. I struggle to get an hour here and there, but the shadows become my companions. I stare. I follow the ger poles up to the window, reaching for the heavens, but never quite getting there. I am in a dark hell, trapped in a felt tomb. I receive a message at midnight saying my phone has been shut off, Peace Corps hadn't renewed our contracts (though I had called them on Monday, before the sickness, to confirm that our contract ended the next day, and that they would have it promptly extended, just one of the many ways Peace Corps has let me down in the past year). I laugh.
I am sleepless. Around 6 in the morning, hashaa sister unlocks the door and checks in. My fever is already almost back to full strength. I am urged to call the doctor but my phone is useless, besides, I refuse outright again still in some kind of reasonless state. The twenty minute visitor rule is back in full force. The hashaa mom comes in and begins cleaning my entire ger, top to bottom, side to side; floor, rug, dishes, nothing stays unclean. She leaves after a half hour or so. (I barely remember this, she reminded me several weeks later when I returned to Orxon and I quickly thanked her). I am trapped in bed releasing a low groan every once in a while. My phone rings, I can still receive calls. It's my regional manager. She explains that my director had called saying Kevin is dying in his ger, should she contact Paul, the PCMO? I don't want this to turn into a big deal, I take a deep breath and am quickly reminded of my situation. I nonchalantly say sure. I am foolishly waiting to contact the doctor for what? My brain is fried. Cady calls me, all M18 phones are down, she's calling from her work landline. She is concerned, rumors travel quickly in Peace Corps. I tell her Zorigoo had called me, Paul should be calling soon. She says she's gonna call Peace Corps again. Meanwhile, the visitors keep pouring in. My counterpart comes in with my sister. The sister starts making fun of me, I manage to yell at her to be quiet, counterpart laughs.
I am losing hope. Paul hasn't called yet, the time is approaching 1. The phone rings, it's Paul. Hey man, I hear you're having some trouble. Paul I think I'm dying. I'm worried about Pneumonia, if you're not better by tomorrow, you need to come to UB immediately. I promptly begin taking Amoxicillian and un-aspirin, as many as allowed. My fever is still in the epic regions, I slip in and out of reality again.
I am regaining my hold on hope. Paul calls several more times throughout the day checking up on me. The evening shades begin to appear and my fever finally subsides slightly again. I haven't eaten or drank anything in a day and a half. Paul says that it's essential I at least get some water, I am in danger of serious dehydration. Night comes, and it's another nightmare.
I am utterly weak. The morning is blooming, and Paul calls. "I'm slightly better". "You need to leave Orxon now".
Friday, September 26, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Зүн болож байна шүү
The pros and cons of outhouses, summer vs. winter:
---
Summer Cons:
Stinky
Clouds of flies
Ultimate splash back
Summer Pros:
Not -50.
Shitting with the door open at night, with billions of stars watching.
---
Winter Pros:
Giant stalagshit target to aim for
No stink
No flies
Winter Cons:
Ass might literally freeze off
---
Chamber Pot Pros:
Easy access.
Chamber Pot Cons:
None
---
I entered the outside world. Several visiting PCVs mentioned a strange occurrence going on outside, thus that is why I entered it. The eternal blue sky was being eternal and blue. Eyes settled on four people standing in the yard. Two of them I knew, two of them I didn't. At this point, several things were noticed at once. First, hashaa mom was holding a rice cooker pot filled with milk. Secondly, a calf had just been corralled into a small enclosure. Thirdly, hashaa dad was holding this calf tight. Fourthly, the unknown man had a small knife. Upon closer inspection, two things were floating in the pot. All the pieces fit and the stomach clenched. Throat compressed and swallowed heavily to prevent an incident, thereby blocking the upward momentum of any projectile vomit. Hashaa dad, arm around calves’ neck, fingers in the nose, struggled with the frightened animal. Unknown man with the knife bent his knees. In a flowing motion, the knife punctured the scrotum and cut across two inches. The scrotum was pushed up like an old sock, revealing the calves' bare balls, in all their morbid glory. Fuck! The knife was clenched now between closed teeth. The man’s hand, clutched testicle in fist, aided by gravity, pulled. A nauseating rip came from deep within the animal. Stomach struggled, animal struggled. The testicle was dropped haphazardly into the pot trailed by the bloody vas deferens, ending in a small splash. The procedure was repeated again and the twins were reunited in a pool of milk. The man’s hands skillfully pulled the remaining vas deferens hanging from the calf and sliced it off. The tubes were placed into the pot. The old sock was put into its original position. Spit was applied to the incised area and the two ends were mashed together. Hashaa dad released his grip. There was a moment of tension. Expecting a massacre, muscles tensed. He stood there dazed, consoling himself. Who’s next? The air was thick with terror, animals knew. A chase and a struggle ensued to bring in the next victim. Standing with milky pot in hand, recounting the last minute of how I had come to acquire this calcium enriched, open-topped, mobile tomb, I watched as the procedure was repeated yet again. The air was cold, stealing the ball’s warmth. A few calves struggled, one fainted. In holding the pot, the risk of a wayward splash of testicle blood was ever-present. I soon become an unwilling victim of such an incident.
The calves were finished; time to move onto even more innocent sounding animals, lambs. Lambs fled for the lives, doing their best to avoid those searching human hands, but it was no use. Their curly white, fur became handles, allowing for easy plucking from the enclosure. Forced to the ground, four legs held together, ass firmly on the ground, belly to the heavens, the man with the knife had easy access. This time, two incisions were made, and instead of an old sock, it became a red flower, blooming towards the sky. He did the same procedure on a much smaller scale. The lambs struggled more than the calves, probably since there were no fingers in noses. One lamb shat himself. The surgery was repeated again, several more times. A goat was caught up in the mix. He could but wonder what greater horrors awaited him since his balls had long been ousted in a bloody coup. He was released to great relief. Walking away from the butcher’s shop, with a heavy stomach, I viewed the carrel of testicle-less animals. I sighed, and proceeded to wash the blood from my hands.
---
It was another afternoon of herding cows with hashaa sister. Herded to a small tributary of the river and forced over, the new calves were hesitant. Two went, three stayed. After a struggle, two more reluctantly crossed, the smallest still refused to go. An epic forty-five minute chase through muddy fields followed. Three sides were covered, the two of us and the river. The fourth side continually allowed an escape. A tenth grader rode by on a horse. Get over here, a third person is needed. With the fourth side closed, he was soon within grasp. A shove into the river did little good. A worried mom looked on across the river. He leapt to the bank, back into waiting human hands. I grabbed his muddy hind legs, the student his front. We gave him the old one, two, three. A slight struggle mid-flight ended with a large splash. A white face turned shades of grey, and I swear I saw a frown. After an effort against gravity and a shake, mom and daughter were reunited.
---
Summer Cons:
Stinky
Clouds of flies
Ultimate splash back
Summer Pros:
Not -50.
Shitting with the door open at night, with billions of stars watching.
---
Winter Pros:
Giant stalagshit target to aim for
No stink
No flies
Winter Cons:
Ass might literally freeze off
---
Chamber Pot Pros:
Easy access.
Chamber Pot Cons:
None
---
I entered the outside world. Several visiting PCVs mentioned a strange occurrence going on outside, thus that is why I entered it. The eternal blue sky was being eternal and blue. Eyes settled on four people standing in the yard. Two of them I knew, two of them I didn't. At this point, several things were noticed at once. First, hashaa mom was holding a rice cooker pot filled with milk. Secondly, a calf had just been corralled into a small enclosure. Thirdly, hashaa dad was holding this calf tight. Fourthly, the unknown man had a small knife. Upon closer inspection, two things were floating in the pot. All the pieces fit and the stomach clenched. Throat compressed and swallowed heavily to prevent an incident, thereby blocking the upward momentum of any projectile vomit. Hashaa dad, arm around calves’ neck, fingers in the nose, struggled with the frightened animal. Unknown man with the knife bent his knees. In a flowing motion, the knife punctured the scrotum and cut across two inches. The scrotum was pushed up like an old sock, revealing the calves' bare balls, in all their morbid glory. Fuck! The knife was clenched now between closed teeth. The man’s hand, clutched testicle in fist, aided by gravity, pulled. A nauseating rip came from deep within the animal. Stomach struggled, animal struggled. The testicle was dropped haphazardly into the pot trailed by the bloody vas deferens, ending in a small splash. The procedure was repeated again and the twins were reunited in a pool of milk. The man’s hands skillfully pulled the remaining vas deferens hanging from the calf and sliced it off. The tubes were placed into the pot. The old sock was put into its original position. Spit was applied to the incised area and the two ends were mashed together. Hashaa dad released his grip. There was a moment of tension. Expecting a massacre, muscles tensed. He stood there dazed, consoling himself. Who’s next? The air was thick with terror, animals knew. A chase and a struggle ensued to bring in the next victim. Standing with milky pot in hand, recounting the last minute of how I had come to acquire this calcium enriched, open-topped, mobile tomb, I watched as the procedure was repeated yet again. The air was cold, stealing the ball’s warmth. A few calves struggled, one fainted. In holding the pot, the risk of a wayward splash of testicle blood was ever-present. I soon become an unwilling victim of such an incident.
The calves were finished; time to move onto even more innocent sounding animals, lambs. Lambs fled for the lives, doing their best to avoid those searching human hands, but it was no use. Their curly white, fur became handles, allowing for easy plucking from the enclosure. Forced to the ground, four legs held together, ass firmly on the ground, belly to the heavens, the man with the knife had easy access. This time, two incisions were made, and instead of an old sock, it became a red flower, blooming towards the sky. He did the same procedure on a much smaller scale. The lambs struggled more than the calves, probably since there were no fingers in noses. One lamb shat himself. The surgery was repeated again, several more times. A goat was caught up in the mix. He could but wonder what greater horrors awaited him since his balls had long been ousted in a bloody coup. He was released to great relief. Walking away from the butcher’s shop, with a heavy stomach, I viewed the carrel of testicle-less animals. I sighed, and proceeded to wash the blood from my hands.
---
It was another afternoon of herding cows with hashaa sister. Herded to a small tributary of the river and forced over, the new calves were hesitant. Two went, three stayed. After a struggle, two more reluctantly crossed, the smallest still refused to go. An epic forty-five minute chase through muddy fields followed. Three sides were covered, the two of us and the river. The fourth side continually allowed an escape. A tenth grader rode by on a horse. Get over here, a third person is needed. With the fourth side closed, he was soon within grasp. A shove into the river did little good. A worried mom looked on across the river. He leapt to the bank, back into waiting human hands. I grabbed his muddy hind legs, the student his front. We gave him the old one, two, three. A slight struggle mid-flight ended with a large splash. A white face turned shades of grey, and I swear I saw a frown. After an effort against gravity and a shake, mom and daughter were reunited.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
It's Been a While.
I went to Suxbaatar for the English Olympics, just to cheer my two students on. Little did I know, I was about to put in a 12 hour day, correcting tests and grading students on speaking skills for an entire province. My 9th grader ended up winning third place out of over 50 students in his category, congratulations Bayarnaisan!
I went into one of the town's stores the other day searching for bread. There hadn't been bread in over a week in my soum, and I just wanted some bread damnit! Well this particular shop had some little bread biscuits from a bakery in Darkhan, I decided to snatch them before they disappeared. Before I could pay, the shop owner disappeared. She came back with a traditional tsagaan car boo topped with candy and aruul and said "A tsagaan car gift for our American". I smiled and thanked her graciously. Thanks shop lady.
The door to my ping blew open from my kick, in my hands a box full of ash. I was bringing the ash to the inanimate monster that is the trash pile filled with needles and assorted animal parts. I smiled at Spot, one of our hashaa dogs as I walked by his shit hut, literally, his winter lodging made of shit. I shouldn't say his, because he shared it with Shungi one of our other dogs. He wagged his tail in delight as I walked by him. "I wonder where Shungi is". At night the two rascals are set free to roam as they like. During the day they are both tied up, since they tend to go insane when an unfamiliar person comes within 20 meters of our hashaa. I dumped my ash, granting the monster it's wish to become larger. I walked back into my ger. A while later I returned to the sun soaked yard to find Shungi laying in the shit hut. I starred at her for a second, she is not usually in the hut during the day, something must have been wrong. The hashaa dad emerged from the house with a rice bag, along with one of the sisters and the mother. He got on his knees and scooped Shungi out of the magical cave of shit. She was laying limp in his arms. "What the fuck!?". My heart jumped to life as reality set in. He laid her down on a rice bag, it was a cold day, this I began to realize at this moment. I ran over searching for answers. She started groaning, an awful low, long groan. I struggled to hold back tears of confusion. They tilted her head up and poured milk into her mouth. She struggled with the liquid, gurgling very loudly. I asked "What happened?". They had few answers just, "A person in the night". They laid her down and most of the milk spilled out of the side of her mouth. Her tongue was flushed out with the liquid, limp hanging out the side of her mouth. Her jaw began to twitch every 3 seconds or so. I desperately looked on, not knowing what to do. I wanted to keep her company. I glanced over at Spot, sitting erect, watching and listening to the low groan that filled the yard. His buddy was hanging to the edge. "She gonna make it?" he asked me. I did not have a reply for him. I kept her company for a while, shielding her eyes from the sun, trying to make her comfortable. After a while I walked to the store, this weight pulling on my shoulders. I bought bread. The day seemed to become colder as the minutes passed. When I got back to my ger, I stoked the fire and returned to Shungi. The jaw still twitched every 3 seconds or so. I scooped her up gently and brought her into my ger. I laid her right next to the stove. I stroked her lightly, being as gentle as possible, but reinforcing my love for her. I watched her from my knees. The jaw still twitched every 3 seconds or so. I tried many different stimuli, calling her name, shielding her eyes, petting her gently, there was no recognition. I breathed deeply. I sat on my stool, doing some school work, glancing at her every minute. One of the sisters came in, and started yelling at her "Stand! Stand!". She walked over to Shungi and grabbed her legs, roughly moving them around. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. As my internal temperature rose, I yelled at the sister "Stop it!". She laughed and left. She returned a while later, doing the same thing. I cannot convey the rage I felt. Again I yelled at her and again she left. As time became heavier, I could not stay awake. I laid down. I woke up. It was dark. I turned the light on and immediately ran to her side. The jaw still twitched every 3 seconds or so, relived and yet not at all, I returned to my stool. I called her name out-loud "Shungi!!". To my surprise, I got a long drawn out moan. I called her name again as the moan ended, no reaction. Then she took a massive breath and exhaled. My heart started thumping. I called out her name again as I looked over at her, the head moved slightly, to its final resting place. The jaw had stopped twitching every 3 seconds. I ran over to her, calling out her name several times. I gently stroked her blood soaked fur. Her chest no longer moved in rhythm, it had stopped moving altogether. My insides were panicking. I didn't know what to do. At this most desperate of moments, the father walks in and sees me on my knees next to Shungi. He squats down roughly petting her head. "You're a great dog". I ignored him. I just starred at her. The mother followed in minute later. They were asking my opinion about what had happened. Their words meant nothing to me, I just starred. Finally I managed, in Mongolian "She died". Odd I knew the word for dead. The only reason I learned it was to cry out as a joke when my snake died on the game "snake" on my cell phone. "AHHHH!!! MY SNAKE DIED!", and here I was in a most intimate moment with death himself, using that word. There was silence.
I have been around dead things before. I've been around things that are on their way out, but I have never watched (helplessly) the actual life exit a living thing.
The dad roughly stroked her head again. He began talking rapidly. "You and I will bring her into the countryside. I'll chop off her tail and we'll lay her to rest".
I'm in a haze. The two of them exit my ger. I'm alone with death.
I continued starring at her, perhaps willing her to life. As I stared at her chest, I noticed fur on her belly still bumping up and down in a rhythm. Her heart was still beating. I didn't know what to do. I starred as the bumps became weaker and weaker. I stroked her gently one last time as the fur became inanimate. I breathed heavily. The dad entered with a small hatchet. We scooped her up in the rice bag. Under the cover of night we exited the hashaa. The night air was chilly, a silent blanket of snow covered the land, muffling our footsteps. The moon beamed behind it's veil of clouds. We didn't talk. We stomped through the snow. About a mile away, on a small hill, we stopped and placed her on the ground. I stepped back as the dad raised the hatchet, hacking away at her rump. This Mongolian custom had me thinking only one thing "Dear god I hope she is dead". It took several swings then the tail fell, separated from the once whole body. He picked it up and gently laid it in the snow. He scooped her up and laid her head down on her tail. He asked me if we should cover her with the rice bag and I said yes. We tucked her in, and made her as comfortable as possible. I touched her one last time, saying "You were a great dog".
It didn't matter if the truck was full or not. What was of interest though, was on the wooden palate. We can discuss for hours if the truck was full or not, but the palate being dragged behind the truck holds the story. The truck may have been full but that's of no consequence. The palate is the anecdote. The truck, slow in it's endeavor, was being escorted by two grown men with sticks. I should say, the truck itself was not being escorted rather what was on the palate was being escorted. It was a usual butt-ass cold day (not even sure what that means). These men were not only guarding what was on the palate, but they were also keeping it balanced. The truck trudged along. My eyes peered out from behind my wall of cloth and leather. The men couldn't see my grin, but I could see theirs. On this frozen tundra, steam rose from the thing. Even through my barricade of clothing I could smell it. That raw smell of organs and death, for you see on this palate was a whole cow, minus it's hide. It was a giant palate full of blubber, organs and various cow parts. It was a giant jell-o like structure of fun. The men giggled like school girls as they slowly made their way across the field. I wonder where they were going.
I took my guitar to UB. We were going by train to UB, from Darkhan. I warned Chris before we left his apartment that somehow guitars are a Mongolian magnet, drunk Mongolian man magnet, not the kind of attention I crave. We walked into the station it was mostly empty save 20 people. We sat down in some seats. I put the guitar between my legs and there it waited, pulsing under the station's lights, it's siren call bellowing to all those within sight. It was less then 2 minutes before our first sailor waded over. There were no sharp rocks waiting for him, just a patient American. Without introductions, without asking permission, he snagged my guitar. I patiently watched. He started talking. He didn't smell of alcohol but he certainly had the drunk mannerisms. He relayed that he had been a great guitarist as a child, but now he forgets everything. He played a few chords, well what he thought were chords. They turned out to be random notes jammed together. He fooled around some more on the guitar, making odd comments, asking me about myself. Eventually he ended up giving the guitar back to me. He began talking about how he went to school in Darkhan and how city life sucks. The countryside is much nicer, it's got everything you need, animals, space, clean air or so he said. He asked if I know Russian, and I reply that I don't. He said he doesn't know any English. Then he ended with the usual, man you have studied Mongolian very well. I thank him and he made a semi-graceful exit, one down, several to go. He returned several minutes later, and again picked the guitar up and fiddles with dusty old memories trying to jump start his fingers into action. Then another man approached mentioning how he plays. He took the guitar, fiddles with it a bit but finding nothing, he gives it back to the other man. Another man joins in, but he actually knows a few chords and parts of songs. We all watched in enjoyment. Then they ask me to play a Mongolian song and I oblige, they enjoy it. The different men come and go. Leave and return, till finally it's just me again. Another man, seemingly well dressed sits down next to me, a strategic move, he had heard the siren. Suddenly he grabs my guitar and does some semi-classical picking, doing his best to impress me and the onlookers. I nodded in enjoyment. He asks me "yamar baina?" and I give the obligatory "sain". He asked again, obviously full of himself, and I ignore him, he heard me the first time. I took my guitar back and didn't answer his challenge. I just sit there. Then some of his friends ask me to play a song. And I say "yamar duu?" and they say "Xamaagvi". So I decide to play a Mongolian song again. They all love it including some random Mongolians in the now full train station. When I finished, the other guy, not to be outdone, snatched the guitar away and does some more classical strumming, basically exactly what he had done before. Everyone enjoys it but I decide to answer his call. I took back my guitar and pull out a good old fashion American rock solo. Blazing up and down the neck, I begin to attract a larger crowd, including a bunch of younger Mongolians who are utterly impressed. They evidently had never seen anything like it. They're used to the old men fiddling with old memories and tired old songs, but not this blast of fresh rock to the face, not this glimpse of the devil's work, not this massive steel toed boot to the groin. I get a gasp at the end of it, and the other man soon leaves. The original two men returned after a while. The one was still declaring the glory of the countryside. As our train arrived we mention that we must be going. The one man tried to whisper quietly to Chris, come with me. In his drunkenness, his whisper came out as a half yell. He probably wanted to get Chris alone to ask him for money, little did he know we work for Peace Corps, we have no money, sucker. He hassled Chris a bit. We exit the train station, with this man in our wake. He is determined to get what he wants. Eventually we lose him in the crowd. We boarded the train.
I went into one of the town's stores the other day searching for bread. There hadn't been bread in over a week in my soum, and I just wanted some bread damnit! Well this particular shop had some little bread biscuits from a bakery in Darkhan, I decided to snatch them before they disappeared. Before I could pay, the shop owner disappeared. She came back with a traditional tsagaan car boo topped with candy and aruul and said "A tsagaan car gift for our American". I smiled and thanked her graciously. Thanks shop lady.
The door to my ping blew open from my kick, in my hands a box full of ash. I was bringing the ash to the inanimate monster that is the trash pile filled with needles and assorted animal parts. I smiled at Spot, one of our hashaa dogs as I walked by his shit hut, literally, his winter lodging made of shit. I shouldn't say his, because he shared it with Shungi one of our other dogs. He wagged his tail in delight as I walked by him. "I wonder where Shungi is". At night the two rascals are set free to roam as they like. During the day they are both tied up, since they tend to go insane when an unfamiliar person comes within 20 meters of our hashaa. I dumped my ash, granting the monster it's wish to become larger. I walked back into my ger. A while later I returned to the sun soaked yard to find Shungi laying in the shit hut. I starred at her for a second, she is not usually in the hut during the day, something must have been wrong. The hashaa dad emerged from the house with a rice bag, along with one of the sisters and the mother. He got on his knees and scooped Shungi out of the magical cave of shit. She was laying limp in his arms. "What the fuck!?". My heart jumped to life as reality set in. He laid her down on a rice bag, it was a cold day, this I began to realize at this moment. I ran over searching for answers. She started groaning, an awful low, long groan. I struggled to hold back tears of confusion. They tilted her head up and poured milk into her mouth. She struggled with the liquid, gurgling very loudly. I asked "What happened?". They had few answers just, "A person in the night". They laid her down and most of the milk spilled out of the side of her mouth. Her tongue was flushed out with the liquid, limp hanging out the side of her mouth. Her jaw began to twitch every 3 seconds or so. I desperately looked on, not knowing what to do. I wanted to keep her company. I glanced over at Spot, sitting erect, watching and listening to the low groan that filled the yard. His buddy was hanging to the edge. "She gonna make it?" he asked me. I did not have a reply for him. I kept her company for a while, shielding her eyes from the sun, trying to make her comfortable. After a while I walked to the store, this weight pulling on my shoulders. I bought bread. The day seemed to become colder as the minutes passed. When I got back to my ger, I stoked the fire and returned to Shungi. The jaw still twitched every 3 seconds or so. I scooped her up gently and brought her into my ger. I laid her right next to the stove. I stroked her lightly, being as gentle as possible, but reinforcing my love for her. I watched her from my knees. The jaw still twitched every 3 seconds or so. I tried many different stimuli, calling her name, shielding her eyes, petting her gently, there was no recognition. I breathed deeply. I sat on my stool, doing some school work, glancing at her every minute. One of the sisters came in, and started yelling at her "Stand! Stand!". She walked over to Shungi and grabbed her legs, roughly moving them around. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. As my internal temperature rose, I yelled at the sister "Stop it!". She laughed and left. She returned a while later, doing the same thing. I cannot convey the rage I felt. Again I yelled at her and again she left. As time became heavier, I could not stay awake. I laid down. I woke up. It was dark. I turned the light on and immediately ran to her side. The jaw still twitched every 3 seconds or so, relived and yet not at all, I returned to my stool. I called her name out-loud "Shungi!!". To my surprise, I got a long drawn out moan. I called her name again as the moan ended, no reaction. Then she took a massive breath and exhaled. My heart started thumping. I called out her name again as I looked over at her, the head moved slightly, to its final resting place. The jaw had stopped twitching every 3 seconds. I ran over to her, calling out her name several times. I gently stroked her blood soaked fur. Her chest no longer moved in rhythm, it had stopped moving altogether. My insides were panicking. I didn't know what to do. At this most desperate of moments, the father walks in and sees me on my knees next to Shungi. He squats down roughly petting her head. "You're a great dog". I ignored him. I just starred at her. The mother followed in minute later. They were asking my opinion about what had happened. Their words meant nothing to me, I just starred. Finally I managed, in Mongolian "She died". Odd I knew the word for dead. The only reason I learned it was to cry out as a joke when my snake died on the game "snake" on my cell phone. "AHHHH!!! MY SNAKE DIED!", and here I was in a most intimate moment with death himself, using that word. There was silence.
I have been around dead things before. I've been around things that are on their way out, but I have never watched (helplessly) the actual life exit a living thing.
The dad roughly stroked her head again. He began talking rapidly. "You and I will bring her into the countryside. I'll chop off her tail and we'll lay her to rest".
I'm in a haze. The two of them exit my ger. I'm alone with death.
I continued starring at her, perhaps willing her to life. As I stared at her chest, I noticed fur on her belly still bumping up and down in a rhythm. Her heart was still beating. I didn't know what to do. I starred as the bumps became weaker and weaker. I stroked her gently one last time as the fur became inanimate. I breathed heavily. The dad entered with a small hatchet. We scooped her up in the rice bag. Under the cover of night we exited the hashaa. The night air was chilly, a silent blanket of snow covered the land, muffling our footsteps. The moon beamed behind it's veil of clouds. We didn't talk. We stomped through the snow. About a mile away, on a small hill, we stopped and placed her on the ground. I stepped back as the dad raised the hatchet, hacking away at her rump. This Mongolian custom had me thinking only one thing "Dear god I hope she is dead". It took several swings then the tail fell, separated from the once whole body. He picked it up and gently laid it in the snow. He scooped her up and laid her head down on her tail. He asked me if we should cover her with the rice bag and I said yes. We tucked her in, and made her as comfortable as possible. I touched her one last time, saying "You were a great dog".
It didn't matter if the truck was full or not. What was of interest though, was on the wooden palate. We can discuss for hours if the truck was full or not, but the palate being dragged behind the truck holds the story. The truck may have been full but that's of no consequence. The palate is the anecdote. The truck, slow in it's endeavor, was being escorted by two grown men with sticks. I should say, the truck itself was not being escorted rather what was on the palate was being escorted. It was a usual butt-ass cold day (not even sure what that means). These men were not only guarding what was on the palate, but they were also keeping it balanced. The truck trudged along. My eyes peered out from behind my wall of cloth and leather. The men couldn't see my grin, but I could see theirs. On this frozen tundra, steam rose from the thing. Even through my barricade of clothing I could smell it. That raw smell of organs and death, for you see on this palate was a whole cow, minus it's hide. It was a giant palate full of blubber, organs and various cow parts. It was a giant jell-o like structure of fun. The men giggled like school girls as they slowly made their way across the field. I wonder where they were going.
I took my guitar to UB. We were going by train to UB, from Darkhan. I warned Chris before we left his apartment that somehow guitars are a Mongolian magnet, drunk Mongolian man magnet, not the kind of attention I crave. We walked into the station it was mostly empty save 20 people. We sat down in some seats. I put the guitar between my legs and there it waited, pulsing under the station's lights, it's siren call bellowing to all those within sight. It was less then 2 minutes before our first sailor waded over. There were no sharp rocks waiting for him, just a patient American. Without introductions, without asking permission, he snagged my guitar. I patiently watched. He started talking. He didn't smell of alcohol but he certainly had the drunk mannerisms. He relayed that he had been a great guitarist as a child, but now he forgets everything. He played a few chords, well what he thought were chords. They turned out to be random notes jammed together. He fooled around some more on the guitar, making odd comments, asking me about myself. Eventually he ended up giving the guitar back to me. He began talking about how he went to school in Darkhan and how city life sucks. The countryside is much nicer, it's got everything you need, animals, space, clean air or so he said. He asked if I know Russian, and I reply that I don't. He said he doesn't know any English. Then he ended with the usual, man you have studied Mongolian very well. I thank him and he made a semi-graceful exit, one down, several to go. He returned several minutes later, and again picked the guitar up and fiddles with dusty old memories trying to jump start his fingers into action. Then another man approached mentioning how he plays. He took the guitar, fiddles with it a bit but finding nothing, he gives it back to the other man. Another man joins in, but he actually knows a few chords and parts of songs. We all watched in enjoyment. Then they ask me to play a Mongolian song and I oblige, they enjoy it. The different men come and go. Leave and return, till finally it's just me again. Another man, seemingly well dressed sits down next to me, a strategic move, he had heard the siren. Suddenly he grabs my guitar and does some semi-classical picking, doing his best to impress me and the onlookers. I nodded in enjoyment. He asks me "yamar baina?" and I give the obligatory "sain". He asked again, obviously full of himself, and I ignore him, he heard me the first time. I took my guitar back and didn't answer his challenge. I just sit there. Then some of his friends ask me to play a song. And I say "yamar duu?" and they say "Xamaagvi". So I decide to play a Mongolian song again. They all love it including some random Mongolians in the now full train station. When I finished, the other guy, not to be outdone, snatched the guitar away and does some more classical strumming, basically exactly what he had done before. Everyone enjoys it but I decide to answer his call. I took back my guitar and pull out a good old fashion American rock solo. Blazing up and down the neck, I begin to attract a larger crowd, including a bunch of younger Mongolians who are utterly impressed. They evidently had never seen anything like it. They're used to the old men fiddling with old memories and tired old songs, but not this blast of fresh rock to the face, not this glimpse of the devil's work, not this massive steel toed boot to the groin. I get a gasp at the end of it, and the other man soon leaves. The original two men returned after a while. The one was still declaring the glory of the countryside. As our train arrived we mention that we must be going. The one man tried to whisper quietly to Chris, come with me. In his drunkenness, his whisper came out as a half yell. He probably wanted to get Chris alone to ask him for money, little did he know we work for Peace Corps, we have no money, sucker. He hassled Chris a bit. We exit the train station, with this man in our wake. He is determined to get what he wants. Eventually we lose him in the crowd. We boarded the train.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
"This is Tulga. I will kill you"
It was to be a long journey and short one wrapped into a neat little package. It usually only takes 45 minutes or so to get to Xotol from Darkhan. I waited in one car for a while. An hour or so later the driver suddenly told me to get out, another car was to take me, since nobody else would sit in his car. I approached the car that was to be my story, put my bag in the boot and sat behind the front seat. A younger man got in the front seat, kissing his girlfriend goodbye as he closed the door. We immediately started driving to my delight. Normally transportation here rips the patience away from your very soul, leaving you bitter and empty. I turned to my left, there was plenty of room only a father and son, and the son had just gotten off the father's lap to sit in the middle. "This shall be the most comfortable ride in mongolia". Only two adults and a kid in the back seat? That's unheard of. Of course it's unheard of. I should have seen it as the bad omen it was. Quickly the car started gossiping about me. It is quite amusing for usually they assume you don't speak Mongolian. I turned to look at the father and quickly made eye contact. It was too late. His half toothless grin had caught me and his eyes focused on my eyes. Fasten your seat belts. I diverted my eyes, hoping he would leave me be, but it was too late. My 45 minutes of uncomfortable, shoot myself in the face time, had started. The obligatory questions began. "Do you speak Mongolian?" "Where do you live?" "Where do you come from?" "Do you speak Russian?" "Do you speak Russian?" "Do you speak Russian?". He talks in Russian, "I said I don't speak Russian!" "What do you do for a living?" "How many students do you teach?" "What grades do you teach?". Not so bad right? Now lets add some variables. Number one, this man is very drunk and slurring his words, making it difficult to comprehend what he's trying to convey. Number two, he keeps passing the bottle for me to drink from. Number three, he keeps grabbing me and not letting go. Number four, he hasn't slowed down, and literally is chugging from the bottle for seven seconds at a time. Now lets focus the story on the poor seven year old kid caught between his dad and some random foreigner. He keeps grabbing his father's arm, trying to hold it back, but a grown Mongol's grip is like a shark's mouth, it will only let go if it wants to let you go. Thus the arm was securely attached to my arm. The child struggled for a while. Sadly, he seemed to be used to these circumstances. Then the hands of futility choked the kid till he fell asleep, or at least he pretended to be asleep, battling dragons and other great beasts while the war between the drunk and the foreigner raged beyond his closed eyes. I looked to the front passengers for help. They were either shaking their heads and laughing at me or perhaps they were embarrassed that the foreigner was getting harassed by a fellow Mongol, either explanation would suffice for the result was the same, there was no help from them. I'm already exhausted telling as much as I did, so we'll jump to the conclusion. We pull into Xotol and I get the "I'm a bad person, I'm drunk" speech. I tell him it's fine. He says "I won't remember you cause I'm drunk, I'm sorry Ken. I'm a bad person". That's right, Ken. I was a Ken for 45 minutes. I didn't bother to correct him, it would have been a useless ten minutes of my life. I got out of the car as quickly as possible and searched for my next vehicle, on my last leg home.
I walked into a store in my town. I greeted the shopkeeper warmly and she responded in kind. As I was deciding what to buy, she handed me half an orange. I was delighted. Thanks shopkeeper.
My eyes looked longingly at the outside world, behind my glass screen, shielding me from the harsh winds. The familiar up and down of all countryside car rides was present. I was on my way to Darkhan, but of course, the usually fifty stops in Orkhon were necessary, picking up random objects and people, setting them here and there; my lap, the trunk, wherever room provided. Faces came and went. It's an entertaining game figuring out who and what is staying in the car for the actual journey to Darkhan. Our car came to a stop outside a house. The horn blared for a minute, nothing unusual there. As we waited, a small girl, maybe 8 years old, came running out, without a coat, only her pajamas. "She's not gonna get far" I thought to myself, bundled in my four layers of clothing, with leather coat on top, fur hat, face mask, two layers of wool socks and my ship like boats. She ran 30 feet from the house and abruptly stopped. I saw an older woman coming up from behind her, but ten feet away. In a fluid motion, her pants fell to her feet. "Ohhhhh" I thought and quickly looked away, in the name of American squeamishness. So there was this girl, taking a leak on the open plains of Mongolia, while a car load of people watched, and the old women walking behind her kept coming. Meanwhile, the outhouse creaked, lonely and broken just 30 more feet away, filled with frozen piss and stalag-shits.
It was our break between semesters, actually quarters would be more accurate seeing how there are four of them, but mongolians insist on calling them semesters. I was out of money thanks to a banking error (And not of the cool monopoly type where you receive money), and Peace Corps pay day wasn't for another week. My buddy Chris decided to pay a visit to hang out and give me some dough. Also he was going to lend me money, the bread was good though. Chris brought some of his delicious ger made alcohol. We were enjoying an evening of laughs, taking moonlight pictures in -50 degree weather, and even managed to play an old game of starcraft. It was during this game that things got interesting. The only thing providing heat in my ger is a stove. There I said it, now you know what's going to happen. As I was playing, Chris was making his way around the ger. Things were fine. The earth was revolving around the sun like usual. Suddenly there must have been a massive shift in the balance of nature for Chris tumbled hard. I thought he was just kidding around, but then the yelp came. Instinctually, he had tried to grab onto anything as he was falling, only to find himself grabbing the stove. Now, the stove is a giant hunk of metal. We're not taking about a kitchen top stove where you touch the burner and you get singed. We're taking about a big box of metal and every inch of this thing is blazing hot. You can see the heat rising off of it. Anyway, Chris grabbed it. The rest is kind of a blur. I think there was an "Oh FUCK!" somewhere in there but I can't be sure. Needless to say, he plunged his hand into my giant tub of water sitting by the door, which is usually frozen. He smashed through the layer of ice and held his hand under for a considerable amount of time. In our drunkness, going through the medkit, we picked out athlete's foot cream and applied to the area of burnage, remembering our PCMO advice, "When you are drunk and have 3rd degree burns on your hands, immediately apply athlete's foot cream". We then took some funny pictures, of his 3rd degree burns with the biggest blister I have ever seen. Good times.
Chris and I were gonna try and make pancakes with yeast instead of baking powder. Things were going well, I mixed the ingredients cause old one arm "xiij chadaxgvi". I put it into a plastic bag and set it by the stove to rise. We waited. And waited. Then waited a little more. Then we said fuck it lets just steam this pile of goo that hasn't risen at all and we did. A week later I called the PCMO and I was put on cipro. Seems like I got a mild case of food poisoning and an intestinal infection too boot. Was it the bread? I like to think not, cause it wasn't bread, it was goo.
A typical morning in the life of me: I’m waking up to my phone alarm. I am groaning. I’m nice and warm in my PC issued winter sleeping bag and heavy fleece blanket, Jenna so generously made for me, wrapped around my head. I’m sticking my nose outside the wall of heat, and instantly it’s cold. I am approximating the temperature, maybe –20 or so. Yes –20 in my ger, my home, my place of not working, my house of leisure. I am groaning. I am making sure my sleeping bag is zipped all the way, leaving a hole for one arm to go through so I can begin the fire ritual. I am now quite adept at making a fire with one arm. I am rising from my bed. I am looking at the wood and paper I prepared the night before, my fire-in-a-box. I am a mummified bunny hopping to the stove. I am sticking my arm through the hole and guiding it with one eye. I’m opening my stove and putting in the wood and paper. I am finishing. I am now striking a match with one hand, still guiding my hand with one eye through the hole. It is flaring as it is coming alive. I am lighting the paper now. It is burning. I am hopping back to my bed. My ger is getting colder. The fire is using up whatever warm air that is left over from last night and sucking in all the cold outside air. Now it must be –30, –40 or –50 in my ger, the same as the outside world. After about –20 it doesn’t really matter, the results are the same, you are fucking freezing. I am starring out of my hole, watching my breath hovering away like dragon’s fire. I am starring at the fire, willing it to burn hotter. I am adding more wood. My ger is very slowly getting warmer. I am now wondering what I will eat. (From her the story varies). I am finding a jar of frozen peanut butter. I am not touching it with my bare hands cause it’s too cold. I am placing it on top of the stove, which is blazing now. I am now forgetting about my peanut butter and thinking of other things while hopping around my ger. I am smelling burning nuts. I am now saying “Oh shit”. I am hopping back to the stove. I am picking up the jar with a towel. I am making an evil laugh. I am now spooning globs of half frozen, half burning peanut butter and slapping them on pieces of bread. I am enjoying my fire and ice peanut butter sandwich. I am now testing the air to see if I am able to shed my skin. It is looking good. I am unzipping my bag and quickly putting on a few more layers. I am adding more wood to the fire.
Remember, when entering your ger, whatever you do, do not touch that padlock without a glove, unless of course you want instant frostbite.
I walked into a store in my town. I greeted the shopkeeper warmly and she responded in kind. As I was deciding what to buy, she handed me half an orange. I was delighted. Thanks shopkeeper.
My eyes looked longingly at the outside world, behind my glass screen, shielding me from the harsh winds. The familiar up and down of all countryside car rides was present. I was on my way to Darkhan, but of course, the usually fifty stops in Orkhon were necessary, picking up random objects and people, setting them here and there; my lap, the trunk, wherever room provided. Faces came and went. It's an entertaining game figuring out who and what is staying in the car for the actual journey to Darkhan. Our car came to a stop outside a house. The horn blared for a minute, nothing unusual there. As we waited, a small girl, maybe 8 years old, came running out, without a coat, only her pajamas. "She's not gonna get far" I thought to myself, bundled in my four layers of clothing, with leather coat on top, fur hat, face mask, two layers of wool socks and my ship like boats. She ran 30 feet from the house and abruptly stopped. I saw an older woman coming up from behind her, but ten feet away. In a fluid motion, her pants fell to her feet. "Ohhhhh" I thought and quickly looked away, in the name of American squeamishness. So there was this girl, taking a leak on the open plains of Mongolia, while a car load of people watched, and the old women walking behind her kept coming. Meanwhile, the outhouse creaked, lonely and broken just 30 more feet away, filled with frozen piss and stalag-shits.
It was our break between semesters, actually quarters would be more accurate seeing how there are four of them, but mongolians insist on calling them semesters. I was out of money thanks to a banking error (And not of the cool monopoly type where you receive money), and Peace Corps pay day wasn't for another week. My buddy Chris decided to pay a visit to hang out and give me some dough. Also he was going to lend me money, the bread was good though. Chris brought some of his delicious ger made alcohol. We were enjoying an evening of laughs, taking moonlight pictures in -50 degree weather, and even managed to play an old game of starcraft. It was during this game that things got interesting. The only thing providing heat in my ger is a stove. There I said it, now you know what's going to happen. As I was playing, Chris was making his way around the ger. Things were fine. The earth was revolving around the sun like usual. Suddenly there must have been a massive shift in the balance of nature for Chris tumbled hard. I thought he was just kidding around, but then the yelp came. Instinctually, he had tried to grab onto anything as he was falling, only to find himself grabbing the stove. Now, the stove is a giant hunk of metal. We're not taking about a kitchen top stove where you touch the burner and you get singed. We're taking about a big box of metal and every inch of this thing is blazing hot. You can see the heat rising off of it. Anyway, Chris grabbed it. The rest is kind of a blur. I think there was an "Oh FUCK!" somewhere in there but I can't be sure. Needless to say, he plunged his hand into my giant tub of water sitting by the door, which is usually frozen. He smashed through the layer of ice and held his hand under for a considerable amount of time. In our drunkness, going through the medkit, we picked out athlete's foot cream and applied to the area of burnage, remembering our PCMO advice, "When you are drunk and have 3rd degree burns on your hands, immediately apply athlete's foot cream". We then took some funny pictures, of his 3rd degree burns with the biggest blister I have ever seen. Good times.
Chris and I were gonna try and make pancakes with yeast instead of baking powder. Things were going well, I mixed the ingredients cause old one arm "xiij chadaxgvi". I put it into a plastic bag and set it by the stove to rise. We waited. And waited. Then waited a little more. Then we said fuck it lets just steam this pile of goo that hasn't risen at all and we did. A week later I called the PCMO and I was put on cipro. Seems like I got a mild case of food poisoning and an intestinal infection too boot. Was it the bread? I like to think not, cause it wasn't bread, it was goo.
A typical morning in the life of me: I’m waking up to my phone alarm. I am groaning. I’m nice and warm in my PC issued winter sleeping bag and heavy fleece blanket, Jenna so generously made for me, wrapped around my head. I’m sticking my nose outside the wall of heat, and instantly it’s cold. I am approximating the temperature, maybe –20 or so. Yes –20 in my ger, my home, my place of not working, my house of leisure. I am groaning. I am making sure my sleeping bag is zipped all the way, leaving a hole for one arm to go through so I can begin the fire ritual. I am now quite adept at making a fire with one arm. I am rising from my bed. I am looking at the wood and paper I prepared the night before, my fire-in-a-box. I am a mummified bunny hopping to the stove. I am sticking my arm through the hole and guiding it with one eye. I’m opening my stove and putting in the wood and paper. I am finishing. I am now striking a match with one hand, still guiding my hand with one eye through the hole. It is flaring as it is coming alive. I am lighting the paper now. It is burning. I am hopping back to my bed. My ger is getting colder. The fire is using up whatever warm air that is left over from last night and sucking in all the cold outside air. Now it must be –30, –40 or –50 in my ger, the same as the outside world. After about –20 it doesn’t really matter, the results are the same, you are fucking freezing. I am starring out of my hole, watching my breath hovering away like dragon’s fire. I am starring at the fire, willing it to burn hotter. I am adding more wood. My ger is very slowly getting warmer. I am now wondering what I will eat. (From her the story varies). I am finding a jar of frozen peanut butter. I am not touching it with my bare hands cause it’s too cold. I am placing it on top of the stove, which is blazing now. I am now forgetting about my peanut butter and thinking of other things while hopping around my ger. I am smelling burning nuts. I am now saying “Oh shit”. I am hopping back to the stove. I am picking up the jar with a towel. I am making an evil laugh. I am now spooning globs of half frozen, half burning peanut butter and slapping them on pieces of bread. I am enjoying my fire and ice peanut butter sandwich. I am now testing the air to see if I am able to shed my skin. It is looking good. I am unzipping my bag and quickly putting on a few more layers. I am adding more wood to the fire.
Remember, when entering your ger, whatever you do, do not touch that padlock without a glove, unless of course you want instant frostbite.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
