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.