Зүн болож байна шүү

The pros and cons of outhouses, summer vs. winter:
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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.
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Winter Pros:
Giant stalagshit target to aim for
No stink
No flies

Winter Cons:
Ass might literally freeze off
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Chamber Pot Pros:
Easy access.

Chamber Pot Cons:
None
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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.
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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.