I live where ice
builds on the inside of windows. Mother Nature doesn't approve of us
having our heat, so, as condensation collects, the temperature of the
glass freezes it. This happens inside bus windows and on my skylight,
six feet above my fire. Some nights, my fire maintains enough warmth
for me to sleep through until morning. Other times, I awaken,
chilled, in the darkness, possibly 03:00, possibly 05:00, to build
the fire anew.
The success level
of the fire dictates how my day will start. A warm morning means that
I don't have to throw two or three jackets on just to climb out of my
sleeping bag. Some of my friends wake to find water-filled vessels
frozen over in their sleeping quarters. Music is essential and
something with a beat serves to jump-start my motivation. First,
however, the fire must be paid devotion. I burn primarily coal these
days, but – should wood be my sweet apothecary – then heat be thy
poison, swiftly acting out its intended purpose.
A morning review of the online news
generally accompanies my breakfast of eggs or bread. Distracting me
from my meal, however, the shadows, like ravens passing overhead,
speak of a victorious blaze. The natural illumination in my ger goes
light, dark, then light again, and, shortly after, the drips of
melting ice from my skylight onto the stove sizzle with the promise
of coming warmth.
Bundling up (details on that later), I
exit my ger, give some quick love to the hashaa puppy, and make the
10-minute walk to my school. Mongolian winter doesn't officially
start until December 22nd, but I manage to arrive at work
with frost on my mustache and eyelashes. Beauty tip: Frozen
eyelashes give that morning sparkle when your eyes can't do it
themselves.
The first half of my day at the school
consists primarily of planning, as all my classes are technically
after-school clubs. Not much to speak of there. I have noticed that
the very accent that makes my English easier to understand by
Europeans proves to be a challenge to Mongolian ears. While staying
at a hostel last week in the capital, I spoke with a few Englishmen,
an Italian, and a Washington resident, of which none believed I was
from California based on my accent. It's a mystery.
Depending on what I get caught up doing
during the morning and what time my afternoon sessions start, I get
an hour or two for lunch, during which I have to walk home to keep my
fire going, since it would be an icy place to return to after a full
day away. This is the best time of the day to saw and chop wood. One
of the major lessons that I will bring to next year's experience is
that I should prepare as much wood as possible before December. While
I could spend two hours sawing in a light long-sleeved shirt last
month, it is now a struggle at -20 deg F, double-gloved and triple
jacketed, to saw for even half an hour. Fingertips go numb from
inactivity and iced breath saps my energy. And it's not yet winter.
As I look out at my class, I consider
the appropriateness of their names in connection to our lesson
topics. American names – though historically beset with meanings
that are forgotten once the baby name book is closed – are often
chosen based on popularity, ancestral connection, or the
attractiveness of the spoken form. Mongolian names, however, are
generally composed of words in everyday language, that speak of
positive qualities. How fitting it is that my lesson on managing
emotions has
Peaceful, Cheerful, and
Happy participating and Wisdom Key, Aspiration,
and My Physical Strength/Energy take
part in discussions on leadership. Translated into English, these
sound like names from the hippie era, but the Mongolian versions
resound with strength and tradition. My coworkers' names translate to
such things as Peaceful-Happiness,
My Honest/Innocent One,
Treasure-Ornament,
Precious Flower, and
Beautiful Mind. My
name roughly translates to “Watching Twin Peaks”...
With me dressed in black and four
layers deep, the dormitory students are laughing as I put my bandanna
on to cover my mouth: the Stay-Puft Marshmallow ninja readies himself
for the walk home. The moon has not yet risen, and the terrain –
illuminated by my silver-tinted cellphone light – appears lunar in
nature. Today's snow-dusting smooths the frozen rocks just enough to
feel extraterrestrial in the glow. There are no lights out here, save
the occasional car that passes by me. Along my trail home, I pop in
at one of the delguurs (independent shops) in my district to purchase
a few dirt-covered potatoes and a green bell pepper to get some color
in my diet.
Tonight, the wind chill
has won against my dying fire and I try to concentrate on writing
while constantly turning to inspect my stove, hoping to see the blaze
that will defrost my typing fingers. Wood heats faster than coal, but
I keep my dwindling timber pile in mind, as well as the outside
conditions that I'd have to face in the event of a shortage, so I
throw another layer on myself and choose patience over exertion (I
mean...um...wasting resources).
A meal and some
time reading, writing, or movie-watching later, it's time to retire
to the sleeping bag of survival. I shove coal into the stove with
hopes that the chunks are large enough to simmer through the night.
The lights are out and possibly I've dozed a bit, but my mind kicks
off, processing ideas and plans, foregoing sleep in exchange for
creativity. The availability of endless material to enrich my mind
calls to me, and the debate between lying in darkness while working
through thoughts and facing shrunken pupils in the glow of the
monitor becomes moot.
You might think that this
news is rather sad, but sometimes you just have to laugh.
