Water: the universal solvent

This evening, it was a windy and snowy -30 deg F evening as I walked home in the dark. Being that it was only 6pm, there were still a fair number of people milling, nay, walking with a purpose. As I crossed through a little alleyway into my neighborhood, I walked past a kid (~10-12 year old) who seemed to be staring intently at the metal fencing immediately in front of him. I thought it a bit odd as I passed, and decided to look back.

He was still there, staring. If it had been daytime, warm, and possibly a forested environment, I'd assume he was studying some sort of small animal life, as I many times have done. However, this was no place to linger. "Surely, he didn't try licking the pole," I told myself. I asked him if he was okay, and he gave a stunted nod, as I noticed a bloody tongue...stuck to the fence.

I couldn't believe it. I'd never actually seen this happen. I also never would've guessed that this would be the place for it to finally occur. "Hooey," I told the boy (this is Mongolian for "Ah, geez, I can't believe what's happening"). He gave weak efforts at trying to pull away. Most likely, he was worried about further damage to his tongue, as evidence of previous tries looked rather painful, especially in the numbing weather. Something in my memory told me that you're supposed to pour water on the tongue to release it, but I had a concern that the memory was incorrect, that it was too cold for that to work and the water would further freeze the bond, or something terrible that I'd have no solution for would result. However, judging by the fact that locals continued to walk by without giving the situation any attention, I took it upon myself to save this child.

I poured the water and was pleased to see it gradually separate from the fence. The kid stayed quiet and I asked if he was okay. Again, he nodded. I accepted the fact that he was a better "okay" than the first time I asked and turned down my street. I looked back to see him standing around the same area, so I had my concerns, but hopefully he knows to carry water from now on.

So there you go. Always carry water. It's good for hydration. It's good for washing things. It's good for unfreezing flesh from metal.

And don't lick poles when it's cold outside.

In further research, I found that if you don't have water with you, you should be able to cup your hands and breathe on the tongue-pole connection point enough to melt the area. Also, you might be able to stick your finger back into your mouth, get it wet, then try to melt the bonded area with your finger. Frankly, the second method sounds like a recipe for more trouble, so...carry water.

The twelfth month

The warmth of summer has long left us, though we recall its presence fondly. Precipitation occurs not in the form of that which flows through rivers, but as sparkles in the light. Even the animals outside are quieter at night. The nine nines of Winter are upon us.

December 22^nd marked the start of Mongolian Winter, which is measured in what is known as the nine nines. In the tradition of the nomads, where time is estimated by the angle of the sun that shines into the ger, winter is tracked in series of nine days, each of which have estimated temperature ranges:

1^st nine: homemade milk vodka freezes

2^nd nine: vodka freezes

3^rd nine: tail of a three-year-old ox freezes

4^th nine: horns of a four-year-old ox freezes

5^th nine: boiled rice no longer congeals

6^th nine: roads blacken

7^th nine: hilltops blacken

8^th nine: ground becomes damp

9^th nine: warm days set in

The third and fourth series (mid to late January) are known to be the coldest and, as we pass the midpoint of Winter, Tsagaan Sar is held in mid-February to celebrate the coming Spring. Having mentioned the approach of seasonal warmth, let me point out the fact that snow will still be present in March and possibly into May. However, I promote the idea that many should rejoice in the difference between -40º F and 15º F. Discounting wind chill (which has a serious effect here), the coldest I've seen so far was around -22º F, so there's still a bit to go in my personal record lows. However, my life has already seen new events that precipitated from the cool weather.

• While walking around the outdoor market a couple weeks ago, I realized that my eye had frozen partially shut. Steam from my mouth had condensed, then frozen, on my eyelashes, which was unexpected. It was easily remedied and felt like those mornings where you wake up with super crusty eyes.  

• After spending a week away from my ger (I was warm and clean in a hotel in the city for training), I returned to find items that are generally considered “cold, dry storage items” do not agree with that title. Potatoes had somewhat liquefied and left a brown pool beneath them. Fresh ginger root had shriveled a little (looked slightly dehydrated), but the inside had become juicy. Garlic cloves had swollen out of their casings, browned, and made my home smell oddly like kim-chi. A wine bottle had popped the cork out, but I'd foreseen that one happening. This is what happens when you don't keep a fire going. In another episode, I spent one night away and returned to find my water basin with a half inch of ice in it.

• With the nearby river frozen over and the water trough near the well house in the same condition, I've found myself battling cattle while filling my water containers. An electric pump pulls the water from underground, so the water is liquid, but extremely cold. The cows tried to push me aside and lick from the hose as it filled my vessels.

• Sawing wood when it is -20º F is extremely difficult. My double-gloved fingers went numb quickly and it's hard to catch my breath through the scarf that is protecting my lips and nose. I took advantage of this week's heat streak (we hit 0º F!) to spend a couple hours sawing yesterday. My body is adjusting to the cold, as demonstrated by the fact that I wore only a hooded sweatshirt to spend this time sawing. Next year, I will saw as much wood as possible before December. I will. Please don't let me forget.

A day in the life

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 22^nd, 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.

Behind these eyes, there is madness

[written a couple weeks ago]

I live in a constant state of indecision. This is the one thing that I know. This evening, my mind can't stay focused on a movie about the full course of a relationship – origin to termination and everything in between – so I give in, pour my ears some Bitches Brew, and set out to chronicle my thoughts. First off, I'm committed here; I'm not skipping out on Mongolia, so don't start to plant that thought.

I can't stay focused. I'm watching a movie, but I pause to stoke the fire, cook a snack, then peruse the latest “news” on Facebook and news from Slate Magazine. The film has been pushed aside for now, replaced by this attempt at writing, but I still find myself wanting to learn more. Three articles are open in the other window, waiting to teach me about why solar technology is becoming more affordable, the biggest monopoly in the porn industry, and Alaska's highly-controversial “predator control” program. I realize that Davis' “Pharaoh's Dance” may not be conducive to my writing, but it perfectly represents the state of my mind: Thirteen musicians at times playing in sync, but often providing different themes, moods, and tempos all at once. The song has, amongst others, three keyboardists, two bassists, two drummers, and two percussionists.

I can't stop learning. The dangers of the internet present themselves much like the mirror of Erised: Some are fascinated by Hollywood drama, others by rambunctious felines, and I by all manner of things scientific, news-related, and unexpected. No matter the form, it is easy to get lost in the vastness of information.

Ode to the man with the gold watch

There is nothing more dangerous than the unbridled voice
Shouting to the masses with his one-sided noise
And for those who would much rather sit and listen
The point arises where the reluctant jump in
It is not the soapbox that the new voice does crave
But the chance for impressionable ears then to save
Cover both ears with the sea-given shells
And you'll never find out what the others might tell
Close your eyes and relax to the waves' soothing lull
And you won't see your briefs rising up the flagpole.

Spiced With Happiness

Someone in America asked me last night if I was happy. At the time, I thought it an odd question. I'd given no hints of my state being otherwise, and I'm generally a happy guy. To me, the question usually stems from a concern of the opposite being true, or at least a possibility, as in, “...but are you happy?” I don't know if that means that I see the world as such a positive (at least potentially) thing that the question doesn't need to be posed, or that I'm secretly a pessimist, but I hate to use the filled-cup metaphor. However, you know it's coming...

I like a nice spiced chai. There, I said it. It's public now in case it was ever a secret to be kept. Never much the coffee fan, I haven't shed too many tears for the quality of coffee offered in my town. For those curious, it comes from a single-serving bag that has sugar and cream pre-mixed with the instant coffee grounds. However, the downside of having a lack of artisan coffee houses is that the same stands true for teas. Mongolia is truly a tea-drinking culture, but it generally comes in teabags or bricks and doesn't offer much variety beyond straight, with cream/sugar, or as the traditional suutei tsai (salted milk tea).

Yesterday, I went for my first solo venture in the capital city, Ulaanbaatar, on a quest for some new flavors in my diet. One of the more important bounties from my successful mission sits next to my computer as I write this. The container suggests that I “try our other spices and eat more tastefully” which I greatly appreciate even though I find it a bit sad that here I am so close to what used to be a spice trade region and I'm enjoying cinnamon that is distributed by a company in Bayonne, New Jersey. The front of the label has images of San Francisco, Japan, India, Egypt, Greece, and Turkey. Where's the New Jersey representation?!

Spiced irony aside, this colder season(ing!) calls for more hot beverages, and a selection of new spices and a creative streak (a.k.a. I'm pretending to know what I'm doing) led me to try to emulate a homemade chai that a friend once made for me. Fresh ginger, cardamon, cinnamon, and black tea isn't quite right, but it made me a happy guy and got me writing this. The cup empties itself quickly, for the tea cools swiftly in this environment, but hot water can be plentiful and it is sometimes too easy to find that my cup hath runneth over.

Pride

I recently shared a photo of the second annual Mongolian Pride Parade, which consisted of about 20 young adults. The response to the post confirmed what I never had to question. I have a loving group of friends, many of which stand under the LGBT flag. These are my friends, my children, my family that I've collected over the years, without which I would be at a great loss. My parents never taught me that these were other people – love is love – and I wish that those who think that someone who cares for a person of the same gender somehow negatively impacts those around understood that it matters about as much as the pattern of socks that he's wearing. If anything, it's a positive effect on those nearby, for those who love and feel loved must surely be more inclined to be productive.

I asked this year's participants what the attitude of the public towards the LGBT population is here. The capital city, Ulaanbaatar, holds approximately half of the country's population, which is disproportionately young and is more progressive than the more rural regions. In general, most don't pay attention, but there are the occasional individuals looking for trouble. Last year, someone went into the gay bar and demanded that each person stand up and be punched. Fortunately, the owner of the establishment explained that these were paying customers and didn't have to be treated this way. The aggressor was asked to leave, but waited outside until he had the chance to beat someone up to the point of hospitalization. Charges were pressed and nothing happened. These days, the problem seems to be more with those in authority. Police officers will sometimes come in the bar looking for someone who might be making the smallest legal offense. As a club, the bar must legally have a bouncer, but because of the stigma attached to the LGBT community, they are finding it increasingly difficult to find bouncers/security guards who are willing to work their establishment. Really, these issues are no different than the ones we hear about happening in the United States.

As an ally, I can't stand directly under the LGBT flag, but I can surely help hold it up, be proud of those who are proud, and hold an open ear to those who must whisper.

Of Raisins and Rocks

Today, I was unintentionally blindsided. Miscommunication is bound to happen when working in two languages (i.e. one person speaks only English and the the other speaks only Mongolian), and “awkward silence” doesn't even begin to describe what happened. This afternoon, my counterpart and I kicked off our weekly sessions to train a sampling of the high school students on life skills: self-esteem, communication, managing emotions, etc. We had agreed to have the first session be just an introduction and not jump into the material until the following week. While I have more experience with these trainings, I'm nowhere near capable of presenting this information in Mongolian and my assignment is to increase capacity in my counterparts, so the plan was for me to be present, but my counterpart (CP) would give the lesson. Walking into the classroom, the sea of faces looked out at us, and I stood by idly counting and observing the students while the introduction was presented. Some faces I recognized as having been in the last council meeting when I embarrassed myself by way of an improvised Mongolian speech.

Ideally, I'd like to have groups of twenty or less for these sessions, but I negotiated down to two sessions of 20-25 each. After the handful of stragglers came in a bit late, the head count stood at 53. “A bit high, but once we split them – because this was apparently a merged introductory session – that's just over what we'd decided on,” I thought to myself. Suddenly, my CP fell silent and gestured for me to come over to the podium to speak. About what? That was my question too. My first thought was to give the introductory speech about myself, but most of this crowd had already heard it. After a few moments, she audibly whispered from 2 meters away, “Life skill lesson (in Mongolian)” and gave a little 'go ahead' gesture. I had no materials with me, I wasn't prepared for this, and I was thoroughly puzzled because they wouldn't understand an English lesson and my spoken Mongolian is unforgivable. I know I passed through a few levels of blushing right then. We exited the room, leaving the students rather amused, to find an English teacher that could quickly help us figure out what went wrong. She had thought that I would give the first lesson in English since she hadn't done one before and I had thought that 1) she was going to give all lessons in Mongolian, and 2) this week was only an introduction. We agreed to go with my initial plan to try to somewhat redeem ourselves for the day, and I brought my laptop with the lesson information with me. As she read everything on the screen, I didn't have the heart to point out that she was presenting about 60% correct information. For all she and the students knew, everything was correct and we needed to end on a good note.



Afterwards, I asked who the extra students were. The breakdown she gave me totaled 43 and I questioned the mystery ten. Once I confirmed that we were indeed splitting them into two groups starting next week, the requested total number of students went up to sixty, which I rejected. We have a new plan for the next one. It will be better.




So, why the title “Of Raisins and Rocks”? Raisins in Mongolia are tasty and relatively cheap, but come at a risk. Through whatever mystery process used to harvest raisins, small rocks are frequently bagged alongside the sweet dried fruits. Being that the raisins are all sizes and colors, sometimes it's hard to find all the rocks without becoming part of the statistic that makes raisin consumption the highest ranked cause for dental emergencies in Mongolia Peace Corps Volunteers. I generally grab a handful, then, inspecting along the way, push them individually to my other hand before tossing them in my mouth. Today's lesson was an undetected rock. Sometimes, you double check before enjoying that snack, but that oddly-shaped, dark purple “raisin” escapes detection just long enough to jar you. There will be more like this, so the best I can do is to keep calm and withdraw the bite before it cracks my teeth. Over-stretched metaphor complete. Most of you are probably due for a dental checkup. Don't forget to floss.

Denial of frost

As I walked down my street, away from the setting sun and towards the well, I looked at the elongated shadow cast across my path. I realized that the image in front of me was yet another reminder of how fortunate I've been to be able to travel in my life. In front of me, there were open grassy hills climbing from the slightly frozen ground: this was my present. Though the details couldn't be discerned from my shadow alone, I knew that the shape represented the global wardrobe that I'd collected: boots from Portland, socks from San Jose, jeans from Manhattan, a jacket from Madrid, underwear from Dublin, and a hooded sweatshirt I got in London that described the tour plan of but one of my Cirque periods. Soon enough, I'll be wearing Mongolian winter boots or a wool/cashmere-lined hat.

At a minimum, I'll have the Mongolian frost adorning my eyebrows: a seasonal wardrobe that comes at a cost of but a lost breath or two.

As the season begins to cool, I'm starting to understand why Mongolians drink everything at such boiling hot temperatures. Though my ger is only 40 degrees (meaning that things are going to get MUCH colder), there's a very small time frame in which my tea finds itself in that zone between scalding and cold. More often than not, I miss that window.

Perhaps it was the fact that the last few nights I've slept with the opening in my sleeping bag only big enough to awkwardly stick my arm through to check the time on my phone. Perhaps it was the fact that this morning at 3 a.m., it was 28 degrees and 96% humidity outside and not much warmer inside. The slightest presence of a sniffle in my numbed nose and the worry of congestion developing pushed me to fight my stubbornness and acknowledge the fact that no matter how much I like cold temperatures...

It was time to light a fire.

My hashaa family has been asking me every day if it's cold in my ger. Every morning, I've replied that it wasn't and that I liked the cold. Though the ger allows me to conceal my home life, there are certain things that can't be hidden from the world. So, as I struck that first match (which blew out), then the second, I felt a bit like the Vatican, for the white smoke from my chimney broadcast the message that I had made a decision.

Triple Play of Ger Life

These three were too short to post on their own, but long enough that I didn't want to add more to them. It took me a couple weeks to decide that.

1) Home

My new home – nestled against hills close enough that I can cross a pasture of trickling streams and climb to vantage points of the town within 5-10 minutes. Though there are some streetlights in town, my ger is tucked into a corner of the hashaa, such that the fenceline blocks most of the surrounding light. I can see the Milky Way from my front door and through my skylight on nights dry enough to leave it uncovered. My first nap involved lying in the darkness of the afternoon, listening to the cattle calling out. Now that the sun is down, the dogs are the ones that call, and I hope that my hashaa dog doesn't play a starring role as so many of my friends' canine companions have done.

The ger is a five-wall, so the diameter is somewhere around 18 feet: More than enough for me and any visitors. Weathering an electrical storm, however, is much like being in a basement. When the rain is coming, or if there's a chance of rain overnight, the chimney is pulled from its post and the roof is covered entirely. The only natural light comes from the doorway and is augmented by a fluorescent ceiling fixture. I can hear the storm – thunder and all – approach, so I charge my laptop to its capacity. I boil a full load of water, as electric stoves don't perform well in a blackout. And I wait...as the rumbles get stronger. The downpour begins, so I close my door, and I'm now sitting in my bunker, phone in hand (since that's my flashlight), waiting for the lights to drop. When they do, I'm in space. There is no light and the storm's score drowns out my music. It's a peaceful darkness. My ger protects me.

2) Perspective

Each day brings accomplishment, even if we don't think about it. I'm here to increase capacity: in youth, in social workers, and – by the very definition of the Peace Corps legislation – in those in the host country that request help from me. These first days on the job have been without students, but already I have helped a counterpart to gain better control of her spoken English and another has started to learn about giving life skills lessons to her students. Every day is an ongoing language lesson for all of us. In this week of planning, we're not only looking at weekly ideas for this school year, but are already discussing how this year's activities will play into the following year.

3) Necessity breeds invention

I just turned a bed of rice into a double boiler. I wanted to make a stuffed bell pepper (unfortunately, without cheese). I only have one pot, so a stacked configuration was out of the question. My hope was to find something I could use as a tray to keep the pepper out of the boiling water, but I had nothing of the sort. I looked at the rice that was already steaming in the pot and – though it was initially destined to be part of the stuffing – I realized that I could add more water to the pot to keep the rice from burning and push the cooked rice towards the middle of the pot to make a platform for the bell pepper. I had to stir the rice a couple times and add more water, but it worked! The rice came out perfectly, the pepper came out nicely, and the stuffing (scallions, garlic, bread crumbs) took on enough steam to be softened and cooked! This isn't just a new dish for my camping repertoire, it's a new technique that I can try with other dishes. Earlier, I mentioned the small victories of which I must take note. This is another one. This is the taste of both accomplishment and something much more flavorful than the mass quantities of bread and butter that I've been consuming. This is victory.

The Universal Language Of Struggle

Fall comes early here. Already, the leaves have turned, yet I didn't realize it until I saw children in the central garden frolicking in the piles of fallen yellow vegetation. Language and culture don't matter when it comes to youth and the natural playground. Some things are just universal. These shared qualities are what I've played off here.

Learning a language is a struggle. It doesn't matter how many other languages you know or how quickly you can pick it up, there will always be that beginning period when you know that the majority of what you say is grossly incorrect grammatically and is most likely mispronounced as well. All you can hope is that – much as I try to pick out words here and there in the lines spoken to me to understand the message – your audience can decipher your transmission. Some may think that the coming Mongolian winter will be the biggest challenge during my Peace Corps experience. However, painful as it may be, the punishment of the cold can be balanced out with yet another sweater, camel-hair leggings, and an Arctic sleeping bag. I can't put a cable-knit sweater (even one with yaks and reindeer dancing) on my language skill. There will always be that struggle phase.

Just as I'm learning my new language, the students, the staff, and the faculty at my school are all learning English. Mongolian youth are especially shy about making mistakes, so even though many know some English, they're embarrassed to try to use it. Today, I met the 40-something members of the high school student council. I gave my usual simple Mongolian speech about my name, my favorite subjects and sports, and the fact that I'll be working with them for the next two years. While the grammar is fairly accurate (thanks to using it so many times), I know that my pronunciation is still questionable. Each student then got up and had to introduce themselves in English. For the most part, it was just their names and grade levels, but some added favorite sports and subjects to display their skills. I could see that almost all of them were very shy about this task, but it made me happy to see them all trying. And so, I did what I felt was the best thing thing to do...

I improvised a new speech right there and utterly embarrassed myself, which was exactly the point of the exercise. Waving my dictionary in the air, I declared that I always carry it around and that I know that every time I speak in Mongolian, I make mistakes (I had to pause the speech while looking up that word), but that's absolutely okay. When they speak English, they're going to make mistakes too, and that's okay. However, when they speak English, mistakes or not, the fact that they're trying makes me happy. It was a beautiful message that was projected so terribly into the masses, that my counterpart somewhat inched her way into my babbling to clarify the statement in Mongolian to the students and to grant me a chance to stop.

Whatever...now they know that I'm a beginner in their language? I'm pretty sure they already knew that when I gave them blank looks whenever they said something to me. No harm done to my ego. I just hope my display hit home.

20-July: You down with CYD?

We succeed here because we want to. In this situation, we are not graded, but there is information to know. The material is presented, yet how we perform on evaluations depends entirely upon our drive to meet our own potential. For those who aren't satisfied with just 'meeting' expectations, this is an opportunity to push ourselves. Once at site and out of training, we won't have a structured schedule given to us: it is ours to create.
What is CYD? As an acronym, it stands for Community and Youth Development, and it is my sector in the Peace Corps. Yet, just as we entered this program confused about what the sector does, the more we learn about it, the more we understand that there is no definition. The other two Peace Corps sectors in Mongolia – TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) and Health – have much more concrete job definitions, but with any project on any day, the CYD crew might be asked to teach English, give a training on dental health or sexual safety, or be anything the volunteer or community dreams up. Our work might include building the capacity of a vocational school social worker (a relatively new field here) or educating the community on special needs awareness. The undefined job description can be daunting in its vague existence, but we are also free to create our roles, which, in a developing country, can be a great situation in which to find ourselves. All sectors are able to create side projects, clubs, and what-have-you in addition to their primary roles.
Our brief stay in Mongolia has reminded each of us that, again and again, plans oft go awry. Some friends have coined the term Margaashed (Margaash means 'tomorrow') to reference plans that we understood to be happening one day, but always turn out to be some later day, if ever. Throughout training, our instructors have stressed that we need to be ready to adapt because everything will most likely run askew of expectations and surprise you. For my first community project, a classmate and I met with the director of the local Child and Family Development Center and arranged to teach four three-hour adult English classes. Our understanding was that the center had fifteen adults in mind and their English level would be between minimal and non-existent. We prepared our lesson with some ability to adapt, should our students known more than we expected. We had our first lesson and, presumably due to the monsoon-like weather outside, the only person in the classroom besides us was our interpreter. Forty-five minutes into the class period, our first – and only one of the night as it turned out – student showed up between downpours. He greeted us in English and we asked him what he wanted to learn. He responded that he wanted to work on the 'Future Perfect Continuous' tense. I looked at my co-teacher, who had the same 'I have no idea' look on his face that I had on mine. We aren't trained as English teachers! I called a TEFL friend, who referred me to someone else...who didn't know either. I called the Peace Corps volunteer who tutored this student last year; he had some guesses as to the tense. Finally, I remembered a trainee who was a linguistics expert. After a little research, he gave me enough to work off for our lesson. We didn't need hours to work on that tense alone, so we followed with English conversation just for practice. The three of us listened to the stories of our lives and discussed the student's future plans. In one session, the two of us had to employ lesson planning, TEFL, and CYD, in addition to patience, adaptation, and our network. I wouldn't say that our adult English class was a success, but we made something work!
I continue to remember the words of Daniel Burnham that I found in Zealandia:
“Make no little plans. They have no magic to stir men's blood. Make big plans.”

27-Jun: Thoughts on Craigslist

The smallest things can make huge impacts in your life. The two that immediately come to mind are Craigslist and Will Smith. Now, you might ask yourself what those have to do with each other, let alone with me. It doesn't really have anything to do with West Philadelphia (though I did find myself there years later), nor does it have to do with selling used golf clubs.

Will Smith brings the star power to this post, so I'll discuss him first. On Christmas Day of 2007, I was in San Francisco heading towards my family celebration. With some hours to pass before the get together, we had two options to spend our time: go to the zoo or see “I Am Legend”. The zoo was always a popular choice, but the movie was showing on a large-format screen. Contrary to the general opinion I receive about the film, I didn't think it was that bad; however, that doesn't relate to the story. Upon reaching my family's home, we discovered that a tiger at the zoo had escaped its enclosure and had wounded visitors. Being that we could have potentially been there during the aforementioned feline encounter, I credit Will Smith with indirectly saving my life. If you really want to get quantum physics-heavy, you could argue that our presence at the zoological park may have altered the universe such that the tiger didn't escape, in which case, my deciding to see the movie caused injury to those affected at the zoo. However, my version makes me look better.

Significantly more important a factor on my life has been Craigslist. This writing is in no way sponsored by the website (nor by Will Smith and his associates). For those unfamiliar with the website (seriously?!), it is a bulletin board on which there are postings for everything from jobs, housing, cars, opportunities, and relationships. It is a smorgasbord for the kind of character that says things like “Sure” and “Why not?” to new opportunities. I'm trying to think of the impacts on my life chronologically, but there are far too many. I was the house parent for a foster boys' group home. I ended up there because I needed to find a place to live and it was listed under the housing category. I ended up really enjoying the fostering aspect of it and now, because of it, I'm living in Mongolia for a couple years while I work with at-risk youth. The boys' home was just one of many (>16) residences I found through the site.

Hey there, how'd you end up touring with a circus? Funny you should ask because I found that on Craigslist too. I moved up to Portland without a job (having quit my previous one in California before the move) and was open to quite a wide window of new experiences. While in Portland, I was a model for an editorial photoshoot, an extra in a gangsta rap video, a production assistant for a cello-based orchestral music video that involved puppetry and miniature sets, a photographer for the Harlem Globetrotters, and, finally, a worker for Cirque du Soleil. All these things I found on this site. Four years, several positions, and a couple dozen cities later, I left the circus for the Peace Corps. Now that I'm (currently) in Sükhbaatar, Mongolia, I'll probably be off Craigslist for a good while, but I was sitting in language class yesterday thinking about the fact that I wouldn't be here if I hadn't agreed to try something ridiculously new to me...several times.

11-June: Getting the band together

29-May-14: San Francisco/Сан Франциско
Ninety-four of us descended on the hotel last Thursday. For many, their first impressions of the city by the bay were determined by which side of the hotel block they arrived: nice, juicy Tenderloin to the west, the eccentric Market to the south and east, and the swank of Union Square to the north. It didn't help that I led a group down Sixth street for dinner. Our staging was the first time most of us had seen each other, and the Peace Corps-led meetings gave us time to discuss our ambitions and anxieties – items which ranged from successful communication and finding fresh produce to fiery planes crashing, foreign cuisine, and Mongolian death worms. There was one participant who feared the small animals (e.g. gerbils) more than the snow leopards, but that appeared to be the exception. Early the next morning, we overwhelmed the lobby with luggage and tired bodies, climbed into three buses, and made our way to the airport, prepared to wave goodbye to the country we called home. A delay or two later, we did.
30/31-May-14: Incheon/Энчион
Remarkably, our presence on the 747 wasn't nearly as dominating as I had imagined. There were a few who spent more time chatting while standing next to seats – or playing cards next to the lavatory – than in our seats, but I'm not aware of any complaints, though the inconvenience to the flight staff was evident. Five hours in the Incheon airport (Seoul) consisted of minor exploration, food, and free showers. Normally, the shower area was a well-organized department with a sign-up sheet to minimize chaos, but our numbers and the fact that the room attendant was on his last day made for a negotiable situation. Never fear, though, he had a smile on his face.
31-May-14: Ulaanbaatar/Улаанбаатар
We arrived in the capitol by night, but that didn't stop the current PC Mongolia volunteers from throwing us a welcome party at the airport that first resulted in them being thrown outside the building, then threatened to be arrested if they didn't quiet down...while I high-fived my way through the dance line. Great. Two minutes outside the airport, and I'm already in trouble. Exhausted and lost, we filed onto buses and learned first-hand what to expect from Mongolian driving and road design. Initially, the road was paved, but soon enough asphalt turned to earth, and headlights and warning lights danced through the dust clouds passing each other just long enough to find a hole or dip in the road and pull in front of someone else. The lack of lane markings allows for the navigators of dirt roads to perhaps be single-file, or perhaps three vehicles wide. This became more understandable a couple days later.
Ask any backpacker what it's like spending nights in the wilderness and you'll likely hear responses of the double-edged blade of Mother Nature. Though there is electricity to stay up late at night (fighting jet lag), your morning schedule is commanded by the rising sun. While there's nothing like pulling the blanket over your head – a practice that I am quickly becoming a master in with this 4:30am sunrise – the non-human wildlife doesn't quite follow our cues. The first morning I woke to a scratching sound. It was coming from the roof and it was at our front door. Not just one spot, though; there didn't appear to be a pattern that the noise followed. My head buried under blankets, I drew the conclusion that whatever it was obviously hadn't flown in the night before and could wait for me to discover it after another few hours. Nature wasn't going for this, however, and soon enough, the scratching was accompanied by weird, non-rodent squeaking and the tapping of the glass on the skylight above our heads. This was, in a way, good news, as I could see the glass and would eventually be able to observe my assailant from the comfort of my bed. Seconds later, a crow-like bird pulled the most incredible Alfred Hitchcock-like profile entrance from the side of the window, turned to the glass, and pecked it...before retreating back from whence it had come. After multiple instances of this rapping upon my ger window, my slumber was hopeless and – after shouting “Nevermore!” – I explored the valley outside. The next day, I took advantage of this wake-up call to climb the ridge behind the camp and watch the sunrise.
Ger life was a bit cushier than imagined, as we stayed in what functions as a tourist location part-time and a sanitarium the other part. The camp eased us in with predominantly Western cuisine and interpretations of it. For those gers that were fully-functional, there was running hot water to both the sink and shower and intricately carved wood furniture. This is also where we became aware that the standard in Mongolia for bathrooms is “if the toilet flushes, the paper goes in the bin.” The plumbing, when present, is fragile, and generally can't handle non-organic matter. Having said that, it's terribly awkward when you are somewhere that flushes toilet paper and you aren't aware of this fact. More on that later.
3-June-14: Darkhan/Дархан
Immigration photos and fingerprints processed, a quick barbeque was in order back at the ger camp. Here we met many of the faces that we would be working with during our stint in PC. This was also our first encounter with traditional Mongolian cuisine. Sounds like a wonderful experience, right? It would have been if not for the anxieties that many held wondering how a sudden change in diet that included fat chunks in soup would affect our 'gastric distress' on the five-hour bus ride immediately following the meal. The food itself was good, yet new; the concerns of the many, had naught to do with the chefs.
We had been advised that the road to Darkhan had been paved in the last year or two, but that the previous winter had been rough on the fresh asphalt. Because of this, the estimated journey time had a range of two to five hours. Not understanding how a few potholes could cause such uncertainty, I thought it best to discover the answer in real-time. The surface was smooth as our caravan of buses ventured north. Once out of the city, the highway narrowed to one lane in each direction. Traffic seemed not a concern in the open areas between urban settings. Suddenly, our bus decided to leave the pavement, choosing a dirt frontage “road” while another bus stayed true to the highway. This baffled me, for surely the paved portion would be a kinder choice. As we passed through our self-generated dust cloud, I could see our friends navigating lane to lane to avoid large craters in the highway. Eventually, our entire caravan was on dirt, as the pocked road proved impassible across both lanes. We were not the only ones taking these earthen lines: Multiple tracks were visible here, having been the popular choice for cars, buses, and trucks day after day. There didn't seem to be any rules on this frontier, however, and the only pattern for choosing which dusty lane to take seemed to be ensuring that another vehicle wasn't heading at you in that path. Sometimes, oncoming cars would pass on the left, sometimes they would pass between two northbound buses. Each traveled at his own pace – I remember an ice cream truck gunning it between the units of our caravan. The journey involved an unpredictable mix of paved and soil trails. At one point, we were all on dirt when I saw the front bus (a shorter one) stopped with the driver flagging us away from him. Water had carved a two meter deep gulley in our path and the short bus had barely made it through. A full-size bus would surely bottom out and get stuck in the open wilderness. And so, our northbound path took a westward side trip, seeking out the next possible crossing. As evident by your reading this note, we eventually made it.
To keep the Darkhan experience brief, I'll merely tell you that it was only a few days' worth of time, yet new experiences galore – some by our hand and some brought by the Mongolian winds of culture. The hotel beds consisted of a frame, a plywood sheet, a small “mattress” of hay, and a blanket. Fortunately, my time with the circus got me used to sleeping on floors, as this was quite similar. While traveling between the classroom and the hotel, we passed a playground multiple times a day, at which the children loved to practice saying “hello” to the English speakers. A female friend was measured by a man who walked up with his measuring tape: We now know that she's 170 centimeters. Another friend was saluted while we shopped in the nearby market: His appearance evokes Hemingway more than Kurtz. During our last meal in the city, I attempted to order the 'Nature Snack', which advertised horseflesh, onions, and other vegetables. My order was denied, however, and through the waitress' direction, I reluctantly ordered the 'horsey bowels [sic]'. A few at our table tried it, regretted it, and made that memory that you just can't wash down with Listerine. To remotely relate the experience to you, imagine something with such a strong odor that the metal fork took on a manure smell – Not recommended.
Throughout these days of orientation and trainings, we had all three sectors (TEFL, CYD, and Health) intermixed. However, it was in Darkhan that we had brief times of group segregation, during which we saw the thirteen other faces with which we would spend the next three months training, immersed with host families and intense lessons in Sükhbaatar. Friday morning, we said goodbye to the other sectors that we had befriended. Fourteen of us, a teacher, and our driver shoehorned into a microbus and headed north.
And so the CYD band was formed.

3-May: Notes from the nook floor

My broken sleep is now impacting my subconscious. These are the last few days of a life I've known for four years, and the universe refuses to let the transfer between astral planes be a smooth layover. In the past week, I, who rarely requires medical attention, has had to be patched up multiple times: First, to glue shut my punctured face, courtesy of a car door, and then to bandage a punctured hand, thanks to a heroic-deed-turned-dog-attack. My nights run late in efforts to savor each potentially last opportunity with mates, and my body – always seeking that worm – prides itself on rising before the rest of the household. The results finally hit me this morning.

Having been awake, but not yet risen from my bedroll, I was watching a Mongolian documentary just an hour ago. As I dozed off, the show continued in my mind, which, evidently, is already on that jumbo jet and is at least two in-flight movies into the trans-Pacific journey. In my dreams, I found myself in a Mongolian urban setting and trying to drive (which is not allowed to happen, by the way) by myself and at night. While sitting at a t-intersection stoplight, preparing to turn left, I note a police officer ready to catch violators in the darkness. I complete my turn, but I hear him yelling and the bright lights switch on behind me. However, he doesn't follow as I realize that perhaps my issue is that I am now driving through a pedestrian shopping alley. I manage to make it through without incident and shortly arrive at a restaurant. Though I don't know anyone, I sit at a table with a new friend and we begin our meal while interacting with the staff. Shortly after I break cultural norms (e.g. handing things to the staff with my left hand), I catch myself and the locals speak nothing of the tourist and his transgressions. Though they are generally speaking in Mongolian, I catch a mention of Singapore and I join the discussion (in English). The man who brought up Singapore has clay-colored skin and a beard that must have been years in making. I'm trying to place him when I realize that he significantly resembles characters seen on ancient Greek amphorae.

My work phone buzzes me awake with word of yet another employee who can't make it on time. Two days from change. My body fights me and the strongest wisdom I can pass on to you from this episode is

“Don't eat Voodoo doughnuts at 2:00am.”

As I said: There are no goodbyes.

Nine months and nine days ago, I told you the tale of a character, unexpectedly thrown from the carousel of the circus life, and uncertain of his next steps. The passage waxed poetic on the joys of the nomad: Not enough to bring back the shine in the much-traveled hallways of your neighborhood elementary school, but just the right amount required to make that disc sing at 80rpm. It sang of new definitions for family. It sang of self-discovery through achievement and through tribulation. It sang of the unknown.

Sixteen states and six countries later, I returned to Cirque. Truthfully, the world once again demonstrated its small size as I found myself in an Asian nation close enough (in my opinion) to visit my Ovo family in a nearby nation for the weekend. Back to that "return" I brought up: The boomerang began its return voyage and I took an entry-level position with Cirque that placed my former employees as my supervisors. It's a good example of why we should always be kind to those lower in the hierarchy -- they won't always be there. The next three cities added family members to the tree and I'm in Portland...again.

It's rather fitting that I'm here.

My first time living in Portland resulted from the somewhat sudden decision to quit my California life. In those four Oregonian months, I had discovered a city that remains on my short-list of "if I ever settle" locations and I had found temporary entry-level work with Cirque du Soleil. However, unemployment drove me from this magical place and set me forth on tour (A journey begins). Just under two years later, I returned with the tour to Portland and received a promotion to permanent manager. That assignment sent me to the desert in the summer (How to make the summer hotter). Another two years passed, and I, once again, am experiencing Portland in the Spring. I know I've said goodbye to the circus before, but this one is truly it for a few years. I'm not going to accidentally trip across some city limits and find myself in the same city as the big top.

Shortly before that nine months and nine days ago, I applied for the Peace Corps. It was my answer to the search of finding a job that travels, but is a bit more productive to the global community than my current line does. For those who aren't familiar with the application process, it's nearly a year between application and departure (for those selected). It's a process that goes months without updates, and subjects you to phone interviews, aspiration statements, blood tests, dental work, vaccinations, and full disclosure of relationships, debts, mental states, and pasts. They want to know everything. If you are married or in a long-term relationship, you have to provide a notarized statement from your partner saying that he or she is okay with you going. If you're divorced, you have to provide your settlement showing that you won't be bailing on alimony and the sort. If you owe anything, there's a notarized statement from whomever will take over your payments. Surely, these procedures stem from actual experiences during the Peace Corps' history, but it can still seem overwhelming.

In 58 days, I leave. At this point, I don't know what city I'm flying out of. I don't know in which city I'm spending the first three months of pre-service training. I won't know where I'll spend the following 24 months until near the end of that training. All I know is the country. It's something completely different from what I know. It's a language with a new alphabet for me to master. It may or may not have internet access. That last one doesn't matter as much as one might think. The friends that I've found and kept through the past years of madness are the kind that don't question if I don't see them in person for four years. They're the kind that aren't bothered when we go nine months without exchanging a word. These are the special ones: the ones worth meeting in an airport terminal to share a sandwich instead of having them go hungry on a layover.

There's more to say, so much more, but this is just the beginning. As a side note, I've seen this flag almost every day on site since I've joined Cirque. Guess it's time to check it out.

Oh yeah, happy April 1st...