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.