As I prepare to head into my final three weeks in Liberia the time has come for reflection. I have had some amazing experiences filled with joys and frustrations here in the Land of Liberty. I've been praised for leaving my country, family and friends far behind, volunteering my time to help the people of Liberia; I've also been called a "motherfucker" and a "rich white man" (apparently this guy wasn't familiar with Peace Corps Volunteers' tax bracket). As the previous sentence alludes, the former good is much greater than the latter bad.

I've met the now mediocre Peace Corps challenges again: endless curious kids, language barriers, cultural barriers (and the eventual bridges that are built over them) and the rest of the vast array of complications that come from being a Peace Corps Volunteer in a strange land.

I have enjoyed my Liberian experience thoroughly. I gained new perspectives on a new continent and I am leaving a fundamentally different person. Liberians are exceptionally friendly and positive people. Their land, torn asunder by war, is slowly coming together again. They still have far distances to travel, but they have the endurance to persevere. I wish I could stay for next year's elections, truly a watershed moment for Liberia. Will there be a change of guard? Will President Sirleaf continue her reign? Will Prince Johnson, a butcher and former rebel war lord, get voted in? Will a former football star, George Weah, get a chance at the helm? Whatever direction Liberia ends up taking, I truly hope the Liberians pick the best future possible.

Unfortunately I haven't had time or until recently, the internet access to keep up with this blog like I had wanted, but I have taken notes so maybe one day I'll type them up. I may have to change the blog's name to "The Iraqi Liberian Mongolian American". This September I'll be headed to Iraq to teach English.

"I lost my 5 brothers; so, I'm alone".

"The whole city [Monrovia] turned upside down".

"The rebel stuck the gun right in my mouth. I said 'Shoot'. He said 'You are a strong man'"

"Change the world with children" he said reading a WFP poster.

"Yea, you see the world in their eyes" another man replied.

"Yeah, I saw this in their eyes in 1990-" (Man constructs a gun with his two hands and points it)

"civil unrest is presently on going in Voinjama b/w Muslim n Christian. Pls avoid Voinjama travel" - text message from Peace Corps last friday.

"So you're going to risk your life in Monrovia?" - Flight attendent during stop-over in Ivory Coast.

"How come he can have 5 girlfriends, but his girlfriends can't have multiple boyfriends?"

"Cause he's the rooster" - A Liberian friend talking about another Liberian friend.

"I saw horrible things. I'm telling you Kevin, horrible, horrible things. Amputees rounded up onto truck beds and shoved into open graves, buried alive. Pregnant women's bellies cut open, the baby pulled out from her..." - A Liberian and what he's seen.

I accepted an invitation to serve with Peace Corps Response in Liberia. Sweet! See you in January Liberia!

I created an album in my ger between 2007-2008. It is entitled "apathetic apologetic". The entire album can be downloaded for free at kevin.thejohnstones.org. I am also about to release a new album entitled "Will O'Dandy" that was made in my ger as well, which will also be made available for free at my website.

About "apathetic apologetic":

"Living abroad the last 2 years, in service to the world through Peace Corps, I have gained some insight on America. Through the eight failed years of the previous President I struggled, as did many of us. In my spare time as a volunteer (there is plenty) I have written and recorded an album on my shoddy old laptop, using a 50 dollar guitar, that follows the story of the last 8 years through 19 diverse songs ranging through the initial mob mentality, the mainstream media's failure to ask the tough questions and report them, digging for hope in desperate times and many places in between. I contemplated the fate of our nation through music from afar."

You can view random old photos from my Peace Corps service here. I will be putting new photos up shortly.

I leave Mongolia in a month. Time to go onto the next chapter. When I'm back in the states, I will reminisce through this blog and write up old stories I never had time to write. I will also kick off my music career with a string of live shows in Cleveland and other cities. Stay tuned.

I am not right. Morning has come. Something is wrong. A dog, I smell that foul, something's awry, stench. I cannot say what but I know it's there. A tremulous body, I text my counterpart. I cannot work today, something evil this way comes, instinct whispers to me.

I am a ball of nothing, energy has depleted completely. Flesh has turned warm, a crimson face stares across the room. Any which way I lie ends uncomfortably. Body indiscriminately rejects liquids and solids alike. I need to take a leak, but my body has collapsed, I am trapped in my bed. Eyes shut. I am traveling a bright dreamscape.

I am in pain. My eyes open. Fever is reaching epic proportions, the most pain I have ever been in. Muscles and body will burst under the pressure. I ponder if death would be preferable. I find myself taking short quick breaths. A deep breath is greeted by a thousand knives of fire stabbing the lungs, with a kick to the face, to boot. The heart of a marathon runner beats, but I don't run. Body struggles to attain enough oxygen. My lungs are filling with liquid, I am slowly drowning in my ger, far from any large body of water. Help me. Eyes close again.

I am in want of death. Eyes slowly open. Hard to comprehend, but the situation has deteriorated further. I struggle to scrounge enough energy to reach the medical kit across the room. An old man with two bad legs, I finally retrieve it. It reads 102.3. A bright crimson face takes some un-aspirin. Trapped, alone in a ger on the Mongolian steppe, hours from the Peace Corps doctor. I conjure up a little more energy and manage the journey to the outhouse. The hashaa mom sees me "Did you go to school today?" No, I'm dying. Upon return to my ger, the hashaa mom bursts in, "I'm sorry I didn't know you were sick". I just need sleep. (The events that follow are blurry, for my fever reached 103 and I was on a plateau, fading in and out of consciousness). I begin to have various hashaa family members visiting, every 20 minutes. They advise me to call the Peace Corps doctor; delirious, I refuse. I am in another world, our reality is a distant window. All I want is sleep.

I am unhappy. Many hours have passed, the fever subsides a bit. I manage to swallow a bit of water but that too eventually reemerges. I have blessed the governor of my soum's milk in my ping before. On this day he had come for that precise reason. (The family asked me to do it again, but I believe I was unable to answer). Suddenly 5 or 6 people are coming and going in my ger. I don't care, I am somewhere else. My hashaa sister locks me in my ger, thinking it's dangerous to leave me alone. My body won't move anyway. Sleep is hard to come by in a feverish and aching body, with a cough that comes from the depths, tearing through lungs filled with liquid. I struggle to get an hour here and there, but the shadows become my companions. I stare. I follow the ger poles up to the window, reaching for the heavens, but never quite getting there. I am in a dark hell, trapped in a felt tomb. I receive a message at midnight saying my phone has been shut off, Peace Corps hadn't renewed our contracts (though I had called them on Monday, before the sickness, to confirm that our contract ended the next day, and that they would have it promptly extended, just one of the many ways Peace Corps has let me down in the past year). I laugh.

I am sleepless. Around 6 in the morning, hashaa sister unlocks the door and checks in. My fever is already almost back to full strength. I am urged to call the doctor but my phone is useless, besides, I refuse outright again still in some kind of reasonless state. The twenty minute visitor rule is back in full force. The hashaa mom comes in and begins cleaning my entire ger, top to bottom, side to side; floor, rug, dishes, nothing stays unclean. She leaves after a half hour or so. (I barely remember this, she reminded me several weeks later when I returned to Orxon and I quickly thanked her). I am trapped in bed releasing a low groan every once in a while. My phone rings, I can still receive calls. It's my regional manager. She explains that my director had called saying Kevin is dying in his ger, should she contact Paul, the PCMO? I don't want this to turn into a big deal, I take a deep breath and am quickly reminded of my situation. I nonchalantly say sure. I am foolishly waiting to contact the doctor for what? My brain is fried. Cady calls me, all M18 phones are down, she's calling from her work landline. She is concerned, rumors travel quickly in Peace Corps. I tell her Zorigoo had called me, Paul should be calling soon. She says she's gonna call Peace Corps again. Meanwhile, the visitors keep pouring in. My counterpart comes in with my sister. The sister starts making fun of me, I manage to yell at her to be quiet, counterpart laughs.

I am losing hope. Paul hasn't called yet, the time is approaching 1. The phone rings, it's Paul. Hey man, I hear you're having some trouble. Paul I think I'm dying. I'm worried about Pneumonia, if you're not better by tomorrow, you need to come to UB immediately. I promptly begin taking Amoxicillian and un-aspirin, as many as allowed. My fever is still in the epic regions, I slip in and out of reality again.

I am regaining my hold on hope. Paul calls several more times throughout the day checking up on me. The evening shades begin to appear and my fever finally subsides slightly again. I haven't eaten or drank anything in a day and a half. Paul says that it's essential I at least get some water, I am in danger of serious dehydration. Night comes, and it's another nightmare.

I am utterly weak. The morning is blooming, and Paul calls. "I'm slightly better". "You need to leave Orxon now".

The pros and cons of outhouses, summer vs. winter:

---

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.

---

Winter Pros:

Giant stalagshit target to aim for

No stink

No flies

Winter Cons:

Ass might literally freeze off

---

Chamber Pot Pros:

Easy access.

Chamber Pot Cons:

None

---

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.

---

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.

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.

It was to be a long journey and short one wrapped into a neat little package. It usually only takes 45 minutes or so to get to Xotol from Darkhan. I waited in one car for a while. An hour or so later the driver suddenly told me to get out, another car was to take me, since nobody else would sit in his car. I approached the car that was to be my story, put my bag in the boot and sat behind the front seat. A younger man got in the front seat, kissing his girlfriend goodbye as he closed the door. We immediately started driving to my delight. Normally transportation here rips the patience away from your very soul, leaving you bitter and empty. I turned to my left, there was plenty of room only a father and son, and the son had just gotten off the father's lap to sit in the middle. "This shall be the most comfortable ride in mongolia". Only two adults and a kid in the back seat? That's unheard of. Of course it's unheard of. I should have seen it as the bad omen it was. Quickly the car started gossiping about me. It is quite amusing for usually they assume you don't speak Mongolian. I turned to look at the father and quickly made eye contact. It was too late. His half toothless grin had caught me and his eyes focused on my eyes. Fasten your seat belts. I diverted my eyes, hoping he would leave me be, but it was too late. My 45 minutes of uncomfortable, shoot myself in the face time, had started. The obligatory questions began. "Do you speak Mongolian?" "Where do you live?" "Where do you come from?" "Do you speak Russian?" "Do you speak Russian?" "Do you speak Russian?". He talks in Russian, "I said I don't speak Russian!" "What do you do for a living?" "How many students do you teach?" "What grades do you teach?". Not so bad right? Now lets add some variables. Number one, this man is very drunk and slurring his words, making it difficult to comprehend what he's trying to convey. Number two, he keeps passing the bottle for me to drink from. Number three, he keeps grabbing me and not letting go. Number four, he hasn't slowed down, and literally is chugging from the bottle for seven seconds at a time. Now lets focus the story on the poor seven year old kid caught between his dad and some random foreigner. He keeps grabbing his father's arm, trying to hold it back, but a grown Mongol's grip is like a shark's mouth, it will only let go if it wants to let you go. Thus the arm was securely attached to my arm. The child struggled for a while. Sadly, he seemed to be used to these circumstances. Then the hands of futility choked the kid till he fell asleep, or at least he pretended to be asleep, battling dragons and other great beasts while the war between the drunk and the foreigner raged beyond his closed eyes. I looked to the front passengers for help. They were either shaking their heads and laughing at me or perhaps they were embarrassed that the foreigner was getting harassed by a fellow Mongol, either explanation would suffice for the result was the same, there was no help from them. I'm already exhausted telling as much as I did, so we'll jump to the conclusion. We pull into Xotol and I get the "I'm a bad person, I'm drunk" speech. I tell him it's fine. He says "I won't remember you cause I'm drunk, I'm sorry Ken. I'm a bad person". That's right, Ken. I was a Ken for 45 minutes. I didn't bother to correct him, it would have been a useless ten minutes of my life. I got out of the car as quickly as possible and searched for my next vehicle, on my last leg home.

I walked into a store in my town. I greeted the shopkeeper warmly and she responded in kind. As I was deciding what to buy, she handed me half an orange. I was delighted. Thanks shopkeeper.

My eyes looked longingly at the outside world, behind my glass screen, shielding me from the harsh winds. The familiar up and down of all countryside car rides was present. I was on my way to Darkhan, but of course, the usually fifty stops in Orkhon were necessary, picking up random objects and people, setting them here and there; my lap, the trunk, wherever room provided. Faces came and went. It's an entertaining game figuring out who and what is staying in the car for the actual journey to Darkhan. Our car came to a stop outside a house. The horn blared for a minute, nothing unusual there. As we waited, a small girl, maybe 8 years old, came running out, without a coat, only her pajamas. "She's not gonna get far" I thought to myself, bundled in my four layers of clothing, with leather coat on top, fur hat, face mask, two layers of wool socks and my ship like boats. She ran 30 feet from the house and abruptly stopped. I saw an older woman coming up from behind her, but ten feet away. In a fluid motion, her pants fell to her feet. "Ohhhhh" I thought and quickly looked away, in the name of American squeamishness. So there was this girl, taking a leak on the open plains of Mongolia, while a car load of people watched, and the old women walking behind her kept coming. Meanwhile, the outhouse creaked, lonely and broken just 30 more feet away, filled with frozen piss and stalag-shits.

It was our break between semesters, actually quarters would be more accurate seeing how there are four of them, but mongolians insist on calling them semesters. I was out of money thanks to a banking error (And not of the cool monopoly type where you receive money), and Peace Corps pay day wasn't for another week. My buddy Chris decided to pay a visit to hang out and give me some dough. Also he was going to lend me money, the bread was good though. Chris brought some of his delicious ger made alcohol. We were enjoying an evening of laughs, taking moonlight pictures in -50 degree weather, and even managed to play an old game of starcraft. It was during this game that things got interesting. The only thing providing heat in my ger is a stove. There I said it, now you know what's going to happen. As I was playing, Chris was making his way around the ger. Things were fine. The earth was revolving around the sun like usual. Suddenly there must have been a massive shift in the balance of nature for Chris tumbled hard. I thought he was just kidding around, but then the yelp came. Instinctually, he had tried to grab onto anything as he was falling, only to find himself grabbing the stove. Now, the stove is a giant hunk of metal. We're not taking about a kitchen top stove where you touch the burner and you get singed. We're taking about a big box of metal and every inch of this thing is blazing hot. You can see the heat rising off of it. Anyway, Chris grabbed it. The rest is kind of a blur. I think there was an "Oh FUCK!" somewhere in there but I can't be sure. Needless to say, he plunged his hand into my giant tub of water sitting by the door, which is usually frozen. He smashed through the layer of ice and held his hand under for a considerable amount of time. In our drunkness, going through the medkit, we picked out athlete's foot cream and applied to the area of burnage, remembering our PCMO advice, "When you are drunk and have 3rd degree burns on your hands, immediately apply athlete's foot cream". We then took some funny pictures, of his 3rd degree burns with the biggest blister I have ever seen. Good times.

Chris and I were gonna try and make pancakes with yeast instead of baking powder. Things were going well, I mixed the ingredients cause old one arm "xiij chadaxgvi". I put it into a plastic bag and set it by the stove to rise. We waited. And waited. Then waited a little more. Then we said fuck it lets just steam this pile of goo that hasn't risen at all and we did. A week later I called the PCMO and I was put on cipro. Seems like I got a mild case of food poisoning and an intestinal infection too boot. Was it the bread? I like to think not, cause it wasn't bread, it was goo.

A typical morning in the life of me: I’m waking up to my phone alarm. I am groaning. I’m nice and warm in my PC issued winter sleeping bag and heavy fleece blanket, Jenna so generously made for me, wrapped around my head. I’m sticking my nose outside the wall of heat, and instantly it’s cold. I am approximating the temperature, maybe –20 or so. Yes –20 in my ger, my home, my place of not working, my house of leisure. I am groaning. I am making sure my sleeping bag is zipped all the way, leaving a hole for one arm to go through so I can begin the fire ritual. I am now quite adept at making a fire with one arm. I am rising from my bed. I am looking at the wood and paper I prepared the night before, my fire-in-a-box. I am a mummified bunny hopping to the stove. I am sticking my arm through the hole and guiding it with one eye. I’m opening my stove and putting in the wood and paper. I am finishing. I am now striking a match with one hand, still guiding my hand with one eye through the hole. It is flaring as it is coming alive. I am lighting the paper now. It is burning. I am hopping back to my bed. My ger is getting colder. The fire is using up whatever warm air that is left over from last night and sucking in all the cold outside air. Now it must be –30, –40 or –50 in my ger, the same as the outside world. After about –20 it doesn’t really matter, the results are the same, you are fucking freezing. I am starring out of my hole, watching my breath hovering away like dragon’s fire. I am starring at the fire, willing it to burn hotter. I am adding more wood. My ger is very slowly getting warmer. I am now wondering what I will eat. (From her the story varies). I am finding a jar of frozen peanut butter. I am not touching it with my bare hands cause it’s too cold. I am placing it on top of the stove, which is blazing now. I am now forgetting about my peanut butter and thinking of other things while hopping around my ger. I am smelling burning nuts. I am now saying “Oh shit”. I am hopping back to the stove. I am picking up the jar with a towel. I am making an evil laugh. I am now spooning globs of half frozen, half burning peanut butter and slapping them on pieces of bread. I am enjoying my fire and ice peanut butter sandwich. I am now testing the air to see if I am able to shed my skin. It is looking good. I am unzipping my bag and quickly putting on a few more layers. I am adding more wood to the fire.

Remember, when entering your ger, whatever you do, do not touch that padlock without a glove, unless of course you want instant frostbite.

A thick cloud of air pollution has balanced itself on the fulcrum that is UB. My lungs are in mutiny. More to come.

"What was that?" I clumsily thought to myself, still stuck in that half-world between slumber and reality. "It must be 6 am or so". The dog's barks filled my consciousness. "Wait, barking dogs?". Barking dogs means one of two things; one, a man is outside my ger, or two there's nothing there. I heard a whistle. "There's a man outside my ger". Reality stepped in. I still don't have locks on my doors. I picked my phone up and checked the time. "2:23" it reads. "Fuck". I stare at my door, half expecting a drunk man to stumble in. Ten intense minutes later, filled with barking dogs and fear, my hashaa mother comes outside. The following is a rough translation from Mongolian:

"Who's there?"

"Hey! Do you have vodka?"

"No, we're all out."

"All out?"

"All out."

"...all out?"

"ALL OUT."

"...all out?"

"Yes, all out."

Pause.

"All out?"

"All out."

"Za." (Mongolian Za, meaning alright in this case)

Yes, I counted how many times my hashaa mother said "Baixqui", and it was five. I heard the door close, she had gone back inside. I was left alone again, with the stranger. I heard mumbling, there were at least two of them. Apprehensive, I was still expecting a drunken visitor. Their voices slowly faded up the hill till silence returned, beautiful silence.

I went to the Postman's house to pick up two packages my Uncle Bill and Aunt Maryann had graciously sent. My hashaa mom accompanied me on the 30 second walk. I enter the house and do the normal Mongol thing: sit, drink tea and eat bread, pretending I really don't have business in being there, till at least a little later. We take our obligatory seats and begin the custom. "Woah, who's this?". A man stumbles into the room. His legs ceasing to work, synapses were failing to fire. He somehow makes his way across the room towards my hashaa mom. He grabs her head and brings it violently towards him, smelling her head, a traditional mongolian custom when greeting relatives you haven't seen in a while. My hashaa mom yells "Get away from me!". He looks at me.

"HO! Who's this!?".

"I'm called Kevin".

"Are you studying Mongolian?".

"Yes, I'm studying very well".

He pauses, like he didn't understand, and turns to my hashaa mother

"His he studying Mongolian".

"He said YES, listen!".

"How is Mongolia?".

"Oh, it's very cool, I like it a lot".

"What'd he say?".

"HE SAID IT WAS COOL, LISTEN YOU DRUNK!".

"Do you speak Russian?".

"No I don't know Russian at all.".

He begins firing questions at me in Russian.

"I don't understand you, I said I don't speak Russian."

"He DOESN'T speak Russian, talk in Mongolian he understands Mongolian".

He grabs my hand and I pull away. He tries to take my packages and I yell at him. He's getting semi-angry now. The postman, his wife and a random younger girl try to get him to go outside, eventually physically removing him. The little girl turns to me and quietly says "Sorry". I laugh and tell her not to worry about it. The man is outside struggling with the Postman and the younger girl. We wait inside hoping for the hurricane to subdue. Eventually they get far enough away, so we sneak out the door. Unfortunately, he knows exactly where I live and is struggling to get into my hashaa, while the Postman and this strong Mongolian girl hold him back. My hashaa mother and I sneak in the back door of my hashaa. I run into my ger. I don't have locks on my door, "Where's the nearest piece of wood?".

Ah, that familiar, dreaded sound, the alarm. I try and blink my bloated eyes into life. I can't tell what time it is, I'm still in my sleeping bag with a blanket over my head, though I vaguely remember setting it for "7:10". Ah, the illusion that right outside these blankets the world is just as toasty as I am; it's a wonder feeling. Crap, I gotta teach in fifty minutes. I hop out of my sleeping bag and blanket helmet, it's the only way to do it. It's like jumping into a freezing pool of water, don't waste time easing yourself in, just get it over with already. My breath flows freely and visibly around my ger. I scamper around searching for pieces of clothing. First wool socks. Then, the first layer, long underwear. I quickly add additional layers. I do my morning routine of pushups to warm up and get the blood moving. I quickly assemble wood and let the fire do it's thing. I'm just going through the motions. It doesn't matter, I'll be out of here before it's warm. I eat some dried cranberries I had picked up from relief packages, dropped from Peace Corps relief planes when they do their monthly air drop. I am exiting my hashaa when my duu told me to wait for her and my older sister. I tell them to hurry. I go inside their toasty house.

"What are you doing up?".

"I gotta teach at 8".

"Who said that?"

"I always teach at 8." Kevin you fool. On the journey to school, my eyes watered. They always water when they're freezing, asking the air for some sort of relief or at least sympathy. They got neither. The tears froze to my cheek. The snot in my nose froze. By the time school is in sight, my face is numb and my bones ache. The three of us barely talked, it was difficult to move one's jaw. Had there been a thermometer on my face, it would have read absolute zero. I walk into school and check my classroom; it was vacant. My frozen heart sank. I cursed myself. My older sister walks over "See I told you". I hear a nearby laugh, it's my hashaa father. "Haha! sleep! sleep!". I struggle to move my face muscles into a smile. "Damnit!". I bundle myself up as much as possible and begin the long trek home.

Other news, the American ambassador to Mongolia and I hung out for a day. We ate cheese and crackers and drank wine in front of a centuries old monestary. I'm in UB for the weekend for the PC thanksgiving dinner. Who thought it was a good idea to get 70+ Americans, weary and lonely from the land of blue sky, together in one place all at once?

I sat in a meeker for three hours. No, we were not driving at this time. We were waiting for more people before taking leave. It was cold. I played snake on my cell phone.

One afternoon, while herding our calves back home, I ran into a massive herd of yaks, 150 maybe 200 of them. I stopped the calves before they got swallowed by the tidal wave. I stared at this awesome sight. I figure George Lucas got a lot of ideas from yaks. They look as though they were transported directly into Star Wars movies. These large mostly black beasts have massive toughs of hair draped on their bodies. The hair sways in the steppe winds, keeping them steadily warm. Only their hooves spoke, silently they trudged along. Two Mongolians on horses drove them from behind. They appeared like sentinels, overlords hovering above the mindless beasts. They had massive poles with long leather straps attached to the end. Whenever a brother or sister would slack off, this massive pole of irony would whip them back up.

I looked up from my feet as I walked home. There they were. The two of them, hand in hand, walking slowly in front me. Grandpa's future fading with time, granddaughter's future looking brighter every day. With a smile on my face, my eyes returned to my feet. A minute later I looked up again. Granddaughter was standing innocently hands crossed, like grandfather wasn't there man handling a fire hose. With a shake and a skip, he zipped up his pants and they continued walking, hand in hand.

I dressed as a Mongol wrestler for the Halloween party. Everyone gasped as I came out on stage, then smiles all around. They loved it. We played bobbing for apples, mummy wrap, apple chin pass and topped it off with awkward Mongolian circle dancing.

There's a few stories I can't relate to you. I don't think peace corps would approve. It's getting much colder. I bought a cow to wear. Had some snow ball fights with the sisters. The river is almost solid ice. Still herding the sheep and cows. Whenever I forget my scarf my face goes completely numb. I wear multiple layers of clothing. Went to a formal teacher party that kicked my ass, ended up slashing my back open after an incident with a rock. I won't name what kind of rock, I don't want this to turn into a hate crime. I am not a rockist.

On the way to Darkhan a grown man sat on my lap.

My neighbors yard exploded into flames. Not sure how it started but the winter feed for the cattle quickly turned from stocked food to fuel. It blazed brightly in the dusk and into the night. My soum filled with a white haze. The fire truck from Xotol took two hours to arrive (Yes fire truck) . By then the fire had died down dramatically. The family obviously lost a lot of money, pretty sure they didn't have cattle feed insurance. I felt bad, but there was not much that could have been done.

There was also the cat adventure. Most Mongolians do not appreciate cats in the same way as me. As I was sorting potatoes with my older sister from the harvest, my dad came running towards us yelling in Mongolian "Kevin there's a cat on your ger! Run please!" I laughed to myself and humored him by running over to my ger to find a very personable cat lounging on my ger. I scooped him up and brought him outside the hashaa. He came wandering back in and hopped right back on my ger. I left him to his own desires. A minute later my dad was shooing the cat away. Then the dog got a sniff of the scent, and events become blurry. The cat ended up with a gashed lower back and a slashed nose. His miserable head peered through my toone (top ger window), and let out a low howl. Blood flowed freely out of his nose into my ger. Eventually my younger sister got him down and took him to the old postman, a very kind hearted individual. There he has been recouping from his adventures. I wish I could have kept him, but with three hashaa dogs, it would have been a difficult life.

I asked for my winter ger three weeks ago. It finally came two days ago, after two weeks of sub-degree temperatures. My summer ger fire was useless, since the ceaseless steppe winds blew all the warmth away immediately. If Peace Corps hadn't issued these sleeping bags I would have been "ice cream" as my egch likes to joke.

On my way to school one day I caught a glimpse of a cow being slaughtered (In sub-zero temperatures). I stopped for a second then continued on. When I came back an hour later, only its ribcage remained, reaching skyward.

Walking to school to teach my fourth grade class, I kept running into kids branding saws and axes asking "Kevin Teacher, where are you going?". "To class of course" I responded, and continued on my merry way. This question was asked several more times. I taught my fourth graders and returned to my ger to find a small army of fourteen children hacking and sawing away at my structure of tree trunks, with my older sister branding a branch above them and handing out smacks when they slacked off. I had stepped onto a slave ship. I thought of grabbing my drum to keep the rhythm, but then decided on the more humane idea of helping them to chop the wood and buying them all ice cream. I'm sure this process will be repeated several more times, since I barely have a months worth of wood. The kids here are very helpful.

I have a few more short stories, but I'll save them for the next installment. I'll leave you with this tidbit. Thirty years ago, the Soviets exiled a Mongolian intellectual to Darkhan City in Mongolia, to be the curator at the Darkhan Museum. Yes, exiled, as in punishment. Now I'm off to enjoy Darkhan.

Not many super, fun stories to report. When I was last in Darkhan, the return trip to site took over five hours (a trip which would take a little over an hour driving straight through). There ended being 14 people and a small kitten in a rugged 80's Audi. I was in the front seat with an 80 year old Mongolian man, who was dressed in a deel. He grunted a lot. While in this incredibly awkward position, turning my head to the left was the driver, with a 13 year old child sharing the seat with him, I didn't bat an eye. Not unusual at all. In addition, I noticed something was jammed into my back. It was the female end of the seatbelt. The very thing engineered to save my ass in the event of an incredibly violent automobile crash, was ironically jamming itself into my spine. I smiled as my legs fell asleep and I starred off into the grassy knolls.

I cow splatter-shat on my leg. Later, when I decided it was finally time to use a baby wipe, I thought to myself "Man my legs are getting very tan. I haven't even been outside that much". I wiped the shit off and to my surprise, my tan came off with it; it was thick layer of dirt that was protecting my leg. I suppose that's what you get for not touching water for three weeks.

Fissures of boredom crack through life at site. Though I am at school most of the day, I find time to help the family with various chores which leaves plenty of time left to read and play guitar. And when that's all said and done, the void of boredom sits next to me with an arm around my shoulder. Yesterday 5 students came to my house and helped move my giant pile of warmth for the winter (i.e. massive tree trucks). I ended up with around a hundred splinters in my hands, no joke. My med-kit tweezers and I were very intimate for an hour. During the day, I'm continuously dive bombed by the hundreds of flies co-inhabiting my ger. I've managed to make it into a fun game called "Kill The Flies". The title is self sufficient enough for an explanation. At night I'm attacked by monster daddy long leg spiders, mini-spiders, moths and beetles. There is also a small family of mice that decided to sublease from me.

I've been reading "Cadillac Desert". It's roughly about the American West's love affair with water and its mistress, the flood. It is fantastic glimpse into the American government's halls of corruption and synthetic word spinners. Man, I knew it was bad, but shesh. I am sure God's cheeks are a nice crimson.

A fun little story, a preview of things to come. There is not much time. I took my first resupply to Darkhan, it was a very enjoyable experience. Not only did we manage to fit 13 people in a car made for 5, but it broke down to boot! Eventually, with a few taps here and there the decrepit Audi started up again.I had a little girl on my lap and there were two people in the driver's seat. I could not help but laugh the whole way with the rest of the Mongols, it really was hilarious; you know that clown car cliche. The rest of the trip was uneventful, which is a good thing. I will write more in a month on my next resupply. It will take me a while to write everything out. My Hashaa family rocks.

UB is a big city. And big cities have positives and negatives. It is a small shock to be around so many people again; I am excited to head out to site on Sunday morning. Peace Corps has done a decent job of showing us around the city. Unfortunately they decided to bar us access to our settling in funds till tomorrow; then decided to schedule a two day conference, our swearing in on saturday and finally our exodus on sunday, thus leaving us very little time to shop on our own to buy needed supplies. On top of that they have not given us cell phones, which frustratingly complicates matters.

We went out to a local bar last night, about 30 of us. It was 50 cent drafts, so of course we became fish for a few hours. It was a blast, reliving summer events and contemplating future journeys on a scale comparable to the Odyssey. Tomorrow we meet our supervisors thus revealing exactly what grades we'll be teaching and how many hours we'll be expected to work (basically what we're doing here, what are we doing here?). I look forward to another exhausting day.

Peace Corps says this is Kevin's blog, not Peace Corps'. His opinions are his. They do not represent a buracreaucy's instition's opinion, namely the Corps of Peace.

Finding a starting point is difficult. The last five weeks have been full of antics beyond words and pictures give only a small black and white perspective (though, pictures will be coming soon). Peace Corps would not appreciate many stories I would like to share therefore I will give a brief synopsis of events so a glimpse of life in Mongolia can be seen.

Strange events erupt without notice, such as a random dude pulling up to my host family's house with two other PCTs wanting to go to the countryside to drink, ride horses and pet jerky camels. Another day my brother woke me up while I was napping, explained "You're going to the river to drink with mom and dad" and we met up with two other PCT's families and a couple hours later ended up back home. We went camping on a mountain and my buddy picked me up by my feet and dunked my head in the fire. Luckily I caught myself on the searing rocks, avoiding a fantastic face burning. My eyeballs have never been so close to a fire. One time we ended up in a countryside restaurant, singing Mongolian tunes until the wee hours. Or there was the other time we forced a restaurant open at 1 am and played go fish for a while. Then there was dancing on the mountain with an 80 year old man, in the pouring rain, with his shirt off screaming "HEY HEY HEY!!" He invited us into his house and we sat down on his bed and it literally exploded underneath us. I could go on and on. I'll have to write a book once the two years are up. Things are just so ridiculous and amazing. You never know what the next minute will hand you, just make sure your hands are open and ready.

I passed my PC Mongolian language test so everything is on track. We get sworn in, down in UB, in a week (that's right I used "in" three times, well done kevin, well done). I will be living in a ger for the next two years in a small Soum of about 2200 people in north central Mongolia. Gers are a lot of work. Chopping wood in -40 degree weather does not sound like fun, but welcome to Mongolia.

When a road converts itself into a river during a downpour, it's never a good thing in a small van packed with 13 people. Forging that river in the van packed with 13 people is probably a horrible idea, but not in Mongolia. After dancing with a dog who had a bloody paw (in retrospect an obvious omen) and having the same dog follow the van for a good while, the river began to flow. The skies were lit with dancing electricity and there we were, four hours from nothing. We had just seen a beautiful Buddhist monastery, one of the few the soviets left, and pulling a trick from the Oregon Trail book (Chris was also bitten by a snake earlier), we managed to cross at a few points. A PC jeep had to pull us halfway, something out of Jurassic Park. So that's just a brief overview of one of the many adventures I've had in the last month.

I wrestled in the Mongolian summer festival Nadaam. I lasted ten glorious seconds. Of course I somehow was given the honor of battling the largest champion out of the four Americans that wrestled. He was easily five inches taller and had a good hundred pounds on me. Weight class is a foreign concept. The world's tallest man watched me wrestle though. I shook his hand (more of an over-sized glove) and hung out with him later. Only three other Americans can say those two sentences without lying. A video exists and as soon as I get my hands on it I will post it. There's also some great pictures, I'll get those up within the next couple of months or so. The Mongolians in our Soum were very proud of us "This is a great Nadaam, the Americans wrestled and respected our traditions". A buddy PCT snapped his arm wrestling, he was sent to Thailand, we're all hoping he'll be able to come back but it's all up in the air right now, sucks big time.

I have enjoyed cow stomach on several occasions. It's odd and partially ironic that my stomach would be breaking down the stomach of another animal. It is actually fairly good and very rich in taste. It's been insanely hot the last week or so. Mongolians do not drink cold liquids, only hot ones that remind you of the large amount of nerve endings present in the mouth. Jenna you would love it. It takes twenty minutes of patience to down a milk tea. This ritual occurs five times a day at least. The river is as stupendous and refreshing as ever. I cannot say "meh" anymore, in Mongolian it means, "Here take this", so I have seen a lot of confused faces when trying to convey the idea that I do not care about something.

There's five weeks of PST training left with our host families, then it's down to UB for a week and finally off to the the ever-lonely countryside and two years of TEFL. Boredom is a topic that keeps coming up from presently serving PCVs so it looks like I'll be able to write that double disc unplugged album I have always wanted to. Now, I just need my finger to heal and a guitar and my life will be a little more complete, though I'm still missing a few vital things.

Peace Corps says: this is not the opinion of Peace Corps, but only Kevin's cute little opinions and anecdotes. Therefore they do not represent Peace Corps' official stance on anything, only Kevin's. That is all.

The good thing about squatting to take a shit? You don't have to worry about that cold, unforgiving toilet seat, only the strength of your knees and legs. The good thing about not showering every day is, not showering every other day either, though baby wipes and I have become close friends.

I still wear the same thing everyday, as I did back in the states, but now its slightly more out of necessity and things are a smidgen dirtier.

My host family is delightfully friendly. I'm living in a suom about 100k south of the Russian border. I am given food at 3 minute intervals. I eat more here then I did at home. Tea is given every 2 minutes. We have language class pretty much everyday and since learning to read Cyrillic, things have been far smoother. 9am-5pm or 6 everyday with a few breaks in between.

I've decided i want to wrestle in НААДАМ, the Mongolian summer festival that includes archery, drunks, wrestling and horseback events. I get to wear the ШУУДАГ and the ЗОДОГ which basically are excuses for men to run around in skimpy clothing. My white thighs will finally get the glory they deserve, nay, have been longing for.

Peace Corps has taken great care of us, many luxuries such my very own room with door AND lock have been afforded us. Even though I have no money, for once in my life I am not worried about it, which says a lot about Peace Corps.

I've milked cows, chopped wood, played Mongolian Street Basketball, eaten horse tongue, not showered in six days (Though I did swim in the river, so really three days), eaten horse meat, learned to speak very broken Mongolian that sounds like a yak choking on a turnip, missed home, fallen in love with Mongolia, climbed small mountains, enjoyed the never ending supply of mosquitoes, all the while balancing rock star status (i.e. everyone and their grandfathers starring at you 24/7, like you're a clone of a clone, and the first of your kind to boot) and that's only the last week, 26 months and 2 weeks to go.

Now should I cash in all my chips and open my supply of emergency Smuckers All-Natural peanut butter, or should I continue to play the waiting game?

My favorite part of this country? You never know what's gonna happen, just make sure you have a stash of toilet paper on you at all times. "Click it or ticket" would be a lost cause here.

Peace Corps says: this is my expressed, individual opinion and not that of Peace Corps.