The Ides of March I greeted this past Monday with the same pomp and circumstance I greet most Mondays – something like, “hhhhh, fu%*in Monday, already…” [I’m just kiddin’ Monday, you know I love you.] By 9:00 I was on route to BU’s lone destination of higher education. Outside my apartment the same broken glass, jagged rocks, and islands of waning snowfall littered the ground – the same howling winds blew across the Mongolian Steppe – the same bright blue sky radiated overhead – but alas, despite the abounding familiarity, the ides of March would prove to be anything but ordinary in the halls of the technology college. Not long after beginning my morning commute, a car behind me let off a sing-song horn that momentarily interrupted Lupe Fiasco’s latest lp, Lasers [4/5] playing in my ears. Unlike Midwestern, small-town Americans, like the ones I know and love, Mongolian drivers aren’t nearly as prudish with their horns; they honk at just about anything; including pedestrians – and that’s probably a good thing considering a great many of them drive like their break lines have been severed and there’s no possible way to slow their roll, so ya best mind the horn and look out because right of way means you’re right to get out of their way. And but so I didn’t pay much attention to the ordinary tune I heard from behind since I was a relatively safe 20 feet or so from the street. But when the car stopped and the backseat passenger side door opened, I saw three of my students beckoning me to join them. I entered the vehicle and exchanged the customary morning greeting as we shook hands. They seemed to be in high spirits. Apparently they were out for a morning cruise because when we pulled up to school I was the only one to exit. Before I got out of the rust-grey, mufflerless sedan, MC, a charismatic junior who loves basketball and tolerates my English classes, excitedly told me a story which included a throat-slitting gesture and a big smile. I assumed his story had something to do with the mass of bodies gathered outside the school’s entrance. Unlike the broken glass and bright blue sky, the scene of students was highly unusual – especially during winter. Typically at that time on a Monday morning students are trickling in and out of the building. I was greeted with smiles and heard my name called more than a few times as I made my way through the crowd. I returned their good vibes with an awkward wave to accompany the confused smile I wore as I walked up the steps and entered the building. The school was eerily quiet inside. The upstairs classrooms were empty. My counterparts weren’t in the office, so I asked one of my officemates about the peculiar scene. Zoloo made me understand, as best she could, that the students were protesting some grievance born from something gone awry the previous week. This brought a smile of intrigue to my face as I watched the students from our second-story office window. Zoloo told me that all the bachelor students walked out of their 8 o’clock classes, gathered outside, and began chanting. At least one teacher went out to insist they return to class, but her demands were drowned out by their chants and she retreated. Soon Aldarmaa arrived in the office and gave me the full scoop. Last Friday was Students Rights Day. The student body government held a meeting wherein they intended to present a list of grievances to the school’s director. One problem: the director didn’t show. And so the following Monday, the students organized a protest that began with a walk-out and wouldn't end until the director agreed to an audience. My smile grew. Aldarmaa was momentarily called away on business, but when she returned she told me that a meeting had been scheduled for 10:30. It was 10:20. The protest and accompanying unrest was confined to the bachelor students. It was business as usual for the 700+ vocational students and their faculty. Aldarmaa and I entered the room where the meeting was to be held from the room’s lone entrance along its east side. The students had already gathered en masse but we were among the first faculty members. Room 200 is an oversized classroom that has aspirations of one day attaining full-fledged auditorium status. It features rows of white washed pews with narrow isles on each side. Capacity is probably somewhere around 150 bodies, but it was pushed to well over 200 to account for the bachelor students and approximately 20 faculty members. 2 pews had been reserved at the front of the room for faculty. A row of 8 chairs and a table had been placed on the slightly elevated stage at the front of the room, presumably for the man of the hour. A desk was situated alongside the stage where student representatives were busy hashing out last minute strategy, coordinating their constituents, and setting up a p/a system. Aldarmaa and I were seated in the second row of pews so we were unable to see the room’s lone entrance behind us, but sporadic outbursts of applause and cheers announced the arrival of certain guests who had made an ill-fated v.i.p. list of sorts – only later did I realize that these cheers indicated a type of mocking satisfaction amongst the students. You see, unbeknownst to me at the time, the gauntlet had been thrown – the die cast – battle lines drawn – because included on the forthcoming list of grievances were the names and misdeeds of certain faculty members who had drawn the ire and wrath of their pupils. Shortly after the director entered the room and assumed his position, he signaled for each of the department heads to join him on stage. I was a little upset by this announcement because Aldarmaa is the head of the general studies department, so this meant that she would be forced to join the ranks of the man instead of the people. Fortunately the inevitable Monday morning chaos that accompanies getting 3 young children ready for school ensured Soyol, my other counterpart, was among the last faculty to arrive. She sat directly in front of me which was nice because she graciously translated all the drama as it unfolded. I should also mention that the ensuing drama in room 200 wasn’t confined to the people in attendance. Two TV stations, whose camera crews are staffed by current students, were also present to capture the production. Their presence caused my smile to expose my teeth. However, my excitement and intrigue was momentarily stymied when the students unveiled their list of grievances just prior to the gavel sounding. In a serious face, I asked Soyol if there were any complaints directly pursuant to English teachers, or more specifically to gadaads on the list. She laughed and assured me there were not. I breathed a sigh of relief and soon my smile returned, albeit to a quote more appropriate level, considering the somber expressions worn by the people seated on the stage. Gantuur, the student body president, and the director both gave preliminary statements. Afterwards, the students began addressing their grievances. Each item on the list was read by a different student. One by one, students from the audience came to the microphone. Their remarks were usually followed by an outcry of support in the way of cheers and applause. Once order was restored, the respective faculty member was given an opportunity to reply. The students enjoyed all the momentum at the outset. Their concerns seemed absolutely relevant and grounded with concrete examples of arbitrary favoritism, neglect, or indifference on the part of the staff. For example, one student asked, ‘Why does the school support and help sponsor a faculty sports competition in UB, but students aren’t given the same opportunities to compete in similar competitions at other colleges in the eastern region?’ Another example came from a second course student named Oogii. He estimated that of the 40 students in his software engineering class only a small percentage of them would find employment in their field. He also claimed that 45% of the school’s alumni are unemployed, and therefore shouldn’t the school offer a more diversified curriculum to help students better compete in what is a truly bleak economy? However, as the meeting progressed, the director and other faculty members began wrestling the momentum away by talking and talking and talking and talking some more. Of course, some of what was said was a rational defense of their positions. For instance, the director maintained that the math teacher, who the students singled out and wanted fired, was more than qualified and capable, and before the students make such demands, they ought to make sure they: 1. go to class, 2. do their assignments, 3. take responsibility for their scores – in a nut shell, they needed to point the finger at themselves before pointing it at another. There was a stretch during the middle of the meeting when it seemed the director was like a MLB slugger on a hot-streak during the homerun derby. He basically crushed everything the students served up and set it flying over the leftfield bleachers. At one point he even dropped the line, ‘give someone your hand, and he’ll take your arm.’ As the meeting wore on I was afraid the students would lose all momentum and be left feeling demoralized and defeated. However, the highlight of the meeting was yet to come, and it was inspired by an unlikely voice. Naska is a junior at our school. He’s a small guy, and he takes some shit from his friends for not filling the role of stereotypical Mongolian machismo. That is to say, he doesn’t like going to bars, he doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t drink vodka, and he’s not really into basketball or wrestling [god forbid he can’t ride a horse]. Naska’s macho deficiencies came up last year in class during a discussion about gender roles. And so when this almost man appeared at the front of the room I was at once proud and nervous. Apparently the topic of Naska’s issue was already known by the director, because as soon as Naska took the microphone, the director demanded he return to his seat and said the matter would be settled in private. Naska balked momentarily at the director’s power play. He even took a step or two backward, but he was halted by cries of support from his peers. The students refused to be bullied and Naska was to be their spokesman at what proved to be the pivotal juncture of the meeting. With fire in his eyes Naska called out the P.E. teacher for what might be summarized as, ‘conduct unbecoming of a professional’ or more precisely, being an asshole without provocation. He pointed his finger as he spoke with a passion that didn’t need to be translated to be understood. This direct exchange with the director ultimately turned the tide back in the students’ favor where it would remain for the remainder of the meeting. When Naska finished, Soyol translated his remarks about the P.E. teacher, who happened to be seated directly to her right. This struck me as funny and potentially awkward, but the awkwardness didn’t seem to affect Soyol in the least. That’s Mongolia for you, they just tell it how it is, circumstances and seating arrangements be damned. In all, the meeting lasted 2 hours, with little being decided at its conclusion. I suppose that signaled a win for the director, but that wasn’t the point. In the cafeteria following the meeting, I asked Aldarmaa if anything like that had happened before. She shook her head. Then I asked if she’d ever seen or participated in anything like it when she was a student at university in UB. ‘No,’ she said. I told her that I recognized that some of the students’ demands were off base, like there’s not much to be done about cold classrooms considering the realities of a Mongolian winter, but despite these momentary oversights, it was inspiring to see them work together, organize, and stand up to the powers that be. She agreed. The next day in class I told my Business English students I was proud of them for what they had done. They asked me ‘why?’ which prompted the same smile I wore that Monday to return to my face. I told them whatever happens in this particular instance, I hope they show the same energy and level of engagement in the future as citizens. I told them that their demonstration was exactly what this school needed, and it’s exactly what their democracy [and every democracy for that matter] needs more of – now and forever. When I finished speaking, and more importantly, when Soyol finished translating for me, the students clapped. I shook my head and began clapping; I didn't know what else to do. Maybe 2011 will be a year of revolutions - and not only on the Dark Side of the Moon - I hope there's a revolution to be had in your world, too.I think that all the silence is worse than all violence Fear is such a weak emotion, that's why I despise it We're scared of almost everything, afraid to even tell the truth So scared of what you think of me, I'm scared of even telling you Sometimes I'm like the only person I feel safe to tell it to I'm locked inside a cell in me, I know that there's a jail in you Consider this your bailing out, so take a breath inhale a few My screams is finally gettin free, my thoughts is finally yellin through! - Words I Never Said, Lupe Fiasco, Lasers (2011)

This blog in no way represents the views and/or opinions of Peace Corps, so help me god. I’m obligated to say something like that. What follows isn’t much, but it’s aimed at truth. And although they’ll probably never read it, it’s for the occupants of room 205, who recently gave me a birthday gift I will cherish for the rest of my life: friendship.

Thoughts of Revolution amidst a Free Falling Elevator

As the clock approaches 2230h on a brisk, dark night on the Dark Side of the Moon, Tood begins his nightly[1] pilgrimage across craters and carcasses to his private elevator. In the distance he sees a Moonrool clean up crew carrying their designer soap boxes to the scene of yet another elevator accident to check for survivors. These are hard times for clean uppers. Although these rescue attempts are heralded by some as altruistic acts, Tood believes that clean uppers are as dirty as any other Moonrool. He’s jaded like that. ‘They’re vultures who prey on the fear and trauma of fallen riders to fill their growing vacancies[2].’ He departs little nuggets of wisdom like this from time to time to less experienced Moonrools who are still trying to find their way in a world void of illumination. ‘Watch out for illegal aliens,’ he’ll warn, or ‘Just because a moonpie is on the shelf, doesn’t mean it hasn’t expired,’ he’ll quip. Tood is in the know these nights. It wasn’t always so, but deepening crevices on his forehead, and the sprouting white hairs above indicate that he’s become a wiley veteran on the Dark Side. And so he doesn’t ask many questions any more, especially not of himself, since so much of his time is devoted to sharing the expertise experience affords by dispersing the aforesaid nuggets. But unbeknownst to Tood, there’s a fine line between confidence bred from experience and total fucking obliviousness. For the latter can be a sedative which ever-so gradually lulls its recipient to sleep until self-delusions are mistook for universal realities. Tood is oblivious. He’s been surface sleep walking and riding elevators so long he swears he’s an insomniac. Granted in a world that receives approximately 0 hours of annual sunlight, it’s relatively easy to drift away to oblivion. The Dark Side of the Moon can truly be a fool’s paradise, and these nights ToodEtood feels right at home. Tood wasn’t always an elevator junkie. Like so many other Moonrools, Tood’s nightly escape into the box was a gradual process. It’s difficult to say exactly what first sparked his intrigue or how, many earths later, his orb became so totally transfixed on the high the device provides that everything else slowly faded to oblivion, leaving only his star-crossed obsession peering out into the universe through hollow spheres. Perhaps an advertisement featuring several prominent elevator riders proclaiming the benefits, or maybe a timely invitation from a friend during an otherwise mundane moonwalk captured his attention and led him to the inauspicious juncture he now happily approaches. Regardless, what began as a novel fling to escape a silent, albeit aching desperation, gradually morphed into a nightly affair to be pursued at all costs. The first elevator he rode was marked: CURIOSITY; these are like the training wheels or pull-ups of elevator traffic, useful and instructive for unfamiliar riders possessing uncertain aims. It’s a well-known fact that Moonrools aren’t limited to any elevator in particular, like if they wanted they could ride different elevators every night in different locations with different altitude destinations and so forth. However, being creatures of habit, once they find an elevator that sufficiently engorges their orb, it’s highly unlikely they’ll look for another. Another well-known fact is that 98.4% of all Moonrools return to their preferred elevator of choice following a crash — assuming they survive the fall — which, of course, depends largely on the elevator high they were riding. To Tood’s knowledge it’s unclear why elevators spontaneously fall from the sky. But because he’s developed such disdain for the phrase, ‘I don’t know,’ when pressed by Moonrools not in the know, Tood chimes back, ‘Gravity is a motherf%@ker.’ And so with this senseless axiom as his shield, he navigates the craters and crashes and prickly questions and manages to moonwalk to and fro his elevator on a nightly basis; free from any doubt or concern that might otherwise perturb his sleepless slumber or ground his euphoric elevation.

At 2348h Tood is climbing out of an unmarked crater that caught his wandering attention and sent him tumblingrumbling downward. Luckily it wasn’t as deep as it might have been; given the area he’s traversing. He brushes himself off as he looks around to make sure there are no witnesses. He's just itching to get high. It’s a well-known fact among those in the know that Moonrools are genetically predisposed to ride certain elevators based on a wide array of factors including [but by no means limited to]: earth phases, crater formations, exposure to sun rays, access to moonpies, the positions and postures of their parents during and immediately following the big bang – all of these occurrences [and more] help determine what elevator they will eventually climb aboard. Yet, the Moonrool is a complex species, and like any creature of evolution possessing freewill and prone to chemical imbalances, some Moonrools embrace their natural anti-gravitational predisposition with gratitude and ease, and some do not. For example, born loners often ride elevators marked: FAME, which feature transparent panels so voyeuristic surface Moonrools can gawk at their elevated status. Meek and timorous Moonrools frequently get high aboard the most dangerous elevators; chronic doubters often ride elevators marked: CERTAINTY; and Moonrools harboring great feelings of buried inadequacy and surface embarrassment sometimes get high on elevators marked: AUTHORITY[3]. Other well-known facts: Elevators marked: INTELLIGENCE are camouflaged[4] because riders are often paranoid about being discovered while high; riders of elevators marked: BEAUTY suffer the highest B.T.[5] [6] rates; more exclusive elevators like MONEY are available to all Moonrools, but they must agree to part with basic decency, dignity, or respect before riding[7] [8]. Interestingly there is no polar opposite available for hater Moonrools, because love cannot be accessed via elevator traffic since it only exists on and beneath the surface. Indeed, hate is a toxin that corrupts so absolutely that surface haters can only get off on elevators marked: HATE; and getting off on hate requires more energy than almost any other endeavor the Dark Side has to offer. No matter the elevator, once the doors close and the box ascends to its destination, nobody else is allowed access – excluding FAME riders, whose sole purpose for getting high is being seen.

The clock strikes 2300h and Tood blissfully nears what may well be his final hour. He sees a group of adolescent crater-faces sneak out of an elevator marked: XXX. Try as they might to control which elevators their youngsters ride, parents will forever be out maneuvered due to their natural inclination to believe their descendents are more pure and innocent than they actually are. The parental crusade to keep their underlings grounded is stymied in no small part by innumerable elevator ad campaigns and marketing strategies which have targeted the coveted crater-face demographic since waybackwhen. It’s a well-known fact among even the biggest Moonrool boobs that the first, and probably best known, advertisement for elevator traffic on the Dark Side of the Moon featured a song by an earthling band titled, ‘Free Bird.’ Ironically, of course, the earthlings responsible for that tune plummeted to their deaths while riding a contraption designed for high altitude travel. This rather unfortunate fact escaped the officials at the Ministry of Propaganda who chose the song for its appeal to freewill, independence, and the spirit of rebellion and defiance championed by crater-faces and earthling ROCK‘N’ROLL music alike. It’s a lesser-known fact among Moonrool boobs just how integral their government was/is in the development and propagation of elevator trafficking. At the dawn of the initiative, the government christened the new entitlement program, ‘UPWARD MOBILITY.’ To this night, the elevator industry remains the single largest beneficiary of government subsidies designed to spur innovation and keep costs grounded so the average Moonrool can afford to get high on demand. At first it appeared the elevator endeavor was doomed to failure. Moonrools didn’t seem all that interested in committing themselves to a box that went up and down. ‘Whooptido,’ seemed to be the universal consensus. But the vanguards of the Moonrool establishment were committed. Motivated by the promise of windfall profits, industry leaders, and government officials whose aims were yet unknown, met at the Palace ofCraters to discuss ways to entice Moonrools into riding elevators. The brainchild born of these meetings was a new narrative of unrest and turmoil – ‘A MOON N’ DISARRAY’ – to be broadcast nightly over the airways. With this message of fear and panic bombarding craters across the surface of the Dark Side, interrupted momentarily to showcase corporate advertisements featuring famous Moonrools getting high riding elevators, this new mode of getting off [the surface] began to catch on. Yet there were still obstacles to overcome. The first elevators were plagued by mechanical bugs and glitches which resulted in crashes that left Moonrools maimed marred and mangled. Nightly images of Moonrools looking like mashed up moonpies competed for attention, and the ensuing lawsuits cut into the returns of shareholder investments. It wasn’t until the advent of ‘Do-It-Yourself-Navigation©,’ which gave riders total control over the altitude and duration of their highs, that investors saw the returns they had first envisioned. In the landmark case JACKSON & CUDI v. AIRAVATORS, INC. (MCMLXXXIII), the Moonrool High Court ruled this new technology absolved private contractors from any and all responsibility for elevator crashes.

At 2230h Tood reaches his destination, 1hour and 30 minutes before the 26th anniversary of his first birthnight, and approximately 2 hours before his elevator kamikaze crash lands on the surface. His palms and bottom crevice secrete sweat, and saliva gathers at the corners of his pursed lips as he anticipates the imminent high. Tood’s elevator is marked: PRIVLEDGE. PRIVLEDGE elevators are immensely popular due to their versatility. Once the doors close and the elevator begins its ascension, riders can go as high as they please and stay suspended as long as they like without so much as a tickle of guilt. They've earned that high. Tood’s been a PRIVLEDGE rider for many nights. He works hard on the surface so he’s rewarded in the sky. It’s only fair. He plans on getting super high tonight to celebrate the dawn of his 26th year of moonwalking. After all, it’s no paradise dwelling on the Dark Side of the Moon. Moonrools have to forever navigate a never-ending nightscape of unmarked craters, illegal aliens, and falling elevators; to say nothing of the rampant unannounced meteoroid landings, and that’s just the tail of the comet. What really fills the elevators night after night is the mind numbing narrative of commonsense contradictions, hypocritical moon shots, and the seemingly never ending reports of skyrocketing these and free falling those. Grounded opposition to the government’s launch of its ‘UPWARD MOBILITY’ entitlement program gradually abated as more and more Moonrools began turning inward; away from the rage and discontent and endless bickering and bantering and back-stabbing that had become so characteristic of the lunar surface, toward the havens of privacy and comfort and control and satisfaction offered by elevator traffic. Profits skyrocketed. Civic participation was at an all-time low. The system was ingenious. By concocting a poisonous reality to be spoon fed in measured doses to the populace night after night, the powers that be on the Dark Side of the Moon succeeded in spinning a narrative so toxic they actually convinced Moonrools they were better off spending their nights in isolated boxes, suspended in time and space. Moonrools by the millions took the bait, hook-line-and sinker.

At 2235h Tood climbs aboard his elevator on the verge of pissing his undergarments with excitement. He presses the appropriate combination of buttons to raise the device to his desired altitude. A soft bell tolls as the doors close and a sexy voice warns bystanders to vacate the area. Tood takes his familiar position and soon he’s lifted upup&away into the heavenly bliss that is elevator traffic. It may strike some earthlings as unusual that Tood, and millions of Moonrools like him, refer to elevator traffic as ‘heavenly bliss’ but all things in our universe are relative. Some earthling behaviors are equally perplexing to Moonrools[9]. And but so what should be simple enough for earthlings to grasp is the insulation of it all. Because after a Moonrool has grown accustomed to elevator highs, they become so attached to its insulating, inoculating affect it’s like they develop a built-in allergy for all things unpleasant. Sure they see elevators falling from the sky on a nightly basis, but the elevator high reassures and comforts, it protects and counsels. They love their elevator, and they believe their elevator loves them back. And why would something that loves you ever do you harm? By the by, Tood is especially familiar with some peculiar earthling behaviors because he’s befriended an earthling named, Todd Waite. Todd shows him Hollywood movies so Tood is in the know about yet another subject: ordinary earthling insanity. Todd is a guest on the Dark Side of the Moon. He represents a country that sends its citizens all over the solar system to promote the cause of universal peace. Tood thinks this is a bit ironic because the country Todd comes from spends like 10x more money on inventing devices that kill other earthlings than all other earthling countries combined. And so but because this Todd fellow seems harmless enough, and he likes to play basketball, which is like bat-shit-crazy popular on the Dark Side of the Moon, most Moonrools accept him.

By 0010h Tood is unknowingly in the midst of a blackout. Elevator blackouts are believed to be the most common mechanic malfunction leading to crashes on the Dark Side. Blackouts happen when part of the elevator’s C.P.U. known as the hippocampus malfunctions resulting in a blind death spin which, unbeknownst to its totally insulated rider who continues enjoying the euphoric high, means like the whole fucking ride is doomed to be cast down from on high. Various studies conducted by Moonrools in the know have proven links between elevator altitude levels [E.A.L.] and its affects on rider functioning. The findings suggest that when riders get too high above the surface their judgment and motor skills are compromised which causes their elevator to rise and rise uninhibited until the hippocampus shuts down for keeps and the elevator begins retracing its ascent downward. The rider is trapped in utter darkness, completely blind to what its external self is up to. The two are permanently disconnected – irrevocably severed – and yet still wholly united by their common fate. And so as gravity beckons Tood’s box ever-downward toward its inevitable demise – destined perhaps to destroy an innocent Moonrool life or 20 – to say nothing of the ‘life’ of its lone rider – a glimpse of the earth wanders into Tood’s mind’s eye and he wonders how many times the moon’s earth traverses around his orb in a single year. Such is the mind of a habitual elevator user – nothing more than a mushed up moonpie. The same old song and dance, sung once more by a once bright, capable Moonrool turned occasional rider turned high-fiending moonturd; able to push buttons on a device and perform bowel movements and regurgitate talking points and spew non-sequiters – but totally and utterly oblivious, in the most pathetic way, to love, companionship, and the mystical oneness of all things.

At 0030h Tood awakes as alone and confused as the night he was born. He’s buried god knows how deep in a crater beneath the remains of his wrecked box. Soon after regaining consciousness, maybe at like 0042h, memories long since cast out by his elevator begin reappearing like meteoroids falling from the heavens, leaving indelible craters on his psyche. Trapped beneath the debris, with no elevator to escape in, he has no choice but to face what he’s been fleeing from for so long – memories more damning and unbearable than the fall itself – memories condemning him to a no-holds-barred shame game with ghosts from falls past. The lies and empty promises – feigned remorse and genuine betrayals – and of course, the inevitable returns to his elevator. With hindsight suddenly functioning well beyond 20/20, providing like ultra HD resolution to his still reeling mind’s eye, the ‘shouldas’ and ‘wouldas’ and ‘couldas’ creep into Tood’s mind, scratching at his conscience like fugitive beetles trying to break into a double wax reinforced eardrum. But the modal threesome is nothing compared to the torturous shame that presses and squeezes and gnaws at his innards, as sharp and unrelenting as the Man thrusting a knife into his ear orifice[10]. Word of Tood’s fall quickly spreads on the surface and soon flocks of scavenger Moonrools approach the scene to cast their 2cents and delight in the aftermath. They laugh and snicker and jeer as they merrily shout, ‘O Tood.E.Tood, you moonstone! You threw yourself up high but every stone that is thrown must fall.’ They sing and circle dance around their fallen compatriot, inhaling the remnants to indulge in their newfound schadenfreude high as they slowly close their eyes and ride elevators marked: JUDGMENT upup&away into the sky. * * *For fear of falling into the ranks of the dastardly scavenger or voyeur Moonrool flocks, let us offer the fallen Tood a moment of privacy beneath the rubble of his shattered ego at the bottom of his crater and take this opportunity to gossip about his oh-so familiar plight. How did he come to this? Were there warning signs? Was it a Moonrool suicide attempt? Did it never dawn on Tood’s darkened conscious that the aforementioned ego he carried was so bloated that he had exceeded the recommended capacity limit and his elevator was destined, sooner-or-later, to plummet from the sky? On contraire mon frere, it’s a well-known fact amongst Moonrools familiar with ze toodEtood that he is scared shitless of heights. Especially heights like he had been riding on a nightly basis. Dead end. No matter. Let’s stop mining the past and start speculating about the future. What now? Now lying prostrate beneath the ruins all busted and bruised, Tood is in the midst of the fight-of-his-life battle royal which will inevitably determine the future of all his nights. It’s a well-known fact whether one hails from the Dark Side of the Moon, or Nowheresville, IA, or the quote real world, once you hit bottom, regardless of how many times you bounce[11], you’re bound to venture upon an inescapable fork in the road marked: LEAVE. OR. LIVE WITH IT. Some Moonrools say the elevator marked: LEAVE is a ride for cowards and pussies and quitters. Maybe. But unfortunately for Tood, he’s facing the hellashish duo of self-pity and self-loathing. These two are not to be ignored. They’re fraternal twins that hail from a long line of fuck uppers. If you don’t beat them back with a baseball bat, or a Dr. Phil, or a shotgun, or whatever you have in your possession when they rear their ugly orbs at your front door, soon their whole brood will invade and you’ll find yourself the unwitting host of a great big family reunion of fuck ups. I, for one, would rather take that final elevator ride to the sky than spend the remainder of my nights at that party. It takes some serious you know what in your you know what to last a few rounds with that clan – ESPECAILLY – after you realize the family of phantom fuck ups that have been kicking your you know what all over the place for god knows how long is none other than you know who – Y.O.U.[12] But keep your head up, Tood, because friends make themselves known in the aftermath. And if you’re lucky enough to find someone searching for your mangled remains amidst that catastrophe of your creation, ‘grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel[13],’ for they are a rare Buffalo, and as you’ll soon discover, there aren’t as many of them around as there used to be. It’s a truly beautiful, dark, twisted fact of life, that our greatest opportunities to learn and grow and become better people are born from experiences when we feel like we’ve self-destructed and crash landed at the bottom of a crater, on the dark side of the moon.* * * At 0135h Todd Waite receives a call from a mutual friend informing him of Tood’s fall. He gets dressed and tells his sleeping beauty [why not?] not to worry, and that he’ll be back soon. He arrives at the crash scene at 0148h. The scene is ripe with scavengers, voyeurs, and clean uppers standing high atop their soap boxes, all jockeying for position to get a look at the fallen rider should he have the gall to show his face. Todd tells them all to ‘get bent.’ Soon another elevator falls from the sky so they rush from one crater to the next to get off on someone else’s demise. Todd begins digging through the wreckage to find his friend. At 0205h Todd reaches Tood beneath the debris at the base of the crater. He carries his wasted friend to the surface. Will Tood survive? Maybe. Maybe not. If he does, will he get high again? Who knows? Maybe. But maybe not. People can change – the world can change – and not always for the worse. Revolutions are sometimes born exactly where and when you least expect. [1] It’s always night on the Dark Side of the Moon [2] These particular clean uppers ride elevators marked: CERTAINTY, which, in Tood’s opinion, is totally bat shit crazy. [3] Crater-faces call them power trippers [4] black [5] Bad Trips [6] Elevators marked: BEAUTY always have mirrors inside. [7] Elevators marked: MONEY never have mirrors inside. [8] Opposed to their earthling contemporaries, MONEY elevators aren’t that popular amongst Moonrools, apparently they don’t think the high is worth the tradeoff [9] For example, many earthlings spend their days and nights planted in front of stationary boxes to view other earthlings with IQs lower than a moonpie self-destruct as they ingest/inject substances of hate; known toxins that will inevitably shorten their lifespan, if not end their nights for keeps, and then they commute to large, overcrowded establishments and fight for a seat to pull levers or roll cubes only to hand their hard-earned paychecks over without so much as a ‘thank you, come again’ to show for it; then locate another seat in or near the same establishment that just took their money, to offer up the remains of their measly salary to a stranger who pours them glass after glass after glass of a liquid that makes them forget who they are until they’re like so loaded on this liquid that they climb into their automobile, which is sort of like an elevator except a whole lot more dangerous, and hurl themselves down roads at incredible speeds mere meters from other earthlings; and if they make it back to the place they call home alive, which again is a relative term, they’re so enraged by this night of their creation that they sometimes do the most heinous and unspeakable things to the earthlings they supposedly love the most and…well, if you’re reading this you’re probably an earthling, and in that case, what’s understood doesn’t need explaining. [10] It’s a well-known fact that the Man has a longstanding personal vendetta against Tood for some off-the-cuff remarks the latter made a while back. For more info, scroll down. [11] According to eye witness testimony from voyeur Moonrools nowhere near the area, Tood’s forsaken elevator may have bounced anywhere between 2-10 times before it was all said and done. [12] This entire scene looks a lot like Chuck Palahniuk’s narrator getting his ass kicked by Tyler Durden in one of Tood’s all-time favorite earthling films, Fight Club circa 1999. [13] Shakespeare, William. “Hamlet.” Act 1, Scene 3.

Where’d you go? I’m sitting at Zulaa’s desk, typing on her computer – pausing momentarily to watch the seven women I share an office with practice dance moves for our school’s karaoke competition tomorrow. Our (their) song is titled “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Zulaa.” I like our chances. I’ve been designated to fill the role of ‘super fan.’ No problem. I’ve played this role in the past – I take great photos and clap with great enthusiasm – perfect fit. We drank some beer before practice to loosen up – works like a charm. The sun is setting over BaruunUrt. Temperatures haven’t been much over 30 all week – winter is knock, knock, knocking on Mongolia’s door. No matter. It's true what they say: wherever you go, there you are.

21 Days: The First and the Last Tood is back on the moon after 3+ weeks peeking under rocks and climbing trees backbackback where it began in the new world. His travels thawed and reheated prior testimonials of Mongolia’s beauty – amazing what more direct rays do for serotonin levels, rivers flow, grasses grow, and leaves blossom…. ah Summer, please don’t leave me again! Summer began on the 18th of May with an unexpected surprise…NEW BUSES! It’s difficult to explain how much of a difference this upgrade means for travel to and fro Mongolia’s lunar surface. Imagine being cramped and crowded in coach amidst turbulence and snakes on the muthaf*%#ing plane, when, for no apparent reason, a flight attendant appears and says there is a seat available in snakefree first class, if you’re interested. (That’s nice, but still not new bus worthy) You agree to the offer, obviously, and follow this guardian angel up the stairway to heaven. The skies clear and the turbulence abates as you find your seat next to a most pleasing John Doe or Jane Ray whom you greet with an easy smile before turning back to the aisle to discover your angel in flight wings pouring a glass of chilled Ace of Spades champagne. ‘Is this Iowa,’ you ask, as you sip the stars. ‘No,’ the angel replies, ‘it’s first class.’ – Such is the glory of the new buses. For the sake of inspiring jealousy and irEawE amongst other volunteers, I tried to start a rumor that the new buses were the result of my toil…. still waiting to see if it takes flight. After landing in the city of screams I reunited with long lost friends who reside on other islands, equally remote, yet slightly less wonderful than the moon. A few days later I traveled to Gachuurt to visit my host family. Although my Mongolian is less than superb, I appreciated how much easier it was to communicate. For example, one evening Tood and his eej (Mongolian mom) had a long conversation about marriage, and the need, or lack thereof, for him to perform that dance sooner rather than later. I stayed in the same ger I called home for three months last summer. Reminiscing about all the fun and fabricated stresses of PST brought many a smile to my face – I’ll never forget the episode of pink eye when I worried my host mother might try to squirt breast milk in the infection, a Mongolian remedy tried and true, yet a bit unorthodox to my prude American sensibilities. She didn’t, of course, just an example of the whatif’s that strike in the absence of a common tongue. My host family was as wonderful and hospitable as last summer. It’s nice to have a place that feels like ‘home’ away from the moon, so far removed from first class. Following my stay in Gachuurt, I returned to UB briefly before leaving again for the site of Chinggis Khan’s ancient capital, Xap Xopen [Har Horen]. Like so much of my life [in Mongolia], my trip to Xap Xopen wasn’t scheduled, but when given the opportunity to pursue beauty, Tood says loiterers should be arrested. Xap Xopren is beautiful; no surprise that father khan chose it as his headquarters. It remains a major tourist attraction for gadaad’s seeking a genkin mongol excursion. After Xap Xopen I went back to Gachuurt for a night before returning to UB to pack for a two night stay in Zuunmod, which was our [m20] group’s training site a year ago. This unofficial reunion was officially titled, ‘Mongolian Memorial Day Boar-BQ.’ What’s changed in a year? Roads that once seemed in dire need of repair now seem as smooth as a baby boar’s backside. Meekers that once felt cramped to absurdity now seem empty with only 15 bodies. Tood’s hedonistic summer ways climaxed during the two night stay in Zuunmod. Yet, more important than his self-indulgent behaviors, perhaps, was returning to the site of a covenant gone awry to reclaim that which compels fools to board space bound rocket ships aimed at the moon. Yes, one aught to be on guard while sprawled out under a clear night in June. No matter, what’s done is done and what goes around comes around and what goes up must come down – including misguided rocket ships. Tood’s double shot of Zuunmod was chased by a few nights in UB mixed with a couple days in Gachuurt. Despite all the highs, when the last call sounded I was happy to be on the bus returning to the moon. The journey to the new world provided many unforgettables – nights I don’t remember with people I’ll never forget. That is to say, I’m looking forward to memories of right now. Sometimes the closer you are to something the harder it is to see. Yes, paradox is the way of the world – embrace it, or don't.

This is a public service announcement brought to you by the good folks on the Darks Side of the Moon. Upon reading this post you've acknowledged that the views and opinions expressed don't reflect those of Peace Corps. Now, allow me to reintroduce myself...Imports/Exports: Part 1 – Listen Prelude The MC is the creator of beautiful rhymes. To create fresh rhymes and deliver punch lines is the MC’s aim. The fan is she who can translate into another manner or a new material her impression of beautiful rhymes. The lowest, as the vilest, form of fanhood is the hater. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful rhymes are cold without being cool. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful rhymes are dope. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful rhymes mean only Beauty. There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral record. Records are well written, or badly written. That is all. The moral life of an MC forms part of their lyrical subject matter, but the morality of MCing consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No MC feels compelled to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No MC has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an MC is an unpardonable front of style. No MC ever apologizes for a rhyme. The MC can express anything on wax. Thought and language are to the MC instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the MC materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the aim of every MC is the art of rhyme. From the point of view of feeling, the MC’s craft is the beat. All hip hop is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the listener, and not life, that hip hop really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about an album shows that the music is creative, complex, and vibrant. When listeners disagree the MC is in accord with herself. We can forgive an MC for biting rhymes as long as he lyrically performs armed robbery. There is a genesis, but the sky’s the limit. We’re livin’ in a new world. Hip hop is universal. Act I: Scenario[1] During a cross-culture training session last summer, the topic of which was music in modern Mongolia, trainers informed us that Hip Hop[2] was becoming very popular in the land of the lategreat Chinggis Khan. ‘Why Is That?[3]’ they asked. I mean b-real man; hip hop is obsessed with money – drunk on materialism – high off machismo, so what’s it doing in Mongolia, huh? What You [Mongolians] Know[4] about that? smirksnickerchuckle. And so the American gaadads discuss the causes and effects of Mongolia’s growing addiction to the dark diction of Crack Music[5]. But our conversation is as shallow and superficial as rhymes about money, cash, hoes, or beamers, benzs, and bentleys – because As the Rhyme Goes On[6] it’s evident that the gaadads Dontgetit[7]. Contrary to popular opinion, the essence of hip hop has less to do with Machine Gun Funk[8] and more to do with Everyday Struggle[9], it’s less given to Temptations[10] and more interested in Words of Wisdom…[11], it pursues Moments of Clarity[12] more than it glorifies Dead Presidents[13]. So if you want to know why hip hop is going Mainstream[14] in Mongolia – Wake Up[15] Listen[16] and I’ll Take You There[17]. Act II: The Lounge[18] Whoa. Something Don’t Feel Right[19]. ‘Tood, how you going to speak on hip hop – ain’t you a middle class soum’er from White America[20]? Stop frontin’ man, what you know about that? Testify[21].’ I usually avoid speaking on my love for hip hop by all means Necessary[22] for Fear[23] of being branded a cliché by social powers that promote the Propaganda[24] that hip hop is only for The Corner[25], but yo, I Ain’t No Joke[26], so check My Philosophy[27]. Hip hop transcends, period. It transcends race, region, class, ethnicity, gender – it helps Real People[28] Fight the Power[29] that encourages divisive thinking on such subjects – and it provides a Foundation[30] for an inclusive community where people can exchange ideas on wax. Hip hop is democratic. It’s inclusive, not exclusive. And although many MCs claim a crown to mark their reign as the king of d.blocks, area codes, or the entire genre – hip hop, by [Re]Definition[31], is not a nation. Nations are defined, geographically speaking, by boarders – something without boarders is also without limitations. It moves wherever it can survive, like a rose that grew from concrete, it doesn’t take much for hip hop to flourish – creativity – rhythm – the tenacity to stand up for the right to say something you might not like – and One Mic[32]. Act III: Put You on Game[33] Hip hop arrived here for the same reasons I did – Mongolia is a young democracy. After centuries of censorship by something like Big Brother[34], The People[35] are being encouraged to ‘Express Yourself[36].’ However, as we gaadads know, that’s not as Simple As…[37] it sounds because it’s easier to be a Ghost in the Machine[38] than a Rebel Without a Pause[39]. Yet, do we consider which democracy [hip hop] needs more? I’m speaking about you playa with that phony stuff you sharing in your raps because you should know Real[40] is less determined by neighborhoods, bank accounts, or miracle whips, and more by personal integrity, willingness to speak truth to power, and the ability to make, remix, and make again fresh, creative, honest music. Great artists, those whose music will remain Young Forever[41] and grace turntables and ipods for generations to come, confront ugly myths spawned from racism, sexism, ignorance, and prejudice. Their music speaks to generations of angry teenagers, whom if it wasn’t for rap Bridging the Gap[42] maybe would have been raised to be racist, and in the process, it breaks down barriers of language and races and encourages listeners to be empathetic to the plight of an.other. Still, not every mad rapper aspires to raise the bar, just like not every news organization aspires to report something akin to truth, there’s always a Sly Fox[43] lurking in the cut, fiening for ignorance to pedal lies and profit off deception – those who buy into this matrix are being spun and scratched like vinyl with their eyes wide open and their ears closed. Born and raised, mental slaves, listening to recycled beats with shallow hooks, silently transformed into The Instrumental[44] – too taken with the deceptions and perceptions of False Media[45] to pursue an original line. Why (What’s Goin’ On?)[46] The Kids[47] are taught to be aggressive but not strong, polite but not compassionate, well-behaved but not good, and meanwhile our integrity [future] is stifled [stolen] by the Hostile Gospel[48] of Thieves in the Night[49]. What are we doing? foolin’ ourselves – clownin’ ourselves – playin’ ourselves – but not being ourselves. I guess they’re getting paid, so I really can’t complain OR can I? [????] Is there an insatiable appetite [market] for Hate[50], a burning desire to pray and pray for someone else’s downfall, in [the] us? If so, then US[51] will always sing the blues, cuz all we care about is hairstyles and tennis shoes. What More Can I Say[52]? It's your world. The moon is mine. I'm on the Pursuit of Happiness[53], you stay on the 13th floor/Growing Old[54], until we reach our Final Hour[55]— One Love[56], Man on the Moon [57]

[1] A Tribe Called Quest. ‘Scenario’ The Low End Theory (1991) [2] Mos Def. ‘Hip Hop’ Black on Both Sides (1999) [3] KRS-One. ‘Why Is That?’ Ghetto Music: The Blueprint (1989) [4] T.I. ‘What You Know’ King (2006) [5] Kanye West. ‘Crack Music’ Late Registration (2005) [6] Rakim. ‘As The Rhyme Goes On’ Paid in Full (1988) [7] Lil Wayne. ‘Dontgetit’ The Carter III (2008) [8] Notorious B.I.G. ‘Machine Gun Funk’ Ready to Die (1994) [9] ---. ‘Every Day Struggle’ [10] 2pac. ‘Temptations’ Me Against the World (1995) [11] ---. ‘Words of Wisdom…’ 2pacalypse Now (1991) [12] Jay-Z. ‘Moments of Clarity’ The Black Album (2003) [13] ---. ‘Dead Presidents’ Reasonable Doubt (1998) [14] Outkast. ‘Mainstream’ ATLiens (1996) [15] Obie Trice. ‘Wake Up’ Second Round’s On Me (2006) [16] Talib Kweli ‘Listen’ Eardrum (2007) [17] Big Daddy Kane ‘I’ll Take You There’ Long Live the Kane (1988) [18] Asher Roth. ‘The Lounge’ Asleep in the Bread Aisle (2009) [19] The Roots. ‘Don’t Feel Right’ Game Theory (2006) [20] Eminem. ‘White America’ The Eminem Show (2002) [21] Nas. ‘Testify’ Untitled (2008) [22] KRS-One. ‘Necessary’ By All Means Necessary (1988) [23] Drake. ‘Fear’ So Far Gone (2009) [24] Dead Prez. ‘Propaganda’ Let's Get Free (2000) [25] Common. ‘The Corner’ Be (2005) [26] Rakim. ‘I Ain’t No Joke’ Paid in Full (1988) [27] KRS-One. ‘My Philosophy’ By All Means Necessary (1988) [28] Common. ‘Real People’ Be (2005) [29] Public Enemy. ‘Fight the Power’ It Takes a Nation of Millions…(1988) [30] Xzibit. ‘The Foundation’ At the Speed of Life (1996) [31] Black Star. ‘Re:Definition’ Mos Def & Talib Kweli Are…(2008) [32] Nas. ‘One Mic’ Stillmatic (2001) [33] Lupe Fiasco. ‘Put You on Game’ The Cool (2007) [34] Kanye West. ‘Big Brother’ Graduation (2007) [35] Common. ‘The People’ Finding Forever (2007) [36] NWA. ‘Express Yourself’ Straight Outta Compton (1988) [37] Kid Cudi. ‘Simple As…’ Man on the Moon (2009) [38] B.o.B. ‘Ghost in the Machine’ The Adventures of Bobby Ray (2010) [39] Public Enemy. ‘Rebel Without a Pause’ It Takes a Nation of Millions…(1988) [40] Lupe Fiasco. ‘Real’ Lupe Fiasco’s Food and Liquor (2006) [41] Jay-Z. ‘Young Forever’ The Blueprint III (2009) [42] Nas. ‘Bridging the Gap’ Street’s Disciple (2004) [43] Nas. ‘Sly Fox’ Untitled (2008) [44] Lupe Fiasco. ‘The Instrumental’ Lupe Fiasco’s Food and Liquor (2006) [45] The Roots. ‘False Media’ The Game Theory (2006) [46] The Roots. ‘Why (What’s Goin’ On?)’ The Tipping Point (2004) [47] B.o.B. ‘The Kids’ The Adventures of Bobby Ray (2010) [48] Talib Kweli. ‘Hostile Gospel (Deliver Us)’ Eardrum (2008) [49] Black Star. ‘Thieves in the Night’ Mos Def & Talib Kweli Are…(1998) [50] Jay-Z ‘Hate’ The Blueprint III (2009) [51] Ice Cube. ‘Us’ Death Certificate (1991) [52] Jay-Z. ‘What More Can I Say’ The Black Album (2004) [53] Kid Cudi. ‘Pursuit of Happiness’ Man on the Moon (2009) [54] Outkast. ‘13th Floor/Growing Old’ ATLiens (1996) [55] Lauryn Hill. ‘Final Hour’ The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill (1998) [56] Nas ‘One Love’ Illmatic (1994)[57] Kid Cudi. 'Man on the Moon' (2009)http://www.kingkong.demon.co.uk/gsr/prefdg.htm

Insomniac If you never sleep, are you ever awake? Yesterday evening at English club someone said a Mongolian word that sounded like ‘chilloot’ to my gadaad ears. ‘Ugnay?’ I asked Aldarmaa, who was seated next to me at the dinner table. She clarified, and I explained that chilloot sounds a lot like ‘chill out.’ ‘Ugnay?’ said Aldarmaa. ‘Chill out,’ I said. It means relax. Say it to people if they’re taking themselves too seriously and need to calm down. Hypnos hasn’t been visiting as much as I’d like of late, so little in fact sometimes I think about inviting his half-bro over for buuz and hoshuur. But it turns out both brothers are terribly busy, so I’m left, like a bridegroom at the alter waiting in vain for Eros to send my lover back and make it, right. ‘Zugeeray,’ says Tood. ‘That entire family can hate me I’ll thug my way through.’ Tood taught the next day with one foot in both worlds. Luckily it was Tuesday which means 8:00ish class, followed by his personal favorite, Business English at 9:40something. Same song and dance of late, and although toodEtood no longer resorts to sarcasm and a pouty lip, he still has moments of broken frustration. Following an uninspired performance, we find the jester Tood brooding over his rice and milk tea at the lunch table while everyone else is busy conversing about this that and the other, he sits picking and prodding at something like a meat paddy. That’s really no way to spend a lunch hour, but datder' boy is as stubborn as his mama. On his way out of the canteen he strikes his head on a low hanging pipe which he could interpret as a reminder to snap out of it, but instead chooses to brush it off and continue on his wayward path. We’ve been down this road a time or two before, so I’ll omit his journey up the staircase down the corridor and cut to the office, who knows, maybe Hypnos is knocking at your door. Tood pulls his chair up for the weekly scheming session, still brooding over who knows what; when Aldarmaa flashes a mischievous smile his way and says, ‘Chill out.’ Tood laughs. They settle next week’s plot to bore [inspire] the bejesus out of their students and it’s time for Tood to go his way. He wishes the others good day as he prepares to exit their chambers, but just as he has one foot in both worlds, Soyol, the other funnytalker, says, ‘Don’t worry, just try.’ The collective wisdom of their impromptu imperatives doesn't strike Tood until he is out of the office beyond the corridor traveling down the staircase. Then it hits him, like a low hanging pipe outside the cafeteria, ‘Chill out. Don’t worry, just try.’ Tood smiles. He’s lucky he has such a thick skull.

I'm just a soul whose intentions are good, oh lord, please don't let me be misunderstood. - The surgeon general warns, the views and opinions expressed in this blog may be hazardous for your health and in now way reflect the opinions of Peace Corps.

Hunger artists

Reports are unclear; however there are rumors of hunger artists outside the house demanding reparations for their lost art. House tenants had promised the hunger artists a seat at the table in exchange for their compliance, but later reneged once they made new friends in the neighborhood. That’s enough Tood, I hate gossip. In related news, I bought groceries today. Yes sir, I have enough tugz to eat like a king. As I was making dinner and drinking a glass of wine, I thought about those silly hunger artists out in the cold trying to gain notoriety for their lost art. For a second I felt a bit of jealousy [pronounced r-e-m-o-r-s-e], imagine me living in such a way when others get to practice their beloved art. It's not fair! Those aren’t the people I took an oath to serve, are they? Sleep good mr/pm, and sweet dreams in the house. TBC...

http://blog.taragana.com/business/2010/04/05/more-than-10000-protest-in-mongolia-to-call-for-dissolution-of-parliament-47834/

http://www.zwyx.org/portal/kafka/kafka_hunger_artist.html

Everything Burns By the will of the Eternal Blue Heaven the sun often shines in Mongolia, but there is no sunlight without shadow. In 1921, following more than two centuries of Chinese rule, the Mongolian people, with the aid of their Russian comrades, secured their independence. At the time, there were as many as 941 Buddhist monasteries in Mongolia and 25 percent of all adult males were Buddhist lamas.֩ However, the elections of 1924 marked a new era as Mongolia submitted to the reign of another foreign master, this time under the auspices of communism. The communist ascension to power brought orders that places of worship be destroyed and any followers arrested, exiled, or executed. For their part in the collective endeavor to eradicate religion from communist controlled territories, the Mongolian people were encouraged to drown any lingering pangs of conscience with Russian vodka. And so it remains. After centuries of foreign domination, the people who once spread religious tolerance to the far corners of their vast empire are beginning to record a new chapter, while still coming to terms with the bloodshed of a not so distant yesterday. Time overlaps itself. Shortly after the party’s rise to power, orders arrived from afar that all places of worship were to be destroyed. A young captain was charged with leading a patrol of soldiers to the site of an ancient monastery located on an isolated hilltop in the central region of the country. The squadron was expected to destroy the monastery and arrest any worshipers they encountered. However, the young captain, eager to prove himself worthy of command and solidify his reputation within the ranks, secretly vowed to make an example of this remote monastery to demonstrate his loyalty to the cause. Under the cover of darkness, the young captain ordered his men to barricade any exits and set the building ablaze. When asked about the lamas still residing inside, the young captain grimly replied, “Everything burns.” And so it was. News of the young captain’s impromptu command spread within the ranks until it caught the attention of a severe general. The general, infuriated by what he considered blatant insubordination, ordered the man be relieved of his command and banished from future service. The general would have bestowed a harsher punishment; however he found no fault with the young captain’s cruelty, he simply could not tolerate failure to execute orders. Distraught by what he considered an accursed fate, the young captain returned to the countryside to rejoin his father as a herdsman. And after that the entire incident was dead and buried and forgot; like so many other days and nights of terror and bloodshed that passed over the land, the ancient monastery that once crowned a steep hill, and all the disciples who searched for enlightenment therein, were entombed as nameless faceless lifeless statistics by the tides of time—but time is the justice that examines all offenders. The former captain whose ambition surpassed his rank retired his youthful pride and resigned himself to leading the life of a herdsman amidst the vast countryside. Seasons changed and years passed. The young captain took a bride, raised a family, grew old, and died. His sons remained in the countryside to carry on tradition—train a child in the way he should go and when he is old he shall not depart from it. His children raised sons and daughters and their sons and daughters raised sons and daughters and the seasons continued to pass by the will of the eternal blue heaven. So it was on a calm, wintry evening in late February, when upon returning home to his ger, Father noticed an old lama descending the south side of the steep hill. After settling his herd and greeting Mother and Daughter and baby brother, Father rode out to meet the strange man and inquire about his pilgrimage to this remote area. But when Father approached the lama to bid glad tidings, ‘Cain ban yy, ta,’ the old lama continued on his trek seemingly oblivious to Father’s being. Taken aback by this perceived slight, Father returned home convinced the old lama must suffer from a sort of hearing defect. He did not speak to Mother of his curious encounter with the old lama that evening—strange dreams assailed Father’s sleep that night—the offspring of strange thoughts still lingering in his mind the next day. Father arrived home with his herd early the following afternoon, so as not to miss the lama incase he should return to the hilltop. And much to his surprise, when the sun reached the proper position in the western sky, the old lama was seen descending the hillside in the same manner as the previous evening. Once again Father rode out to greet the lama, this time with a fresh canteen and foresight to project his voice to overcome the man’s hearing defect. ‘CAIN BAN YY, TA,’ Father said, as he extended the canteen to the lama. But much to his dismay, once again the old lama continued on his way without acknowledging the greeting. Father returned home from his second failed attempt angry and confused by the old lama’s affront. He told Mother about the strange lama who twice refused to acknowledge him. “Stupid old lama,” he said, “Foolish old lama. What will he do if he falls ill or snows return? Where will he go? He will not find shelter here – useless old lama.” Another restless night found Father rising earlier than usual the following morning. While he was out collecting wood to revive the smoldering fire, Father noticed the old lama approaching the hillside from the opposite direction he traveled the previous evening. The lama’s evening path led west, yet he was now seen approaching from the east. The idea of the old lama’s lengthy pilgrimage astounded Father, as he was familiar with the difficult terrain and knew there was no shelter for many kilometers in any direction. Father awoke early several consecutive mornings to gather wood and dung to stoke the dying fire and observe the old lama. Each morning the lama appeared in the same yellow robe, on the same westbound path, and silently and calmly ascended the steep hill as the sun was beginning to rise in the east; and there he remained until the sun reached a certain position in the western sky, at which time he silently reappeared and calmly descended the hillside on the same path he traveled yesterday and tomorrow. Although pride prevented Father from attempting to address the lama again, he and Mother watched with intrigue evening after evening as the old lama continued his journey toward the horizon. Sometimes Daughter, who had lived only 33 months in the ger, also watched; perhaps wondering in her own way who he was—and where he was going—and why he always followed the same path. Yet consistency makes even the most peculiar events and extraordinary people seem commonplace in time. So it was with the young family and the old lama. Weeks passed and Mother and Father no longer watched the final spell of the old lama’s daily pilgrimage. Father busied himself with the herd, birthing season would arrive soon and he had much to prepare—a herder’s work is never finished. Mother continued to nurse their two small children, prepare meals, fetch water, wash clothes, milk the cow, chop wood, collect dung, stoke the fire, look after the ger—a mother’s work is never finished. baby brother began to smile more frequently—he grew strong from Mother’s milk. Daughter helped console baby brother when he fussed and watched Mother do her chores. From time to time Daughter still wondered about the old lama and watched him journey down the hillside and travel along the same path toward the setting sun. One afternoon, while Father led the herd, Mother decided to fetch water from the well for dinner and evening baths. The weather was too cold and windy, and her children were too young to accompany her on the journey, so as is customary for isolated herder families in the vast countryside, Mother tied Daughter and baby brother’s right ankles to the bedstead to keep them safe while she was gone. She put on her warm coat boots scarf and gloves, stoked the fire to ensure the ger remained warm in her absence, kissed her children, loaded the containers in the push-cart, and began the 4 kilometer trek east to the well. Meanwhile, Father moved the herd north to return home. The strong wind prevented the only evidence of unfolding doom from ascending over the rolling hills. Upon clearing the final rise overlooking the shallow valley, Father saw the burning ger in the distance and charged ahead, but his horse, still emaciated from the harsh winter, collapsed under the strain and sent its rider crashing to the earth. Father returned to his feet, disoriented from the fall, yet compelled by an innate instinct to save his home. He covered the remaining distance on foot. When he finally arrived, the ger was an inferno. He frantically sought the water containers, but once he found the cart was missing, he realized the flames had consumed more than his home. Anger gained more and more mastery over him, especially as his eyes fell upon the steep hill overlooking his accursed fate. “What a coward! What a beast! What cruelty!” Father said to himself, seething with rage, as he raced up the steep hillside to confront the man he convicted for the deaths of his children—grief strengthened the wrath of his vengeance with each passing stride. Father unfettered his knife from his deel and clutched it in his right fist as he proceeded up the slope. When he reached the summit he nearly collapsed from exhaustion, but his anger refused to grant his body relief. “My ger has burned!” he shouted, as emotion and fatigue continued to restrict his breath. But the old lama made no reply. “MY GER HAS BURNED!” Father repeated, further incensed by the old lama’s continued refusal to recognize him. “My children are ash scattered in the wind. You watched them burn and did nothing!” Father’s knuckles shown white as he choked the handle of the knife – he swore if the old lama failed to acknowledge him this time he would burry the blade in the man’s breast. Then, without opening his eyes or stirring from his position, the old lama calmly replied, “Everything burns.” Scorched with rage by the old lama’s indifference to his apparent tragedy, Father raised his knife and charged at the old lama who remained situated on the barren ground, gripping a rosary in his right hand—but before Father could plunge the long blade into the man’s breast, a severe pain stabbed his chest and dropped him to his knees. Father struggled for air as he continued to choke the handle of the knife with his right hand. The distance between the old lama and the young father was no greater than a single meter. The old lama opened his eyes and spoke directly to Father for the first time, “I do not need my eyes to see the anger burning in your heart, nor do I need my ears to hear the grief strangling your voice—your anger is your hell, and your grief is for yourself, not your children. Let go of them, and when you are ready, perhaps you will discover what you seek. The difference between heaven and hell here and hereafter is no greater than a single thought.” Father awoke minutes later. He gasped for air as he lay prostrate on the barren hilltop beneath the eternal blue heaven; the bright sun overhead momentarily blinded him as the events of the immediate past came rushing back to blackened eyes. He slowly rose to his feet. The sharp pain in his chest was gone, as was the old lama. The wind had calmed and black smoke now rose like a tower against the heavens. Father went into a dream as he watched his hope and fear rise and fade into nothingness; he collapsed to his knees once more, though it was an altogether different pain that brought him back to the earth. He rested his head in his hands, “What use is a father who can’t protect his children?” he said to himself. Next to him lay the knife he had intended to burry in the lama’s chest, now the blade appeared to be his only salvation. He reached for it, but before the weapon was in his grasp, he thought about what the old lama had said just before he had lost consciousness. Father rose to his feet once more and searched the western landscape, perhaps expecting to find the old lama walking his familiar path—but the old lama was never to be seen again. Instead, what he discovered filled him with an ecstasy that defied belief; Daughter, dragging baby brother away from the burning ger, on the same westbound path that led toward the horizon.

I forgot to mention post resurrection that this blog in no way represents the views of Peace Corps. Only a fool would think otherwise, but the internet is a big place.

Never on Schedule, Always on Time Never on schedule, always on time – that’s my Mongolian anthem. I’m going to sing a bit of it for you. Why? – Because. I can’t forget about you. MONGOLIA, ‘tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Levity, Of thee I sing; Land of my broken pride, Land ‘fore the reign of time, From every mountain side, Let Chingis ring. Never on schedule, always on time – hate it or love it – this maxim encapsulates the way of the world in the modern day land of the late great Chingis Khan. Learning to accept its underlying philosophy is difficult to grasp for some of us Peace Corps gahdads. Many of the type A’s I enlisted with loathe this way of being. We gahdads are programmed to schedule, as if it’s been inscribed in our genetic code waybackwhen in the land before time. For some, living without a schedule contradicts the very nature of their existence. Suddenly the sky is falling they’re walking on water and swimming in land up is down, down is up right is wrong, wrong is right – but jetlag is still a biOtch. ‘Don’t Mongolians realize everything is better when it happens according to a schedule? Then you can control and manipulate and manage and prepare and predict and did I mention control?' I know people who live to schedule. For example, my Uncle Sam schedules: celebrations/ war/ reconstruction/ education/ vacation/ business/ religion/ family/ children/ spouses/ friends/ money/ love/ sex/ rest/ exercise/ sickness/ recovery/ vices/ retirement/ sleep/ play/ meals/ and so on/ – ‘It’s all part of the plan,’ he says. ‘To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow,’ I say. And with each passing syllable another grain of sand falls through the hour glass or is blown hither and thither by a westerly wind and our little life creeps ever closer to its inevitable e-n-d. Can’t schedule that! However, it will happen – on time. Yes mam, Mongolians just dontgetit. Schedules are the way of the modern world. Imagine all the planning and preparation that takes place prior to certain events in the land of Uncle Sam. Take weddings, for instance. It’s not unusual for Uncle Sam and his would-be spouse to spend anywhere from several months to a couple years scheduling every waking second of a 24 hour time span – all to ensure that their special day transpires without so much as a hitch glitch light switch off script. I’m not hatin’ newlyweds, I too want to experience all the joy that goes into the planning and preparation and execution of that oh so special day [it is joyous, right? RIGHT?] I’m just calling attention to differences between us and them to let ya’ll know that it’s hard out here for a gahdad. Because in the land of Chingis Khan, a Trojan Lama selects ‘lucky’ days each month which determine when Mongolians ‘schedule’ their wedding ceremonies and various other cultural celebrations. Sometimes this transpires no more than a day or two in advance, sometimes only a few hours. Please don’t mistake what Uncle Sam would consider all the forethought of a mad dash to a Las Vegas chapel for a hollow union. Check the divorce rates. Just a different way of doing business, and if you drink the water, you better follow the goddamn customs, now SAY, ‘I DO.’ ‘I DO,’ honey. So you see, when it comes to schedules us and them are on opposite ends of the spectrum. Uncle Sam likes to schedule, Chingis Khan, not so much. I happen to be residing in the land of the latter. Like swimming against the current or spitting into the wind, trying to exist according to a tightly wound schedule in Mongolia just ain’t a good idea – you’ll be wound so tight with frustration and resentment your gears will start grinding counterclockwise, or worse. Instead, toodEtood, you need to learn to ride the waves pull an about-face and harness that breeze to project your wad of saliva or stream of urine farther than it’s ever flown before. Yeah buddy! According to a fellow who knew a thing or two about being in time or Being and Time, earthlings exist, metaphysically speaking, by projecting themselves into their anticipated future. Everything we encounter derives its meaning based on this projection and things have a meaning only to the extent they are contained therein. Our past informs this projection, and the fact that we care about something in our collective world absorbs us in the present. Thus, the earthlings’ existence is simultaneously threefold. However, to my two-dimensional mind, perhaps some earthlings don’t project themselves quite as far as others and are all the better for it. I have to surmise that the extent of one’s metaphysical cast out there ought to be informed more by their current standing in the stream, rather than the number of trout they want to net by the hour the great orb falls in the western sky. That orb is falling partner, whether you catch your quota or not. Might as well enjoy the scenery and embrace the fact that what’s meant to be will be – on time – not on schedule. The cast the past – enough of it? alright then, just wanted to remind myself that there’s no changing it [what’s done is done] however you can waste the present by dwelling back there. Another effective way to piss away the present is by marrying future happiness to an arbitrary schedule of benchmarks blueprints deadlines quotas titles timetables etc. ad infinitum. Sam disagrees. He has to schedule, must schedule, needs to schedule, but he’s like the drunken uncle in your family, you know he’s lame, but you love him all the same. I hope my nieces and nephews are as forgiving in the future.

What’s in a name? My first name is quite simple and straightforward, as far as names go. Some might even call it bland, or blah, or double blah. Luckily I’m blessed with a last name that overshadows its precursor – it gives others the opportunity to make witty remarks like, Todd [pronounced tod] [. . .] WAIT! Get it? Anyway, more on the sentence that is my name later, back to Todd. One syllable, four letters, though it’s pronounced the same using three: T-o-d – I have only my vanity to thank for insisting others spell it with four. Nevertheless, some Mongolians struggle to make the necessary sounds to produce T+o+d in a succinct manner. My host mother still refers to me as T-o-o-d, even in text messages, ‘Ehj (Mum)! You’re embarrassing me! Now all my friends call me Tood! or ToodleMcStruedle! or toodEtood!’ but she’s my host mom – so what’s a volunteer to do? And really, what’s in a name? This question springs to mind a once foreign now familiar word, one I CAN pronounce clearly and identify accurately in Mongolian, “Gahdad.” The root of the word ‘Gahda’ translates as, ‘outside.’ I learned this word shortly after arriving to inquire about weather forecasts. However, as I continue to walk here-and-there, to-and-fro, whichever way the dust blows – I recognize Gahdad in the wind with increasing regularity. Gahdad, much like its root suggests, refers to a foreigner – someone from the outside. I happen to be a stereotypical Gahdad. I’m much taller than the average Mongolian; I sport a lighter complexion, lighter hair, a gangly walk, a long, crooked nose, blue eyes – all the trappings of a Gahdad. Sometimes when I’m out n’ about with a Mongolian friend I become such n’ such’s Gahdad. Naturally Mongolians don’t distinguish between a Russian gahdad Indian gahdad Mexican gahdad … – that’s the nice thing about gahdad’s – they’re all the same. So forget about the who’s and what’s and where’s and when’s and why’s that shed light on the (wo)man behind the mask, communication crumbles, stereotypes set in, and people are dammed to remain gahdads to one another, thereby further preserving the state of our respective worlds – flat. Blah! And did you know I struggled in the classroom during my first go-round? Yes sir, I was no more a teacher than I am a Mongolian. I was a gahdad – double blah! I wasn’t speaking my students’ language – and I’m not talking about English. I was reminded of my gahdad status during classes as I gazed at pews filled with confusion, doubt, and worst of all, utter indifference. I thumbed through the teacher’s Talmud, desperate to find a sign that would lead to the salvation of my forsaken classroom. Lesson plans, group activities, computer software, games, bribes, Hail Mary’s – unanswered prayers. I was scheming and blaming and punting and praying and despite satisfactory reviews from counterparts and cohorts I knew in my heart of hearts I was failing. Like our fallen progenitors, I had succumb to temptation and bitten the teacher’s forbidden fruit – I was making excuses. In truth, I was so busy trying to think like a teacher, look like a teacher, walk talk n’ act like a teacher, I’d forgotten to be a human. I don’t mean to suggest that teachers aren’t human, some aren’t, of course, but that’s the few, not the many. I pray. If I refuse to forfeit my humanity outright during that semester, I must confess I was a humane misanthrope. How else to explain presiding over classrooms day after day, week after week, month after month for an entire semester and learning only a handful of names! I didn’t bother with names or personal stories because let’s face it, all students are the same. So what,’s in a name? After all, I was focused on the big picture of Mongolia’s sinful education system. Teachers were trained to mimic the style and methodology of their godless Soviet comrades. They preached to their classes like the Pope rules the Vatican, righteous untouchable infallible. ‘Tisk tisk Mongolia!’ Here’s a gahdad to show you the light. But don’t trouble him with Peter Paul John and Judas – they’re all the same – and he has ‘work’ to do. I was treating my students like gahdads in their classroom, in their community, in their country – all in the name of a greater good. But just as I was blessed with a surname that trumps the blandness of my first, my personal salvation resides in my faith that I’m not a full-time jackass, only part-time. As I slowly awoke from my first semester coma, I came to appreciate what’s in a name. Second semesters, like baptisms, wash away sins of the past and give the sinner a second chance in our postlapsarian existence. At the outset of this semester I gave each of my students a 3x5 index card. On the inside of the card I asked them to write their name, age, number of family members, hometown, hobby/hobbies, favorite ‘something,’ someone they would like to meet, future ambitions, and a destination they’d like to visit. On the outside of the card I asked them to write their name in big block letters, fold the card in half, and place it on their desk. On one side they wrote their full name ‘Ayruunzaya’ and on the opposite side they wrote a shorter name, ‘Zaya.’ At the beginning of each class I select a few students to, ‘Please tell us about yourself.’ As the semester progresses, my plan is to introduce additional questions/information to include in our introductory activity. In addition, I no longer mindlessly ‘shh’ the entire class, I ask Muhkbaatar to please listen to Erdenesuren while he speaks and so on. Their reaction to this humane classroom treatment has exceeded all expectations. Attendance is up. Enthusiasm is up. I’m up. Born again. I’ve made a U-turn. And I’m happy to report that my students are following me on the road away from perdition.

Allergies

I’m with baby. Not my baby, someone else’s – not that every baby belongs to someone, but this one does. This is the second time I’ve had the misopportunity to baby-sit, as it were. Her name is Torch; aptly named by a volunteer who had every intention of passing her on to the next volunteer until one unforeseen detail foiled the plan – she fell in love. We had a conversation once, Torch’s lover and me, Torch was also present, as it were – as it was – as it is – about reasons why pets are superior to people as mates. Her reason was simple, pets allow you to love them unconditionally, and in return, they love you – and not only the intelligent, beautiful, witty, charming, plucked straight from the silver screen you - all the different you’s – the get up 8 times at night because you have diarrhea, you – or the scream till you feel like you’re going to vomit because a beetle crawled inside your ear orifice while you dreamed of the silver screen and is playing Ringo Starr on your drum, you – or the don’t talk to me don’t touch me! how could you do this to me? you – you, and me, too – except I’m wanting. I’m left wanting because I won’t let this calicopotbellyfurball get near me. I’m allergic. No, not that allergic. Not the webmd allergic. Although I have used the webmd allergic as an excuse from time to time to deflect questions and dodge unwanted houseguests; people don’t question allergies, especially if they suffer from them. I would have deployed a similar tactic except the other two candidates to host Torch and her litter box while her master tours the South Pacific are legitimately allergic, or they’re more cunning than me – in any case my plan was also foiled. Why have plans in the first place? Things fall apart – that’s a fact of life. Another fact of life is this: nothing lasts, including life and love and memory and blogs and torches – The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. But so what? What’s the big deal? Things fall apart nothing lasts only the reaper is promised – these don’t explain my aversion to the unconditional love one can derive from a beloved pet. What is it about the prospect of unconditional love – free from the tethers of judgment and reproaches that makes my skin itch, my eyes water, and sneezes assail my wuh-wuh demeanor? It’s her shedding I say, ‘She sheds and I am forced to unwittingly carry fur everywhere I go.’ Perhaps once upon a time, somewhere over the rainbow, that would have served as a legit excuse, but lately, given my current circumstances in regard to bathing, Torch probably has fewer fleas than me. ‘Or maybe it’s her uncanny ability to miss the giant tumpun of a litter box when she…’

‘Where’s this going?’ Torch interrupts, gazing up at me from her perch beneath the luke-warm radiator.

‘I didn’t realize you were listening. Are you judging me?’ I retort.

‘No,’ she replies, ‘but don’t talk about my litter box, lest you want me to play like Pandora and open your box.’

‘What do you mean, open my box?’

‘Why has my master forsaken me? And with this ape who can’t remember to feed me properly in the morning! And he wonders why I won’t love him. Perhaps it’s because when he sleeps on his back he snores so loud plaster falls from the ceiling. Or maybe it’s because when he wakes in the morning he…’

‘Are you mocking me?’ I ask.

‘You know what they say about cats, don’t you?’

‘There’s more than one way to skin them?’

‘We’re curious,’ she answers, ‘so don’t fuck with me.’

‘ACCHHHEEEEEWWWWWW!’

The views and opinions expressed in this blog are entirely my own and do not reflect those of Peace Corps in the least

Becoming ‘the Man’

I stood in front of my Business English class frustrated and disappointed as they nonchalantly took their exam together a few weeks ago. Frustrated because there’s only one reason to cheat on an exam – because you can’t answer the questions – and – they couldn’t answer the questions because they hadn’t learned any English – and – they hadn’t learned anything because… and therein lies the teacher’s dilemma. Is it me? OR Is it them? [there must always only be two opposing choices you know] If there are an infinite number of possible universes then maybe there are an infinite number of ways to answer any one question. However, the two most likely solutions revolve around us and them. I will represent us, and they will represent them, and this will be a brief discussion about one tiny situation which imperfectly represents the differences between the two or: how I learned to stop worrying and silence the Man.

What I know about the Man. The Man wants me to come to work on time without brining any ‘personal baggage’ which may get in the way of performing [a] task[s] that I’ve done so often I could probably do it/them with my eyes closed, half-conscious, all-the-while maintaining a façade of friendliness and interest, when, in fact, I’m silently deliberating whether or not I’d rather have a root canal than spend another waking moment in the monotony of the Man’s world. So it goes for the automaton, I mean employee, I mean business English student in the world governed by the Man. If the Man wants me to behave this way despite feeling that way, then it’s safe to say the Man could care less about me as a human being. ‘Be a human on your time! When you’re here between the hours of such and such you’re on MY TIME and being a polite/efficient/knowledgeable automaton is what’s best for you’ – thus spoke the Man. The extent of the Man’s feelings for my well-being as a human resides in a simple sentiment: eat to live. Humans must eat – eating costs money – money means work – and work means playing by the Man’s rules. ‘But whatif,’ methinks, ‘the better I learn those rules and perform said tasks I make more money? Then I can worry about other things – like what vices to pursue in order to numb that feeling of absurdity lurking in the back of my mind – or where I’ll lay while I dream about the Man – or how comfortable I am while commuting to the Man’s cathedral – or how fashionable I appear as I walk through the Man’s doors.’ ‘Good!’ exclaims the Man. But uhh automaton, I mean employee, I mean business English student, don’t get it twisted, as soon as you [insert expletive] with the Man’s world order – i.e. stop being a good automaton, the Man will [insert expletive] you.

Psychology of the Man. The Man pedals myths of ‘progress’ and ‘development’ and uses words like ‘commitment’ and ‘work ethic.’ The Man’s business becomes the automaton’s god. Worship the god by following the rules and you will be compensated for your troubles – you know, in the afterlife, I mean retirement. So appear on time, occupy that seat, stare at that screen, perform those tasks, smile at disrespect, push those papers, run that race – follow these rituals and believe in the myth, soon the hassles of living are replaced with the comforts of surviving – thus spoke the Man. These are the rules to the Man’s game. We follow the rules despite knowing full well that when the bell tolls we’re all going the same way. I’m from the Man’s world. I’ve been conditioned to think like the Man. And now I try to teach my students how to behave in that world. The business world. The Man’s world. My world. The world occupying the space between my ears.

So. When my Business English students cheated on their exam and the Mongolian teachers remained immersed in their respective premeditated distractions, I took offense to their blatant disrespect for the Man. Then I pouted. Then I plotted. Then I scolded. Then I exhaled and started thinking about all the ways I’m becoming the Man. What can be frustrating about life in Peace Corps, that is, if you insist on keeping your head safely lodged inside your private one-way street like I have for a considerable part of the past six months, is that outside the Man’s world people still care about one another as human beings between those sacred hours of such and such. ‘OH YEAH!’ screams the Man, ‘well they use outhouses and look at their GDP and they bathe in Tupperware and and and and…’ And a millennium of living says they know something about ‘sustainable lifestyles.’ And they’d rather earn less money than ‘downsize.’ And they’re not wound by the hands on a clock [sometimes they don’t even put batteries in the damn things]. And they share everything they have because they’re not obsessed with private ownership [at least not yet]. And they help each other on exams because why wouldn’t they? And they’re not all that interested in a Business English curriculum, but they would love to hear about what life is like where I come from, or whether I think Mongolian women are beautiful, or if I like their food, or what my family and friends are like, and so on… And guess what? If I give them 30 minutes to ask these ridiculous, irrelevant, off-task, humane, inefficient, ‘do you want an F?! then get back to work’ questions like I did last week – they speak English.

As always, the views and opinions expressed in this blog are mine and do not reflect those of Peace Corps.

The Baruun-Urt school of the Mongolilan University of Science and Technology celebrated its 10th anniversary this past weekend [10/15]. On Thursday morning current students, faculty, and staff, community members, alumni, and former teachers gathered outside the school for a homecoming ceremony of sorts. There were speeches, performances, flag dedications, and enough photos to compete with a high school prom. Afterwards all departments prepared exhibits in the gymnasium. My department head asked me to make something for the exhibit, so I drew a picture of a famous/tragic/assassinated Mongolian politician. It seemed out of place to me, but my department head told me everyone was interested in it – whether or not anyone recognized the man remains to be seen. In the afternoon there was a concert at the town theatre. As far as I know, all the aimags [provinces] in Mongolia have what they call a ‘cultural center.’ Baruun-Urt’s theatre/cultural center is very nice. The concert/ceremony lasted four hours and consisted of speeches, gifts from various government agencies and affiliated schools, and performances by teachers and students. I recognized some of the students from class. Although I sometimes struggle to get them to answer basic questions in English, i.e. ‘How was your night?’ ‘What did you do this weekend?’ and so on, two of my students sang songs in English – and they did a great job! I understood every word without being familiar with either song. FRUSTRATING and encouraging at the same time. After the concert, which concluded at 7 (4 hours) current staff, former staff, and alumni gathered at a nice restaurant in the hooduu (countryside) for dinner. The restaurant is named ‘Crystal.’ Tables were furnished with drinks and appetizers. It was a nice evening. I heard speeches from former teachers and students which gave me a better sense of the amount of progress made in the past ten years. Six teachers were on staff the inaugural year. They recruited students from Baruun-Urt and surrounding soums (villages) to attend. However, attendance was a problem and there wasn’t a dormitory available so there was no place for out-of-town students to live. They ended up bunking with teachers or wherever they could find a home. Class sizes for the first three years didn’t exceed 30. The struggle continued but by the beginning of the tenth year the faculty had grown to 35+ with over 1,000 students. It’s helpful to hear these stories. It’s so easy to get bogged down by all the problems facing Mongolia’s education/economic situation. Couple the big picture with classroom realities and certain questions spring to mind… Honestly I don’t know how to feel about the word ‘progress’ in certain contexts, but without struggle there can be no progress – my man Frederick Douglass said something like that. It’s a struggle here, but progress is evident all around if you’re familiar with the story…

I meet with three English teachers for an hour and a half Tuesday and Thursday of each week. I asked them for suggestions at the beginning of the semester to try and gauge what they wanted out of these meetings but I got little in the way of feedback. I struck out with grammar. Seems they’re already well versed in articles and prepositions so it’s on to the next one. Over the past few weeks I’ve tried to steer the lessons toward discussions about American history/culture/society. One of the three goals of Peace Corps is to share American cultural values and traditions with host country nationals. I’m certainly learning about all things Mongolian so I figured it makes sense to return the favor and if I can do that in the context of an English lesson then what the hell, why not? I thought it would be worthwhile to read something dealing with gender roles since they’re so prominent and well defined here. Men and women have separate spheres, even in a place where domestic space is at a premium, lines are drawn. No slight against Mongolian men, but women in this country have a tremendous amount of responsibilities. In addition to holding most of the professional positions [although there is certainly something like a ‘glass ceiling’] women are also responsible for all the duties involved in what we would consider a domestic sphere. The first piece we talked about in this hodgepodge series of American culture was Sojourner Truth’s speech ‘Ain’t I a woman.’ The unanimous response was, ‘poor woman.’ Indeed. This led to a discussion of gender roles which revolved around women’s suffrage, slavery, and differences between ideals and actuality.

Another reason why I wanted to talk about American culture, specifically the difference between their ideal of American culture and something closer to truth is because many Mongolians have a fixed idea of what America is and what an American looks like. In terms of the latter this is evident when hearing stories from volunteers who stray at all from tall, white, light hair and blue eyes, ‘You’re not an American’ they’ll say. I guess they figure stereotypes save time. Of course there are other reasons. Mongolia has such a tight-knit culture due to a relatively small population and an extensive history – all this has led them to develop a way of doing business that’s very…Mongolian. For instance, I think it’s safe to make certain generalized statements about Mongolian culture – like, ‘most Mongolians enjoy things such as; buuz, hoshuur, tsuvian, milk-tea, horses, songs, dance, candy, and vodka.’ [Fact] And really, who doesn’t? They’ll ask, ‘what do Americans like? ‘Hmm,’ I say, pausing for a moment as I try to come up with something accurate that encapsulates sea to shining sea, ‘…consumerism.’ That’s a bit abstract when they’re asking for a song or favorite pastime. All the more reason to stick with the matter at hand. The next piece we read was Abe Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. With two short speeches under my dell, I decided to try my hand with poetry. Whitman’s ‘O Captain, My Captain’ seemed an obvious choice. This week I fast forwarded 70 years or so and printed three copies of Langston Hughes’ ‘Let America Be America Again.’ Mixed results. The poem is much longer than anything we’d attempted prior. But I’m beginning to think they’re not that into talking about the underbelly of America’s story. I think they’d rather focus on the glitz and glamour, at least sometimes – sometimes myths shape reality and become more useful than facts. I’ll probably pull back a bit – more than one way to shear a sheep. [Fact]

The views and opinions expressed here are entirely my own and do not in any way/shape/form represent those of Peace Corps now/then/ever…

Yes, now that I’ve eaten horse burgers I only have a few more items remaining on my list before I can return home feeling seasoned, cultured, and accomplished. I’ll pass them along as I cross them off. Speaking of diet, mine consists mostly of rice, noodles, and vegetables [bell peppers, carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, onions, cabbage, and cucumbers]. Throw in the occasional egg and a few slices of bread with jam for breakfast and that about sums it up. I have a frying pan and a rice cooker which I use for the majority of meals. Rice cookers are a godsend. I only eat meat when dining out. Thus far it’s too much of a hassle to prepare and I don’t miss it enough to risk getting sick afterwards. Baruun-Urt has in the neighborhood of 10 – 12 restaurants, mostly Mongolian food, but there is one Chinese restaurant we enjoy going to. There is also a cafeteria at my school which lets me dine for free – great food, convenient, can’t beat it.

I’m teaching English at the Baruun-Urt school of the Mongolian University of Science and Technology [MUST]. My classes range between 15 – 35 students. Most of my classes are beginner – intermediate levels of English. I also teach an advanced class titled ‘Business English,’ however the only advanced aspect of the course appears in the course registry. I teach four days a week, M-T-Th-F. It’s nice to have a break in the middle of the week, not sure how much longer it will last but for the time being I really enjoy my Wednesdays. Well, I enjoy every day, not necessarily every hour of every day, but for the most part I’m enjoying this life. I also help Travis, the health volunteer, teach English lessons M-Th evenings at the hospital. I stay busy. Days seem to go by fast – which keeps me mindful of how quickly the remainder of my time will pass. There was an M18 volunteer at my college prior to my arrival. I found a picture of him in what is now referred to as my desk. I kept it there as a reminder that I’m only here for a short while – someone was here before me, someone will likely come after, so make the most of my time that way when the curtain closes on my Mongolian adventure I feel content with how I chose to live it.

Elsewhere I wrote about wanting to see tangible results from Peace Corps service. Following one of my lessons with three English teachers last week we had tea and I asked about other volunteers who’d lived in Baruun-Urt. Their earliest memories dated back to the late 90’s. At that time they’d just been hired despite not knowing/speaking much English. They had studied Russian at their universities and since most Russian teachers were given a crash course in English teaching following the withdrawal of the Soviet Union, Russian majors were also hired as English teachers – talk about on the job training. As they described their memories and experiences with former volunteers I realized that conversation was as tangible as it gets.

The views and opinions expressed here are entirely my own and do not in any way/shape/form represent those of Peace Corps now/then/ever…

Why the title? To seem clever, mostly ... other reasons - First, the same person who introduced me to the idea of Peace Corps service also introduced me to the genius that is Pink Floyd. 'Dark Side of the Moon' was a gift. I promised I would write from Mongolia, so this blog is my way of returning the favor. Second, after receiving our site placements [i.e. the place we call “home” for the next two years] many newly ordained PCV’s [we’re called trainees before earning the title of volunteer – one must walk before they can run] broke out their “Lonely Planet” guidebooks to read up about their new digs. Lonely Planet bills itself as an all-inclusive publication that supposedly offers in-depth descriptions of places, travel options, weather, culture, entertainment, ect. Monday morning, Sara, who was sick and decided to stay in bed, was reading her LP. As I was leaving the dormitory I asked her to read about Baruun-Urt and let me know. I didn’t see her till much later that night after returning from dinner and drinks. When I asked about my destination she looked at me in a serious face, handed me the book, and told me to see for myself. So with a strong buzz and a dorm room audience I read the following description out loud:Sükhbaatar’s desolation is nowhere more evident than in its capital, Baruun-Urt, a scruffy, one-horse town in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The city is poor but some locals have found employment at a nearby Chinese-invested zinc mine, or at the coal mine 7km to the northwest. One surreal image you can get in Baruun-Urt occurs in the cold season when it’s possible to walk out into the empty, barren, frozen steppe and feel as if you’ve landed on the moon. The ground underneath your feet, however, contains high levels of sulphur, which has seeped into the local water supply – you are better off buying bottled water or filtering the tap water.

YIPPIE! Despite his colorful writing, my first reaction was ‘fuck this guy’ [Michael Kohn]. My audience found this hilarious, so much so that they ushered people in from the hallway and other dorm rooms to hear my rendition. My host family gave me three gifts the night before I left my training site: a ring, a mure-en-hor (which is a Mongolian string instrument [see pics]), and my host mother gave me an expensive bottle of Mongolian vodka. The vodka was an inside joke between the two of us, one which I’ll save for another occasion. Anyway, after receiving my site placement and silently lamenting about the manner in which certain related events unfolded that expensive bottle of vodka was gone before sunrise. I had help. We laughed about my circumstances—many, many moon jokes. But I felt better about everything the next day. My “misfortune” quickly turned into a bonding experience. [aww]. Now I receive texts from other volunteers asking about the man on the moon. It’s all good…

And now a blog. I’m really not sure what to do with it – write something I guess – if it seems unorthodox that’s because I don’t know what I’m doing – This isn’t my bag, but I promised a few people who are infinitely important to me that I’d start one… so in order to preserve the wise guy code and remain a ‘man of my word,’ this is that thing. Plus I enjoy writing – it’s good for the soul – so if you can stomach my musings, this is a win-win for all concerned. If not, and you still want to hear from me, I’ll give you my address, you can mail me an international calling card and some peanut butter and I’ll give you a call [I’m charming on the phone]. Michael Kohn, in all his inestimable wisdom, says I’m on the moon. But just to recap, I’ll offer a summary of how I landed here. Excelsior, we’re going to the moon!

... I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon and returning him safely to the Earth. No single space project in this period will be more impressive to mankind, or more important in the long-range exploration of space; and none will be so difficult or expensive to accomplish. – JFK

[Speak to me/Breathe]

We left the states on June 11. We arrived in Mongolia on June 13 – I wasn’t a math major so I’ll leave the numbers to someone more inclined. All in can say is wow, long flight(s). Our last flight landed in UB around 10:30 pm. Current volunteers were waiting at the airport. They greeted us with smiles and cheers as we made our way through their gauntlet of well-wishes while exiting the airport. Good feeling. We boarded two buses and drove for an hour through the night, getting our first taste of travel in Mongolia. The final leg of our initial odyssey ended outside a soviet style dormitory in Zuunmod, a provincial capital approximately 50km south of UB. After unloading two trucks filled to capacity with luggage we turned in for the night. Four trainees to a room, metal frame bunk beds, plywood – and a mattress you might expect to encounter in the clink – slept like a baby. Not really. No curtains and inevitable jet lag resulted in long days and short nights – not to mention a few other peculiarities with my bod. Strange what 20+ hours in an airplane does to one’s internal ticks and tocks. We spent four days and five nights in Zuunmod. This initial meet and greet provided a chance to get acquainted with other trainees, Mongolian food/culture/lifestyles, PC safety/security/medical protocol and so on. We also had a hell of a dance party the night before leaving for our training sites. Nothing takes the edge off like Biz Markie and a few gulps of Mongolian spirits – just what I needed to unleash the embarrassment I call dance moves!

My journey to Mongolia’s lunar-esq landscape took the first of many twists and turns on June 18. Our large group [66] split up. Goodbye’s . . . yana. Eleven other people were in my training group. We spent the summer in a town 20km west of UB called Gachuurt. We all left Zuunmod on a Thursday around noon. Each group (5 total) traveled to their site in two meekers, one for luggage one for trainees. There wasn’t enough room in the trainee meeker so I rode with the luggage, a driver, and Naraa, one of my group’s two LCF’s (Language Cultural Facilitator). During our trip she told me life in Mongolia is difficult. When we started dropping trainees off with their host families she said, “Your difficult life begins…”

The earth is the cradle of humankind, but one cannot live in the cradle forever. – Konstantin Tsiolkovsky,1895

Admittedly I felt a bit overwhelmed when we arrived in Gachuurt and started meeting our host families. I was the last person in my group to get dropped off so I saw this scenario play out 11 times before it was my turn. My host parents were dressed in traditional Mongolian clothing when I arrived. They showed me the ger where they served me buuz and milk tea. They introduced their children and then left shortly thereafter so I could rest. Later that evening we exchanged gifts and shared family photographs. Although they don’t speak any English and at the time I couldn’t speak a word of Mongolian save ‘hello,’ ‘thank you,’ and ‘goodbye,’ they made me feel welcome from the beginning. The human connection goes a long way, makes difficult situations seem much more bearable. I spent the summer in a ger. Most gers are much smaller than I expected. They vary between four and five walls [there are also eight wall gers which seem like gigantic circus tents in comparison]. Walls refer to the number of sections used to construct the exterior [you can think about it as four panels or five panels]. A five panel ger averages close to 16ft diameter. Wood stove in the center, futon in the back, a hutch and small table on opposite sides. I have pictures so I’ll save my words...

My schedule during summer/pre-service training went something like this: language class M-F 9:00 – 1:00. 30 min break from 11-11:30. 1hr ½ lunch break. It took 25min for me to get from the school to my ger. That left maybe 40 min to eat – if everything ran according to schedule, which is pretty rare in this land J 2:30-6:00 MWF we had technical training sessions. That’s when I *learned* how to be a teacher in Mongolia. TTH we had cultural lessons in the afternoon/evening. Mongolians and current volunteers served as our cultural and vocational trainers. God bless them. Days were long, especially early on as each day began with four hours of questions in a language I could barely decipher. But when we left for our permanent sites I felt prepared so no complaints.

Some statistics about Gachuurt: 2,000 families, 6,100 people, 42,000 head[s] of livestock, one school, 900 students, one dormitory houses 150 students during the school year, mostly children from herder families, one orphanage for children from ub [homeless kids in ub live in the sewer system during the winter for warmth] post office, bank, 27 private businesses, hotel, one hospital 4 doctors, 4 nurses, 2 nurse assistants, bus station, 2 rivers, mountains, and all the rocks, dust, and hills an idealistic 24 year old could ask for!

[On the Run]… Missives to Houston …

“Students from a university in South Korea have been in Gachuurt and other Mongolian towns the past few weeks. In Gachuurt they [approximately 75] held a summer camp for local children, provided health and dentistry check-ups for the community, built a staircase to the river, taught language and tae-kwon-do classes, replaced basketball hoops, gave children toys, bikes, notebooks, ect., painted the front of the building [see pics], picked up trash/glass around the school, and so on. Odonchimeg attended. They came to provide things, we’re here to enable people—we share a common interest, we approach it in very different ways. Saturday morning I walked to the bus station for my ride to UB. I arrived early so I had some time to kill. As I waited a kid passed on his new bike and I wondered if in two years here I/we would be able to contribute as much. The Korean students accomplished a lot in a relatively short amount of time. I’m glad others recognize that there are real needs here and are willing to do something about it. Exactly the kind of volunteer opportunity I passed on during college.

The Korean students left Sunday morning. They boarded their buses outside the school at the same time 7 of us [9 total including Naraa and her husband, see pic] packed into a Toyota Spatio and headed for Gachuurt’s Nadaam festival. Nadaam is the 2nd biggest holiday in Mongolia. Naraa, one of our two LCF’s, and her husband chauffeured us 30km to the countryside where the festivities were held. The day consisted of 5 rounds of wrestling, horse races*, dancing, singing, food, and drink. We really enjoyed it. The Koreans came to provide things to people who don’t have much. We’re here to integrate into communities and build relationships that will hopefully endure after our service ends. That takes time. When I’m finished here I hope I’m able to see tangible results like they could. But I also realize there is something to be said for becoming part of a community, sharing in customs, and celebrating another culture…”We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win... - JFK

[Time]

“Speaking of the elements, the rain continues. Very, very unusual summer by Mongolian standards. Normally by this date temperatures are 100+ and rains stop by late June. Not the case. Seems like it’s rained at least once a week since we arrived. Severe flooding in ub. Mongolia lacks the infrastructure to deal with heavy rainfall. Roads wash out, bridges collapse, little vegetation on mountainsides result in landslides, and power outages are frequent. No power Tuesday night and part of Wednesday. In addition, due to all the excess water there are a lot of things that go bump in the night. In terms of longitude and latitude Mongolia is similar to northern Minnesota. Beetles, flies, mosquitoes, and spiders are regular visitors in my ger. I put up a mosquito net last week. My host family got a kick out of it. It helps but since I can see grass/weeds underneath my bed/futon, it’s less than spider-proof…”

“Of the all the countries Peace Corps currently operates in, Mongolia is ranked the 2nd most difficult. I’m not sure where these statistics come from, but usually those that I pass along are from trainers or other permanent PC staff. I take everything I hear from trainees with a grain of salt. Mauritania gets the #1 spot due to food shortage. Lame J. All and all life isn’t that difficult now. That tells me one thing, winter is a bitch. One evening my host father and I were looking at a map of Mongolia – he wrote the average winter temperatures in the twenty-one provinces. Then he asked me how cold it gets in the winter where I’m from. I said -10 and he pretended to unbutton his shirt as if he was basking in the sun. Then he pointed to the map and pretended to spit suggesting it would freeze before it touched the ground…”

Many people are shrinking from the future and from participation in the movement toward a new, expanded reality. And, like homesick travelers abroad, they are focusing their anxieties on home. The reasons are not far to seek. We are at a turning point in human history... We could turn our attention to the problems that going to the moon certainly will not solve ... But I think this would be fatal to our future... A society that no longer moves forward does not merely stagnate; it begins to die. – Anthropologist Margaret Mead, "Man on the Moon," 1969

[Us and Them]

“During language class on Monday, Naraa [one of our two LCFs] who has helped us all tremendously, let loose about her feelings concerning certain attitudes and opinions. She doesn’t speak the best English, but her message was poignant nonetheless. She said she doesn’t understand why some of us are here if we’re so unhappy. She told us we needed to learn self-control. She lived/studied in Germany for six years. She said when she was in Germany she never spoke badly about the people/culture/country. When she returned to Mongolia she could say whatever she wanted. If we have so many negative things to say about life in Mongolia, why don’t we go back to the US and say them there. I’m paraphrasing, there was much more. This caught some off guard. Long over due, not that it’s Naraa’s responsibility, after all, we’re in Peace Corps, we signed up for difficult. She began this impromptu ego check by writing a Mongolian proverb on the whiteboard: “If you drink the water, follow the customs.”

“Some of the other trainees at my site and elsewhere give me props since this is my first time overseas. The vast majority have lived, studied, or traveled abroad. They often say these experiences helped them prepare and handle the transition. Some even say without these prior experiences they would have already E.T.’d. [early terminated]. Hence the props for hanging. In addition, I’m from Iowa, which many people find somewhat of a mysterious place, if they’ve given it any thought. They ask, “What goes on there?” and assume nothing in the same breath. Ha! Whatever. Actions speak louder than words. I know this. So I just keep stepping. One day in language class we located our home state/city on a US map and spoke about it [in Mongolian]. The trainees in my group are from Chicago, St. Petersburg FL, Atlanta, Boston, Baltimore, San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, and Houston. As you know, populations for the majority exceed one million. They all went to large private or public high schools. Some attended/graduated from “the best” high schools and universities on two continents. I’m from Iowa, “Where, Idaho?” 1,500 people live in my hometown. “What?” I graduated high school with 45 people. “WHAT!” and so on. Again, I recognize the circumstances I currently find myself in are somewhat unusual, but keep this in mind when considering the pros and cons of life in a small town. Several of the trainees at my site and elsewhere find it difficult being around the same people every day for several hours. Personalities clash. This is very much a grind. True enough. But where I’m from we called this little ten week grind of the same people/personalities day-in-day-out pre-school, elementary school, junior high, and high school. That’s 12+ years of learning to get along. Complaining about something/someone doesn’t count for shit. We know this. I attended high school with roughly 200 people. Many had 3x that number in their graduating class. Small school means limited exposure to culture, diversity, ect. Yes, maybe. But I had the opportunity to learn perseverance, commitment, and teamwork on fields, courts, AND [occasionally in classrooms]. You show up and work your ass off whether you feel like it or not. If you don’t want to put in time/effort Monday-Thursday, forget about Friday nights. In addition, these “small town” experiences/opportunities teach one how to be accountable to others. We get a lot of attention here. Oftentimes it goes unnoticed, but many of the Mongolians in the community talk about us as if we’re the same person. If one American does it they all do. We’re in a fish bowl, surrounded by people looking for a reason to critique and criticize [gee what’s that like?? I’m not anonymous, weird]. If someone screws up, we all did: “That’s bullshit, it wasn’t me. I had nothing to do it…” No, your choices affect me and vice versa. You’re late to practice, I run. You break the rules on the weekend, I run. You buy cheap Chinese vodka every other day to get drunk, I do too. And so on. I’m close with my host family, especially the children, but believe me when I say things aren’t all hunky dory between mongol mom and dad. This is increasingly evident. I keep it to myself and some trainees assume I’m quiet in some dysfunctional way. Where I’m from we know if you don’t want everyone talking about it you don’t tell anyone. Family is sacred, true friends are rare, and you don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Feigned pity and momentary attention aren’t worth airing peoples’ dirty laundry in places it doesn’t belong. That’s loyalty. I know this. I learned most of it from the place I call home. So although I’m merely from “a small town in Iowa” in terms of being prepared for Peace Corps and life abroad, I feel up to the challenge. Not despite this, but because of it. I’ve always appreciated the people I come from, but not always the place. No more. Like I said, moments of clarity…”

We went to explore the Moon, and in fact discovered the Earth. – Eugene Cernan

[Eclipse]

“... I tried to limit my expectations of Peace Corps service as much as possible prior to coming here, however I did hope to make many close friends. The longer I’ve been here, the less likely I think that will happen. This life is about meeting briefly only to quickly say goodbye. So it goes. There are many great/wonderful people in my group and the group ahead, many of whom I could see myself being friends with for life. I can’t stress enough how impressed I’ve been with many of the volunteers I’ve met. Yet, given the circumstances, I’ll probably see them a handful of times over the next two years. Upon realizing this I was a little disappointed, naturally. Then again, as I said from the beginning, I came here for me. Not for the Mongolian people, not to make friends, not for some altruistic purpose—only to try and become a better version of myself. That can happen when surrounded by great people, but I think more often than not it happens when no one is looking. People may be watching, but nobody is keeping score. What comes of this is entirely up to me. Who I become is up to me. I can’t control what happens, who/what I encounter, or what circumstances I face, but I can decide how I’ll respond/react when the time comes. That’s the beauty of this adventure. I wrote in the first paragraph that I feel fortunate to have so much say over the direction of my life. Many Mongolians are born in the same place they will die without ever seeing anything over the horizon. I think that’s true for the majority of people on this planet. [How lucky am I?] That being said, I’m not ready to stop blowing in the wind. My life has been a pleasant accident. I’m banking on that trend continuing. My site placement interview is Friday. I’m taking UB off the map. I can see it from the front yard. I want to find out what’s over the horizon. I’m forever grateful to my host family, and I love these little girls, but we’re from different worlds. The longer I’m around them and the more Mongolian I learn, the more I want to interfere in matters that are ultimately beyond my control. They have to be knocked down so they can learn how to get up and run. Trying to shield them from that only does them a disservice. I know this. I resent it, but I accept it…”

“Friday was a long day. I got up at 5:30 to hike a mountain one last time but I wasn’t able to cross the river. I’d planned to skip class [this time I told Naraa in advance, we’re homies]. Instead I just sat along the banks until 7:30. I walked home, ate a few slices of bread, and went to class at 9. The rest of the day was spent cleaning the ger, washing clothes, packing, and playing with the girls. It was hard to say goodbye. The first day we arrived in Gachuurt was difficult. The last day in Gachuurt was difficult for entirely different reasons. The end was very reminiscent of the beginning. Back to Zuunmod. We arrived Saturday morning. I was in a mood all day. I’m over pst. I haven’t got much sleep lately. That doesn’t help. We got our site placements yesterday. It’s supposed to be very exciting and all that, but like I said, I’m over pst. I’ll be spending the next two years in a place called Baruun-Urt, which is the aimag for the Suukbaatar province. After I received my placement people asked if I was excited/happy. Yes, however telling me I’m going to Buruun-Urt was like telling me something is effervescent – I don’t know what it means. I need to look it up. Sukbaatar is in eastern Mongolia. The east side of the country is very flat. I’ll be teaching at a technical and vocational college. I’m living in a one bedroom apartment. No hot running water, but I do have an indoor bathroom. The town [16,000 people] is 550 km from UB, eleven hour trip by bus, van, or jeep. 330km of the trip has paved roads…”

[The Great Gig in the Sky]

“After our swearing in ceremony on Wednesday afternoon, [HUGE success], we loaded three buses and went back to UB. It was a “success” because the performances and speeches were pretty amazing. Needless to say I didn’t sing a Mongolian folk song or perform a traditional Mongolian dance, but many did. I’m with a talented group of people. The ceremony was professionally videotaped, I’ll try to get a copy, it’s worth thirty or so minutes of your time someday down the road. Back to UB for two days. We stayed in the international students’ dormitory. On Thursday, our first full day in the city, we [Alex, his supervisor, and my training manager (see pics)] went to the bus station at 8 a.m. to buy our tickets. The ticket office for buses to eastern Mongolia happens to be next to the place where Tolga, [Naraa’s husband] works as an auto mechanic. I saw them the night before at a Korean Restaurant. Naraa told me to call her when we were at the ticket office. She would meet us and act as my chauffer for the day. So she and Tolga came to pick us up. Naraa, Tolga, and I went to a restaurant for breakfast. Afterwards we picked Scott and Ashley up and off we went shopping. They took around the city to various department stores, grocery stores, Peace Corps office to get our winter bags and passports, and the black market. Naraa bargained at the black market on my behalf to get things as cheap as possible. At the end of the day I’d purchased two knives, a cutting board, rice cooker, electric water boiler, iron, and various other kitchen items. They dropped us off at the dormitory at 6pm. Naraa said they’d come at 6:30 the next morning to take Alex and I to the bus station. Peace Corps gives us enough money to buy two seats, one for ourselves, one for luggage. However, our luggage exceeded the two seat limit. No worries. Tolga is friends with all the bus drivers. He spoke with the driver and we ended up with the entire back row for our luggage. In Mongolia who you know is the surest form of purchasing power. Naraa told me if I ever need anything from the city to let her know, she’ll pick it up, and Tolga will give it to the driver who will deliver it to Sukbaatar—anything from coffee beans to a washing machine. I offered to pay for breakfast Thursday morning. Tolga [doesn’t speak any English] told Naraa not to accept, that I needed to spend that money on things I’ll need. Later I offered to pay for gas. Naraa said, “No no, we are friends. We help you.” I cannot stress how much they helped me throughout the summer. I also lack the words to express how fortunate I feel to have made such kind and generous friends…”

“So I had another ‘goodbye’ as I left Naraa and Tolga at the bus station. That officially ended pst. The trip to the moon was long and tiresome. It's close to six hours of level B 'roads.' Bizarre at times, that’s the only way I can describe it. One way or the other we arrived in Buruun Urt, and boy oh boy was I relieved. I needed to “watch the horses” which is a Mongolian expression for using the outhouse [or popping-a-squat at some random place in the countryside].”

Q: “Hey, where are you going?”

A: “To watch the horses.”

“Any comments made by other M18/19 volunteers or staff about my site all centered on the three current volunteers in Buruun Urt—nothing but positive remarks about how stellar these individuals are. Their names are Elaine, Travis, and Alexandra [Alex]. Elaine is a TEFL’er and a soumer from the motherland, Travis is a health volunteer from Florida, and Alex is a child and youth development volunteer from Seattle. Alexandra and Travis were waiting for Alex and I at the bus stop when we rolled into this scruffy, one-horse town in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Neither of us had apartments/gers at the time, so we moved our things to a hotel. The next morning they met us at nine o’clock and showed us around town. After the tour we went to Alex’s ger where they fed us horse burgers [delicious] and potato chips. They answered questions, gave us a heads up on things to expect without being overbearing or know-it-allish, and assured us if we have any problems, questions, ect. to let them know and they’d do their best…”

And that’s the story so far from the man on the moon. It’s about the people. This whole thing is about relationships with people – that’s the only thing that makes any of it [largest sense of the word] worthwhile…in my opinion. And as I said in the beginning, that’s all this ‘blog’ is. Love it or leave it – just my thoughts man – right or wrong – just how I was feeling at the time…