September 26, 2008 by Karin.

Finally, the big day arrived!

On Monday morning, our vans pulled up to the construction site of dreams: a foundation awaiting attention, blue skies above, shiny red roof sitting on the grass, the curious cast of Mongolians, even our own construction ger. The hard jobs, digging the toilet and foundation, were taken care of before we had arrived. It was time for us to contribute.

These were the Mongolians we worked with (from R-L): Hoghi (our interpreter), Puugee (of the construction team), Bayra (future home owner), Mogii (brother of Bayra and future resident of house), Erdnee (our speedy bus driver), Batdolgor (social worker), and Tseveen (the master builder).

We were delighted to see that construction workers in Mongolia  favored loose pajama style pants with tapered legs. Hard hats were also on site but were less popular.

 We started the day with circle time. Kim led us in a meditative breathing and Angela asked us to set an intention for the day. It was one of my favorite parts of the day, especially the thought that from an outsider’s point of view, we may resemble a cult.

With the help of Hoghi, our construction boss explained that he would teach the four most qualified members of our team what to do and they would teach the rest of us. That worked…to some extent, for with 17 pairs of hands itching to pitch in, you can imagine how the demand for work overwhelmed the leaders’ ability for job assigning.  

So we rolled back our sleeves, slathered on another layer of sunscreen and jumped in. We made a fire line to distribute cement blocks around the house foundation. We picked up shovels and engaged in the (truly back breaking) labor of mixing cement. We were teams of three, even four, to lay down the rows of cement blocks…one block at a time. Never mind that we didn’t have enough spades to go around, we filled in the mortar with our bare gloved hands!

 lunch inside our construction ger

 Look Ma - two hands!

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September 23, 2008 by Karin.

 Juno was unimpressed.

“Oh my god! I’ve had this before!” At the diner on a dusty road between Ulan Bator and Kharkhorin, I stared down at my plate of mutton stir-fry. The first time I had this dish with the family in Terelj, I was sure they put french fries in it to appease our Western palates. But there it was again: mutton stir-fried with peppers, carrots, and crinkly french fries in an orangy brown sauce.

Not to say it wasn’t good but that dish showed up again the next day for lunch at the nice restaurant/bar/karaoke joint in Kharkhorin. Then, by coincidence, for dinner at the hotel restaurant (with mash potatoes instead of crinkly fries). And returned the following day in our lunch boxes (without the fries) at the work site. We were sure the mutton was following us and we dreamt of ways to outrun it. ”How about ramen? I saw some at the supermarket. Ahh…if only we could make our own ramen.”

Though sampling the local cuisine is my favorite part of traveling, even I admitted having pizza fantasies. (Which in itself was a pretty exotic phenomenon.) Or a nice plate of spaghetti. Out there in the middle of Mongolia, it would so refreshing…such a novelty.

Juno had a little talk with the chef at our hotel restaurant and the next evening, we sat down to long-awaited plates of pasta. Ahh, the taste of home…except for ground mutton in the bolognese sauce which provided just the right amount of Mongolian exoticism.

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September 17, 2008 by Karin.

An ovoo may look like a random pile of stones on the side of the road but they’re actually places of worship, shaman style. We got to watch Batdolgor pray (probably for the baby she was separated from in order to be with us). She walked around the pile three times, pausing to whisper to the gods a few times. Then at the end, picked up a stone from the ground and caressed it with more whispery prayers before tossing it into the pile as an offering.

This ovoo was at the top of a hill overlooking Kharkhorin. Unlike others we’d seen, this one had horse skulls line up beside it. Later, a guide told us that the skulls belonged to particularly heroic, respected horses. What an honorable way to be laid to rest. 

As we drove in the countryside later on, the guide pointed out nondescript piles of rocks. She explained that they were burial sites of soldiers fallen during the era of Ghengis Khan. I wish I had a photo to show here but to be honest, I could never tell one pile of rocks from another. In the van, we constantly asked the guide, ”There! There! Is that one of those ancient burial sites?”

“No, that’s probably where some kids gathering rocks to play with.” 

“How about that one? Is that a Ghengis Khan burial site?”

“No…that’s just a pile of rocks.”

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September 10, 2008 by Karin.

A family of Mongolian tourists pose as masters of the eagle.

Free roaming farm animals were exotic to me. So what’s exotic for Mongolians? Kazakh hunting-eagles, why not?

In front of Erdene Zuu, sat two escorted Golden Eagles. They were likely trained as hunters but were spending their summer vacation posing with guests.

 A photo of the Kazakh bird in its element.
 http://www.mongoliatoday.com/eagle.html  

 Birds are traditionally trained to attack foxes, not small children.

“Get it off! Get it off!”

I yelled desperately to a bunch of people who spoke no English. Batdolgor (our social worker) who held my camera kept snapping away, kept making the “wait, hold on, one more” gesture. She was waiting for the bird to spread its wings, for the bird’s owner to step aside, for my face to take on a more appropriately stoic expression.

For 1000 tugrug (about 1 US dollar), I posed with the smaller of the two birds. The trick to making the bird spread its wings is to make it unsteady, to shake it. In the photo, the trainer had to shake the bird so many times that it had slid down the thick glove and was getting close to my bare arm. It was a heavy, heavy bird.

Remind me to work on my triceps before attempting a trip to Kazakhstan.

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September 9, 2008 by Karin.

In Mongolia, monks practice Tibetan Buddhism and temples are filled with constant humming and chanting. On Sunday, August 3rd, our group was taken to Erdene Zuu monastery, originally built in the 16th century. 

There, I asked Hoghi our interpreter about something that had been puzzling me. ”How come some monks chant so diligently while others are so relaxed about it?” In temples, monks sit on colorful cushions in two facing rows. The older, more experience monks near the alter are usually in the middle of chanting through pages of Tibetan prayers, eyes half closed in devotion. Meanwhile, the rest of the monks toward entrance of the temple are slouching, stretched back on their elbows as if watching a boring tv program and desperate for distraction.

Hoghi said that though the lamas were allowed to practice freely upon the fall of communism, Tibetian Buddhism in the country never quite recovered. Nowadays, monks can get married, even have girlfriends. Later, I found out that monkhood in Mongolia is similar to monkhood in Thailand. It’s something to do for a few years (a little like military service) before moving on with normal life.

Sitting behind a row of monks in Ulan Bator, I got a view of what they stashed in the shelf under their desks: packs of ramen and choco pies.

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September 7, 2008 by Karin.

or, How an 8 Hour Drive Took 12 Hours.

Let’s go over the numbers:
2 vans
2 Mongolia drivers
1 interpreter
1 social worker
360 kilometers to travel
8 hours predicted for the drive
17 Habitat for Humanity volunteers on vacation mode

These factors together led to our first experience in “Mongolian time.” (We didn’t just live it, we lived it up.) This is what happened:

Shopping, 10:30am: On our way out of town, the vans dropped us off at the State Department Store where we exchanged money and stocked up on processed snacks from Eastern Europe. Seized by a sudden ”I don’t know when my next meal will be” panic, I grabbed a post-breakfast ice cream from Lavazza.

Sickness, 11am: Instead of heading out of the capital after the department store, the vans turned back to the B&B. Francine, one of the liveliest members of our group, had assumed an uncharacteristic position: doubled over in silent anguish. While our leaders tucked her into bed, the rest of us waited outside and watched the locals go about their daily life.

 A boy with a big head and his two small friends.

Absorbing the local culture, 11:30am: Outside a nearby building, two men circled each other, gearing up for a street brawl. The younger one held up his hand while he dug into his pocket. We gasped, expecting a knife, but he was only pulling out his cell phone, which he placed carefully on the ground. We, along with the building occupants and passersby, watched the older, larger guy pursue with angry shouting and aimless punches. Cell phone man didn’t say much but kept backing away, turning only to lauch an occasional spot-on back kick. It wasn’t a fair fight at all and ended when cell phone guy backed out of the front gates. Someone from the second story dropped a tissue down as consolation for the larger man, now with a bloody face and no one left to yell at.

Manly games, 2pm: After two hours of driving on signless dirt roads, our drivers started asking for directions. Before we had time to doubt their competence, they pulled up at a sports festival, a naadam, located in the middle of nowhere. The naadam was sponsored by the train company for its employees and their families.

 It was the most action we had ever seen concentrated in the middle-of-nowhere countryside and we had to wonder, how did all these people locate the festival? How do you give directions to a random field of grass two hours west of Ulan Bator?

Under the relentless blue skies of Mongolia, shade is rare. The locals stayed cool wherever they could find relief, such as under their vehicles.

 This family was entering their 11 year old son in the horse racing competition. Unlike other participants, their horse only had a square of fabric for a saddle but they assured me, (through the aid of the Mongolian phrasebook) “Yes. Horse. Fast.”

Our interpreter, Hoghi, bought some boiled mutton from a vendor wheeling his barrel of meat from car to car. Like all the mutton (and indeed, all the meat) we would have on this trip, it was tough. But like any meat stewed in salt, it was pleasant on the tongue and came attached to a tasty bone to gnaw on.

Van relief, 4pm: Our vans stopped and while some of group wandered toward discreet dips in the horizon for bladder relief, the rest of us watched our drivers perform intervention magic on our overheated vehicle. They yanked out the suitcases so carefully lodged behind the heads of two others and myself.

 Flipped up the seat of the front passenger, poured hot fluid out and cold water in. Team member Chris offered to hold a plastic water bottle to receive  the fluid coming out of the vehicle and watched helplessly as the stuff melted the top of the bottle and traveled downward to burn his fingers. Luckily, we had handwipes and Tina’s aloe vera on hand to perform an intervention of our own. 

Lunch, 5:30pm: The restaurant was a one room space in the middle of what resembled a strip mall in a ghost town. Exhausted and hot, we sat down to a lunch of mutton stirfry, steamed white bun, and sheep milk. The can of Sprite as a particular stand out. Ahh tasty, so tasty.We asked the driver how much longer the drive would be. He said 5 or 6 hours. In Mongolia, it’s better not to ask…but it would take us a long time to learn that.

Stocking up on water, 7pm: Driving over a bridge spiritually protected by blue silk sashes tied to the rails, we watched the silhouettes of bathers in the lake. Our drivers pulled over at the chance to refill their water containers. The rest of us got out of the car, 17 cameras pointing at the stripped down Mongolians and quickly found ourselves assaulted by tiny, excited flies. But the flies didn’t bite and couldn’t distract us from the magic of the moment. On the other side of the bridge, a herd of horses decended into the lake for a drink.

Sunset, 8:30pm: “Why are we stopping again?”"The driver’s pulling over so we can take photos of the sunset.”We had already been taking photos of the sunset (and of the sheep, and electrical poles, and many gers) from through our windows. Most of us were too lazy to unfold ourselves from the cramped van again but not wanting to seem ungrateful, we handed our cameras to the van driver and had him take photos of the sunset for us.

By the time our driver pulled up at the hotel in Kharkhorin, we were hardly surprised that it was almost 11pm. The Mongolian sense of time that allows for diversions and flexibility turned out to be well in sync with that of our group’s: our individual agendas, cameras, and of course, unpredictable bladders. And with that, we grabbed our suitcases and headed straight to our rooms…and to our first sit-down toilets in 12 hours.

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