Mongolia: June 18th-July 11th

Notes:
Thanks to my lack of internet, I am posting everything I've written thus far all together. It's long. Sorry about that.

Due to the sensitive nature of religious events, much of the discussion of Shamanism has been censored in these posts. If there seems to be a bit of jumping around, it's because I've removed a section of private information regarding shamanism.

Mongolia Journal up through June 30

June 18^th

We arrived at Chinggis Khaan International Airport around 11 PM after an extremely bumpy flight.  The completely jam-packed plane unloaded to CKIA’s one tiny luggage carousel area.  After about an hour wait, Greg and I managed to pass out of the gate where we were met, very enthusiastically by Enkhule and M.  They took our bags from us and brought us out into the parking lot to…a very tiny car.  This was going to take some problem solving.  Well, after a bit of wrangling Greg was loaded into the front seat with his backpack, one of Greg’s bags and one of my bags in the trunk, my dranyen on the dashboard, my big bag in the backseat, with me and M (and my backpack on my lap.)

It was a very appropriate introduction to Mongolia. 

When offering the front seat to Greg, in an attempt to make him comfortable, I forgot how little exposure he'd had to Asian driving.  Although it was dark, I get the feeling he was white-knuckling.  He volunteered me for the front seat for all future rides.

We arrived at the Dream Hotel and Sauna around midnight where we were greeted by Altankhuu of Dashchoilin Monastery, my long time Mongolian friend and supporter.  The first thing we noticed in the hotel was construction in the lobby.  Altankhuu also warned us that there was no hot water, but it was OK because there was a Korean-style 24 hour sauna downstairs.  We went upstairs to our rooms which had the façade of a modern hotel, but soon realized most of the light switches didn’t work.  Then my door handle fell off. (No, really. I mean it.)  I was still excited because for $45 dollars a night in a city capital, this was a really convenient and comfortable hotel! For Mongolia.

M had specifically requested a sword, so Greg pulled out the sword that we had brought.  M, at this point, started giggling like a little boy and poking people with it (still in the scabbard!).  We decided we were too tired to deal with the door that day, so Greg and I sent everyone off and went to bed.

June 19^th

I had to go to Immigration in the morning, so Greg made his way to Dashchoilin monastery to take photographs.  Fortunately, immigration took very little time (and I met some wonderful people on the way) and I was able to join Greg at Dashchoilin not long after.  With going to sleep around 2:30 in the morning and waking up at 7, I decided to let Greg take photos while I passed out on the sofa in the monastery office.

When I woke up, we had some tea and cookies and Altankhuu took us to a nearby canteen frequented by Monastery folks that serves cheap and delicious Mongolian food.  For Greg’s first taste of Mongolia we got Banshtai Har Shol (Dumpling meat soup), Khuushur (fried meat pasties) and a selection of salads.  Unsurprisingly, he loved it. 

In the afternoon, we decided to relax a bit and wander central UB.  Unfortunately, it was raining quite a bit, but we did get to meet my friend Ganbaa and go out to dinner with him. 

June 20^th

20^th morning we made our way over to Gandan Monastery, where Greg took a ton of photos (Some of which I will share on facebook later) and we saw a truly terrifying number of pigeons.  I don’t like pigeons.

We went back to the same canteen for lunch, for soup and a more reasonable number of Khuushuur and went on to visit Altankhuu. With Altanukhuu’s help, we got tickets to the 13^th century park and Genghis Khan statue and arranged a very nice driver.

In the afternoon we went to the Bogd Khaan palace, where we were basically the only ones there, and the Choijin Lama Museum, where we were also the only ones there and ended up getting a private tour.  When the tour guide found out I could speak and read Tibetan, she ended up having a bunch of questions for me, so we traded information: she answered all my Mongolia questions and I answered her Tibetan ones. 

June 21

In the morning, Enkhule met us at the hotel and we made our way to the 13^th Century Park.  On the ride, we suddenly found ourselves blocked by police and ambulance, who were slowly letting people through.  When we passed by, we saw on our left the remains of a bus that had rolled.   Although an ambulance remained, it was clear that survivors had already been taken away.  Now was the clean up.  We saw at least two bodies, subtly covered with their own jackets, sprawled on the grass.

It surprised me, thinking about it, to realize this was the first time I had ever seen a dead body outside of funeral, medical, or historical settings.  I asked Greg and it turned out to be the same for him.  We talked a bit about cultural implications (in Tibetan culture, seeing a corpse at the beginning of a journey is good luck), and continued on our way. 

We arrived at the 13^th Century camp about an hour before we expected to and made our way to the postal camp first. Enkhule translated for us as we explored and were told about Mongolian history by the camp guides.  We then made our way to the Khaan’s Ger for a lunch of dry meat and noodle soup and khuushuur. We were serenaded by two Moriin Huur players, one of whom was also a throat singer.   We also tried some archery, at a greater distance than Greg had ever tried, but he got very close to the target (none of us actually managed to hit it)

We made our way to the following camps where we rode a camel (angry, angry camel, unpleasant.  I have video.), rode a horse, tried on Mongolian clothing and generally had just a lot of fun.  At the education camp, I met the same calligrapher I met last year. She remembered me and gave me a gift of a Mongolian traditional script primer. 

After the camps, we made our way to the Chinggis Khaan statue.  On the way, we saw several spectacular rainbows.  Greg got to hold a vulture and I got to hold and eagle.  Then we made our way up to the top of the statue.

After this, Greg and I were both feeling pretty tired, so we all piled into the car and made our way to Terelj National Park.  Unfortunately, we had not planned too well, forgetting that we would be arriving on a summer Saturday when Mongolian families would all be off for the weekend to enjoy themselves in the countryside.  It took us about three tries, but we finally found a Ger we could rent. We settled in and our hosts made us a delicious dinner of Tsuivan (Mongolian Chow Mein with dried meat) and noodle soup.  We played some card games and had a few drinks. 

Greg went to sleep early, Enkhule and I stayed up talking for a while.  I went out to the bathroom and encountered a large group of girls hanging out and dancing. They grabbed me and handed me a drink and wanted to talk because they found out that I spoke some Mongolian and they spoke some English.  It turned out that they would also be going to Khuvsgul soon so we spent a while chatting and joking and trading contact information.

June 22

In the morning, we joined the girls I had met the night before, for bread and Urum (clotted cream) and tea and yoghurt.  We waited for our arranged horses to arrive, which arrived on Mongol time (an hour late).  We mounted our horses and headed up towards the temple up on the mountain.  Greg immediately was uncomfortable, his Russian soldier’s saddle had no padding and the stirrups were far too short.  Enkhule dismounted and fixed the stirrups and I offered to switch horses a bit later.  As we made our way up along the road, we travelled parallel to the street. 

My horse was nice and mellow, but Greg’s was a bit twitchy.  As our horses were on a road by a very steep hill, a car drove by.  Greg’s horse spooked and stepped off the road on to the steep hill. Still spooked, the horse lost its footing. The more it stumbled, the more it panicked.  Just as the horse looked about to completely fall over, Greg bailed, doing a controlled roll of the horse, protecting himself and his camera gear.  He also held on to the horse’s lead.  All of us immediately stopped our horses.  Once Greg was down he yanked on the lead until the horse stopped, getting some rope burn.  Enkhule dismounted and handed me his horse and went to check on Greg, fortunately Greg was OK, minus a few scrapes.  His martial arts experience helped a lot.

Enkhule’s horse had a cut on its neck, which had attracted loads of flies.  The cut was irritating the horse a lot.  Since I was holding its lead, it decided to use my leg as a scratching post.  It rubbed its wide open wound against my jeans.  And that’s how I got horse blood on my jeans. GROSS GROSS GROSS. It turns out that horse blood is my limit for gross.

After a break and washing off his hand, greg switched to my horse, I took Enkhule’s horse, Enkhule took Greg’s horse, and Ganbaa stayed on the horse with the wooden saddle.  We made it the rest of the way to the temple with no other incident.

We headed home not long after and took long showers then went for hot pot.  Greg got to try Mongolian hot pot with horsemeat. 

June 23^rd

We started our day slowly, very tired after everything in Terelj and quite sore.  In the afternoon, M met us to take us to Narantuul black market.  Warned of thieves and pickpockets, Greg and I conscientiously arranged our valuables and M carefully guided us through the market.  Greg got a shirt, a pair of beautiful embossed leather boots, a few fun Mongolia t-Shirts and a Jew’s Harp, which came from the Shaman section of the market. Mind you, of ALL THE THINGS we could have photographed at the market, he took a picture of a table covered in locks.  This was right next to all the stalls of shamanic paraphernalia.  Greg earned us some weird looks. I love my brother anyway.

A few pickpockets tried to take advantage of us, but thanks to both quick reflexes and the fact that we had absolutely nothing in any exposed pockets, we made it out unscathed.  After Narantuul we made our way through the twisted roads to Tolgoit, Greg’s first taste of the Ger district and my first visit back to my Mongol home since arriving.  We brought gifts of chocolate, balsa wood flyers, those fun liquid plastic balloons and an Aleut drum with a raven painted on it.  The drum, beautiful for decoration but too small for a shaman, instantly because M’s baby’s play drum.  Baby ran around drumming and pretending to be a shaman and “blessing” everyone

Greg and I sang duets together as our Mongolian friends sang Mongolian songs and we shared drinks and ate delicious Khuushuur, both potato and meat.  We watched a soccer game and eventually went to sleep on the floor of the shaman’s shrine room.  I apparently snore (thanks, Dad!) but Greg, in his sleep, thinks I’m a cat and rubbed my nose. 

June 24^th

In the morning, we headed back into UB to try out our hotel’s sauna.  For about $7 each, we got time in the sauna and a full body scrub.  The latter was difficult as neither of us could figure out how to request it and, since it was men and women separate, we couldn’t turn to the other for help.  We both succeeded in getting scrubbed. I think I lost several pounds due to exfoliation and Greg agrees it was painful.  I’ve never had softer skin, however!

In the afternoon we made our way to the National Museum of Mongolian History.  The museum has wonderful artifacts of Mongolian history and culture, but in our opinion the best section was a timeline of Mongolia’s struggle for democracy starting in the late 80s, with photographs, artifacts, and recordings.  It’s strange to think of how recent it was and put it into its historical context.

In the evening, M offered to shamanize with Enkhule translating.  We had also been invited to Enkhule’s home for dinner by his mother, so although Enkhule was not off of work we rode out to Tolgoit to meet his parents.  Our taxi driver didn’t actually know his way around Tolgoit and also tried to rip us off, which turned into a very stressful day, but eventually we made it over.  Enkhule’s mom and dad welcomed us eagerly with tea and cookies and a traditional dinner of boiled ribs, potatoes and carrots, meat soup, and picked chives.  Enkhule’s three-year-old nephew eventually overcame his shyness to play with us and I presented him with his very own nose flute.  Well, Enkhule’s dad tried to play it and couldn’t, but his mom picked it up right away. Before long, the kid was forgotten as grandma and grandpa discovered the joy that is a nose flute (if you don’t have one, stop reading and get a nose flute.  There is no excuse).

When Enkhule arrived from work, we made our way later than desired to M’s house.  M’s nephew T would be acting as assistant during shamanizing.  Since M had met Greg before, we asked permission to photograph M in full regalia. Much to our shock and pleasure, M not only agreed to being photographed in regalia but agreed to the ceremony being photographed up through the drumming and until the moment of trance (but not during the presence of the spirits.)

As in most cases when a non-famous shaman is presented with a foreigner, when the spirits came, they were fascinated by Greg’s features.  Grandmother spirit, a notorious joker, asked about Greg’s nose.  Greg, in true storytelling fashion, said “it came from my father, and his father, and his father before him!” to which Grandmother quipped, “And I gave it to him!” 

The joking continued throughout the ceremony, with grandmother joking about taking us to heaven, and us being warned that on this we should not joke back as she actually might do so and not bring us back from the heavenly realm.

Grandmother loved the drum and said that it was too small for a shaman but perfect for a child, which it is, and was surprised that Greg came all this way with only one question to ask. 

The height of the joking came at the end of the ceremony when Greg was called forward to for Grandmother to kiss his head. When she put her hand on the side of his head, she started scratching his hair.  Then more fascinatedly truly feeling his hair. Then she reached out her other hand to compare it to the Mongolian interpreter’s hair.  All of us, Mongolians and westerners alike, were rolling with laughter at this point.  Even now, when I see Enkhule, I make a head scratching motion and he laughs. 

   

Then we were told that we could stand up, but unfortunately my feet had fallen COMPLETELY and hopelessly to sleep.  I couldn’t stand up at all. Fortunately Greg helped me.

As a result of all of these things, when M came to after the trance, he was presented by all of nearly in tears with laughter and he, of course, had no memory of what had happened. He also reached into his boot where grandmother had stuffed the gift of a scarf and some sacred tobacco, which I had brought her.  All of this had to be explained to him. We continued to talk after the ceremony and looked through the photographs which all came out shockingly well despite poor lighting.  M expressed his gratitude to Enkhule.  He told us that Enkhule is one of his best friends, and had it not been for Enkhule, I would not have come to Mongolia and thus neither would Greg. 

June 25^th

On our final morning together in UB, we woke up a bit late and went to a local café for breakfast.  We packed out bags and moved them into the storage room then made our way out to wander a bit before lunch.  In the afternoon, we went to the International Intellectual Museum. Words cannot describe it. It’s amazing and weird. Just go.

As evening rolled around we walked back to Dashchoilin and met Altankhuu again. He drove us to the hotel, picked up our bags and took us to an Uzbek restaurant called Tashkent, where we ate Shashlik and Plov and Okroshka. 

We piled into the car and made the slow ride over to Chinggis Khaan international Airport.  We hugged Greg goodbye and wished him a safe trip home, then watched him through security.  It was an amazing trip with my brother and I was sad to see him go, and also a little nervous about the next 3 months alone in Mongolia, so it seemed like good luck to run into Boloroo, my research assistant and friend, at the airport as we waited for Greg to pass security.

Altankhuu then called M and we started the drive back to Tolgoit. Altankhuu had never actually been to Tolgoit and so the drive was, for him, stressful and confusing.  The closer we got, the more concerned he got about my surroundings: unpaved roads, scrap wood fences, steep ridges in then roads, few lights.  At one point, as we approached my home, he turned to me and with concern said “Do your parents know you stay here?”.  He also offered to find me a home in the center, but my friends here truly are, as they call themselves, my Mongolian family. 

M came to the door to hold back the dogs as S, his wife helped me with my bags, and the baby grabbed my purse so that he could be “helping” too.  Before long, my nervousness about being “alone” started to melt away as my old bed was made up and we poured tea and talked and laughed and M reminded me that he was my Mongolian brother and S, my Mongolian sister. 

June 26^th

I woke up and drank some coffee and started getting ready for my day.  M’s mother came over and was playing with Baby and G.  My phone rang and I sat down next to the shrine to take what I realized would be a private call.  Unfortunately, the conversation was a difficult one full of bad memories and hard questions, and triggered a panic attack. When I hung up the phone, M’s mother found me nearly hyperventilating.  When she hugged me, I broke down in tears.  M’s mother called over to S, who went to the shaman’s altar and poured some ritual vodka for me to drink, then purified the area, myself, and all others in the house with juniper to purify us from the painful energy that was causing my distress.  It’s hard to say whether it was the alcohol, the spiritual aspect, or just the instant love and care from those around me which made me feel much better much faster, presumably it was all three.  M came in soon after to make sure that S had appropriately done all the purifications and was very satisfied.

An hour or so later, M’s family came for a ceremony.  We sat and chatted as M got into his ritual attire. I attended solely as one present, rather than questioner, although Grandmother asked how I was and kissed my head.

When the ceremony finished, Baby wanted to play shaman. He took “his” drum and proceeded to “shamanize” and bless everyone.  He did his best to imitate all of his dad’s movements and actions. 

After this, we went over to M’s mother’s house as a family, with bags full of snacks and drinks to watch the world cup came. Unfortunately it started at midnight, so by half time, I was already falling asleep.  13 of us crammed like sardines in a can found places to sleep on the floor. M’s daughter may grow up to be a world cup player herself, the way she kicks in her sleep! Several times I found her foot on my chest or neck.

June 27^th

In the morning, I made my way to the state department store and a café nearby. I got myself a coffee and was able to check email. I finally was able to go to the American Center for Mongolian Studies office, where I met Marc who took me out to lunch and we talked about travel and research. I also met a few other office staff, like Baigalmaa and Clinton, all of whom were very friendly and nice.  I was also given the name of a woman who had spent a great deal of time working with the reindeer herders in the Taiga and had written a book, which was about to be published in Mongolian.

That night I called T, another shaman and friend of mine, who said he would have free time the next day to hang out, so he would come over in the morning and pick me up so we could hang out. This sounded like a lot of fun, so I agreed.

June 28^th Saturday

In the morning I played with the kids and S made Kimbab with pickled carrots in it (delicious!!!)  T came over and we played with the children.  T brought his friend Tumi, who spoke a little English and was excited to practice with me.  After about an hour, T said ‘let’s go over to my place!’ And we jumped into the car.  I was a bit surprised, and more than a bit confused, when we got into the car and I found T’s Hingirig (ritual drum) in the back seat.  I wondered why he would have that there, we were just supposed to be hanging out and he said he had free time today so it didn’t make sense.  I shrugged it off.  Tumi drove and as he went I got more and more confused.  The drive from M’s house to T’s house is only about 2 kilometers.  T has walked over before, but we were driving further and further through the ger district far outside of any area I recognized. 

We arrived at another ger, which turned out to be one of T’s friends. Inside I recognized D, a shamaness, and another shamaness related to a friend of mine.  D was cooking up some banshtai har shol for us. 

“Do you remember me?” D teased, “Or were you too drunk?”. I laughed, remembering my first shamanic ceremony, led by T and assisted by D, during which I had drunk Mongolian vodka for the first time: roughly 12 shots on an empty stomach to be specific.  I had vomited several times and ended up passing out, but D along with another shamaness trainee had taken excellent care of me, bringing me water, rubbing my back, and making sure I was OK. 

“I may not remember much,” I answered “But I definitely remember you.  Thank you”  I pulled a brand new lipstain out of my purse and gave it to her.  “I was a mess that night. Thank you.”  We sat around eating dumpling soup until T signaled it was time to go.  This time his friend also got in the car, holding the Hingirig on his lap. 

I thought we would make our way to T’s house at this point but we kept driving on.  I shrugged it off.  T said he had time to hang out today and he would have cancelled on me if he were busy (something he does commonly.)  So whatever we were doing, I was invited.

We eventually made it to Tumi’s ger.  T opened the trunk of the car in which was his shaman’s trunk, along with his boots and ritual cushioned seat.  I helped carry in the boots and the cushions, while T and his friend struggled with the massive trunk. We brought all of this inside the ger where his wife, younger sister and baby daughter were preparing yet more banshtai har shol.  My eyes went wide. I turned to T.

“I’m sorry, I’m too full! I don’t think I can do it!” 

T laughed, “try a little.” And poured me a small bowl.  I had a few sips of soup but after kimbab, a bowl of Banshtai Har Shol and a sheep’s rib, I just couldn’t take any more. 

“I can’t. I’m so sorry, I just can’t”  I looked at the thin women around me “How is it Mongolian women eat so much but are so skinny while we americans eat one bowl and we get full and fat!”  

I sat on one bed relaxing as T and Tumi talked.  They started rearranging the altar interestingly, removing a portrait of a man from the wall, a man who’s same portrait appeared on the altar.  One bed was removed from the Ger, as well as a desk, to make room on one side of the Ger.  The altar was moved to be more central and T emptied out and began organizing his trunk, turning it into a shamanic ritual altar.  I suddenly realized that T would be conducting a private, family ceremony.  I had never met this family in my life and felt terribly intrusive to be there. 

When everything was arranged, T put on his ritual deel, a massive affair weighing easily 15 kilos, and began to drum. We all stood to welcome the spirit, the first being grandfather.  Due to the private nature of this portion of the ritual for the family, I have chosen not to record it, even privately.

Grandfather left and another spirit, whom I had never encountered in any of T’s rituals came.  Seemingly a strong younger man, perhaps a warrior of some sort.  He led a fire offering ritual in the center of the ger.  All of us, myself included, knelt around the stove, the top of which had been opened and the smoke hole above it opened wide.  Melted butter, juniper, gansh, and enormous haunches of raw meat were dumped into the open and roaring fire to be consumed by the flames, which at times reached up to the smoke hole.  A triangular brand, tied with a blue khadag was stuck inside the stove and, for reasons I don’t know, twice the warrior pulled the brand out and quickly slapped the attendant’s leg with the brand.  The attendant was wearing jeans and seemed unharmed but definitely surprised and a bit pained. 

After the fire ceremony, all of the adult members of the family were brought forward, where there was a bowl of either water or vodka (I couldn’t tell, but I for some reason remember water.)  The attendant massaged the ring fingers of both hands of each member of the family and pricked the finger with a needle.  Each person had both fingers pricked and a few drops of blood squeezed out into the water, which the spirit then observed.  Then, with a pair of pliers, they cracked the needle in two.  Each person was given a new needle from a package, so it was actually pretty hygienic.

Then Grandmother spirit came.  She was her feisty usual self and the family consulted with her.  I asked her a question but due to the lack of translation, she asked me to come back later with someone who speaks Mongolian better and she would answer my questions. 

At the very end of the ceremony, Grandmother told Tumi to come forward. Tumi stripped off his shirt and bowed himself before Grandmother.  I knew what was coming, as did Tumi’s wife, by the look of concern, so I gripped her hand.  Grand mother lifted her Bartaga, a stick of three birch branches and an elk horn handle, covered in dangling metal charms, and started overhand beating him across the back.  We all shouted out the number of strikes together.  After ten, Tumi who was not allowed to cry out, could be heard gasping.  After twelve, his back started involuntarily arching.  I gripped his wife’s hand as she cringed in support.  After 24 strikes, it was over.  He backed away and we all stood to see grandmother off. 

T regained consciousness and was dripping with sweat after the fire ceremony and rituals.  We helped him remove his deel and ritual ornaments.  I went to look at Tumi’s back, which was completely red with little dots of blood where the metal charms had punctured the skin.  I called over to his younger sister for some tissues to wipe the blood off before he put his shirt back on and asked for permission to take a photo of his back, to which he kindly agreed.

After giving T some time to relax and taking a few drinks of vodka with the family, the attendant (who was sober) drove us back to M’s place.  M was hanging out with Enkhule and clearly well past drunk. I had promised to make dinner, so while T went outside and M and Enkhule went away to hang out, I grated potatoes and chopped onions to make Latkes, while S boiled apples to make apple sauce.  The first latke fell apart completely so I gave the little Latke bits to the children, who adored it.  Before long I had to fight them off so that they didn’t grab the latkes, still covered in boiling oil, from the bowl I was depositing them into.   T also loved it, despite his fear of “not meat food”.  T played with the kids until they started to get tired and then decided to walk home, we agreed to meet for a ritual after T came back from the country side a few days later.

June 29^th SUNDAY

The next few days I am not entirely sure on dates, so I will just write some highlights. I ended up meeting Sas Carey, author of Reindeer Herders in my Heart, about her time working to improve the health of the Dukha people in the Taiga.  I bought a copy of her book and immediately started reading it and was enthralled.  I am only part way through but I am enjoying her story greatly.

I also met a British expat named John who has been working here for about a year, but primarily works in Russia. We got coffee and his friend helped me to buy some necessities.

 The next few days are a blur of trying to arrange my trip to Khuvsgul lake and the Taiga and arranging cars and the like.  I met my guide for the Taiga, Namuul, a young man my age who also plays Morin huur.  We decided on a trade, he will teach me Morin huur and I will teach him Dranyen.  A few minutes before meeting him, I was waiting outside the state department store when I saw a kid get hit by a car. The kid was mostly fine (definitely bruised) but it was very scary to watch!!

July 3^rd

After repeated delays and cancellations, we finally found a time for T to shamanize.  Boloroo, my friend and interpreter, came over in the morning and T picked us up.  We went over to T’s house where his mom and brother were preparing buuz (dumplings) for lunch.  We sat watching TV for a bit as T waited for some others to arrive at the ceremony.

After T’s other clients arrived we started the ceremony.  First grandfather came, for whom I had no questions, but he was able to help another client, C, a shamaness who had been facing some anger from her spirits due to her lack of a good attendant.  Another woman as well asked for Grandfather’s help.  Boloroo was shocked at how good a job T was doing at shamanizing.  Boloroo had seen shamans before, but told me that none were as good as T. 

After a brief break, grandmother came. Her first comment was on my nose:

“It looks like an eagle’s beak!” she exclaimed. 

“I got it from my father” I answers.

“What happened to your father’s nose?” she asked, horrified.  At this point I was having trouble controlling my laughter.

“Dad played a lot of soccer and the ball hit his face and broke his nose many times.” I responded.

“Maybe you should take up soccer.” She decided.     Throughout the conversation, she kept saying “hachin, pizda!” (“Fuck, you’re weird.)  To which I would respond “Medsen” (“I already know”)

 I asked her about my ailment, for which I had seen her one year prior, which had disappeared for a year but recently started returning. Grandmother told me to come back after 70 days and she would take care of it, but in the mean time it would be OK. 

She then poured drinks, saying that we always drink together when we meet. I made her happy by remembering the toast that she taught me.  I also taught her some bad words in English, at her request. 

When we made it back to M’s place, the power was out. S was at a school reunion and I was not in a fit state to cook, so we made do with instant noodles.  C, the other shaman present at T’s ceremony, a very elegant woman, decided she would come with us. 

July 4^th Friday

I woke up at 5 AM and Boloroo arrived soon after.  The driver came to pick us up, and C came with us to get T.  With T and C in the car, we started making our way towards Khatgal.  We stopped in Erdenet for lunch. Never have I seen such a depressing, soviet city. It was so depressing that I took photos and it moved from depressing to funny. We got khuushuur and soups and Russian salads for lunch, then picked up a few supplies for our trip. 

A bit past Murun, we reached Bolgan where we planned to pick up A, another shaman. We were told to look for the man on horseback.  A very enthusiastic rider awaited us by the side of the road and galloped ahead of us to A’s family ger.  Outside, we saw a shaman in full ritual. Boloroo had no way to know who it was, but I recognized a tattoo on his arm and realized it was A. 

We knelt in front of the shaman, who was in full trance, and asked for a blessing for our trip, and were instructed to go to a nearby oboo (shamanic cairn or mountain shrine) and make prayers for a successful trip.  When the ceremony finished, A’s mask was removed and Boloroo gasped. 

“Is that the shaman? He’s so young!”

“How old did you think he was?” I asked her.

“At least in his forties. His spirit must be that of an older man.”  Boloroo responded in surprise.

A smiled and greeted us, and we picked up immediately with teasing. Boloroo was shocked at the sudden from serious older man to goofy, lighthearted mid 20s guy.  We went inside for soup and boiled meat. I was feeling a bit off from the heat and didn’t eat much.  Unfortunately, when this was explained, they poured me a large bowl of nermel, horse milk liquor.  This is one of the few things I truly can’t stand. I took the tiniest sip, barely more than wetting my lips, to be polite, and nearly gagged.  My host signaled for me to finish the bowl, and it was explained that nermel is considered good for an upset stomach or nausea.  I tried my best, drinking down as much as I could in a go, and having to consciously work not to vomit.  Finally, at ¾ of the bowl, I quit, got a bottle of water and went outside to possibly throw up. I felt embarrassed and was sure I was offending my hosts, but I genuinely cannot stand that stuff.

After more shamanizing, more food, and more airag (fermented horse milk, much different and much more palatable than the nermel), we made it back on the road about 5 PM with A and his wife in tow.  We briefly stopped at A’s grandfather’s oboo to make a prayer for our journey, then continued. 

As we went, the road got rougher and rougher.  At 10:30 PM when we thought we must be close, we found out we were still a good 100 km away from Murun, which on these roads was a few hours away.  I can’t sleep in cars and with two more people, the car was now very crowded.

Then we got lost.  This put us further out of the way.

At roughly 2:30 AM the driver decided that he needed to take a nap until 4 AM.  I could not abide the idea of sitting in the car.

I turned to Boloroo, “Where did we put my sleeping bag?”

“It’s in the back” she said sleepily, “Should I get it?”

“Yes, please.” I answered, trying to keep my frustration at how late we were under wraps.  She got my sleeping bag, and I climbed over her and T and opened the car door.

“Are you crazy?” She cried out, waking everyone else in the car.

“No!” I replied “I can’t sleep in cars and I’m uncomfortable, I’m sleeping outside.”

“You’re going to freeze!” Boloroo shouted, and everyone else started voicing their concern.

“Guys, I slept in this in winter in Tibet. I’ll be fine.”

I pushed my way out of the car, lay my sleeping bag on the wet grass with my wool jacket under the head, I took off my boots, snuggled in and covered my face. Then in started to rain.

“Are you OK?” asked the driver’s wife.

“I’m fine” I shouted back from my cocoon. Honestly speaking, it was freezing cold, 3 AM, and I was sleeping on a road side in the rain. I was not fine, but I was more fine than I would be in the car.

At 4 AM, the drivers wife woke me up.  With how far north we were, the sun was already rising over the mountains.  I stumbled back into the car, snuggled into my seat and we started making our way towards Murun.  We finally were on a paved road and at just before 5 AM, arrived in Murun.  Fortunately, Sarangerel, a friend of a friend, had set up a ger for us.  We poured out of the car, onto the matresses and collapsed.

July 5^th Saturday

After just a few hours of sleep, we got up and ate some fried bread and drank some tea.  We stopped at a shop and then made our way up towards Khatgal. In Khatgal, we were met by Serdamba, who would be our host.  He showed us to the ger where we would stay, a lovely, large ger, with two beds.  I took the traditional beds because I prefer a hard bed. Boloroo who prefers a soft bed took the western bed.  C, T, A and A’s wife (B),  set out sleeping mats on the south side of the Ger. 

We made our way down to the lake, where we bought smoked fish and looked at trinkets. C bought matching reindeer antler necklaces for everyone.  Then we went for khuushuur for lunch.

After lunch, we decided to go for a boat ride on lake Khuvsgul on a small speedboat.  We were all having a ton of fun zooming through the water, getting splashed by the cold water.  We stopped at an island with a steep ridge and climbed up to the ridge.  Halfway along the ridge was a wishing rock.  At the end of the ridge was a shamanic oboo with a horse hair banner.  Lines of Mongolian families, including many shamans, made their way around the ovoo, scramble over rocks to circle the ovoo three times.

On the way down, my fear of heights came back with a vengeance.  B grabbed my hand and helped me down, smiling encouragingly.

On the ride back it started to rain and so we were quite cold when we reached the shore.  We picked up a few more smoked fish and headed back to the ger and got a hot fire going.  We picked up some fruit juice, instant noodles, alcohol, cookies, and snacks.  I taught the gang a dice game, which they picked up really fast and loved.  Although I kept having to yell at the shamans that, as shamans, blowing on the dice before rolling counted as cheating and an unfair advantage against the lay people.  I dressed B up in traditional Kham Chuba and trabshu (hair threads) and took her photos. 

July 6^th, Sunday

In the morning, we ate bread and urum and T, A, B, and C packed up to head to Murun and back to Ulaanbaatar.  We wished them well and went back inside the ger.   We sat around drinking tea and eating bread and Urum, planning our day. But before long it started to rain. We were hoping to go to the Reindeer Festival in Jankhai, but as the rain got heavier, we ended up just staying inside, reading, watching movies on my laptop, and tending the fire.

In the evening, Serdamba came by to talk to us about possible research interviews. We arranged a ride to Jankhai for the next day and Serdamba told me about a local shaman I should visit. 

July 7^th MONDAY

In the morning we woke up and had a wonderful breakfast of urum and hard boiled eggs and cleaned up the Ger.  Serdamba helped us get a car up to Jankhai for the reindeer festival, about an hour away up the lake. 

At the festival, we saw lots of booths selling reindeer products, like carved antlers (that had fallen, not collected while in the velvet) and bone handled knives. Merchants also sold delicious smoked white fish, beautiful Mongolian clothing, and trinkets.  We bought some good socks, a sweater, a pair of gloves and lots of fish. 

A few km away from the festival center, a family of Dukha people had set up their urts (teepees) and had several reindeer of different ages out and about for photographs.  I introduced myself to the family and explained a bit about my research, and they happily let us take photos with the reindeer.  They even asked to take photos with me, an American wearing a deel and speaking in Mongolian.

We went into the urts to meet Enkhtuya, a shamaness who had helped organize the Khuvsgul shaman gathering.  It became clear pretty quickly that she didn’t want to talk to me, but not because of privacy issues. The issue, it became clear, was that we weren’t offering her gifts and money.  This became especially clear with how her eyes lit up when I gave her a very tiny gift (the sort of which I give all interviewees) in the urts.  Instant change in persona.  She gave us her phone number and asked us to come to her urts a day or two later and contact her.  We checked with a few other people later, she has a reputation as being a shaman for profit.  We, therefore, will not be speaking to her.  One of my first rules in working with the shamans is that if they ask for something, walk in the opposite direction.

We did, however, end up meeting two other shamans.  Ulana, a Dukha shamaness, and Borkhuu, a Darhad shaman. 

We met Ulana when I pointed out a drum and shaman’s outfit behind one merchant’s blanket.  We asked if there was a shaman there, and were pointed to a beautiful 30-year-old woman sitting a few meters behind the blanket.   She told us she needed to get her mala before our interview. We went to wander around and soon Ulana’s friend grabbed us to bring us to another shaman, Borkhuu.

Borkhuu, a 50 year old Darhad shaman, was sitting by his car loaded with all of his equipment.  He had been a healer, or a “shaman without costume” for around 34 years before he took full initiation. 

I then went back to Ulana, who gave us a wonderful interview and we made our way home to relax in the ger.

July 8^th

Today was a slow day.  We woke up late and emptied out the ger and moved into the spare house, as Serdamba will be taking the Ger to Naadam.  We wandered the area and while walking along, an older Darhad man stopped and greeted us. We chatted with him, as he wanted to practice his English. When we told him about my research, he was very enthusiastic and told us about someone we should talk to. We spent the day interviewing darhad elders and me getting covered in soot making the fire

July 9^th Wednesday

This morning, I was woken up by the sound of a small bird frantically flying around the cabin.  Boloroo was fast asleep but the rapid wing movement and smacking into the door was definitely stopping me from sleeping. After about an hour of dozing on and off, I was sick of it and couldn’t figure out HOW THE HELL THE BIRD HAD GOTTEN INTO OUR LOCKED CABIN WITH CLOSED WINDOWS ANYWAY.  I got up and opened the door. The bird, which kept perching on my purse and socks, decided it didn’t want to leave. After about ten minutes of frustration, I got the bird out.  Then went back to sleep.

Serdamba told us we could interview K, a local shaman, that afternoon, so we made our way to the market to buy offerings for the ceremony as well as a raincoat for me.  As we walked, we watched the local wildlife and talked. We saw a raven ahead of us and ended up talking about ravens, crows and the corvidae and how you should never, ever, insult or harm them. 

We walked back to the cabin to wait to go over to Serdamba’s shaman.  First, we couldn’t get a car because they needed one with a tourist permit. Then there was a car, but the driver stopped picking up, so the only car was in Murun. Finally at 8:30, we got a car and headed over to see K, who lives about 25 km away for a short interview and shamanizing.

Tomorrow, we will go to Bayanzurkh to meet another shaman.

July 10^th

It’s been a fucking annoying pair of days.  We decided to go up to Bayanzurkh to see a shaman there that a friend introduced me to. We planned to leave in the morning, then it was “between 12 and 1”, then it was at two that we finally got in the damn car.  We made our way to Bayanzurkh and, after a lot of effort, eventually found the shamans home.   We were warmly welcomed and enjoying ourselves quite a bit but some things happened to make us very uncomfortable.

July 11^th

In the morning, the shaman went up to the top of a mountain to sacrifice for her spirits.  We were invited along, but didn't have room in the car to go, however, we were happy enough to head off. 

When we arrived back in Khatgal, I still didn’t have a call back from my Taiga guide about when we would get to Murun. This was stressing me out a lot.  After a ton of phone calls, the ACMS office managed to contact my guides office. They asked why I was calling and texting so much. The answer of course being I WAS WAITING FOR THREE DAYS TO FIND OUT WHEN AND WHERE I SHOULD MEET MY FRICKEN GUIDE.  Yes, I’m frustrated.

We went off to meet another shaman in the afternoon.  We might see her shamanize tomorrow.  Then we tried to call another shaman, who we reached and was going to call us back. Then, of course, my phone signal died.  And wouldn’t come back. So I have no idea if they tried to call us.  It was just a pair of frustrating days. 

I also have had, literally, ZERO alone time since July 2^nd and it’s starting to get to me.  Hard.

Adventures, both failed and successful

REMINDER TO READERS: After this blog post, there will be several posts dealing with interactions with Shamans.  As shamanism is greatly misunderstood in the world, I will keep some posts private. Furthermore, some posts will deal with my interactions with these shamans.  For my own privacy, I will keep some posts protected. IF YOU WANT TO SEE THESE POSTS, please subscribe to this blog and I will be able to select you as a reader. 

Dec 22

It's hard to walk around Mongolia and see the amazing Mongolian winter boots without coveting them.  I mean, they are AMAZING.  Finally I gave in and asked my hosts if we could go to Narantuul "black" market.  I don't entirely know why it's called the black market. It's completely legitimate.  It is, however, quite an experience.   It is huge, and made up of stalls and tarps and the occasional sheet metal wall. It is an absolute labyrinth. I can't imagine trying to go there without an experienced guide.  My experienced guides demanded that I walk arm-in-arm with them, due to the sheer number of people.  I also had to keep my purse under my jacket.  Like any mass market, it's a haven for pick-pockets.  And it has EVERYTHING.  When I say everything, I mean everything.  Garden hoses, wallpaper, buddhist altars, blue jeans, camel wool socks, mongolian deel (robes), western fashion, modern and traditional boots, batteries, shamanic supplies and more.    As we started walking, I couldn't help but get "Portobello Road" from bedknobs and broomsticks stuck in my head.  And it wouldn't stay in my head. I had to sign. Fortunately, I sang quietly. Unfortunately, no one started spontaneously dancing.

Exactly like this. Except no spontaneous dancing.  We went around to several boot makers until finally we found one with quality, price and size that met our needs. I now am the proud owner of the most amazing boots ever.

Containing a felt lining. Mmmmmm.  Man these are awesome.  Our next stop was hats.  I picked up a traditional mongolian hat.  I also wanted a jews harp, or an aman huur (mouth fiddle) as it's known here.  For that, we headed to the shaman quarter of narantuul, where one can fulfill all their shamanic item needs.

Batches of "snakes" (cloth ropes that are attached to a shaman's robes) hung from all the stalls, chimes (hungunur) mirrors (toli) and small metal imitations of weapons and blacksmith tools to be attached to a bartag (beating stick) or robes for protection, butter lamps, statues, and quite a selection of animal parts.  This is the only place to get an aman huur. Although the aman huur is an instrument used in folk music, it is special for shamans, and therefore the best ones are all to be found in shamanic supply stalls.   My host, a shaman himself, helped me test run several aman huur until we found one of decent quality for a beginner.  I still don't know how to play it, but now at least I am starting to learn.

Mungunu (my host) bought a new traditional cigarette holder, as his previous one was broken by his curious two year old, and a few wolf teeth necklaces as gifts for a younger brother visiting from Russia.
Faces stinging from the cold, we hustled our way back through the market to the car and to a local traditional mongolian food restaurant. I ate bintai harshul, (meat broth with dumplings) and we also ordered lamb joint with a sort of steamed pancake and an onion dipping oil and of course plenty of salty milk tea to go around.  The perfect food for a frigid winter afternoon that was quickly turning into evening.

When we came home to show off the amazing boots, we dressed me up in my deel that I got last summer to put together the full look.  Man, those boots are comfortable.

Dec 23

Monday morning I made my way to class.  After 2 weeks of delicious, but quite bland food, I was about ready to kill for something containing vinegar and chilis.  When I told my teacher, he offered to take my out for Korean food.  As we sat getting dinner, we got a call from Mungunu that we would be going up to Selenge Aimag, a province in the far north, next to Russia, for four days.  This sounded like a great adventure, so I headed over to the house.  Mungunu and Soyloo helped me choose appropriate clothing (my Tibetan sheepskin robes, new hat and boots) and Mungunu, Ankhaa, Enkhule and I piled into a car.  Our first stop was to pick up Huygaa at Mungunu's sister's house.

Two of the daughters are part of a girl band and they charmed us with lovely singing.  I, then, was called upon to sing back to them.  Enkhule pulled them aside and told them how to congratulate Tibetan singers, so before long I had a few blue mongolian Khatags around my neck.

We sat around chatting with our hosts, the time getting later and later, but happy to leave late as we would have no traffic and arrive in morning after a 7 hour drive.  It turned out that this was an excellent move.  At around midnight we got into the car and it wouldn't start.  We thought the issue was a lack of gas. We took the family car to the petrol station, filled a gas can and filled up the car.  We made it about half a mile before the car stopped again.  Fortunately, still being near the family home, we were able to catch a taxi and head back to Mungunu's home.  Unfortunately, the trip to Selenge had to be scrapped, but luckily our car broke down at the family home, rather than in the middle of nowhere, at night, on the streets of Mongolia.

Also, fortunately, Mongolia is a culture that loves to joke and get a laugh out of everything. So our adventure in four cars (our car, the family car and two taxis) and 4 hours of travel to go only 15 kilometers became a source of laughter.  We made our way home, had a few drinks and laughed about our mixed fortune and misfortune, before piling into various beds at 4 AM and not waking up until well afternoon.

REMINDER TO READERS: After this blog post, there will be several posts dealing with interactions with Shamans.  As shamanism is greatly misunderstood in the world, I will decide to keep some posts private. Furthermore, some posts will deal with my interactions with these shamans.  For my own privacy, I will keep some posts protected. IF YOU WANT TO SEE THESE POSTS, please subscribe to this blog and I will be able to select you as a reader.  

Daily winter life

From Dec 15
I had been told that my host, Mungunu, a shaman, would be Shamanizing that morning.  However, Enkhule, my friend and translator, had to take care of some work, so we decided to postpone until afternoon.  Morning moved into afternoon and afternoon into evening and Enkhule's work didn't finish, so we just spent the day at home.
Dec 16
In the morning I made my way to Dashchoilin monastery, where my friend Altankhuu, a managing monk at the monastery, would be my teacher.  We covered some very important topics that had been driving me nuts, specifically if constructions, when constructions, and making requests.  All three of which are painfully complicated. However, after a few hours, (and a few bowls of sweet rice) we had made significant progress.

After two hours of intensively practicing these constructions, we decided to get a late lunch (around 2:30 PM) of some khuushuur (meat pasties.)  Just as we were heading out of the monastery to the khuushuur place, Soyloo called me saying come home now, Mungunu will be shamanizing.  Fortunately, Altankhuu has a better understanding of the Mongolian definition of "now" and agreed that as long as we ate quickly, we had time to eat our Khuushuur.  He was right and the khuushuur was delicious. I also tried a drink of boiled curd of some sort. Sweet, sour, salty....all in all very strange.

I jumped in a taxi and made my way to Tolgot, our section of the Ger district.  When I arrived, the house was full of Mungunu's relatives, including several children running around.  One of whom, a little three year old, very quickly learned how to access and use the camera on my phone, even without the password.

During the ceremony, two spirits came to visit. Mungunu's grandmother and grandfather. They advised and blessed the attendees in an overall short ceremony which was hilariously interrupted by children frequently.  It was interesting to see a different shaman, as I had only seen one other Mongolian shaman.  I was interested to look at the similarities and differences. I shall write more about that when I post about the previous experience.

Unfortunately, Enkhule was still busy with work, so all of this was done without a translator. With some help of the dictionary on my phone, we were able to get a basic communication going on more complex topics and after Mungunu came out of trance, he discussed with Soyloo and they were able to express a bit of what I was told.

We then all packed up and went with Mungunu's mother back to her apartment in the city.  She made a delicious dinner of Buuz and we played with the children and went to sleep, 7 adults scattered across the floor of a room that was maybe two and a half meters across.   'Twas cozy.  Being a nomadic culture, like Tibet, when you wake up in this situation, people are scattered differently than they were when they first went to sleep and quite likely in different states of undress, but in a completely platonic way. I never feel like quite as much of a prude and raised in an over sexualized culture as when I'm in Mongolia.  I think I was the only one sleeping in full pajamas. Everyone else was in varied states of underwear.  I think it says much more about America's inability to separate the body from sexuality than it does about nomadic culture.  Kind of sad really.

Dec 17

In the morning, I got a ride to the State Department Store to meet Roy, an australian NGO worker who has been living in Mongolia for the past 6 years.  He invited me to a new year party being hosted for a local orphanage and school for mentally handicapped children.  The party was a blast.  Hosted at an american restaurant, the kids got burgers and fries and fried chicken.  Different kids got up to sing, professional dancers performed and the kids had a blast on the dance floor.

The orphanage and school are run by a catholic charity. When priests or workers come to volunteer, they must first spend a year undergoing intensive Mongolian language training, to gain complete fluency in Mongolian.  In addition, the workers are not allowed to proselytize to anyone.  The goal is just to provide a loving, caring home and school for kids in need.

After lunch I made my way back over to Dashchoilin for a few more hours of class.  We worked on numbers and "Because...so..." constructions.  After class I  went to meet Simon, a former PhD student at University of Washington and a Mongolian literature scholar here with his wife on a fellowship. We had a nice time just sitting, having coffee and chatting.

When I made my way back to Mungunu's mother's house, Mungunu and Soyloo needed to run home to pick up some things. I asked them to get me a change of clothes and my backpack and then they headed off, leaving me with Mungunu's mother, neice and older sister.  Well, when you just have girls.....First came the junk food, then the vodka (...still not a fan), then Mungunu's sister's UNBELIEVABLE HEAD MASSAGE. I cannot even describe it. It was unreal.  I've asked her to teach me, or to let me kidnap her to america.  45 minutes of BLISS.  My scalp was bruised the next morning, but I would do it again. And again. Oh man.  It's not just a head massage, she also does shoulder and upper back.  To give you an idea of HOW GOOD this is, part way through she told me to take off my shirt and unhook my bra so she could properly do my back.  Meanwhile Soyloo, Mungunu and at least one other guy came in AND I JUST DIDN'T CARE BECAUSE WE SHOULDN'T STOP THIS MASSAGE. (Also, nomad culture, no one gives a damn, and I was still somewhat covered from the front).

Dec 18
I was woken up at 5:30 by the arrival of Temujin, a younger brother who has been studying in Russia. He made us breakfast and I went over to the State Department store to finally buy a Mongolian language text book.  Unfortunately, I also seemed to have picked up a cold so class ended early and I went home to get some sleep.

Dec 19
After a slow morning, Chuka came over to take me to Terelj national park.  Chuka and Mungunu chatted for a while about mutual interests, which is good, as Mungunu is very protective of me in Mongolia. He is worried about me getting targeted by bad people, and so felt much more comfortable about me traveling with Chuka after having met him.

Unforunately, traffic was a nightmare and after 2 hours, we still hadn't crossed the city.  Realizing it would be after dark before we could reach Terelj, we gave up on that idea and decided to go to Chuka's place and watch a movie.  Chuka made dinner and we watched "Slumdog Millionaire."  No one warned me it had quite so much torture and police abuse in it.  Still a good movie.

When we got home, we saw Mungunu had been shamanizing again and was quite exhausted, so we all went to sleep.

Back in Mongolia

Since I am also posting back logs, I will write inside of the post whether this post is from the current trip or previous one.  For the duration of my trip, it will probably be current.  Also, setting up a personal hotspot from my phone might have been the best idea EVER.

FROM DEC 12- DEC 14

I got very lucky on my flight from New York to Turkey, sitting next to a wonderful man, originally from Chandigarh, India and now residing in Toronto. He was heading home to India and for a family trip through Himachal, so we spent hours reminiscing about our favorite (and least favorite!) parts of life in India.  We traded tips on the best places to go in Himachal and just had a wonderful ride.  This also helped both of us conquer jetlag, because we didn't sleep for most of the flight.

At Ataturk Airport I made my way to my gate and it became very clear that there would be very few non-Mongolians on the flight.  At our stop over in Kyrgystan, this number dwelled even further.  In addition to the two or three Russians scattered across the plane, there was one family with four adorable blonde children, ranging from around 3 to around 14.  Something about their clothing and speech made me a bit curious as to why an Australian family would be going to Ulaanbaatar in Winter.  I ended up talking to the oldest daughter at the luggage carousel.  The family travels a lot, it seems, but had been settled in UB for the past two years.  When I asked what the parents did, she answered that they were on a language visa and very professionally evaded any request for details.  As usual: Missionaries.

I got a pleasant surprise at the airport to find that I was being picked up by both my friend Enkhule and our friend and my host, Mungunu.  We decided that I should get a SIM card immediately and stopped at the first Unitel shop we saw.  No new sim cards.  Well, that's fine. We went to the next Unitel shop.  Yes, new sim cards, no mini card puncher.  So then we went to another shop where they charged us to punch the card (we joked that the unitel shop keeper and the card puncher must be husband and wife, working a racket.)  But 3g would have to wait.   Welcome to Mongolia!

We made our way back to Mungunu's house where I was able to distribute the massive suitcase of gifts I had schlepped along.   Later several members of his family came over to hang out.  Really wonderful people, including a 13 year old neice named Bujinlham.  Mungunu and Soyloo asked Bujinlham and I to babysit their 2 year old son, Duulag, the next morning.  I thought this would be a great chance to practice Mongolian and agreed.  By 8 PM, jetlag had gotten the better of me, and I collapsed on the bed they had made me.

I woke up at 5:30 to a very surreal scene:  At some point in the night, Bujinlham and climbed in bed next to me, the lights from an LED christmas tree were flashing in my face from the living room, the shaman's altar was too our left and when I looked up I realized that all the shaman's ritual clothing and masks was directly above me.  Welcome to Mongolia!

But it was time to face my fear.  5:30 AM, around -20 F outside, and I had to pee.  I tried to wait it out, I really did. But before long, I knew I would have to face my fear.  I bundled myself up, walked past the scary watch dog (who was tied up for my safety) and to the rickety outside with no light. I successfully relieved myself without freezing, falling in, or being eaten by a dog.  I SURVIVED!

The next morning Mununu headed off to work, and Soyloo headed off to pick up the older child, a girl named Gunje.  Bujinlham and I took turns taking care of Duulag and playing with him and coaching me in Mongolian. Nothing is better for learning Mongolian than a mongolian kid.  In the afternoon, my friend Chuka stopped by, which was awesome.  We made some travel plans for later.

In the evening, Enkhule, Bayra and Tudu all showed up so I distributed more gifts and we sat around talking, drinking a bit, and joking a lot.  I helped peel potatoes and Soyloo made tums khuushuur, fried bread stuffed with milk-mashed potatoes.  We dipped this in Thai sweet chili.  It was one of the most delicious things.  My mouth is watering just thinking about it.  I ate four.

We ended up staying awake until 3 AM and falling asleep scattered around the house on blankets and pillows.  Some aspects of nomad culture are the same everywhere.  Partway through the night, people changed positions, which led to a lot of jokes about Mungunu having a boyfriend and Soyloo needing a girlfriend now. Mungunu of course proceeded to play along and tease the man who had somehow ended up curled up next to him.  This meant that I needed to snuggle up to Soyloo.  :P

Since my Mongolian language teacher would have a meeting, we decided to head up a mountain to an oboo, or a mountain top cairn.  We got all bundled up and headed up the mountain. At some point at the top, we all decided that it was more appropriate to have a snowball fight than visit the Oboo, so although the men took care of their duties, offering some vodka, we spent the rest of the time tackling each other and trying to get snow in each other's faces at -14 degrees.

That night we all came home, drank tea and sat by the wood stove, ate rice and beef stew and just talked until around 11 when we collapsed from exhaustion, just as scattered around the house as always.  

Whirlwind Tour of Ulaanbaatar!

My second day in Mongolia, I woke up early with Enkhule so he could get to work and take me in to downtown UB.  A Mongolian monk in the USA had introduced me to another Mongolian monk in UB who had once studied in Seattle. Altankhuu, managing monk at Dashchoilin Monastery in UB was once a head monk at Yonghe Gong Tibetan Buddhist temple (the ‘Lama Temple’) in Beijing and had studied in Amdo at Tashikhyil monastery.  Altankhuu, despite never having met me, instantly offered to show me around Ulaanbaatar and help me learn Mongolian. 

Altan picked me up at Enkhule’s work place and drove me to Dashchoilin monastery.  Dashchoilin was once a massive monastery at the center of a massive complex of religious buildings forming the center of UB. Virtually all were destroyed under the Soviet influence and communist years, but Dashchoilin has revived.  The architecture was beautiful and unusual.  All of the buildings were modeled to look like Gers, including the smokehole at the roof. 

A stylized smoke hole in the ceiling of the shrine room

Central shrine in Dashchoilin Monastery.
The giant bead in front of the Buddha is part of the world's largest Buddhist Rosary.

One of the ger-shaped temples at Dashchoilin

Honor guard bringing in the 9 white horsehair banners of Chinghis Khaan

 At Dashchoilin, Altan introduced me to some monks and guests from Inner Mongolia.  As a result, I was speaking Chinese to some people, Tibetan to others, and English to others still!  We met the abbot of Dashchoilin, who fortunately spoke Tibetan and then all piled into cars to Sukhbaatar square, at the center of UB. Unbeknownst to me, today would be the day of the first ever public presidential innauguration!  At the government palace on the south side of the square, the enourmous statue of Chinghis Khaan was framed by the giant, lapis blue outline of a Ger.  The steps had been converted into a massive stage and about a quarter of the square had been roped off, with seats available to ticket holders only. 

The abbot, as a special guest, was quickly ushed to a seat on the steps, and Altan, the inner mongolians and I waited in the crowd.  It turned out to be our lucky day, and all of us ended up with inauguration tickets in hand and got excellent seats for the festivities.  I, in a pair of jeans and flowered blouse felt terribly underdressed compared to the Mongolians who were decked out in their best.  No one told me that I would be attending a presidential inauguration!

The inauguration ceremony itself was set to begin at the hour of the horse (which, I'm not sure exactly, but is either 11 AM or noon depending on who I asked.)  Before that, famous singers performed on stage.  Then came the honor guard with the 9 white flags of Chinghis Khaan, without which the ceremony could not go forward.

As someone who can't speak Mongolian, I didn't understand much of the ceremony itself, but it was amazing to take part!

When the ceremony ended, we piled back into cars and went to visit the Bogd Khan palace museum. The Bogd Khan was the Buddhist Lama King of Mongolia, and the palace museum is a collection of art and artifacts housed in the small, surviving portion of his former palace.  Unfortunately, the price for photo rights was too steep. 

The art was stunning, showcasing different styles of Buddhist art. Although it was all mongolian, some was more influenced by Indian, others by Chinese, others by Tibetan, others purely Mongolian.  The 1920s palace was filled with the Bogd Khan and queen's personal effects.  Like any royal family, they were surrounded by opulence, which at time went truly overboard.  Specifically, a ger entirely covered in leopard skin.  Probably my favorite items in the 1920s palace were the toys that the young Bogd Khan had played with as a child: a doll sized ger, a children's toy boat with moving parts, a child sized throne.  For me, it's always fascinating to imagine what people were like as children and seeing these amazing Mongolian children's toys gave me a chance to wonder what games the Bogd Khan played as a child, the wealthiest and most respected child in the entire country.

I was surprised, at the gate of the Bogd Khan Palace to see the Tibetan word ཤེས་རབ་ (Sherab, wisdom) incorrectly spelled as ཤིས་རབ་ (shirab.)  I pointed this out to Altankhuu who went on to ask someone.  We both were surprised as Tibetan was a major religious language of Mongolia, and several great works of Buddhist literature were written in Tibetan language by Mongolians. Surely, someone would have known the right spelling!  The answer was fascinating: according to a scholar with whom Altankhu spoke, the spelling mistake was demanded by the Qing emperor who controlled Mongolia at the time.  He had demanded that the word wisdom be spelled incorrectly so that Mongolians would not seem well educated as compared to the Qing empire.

From there we went to the Choijin Lama museum. The Choijin Lama was the second Lama after the Bogd Khan, and also a medium of the state oracle.  This museum was amazing.  It was not set up like a museum at all, rather a series of temples with captions.  I cannot even begin to describe it adequately. One temple was made to look like the stylized inside of a meditation cave, with sea green and blue stalactites coming down from the ceiling and framing statues of famous meditators!  At this temple too, the Qing emperors had made demands that certain religious figures be painted who would otherwise not fit into the pantheon represented. Again, this was to signify the strong connection of China to Buddhism, and therefore China's superiority over Mongolia. (Did I mention that Mongolia really doesn't like China?)

At this point, my friend Ganbaa called me and invited me to meet.  Altankhuu dropped me off at Sukhbaatar square where we saw hundreds and hundreds of stunningly dressed Mongolian dancers!  Ganbaa asked what was going on and we found out that we had just missed by minutes a group of 5000 dancers performing a Mongolian folk dance and qualifying for the Guinness Book of World Records.

Ahh well. Can't do everything!  Ganbaa and I sat down in a restaurant, my first time to relax that day. I pulled out a notebook and he helped teach me basic Mongolian verb conjugation and a few basic sentences.  Not long after, Enkhule got off of work and joined us.

We headed up to a big hill, just outside of the city, with a large communist monument on top.  As we started hiking up this hill, I saw a Kazakh man with a golden eagle.  Now, I was damned if I was going to turn down an opportunity to hold a golden eagle!

Yes. it was totally awesome.  

We made our way up the hill, and it turns out it is a popular hang out spot for young people. In the center was a torch-like pit, presumably there had once been a fire there. 

The monument was covered in socialist art.  One that especially caught my eye was Mongolians in traditional dress offering blue khadag to soviet soldiers.  It's kind of strange to see what parts of the soviet period remnants Mongolia has chosen to keep and what parts they hate.  Mongolia seems to have a real love/hate relationship with Russia.

Finally, we drove down the hill to an opposite monument. This one, built not long after the collapse of communism, is an enormous Buddha statue.

At this point, I was exhausted.  Enkhule and I said goodbye to Ganbaa and caught dinner then headed back to the ger district for home.

First day in Mongolia

My flight from Kyrgyzstan left at 3 AM and, with time zones, arrived at 10 in the morning at Chinghis Khaan international Airport, a few miles outside of Ulaanbaatar.  The airport was small, so I was surprised to arrive and look around and not see Enkhule, my friend and host for the duration of my stay.  To make matters worse, Enkhule was one of only two people I knew in Mongolia. Period.  Therefore, when I looked up and saw Ganbaa, the only other person I knew, walking down the stairs in the arrival area, I assumed that Enkhule must have sent him.  Nope. Turns out Mongolia is just a really small country (population-wise, at least.)  Ganbaa gave me a warm welcome and we chatted for a bit as I used his phone to call Enkhule.

Fortunately, Enkhule arrived a few minutes later.  We loaded my bags into the car and started our ride into Ulaanbaatar.  My initial impression of Mongolia was the fact that on the ride from the Capital City international airport into the Capital City itself, the roads were unpaved.  Seriously.  Completely unpaved.  My other impression was absolute exhaustion from pulling an all-nighter on the plane.

Enkhule's home is in the Ger District, the nomad-built suburb of UB.  The Ger District (henceforth, GD) is what happens when a million nomads suddenly have a chance to move into the capital and settle down, with no urban planning.  The roads are unpaved and hardly roads, houses are scattered around with little rhyme nor reason, house numbers are not in order, and there is no running water.  For those of you who know my style of travelling: paradise.  The outhouses on the other hand left something to be desired.

Enkhule's house was behind a scrap wood gate. There was a large Ger (yurt) in the front yard, inhabited by a family that I never really met, nor much about, and protected by several dogs who were rather suspicious of me. I think they had learned to associate "Non-Mongol" with "Missionary."  If that's the case, I forgive their incessant barking.  The house itself was a very simple house with a large storage room, and then a single room, partially split by a wall. On one side was a fridge, stove, sink that functioned through water being poured into a resevoir, a single bed and a television.  On the other side of the wall was a much larger room with cupboards and a few shelves.  Inside the cupboards were the bedding for the rest of the family.  Enkhule told me to go to sleep on the bed and he would wake me after a bit when his friends came by.  I passed out almost immediately.

About an hour and a half later, I woke to Enkhule gently shaking me by the shoulder.  His friends were here, he said, and would be preparing me dinner.  I glanced at the clock. It was only around two o'clock, and I hadn't had breakfast yet, much less lunch.  I quickly splashed some cold water on my face and stumbled outside to find two large, burly young Mongolian men pulling a live sheep out of the back of a pick up truck. They smiled at me and greeted me in Mongolian. I smiled back, too shy and limited to say anything. I threw my camera bag over my shoulder and stepped out into the dusty yard.

One man grabbed sheep's front legs, the other grabbed the hind legs, and laughing and chatting started carrying the sheep out the gate and through the winding alley ways of the Ger District.

We walked out way to a friends home, and the sheep was laid out in the yard.  I didn't want to impose my beliefs or culture on anyone else, but we were about to kill a sheep, and this sheep was about to be killed for me in part, which gets into questionable theological territory. Hesitantly I asked Enkhule, "Look, I know this sounds crazy, but can you ask them if I can pray for the sheep for a bit?"  Enkhule translated my request then turned to me and said "If that's crazy, then we're crazy too."  I knew I'd be OK here.

I prayed for the sheep for a few minutes, turned to Enkhule and his friends, thanked them and stepped back.  Baagi, one of the men, took off his shirt and started sharpening a knife (don't worry, no slaughter pics will be posted.)  Two other men held the sheep as Baagi put the knife to the sheep's stomach, made a small hole, then reached in his entire hand up to the elbow and tore the aorta.  I later found out that Baagi, being a young man, was inexperienced at slaughter.  The time and trouble it took for the sheep to die illustrated this.  I continued quietly praying under my breath as two little girls played in the yard, oblivious to the daily routine of preparing an animal for dinner.

As they worked, one friend's wife sat in the corner, separating blood from meat and cleaning intestines. As the men continued to skin and separate the parts of the animal, she prepared blood sausage.  As the slaughter wrapped up, Enkhule took me into the downtown part of the city to get a sim card for my phone. This process took far longer than it should have.  Now, tired and hungry  I found myself in a car with 4 Mongolian men, of whom I knew one and that was the only one who spoke english.  We drove around town, buying khuushuur (mongolian meat pasties) and eating them in the car as we hunted for outlet adapters and Enkhule desperately tried to teach me how to say "thank you" in Mongolian.  (For some reason, the two most important words to learn in Mongolian: "thank you" and "I don't understand" are also the most difficult to pronounce:  Bayarlalaa and oilgokhgui. COME ON, Mongolian! Are you trying to weed out the weak ones?)

I was surprised, in a capital city, how many gers I was seeing.  I didn't realize then that I was living in the Ger district, or for that matter, what the Ger district is to mongolia.  We stopped at one especially beautiful Ger, where we were treated to some sausage and airag, fermented mares milk.  After my initial dislike of it, airag was starting to grow on me, and together we managed to finish a very large bowl.  The organ meat was still uncomfortable.

By the time we made it back for dinner, I had eaten my "brunch" of several pieces of fried meat pasties, sausage, and an enormous bowl of fermented mares milk, and was now being brought home for a special meal of "new soup."  We went over to Enkhule's friend Mungunu's home and made our way into his ger.  Mungunu, a Boo, or shaman, had a fancy Ger with his ritual clothing and drums hanging from the walls and a shrine int he back.  Although I was allowed to take photographs, he asked me not to post them online.  I can say, however, that I had a stuffed condor over my shoulder. As in taxidermy.

We sat around, almost everyone drank beer (man, I hate beer. I stuck with juice) and out came plenty of organ meat. While I am a big fan of blood sausage, I cannot say the same for the big chunk of sheep's liver I was given. It wasn't bad, it was just so unusual for me.  Fortunately, Enkhule understood and relayed to my hosts that I was just getting used to Mongolian food, and that we don't normally eat this part of the animal in the west.  The new soup, however, was rich and delicious. Basically just a meat broth.

We sat around in the ger joking and teasing. Everyone was very kind about the fact that I couldn't speak Mongolian and either spoke through Enkhule or using hand signals.  I didn't feel like I was Enkhule's guest, I felt like I was everyone's friend. Being new to Mongolia, I didn't know the protocol for the ger, and twice made the mistake of stepping between the central support poles. Both times I was good-heartedly yelled at by Mungunu.  By the second scolding, I had figured out what I was beings scolded for!

Mungunu's wife, Soyloo, came in with their children, a little six year old girl and a two year old boy.  The boy had never seen a white person before and screamed in terror whenever I looked at him, to the amusement of everyone else present.

I was introduced to all the friends, Baagi, Mungunu, Tudu, and others who's names I've forgotten now.  At one point, while joking around, I twisted Enkhule's arm, then gave him an arm massage to make up for it.  Mungunu pointed to his lower back and said something. Enkhule explained that Munugnu was experiencing lower back pain and asking if I could help. As a frequent sufferer of lower back pain, I did, indeed, know a good trick.   I learned this trick from a Tibetan monk who worked on sand mandalas. Nothing is worse on your lower back than hunching over a sand mandala all day.

I turned to Enkhule "Tell him I can help him. But tell him he isn't going to like it."  Enkhule nodded and translated, then said "OK."  I said again "I need you to make sure he understands, he really isn't going to like this." Enkhule translated again and said "Yes, it's fine."  Finally I said "Does he fully understand that he is not going to like this at all."

"Yes, already!"

I signaled to Mungunu to stand up.  I stood behind him and started punching him in the lower back.  He shouted went down to his knees and held up his hands in surrender saying "no, no, no!" as everyone else in the ger started cracking up. I tried to get him to stand up again and he just kept waving me off and scuttling away saying "no, no, no!"  I turned to Enkhule and said "I told him he wouldn't like it!"

Well, the other men took this as a challenge and all stood up for me to punch them in the back.  They all took it well.  I even gave Mungunu the opportunity to punch me in the back.  Then we all collectively, in English and Mongolian, told him to suck it up.  I finished punching him and sat down.  He looked at me with great suspicion.

About ten minutes later, he stood up, his eyes went wide, he looked at me again and went "WOW!" and started giving me a thumbs up and speaking rapidly to Enkhule in Mongolian.  He spent much of the rest of the evening standing up, sitting down, rubbing his back in wonder and giving me a thumbs up.   For the rest of the trip it became a running joke with those guys that we would threaten to punch each other in the back.  And whether it was the punching or not, I can't say, but those folks would become my closest friends in Mongolia.

First full day in KTM

OK, I've made massive notes about Mongolia and I am writing them out, but today was a bit intense in Kathmandu, so I felt I should write about what's going on starting with the most important words: nothing to worry about.

This morning, I headed over to start recording.  We managed to re-record a song that I was unhappy with, as well as an entirely new song. Both came out very well and we will probably do mixing and the like tomorrow.

While I was waiting, I decided to check facebook and saw that a Tibetan monk had self immolated in Boudha that morning.  Fortunately, I am neither staying, nor working in Boudha, but none the less this was a concern.

After finishing up at the studio, I called some friends, who all said not to come to Boudha, that it was swarming with security and probably not even possible to get near the stupa, period.  My Tibetan friends did not want to go anywhere near there.  Overall, however, the view is that things will be back to normal tomorrow, therefore there is nothing to be overly concerned with.

In the afternoon, I went to meet Tsering Gyurmey, who is amazing at Piwang. I asked his help with one song and he kindly agreed, then we just sat around and chatted, as we hadn't seen each other in years.

Expect more posts about Mongolia soon!