First Snow

Written on September 24, 2012.

Snow has fallen in Uliastai—the first of the season. It made its introduction first as a light rain that came over the quiet mountains and hills, leaving mist in its wake to half-obscure peaks and rocky slopes. The precipitation was gentle enough for me to venture outdoors, making the trek to my site-mates’ (Bianca and Bill’s) apartment with my mini mew tucked safely and warmly into my down coat.

My site-mates here in Uliastai (Bianca, Bill, and Bryan) and I had planned an exploration of one of Uliastai’s farther districts, Dinj, but the late September shower curtailed our plans, and we contented ourselves to stay in to cook and work on a project recording English textbook audio tracks.

As the drizzly day draped into the afternoon, the rain turned to sleet and finally to snow, and we watched from the third-story apartment window as flakes of white settled over the city.

The power has become bewilderingly intermittent. Bianca tracks the outages on the calendar taped to her apartment wall, but none of us can yet find a pattern. On our first snow day, it flickered off at 8 and came back on around 10:15, only to go down about an hour later. Often the power companies at least give homes the evening so families can make dinner, but power at the apartment flicked out at 7:26pm—just in time to leave a home-made pizza half-baked in the oven.

This morning, I awoke to cold. I will be glad when the heat comes on in my home and the radiators can keep the temperature a bit warmer—hopefully in early to mid-October. There is snow over the grass. At first, it looks like frost, but then you see a flake or two drift down from the cloudy-gray sky and remember that the air is too dry here to leave morning frost. It is snow that patches the grounds and whitens the nearby mountains.

Snow transforms landscapes. I wonder how Mongolian snow will transform mine. I wonder how I have changed and will change as winter deepens. It is not just Mongolia’s physical environment that forces me to grow and adapt, but also the cultural and social environment that makes this such a strange and challenging country to navigate.

I wonder if the tall mountains around me will rumble new barriers into me. I wonder if the shifting streams will reflect new fluidity into my character. When electrical fluctuations and the slow tilting of the earth bring unaccustomed darkness into my inner landscape, I wonder if I will find a way to generate light and warmth to fight back the shadows.

As I look out at the mountains, peaceful and sleepy under a thin blanket of slow, and see the black birds spiraling in the chill air, and see the small finches chirping gleefully on the school fences, I remember that life is a journey, and all landscapes change with the seasons--and are made for travel.

New Mini Mew

So… funny story:

It was lazy, overcast Sunday and I had spent most of my morning reading and experimenting with a little meal known as breakfast. Meals are occasionally rough to manage: my refrigerator freezes everything placed in it (limiting what I can safely buy and save) and recently my oven was inconveniently broken for me (against my wishes). I had informed my supervisor of both of these unfortunate conditions.

I headed over to Bill and Bianca’s place to hang out and make food. Bianca and I planned to go out and get a little sunshine, enjoying the outdoors before the onset of colder temperatures. As we were preparing to leave, I got a text from my supervisor: “Hi. I have mini mew. You need mew. Bat now go to your house?”

I stared at this message a moment. What? I told him I was not at my house, but would head there, and inquired what a ‘mew’ was. His reply came as Bianca and I were headed to my house: “mini white moggie.”

Refrigerators were often white. Perhaps a fridge? Bianca reminded me that Mongolians often call things by the brand name rather than the appliance name (copiers here are called Canons, as they are made by Canon most of the time). I had never heard of a moggie or a mew, and neither had she. I texted my supervisor back, saying I didn’t know what that was.

A few minutes later, a text came from him again: “you looke moggie? I am go your home?” … Sure, I told him. I still had no idea what he was talking about.

Bianca and I hung out at my house until my supervisor arrived with the mew. Oh! I exclaimed in sudden enlightenment, A mini mew! Of course! And he handed me the mini mew and told me not to let it outside.

What is a mini mew, you might ask. Why, this of course:

My mini mew happens to be female, and while I cogitate upon a more appropriate appellation, she is referenced simply as my mini mew. I am also ruminating on possible solutions to digestive needs of my new mini mew. Mongolians, in general, aren’t really fond of mews, and their stores are frequently bereft of mew food and mew bathroom sand. Unable to procure such items as I would in my native land, I have sought alternatives.

I have dirt in a pan as a mini mew loo, and have mixed fish and cooked buckwheat as her standard dish, though both these are subject to change. Currently, her toy of preference is an object of ingenious design, which I call “two buttons on a thread of dental floss.”

I will note that she is surprisingly good-natured and affectionate. She is occasionally shy, but given the treatment she has likely received in a country that, on the whole, dislikes mews, perhaps that is no surprise. I am very fond of her, and so is Bianca, so perhaps we will slowly cure her of that.

So… if anyone wants to send me some cans of mew food from the States, that would be great! If you can’t find any, cat food will work, too.

Cheers,

Karen

Eleven Weeks in Javkhlant: An Aural Reflection

I arrived in Javklant on the 6th of June, and it was my home until the 13th of August, when I left for my site. In those weeks, I discovered a culture that was as different from my own as it was the same; for every element that seemed dramatically different, there was another that seemed remarkably similar. I could expound dryly upon these various contrasts and similarities, but Mongolian culture--(perhaps all cultures)--is too rich, intricate, and beautiful for that.

I want to instead share one aspect that accurately demonstrates the interplay of these elements of contrast and similarity: song

Mongolians love to sing--which is no doubt one reason for the ubiquitous karaoke bars throughout the country (even Javkhlant, with a population of about 1800 and more animals than humans, has a local karaoke bar). They sing at almost every event, from birthdays and parties to ceremonies like the one held on the first day of school. It is very common, from what I hear, for someone to start singing on a long bus or van ride--amidst strangers or near-strangers--and the whole vehicle to erupt into song. (Note: The prominence of alcohol on such trips should perhaps not be discounted.). A large cache of widely known Mongolian songs propitiates the communal and perhaps community-building role singing has here.

My host sister, Ulaana, loves to sing, and would occasionally go out to sing in other villages--she even sang one night for Javkhlant's Naadam celebration, one of the larger festivals in Mongolia. She has a beautiful voice, and as she was trying to teach me a song, I asked if I could record her singing it. The song is called Nud, which translated to "Eyes" (images are from in and around Javkhlant).

For me, my host family's propensity towards song was a familiar melody. I recall many Christmases with my mother's family in North Carolina: my cousins would whip out their guitars, one of my aunts would hop on the piano, and suddenly the house seemed to harmonize with music and singing.

Mongolia may be a different country and a different culture, but I think some aspects span across distances and peoples: singing is one. During the summer, I recall sitting around the table in my host family's little house as my youngest host sister, Tsagaana, prepared dinner. My older host sister, Ulaana, and my little 'nephew', Bombule, and I were sitting around the table. I listened as they chatted, and then began to break into song. (images are of my host family and my community in Javkhlant)

Many of the songs my family sang sounded like they could be American songs: the same bouncing rhythm and easy words. Not all Mongolian songs are like this, though--many traditional songs take a lot of practice and skill, and one type--throat-singing--is sung (as far as I know) exclusively by men. Throat-singing is produced in the back of the throat, and from what I gather, has been sung in Mongolia for centuries, at least since the time of Chinggis Khan (AKA Gengis Khan). Of course, a lot has changed since the time of the great warlord--but throat-singing hasn't gone anywhere. Rather than being stuck in the past, it has transformed into something relatively modern without sacrificing its traditional feel:

The included clip is the work of Baatar and Bombo, two natives of Javkhlant captured in the pictures. These two young men actually sang this song during the opening ceremony for the village's Naadam. While it may sound pretty modern--and is--the singers are tied to a pretty old tradition. Both are buuh, Mongolian shamans. When they performed this at Naadam, one (Baatar) was wearing purple-blue robes and the other (Bombo) had the pelt of a wolf across his shoulders. (I'm still doing some fieldwork concerning Mongolia's native religion; more details to come!)

Mongolia's landscape doesn't sound the same as others. Perhaps it is the quietness of the hills, bare of soughing trees, that has given rise to a culture in which sound is special, even sacred, and where there has been something of aural explorations giving rise to unique vibrations. However, in all the sounds arising from the throats of the Mongolian people, the implications of singing are clear--it is a link that ties Mongolians to their family, community, heritage, and belief. And the more I reflect on these things, the more similar our cultures seem.

I go forward with the tunes of Javkhlant in the back of my mind, but will keep my ears open: in Mongolia, there is always another song to be heard.

Until next time,

Karen