I’ve been back in Mongolia for over 2 months now. I settled back into life here so quickly it was as if I had never left. Seriously, I’m talking hours here not days.
When my plane landed at Chinggis Khan airport a number of questions ran through mind. Had I made the right decision in coming back? Did I have the right visa? When was the person sitting to my left going to stop talking to me? And where were my shoes? I was mostly concerned with the latter. After contemplating standing up and accusing a random passenger of theft I decided to be rational and look a bit harder. Eventually I found them being trampled by the guy in the row in front of me. I tried to give him a harsh glare and if looks could kill he would definitely have had some mild bruising at the very least.
Mercifully, I negotiated immigration control without any problems. The same could not be said about baggage claim. Standing, exhausted at the conveyer belt and watching a number of bags doing laps of baggage claim I got that familiar sinking feeling that years of travelling related stress had honed into something of a sixth sense. This feeling was compounded when a door off to the right opened and I glimpsed some bags, one of which was mine, surrounded by 4 security guards who looked intent on ruining my day. Eventually there was a flurry of movement and said security guards burst through the doors carrying my bags and those of the other unfortunate people who had gathered and were sharing the same look of anxiety and barely contained frustration. Our bags were then dumped in front of an x-ray machine and then examined and sent through the machine. One foolish passenger protested at the delay and his bag was sent to the back of the queue. He clearly forgot that, in the same way as you don’t piss off people who bring you food, you don’t piss off people who control when you can have your bags back. After a painful wait I got my bag, but only after I had been thoroughly quizzed about the ‘suspicious package’ in my bag (which was prescription medicine, and very clearly labelled as such).
Emerging, blinking in the harsh morning light, I allowed myself a little smile as I gazed out over Ulaanbaatar. That smile quickly vanished as I was accosted by what, in my sleep deprived state, seemed like a thousand taxi drivers (In reality it was more like 5) After trying to choose one of these drivers I remembered that I had little say in the matter and allowed myself to pushed and pulled into a car. The problem with ‘the chaos’ method of choosing a taxi is that you are likely to end up with the most forceful and possibly maniacal guy around. This proved to be the case and we arrived in the centre of the city in record time due to a complete disregard for other vehicles and other annoyances such as stop-lights.
My return to Ulaanbaatar would have gone much more smoothly had the apartment I had arranged (and paid the deposit for) not been whipped from under my feet like rug whilst I was away. Thankfully there is no shortage of awesome people in this town who are willing to put up with a homeless guy and I was able to impose myself upon on the generous nature of my good friend James. He no doubt regretted his rash decision after the first day.
I had a couple of days to get used to life back before I began teaching which I was very grateful for as I was fairly nervous. Truth be told, I was looking forward to it about as much as a man looks forward to a prostate exam. This was mostly due to the images that were ricocheting around my brain of me standing in front of a class and suddenly realising that I didn’t actually know anything and then to complete the humiliation, being ‘pantsed’ by the big kid in class.
When I woke up on the morning of my first day at school a single thought ran through my head, ‘Shiiiiiiiiiiit’, and stayed there until I reached the gates of the school. At that point a new thought ran through my head, ‘Hoooooooollllyyyyy Shiiiiiit’. As you can tell, my thoughts are often eloquent and succinct. Anyway, staring up at the blue and grey facade of Orchlon School with its unusual symbol which appears to be a smiling face with a bad haircut, I decided it was time to man up. So exuding as much confidence as I could muster I strode up to the main doors, of which there are two sets, and tried to picture what opening a door with style and élan would look like. I’m sure that if I hadn’t been doing this I would have noticed that no one else was heading towards the same doors as me and would have spared myself the embarrassment of walking face first into a locked door. If that had proven to be the only awkward moment of the day I would have been a happy man.
I spent my first morning meeting my new colleagues and trying to suppress the urge to run screaming from the building and set the record for shortest teaching career in history. Time, as it is known to do, marched on and eventually the bell signalling the start of my first class rang and I promptly fainted. Just kidding. I grabbed the things I presumed a teacher would need and headed upstairs, paused at the door to the classroom, took a deep breath, adopted the most authoritative pose I could and walked in. Miraculously, the students (who were grade 6 or around 10-12 years old) didn’t immediately plunge into anarchy but a look of puzzlement did cross their faces in unison when I explained that I was their new teacher. I simply assumed that they were just wondering how a fool such as I could be a teacher and carried on. The reason for their bemusement soon became apparent when their actual teacher, John, walked into the room and politely explained that I was in wrong classroom. That was teaching fail number one.
Somehow I blundered my way through the rest of the day and arrived home thoroughly tired. Sitting on the couch, I thought about what the rest of the year might hold in store for me. My pessimism soon drifted away as I looked out over the city as the sunset turned the hills red, and realised that teaching would get easier with each passing day and that in all likelihood, I was going to have an amazing year.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Returning to Mongolia and unhelpful Russians
Well, I'm back in Mongolia.
It's been a long time since I last decided to write a post and a lot has happened in the interim. There is way too much to talk about so I'll just give a rundown of the important stuff! My placement with VSO came to an end after a year which, overall, was pretty successful. Towards the end of the year I realised that I was pretty happy in Mongolia and would like to stay for another year so I began to search for someone who would be willing to give me some money in return for minimal effort on my part. This line of enquiry proved less than fruitful so I was forced to look for something that might require me to actually put in some effort. To cut a long story short I managed to get a job as a English and history teacher at Orchlon school and I'm pretty pleased about it. So after a 5 week holiday at home in Liverpool I have returned to Mongolia in a blaze of nothing out of the ordinary.
As I write this I am sitting in a friend’s apartment (as I don't yet have a place of my own to live) gazing out over a city that I have grown to love. I can see the hills to the south of Ulaanbaatar, glowing in the late afternoon sun. There's the jumble of miss-matched buildings and the noise of daily life. There is also a construction site where the roof section appears to have collapsed and is currently surrounded by a lot of builders who look distinctly perplexed. Apparently nobody told them that slender sticks were not an appropriate support for a concrete roof. Yep, it's good to be back.
Unfortunately, as good as it is to be in Mongolia, getting here wasn't much fun. Standing in Heathrow airport, contemplating the journey that lay before me (and coincidentally listening to Journey. The world's greatest band?), I began to wonder if my trip would go smoothly. The answer came when I opened the bottle of coke I had just bought and it erupted with a force that made Mt. Vesuvius circa AD 79 seem like a gurgle. So, drenched and with the laughter of the various bystanders ringing in my ears, I trudged off to my gate.
I don't know if anyone else thinks this, but airports late at night are creepy. My flight was the last of the day and as I strolled along past the closed shops and empty seats I suddenly noticed that it was very quiet...a little too quiet perhaps. Then I saw hunched figures shuffling from various dark corridors and groaning like something from a George A. Romero film. Just as I was reaching for something to defend myself against this horde of un-dead with, I realised that it was just the cleaning staff and gave a sigh of relief. Still, I got too close to one of them who promptly bared his teeth and hissed at me before flitting back into the darkness.
Once I had slumped into my seat on the plane and made myself as comfortable as possible on the seat that the designer had presumably engineered for maximum discomfort, I glanced around and it dawned on me that there were around 6 empty rows at the back of the plane. Given that this was an overnight flight, the opportunity to have somewhere to lie down was too good to pass up. Unfortunately, I was not the only one who had made this discovery. There were at least 7 other people who noticed this and, with movie-like timing, we all realised that we had competition. Our eyes narrowed simultaneously and the stand-off music from 'The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly' played over the tannoy. The fact that we were mid-take off and couldn’t leave our seats only added to the suspense. All eyes were directed towards the fasten seatbelts sign when one enterprising soul decided to risk the wrath of the Russian air hostesses and make a break for it. I expected him to melt like one of the Nazi’s at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, such was the intensity of the air hostesses glare but he survived and claimed his row. The pressure was on and when the seat-belt light went off it was it was every man for himself. Unfortunately I had been too focussed on said light and had failed to remember that I didn’t have an aisle seat. Panic set in as I realised too late that there was a elderly gentleman blocking my way like a geriatric Great Wall of China. For a moment I considered vaulting over him but I had flashes of the following days’ headlines which would no doubt have read ‘elderly man killed by airplane acrobatic antics’. So with a wistful glance back at the triumphant people who would have an excellent night’s rest in their empty rows, I settled into my seat and tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep.
Arriving in Moscow at 5:30am, I stumbled bleary-eyed from the plane tried to prepare myself for the mental and physical challenge of spending 15 hours in an airport (an airport with the most unfriendly staff in the world I might add) The first obstacle was Russian transit passport control. As I shuffled up to the desk I was met with a stare that told me this airport employee was blaming me for the fact that he had to be there at this un-Godly hour. Given that I appeared to be the only person from my flight in transit I couldn’t help but agree with him. I tentatively handed over my passport and the man (let’s call him Igor) glanced at it, and then back to me, then back at the passport. Gradually, a look began to spread across Igor’s face that appeared to be part confusion and part malice. Then he said (in his strong Russian accent, which immediately made me picture him as a movie villain) “This not your face”. Naturally I was somewhat puzzled by this and replied, eloquently and incisively, “erm, yes it is”. Admittedly, I am 6 years older than I was when I got my passport and age has naturally taken its toll, but I don’t look that different. After a verbal sparring match in which he deftly parried my increasingly exacerbated retorts with shrugs and grunts, Igor evidently got bored and decided to let me through.
My 15 hours in purgatory were spent infuriating the cleaning staff by consistently lying down to sleep on spots that they were apparently desperate to clean. As soon as I would lie down in a corner somewhere, a cleaner would instantly appear and start attempting to run over my feet with their cleaning trolley in an attempt to get me to move. In between bouts of being assaulted by disgruntled employees, I tried to entertain myself as best I could. In the end, I spent most of the day slumped in a chair looking somewhat catatonic and wondering if death was a better alternative to this living hell populated by dour Russians. Time stubbornly refused to go by quickly but eventually I was sitting on a plane and heading to Mongolia.
Descending over Mongolia’s rolling hills and steppe as dawn broke reminded why I love this place and I began to think about all the amazing things I would see and do over the next year. As I did a broad smile spread across my face, so broad in fact that the lady sitting next to me looked distinctly disquieted. Clearly she must have thought I was nuttier than a bag of squirrel crap. I am willingly spending another winter in Mongolia so she might be right.
It's been a long time since I last decided to write a post and a lot has happened in the interim. There is way too much to talk about so I'll just give a rundown of the important stuff! My placement with VSO came to an end after a year which, overall, was pretty successful. Towards the end of the year I realised that I was pretty happy in Mongolia and would like to stay for another year so I began to search for someone who would be willing to give me some money in return for minimal effort on my part. This line of enquiry proved less than fruitful so I was forced to look for something that might require me to actually put in some effort. To cut a long story short I managed to get a job as a English and history teacher at Orchlon school and I'm pretty pleased about it. So after a 5 week holiday at home in Liverpool I have returned to Mongolia in a blaze of nothing out of the ordinary.
As I write this I am sitting in a friend’s apartment (as I don't yet have a place of my own to live) gazing out over a city that I have grown to love. I can see the hills to the south of Ulaanbaatar, glowing in the late afternoon sun. There's the jumble of miss-matched buildings and the noise of daily life. There is also a construction site where the roof section appears to have collapsed and is currently surrounded by a lot of builders who look distinctly perplexed. Apparently nobody told them that slender sticks were not an appropriate support for a concrete roof. Yep, it's good to be back.
Unfortunately, as good as it is to be in Mongolia, getting here wasn't much fun. Standing in Heathrow airport, contemplating the journey that lay before me (and coincidentally listening to Journey. The world's greatest band?), I began to wonder if my trip would go smoothly. The answer came when I opened the bottle of coke I had just bought and it erupted with a force that made Mt. Vesuvius circa AD 79 seem like a gurgle. So, drenched and with the laughter of the various bystanders ringing in my ears, I trudged off to my gate.
I don't know if anyone else thinks this, but airports late at night are creepy. My flight was the last of the day and as I strolled along past the closed shops and empty seats I suddenly noticed that it was very quiet...a little too quiet perhaps. Then I saw hunched figures shuffling from various dark corridors and groaning like something from a George A. Romero film. Just as I was reaching for something to defend myself against this horde of un-dead with, I realised that it was just the cleaning staff and gave a sigh of relief. Still, I got too close to one of them who promptly bared his teeth and hissed at me before flitting back into the darkness.
Once I had slumped into my seat on the plane and made myself as comfortable as possible on the seat that the designer had presumably engineered for maximum discomfort, I glanced around and it dawned on me that there were around 6 empty rows at the back of the plane. Given that this was an overnight flight, the opportunity to have somewhere to lie down was too good to pass up. Unfortunately, I was not the only one who had made this discovery. There were at least 7 other people who noticed this and, with movie-like timing, we all realised that we had competition. Our eyes narrowed simultaneously and the stand-off music from 'The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly' played over the tannoy. The fact that we were mid-take off and couldn’t leave our seats only added to the suspense. All eyes were directed towards the fasten seatbelts sign when one enterprising soul decided to risk the wrath of the Russian air hostesses and make a break for it. I expected him to melt like one of the Nazi’s at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, such was the intensity of the air hostesses glare but he survived and claimed his row. The pressure was on and when the seat-belt light went off it was it was every man for himself. Unfortunately I had been too focussed on said light and had failed to remember that I didn’t have an aisle seat. Panic set in as I realised too late that there was a elderly gentleman blocking my way like a geriatric Great Wall of China. For a moment I considered vaulting over him but I had flashes of the following days’ headlines which would no doubt have read ‘elderly man killed by airplane acrobatic antics’. So with a wistful glance back at the triumphant people who would have an excellent night’s rest in their empty rows, I settled into my seat and tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep.
Arriving in Moscow at 5:30am, I stumbled bleary-eyed from the plane tried to prepare myself for the mental and physical challenge of spending 15 hours in an airport (an airport with the most unfriendly staff in the world I might add) The first obstacle was Russian transit passport control. As I shuffled up to the desk I was met with a stare that told me this airport employee was blaming me for the fact that he had to be there at this un-Godly hour. Given that I appeared to be the only person from my flight in transit I couldn’t help but agree with him. I tentatively handed over my passport and the man (let’s call him Igor) glanced at it, and then back to me, then back at the passport. Gradually, a look began to spread across Igor’s face that appeared to be part confusion and part malice. Then he said (in his strong Russian accent, which immediately made me picture him as a movie villain) “This not your face”. Naturally I was somewhat puzzled by this and replied, eloquently and incisively, “erm, yes it is”. Admittedly, I am 6 years older than I was when I got my passport and age has naturally taken its toll, but I don’t look that different. After a verbal sparring match in which he deftly parried my increasingly exacerbated retorts with shrugs and grunts, Igor evidently got bored and decided to let me through.
My 15 hours in purgatory were spent infuriating the cleaning staff by consistently lying down to sleep on spots that they were apparently desperate to clean. As soon as I would lie down in a corner somewhere, a cleaner would instantly appear and start attempting to run over my feet with their cleaning trolley in an attempt to get me to move. In between bouts of being assaulted by disgruntled employees, I tried to entertain myself as best I could. In the end, I spent most of the day slumped in a chair looking somewhat catatonic and wondering if death was a better alternative to this living hell populated by dour Russians. Time stubbornly refused to go by quickly but eventually I was sitting on a plane and heading to Mongolia.
Descending over Mongolia’s rolling hills and steppe as dawn broke reminded why I love this place and I began to think about all the amazing things I would see and do over the next year. As I did a broad smile spread across my face, so broad in fact that the lady sitting next to me looked distinctly disquieted. Clearly she must have thought I was nuttier than a bag of squirrel crap. I am willingly spending another winter in Mongolia so she might be right.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
A new year in Mongolia and wanton disregard for personal safety
So, in previous posts I promised to try harder to keep this blog up to date. Clearly I failed. Because I feel I have let down the literally tens of people who sporadically read this, I shall be publishing this post followed immediately by another. I know, I spoil you. I will also make a commitment to at least think about possibly trying harder to write more regularly.
It has been over 2 months since I last forced myself to sit down and write something, so I realise that what I'm writing about will be a bit out of date but what can you do? In that time I turned 24, the world turned 2010, and the milk at the back of my fridge turned sour.
As the end of the 2009 drew near I was more curious than excited about what the holiday season would be like in Mongolia. Christmas proved to be a somewhat strange affair. For those of you who don't know (and you should feel bad if you don't), Christianity isn't the religion of choice for most Asian nations. Long ago Mongolia decided to opt for the eminently more relaxed religion of Buddhism. Had they known then that the celebration of a religious figure's birth would become the consumerist, secular (how many people still think of Christmas as religious holiday first anymore?) holiday it is today, would they still have gone for the chubby chilled out guy? Probably, but the answer remains one of life's 'great' mysteries (at least in my head anyway)
Anyway, celebrating Christmas in a Buddhist country was a new experience for me. Well that is what I though at first. As the 25th crept closer I began to notice the all-too familiar signs of consumer Christmas lurking on street corners and looking shifty, like a guy who knows he is doing something wrong but just pulls his cap down further and hopes no one asks what he's doing there. Before you could say "T'is the season to be jolly' there were santa's appearing in shop windows and people selling decorations on the street. Enormous Christmas trees sprang up on Sukhbaatar Square and outside the state department store. I enquired about these anomalies from my colleagues and I was assured that they were 'New Years' trees. Go figure. Needless to say, I was perplexed by all this but I decided not to dwell on it and enjoy myself.
As it turned out, My Christmas, and indeed my New Years, turned out to be worryingly similar to many of the recent ones I had experienced (minus the family and long-term friends of course) There were parties, gluttonous meals, hangovers, awkward social situations, and the ubiquitous anti-climax that is New Years. This is not to say that I didn't enjoy all those things.
I loved the parties and having to unbuckle my belt after eating more than is good for you. Hangovers are sign that something awesome happened the night before and I have come to appreciate awkward-social situations for the comedic masterpieces they are. Hell, I even enjoyed being let down by the promise of New Years again (I would like to insert a caveat about New Years being an anti-climax. The only reason it is a consistent let-down is that I always build it up to be something greater than it ever actually is)
It is a small coincidence that throughout December I had been reading Charles Dickens 'Great Expectations' and one would assume this would have dropped a rather massive hint bomb on my thick cranium. However, even that much lauded novel wasn't all I'd hoped for. A more introspective person would realise that perhaps the problem isn't with New Years but myself. I, however, will follow the teachings of the great General Sir Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett who sagely said "when all else fails, a shear pig-headed unwillingness to look facts in the face will see us through". Truly wise words.
Despite my ludicrously high expectations I had a great New Years (not as great as the fire works display involving elephants,pandas, and fighter jets that I had hoped for would have been) There was a party at an AYAD's (Australian Youth Ambassadors for Development)place and a trip to Sukhbaatar Square for some champagne and fireworks. It was all very boozy and there was much frolicking. However, no New Years celebration would be complete without a bizarre occurrence.
It came in the form of 3 Frenchmen (bizarre enough on their own, I know) who were, inexplicably, scouts. That's right, scouts. Complete with toggles and those scarf things they wear. There we were, drinking champagne and trying our best to stave of frostbite when we were accosted by these Francophone folks tying knots in stuff and building camp fires. Okay, so they weren't doing that but it was still slightly surreal. It might not be the last thing you expect to find in Ulaanbaatar at midnight on New Years Eve but it's got to be up there in the top ten.
As it is inclined to do, new year came and went and I looked forward with a mixture of dread and anticipation. I find the beginning of a new year often makes me curious about the myriad ways life will attempt to kick me in the nuts in the year to come and how best to avoid these crotch aimed hazards. Invariably I come up with nothing and get on with life.
January was a notable month for 2 reasons: Firstly, I fired my first (and probably last) gun. Secondly, I finally discovered where an annoying banging noise was coming from in my apartment and put a stop to it. The former is much more interesting so I'll talk about that.
I had never really had a desire to fire a gun but I have to admit that when the opportunity arose, I was intrigued and agreed to go on the trip. The thing that most interested me was that we were told we would be able to drive a tank. Now, as a man, there are few things as inclined to make me jump up and down with excitement than being told I can drive a tank.
There were 9 other people who felt the same as me and on a freezing Sunday morning we clambered into our vehicles safe in the knowledge that soon we would be handling weapons of war with absolutely no idea what we were doing. The drive out to the 'Monglian Military Tourist Camp' (surely the best name in the history of tourist camps) started pleasantly enough, Mongolia is after all a very beautiful country. Unfortunately, once you leave the bubble that is Ulaanbaatar, the roads quickly deteriorate and travelling becomes something of a nightmare. This we discovered as our vehicles got stuck in the snow that had had all winter to build up.
The first time this happened, all we needed to do was push to free ourselves from a snowy trap. The second time we weren't so lucky. We had to cross a ditch of sorts which we knew would be full of snow, but we were spurred on by the temptation of the tank. We opted for the 'drive as fast as you can at the problem and hope for the best' tactic which precipitated a rapid reduction in forward momentum as we immediately got stuck in a snow drift.
Some people might have panicked when confronted with a potentially deadly situation like this, but we weren't some people. We were development workers, and development workers don't take snow for an answer (you see what I did there...snow...no...think about it. It's genius) We exited the vehicles and began heroically watching on as our drivers started digging us out. You probably don't realise how much courage it takes to stand aside and let other people do the work but let me tell you, its at least some.
Eventually, after we had spent a fair bit of time running around and having fun, it dawned on us that we were losing time with the tank. With this sudden realisation, we intrepid development workers sprang into action and began ineffectually pawing and kicking the snow with a small portion of the might we could muster. It was a truly magnificent sight.
After untold (probably around 20) minutes of intense effort we freed ourselves from the icy Bastille and charged onwards to tank and gun paradise. For about 5 minutes at least, then we encountered another ditch and spent 30 minutes trying to traverse it.
Finally, after enduring more hardships than any humans had had to bear (fact!) we arrived at our destination. We were cold, slightly damp, and some of us (me) were a little sleepy but through sheer grit and determination we had made it...only to be told that we couldn't drive the tank because there was no fuel or it was frozen solid, I forget which. As you can imagine, the disappointment was palpable. Some of us wept, I tried to hurl myself off a cliff but could only find a small dip in the land and so I ended up jumping into some snow and adopting the pose from that scene in platoon where Willam Defoe gets killed.
I may have made that last bit up but I think I am allowed some dramatic license, it is my blog after all.
The 'military tourist camp' consists of a ger camp, a brick building, the tank, and a firing range. It's not a big place by anyone's standards. Once we had finished playing on the tank (naturally the thing we all gravitated towards when we arrived) we were taken to the firing range. There was a table on which were laid all the guns which were available for our ballistic pleasure. There were a few pistols, a sub-machine gun, sniper rifle, AK47 (weapon of choice for guerilla movements the world over), RPD heavy machine gun, and finally an RPG, or rocket propelled grenade launcher. That's right, a bazooka.
I have to be honest, we were like kids in a toy store, only wielding guns instead of lego's. It was quite an expensive affair so I could only afford to fire one gun. Naturally I chose the AK47. Having never fired a gun before I should have probably chosen something more beginner friendly, but then it wouldn't have been as much fun.
We each chose a gun, took a number, and waited for our turn to open up a can of whoopass on the targets down range. When it came to be my turn, I was more than a little nervous. I had no idea what I was doing, but with some words of advice from Julian (our resident ex-army guy) I proceeded to nail 6 targets, including the most distant one. I was a little purturbed by how exhilirated I was but I put it down to being happy for not embarrassing myself, rather than firing the gun.
Now, this may seem obvious but guns are loud. Really loud. Until you have fired one or been standing next to someone who is then you really have no idea. The sound each gun made was also very distinctive. The sniper rifle made a sharp crack, the machine gun made a more concussive sound, and the pistols made a popping sound. Up until that point I had assumed they all sounded the same. You learn something new everyday I guess.
Once I was done with the guns and returned to the tank like a toddler running to a climbing frame. I had seen a tank before but no one had ever let me mess around on one unsupervised. It was a lot of fun.
Soon the time came to leave, but not before one man stepped up and took on the big boys. That man was Jess, and he was courageous enough to pay $100 to shoot the RPG. I think I was more nervous than he was, particularly as Julian had just told me that these things sometimes explode when exposed to extremes of temperature (it was around -30C at the time). I figured 30ft would be enough to avoid anything but a light splattering of body parts should the worst happen.
Thankfully it all went swimmingly and Jess exploded the hell out of one unfortunate hill.
So that's it. I have been writing for a while and I have lost the will to go on. Presumably that happened to most people after reading the first couple of paragraphs.
I hope you enjoyed reading and I apologise for the excessive length of this post.
It has been over 2 months since I last forced myself to sit down and write something, so I realise that what I'm writing about will be a bit out of date but what can you do? In that time I turned 24, the world turned 2010, and the milk at the back of my fridge turned sour.
As the end of the 2009 drew near I was more curious than excited about what the holiday season would be like in Mongolia. Christmas proved to be a somewhat strange affair. For those of you who don't know (and you should feel bad if you don't), Christianity isn't the religion of choice for most Asian nations. Long ago Mongolia decided to opt for the eminently more relaxed religion of Buddhism. Had they known then that the celebration of a religious figure's birth would become the consumerist, secular (how many people still think of Christmas as religious holiday first anymore?) holiday it is today, would they still have gone for the chubby chilled out guy? Probably, but the answer remains one of life's 'great' mysteries (at least in my head anyway)
Anyway, celebrating Christmas in a Buddhist country was a new experience for me. Well that is what I though at first. As the 25th crept closer I began to notice the all-too familiar signs of consumer Christmas lurking on street corners and looking shifty, like a guy who knows he is doing something wrong but just pulls his cap down further and hopes no one asks what he's doing there. Before you could say "T'is the season to be jolly' there were santa's appearing in shop windows and people selling decorations on the street. Enormous Christmas trees sprang up on Sukhbaatar Square and outside the state department store. I enquired about these anomalies from my colleagues and I was assured that they were 'New Years' trees. Go figure. Needless to say, I was perplexed by all this but I decided not to dwell on it and enjoy myself.
As it turned out, My Christmas, and indeed my New Years, turned out to be worryingly similar to many of the recent ones I had experienced (minus the family and long-term friends of course) There were parties, gluttonous meals, hangovers, awkward social situations, and the ubiquitous anti-climax that is New Years. This is not to say that I didn't enjoy all those things.
I loved the parties and having to unbuckle my belt after eating more than is good for you. Hangovers are sign that something awesome happened the night before and I have come to appreciate awkward-social situations for the comedic masterpieces they are. Hell, I even enjoyed being let down by the promise of New Years again (I would like to insert a caveat about New Years being an anti-climax. The only reason it is a consistent let-down is that I always build it up to be something greater than it ever actually is)
It is a small coincidence that throughout December I had been reading Charles Dickens 'Great Expectations' and one would assume this would have dropped a rather massive hint bomb on my thick cranium. However, even that much lauded novel wasn't all I'd hoped for. A more introspective person would realise that perhaps the problem isn't with New Years but myself. I, however, will follow the teachings of the great General Sir Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett who sagely said "when all else fails, a shear pig-headed unwillingness to look facts in the face will see us through". Truly wise words.
Despite my ludicrously high expectations I had a great New Years (not as great as the fire works display involving elephants,pandas, and fighter jets that I had hoped for would have been) There was a party at an AYAD's (Australian Youth Ambassadors for Development)place and a trip to Sukhbaatar Square for some champagne and fireworks. It was all very boozy and there was much frolicking. However, no New Years celebration would be complete without a bizarre occurrence.
It came in the form of 3 Frenchmen (bizarre enough on their own, I know) who were, inexplicably, scouts. That's right, scouts. Complete with toggles and those scarf things they wear. There we were, drinking champagne and trying our best to stave of frostbite when we were accosted by these Francophone folks tying knots in stuff and building camp fires. Okay, so they weren't doing that but it was still slightly surreal. It might not be the last thing you expect to find in Ulaanbaatar at midnight on New Years Eve but it's got to be up there in the top ten.
As it is inclined to do, new year came and went and I looked forward with a mixture of dread and anticipation. I find the beginning of a new year often makes me curious about the myriad ways life will attempt to kick me in the nuts in the year to come and how best to avoid these crotch aimed hazards. Invariably I come up with nothing and get on with life.
January was a notable month for 2 reasons: Firstly, I fired my first (and probably last) gun. Secondly, I finally discovered where an annoying banging noise was coming from in my apartment and put a stop to it. The former is much more interesting so I'll talk about that.
I had never really had a desire to fire a gun but I have to admit that when the opportunity arose, I was intrigued and agreed to go on the trip. The thing that most interested me was that we were told we would be able to drive a tank. Now, as a man, there are few things as inclined to make me jump up and down with excitement than being told I can drive a tank.
There were 9 other people who felt the same as me and on a freezing Sunday morning we clambered into our vehicles safe in the knowledge that soon we would be handling weapons of war with absolutely no idea what we were doing. The drive out to the 'Monglian Military Tourist Camp' (surely the best name in the history of tourist camps) started pleasantly enough, Mongolia is after all a very beautiful country. Unfortunately, once you leave the bubble that is Ulaanbaatar, the roads quickly deteriorate and travelling becomes something of a nightmare. This we discovered as our vehicles got stuck in the snow that had had all winter to build up.
The first time this happened, all we needed to do was push to free ourselves from a snowy trap. The second time we weren't so lucky. We had to cross a ditch of sorts which we knew would be full of snow, but we were spurred on by the temptation of the tank. We opted for the 'drive as fast as you can at the problem and hope for the best' tactic which precipitated a rapid reduction in forward momentum as we immediately got stuck in a snow drift.
Some people might have panicked when confronted with a potentially deadly situation like this, but we weren't some people. We were development workers, and development workers don't take snow for an answer (you see what I did there...snow...no...think about it. It's genius) We exited the vehicles and began heroically watching on as our drivers started digging us out. You probably don't realise how much courage it takes to stand aside and let other people do the work but let me tell you, its at least some.
Eventually, after we had spent a fair bit of time running around and having fun, it dawned on us that we were losing time with the tank. With this sudden realisation, we intrepid development workers sprang into action and began ineffectually pawing and kicking the snow with a small portion of the might we could muster. It was a truly magnificent sight.
After untold (probably around 20) minutes of intense effort we freed ourselves from the icy Bastille and charged onwards to tank and gun paradise. For about 5 minutes at least, then we encountered another ditch and spent 30 minutes trying to traverse it.
Finally, after enduring more hardships than any humans had had to bear (fact!) we arrived at our destination. We were cold, slightly damp, and some of us (me) were a little sleepy but through sheer grit and determination we had made it...only to be told that we couldn't drive the tank because there was no fuel or it was frozen solid, I forget which. As you can imagine, the disappointment was palpable. Some of us wept, I tried to hurl myself off a cliff but could only find a small dip in the land and so I ended up jumping into some snow and adopting the pose from that scene in platoon where Willam Defoe gets killed.
I may have made that last bit up but I think I am allowed some dramatic license, it is my blog after all.
The 'military tourist camp' consists of a ger camp, a brick building, the tank, and a firing range. It's not a big place by anyone's standards. Once we had finished playing on the tank (naturally the thing we all gravitated towards when we arrived) we were taken to the firing range. There was a table on which were laid all the guns which were available for our ballistic pleasure. There were a few pistols, a sub-machine gun, sniper rifle, AK47 (weapon of choice for guerilla movements the world over), RPD heavy machine gun, and finally an RPG, or rocket propelled grenade launcher. That's right, a bazooka.
I have to be honest, we were like kids in a toy store, only wielding guns instead of lego's. It was quite an expensive affair so I could only afford to fire one gun. Naturally I chose the AK47. Having never fired a gun before I should have probably chosen something more beginner friendly, but then it wouldn't have been as much fun.
We each chose a gun, took a number, and waited for our turn to open up a can of whoopass on the targets down range. When it came to be my turn, I was more than a little nervous. I had no idea what I was doing, but with some words of advice from Julian (our resident ex-army guy) I proceeded to nail 6 targets, including the most distant one. I was a little purturbed by how exhilirated I was but I put it down to being happy for not embarrassing myself, rather than firing the gun.
Now, this may seem obvious but guns are loud. Really loud. Until you have fired one or been standing next to someone who is then you really have no idea. The sound each gun made was also very distinctive. The sniper rifle made a sharp crack, the machine gun made a more concussive sound, and the pistols made a popping sound. Up until that point I had assumed they all sounded the same. You learn something new everyday I guess.
Once I was done with the guns and returned to the tank like a toddler running to a climbing frame. I had seen a tank before but no one had ever let me mess around on one unsupervised. It was a lot of fun.
Soon the time came to leave, but not before one man stepped up and took on the big boys. That man was Jess, and he was courageous enough to pay $100 to shoot the RPG. I think I was more nervous than he was, particularly as Julian had just told me that these things sometimes explode when exposed to extremes of temperature (it was around -30C at the time). I figured 30ft would be enough to avoid anything but a light splattering of body parts should the worst happen.
Thankfully it all went swimmingly and Jess exploded the hell out of one unfortunate hill.
So that's it. I have been writing for a while and I have lost the will to go on. Presumably that happened to most people after reading the first couple of paragraphs.
I hope you enjoyed reading and I apologise for the excessive length of this post.
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