I find myself behaving like my grandparents’ generation. That is, with an intense dose of scarcity-minded thinking: “I better order one of everything at this restaurant because when I come back, it might all be gone next time!” That will be a hard habit to break. I also balk at the price of everything and complain obstreperously within earshot of management about how loud the music is in the restaurant or bar. Frankly, I miss the quiet, or if not the quiet, then at least sounds that don’t come from speakers. Do we all really need to shout at one another across the table? I’m hoarse after one cocktail and half a glass of beer.

 It’s funny to even be writing this entry. In Mongolia, I was so careful to keep an upbeat tone about everything that appeared on here, but now that I’m back, I feel like it’s OK to hit my own gang again (Scots are stingy, Minnesotans are painfully apologetic, etc.). That alone makes me feel good to be home.

 And it is good, don’t get me wrong. It is great, in fact. I’ve still not tired of running water, the simplest amenity I missed the most—well, missed the most unless the power was out. And can we all just take a moment and marvel at how organized everything is?  Buses and trains have schedules,  letters and boxes are delivered, people keep dogs as pets and actually pick up their…well, their “leavings;” we can be some very considerate folks, us Americans—when we want to be, of course.  

 I’d hate to think at writing this that it’s the last word on what I’ve learned and how I’ve grown in the last two years. How can it be though, when people like Paul Theroux are still reflecting on their service all these years later. I’ll be the same, or at least on this end of things I’m insisting I will be. I suppose we’ll see when I’m 71. At my ‘Welcome Home’ party a few weeks ago, where many of you dear readers were present, is where it all came home to me the most since being back—it became especially, pointedly clear how important each and every one of you were in guiding me along a path of choices leading to Mongolia in the first place, and then how your love and support carried me all the way through to the other side. On this end of things, life looks a whole lot less like “Carrot-On-A-Stick”, and a whole lot more like “Blind Man’s Bluff”—multi-directional, where the people I’ve bumped into while stumbling through the last 26 years are by far the most important part of figuring this game out. I couldn’t have done it without every one of you.

 On my way back, a couple of Peace Corps friends and I spent six weeks traveling through Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam. Coming back slowly was certainly the way to do things. Mongolia to New York is an enormous shock to the system, but slowly adjusting to the world outside (and starting that process in Southeast Asia) made the transition feel a bit more seamless, and it let me feel ready to face the parts of this modern world I was most apprehensive about. If I could recommend one place to travel, it’d be Mongolia (because obviously I’m pretty biased), but if I could recommend 4 places, it’d be Mongolia and Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam. 

 Expect some Southeast Asia pictures shortly!

Part of it is just myself hoping to revel in every last moment I have in Mongolia—hand-washing laundry was a part of that reveling at first, but now it’s mostly just a chore. I’m quoting a friend, but I will miss everything about my life here.  I know that sounds strange to those of you that have endured my whinging at one moment or another—about transportation, or too many buuz, or uncommitted co-workers—but I’ll miss all of it, because all of it meant I was in Mongolia and that has been everything to me for two years of my middle-twenties.

School is in its springtime “limping” phase. Classes are still happening, but everybody has their mind on the fatted calf, quite literally—the birthing season was late this year, but it was a good one. We’re all looking forward to the return of summer, warmer weather, but instead of a return I’m looking at departure. I’ve fielded a repetitive script of questions this spring, mostly asking about whether I’ll be here next year. It’d be dishonest if I didn’t mention that I was a little happy when people expressed dissatisfaction at my plan to leave and return home. Everyone wants to be wanted, I guess.

I talked about legacy a mere twenty-some months ago, but to even begin to decide what that might be is probably myopic. I’ll save those sorts of heavy assessment for my official documents to be submitted to the US Government before I leave—no really, there are a lot, and I’m always at a loss as to what should be included. What was work? What was just me finding the things here that I needed to continue for twenty-four months? I guess I don’t have a good answer to that yet.

I’ve had some visitors in the last few months, which makes me feel like my investment in Mongolia (not monetary, but physical, psychological, and emotional), will most certainly pay off. The world is again starting to take notice of its biggest empire, born from the steppe. A PhD candidate and a journalist have found their way to Tsogttsetsii in the last six weeks, and it’s been fun to feel like an expert in a place where I often still feel lost. Spending the rest of my life here probably wouldn’t teach me enough to know it completely—not least because it seems to change a little bit every day thanks to the radical transformation Mongolia is experiencing.

My most recent visitor is working on an article about how Mongolia is changing as a result of the mining industry here, and my town is sort of the epicenter of that seismic shift in Mongolia’s zeitgeist. I won’t give away too much here, because the article will probably be out in the near future, but I’ll certainly link it when it comes out. We went out to meet some herders that have been directly affected by the advent of the mining industry in the Gobi—suffice it to say, we met some big personalities. Chief among them was Tserenbazar: A leathery and bearded man of 60 who said that he’d been forced off his land by the road south to China that cuts directly through his pastures. Thousands of tons of coal are tearing down the road here every day, and kicking up great plumes of desert dust in the process. He said that dust is always in the air, blanketing the grasses for 20 km on either side of the road. In the last twelve months, they’ve been unable to enjoy the innards of the sheep and goats they butcher for their families (a popular treat here), because the stomach and intestines are a muddy black color and filled with grit. I just hope the millions don’t forget the hundreds that have called this place home since before they can remember; an old story I suppose, happening now, and it’ll certainly happen again.

It feels like such an uncertain time to leave Mongolia. I’ll depart the country for good in June, and if I’m ever so lucky as to come back, I won’t be returning to the place I remember. The America I left has changed too, undoubtedly, but the trees, the grass, the buildings, the people I remember are mostly where I left them. In the Gobi at least, the nomads have already started wandering farther than before, because they have no other choice, and most of what I have come to know in the last two years may become unrecognizable.

The video was a joint venture between Volunteers and their Mongolian friends and counterparts in Erdenet, but the editing credit goes mostly to Ms. Katie. You can check out her excellent blog here.

It’s a nice excuse for us soumers to drag our pale features (and even paler social skills) out of our gers and into the spring sun for the first time since November, and this year was no different. It was a pleasant surprise that I got to tag along with some other Volunteers on their tour of the Gobi’s highlights: Yoliin-am, Khongor Sand Dunes, and the Flaming Cliffs.

As we all agreed, this past week was one of those extremely rare times a) when everything seems to work out perfectly in Mongolia in terms of transportation, timing, and weather, and b) that we always expected to have during our Peace Corps service, but only get to enjoy on particularly wonderful occasions. We basically managed a crash course in Gobi tourism in about 4 days–a feat for any guided trip around Mongolia’s desert.

I’ve got plenty of pictures for you all below!

School has started again after a short break in January, and this past Friday was “Teacher’s Day” in Mongolia. A day when teachers pick a student representative to teach their classes for them, and us teachers take just a moment to breathe in the middle of what can seem like an interminable winter. Berlin was a chance to breathe as well, and also get an appreciation of just what living next to a coal-burning stove with boiling meat on top can really smell like. My clothes, oh, my clothes. I really was oblivious until I was out of it for a bit.

Last night was a big party for all the teachers and a little Secret-Santa style gift exchange. I received a generous box of hazelnut chocolates and a handsome wallet–I gave a Peace Corps coffee mug, some fancy European tea, a little jar of honey from Italy, and two bars of chocolate.

I hate to return to blogging on a sad note, but it’s the news that pushed me to write this evening after almost a month of missing dispatches from Mongolia (sorry about that). Wislawa Szymborska died on February 1st. She was one of my favorite poets. The reason I came to love her early was all thanks to a book sent to me on my birthday (maybe 10-14, can’t remember exactly when) by my first nanny, Zosia. I’ve always seen this book, both in Polish and in English, as early exposure to the kinds of literature I’d come to appreciate as an adult. I honestly wish I could comb through my bookcase at home to make sure it’s still resting snugly in there somewhere. I’ve been looking over those words of hers that I can find on the internet this evening, and this stood out; it’s from her poem “Nothing Twice.”

Nothing can ever happen twice.

In consequence, the sorry fact is

that we arrive here improvised

and leave without the chance to practice.

If that doesn’t describe the life of a Volunteer, I’m not sure what else does. Year Two: I think all of us talk about it with a sort of mystical fervor, as if it proves something to us that we’ve made it, and as if the familiarity of the place now breeds some kind of routine, but the sorry fact is/ that we arrive here improvised/ and leave without the chance to practice. In many ways, she’s right. I’ve been here for a whopping 19 months, but who’s to say what I really understand about the small patch of desert I’ve been calling home. But in another way, it’s the rules of “improvisation” here that I’ve really learned–the ability to say “Yes, and…” Sitting with my teachers at tables loaded with boiled mutton and dumplings in a chilly gymnasium last night, I felt comfortable in a way that was unthinkable less than a year ago. As she says, Nothing can ever happen twice, and to understand Year Two as another turn on the carousel is just ill-advised, because understanding the improvisation of the place is so much the better. It’s maybe a little bit of a miracle…

Miracle Fair

Commonplace miracle:
that so many commonplace miracles happen.

An ordinary miracle:
in the dead of night
the barking of invisible dogs.

One miracle out of many:
a small, airy cloud
yet it can block a large and heavy moon.

Several miracles in one:
an alder tree reflected in the water,
and that it’s backwards left to right
and that it grows there, crown down
and never reaches the bottom,
even though the water is shallow.

An everyday miracle:
winds weak to moderate
turning gusty in storms.

First among equal miracles:
cows are cows.

Second to none:
just this orchard
from just that seed.

A miracle without a cape and top hat:
scattering white doves.

A miracle, for what else could you call it:
today the sun rose at three-fourteen
and will set at eight-o-one.

A miracle, less surprising than it should be:
even though the hand has fewer than six fingers,
it still has more than four.

A miracle, just take a look around:
the world is everywhere.

An additional miracle, as everything is additional:
the unthinkable
is thinkable.

-Wislawa Szymborska, 1923-2012.

You can find the press release here.