Monday, May 28, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
Met Odbaatar at the History Museum today. Hadn't seen him for a while. He just got back from a trip to Germany not long ago.
We went to the cafe in the basement of the museum and drank beer. The cafe was full. It is usually full.
Odbaatar explained:
"Yes. It is because here the beer is cheap."
He continued:
"In Germany, the beer is very good."
He finished:
"There was cheap beer also in Germany, but I do not know why it was cheap, because it was very good."
We went to the cafe in the basement of the museum and drank beer. The cafe was full. It is usually full.
Odbaatar explained:
"Yes. It is because here the beer is cheap."
He continued:
"In Germany, the beer is very good."
He finished:
"There was cheap beer also in Germany, but I do not know why it was cheap, because it was very good."
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Mongolia, Bayankhongor
Went to Bayankhongor aimag to visit Martin and Jonathan and Mongon at the new gold mine. Rode down with Yousaf in his Land Cruiser. Saw a ninja settlement of hundreds of gers spread over the bleak Gobi hills, and the ninja miners scrabbling in the pits.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Mongolia, Khentii
Spent the weekend at Jon’s girlfriend Aagii’s folks’ place out on the Kherlen River on the border between Khentii and Tov aimags.
On the drive out, saw the new giant metal Chinggis statue for the first time. On the drive back, saw it for the second time.
On the drive out, saw the new giant metal Chinggis statue for the first time. On the drive back, saw it for the second time.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
Went to Chinggis Khaan University today and met with Lkhagvasuren. With some teachers, we went out to lunch at Aura.
I had been to Aura once before with Lkhagvasuren. This time, the restaurant was almost full, and we went up to the second floor.
The second floor is more of a bar, with booths and low tables and some kind of decor. There are dolphins in bas-relief on the walls and seagulls in bas-relief on the ceiling. A thangka like mine hangs behind the bar.
Lkhagvasuren saw “American fried chicken” on the menu and naturally ordered it for me.
I had picked up a sniffle walking from my apartment to the university in the gray Ulaanbaatar air. Lkhagvasuren ordered vodka all around and told me to drink it for my nose. “Sto gram,” he said, speaking Russian to me. One hundred grams. “Drink, Radnaa.”
“That’s Russian medicine,” I said.
“It is medicine,” he said. “We are all the same, Russian, Mongolian, American. We all have two eyes, two ears, one nose. Medicine works the same.”
He also ordered soup for my nose. “You must drink the vodka and then eat the soup immediately after.” The soup was delicious—garlic, pepper, cabbage, potatoes, and tender meat. Lkhagvasuren clapped me on the shoulder, “It is horsemeat, it is healthy.”
The “American fried chicken” was a breaded chicken fillet, and it also was delicious.
I had been to Aura once before with Lkhagvasuren. This time, the restaurant was almost full, and we went up to the second floor.
The second floor is more of a bar, with booths and low tables and some kind of decor. There are dolphins in bas-relief on the walls and seagulls in bas-relief on the ceiling. A thangka like mine hangs behind the bar.
Lkhagvasuren saw “American fried chicken” on the menu and naturally ordered it for me.
I had picked up a sniffle walking from my apartment to the university in the gray Ulaanbaatar air. Lkhagvasuren ordered vodka all around and told me to drink it for my nose. “Sto gram,” he said, speaking Russian to me. One hundred grams. “Drink, Radnaa.”
“That’s Russian medicine,” I said.
“It is medicine,” he said. “We are all the same, Russian, Mongolian, American. We all have two eyes, two ears, one nose. Medicine works the same.”
He also ordered soup for my nose. “You must drink the vodka and then eat the soup immediately after.” The soup was delicious—garlic, pepper, cabbage, potatoes, and tender meat. Lkhagvasuren clapped me on the shoulder, “It is horsemeat, it is healthy.”
The “American fried chicken” was a breaded chicken fillet, and it also was delicious.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Mongolia, Zuun Mod
Rode along with Marc and a gang of people on a Sunday drive to a couple small towns near UB. Driving, we could see the snow coming over the mountains. Ended up in Zuun Mod, the first time I've been there. Zuun Mod is a nice little town -- a big park, trees, a square, a downtown. Got hit with a snowstorm. It got cold.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
Went to Ulemj’s birthday party last night at some Korean restaurant, nice restaurant. There were a lot of people there. Got to see Tulga, hadn’t seen him for a long while. Ended up at Zona, drinking and singing. Got back in at 06:00.
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
On Sunday, went to Zaya’s holiday production at her tsetserleg (an abridgement of “khuukhdiin tsetserleg,” which is literally: “child garden”; used as “kindergarten,” which is literally: “child garden”).
Poor little kids, being forced to sing and dance for old people’s amusement.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
I stepped out to go to the Turkish place for some kebab at about 19:00. Crossing Peace Avenue, as I do every day, I was suddenly dazzled by the city: the sidewalks full of people, the streets full of cars, the buildings lit with store signs and billboards, and spotlights sweeping the sky off to the south.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
Here’s an account of my day, which was fairly eventful.
Had an interesting meeting with Lkhagvasuren. Through the weight of his reputation and his impressive contacts, he has secured funding from the American Embassy for an ambitious archaeological preservation project concerning sites throughout Ulaanbaatar and Tov aimag. So I’m connected to another project for next summer, in this case as “field archaeological advisor.” Fortunately, I have been well-trained and know just what to do: as Prof. Michlovic said at the start of my field school so many years ago, “You guys’ job will be to move the dirt; my job will be to sit in the shade and drink gin-and-tonics.”
I stopped in at the law office. Tsendee asked me about the book I’m working on. I gave her the one-line pitch: “it is a philosophical novel about a man who lives alone in the steppe, fighting and eating mythical monsters.” She asked if I knew about Dalan Tav, a cemetery in the ger districts. Up until the 1960s, the bodies of deceased people were taken into remote areas and left exposed to return to nature quickly, similar to Tibetan practices. In the ’60s, they started interring bodies at Dalan Tav. The cemetery is entirely surrounded by gers now. She said I should go there and talk to people. She said they tell countless ghost stories.
While I was at the office, in came a Russian couple. Standing behind a partition with Jon, in full earshot of the front desk, he asked me if I could swear in Russian. “Of course.” – “Teach me some.” – “Not right now.”
The Russians were actually russophones from Kazakhstan. “Where is Kazakhstan?” Martin asked comically. “It’s right next door.” Which is accurate, though thousands of kilometers separate the capital cities of Ulaanbaatar and Almaty. They spoke of Kazakhstan as reverentially as people here speak of Mongolia. I have only ever heard good things about Kazakhstan. I would like to visit Almaty soon. It is a diverse city, with a Russian population of up to thirty percent of the total and significant populations of Uzbeks, Tajiks, and Kyrgyz, as well as the slim majority of Kazakhs. Kazakhstan is presently in the news in the West through the film Borat, which apparently depicts Kazakhstan negatively yet in such an over-the-top manner that the depiction is impossible to believe. The Kazakhstan government bought expensive ad space in the West to try to counter the film’s portrayal. In an article about the affair, it was mentioned that within one week of the movie’s opening, British travel agencies booked out all of their tours to Kazakhstan for next year.
Later, I noticed a new sign across the street from the Chinggis Khaan Hotel: “American Cafe.” I stuck my head in the door and asked if they had hamburgers. No. “How can an American cafe not have hamburgers!” I said, and they laughed. So I stepped inside and sampled their khar shol, which was above average. The Korean pop music they were playing on the stereo had an ’80s vibe, but they eventually put on some khoomii.
There were Foster’s Beer napkin holders on the tables, complete with blue silhouettes of Australia. Of course, they did not carry Foster’s Beer because Foster’s Beer is currently unavailable in Mongolia. The napkin holders are puzzling and I will have to mention them to Martin, because he still holds the exclusive license for Foster’s in Mongolia.
I tried to visit Marc and Saraa, but they weren’t home. As I was standing outside the security-controlled door to their building punching their number into the keypad, a young man came out. He saw me and immediately introduced himself, shook my hand, asked where I was from. His name was Purevdorj. He asked if we could speak in English. He told me that he is going to India next month to study, and he needs to improve his English. He is going to study some form of Buddhist meditation, I forget which one, I’m not familiar with them all. We talked for a bit. He lives on the first floor of Marc and Saraa’s building. He said that he used to study Buddhism in Tibet and that he speaks Tibetan, but that’s no good to him now because they speak English in India. Of course, his English was more than passable. He told me to drop by sometime to eat and speak English.
Walking home as it was dark and snowing, I passed Sukhbaatar Square. I saw that the new Chinggis monument is open, so I checked it out. I haven’t liked that the Chinggis statue is way out of scale to the other figures in the monument, but when I got up close to it, it was pretty awe-inspiring. Still, I think the best components of the monument are the mounted warriors flanking Chinggis. I was able to see now that the one on the right is carrying an enormous bevy of arrows – I have never seen so many arrows on a person, as a statue, in a picture, anywhere. I tried to count the arrows and I couldn’t because the shafts are so many that I could not clearly distinguish one from its neighbors, and when I changed position just slightly, new shafts would appear and others would disappear. The figure on the right is carrying far fewer arrows in his quiver and, interestingly, a war mace in his right hand. Both figures are wearing heavy armor. So, the monument is kind of cool, but I still don’t like to even think about it; I’m certain I will never agree with the decision to spend millions of dollars on it before investing in the transport, sanitation, and water systems.
Passing Chez Bernard, I stopped in and flirted with Tuya. I told her that I had just seen the “Tom Chinggis” (Big Chinggis) monument. “You just saw it?” she said. “It’s been open for a month.”
I took my dinner at the Turkish restaurant across from my flat. They had one of the Pierce Brosnan -as- James Bond movies on the tele. As I walked in the door, the first thing that flashed on the screen was the location identifier: “Kazakhstan, Central Asia.”
I just noticed that today is December 7th.
Had an interesting meeting with Lkhagvasuren. Through the weight of his reputation and his impressive contacts, he has secured funding from the American Embassy for an ambitious archaeological preservation project concerning sites throughout Ulaanbaatar and Tov aimag. So I’m connected to another project for next summer, in this case as “field archaeological advisor.” Fortunately, I have been well-trained and know just what to do: as Prof. Michlovic said at the start of my field school so many years ago, “You guys’ job will be to move the dirt; my job will be to sit in the shade and drink gin-and-tonics.”
I stopped in at the law office. Tsendee asked me about the book I’m working on. I gave her the one-line pitch: “it is a philosophical novel about a man who lives alone in the steppe, fighting and eating mythical monsters.” She asked if I knew about Dalan Tav, a cemetery in the ger districts. Up until the 1960s, the bodies of deceased people were taken into remote areas and left exposed to return to nature quickly, similar to Tibetan practices. In the ’60s, they started interring bodies at Dalan Tav. The cemetery is entirely surrounded by gers now. She said I should go there and talk to people. She said they tell countless ghost stories.
While I was at the office, in came a Russian couple. Standing behind a partition with Jon, in full earshot of the front desk, he asked me if I could swear in Russian. “Of course.” – “Teach me some.” – “Not right now.”
The Russians were actually russophones from Kazakhstan. “Where is Kazakhstan?” Martin asked comically. “It’s right next door.” Which is accurate, though thousands of kilometers separate the capital cities of Ulaanbaatar and Almaty. They spoke of Kazakhstan as reverentially as people here speak of Mongolia. I have only ever heard good things about Kazakhstan. I would like to visit Almaty soon. It is a diverse city, with a Russian population of up to thirty percent of the total and significant populations of Uzbeks, Tajiks, and Kyrgyz, as well as the slim majority of Kazakhs. Kazakhstan is presently in the news in the West through the film Borat, which apparently depicts Kazakhstan negatively yet in such an over-the-top manner that the depiction is impossible to believe. The Kazakhstan government bought expensive ad space in the West to try to counter the film’s portrayal. In an article about the affair, it was mentioned that within one week of the movie’s opening, British travel agencies booked out all of their tours to Kazakhstan for next year.
Later, I noticed a new sign across the street from the Chinggis Khaan Hotel: “American Cafe.” I stuck my head in the door and asked if they had hamburgers. No. “How can an American cafe not have hamburgers!” I said, and they laughed. So I stepped inside and sampled their khar shol, which was above average. The Korean pop music they were playing on the stereo had an ’80s vibe, but they eventually put on some khoomii.
There were Foster’s Beer napkin holders on the tables, complete with blue silhouettes of Australia. Of course, they did not carry Foster’s Beer because Foster’s Beer is currently unavailable in Mongolia. The napkin holders are puzzling and I will have to mention them to Martin, because he still holds the exclusive license for Foster’s in Mongolia.
I tried to visit Marc and Saraa, but they weren’t home. As I was standing outside the security-controlled door to their building punching their number into the keypad, a young man came out. He saw me and immediately introduced himself, shook my hand, asked where I was from. His name was Purevdorj. He asked if we could speak in English. He told me that he is going to India next month to study, and he needs to improve his English. He is going to study some form of Buddhist meditation, I forget which one, I’m not familiar with them all. We talked for a bit. He lives on the first floor of Marc and Saraa’s building. He said that he used to study Buddhism in Tibet and that he speaks Tibetan, but that’s no good to him now because they speak English in India. Of course, his English was more than passable. He told me to drop by sometime to eat and speak English.
Walking home as it was dark and snowing, I passed Sukhbaatar Square. I saw that the new Chinggis monument is open, so I checked it out. I haven’t liked that the Chinggis statue is way out of scale to the other figures in the monument, but when I got up close to it, it was pretty awe-inspiring. Still, I think the best components of the monument are the mounted warriors flanking Chinggis. I was able to see now that the one on the right is carrying an enormous bevy of arrows – I have never seen so many arrows on a person, as a statue, in a picture, anywhere. I tried to count the arrows and I couldn’t because the shafts are so many that I could not clearly distinguish one from its neighbors, and when I changed position just slightly, new shafts would appear and others would disappear. The figure on the right is carrying far fewer arrows in his quiver and, interestingly, a war mace in his right hand. Both figures are wearing heavy armor. So, the monument is kind of cool, but I still don’t like to even think about it; I’m certain I will never agree with the decision to spend millions of dollars on it before investing in the transport, sanitation, and water systems.
Passing Chez Bernard, I stopped in and flirted with Tuya. I told her that I had just seen the “Tom Chinggis” (Big Chinggis) monument. “You just saw it?” she said. “It’s been open for a month.”
I took my dinner at the Turkish restaurant across from my flat. They had one of the Pierce Brosnan -as- James Bond movies on the tele. As I walked in the door, the first thing that flashed on the screen was the location identifier: “Kazakhstan, Central Asia.”
I just noticed that today is December 7th.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
Went over to Burmaa's last night. It was her daughter's fifth birthday. Burmaa lives in a one-room apartment with her daughter and two younger sisters, in addition to another younger sister who just had a baby a month ago and is staying with them while her man is in the countryside.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Friday, October 6, 2006
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
Met up with Ulemj and a couple of his buddies last night. We sat in a bar called "Zona" just north of the Parliament building and drank beer. Got drunk.
Ulemj is one of the first people I met after returning to Mongolia a year and a half ago. He teaches engineering at the Technological University.
Ulemj is one of the first people I met after returning to Mongolia a year and a half ago. He teaches engineering at the Technological University.
Sunday, October 1, 2006
Sunday, September 3, 2006
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
I miss the bust of Lenin that I had on my desk in Moscow. I could rub his bald head for luck.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Thursday, July 6, 2006
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
statement to the police:
After working at my computer last night until 24:00 midnight and sleeping for a couple of hours, I awoke hungry and went to the 24-hour Zochin Buuz located approximately one-half block from my apartment in Chingeltei duureg, 3-r khoroo. I have dined at this restaurant nearly every day for the past six to eight weeks, occasionally late at night. I left my apartment at approximately 03:00 a.m. It was raining.
Arriving at the restaurant, I noted three Australian males seated together in the front room near the entranceway to the back room, and two or three Mongolians seated in the front room. I walked to my usual table in the back room, decided that it was hot there, and moved to the table next to the door.
From the young male waiter (O.Eyambatav), I ordered my usual meal of goulash and niislii salat [salad], with two Coca-Colas. The meal was soon brought out.
While eating, the Mongolians left the restaurant, leaving only the three Australian males with me as patrons.
Some minutes later, two Mongolian males, in their 20s, medium height, slim, dressed in black, entered the restaurant. They took seats at a table in the front room, behind me. As they sat, one of them said something in a harsh tone in Mongolian that I did not understand, though I heard the word “gadaad” [foreign], and then one of them made a loud banging noise on the table.
Approximately fifteen minutes later, the three Australian males left the restaurant. As they walked down the steps outside the window near my seat, I recognized one of them as an old acquaintance, Sam, and I knocked on the window to get his attention. He stepped back inside and we had a conversation in English that lasted for approximately five minutes. He then left the restaurant.
Some minutes after that, the two Mongolian males got up behind me. One of them passed by my table and left the restaurant. The other one, following the first, stopped at my table. He said something in Mongolian that I did not understand and slammed a steel fork in his right hand onto my table in front of me. Seated, I looked at him and said in Mongolian, “Yasan be, minii duu?” [What happened, my little brother?] He then said, “Eh?” He then quickly said again “Eh?” and leaned his face close to mine. I said nothing. He quickly straightened up and then made two or three feinting lunges at me with his upper body and slammed the fork in his right hand into the table again. I did not respond. He then raised the fork to my face and pushed it into my left cheek. I stood up, and immediately the young female waitress (B.Suvd-Erdene) placed her body between me and the Mongolian male, raising each of her arms to our chests. I heard then two other employees of the restaurant saying things in Mongolian that I did not understand. Then the first Mongolian male came into the restaurant, said to me in English, “Don’t worry,” put his hands on the one who had assaulted me with the fork, pushed him out the door, and followed him out the door of the restaurant.
I gently maneuvered myself around the waitress and went out the door. The first Mongolian male was standing at the top of the steps and the perpetrator was walking on the sidewalk away from the bottom of the steps. The male at the top of the steps looked at me and I said to him in English, “What is your friend’s problem?” He said in English, “It is okay, it is nothing, I am sorry,” and then started walking down the steps. I walked back into the restaurant. As I walked in, the young male waiter (O.Eyambatav) looked at me with a concerned expression and I said in Mongolian, “Zugeer.” [It’s okay.]
I sat again in my seat and finished eating what remained of my meal and drank the last of the Coca-Cola. There was pain in my cheek. The fork with which the perpetrator had assaulted me was lying on my table; it was very bent. I finished eating within a few minutes and left the restaurant.
I went directly to my apartment. It was approximately 04:20 a.m. when I arrived in my apartment. I looked at my cheek in a mirror and saw a red gash. I took ten photographs of my cheek and then cleaned my cheek with soap and water and disinfectant alcohol. I transferred the photographs from my camera to my computer. I then left my apartment and went back to the restaurant to record the names of the young waiter and waitress and preserve the fork.
At the restaurant, B.Suvd-Erdene and O.Eyambatav wrote their names on a sheet of paper for me, and Eyambatav located the fork. It had already been straightened. I asked them to keep the fork in a secure place until the police had been notified.
I then returned to my apartment.
After working at my computer last night until 24:00 midnight and sleeping for a couple of hours, I awoke hungry and went to the 24-hour Zochin Buuz located approximately one-half block from my apartment in Chingeltei duureg, 3-r khoroo. I have dined at this restaurant nearly every day for the past six to eight weeks, occasionally late at night. I left my apartment at approximately 03:00 a.m. It was raining.
Arriving at the restaurant, I noted three Australian males seated together in the front room near the entranceway to the back room, and two or three Mongolians seated in the front room. I walked to my usual table in the back room, decided that it was hot there, and moved to the table next to the door.
From the young male waiter (O.Eyambatav), I ordered my usual meal of goulash and niislii salat [salad], with two Coca-Colas. The meal was soon brought out.
While eating, the Mongolians left the restaurant, leaving only the three Australian males with me as patrons.
Some minutes later, two Mongolian males, in their 20s, medium height, slim, dressed in black, entered the restaurant. They took seats at a table in the front room, behind me. As they sat, one of them said something in a harsh tone in Mongolian that I did not understand, though I heard the word “gadaad” [foreign], and then one of them made a loud banging noise on the table.
Approximately fifteen minutes later, the three Australian males left the restaurant. As they walked down the steps outside the window near my seat, I recognized one of them as an old acquaintance, Sam, and I knocked on the window to get his attention. He stepped back inside and we had a conversation in English that lasted for approximately five minutes. He then left the restaurant.
Some minutes after that, the two Mongolian males got up behind me. One of them passed by my table and left the restaurant. The other one, following the first, stopped at my table. He said something in Mongolian that I did not understand and slammed a steel fork in his right hand onto my table in front of me. Seated, I looked at him and said in Mongolian, “Yasan be, minii duu?” [What happened, my little brother?] He then said, “Eh?” He then quickly said again “Eh?” and leaned his face close to mine. I said nothing. He quickly straightened up and then made two or three feinting lunges at me with his upper body and slammed the fork in his right hand into the table again. I did not respond. He then raised the fork to my face and pushed it into my left cheek. I stood up, and immediately the young female waitress (B.Suvd-Erdene) placed her body between me and the Mongolian male, raising each of her arms to our chests. I heard then two other employees of the restaurant saying things in Mongolian that I did not understand. Then the first Mongolian male came into the restaurant, said to me in English, “Don’t worry,” put his hands on the one who had assaulted me with the fork, pushed him out the door, and followed him out the door of the restaurant.
I gently maneuvered myself around the waitress and went out the door. The first Mongolian male was standing at the top of the steps and the perpetrator was walking on the sidewalk away from the bottom of the steps. The male at the top of the steps looked at me and I said to him in English, “What is your friend’s problem?” He said in English, “It is okay, it is nothing, I am sorry,” and then started walking down the steps. I walked back into the restaurant. As I walked in, the young male waiter (O.Eyambatav) looked at me with a concerned expression and I said in Mongolian, “Zugeer.” [It’s okay.]
I sat again in my seat and finished eating what remained of my meal and drank the last of the Coca-Cola. There was pain in my cheek. The fork with which the perpetrator had assaulted me was lying on my table; it was very bent. I finished eating within a few minutes and left the restaurant.
I went directly to my apartment. It was approximately 04:20 a.m. when I arrived in my apartment. I looked at my cheek in a mirror and saw a red gash. I took ten photographs of my cheek and then cleaned my cheek with soap and water and disinfectant alcohol. I transferred the photographs from my camera to my computer. I then left my apartment and went back to the restaurant to record the names of the young waiter and waitress and preserve the fork.
At the restaurant, B.Suvd-Erdene and O.Eyambatav wrote their names on a sheet of paper for me, and Eyambatav located the fork. It had already been straightened. I asked them to keep the fork in a secure place until the police had been notified.
I then returned to my apartment.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
Since the city turned off the central heating as scheduled on May 15th, and it snowed the next day, and then it snowed again the following week, here's me at home in my winter deel (lined with sheepskin), in front of a thangka of the Wrathful Deity and a map of Mongolia.
Monday, May 8, 2006
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
After days of warming weather, we had an unexpected heavy snowfall, beginning during the night. The snow melted quickly.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar
It wasn't much of a surgery. I don't know why I was expecting it to be a full, cinematic surgery experience like last time. This time, he just sat me down in a chair in the trauma room. He gave me a massive dose of painkiller in the shoulder. I didn't feel anything during the operation. I did pass out right at the beginning. I don't know how long I was out. I woke up and didn't know where I was. I was on the verge of panic, because I couldn't figure out where I was. I wondered if I was dead, then immediately decided that it didn't matter if I was "alive" or "dead," because if I was experiencing consciousness, that was all that mattered, and I am all that exists, and everything that I was seeing was an illusion. Then I finally realized where I was: I was on Earth. And that reassured me. I yet didn't know more than that; whether I was in Mongolia or Australia or Mexico, or in a hospital or my kitchen or on a horse, I didn't know. They were clear thoughts, but they weren't formed with language -- they were like "thought-feelings." Then I realized that the doctor was asking me, "Zugeer uu? Zugeer uu?" And I started mumbling in English, which he doesn't know, "It's okay, it's okay. Fine," and finally, "Zugeer." I was fine after that. It seemed the first pin took no time at all, but maybe I had been passed out for most of it. The second one seemed to take a long time. He had a pliers, and he was pulling and twisting and yanking for ten or fifteen minutes. Eventually got it out, and stitched up the cut. Two stitches. No worries.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Mongolia
Photo with Sumya, Chinggis Khaan, Cleidi, and Odbaatar in the History Museum
Bonjour. Some notes since arriving back in Mongolia in February:
In June, an immigration official looked me in the eye and told me that he was going to deport me. That was the climax of a month-long saga involving deceit, corruption, and the midnight train to China. I'm still here, of course.
In July, I bought an apartment in downtown Ulaanbaatar (top floor, south facing, balcony, just set back from Peace Avenue), and I established my Mongolian company: Radigan Co., Ltd.
Also in July, I fell off a horse at a full gallop jumping over a hole and busted my collarbone. After a 15k ride back to the ger, plenty of vodka, and a three-hour drive back to UB, I had surgery and they inserted steel pins to hold the bone together while it heals.
In August, I visited the central prison for the first time with my friend Martin. Martin is an Australian immigration lawyer, among other things. Last year, he was wrongfully incarcerated at the prison. He didn't eat or drink as a hunger strike until they let him out, which they did after a week when a doctor pronounced he was a day away from death. While in the prison, Martin learned that it has no running water. The prison is an old Red Army barracks complex that was converted after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Russians didn't put in any plumbing when they built the place some thirty years ago. Water is delivered by tanker truck and parceled out to the prisoners in plastic bags; the bucket in each cell is emptied out the window. After Martin got out, he set about raising funds and getting equipment-time donated, mainly from Australian and other foreign mining companies in Mongolia, and he has now drilled a well and built a main into the prison. The project is set to be completed this month; it needs to be completed before the winter. The first snowfall was September 16th.
In June, an immigration official looked me in the eye and told me that he was going to deport me. That was the climax of a month-long saga involving deceit, corruption, and the midnight train to China. I'm still here, of course.
In July, I bought an apartment in downtown Ulaanbaatar (top floor, south facing, balcony, just set back from Peace Avenue), and I established my Mongolian company: Radigan Co., Ltd.
Also in July, I fell off a horse at a full gallop jumping over a hole and busted my collarbone. After a 15k ride back to the ger, plenty of vodka, and a three-hour drive back to UB, I had surgery and they inserted steel pins to hold the bone together while it heals.
In August, I visited the central prison for the first time with my friend Martin. Martin is an Australian immigration lawyer, among other things. Last year, he was wrongfully incarcerated at the prison. He didn't eat or drink as a hunger strike until they let him out, which they did after a week when a doctor pronounced he was a day away from death. While in the prison, Martin learned that it has no running water. The prison is an old Red Army barracks complex that was converted after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Russians didn't put in any plumbing when they built the place some thirty years ago. Water is delivered by tanker truck and parceled out to the prisoners in plastic bags; the bucket in each cell is emptied out the window. After Martin got out, he set about raising funds and getting equipment-time donated, mainly from Australian and other foreign mining companies in Mongolia, and he has now drilled a well and built a main into the prison. The project is set to be completed this month; it needs to be completed before the winter. The first snowfall was September 16th.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Mongolia
Grassy, snowy desert-steppe, tan and white, is rolling by the window. The train passed the border from China into Mongolia, changing wheels and stamping passports, around midnight, eight hours ago. We are rolling northwest, towards Ulaanbaatar. Five years I have been away from Mongolia. I have done and seen many things; I have loved and been loved; friends have died. Horses and gers, smoke puffing from their chimney-pipes, pock the expansive land. Sky is a clear, pale blue. I have returned.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
China, Beijing
On the way to the Chinese embassy in Perth to apply for my visa, Brett affected a spot-on, intimidating High Mandarin accent: "What is your business in the People's Republic of China?" Then he affected a spot-on, bouncing Midwestern American accent: "Freedom! I'm here to bring American freedom to the Chinese!"
When I got into China and exchanged dollars for Chinese yuan, I noticed immediately that the old Mongolian script is one of five languages printed on the back of every Chinese bill.
I trained into the country from Hanoi and trained north through the vastness of China to Beijing.
A week in Beijing. American expatriates, European tourists, and friendly Chinese.
Olympics in 2008.
Hung out with Alexis, a French photographer, in Beijing. She had come to China to get photos of the Chinese New Year celebrations for a magazine in France. Unfortunately, she had not gotten a single photo of a dragon dance, because she had not found a single dragon dance. This was problematic for her because the French magazine wanted photos of dragon dances, because all of the people in France know that all of the people in China celebrate the New Year with dragon dances, even if all of the people in China do not know this.
Went with Alexis and some Chinese fashion models to an uber-trendy nightclub one night. The models started playing drinking games. I fell asleep.
Many say that Beijing and Shanghai and Xian and a dozen other Chinese cities are changing daily. Half of all the construction cranes in the world are in China.
"When China wakes, she will shake the world."
--Napoleon Bonaparte
My high point in Beijing was hanging out with a dude named Tulgaa in the Mongolian embassy. He speaks Russian but no English. He was on his way to Hong Kong to buy watches to take back to Ulaanbaatar and sell in his shop. I rode with him to the train station to catch his train. We got in a cab with a Mongolian driver. I asked the driver if he spoke Russian, and Tulgaa told me that he was Chinese. I was confused. Then he told me that the driver was from the Chinese province of Inner Mongolia. This was the first Mongolian I had ever met who was from China, even though there are more citizens of China who are ethnic Mongolians than there are citizens of the country of Mongolia. So the driver had never studied Russian, but spoke fluent Mandarin. Then I realized that he, along with the three million other ethnic Mongolians in China, must read and write Mongolian in the old Mongolian alphabet, not the Russian Cyrillic. I had never thought of this before, not even when I had seen the old alphabet on the Chinese money.
Tulgaa chatted with the driver in Mongolian on the way. After we got out of the cab at the train station, Tulgaa said to me, "He's a Chinese Mongolian. He's just like all the other Chinese." Tulgaa speaks not a word of any Chinese language. Hanging out in the train station, speaking Russian amongst the convulsing hordes of countless Chinese, we made plans to meet up again in UB after we both got back there in the next week.
When I got into China and exchanged dollars for Chinese yuan, I noticed immediately that the old Mongolian script is one of five languages printed on the back of every Chinese bill.
I trained into the country from Hanoi and trained north through the vastness of China to Beijing.
A week in Beijing. American expatriates, European tourists, and friendly Chinese.
Olympics in 2008.
Hung out with Alexis, a French photographer, in Beijing. She had come to China to get photos of the Chinese New Year celebrations for a magazine in France. Unfortunately, she had not gotten a single photo of a dragon dance, because she had not found a single dragon dance. This was problematic for her because the French magazine wanted photos of dragon dances, because all of the people in France know that all of the people in China celebrate the New Year with dragon dances, even if all of the people in China do not know this.
Went with Alexis and some Chinese fashion models to an uber-trendy nightclub one night. The models started playing drinking games. I fell asleep.
Many say that Beijing and Shanghai and Xian and a dozen other Chinese cities are changing daily. Half of all the construction cranes in the world are in China.
"When China wakes, she will shake the world."
--Napoleon Bonaparte
My high point in Beijing was hanging out with a dude named Tulgaa in the Mongolian embassy. He speaks Russian but no English. He was on his way to Hong Kong to buy watches to take back to Ulaanbaatar and sell in his shop. I rode with him to the train station to catch his train. We got in a cab with a Mongolian driver. I asked the driver if he spoke Russian, and Tulgaa told me that he was Chinese. I was confused. Then he told me that the driver was from the Chinese province of Inner Mongolia. This was the first Mongolian I had ever met who was from China, even though there are more citizens of China who are ethnic Mongolians than there are citizens of the country of Mongolia. So the driver had never studied Russian, but spoke fluent Mandarin. Then I realized that he, along with the three million other ethnic Mongolians in China, must read and write Mongolian in the old Mongolian alphabet, not the Russian Cyrillic. I had never thought of this before, not even when I had seen the old alphabet on the Chinese money.
Tulgaa chatted with the driver in Mongolian on the way. After we got out of the cab at the train station, Tulgaa said to me, "He's a Chinese Mongolian. He's just like all the other Chinese." Tulgaa speaks not a word of any Chinese language. Hanging out in the train station, speaking Russian amongst the convulsing hordes of countless Chinese, we made plans to meet up again in UB after we both got back there in the next week.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Vietnam, Hanoi
"Each day of travelling gains you plenty of wisdom."
--Vietnamese proverb
* * *
My absolute last impression of Australia was bathroom graffiti in the international airport in Perth:
"U.S. Out of North America NOW!"
* * *
My first encounter with Indonesia was in the city of Denpasar on the island of Bali, and Indonesia all-too-comfortably met my prejudiced image of a modern Islamic society--gloriously clean, polite, calm, secure.
In Jakarta, the capital, I figured there was one scooter or motorcycle for every four-wheeled car on the streets. And every rider was wearing a helmet. A billboard advertising an art exhibition featured only one large image: stylized eyes peering out from a full-face moto helmet.
In Jakarta, I nearly married into a strict Muslim family.
Patrice told me that two religions do not make for a happy marriage, so one of us would have to convert. Super easy, thought I. Unlike her parents, Patrice is a "skip the fasting, go to the feast" kind of Muslim, and converting to agnostic indifference doesn't require an examination nor a ceremony. However, I quickly learned, her parents would not accept her not being a Muslim. Therefore, one of us would have to convert.
In the airport at Jakarta, awaiting the plane to Ho Chi Minh, I saw MTV Asia. Broadcast throughout Asia with most of its content in English, it has the largest audience of any MTV incarnation and one of the largest audiences of any television channel in the world. The last time I had seen MTV Asia was in Ulaanbaatar.
* * *
In Ho Chi Minh City, I figured there were 25 scooters for every four-wheeled car. And nobody was wearing a helmet.
The hostel was full, but the girls told me they had room at one of their other hostels. So the smallest one led me outside and fired up a scooter and told me to get on the back. Okay. So I suspended my moto-safety fanaticism and climbed aboard. Suddenly I was part of the world-infamous Vietnamese scooter traffic.
"If you are afraid, do not do it. If you do it, do not be afraid."
--Mongolian proverb
At the other hostel, the girls told me that they were full, but they would get me a room at the hotel across the street. So the tallest one led me outside to cross the street, which is even more dangerous than riding through the street. Standing on the curb, she held out her hand to me and waited. So, like a small child, I put my hand in hers. Then we literally waded into the traffic. As we finally got to the other curb, she let go of my hand. I raised a foot to place on the curb, saw the scooter in the corner of my eye, stepped back, attempted to yelp a warning, followed the scooter with my eyes as it passed me, and watched it hit the girl. She fell down, stood back up, the scooter sailed off, and then she waved impatiently at me. I stepped up on the curb and we went inside the hotel.
French and Germans overflowing out of the hostels.
Two days on the Reunification Train up to Hanoi. Hanoi seems so familiar: cold weather and Soviet-style disrepair.
There is a Hilton Hotel in Hanoi.
* * *
The Mongol empire extended beyond China and down the coast of Southeast Asia, which is known in our time as Vietnam. It even extended into the islands off Southeast Asia, including the island of Java, on which is located Jakarta.
--Vietnamese proverb
* * *
My absolute last impression of Australia was bathroom graffiti in the international airport in Perth:
"U.S. Out of North America NOW!"
* * *
My first encounter with Indonesia was in the city of Denpasar on the island of Bali, and Indonesia all-too-comfortably met my prejudiced image of a modern Islamic society--gloriously clean, polite, calm, secure.
In Jakarta, the capital, I figured there was one scooter or motorcycle for every four-wheeled car on the streets. And every rider was wearing a helmet. A billboard advertising an art exhibition featured only one large image: stylized eyes peering out from a full-face moto helmet.
In Jakarta, I nearly married into a strict Muslim family.
Patrice told me that two religions do not make for a happy marriage, so one of us would have to convert. Super easy, thought I. Unlike her parents, Patrice is a "skip the fasting, go to the feast" kind of Muslim, and converting to agnostic indifference doesn't require an examination nor a ceremony. However, I quickly learned, her parents would not accept her not being a Muslim. Therefore, one of us would have to convert.
In the airport at Jakarta, awaiting the plane to Ho Chi Minh, I saw MTV Asia. Broadcast throughout Asia with most of its content in English, it has the largest audience of any MTV incarnation and one of the largest audiences of any television channel in the world. The last time I had seen MTV Asia was in Ulaanbaatar.
* * *
In Ho Chi Minh City, I figured there were 25 scooters for every four-wheeled car. And nobody was wearing a helmet.
The hostel was full, but the girls told me they had room at one of their other hostels. So the smallest one led me outside and fired up a scooter and told me to get on the back. Okay. So I suspended my moto-safety fanaticism and climbed aboard. Suddenly I was part of the world-infamous Vietnamese scooter traffic.
"If you are afraid, do not do it. If you do it, do not be afraid."
--Mongolian proverb
At the other hostel, the girls told me that they were full, but they would get me a room at the hotel across the street. So the tallest one led me outside to cross the street, which is even more dangerous than riding through the street. Standing on the curb, she held out her hand to me and waited. So, like a small child, I put my hand in hers. Then we literally waded into the traffic. As we finally got to the other curb, she let go of my hand. I raised a foot to place on the curb, saw the scooter in the corner of my eye, stepped back, attempted to yelp a warning, followed the scooter with my eyes as it passed me, and watched it hit the girl. She fell down, stood back up, the scooter sailed off, and then she waved impatiently at me. I stepped up on the curb and we went inside the hotel.
French and Germans overflowing out of the hostels.
Two days on the Reunification Train up to Hanoi. Hanoi seems so familiar: cold weather and Soviet-style disrepair.
There is a Hilton Hotel in Hanoi.
* * *
The Mongol empire extended beyond China and down the coast of Southeast Asia, which is known in our time as Vietnam. It even extended into the islands off Southeast Asia, including the island of Java, on which is located Jakarta.
Saturday, February 5, 2005
Australia, Western Australia, Perth
When I first arrived in Australia in Sydney, I mentioned to Ros, the Aussie woman I had met in Costa Rica, that I had never seen so many Australians all in one place before.
"Funny that," she replied.
She also said, "shark-feeding time," when she jumped into the Pacific for a swim.
I stayed in Sydney for a week.
* * *
For three days from the window of the Indian Pacific Train while crossing the breadth of Australia, I had seen a lot of flat empty sun-burned nothing, punctuated by a total of eight kangaroos. Two days after arriving in Western Australia on the other side of the Outback, I was standing on a dune overlooking a stretch of desert with a Spanish-Italian couple, a girl from Switzerland, and Brett, my old Aussie mate from Perth. In the distance, just beyond the desert, we could see the sun shining on the Indian Ocean.
Brett commented, "When the first Europeans were sailing around Australia and they saw desert like this from the ships, it's easy to see how they thought the whole country was like this."
We each gazed round at the sand and rocks and sun. I looked at the Europeans and then over to Brett.
"It is," I said.
* * *
When I first met Brett in Ohio five years ago, it was his first time off his island, and he was just another naive Aussie. Now I arrive in Western Australia and find him having just returned from several months in Spain and Portugal, speaking Spanish better than I do.
To study Spanish in Perth, Brett has found Enrico and Angela, one of whom is Spanish living in Italy and the other Italian who has lived in Spain. They are in Australia for six months to improve their already-fluent English. The effect so far has been the peppering of their English with expressions like "No worries" and "Good on you" and "Bugger me."
Enrico and Angela are living in a boarding house filled mostly with students from Japan. They are very excited about this. "It is the first time we get to know Asian people!" They continue: "We think they do not like being touched. They never say it, they are so polite, but when you touch them, they get very tense and say, 'O-oh! O-oh!'"
Their friend Eva, the Swiss girl, is in Perth for a year to study English. She is staying with her uncle, who had emigrated to Australia from Switzerland 15 years ago, gotten married, gotten divorced, and is now living with his partner, waiting for Australia to change its laws so they can get married.
The five of us drove into the countryside north of Perth to camp for several days and fish and look at big rocks.
* * *
Sitting in the shade of a rock ledge in a state park, Brett was telling us about the water hole we were going to hike to and swim in later that afternoon.
"It’s a real nice place, in the gorge and all that. Real beautiful. Oh, yeah, and there are some crocs in this swimming hole, but they’re just little ones; nothing to worry about."
"What?" came the wide-eyed, collective Euro-reply.
"Well, yeah, but they’re just little ones--only a couple metres or so. They won’t bite you or anything. Well, they might nibble your leg a bit, but--"
Then he turned on me. "Oy! What did you start laughing for? I would've had them! I would've had them!"
* * *
Brett and I were walking out of a canyon in the direct 40-degree-Celsius sun.
Brett said, "The heat is so relaxing, you know. You just feel calm. Not like when it's cold and you shiver and all that."
I said, "You have to come to Mongolia, Brett, and ride around on a horse in 20-below weather."
"Yeah... uh... roight... uh, that doesn't sound like fun, Rad."
"Bah! Lets you know you're alive," I said, and thumped my chest twice with my fist. "Here, you know, here, in this overheated lethargy, you could just as well be dead. You wouldn't even notice."
"Yeah, yeah, roight, that's true, yeah."
"Funny that," she replied.
She also said, "shark-feeding time," when she jumped into the Pacific for a swim.
I stayed in Sydney for a week.
* * *
For three days from the window of the Indian Pacific Train while crossing the breadth of Australia, I had seen a lot of flat empty sun-burned nothing, punctuated by a total of eight kangaroos. Two days after arriving in Western Australia on the other side of the Outback, I was standing on a dune overlooking a stretch of desert with a Spanish-Italian couple, a girl from Switzerland, and Brett, my old Aussie mate from Perth. In the distance, just beyond the desert, we could see the sun shining on the Indian Ocean.
Brett commented, "When the first Europeans were sailing around Australia and they saw desert like this from the ships, it's easy to see how they thought the whole country was like this."
We each gazed round at the sand and rocks and sun. I looked at the Europeans and then over to Brett.
"It is," I said.
* * *
When I first met Brett in Ohio five years ago, it was his first time off his island, and he was just another naive Aussie. Now I arrive in Western Australia and find him having just returned from several months in Spain and Portugal, speaking Spanish better than I do.
To study Spanish in Perth, Brett has found Enrico and Angela, one of whom is Spanish living in Italy and the other Italian who has lived in Spain. They are in Australia for six months to improve their already-fluent English. The effect so far has been the peppering of their English with expressions like "No worries" and "Good on you" and "Bugger me."
Enrico and Angela are living in a boarding house filled mostly with students from Japan. They are very excited about this. "It is the first time we get to know Asian people!" They continue: "We think they do not like being touched. They never say it, they are so polite, but when you touch them, they get very tense and say, 'O-oh! O-oh!'"
Their friend Eva, the Swiss girl, is in Perth for a year to study English. She is staying with her uncle, who had emigrated to Australia from Switzerland 15 years ago, gotten married, gotten divorced, and is now living with his partner, waiting for Australia to change its laws so they can get married.
The five of us drove into the countryside north of Perth to camp for several days and fish and look at big rocks.
* * *
Sitting in the shade of a rock ledge in a state park, Brett was telling us about the water hole we were going to hike to and swim in later that afternoon.
"It’s a real nice place, in the gorge and all that. Real beautiful. Oh, yeah, and there are some crocs in this swimming hole, but they’re just little ones; nothing to worry about."
"What?" came the wide-eyed, collective Euro-reply.
"Well, yeah, but they’re just little ones--only a couple metres or so. They won’t bite you or anything. Well, they might nibble your leg a bit, but--"
Then he turned on me. "Oy! What did you start laughing for? I would've had them! I would've had them!"
* * *
Brett and I were walking out of a canyon in the direct 40-degree-Celsius sun.
Brett said, "The heat is so relaxing, you know. You just feel calm. Not like when it's cold and you shiver and all that."
I said, "You have to come to Mongolia, Brett, and ride around on a horse in 20-below weather."
"Yeah... uh... roight... uh, that doesn't sound like fun, Rad."
"Bah! Lets you know you're alive," I said, and thumped my chest twice with my fist. "Here, you know, here, in this overheated lethargy, you could just as well be dead. You wouldn't even notice."
"Yeah, yeah, roight, that's true, yeah."
Saturday, January 1, 2005
Panama, Panama City
I’m spending time with a cop. Her name is Zulaika. She’s a motorcycle cop on the Panama City Municipal Police Force. It is almost humorous, as Zulaika is tiny and rides a 200cc motorcycle; it would be humorous, except that she can muster such a serious set to her jawline.
Zulaika speaks only Spanish. She’s 25 years old and she’s never left Panama, hardly ever left Panama City. I call her "fascistita" because all cops are fascists, and she calls me "casperito" after Casper the Ghost. She wants a baby in a couple years, and she told me that I should come back then so she can have a green-eyed baby. Unfortunately, as I’ve tried to explain to her, green eyes are recessive.
She asked me once, "Will you fight?" which is a line typically used by men on women in Panama, the implication being: "Will you fight when I rape you?" If you are interested, the appropriate response is: "Yes, I will fight."
Staying in the Casco Viejo, or "Old Town," of Panama City. This is the site where the Spaniards moved the city after the buccaneer Sir Henry Morgan sacked and burned the original in 1671. The event is fancifully described by the American writer John Steinbeck in his novel, Cup of Gold. The "Cup of Gold" referred to in the title is Panama City.
The hotel has a garden patio on the roof. To the right, the Bridge of the Americas and all of the ships standing offshore in the Pacific waiting to transit the canal. To the left, across the inlet, the clustered line of skyscrapers that make up downtown Panama City. At night, the lights are everywhere, and the proprietary Panamanian Spanish-language reggae music thrums up from the bars. And last night, fireworks and firearms were going off all over the city. The hotel has no hot water, but one doesn’t notice, because the weather is so hot.
The Casco Viejo includes the Plaza Francia. The French embassy stands there, and a promenade encircles a monument to the French attempt to build a canal in the 1880's. 22,000 people died in the effort, most of them from France and the French Caribbean islands of Martinique and Guadalupe. One director of the project arrived in Panama from Paris with his wife and two sons, and returned to Paris two years later with three caskets. The French finally gave up in 1889.
The street food is tragic. Fried chicken and chow mein. I’m so far from Mexico now. I’d give my boots for a corn tortilla and some salsa, or half a pickled jalapeno.
This December was the 15th anniversary of the American invasion of Panama. The news media carried coverage of the events held in the cemeteries to commemorate the people killed by the American military during Operation "Causa Justa." The Americans' "Just Cause" was to remove their own ex-collaborator, Noriega, who had gotten out of their control.
Zulaika was 10 years old then and remembers American soldiers camping in front of her house.
Zulaika speaks only Spanish. She’s 25 years old and she’s never left Panama, hardly ever left Panama City. I call her "fascistita" because all cops are fascists, and she calls me "casperito" after Casper the Ghost. She wants a baby in a couple years, and she told me that I should come back then so she can have a green-eyed baby. Unfortunately, as I’ve tried to explain to her, green eyes are recessive.
She asked me once, "Will you fight?" which is a line typically used by men on women in Panama, the implication being: "Will you fight when I rape you?" If you are interested, the appropriate response is: "Yes, I will fight."
Staying in the Casco Viejo, or "Old Town," of Panama City. This is the site where the Spaniards moved the city after the buccaneer Sir Henry Morgan sacked and burned the original in 1671. The event is fancifully described by the American writer John Steinbeck in his novel, Cup of Gold. The "Cup of Gold" referred to in the title is Panama City.
The hotel has a garden patio on the roof. To the right, the Bridge of the Americas and all of the ships standing offshore in the Pacific waiting to transit the canal. To the left, across the inlet, the clustered line of skyscrapers that make up downtown Panama City. At night, the lights are everywhere, and the proprietary Panamanian Spanish-language reggae music thrums up from the bars. And last night, fireworks and firearms were going off all over the city. The hotel has no hot water, but one doesn’t notice, because the weather is so hot.
The Casco Viejo includes the Plaza Francia. The French embassy stands there, and a promenade encircles a monument to the French attempt to build a canal in the 1880's. 22,000 people died in the effort, most of them from France and the French Caribbean islands of Martinique and Guadalupe. One director of the project arrived in Panama from Paris with his wife and two sons, and returned to Paris two years later with three caskets. The French finally gave up in 1889.
The street food is tragic. Fried chicken and chow mein. I’m so far from Mexico now. I’d give my boots for a corn tortilla and some salsa, or half a pickled jalapeno.
This December was the 15th anniversary of the American invasion of Panama. The news media carried coverage of the events held in the cemeteries to commemorate the people killed by the American military during Operation "Causa Justa." The Americans' "Just Cause" was to remove their own ex-collaborator, Noriega, who had gotten out of their control.
Zulaika was 10 years old then and remembers American soldiers camping in front of her house.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Costa Rica, Rivas
I suddenly became homesick for Russia this morning. I was laying in bed in Costa Rica reading a novel set in New York City, listening to a weedwhacker running outside and feeling the tin roof slowly heat up with the sun and thinking of getting up in a few minutes and picking some oranges off the trees in the yard and squeezing some orange juice. Then I missed Russia. I thought, it's November, and I've seen Russia in all of the other months, but never November. I thought of the frozen rivers, and the dark skies, walking the cities of Russia, all the concrete, the people wearing fur, the ice cream, the electric trolleybuses. Blue eyes framed by darkened eyelashes. Frozen breath clouding faces when they speak, in that language, lilting along. I'll send some email later today to Russia, to California, to France, to other corners, I decided.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Guatemala, Guatemala City
Through Mexico in a week. Mexico is a big country. From the desert to the mountains to the farmland to the largest city in the world and finally into the jungle.
Now in Guatemala City. It's an hour and a half from the Pacific and a mile high in elevation. It has been two years since I last saw Brent in Tennessee. He has been here for those last two years, running a dig for his archaeology doctorate. His site is in and around a cave complex, in conjunction with one of the principle excavations currently being dug in the ancient Mayan world. Some of the material being recovered is gorgeous. I was in the lab yesterday, surrounded by some very photogenic bas-reliefs and stuccoes that Brent quietly described as "priceless." In fact, their black market value is in the hundreds of thousands or millions of U.S. dollars. Robbery is a big, big problem and a constant threat. Brent passionately loves the archaeology, the danger, the country, the food, and the people. He's planning to marry Mirza, an exceptional Guatemalan archaeology student.
Now in Guatemala City. It's an hour and a half from the Pacific and a mile high in elevation. It has been two years since I last saw Brent in Tennessee. He has been here for those last two years, running a dig for his archaeology doctorate. His site is in and around a cave complex, in conjunction with one of the principle excavations currently being dug in the ancient Mayan world. Some of the material being recovered is gorgeous. I was in the lab yesterday, surrounded by some very photogenic bas-reliefs and stuccoes that Brent quietly described as "priceless." In fact, their black market value is in the hundreds of thousands or millions of U.S. dollars. Robbery is a big, big problem and a constant threat. Brent passionately loves the archaeology, the danger, the country, the food, and the people. He's planning to marry Mirza, an exceptional Guatemalan archaeology student.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
U.S.A., Washington, Seattle
E----- woke me up when she left for work. I listened to the rain tapping onto the balcony outside. Microsoft is putting her up in a corporate high-rise, downtown, on the waterfront. I rolled out of bed and stood at the window. I looked at the ships chugging past the docks, the wet rooftops of the buildings lining the wet streets, the people far below walking with their coffee and their rainjackets. I came here to say good-bye, not to E-----, for her I’ll see again in Asia one day, but to this, my favorite American city.
Last night at dinner with some of her new Microsoft cohorts, I answered a question with, “I’m on my way back to Mongolia.” Sandeep responded that he had just returned from spending the summer traveling in East Asia. “Mongolia was the last country I visited,” he said, “and the most amazing.”
Last night at dinner with some of her new Microsoft cohorts, I answered a question with, “I’m on my way back to Mongolia.” Sandeep responded that he had just returned from spending the summer traveling in East Asia. “Mongolia was the last country I visited,” he said, “and the most amazing.”
Sunday, September 28, 2003
U.S.A., North Dakota
Uncle J ramrodded a trail ride on his ranch. The ride camped near Poison Lake.
Poison Lake, as the story goes, got its name in the Dakota Territory days. A cattle drive passed through in the sweltering heat of summer. When they arrived at the lake, the spare horses ran out into it. Poison Lake is a spring-fed lake, and is very cold year-round. Before they could get the horses out, many of them had already drunk themselves to death. The cowboys had to get on to the railhead, and so left the corpses of the horses in the lake. Local settlers later saw the corpses and named the lake "Poison Lake."
First picture - Uncle J.
Second - J's girlfriend Teri. Teri was a professional rodeo rider when she was younger. She completely lost her eyesight ten years ago, but has never stopped riding; her horses still see very well.
Third - C'est moi.
Poison Lake, as the story goes, got its name in the Dakota Territory days. A cattle drive passed through in the sweltering heat of summer. When they arrived at the lake, the spare horses ran out into it. Poison Lake is a spring-fed lake, and is very cold year-round. Before they could get the horses out, many of them had already drunk themselves to death. The cowboys had to get on to the railhead, and so left the corpses of the horses in the lake. Local settlers later saw the corpses and named the lake "Poison Lake."
First picture - Uncle J.
Second - J's girlfriend Teri. Teri was a professional rodeo rider when she was younger. She completely lost her eyesight ten years ago, but has never stopped riding; her horses still see very well.
Third - C'est moi.
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
Monday, April 21, 2003
U.S.A., Louisiana, Eunice
Tomorrow I go out into the bayou. For this, like all of my adventures, I have a dull hope that I never return.
U.S.A., Louisiana, Eunice
It is raining; it is raining! I love the gentle sound, the fresh smell. I have something which I have always wanted: an upstairs room in a rain-soaked country.
Friday, April 4, 2003
U.S.A., Louisiana, Eunice
I just got back from Ciudad de Mexico. That's a big damn city. The biggest, in fact.
Wednesday, March 5, 2003
Tuesday, January 14, 2003
Saturday, November 23, 2002
Wednesday, November 6, 2002
Sunday, November 3, 2002
U.S.A., Louisiana, Eunice
I see her shoulders, her hips, her legs. Though walking away, obscured by the rain and dimly lit, her femininity is radiant. She fills the night with her beauty. The Liberty Theatre, the brick wall of the Prairie Acadian Cultural Center, City Hall, the parking lot, the giant Baptist church all echo her beauty back into the night as if it were a bell chime. I turn and walk home in the beautiful rain.
Thursday, September 12, 2002
U.S.A., Minnesota, New Brighton
I would already be eastbound, but I ran the machine two quarts low on oil and then it felt like it was on three cylinders, so I took it into a shop.
Chicago, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Boston, DC, Nashville, Louisiana, Texas, Phoenix, LA. It almost feels like a chore... but this should be the last time I see these people in this hemisphere, and perhaps ever.
And I'd like to meander through Appalachia, Cajun country, West Texas. I'd like to learn French in a bayou in Louisiana. What if I stayed there? Could I?
Chicago, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Boston, DC, Nashville, Louisiana, Texas, Phoenix, LA. It almost feels like a chore... but this should be the last time I see these people in this hemisphere, and perhaps ever.
And I'd like to meander through Appalachia, Cajun country, West Texas. I'd like to learn French in a bayou in Louisiana. What if I stayed there? Could I?
Friday, August 2, 2002
U.S.A., North Dakota
Rode through a thunderstorm in Wyoming. Thought there was supposed to be a drought out here.
Sunday, July 14, 2002
Sunday, June 16, 2002
U.S.A., California, Redwood City
I’ve been charting my life. I see it running into the far distance. There is love in it, and cruelty, and vast spans of ocean water. And horses, and stars, and loneliness.
Friday, April 26, 2002
U.S.A., Minnesota, Minneapolis
Traffic was stacked out of SF down to Redwood City. I got to whiteline for almost half of the way. It was very excellent.
In the airports and planes today, I could still smell your lust on the skin of my face.
In the airports and planes today, I could still smell your lust on the skin of my face.
Monday, March 4, 2002
U.S.A., California, Redwood City
I want never to be married. I want to remain free. I want to stand always in the wind on the deck of a ship, unfettered to anything in my past and to anything in the world. I want to live alone and die alone. But, there exist women. And women like you make me forget the wind. I love the chill and the rain, the sting and harshness of dissolute life. But women are warm and soft and joyful -- women are beauty -- and I love them as well.
But the thought of marrying killed me -- because, if married, every day I would love and it would be a happy life, but I would never be a man alone in the night facing the wind, and that is who I want to be tonight and every night until I die and after I’ve died, forever roaming hilltops, moving between the trees, my knuckles icy, my feet bleeding, hungry, always hungry, and alone, and free.
Last night I rode my motorcycle to a small bar called Henfling’s in a small mountain town called Ben Lomond in the California mountains just south of Silicon Valley to listen to a bluegrass band called Railroad Earth from New Jersey. It amazed me that genuine small mountain towns like that exist so close to Silicon Valley; it was like being back in Colorado. Riding up from the valley into the mountains, the air got steadily colder. There were a lot of motorcycles on the road, as there have been for many days because the weather has been warm and sunny. I listened to the band with a friend from work and some other guys. I recalled that I got into bluegrass music in 1999 in Moscow, listening to a friend’s cassette tape and realizing that the music was making me homesick for Appalachia, a place I’d never been. While riding the metro (subway) under the Russian snow and sitting wrapped in blankets in an eleventh-floor apartment in Moscow, I developed a plan to someday buy a small house in Missouri and spend an autumn sitting on the front porch by day and driving around to small mountain bars by night to listen to bluegrass bands. But yesterday, I was in a small mountain bar in California listening to a bluegrass band from New Jersey. I never could have expected that.
When I left the bar, it was late and dark and very cold. There was still traffic, but there were no other motorcycles on the winding two-lane mountain roads. It was serious motorcycling. The moon was bright to the south, but the tall trees along the roads blackened the roads. I put trust in my headlight and powered through the curves. But often enough I would look at the shallow, rocky ditches of the highway and imagine how cold I would become if I were forced to lie bleeding in one of those ditches for an amount of time. In an instant, I could go from being independent and alone and free, to hurt and helpless and dependent on the kindness of other humans for my life. And so then I would slow for the curves... because I did not want to be forced to ask my fellow humans for anything.
The total ride was over an hour one-way. Back in the valley, riding the freeway, I opened up the machine and passed the cars. I leaned over far, and the bike drifted across lanes. But as I moved over the raised reflectors in the paint between the lanes, the front wheel jerked the handlebars in my hands. I was tired, and my hands were weak with pain from the cold and from holding on for so long. So I stopped to rest and eat.
In the restaurant, I sat facing a group of people -- a couple and two young women and four children. They spoke with each other in American English and in a language unknown to me. Their dress and their appearance and their stature suggested they were connected to a nation of the South Pacific. The women were tall, thick-bodied, with strong, lovely faces and long kinked hair. I unzipped my leather and sat and put a booted foot up on a chair and rubbed heat back into my reddened hands and looked one young woman in the eyes and smiled. She smiled and then looked straight down. Then I looked at the man. He was looking at me. I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. His was the family, and I was the threat. His is the life of love and laughter, but I have only chaos and pain to bring into others’ lives. I can witness the familial life -- I can sit right before it -- but I cannot know it, I cannot understand it, and I do not even believe in it. I can only give daughters secret thrills, and then return to my friend, the darkness.
I fear I’d do anything -- I don’t understand why -- I’d fight God and his Devil and the deities and the spirits and the fire and our other gods and the saints and the earth, to have you. And if I had you, I fear, after time, I’d give up the wind and the night, I’d give it up for warmth and tenderness and the treasure of a woman’s heart. But I do not think it is your place to save me from the night; I do not think that you remain alive to be my savior. I know that if your life has a purpose, it has nothing to do with me. And I know that if my life has a purpose, it has nothing to do with anyone.
But the thought of marrying killed me -- because, if married, every day I would love and it would be a happy life, but I would never be a man alone in the night facing the wind, and that is who I want to be tonight and every night until I die and after I’ve died, forever roaming hilltops, moving between the trees, my knuckles icy, my feet bleeding, hungry, always hungry, and alone, and free.
Last night I rode my motorcycle to a small bar called Henfling’s in a small mountain town called Ben Lomond in the California mountains just south of Silicon Valley to listen to a bluegrass band called Railroad Earth from New Jersey. It amazed me that genuine small mountain towns like that exist so close to Silicon Valley; it was like being back in Colorado. Riding up from the valley into the mountains, the air got steadily colder. There were a lot of motorcycles on the road, as there have been for many days because the weather has been warm and sunny. I listened to the band with a friend from work and some other guys. I recalled that I got into bluegrass music in 1999 in Moscow, listening to a friend’s cassette tape and realizing that the music was making me homesick for Appalachia, a place I’d never been. While riding the metro (subway) under the Russian snow and sitting wrapped in blankets in an eleventh-floor apartment in Moscow, I developed a plan to someday buy a small house in Missouri and spend an autumn sitting on the front porch by day and driving around to small mountain bars by night to listen to bluegrass bands. But yesterday, I was in a small mountain bar in California listening to a bluegrass band from New Jersey. I never could have expected that.
When I left the bar, it was late and dark and very cold. There was still traffic, but there were no other motorcycles on the winding two-lane mountain roads. It was serious motorcycling. The moon was bright to the south, but the tall trees along the roads blackened the roads. I put trust in my headlight and powered through the curves. But often enough I would look at the shallow, rocky ditches of the highway and imagine how cold I would become if I were forced to lie bleeding in one of those ditches for an amount of time. In an instant, I could go from being independent and alone and free, to hurt and helpless and dependent on the kindness of other humans for my life. And so then I would slow for the curves... because I did not want to be forced to ask my fellow humans for anything.
The total ride was over an hour one-way. Back in the valley, riding the freeway, I opened up the machine and passed the cars. I leaned over far, and the bike drifted across lanes. But as I moved over the raised reflectors in the paint between the lanes, the front wheel jerked the handlebars in my hands. I was tired, and my hands were weak with pain from the cold and from holding on for so long. So I stopped to rest and eat.
In the restaurant, I sat facing a group of people -- a couple and two young women and four children. They spoke with each other in American English and in a language unknown to me. Their dress and their appearance and their stature suggested they were connected to a nation of the South Pacific. The women were tall, thick-bodied, with strong, lovely faces and long kinked hair. I unzipped my leather and sat and put a booted foot up on a chair and rubbed heat back into my reddened hands and looked one young woman in the eyes and smiled. She smiled and then looked straight down. Then I looked at the man. He was looking at me. I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. His was the family, and I was the threat. His is the life of love and laughter, but I have only chaos and pain to bring into others’ lives. I can witness the familial life -- I can sit right before it -- but I cannot know it, I cannot understand it, and I do not even believe in it. I can only give daughters secret thrills, and then return to my friend, the darkness.
I fear I’d do anything -- I don’t understand why -- I’d fight God and his Devil and the deities and the spirits and the fire and our other gods and the saints and the earth, to have you. And if I had you, I fear, after time, I’d give up the wind and the night, I’d give it up for warmth and tenderness and the treasure of a woman’s heart. But I do not think it is your place to save me from the night; I do not think that you remain alive to be my savior. I know that if your life has a purpose, it has nothing to do with me. And I know that if my life has a purpose, it has nothing to do with anyone.
Saturday, November 24, 2001
U.S.A., California, Redwood City
In my young mind, Moscow was so far away. Now, can it be, I’ve already lived there?
Saturday, September 1, 2001
Saturday, July 21, 2001
U.S.A., California, San Francisco
Got on the San Francisco Muni for the first time in my life.
impeccably clean
girl with the pink and yellow sunshine flip-flops
exceedingly white people in “Giants” sweatshirts and baseball caps on their way to PacBell Park
a woman wearing a red and white floral print miniskirt with black cowboy boots reading a tattered paperback copy of “Bridge Over the River Kwai”
the ultra-hipster in long leather jacket and pin-striped trousers and double-pronged belt and big scuffed boots and twin silver earrings and orange-tinted sunglasses
a regular-looking dude in sneakers, blue jeans, green T-shirt, short haircut, with a tiny jeweled stud in his nose
a couple holding hands, talking intently, staring deeply, presumably lovers, men
a thirty-something couple of Asian and church-going appearance with an eight-year-old kid in a tan cap. He got up and I saw the stylized ovoid flag-of-Japan patch on the back of his cap
impeccably clean
girl with the pink and yellow sunshine flip-flops
exceedingly white people in “Giants” sweatshirts and baseball caps on their way to PacBell Park
a woman wearing a red and white floral print miniskirt with black cowboy boots reading a tattered paperback copy of “Bridge Over the River Kwai”
the ultra-hipster in long leather jacket and pin-striped trousers and double-pronged belt and big scuffed boots and twin silver earrings and orange-tinted sunglasses
a regular-looking dude in sneakers, blue jeans, green T-shirt, short haircut, with a tiny jeweled stud in his nose
a couple holding hands, talking intently, staring deeply, presumably lovers, men
a thirty-something couple of Asian and church-going appearance with an eight-year-old kid in a tan cap. He got up and I saw the stylized ovoid flag-of-Japan patch on the back of his cap
Friday, July 13, 2001
U.S.A., California, Belmont
Yeah, work’s going okay. Sometimes they let me out of my cage to walk around in the sunshine for a few minutes. You know, if it's a holiday.
Thursday, June 7, 2001
Saturday, December 30, 2000
U.S.A., California, San Francisco
On one of the final days of December 2000, I was standing in the sunshine on a greened hill looking at the Golden Gate Bridge and talking to my brother, who was in his trailer house in the North Star Trailer Park in Minot, North Dakota.
Wednesday, November 1, 2000
U.S.A., Minnesota, Minneapolis
Last evening was warm for the trick-or-treaters. Then it thunderstormed after midnight.
It's raining beautifully outside.
It's raining beautifully outside.
Thursday, September 14, 2000
Tuesday, August 15, 2000
Wednesday, August 9, 2000
U.K., Bermuda, Royal Naval Dockyards
Dove on three wrecks today in two dives. The first dive, we descended to the Constellation. According to Bermuda Shipwrecks by Daniel and Denise Berg, the Constellation was built in 1918, later refitted to be a school, and finally converted back to a freighter in 1942 for the war effort. On its first voyage from New York across the Atlantic, it wrecked on the reef at Bermuda. Its cargo consisted of cement, drugs, and whiskey. The U.S. Navy salvaged the whiskey. Upon descent, we could see the cement, stacked and scattered on the sea floor like pillows. The bags had decomposed and the cement had hardened. At the stern is a windlass and at the bow, a large metal box. Near the bow lies the wreck of the Nola, a.k.a. the Montana, a U.S. Civil War Confederate blockade runner. Its paddle wheels are easily identifiable. I took a slate down with me to write on, but the pencil didn’t work. On the Nola and Constellation, we encountered another group of divers – middle-aged, probably sport divers. They were picking among the litter of the Constellation, picking up and discarding or keeping drug ampules, broken bottles, and such. We surfaced, ate lunch, then dived on the wreck of the Lartington, an English ship wrecked in 1879. Here we could see the two large boilers amidships. I followed the propeller shaft halfway through the wreck, but could not see it clear to the boilers. I also could not see where or how the boilers were attached to anything. I surfaced once during the dive to clear my right ear. On the bow of the Lartington, we could read, “LARTIN.”
Tuesday, August 8, 2000
U.K., Bermuda, Royal Naval Dockyards
Went out on the boat to view three wrecks. Snorkelled on the first one, the Pollockshields. Wreckage spread over a large area – boilers, shells. A German-built ship captured by the British in WW I and used to haul supplies. Then went to two other wrecks, the Minie Breslauer and the Mari Celeste. Another intern arrived yesterday, Sam from Sydney, Australia. (When I first arrived at the hostel, I had concluded that it was not a real hostel, because it was missing the obligatory Aussie. But then he showed up the next day.) Sunburned my face and hands on the boat. At night, I went up to the front of the Commissioner’s House here in the keep. A ship’s mast there perpetually flies tattered Bermudian, Canadian, U.S., and British flags between two well-painted cannons pointing at the sea. A large cruise ship, the Nordic Princess, is docked at the Dockyards. This is Bermuda, the Royal Navy, the Atlantic Trade, the history – but it doesn’t feel like it in the streets. Coke is sold in cans measured to “12 US fl oz.”
Sunday, August 6, 2000
U.K., Bermuda, Royal Naval Dockyards
Arrived in Bermuda today. Arrived at eight p.m. Took a taxi to the Maritime Museum, clear on the other side of the island. The museum is inside the keep of an old British fort. The gate of the keep was locked. I hid my bags in an alcove in the fort wall, took off my shoes and socks, and climbed the gate. The hostel was empty. Found Brian, the old caretaker, sitting outside in his underwear, smelling of liquor. He said he was watching the stars. He apologized for being in his underwear. He opened the gate for me and I retrieved my bags.
Sunday, July 2, 2000
U.S.A., South Dakota
It’s nearly the Fourth of July weekend. Americans love their flags. They’re everywhere. Saw a pick-up on the Interstate with min-American flags duct-taped to it, flapping in the 75-mph breeze. I even have an American flag sticker in the corner of the windshield of my Buick. It was there when I bought the car. Which is a good thing; otherwise I would have had to find a flag sticker myself.
I rolled through Kansas City at twilight in the last hours of June, 2000. I listened to a KC radio station deejaying and broadcasting live from a club in the city. They were also being simultaneously web-cast. So people watching the web-cast would e-mail in stuff like, “Who’s that girl in the pink dress?” And I blasted on through those bright Kansas City lights into the plain, listened to the club scene till I lost it, flipped the radio and on it was Elvis Presley.
A Greyhound bus passed me and I was glad not to be in it and instead in my own little futuristic highway module. A mile later the bus was pulled over on the side of the Interstate; someone must have been raising a ruckus.
Riding through the wheat here, I can clearly see the stars of the Northern Hemisphere.
I rolled through Kansas City at twilight in the last hours of June, 2000. I listened to a KC radio station deejaying and broadcasting live from a club in the city. They were also being simultaneously web-cast. So people watching the web-cast would e-mail in stuff like, “Who’s that girl in the pink dress?” And I blasted on through those bright Kansas City lights into the plain, listened to the club scene till I lost it, flipped the radio and on it was Elvis Presley.
A Greyhound bus passed me and I was glad not to be in it and instead in my own little futuristic highway module. A mile later the bus was pulled over on the side of the Interstate; someone must have been raising a ruckus.
Riding through the wheat here, I can clearly see the stars of the Northern Hemisphere.
Thursday, November 18, 1999
Thursday, October 14, 1999
Russia, Chukotka, Egvekinot
Got drunk three nights in a row. First with the sailors, then with the first mate.
Sunday, October 10, 1999
Wednesday, October 6, 1999
Monday, October 4, 1999
Saturday, October 2, 1999
Friday, October 1, 1999
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