She is about twenty one years old but when I asked her how old she is she wasn’t exactly sure. Because of her buzzed hair, baggy clothes, somewhat gruff voice, and dirty face, she could pass for a guy. I don’t know her name, but I see her all over town, usually at church and she tends to make a weekly appearance at World Vision. We call her “Soko’s sister” because she bears a faint resemblance to Soko, one of the WV staff.
This girl is to some degree, suffering from mental disability, and yet I see a strong element in her that is in all of us. In her simplicity she is unguarded, probably much more honest and real than most of us. She walks with a limp and her right hand is curled and stiff. She isn’t slowed by this, a simple left-handed handshake is proffered with a smile and a “Sain uu?” which is a friendly greeting. I can’t help but smile to myself at the way she makes it a mission to greet everyone, and yet I’m saddened at the responses she receives. She doesn’t take notice of or care much about what else is going on the way the rest of us do. In the middle of the church service she will go about her mission, going from bench to bench proffering her left hand while people are trying to listen to the sermon. When her greeting is reciprocated I see her face light up with such simple, real joy. Yet, all too often, because we are caught up in trying to maintain order and pay attention, I see that we tend to scold her and tell her to be quiet. This is a slap in the face to her.
Last week I saw this and how hard she took it when her kindness was rejected. She was so upset, her loud crying disrupting the service even more. Generally people are tolerant and nice to her, don’t get me wrong. My point is not to condemn people. Rather, through this I saw that her sense of value and self-worth, her sense of belonging, was centered on whether or not people notice her. The reason it is so important for her to shake everyone’s hand is because we aren’t sure how to deal with her—it’s awkward—and so we ignore her rather than pouring into her the love that she longs for deeply. It is so sad to see her base her value on whether or not people return a handshake.
I think that a lot of us really aren’t much different from this girl. Yet because we are sophisticated, educated, and going through life all organized and tidy it is manifest in different ways, often disguised and hidden. All of us want to belong, so we do things for other people to make them happy, hoping that they will accept us. We are broken people, our hands dirty from falling in the ungraces of the world. We have our disabilities, our weaknesses, that we hope to hide and yet are afraid that no one can see past them to who we are. We are so insecure in who we are that we fear our missteps become our ascribed identity, so we toil and slave to belong. So we sell ourselves short, resorting to anything, a handshake, that tells us that we are okay in spite of our faults.
We were playing volleyball one night at the local zaal. Our friend made an appearance and of course went on about her business as usual. A game of volleyball did not stop her in the search for identity in hopes that we would give her that smile that would comfort just long enough to sustain her. I remember the ball being in play and her coming over to me, even my rushed “Sain uu?” made her happy. This simplicity makes people uncomfortable, disrupting their order because it resonates with something inside of them.
There is something about being loved by others that makes it worth it, leaves you longing for more--as many times as she has been rejected, she still continues in her search.
Monday, April 28, 2008
church
I have been going to two of the churches in town, alternating between them in no particular pattern. The first church I went to because the ADP manager invited me was started by a Korean missionary, Kwang. His three kids are great, the boys 15 and 13, and the daughter 9—one time I lent them a 500+ page book and apparently the fought over it the whole week but had both managed to finish it within 5 days. The majority of the people in attendance seem to be of the middle-aged and up group. The music is led by the missionary’s wife on an acoustic guitar and the songs are chosen as people call out the number of the song that they want to sing, then the guy at the projector scrambles to find the right one. Overall I think the service is rather consistent with the age group, toned down but reverent, filled with people sharing their testimonies to God’s work in their life.
Today I went to the other church, which is led by a Dutch missionary, Hanneke. She is about 6’4” with a disarming smile and speaks a myriad of languages, one time she started speaking to me in French only to realize her mistake a few minutes later because of the confused look I wore on my face. This church I feel is made up of a younger crowd. The worship is lively and there are even drums. You can see the energy and passionate hearts of people as they lose themselves in veneration. Like the other church, a great deal of time is given for people to share their praises, blessings, and struggles. A strength I believe in both of the churches, something that is often lost in the bigger churches I have been to.
Something exciting happened today and I heard a testimony that was pretty cool. In the middle of the service an elderly man and his wife came in and sat down next to me. A few minutes later they moved up to the front row, sitting next to a young guy wearing a red jacket and sporting a mullet. I figured they moved up there because his hearing wasn’t too good as soon after whoever was speaking decided to bust out the microphone. I learned at the end of the service that the elderly man was the young man’s grandfather and had decided to give his life over to Jesus. The grandson announced it to the rest of us, and you could see the real joy in his eyes.
Hanneke gave me a backdrop of history that gave insight and brought to life the testimony of this family. Apparently when the grandson was a young boy, his father who was a Lama (Buddhist monk) had done summoned and invoked everything he knew in his faith to try and cure his son who was severely ill. Finally, desperate, he prayed to “God of heaven” to heal his son and his prayer was answered. When he was on his death bed, he called to his son and pulled out from under his bed a book he had hidden for years. He handed it to his son saying, “this is the true book of the true God—the God of heaven.” This is what led his son to Christ. A Lama, secretly worships Jesus and gives his son a Bible in his last moments, ultimately leading to his own father being saved after his death. What a testimony!
Today I went to the other church, which is led by a Dutch missionary, Hanneke. She is about 6’4” with a disarming smile and speaks a myriad of languages, one time she started speaking to me in French only to realize her mistake a few minutes later because of the confused look I wore on my face. This church I feel is made up of a younger crowd. The worship is lively and there are even drums. You can see the energy and passionate hearts of people as they lose themselves in veneration. Like the other church, a great deal of time is given for people to share their praises, blessings, and struggles. A strength I believe in both of the churches, something that is often lost in the bigger churches I have been to.
Something exciting happened today and I heard a testimony that was pretty cool. In the middle of the service an elderly man and his wife came in and sat down next to me. A few minutes later they moved up to the front row, sitting next to a young guy wearing a red jacket and sporting a mullet. I figured they moved up there because his hearing wasn’t too good as soon after whoever was speaking decided to bust out the microphone. I learned at the end of the service that the elderly man was the young man’s grandfather and had decided to give his life over to Jesus. The grandson announced it to the rest of us, and you could see the real joy in his eyes.
Hanneke gave me a backdrop of history that gave insight and brought to life the testimony of this family. Apparently when the grandson was a young boy, his father who was a Lama (Buddhist monk) had done summoned and invoked everything he knew in his faith to try and cure his son who was severely ill. Finally, desperate, he prayed to “God of heaven” to heal his son and his prayer was answered. When he was on his death bed, he called to his son and pulled out from under his bed a book he had hidden for years. He handed it to his son saying, “this is the true book of the true God—the God of heaven.” This is what led his son to Christ. A Lama, secretly worships Jesus and gives his son a Bible in his last moments, ultimately leading to his own father being saved after his death. What a testimony!
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Paved Roads
Don’t take the paved road.
Ondorkhaan is the aimag(province) center of Khentii with a population of around seventeen thousand. I hadn’t thought of it as much until I mentioned to Ethan that I was surprised that this little town had a school for disabled children and he said it is like a state capital. Makes sense. There are a few paved roads that run through our town, including one that we call the main street because it goes through the section where the majority of the business and little shops are. I have learned that roads don’t really mean much here. They all have spots where they are a little torn up so rather than going over the bumps the cars either shift to the opposite lane or drive through the dirt that the road has divided. You see, anything that is not a bump, a building, another car, or a person IS the road. It is so hard to know how to walk around, you have to be constantly on the watch for a car because even if you are off the road you may find yourself face-to-face with an oncoming vehicle.
There are street lights, but they work only some of the time. They randomly go on and off. I have yet to see the stop lights in operation. The rules of the road are just different. I’m not sure why, but I love it that the street lights capriciously switch off while walking under their glow.
Today was cool. A motley group of us went up to Ondorkhaan mountain. There was Saina, who is the director for external relations. I have a problem with profiling people and making up their personality based on a few observations. I quickly had him down as the rich guy you shouldn’t trust or mess with because although clean cut he probably had ties with the mafia. His teeth were framed in shiny metal as if a dentist were showcasing his work, he wore a nice suit and long leather boots that I really don’t see men often wearing. He just looked like a mafia guy what can I say? So, I was really wrong on that one. He was very friendly and a brother in the faith, had traveled the world and was very interested in my experiences and helping me out.
The next guy, Dorj, I was wrong on too. He had a limp—which was somehow ominous and intimidating—and on occasion used one of those canes that has a brace and support at the elbow. He had a crew cut and looked tough, as if seasoned by many tough years, and of course wore a nice suit—looking professional and equally dangerous. I saw him as the right hand man to the aforementioned mafia man. This man was heavily involved in ministry, devoting himself to visiting prisoners and sharing the gospel with them. I was told that he really has the gift of evangelism.
Then there was the Malaysian pastor, Mr. Lor, decked out in traditional Mongolian garb called a “del”; the ADP manager, Ganaa, the only woman among us, dressed stylishly of course and always equipped with a smile that exuded joy and innocence; and myself, the odd American kid, unshaven and awkward. Yes, there you have it.
We first went to a ger that was on the vast steppe that rest at the foot of the mountain. Dried beef was boiled along with some flour noodles in what was like beef jerky soup. Watched some men comb and collect cashmere from bleating goats, it was kind of weird, the complaints of the furry fellows sounded pretty human. The family had, through the police, hired guys that had committed minor crimes to work for 300 tugriks an hour or 3000 per day. That’s less than 3 bucks, and the sad thing is that you can buy 2-3 cheap bottles of vodka with that money. Saina shared with me the sadness he felt, knowing that was probably how they were going to blow their money and that this is no anomaly—it is the norm. I learned that the solar panels I saw, basking in the sun, at this ger and at the other herder families I had visited, were supplemented by the government so they could have electricity.
I’m no outdoorsman but when I got to ride the horse around, looking off into the plains that sloped up to the mountains and the herd off in the distance, something in me stirred. I wondered what it would be like, to live such a simple life, free to roam. I could see the city in the distance, with the heat rising off the ground creating a translucent veil distorting its shape, giving it an illusory, mirage-like appearance.
The drive to the mountain was bumpy to say the least. We were a bit jostled when we arrived, but we made it, and what a wondrous site it was from up there. I began to think about how if we stick to the paved roads how much we might be missing, what mountaintops we pass by because we want to go the way so many other lives have gone, guaranteeing safety. Hard thing to think about for someone that prefers order and things planned out. I wonder how much I have missed out on for fear of being uncomfortable or getting a flat tire.
The ubiquitous shiny blue scarves were everywhere, tied to trees and posts that protruded from piles of rocks. There were a few shrubs that were so entangled with them it appeared as if they were alight with blue flame. At the top was an even greater shrine, it looked as if a mighty fortress that had fallen and people had tied the scarves in remembrance of its former glory; wooden doors with painted soldiers stood guard. People walk around it three times to receive blessing. This is why we were here. People worship the mountain and give it offerings in hope of good fortune. Mr. Lor anointed the mountain, prayed over it, the city, and the land.
Something about the frayed, tattered, scarves holding on so desperately to the poles to which they were tied, spoke to me. The wind was so strong, I envied that they could fly in the wind and still be anchored. This may sound Gnostic but with the sun shining in my face I couldn’t help but close my eyes and hope that the wind would take me away, out of the human shell that I felt so trapped in at the moment. It felt like being on the verge of something and dying, waiting for it to happen. Like someone leaning in to whisper something to you and yet they aren’t saying anything. I felt so close to God and yet so frustrated as the reality of the distance became clear, the tension was somehow invigorating, so inspired but without any words. There was something about being on top of a mountain and in a 360 sweep of the horizon I could only barely see the edge of town, the rest was open air and land.
Even a city boy needs his fair share exploring unpaved paths, for it is the mountain tops that remind the soul what it was created for.
(mad props to Robert Frost for saying this so concisely)
Ondorkhaan is the aimag(province) center of Khentii with a population of around seventeen thousand. I hadn’t thought of it as much until I mentioned to Ethan that I was surprised that this little town had a school for disabled children and he said it is like a state capital. Makes sense. There are a few paved roads that run through our town, including one that we call the main street because it goes through the section where the majority of the business and little shops are. I have learned that roads don’t really mean much here. They all have spots where they are a little torn up so rather than going over the bumps the cars either shift to the opposite lane or drive through the dirt that the road has divided. You see, anything that is not a bump, a building, another car, or a person IS the road. It is so hard to know how to walk around, you have to be constantly on the watch for a car because even if you are off the road you may find yourself face-to-face with an oncoming vehicle.
There are street lights, but they work only some of the time. They randomly go on and off. I have yet to see the stop lights in operation. The rules of the road are just different. I’m not sure why, but I love it that the street lights capriciously switch off while walking under their glow.
Today was cool. A motley group of us went up to Ondorkhaan mountain. There was Saina, who is the director for external relations. I have a problem with profiling people and making up their personality based on a few observations. I quickly had him down as the rich guy you shouldn’t trust or mess with because although clean cut he probably had ties with the mafia. His teeth were framed in shiny metal as if a dentist were showcasing his work, he wore a nice suit and long leather boots that I really don’t see men often wearing. He just looked like a mafia guy what can I say? So, I was really wrong on that one. He was very friendly and a brother in the faith, had traveled the world and was very interested in my experiences and helping me out.
The next guy, Dorj, I was wrong on too. He had a limp—which was somehow ominous and intimidating—and on occasion used one of those canes that has a brace and support at the elbow. He had a crew cut and looked tough, as if seasoned by many tough years, and of course wore a nice suit—looking professional and equally dangerous. I saw him as the right hand man to the aforementioned mafia man. This man was heavily involved in ministry, devoting himself to visiting prisoners and sharing the gospel with them. I was told that he really has the gift of evangelism.
Then there was the Malaysian pastor, Mr. Lor, decked out in traditional Mongolian garb called a “del”; the ADP manager, Ganaa, the only woman among us, dressed stylishly of course and always equipped with a smile that exuded joy and innocence; and myself, the odd American kid, unshaven and awkward. Yes, there you have it.
We first went to a ger that was on the vast steppe that rest at the foot of the mountain. Dried beef was boiled along with some flour noodles in what was like beef jerky soup. Watched some men comb and collect cashmere from bleating goats, it was kind of weird, the complaints of the furry fellows sounded pretty human. The family had, through the police, hired guys that had committed minor crimes to work for 300 tugriks an hour or 3000 per day. That’s less than 3 bucks, and the sad thing is that you can buy 2-3 cheap bottles of vodka with that money. Saina shared with me the sadness he felt, knowing that was probably how they were going to blow their money and that this is no anomaly—it is the norm. I learned that the solar panels I saw, basking in the sun, at this ger and at the other herder families I had visited, were supplemented by the government so they could have electricity.
I’m no outdoorsman but when I got to ride the horse around, looking off into the plains that sloped up to the mountains and the herd off in the distance, something in me stirred. I wondered what it would be like, to live such a simple life, free to roam. I could see the city in the distance, with the heat rising off the ground creating a translucent veil distorting its shape, giving it an illusory, mirage-like appearance.
The drive to the mountain was bumpy to say the least. We were a bit jostled when we arrived, but we made it, and what a wondrous site it was from up there. I began to think about how if we stick to the paved roads how much we might be missing, what mountaintops we pass by because we want to go the way so many other lives have gone, guaranteeing safety. Hard thing to think about for someone that prefers order and things planned out. I wonder how much I have missed out on for fear of being uncomfortable or getting a flat tire.
The ubiquitous shiny blue scarves were everywhere, tied to trees and posts that protruded from piles of rocks. There were a few shrubs that were so entangled with them it appeared as if they were alight with blue flame. At the top was an even greater shrine, it looked as if a mighty fortress that had fallen and people had tied the scarves in remembrance of its former glory; wooden doors with painted soldiers stood guard. People walk around it three times to receive blessing. This is why we were here. People worship the mountain and give it offerings in hope of good fortune. Mr. Lor anointed the mountain, prayed over it, the city, and the land.
Something about the frayed, tattered, scarves holding on so desperately to the poles to which they were tied, spoke to me. The wind was so strong, I envied that they could fly in the wind and still be anchored. This may sound Gnostic but with the sun shining in my face I couldn’t help but close my eyes and hope that the wind would take me away, out of the human shell that I felt so trapped in at the moment. It felt like being on the verge of something and dying, waiting for it to happen. Like someone leaning in to whisper something to you and yet they aren’t saying anything. I felt so close to God and yet so frustrated as the reality of the distance became clear, the tension was somehow invigorating, so inspired but without any words. There was something about being on top of a mountain and in a 360 sweep of the horizon I could only barely see the edge of town, the rest was open air and land.
Even a city boy needs his fair share exploring unpaved paths, for it is the mountain tops that remind the soul what it was created for.
(mad props to Robert Frost for saying this so concisely)
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
another sunset
The air is cold outside, the sun is hiding behind a mixture of clouds and dust on whose particles its rays rest, giving me the familiar sunset that my eyes never grow weary of. The air no longer bites in that you want to take refuge from it. It is that refreshing sense that fills your lungs and chills your skin, making you feel alive and yet ever alone.
Motorcycles buzz by, kicking up the soil that has yet to be anchored with the roots of spring. An obscene piece of graffiti—the result of puberty and too much free time—disturbs my view. I am continually frustrated that as beautiful as the sight is I cannot look directly at the sun and thus not take in the scene fully, I am forced to use my peripheral vision. As it pulls itself closer to the edge of the horizon to visit the other side of the earth it becomes more and more red. Finally it bids me farewell as it peers over the hills. For a moment I can gaze at it in full. My first inclination was to be disappointed but I thought against it and continued to stare. It was so simple, round and red, that’s it. Yet I felt like I couldn’t pull my eyes from it. Really, it is a strange sensation to be able to look directly at that which is powerful enough to burn my skin and light up a whole atmosphere.
I feel alone and yet I want to be. It is this confusing dialectic of conflicting feelings that is my affliction. How can one so desire to be around loved ones and familiarity and yet turn down an offer to escape loneness? Is it that the uncomfortable company of strangers makes one feel more alone than actually being alone? Sometimes this may be true, but I wonder if it is more the fear of feeling alone when with others that drives me to this strange place. Fear is a lousy driver.
I have realized how I am so influenced by what others think. I think it is in part due to being somewhat of a people pleaser, not wanting to rock the boat too much and be generally agreeable with people. I noticed it when I began to quickly change how I felt about where I am and what I am doing. When people from the big city came and visited I felt like my living situation is somewhat simple and that I am generally satisfied. Maybe the same when I talk (email) with people in other countries or think about their lives. There was this feeling of sort of being somewhat proud of being able to adjust to this kind of life. Faster than I could say “paradigm shift” I began to feel like I wasn’t getting a real experience here. I went to a gathering of Peace Corps volunteers where a pig was roasted on a metal wire frame and I heard about how remote some of their towns were. Most live in gers, chop their own wood, and get their water from a well. Some are the only English speaker in their town.
At this point I began to feel like a filthy rich kid that came in wanting to get some attention and feel good about himself, all the while living in luxury. I then started to feel inadequate and useless and about how much more of a rich experience they are getting. They are learning the language and living a lifestyle that is so different from their life back home that they will never see things the same. My life, it isn’t really all that different. I’m somewhat isolated, but I have the internet and 2 Americans in my town that I can spend time with.
Fear really is a lousy driver. It took me down this road, the fear of being on the verge of a great experience only to have seen it from a distance. I learned you really can’t let other people determine your experiences—there is someone who always has it better or worse—it is ok to learn from them and gain perspective. I truly admire what the Peace Corps people are doing, but through hearing their frustrations I see that we are each getting our own unique experience of Mongolia. My time is short here and in a sense I am jealous for more. If I was here longer then maybe I could have a more diversified experience.
Motorcycles buzz by, kicking up the soil that has yet to be anchored with the roots of spring. An obscene piece of graffiti—the result of puberty and too much free time—disturbs my view. I am continually frustrated that as beautiful as the sight is I cannot look directly at the sun and thus not take in the scene fully, I am forced to use my peripheral vision. As it pulls itself closer to the edge of the horizon to visit the other side of the earth it becomes more and more red. Finally it bids me farewell as it peers over the hills. For a moment I can gaze at it in full. My first inclination was to be disappointed but I thought against it and continued to stare. It was so simple, round and red, that’s it. Yet I felt like I couldn’t pull my eyes from it. Really, it is a strange sensation to be able to look directly at that which is powerful enough to burn my skin and light up a whole atmosphere.
I feel alone and yet I want to be. It is this confusing dialectic of conflicting feelings that is my affliction. How can one so desire to be around loved ones and familiarity and yet turn down an offer to escape loneness? Is it that the uncomfortable company of strangers makes one feel more alone than actually being alone? Sometimes this may be true, but I wonder if it is more the fear of feeling alone when with others that drives me to this strange place. Fear is a lousy driver.
I have realized how I am so influenced by what others think. I think it is in part due to being somewhat of a people pleaser, not wanting to rock the boat too much and be generally agreeable with people. I noticed it when I began to quickly change how I felt about where I am and what I am doing. When people from the big city came and visited I felt like my living situation is somewhat simple and that I am generally satisfied. Maybe the same when I talk (email) with people in other countries or think about their lives. There was this feeling of sort of being somewhat proud of being able to adjust to this kind of life. Faster than I could say “paradigm shift” I began to feel like I wasn’t getting a real experience here. I went to a gathering of Peace Corps volunteers where a pig was roasted on a metal wire frame and I heard about how remote some of their towns were. Most live in gers, chop their own wood, and get their water from a well. Some are the only English speaker in their town.
At this point I began to feel like a filthy rich kid that came in wanting to get some attention and feel good about himself, all the while living in luxury. I then started to feel inadequate and useless and about how much more of a rich experience they are getting. They are learning the language and living a lifestyle that is so different from their life back home that they will never see things the same. My life, it isn’t really all that different. I’m somewhat isolated, but I have the internet and 2 Americans in my town that I can spend time with.
Fear really is a lousy driver. It took me down this road, the fear of being on the verge of a great experience only to have seen it from a distance. I learned you really can’t let other people determine your experiences—there is someone who always has it better or worse—it is ok to learn from them and gain perspective. I truly admire what the Peace Corps people are doing, but through hearing their frustrations I see that we are each getting our own unique experience of Mongolia. My time is short here and in a sense I am jealous for more. If I was here longer then maybe I could have a more diversified experience.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
One small steppe for man...
Yesterday we went to Berkh. This is the third time I’m writing about Berkh. I don’t exactly know why it always falls prey to being a subject of my blogs, but it does, live with it. I guess the openness of the land speaks to me, as I look out across it there really isn’t much to see. A few scattered herds of animals grazing, some of them choosing to pattern their path so that it intersects with ours, met with a few honks to clear our way. It was strange, as my mind grazed on the horizon I noticed that if I were to look directly to my left or right it all looked brown. Yet as I looked straight ahead I could see, ever so slightly, the first roots of green beginning to layer the soil. The color was foreign and soft, almost elusive, very distinct and yet the longer you looked at it the less of it you could see.
I have been thinking a bit about perspective recently, so it is interesting that this happened to be a very visual demonstration of it. Some analogies or observations that we come up are pretty lame, so I hope this doesn’t fall into that category. Anyway, it seems that when we are in the midst of something it is easy to be dragged down by the circumstances and to not see hope. Yet as I shifted my grazing gaze from the remnants of the death that the winter sweeps over the land, I saw that although very small, life lay ahead. It was a fascinating spot of transition to be in. From one side it seemed as if we were in the desert without promise of an oasis, and on the other, life springing back.
On the more work related side of things…we went to have a meeting with some of the community members there. The idea was to lay out the plans discussed at the beginning of the fiscal year and see how we were going to follow up with activities to meet our goals. The big issues discussed were the building of a deep-water well and construction of a new playground.
The well was actually a hot-topic, everyone was quite involved and it showed in the range of volume used. Let’s continue with another understatement, wells are important. The issues raised were that it is very expensive to dig a well deep enough to tap into a potable source, in fact, beyond the planned budget. However, prices and inflation have been dramatically on the rise here. I was told that land, for example, had doubled in price in only a period of three months. Since coming here, I’ve seen prices in the market increase as well. With this in mind, they were posing the question as to whether it would be more worth it to drill the well now or if they would wait to raise more funds as the cost also increases. There is also the health aspect, how long must they wait to have drinkable water? In addition to that is that unlike most other towns, a majority reside in old Russian apartments rather than gers. The apartments are equipped with centralized water-heating but are disabled because of a lack of water due to debts that the mining company had. The mining company controlled the water system but was losing money so had to cut funds, which led to a very cold winter for a lot of families. These are difficult decisions to make, I admire that WV had to take a hard spot in facilitating the discussion. Better to involve the community and let them know what is going on rather than avoiding the issue.
The playground discussion was a little easier considering that enough funding was available. The government is to provide funding for land, etc and WV the equipment for the kids to play on.
As we were looking at the playground previously installed by WV I couldn’t help but notice shards of broken vodka bottles jutting out of the sand. This is not safe for kids at all. I guess it reminded me of the relevance and need for a project like the one I will be starting. Let’s hope it happens and it is sustainable.
On the way back from Berkh we stopped at Degii’s (driver) mother’s (remember ‘Natasha’?) ger. We had some buuz and tea and I got to see another reminder of the first steps of spring in the bleating of kids (baby goats), calves, and lambs. Also got to see people gathering cashmere from the goats. Cool.
I have been thinking a bit about perspective recently, so it is interesting that this happened to be a very visual demonstration of it. Some analogies or observations that we come up are pretty lame, so I hope this doesn’t fall into that category. Anyway, it seems that when we are in the midst of something it is easy to be dragged down by the circumstances and to not see hope. Yet as I shifted my grazing gaze from the remnants of the death that the winter sweeps over the land, I saw that although very small, life lay ahead. It was a fascinating spot of transition to be in. From one side it seemed as if we were in the desert without promise of an oasis, and on the other, life springing back.
On the more work related side of things…we went to have a meeting with some of the community members there. The idea was to lay out the plans discussed at the beginning of the fiscal year and see how we were going to follow up with activities to meet our goals. The big issues discussed were the building of a deep-water well and construction of a new playground.
The well was actually a hot-topic, everyone was quite involved and it showed in the range of volume used. Let’s continue with another understatement, wells are important. The issues raised were that it is very expensive to dig a well deep enough to tap into a potable source, in fact, beyond the planned budget. However, prices and inflation have been dramatically on the rise here. I was told that land, for example, had doubled in price in only a period of three months. Since coming here, I’ve seen prices in the market increase as well. With this in mind, they were posing the question as to whether it would be more worth it to drill the well now or if they would wait to raise more funds as the cost also increases. There is also the health aspect, how long must they wait to have drinkable water? In addition to that is that unlike most other towns, a majority reside in old Russian apartments rather than gers. The apartments are equipped with centralized water-heating but are disabled because of a lack of water due to debts that the mining company had. The mining company controlled the water system but was losing money so had to cut funds, which led to a very cold winter for a lot of families. These are difficult decisions to make, I admire that WV had to take a hard spot in facilitating the discussion. Better to involve the community and let them know what is going on rather than avoiding the issue.
The playground discussion was a little easier considering that enough funding was available. The government is to provide funding for land, etc and WV the equipment for the kids to play on.
As we were looking at the playground previously installed by WV I couldn’t help but notice shards of broken vodka bottles jutting out of the sand. This is not safe for kids at all. I guess it reminded me of the relevance and need for a project like the one I will be starting. Let’s hope it happens and it is sustainable.
On the way back from Berkh we stopped at Degii’s (driver) mother’s (remember ‘Natasha’?) ger. We had some buuz and tea and I got to see another reminder of the first steps of spring in the bleating of kids (baby goats), calves, and lambs. Also got to see people gathering cashmere from the goats. Cool.
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