On Tuesdays, We Go Ice Skating.

Last Tuesday I got a call from one of my students: “Teacher, are you home?” As anyone who has ever worked in Mongolia can tell you, this is not the most thrilling of calls to get, as it’s generally followed up with, “I will come to your home and you will teach me English now,” or “You will come to my home and teach me English now,” or “We will come to your home and have party now.” And you have to respond with “No, sorry, I’m in the middle of cooking dinner,” or “No, sorry, I’m tutoring right now,” or “No, sorry, it’s 2 in the morning, why are you even awake?” So it was with some trepidation that I replied, “Yes, I’m home. What’s up?”

“Teacher, we found a Swiss Man, we bring him to you now.” You found a what? I was half-expecting a body they’d pulled out of the river, but no, they’d found a Swiss Man who had turned up in town and decided he needed to be brought to me. Turns out my students are like cats, except instead of dead mice, they bring me gifts of unfamiliar white people.

Swiss Man, as it so happened, used to have my job several years ago and returned to visit. In addition to being an all-around cool guy, he’s also got the in on some of Khovd University’s best-kept secrets…like that they have an entire closet of ice skates that get used exactly never. So when he turned up at my door with two pairs and said “Wanna go?” I was like, “Is that even a question?”

The skates were bad but the ice, thanks to the unnaturally warm weather we’ve been having lately, was impressively horrible. In the States or Europe, there would have been signs all over the place warning us to stay off the thin ice and rethink our life choices, but here in Mongolia, it’s Tuesday, and on Tuesdays, we take our lives into our own hands.

To no one’s surprise, I am about as much of an elegant swan at ice skating as I am at everything else.

But Swiss Man, being Swiss and therefore having a Ph.D in Winter, was really good.

Putting me to shame as I hesitantly spun in small circles and tried to remember which parts of the river would mean going swimming.

Whatever, points for style.

At some point we skated (or, in my case, inched) our way over the bridge and played under that.

Eventually the too-small skates got the best of me and we called it a day, but here, have this bonus shot of a child of a horse.

Thanks, Swiss Man, for a) being awesome, b) taking me ice skating, and c) letting me shamelessly steal all of your pictures and post them on my blog!

How to Improvise a Bowling Alley in Western Mongolia

The conditions we live in in Mongolia are conducive to several things: one, never being surprised by anything, ever; two, strategic avoidance of whatever cow, goat, sheep, horse, yak, or dog is currently blocking the road; and three, improvisation. Mongolia is nothing if not excellent training for your improvisational skills, and when you’re about to turn 27 and realize such an occasion dictates that one goes bowling, prepare to take a bowling alley where no bowling alley has ever gone before.

Step 1: Collect ten (10) beer bottles. Emptied by other people, of course, because you’re the only moron who spent three (3) years in Germany and managed to come out still hating beer.

Step 2: Fill up said beer bottles with two (2) inches of water. Place outside for thirty (30) minutes to freeze.

Step 3: Take your frozen beer bottles and head to the river!
Step 4: Collect everyone you love who is within reasonable distance.

Step 5: Set up your pins and your lane.

Step 6: Collect four (4) rocks. Two light ones (that shall thereafter be referred to as “the pink ball” and “the light blue ball”) and two heavy ones (thereafter “the death ball” and “the fire ball”).

Step 7: BOWL, BITCHES.

Step 7a: And when it turns out that rocks + frozen river = things don’t roll, commence chucking the bowling balls at the pins.

Step 8: When you stop being being able to see the pins, retire to your apartment and have a party. Eat cake decorated by people who think they’re HILARIOUS.

My birthday, as it turned out, coincided with a Peace Corps training thingy, which meant a whole bunch of people I really like but haven’t seen in a while, were in Khovd–so double awesome. At one point there were over twenty people in my little apartment, and it was awesome and the best birthday I could have imagined for Western Mongolia

Yay, birthdays! And now I’m 27!

Please someone give me a job.

Mongol Road Trip Part the Last: Khatgal and the Return to Khovd

Approximately two hours after I said goodbye to my Mongolian friend and her pile of dead animals, I arrived in Khatgal. I had initially planned to stay at a guest camp, but a friend of a friend heard I was coming and called to tell me I would be staying in his guest ger.

His what?

Oh, that guest ger.

I spent three days living in the ger, which was fun albeit an exercise in Things I Didn’t Know Could Freeze, like toothpaste and baby wipes and your balaclava, while you’re wearing it. Day 1 was super fun, what with all the chilling out and reading books and doing nothing. Day 2 was still enjoyable, but by Day 3 I was restlessly stomping around in circles and ready to be done.

For starters, it was fucking cold–I was burning wood, not coal, and since wood doesn’t burn super long, it was in the -20s in the ger by 4 AM, which is when the cold woke me up because I had stuck my hand out of the sleeping bag. Second, there was not a whole lot to do. Khatgal itself was very pretty and very cold…but very tiny. I spent most of my first day walking around and climbing shit, so pretty standard.


And also running around on the frozen lake, being endlessly entertained by said lake, and making a lot of internal Jesus jokes.

See? Boats!

But by Day 2 I had explored the entire town nine times and was desperate for someone to be friends with. But the people I was staying with didn’t speak English and there were no tourists because off-season, so I befriended a herd of yaks:


Also a dog that only loved me while it thought my chocolate milk was food.

And then I climbed more things.

On Monday I caught a ride back to Mörön and then discovered that the guy with whom I was suppose to travel back to Khovd had ditched me and gone the night before. And since traffic in this country only goes one way, this meant sixteen hours on a bus going to UB (read: in the wrong direction). I sat in the UB bus station for five hours and boarded the next bus going to Khovd, the back of which was impressively tetrised with boxes and bags and what I can only assume was half an automobile broken down into it’s component parts.

About two hours into the trip the metal side of said automobile freed itself from its ties and I spent the rest of the trip convinced it was going to slide forward and decapitate me.

The bus ride back was actually super enjoyable, or rather, about as enjoyable as a 2-day bus trip (after a sixteen-hour bus trip) can be. The first day my fellow bus passangers ignored me/made fun of me, but as soon as they found out I wasn’t a tourist they bought me tea and tried to talk to me. My best friends were two seventeen-year-olds who took it upon themselves to teach me Mongolian songs and at various points busted out their computers so I could marvel at their collection of pirated Bruno Mars music videos (Oh yes, did I marvel). At one point they made a guitar appear from nowhere and a spontaneous jam session ensued; later, we traded songs–I sang an English one and they sang me a Mongolian song. Three-quarters of the way through the trip, we were such good friends that they were passing out on my shoulder and drooling on my jacket. By time we pulled into Khovd, they were trying to set me up with the 60-year-old goat herder sitting on a bucket in the middle of the aisle who had lead the bus earlier in a giant sing-a-long. So, as I said: about as enjoyable as it could have been.

Also, thanks to a bus driver who appeared by all accounts to have a death wish, we made it from UB to Khovd in a record 32 hours which was both terrifying and awesome.

Mongol Road Trip By Numbers:
21 days travelling
102 hours (4 days, 6 hours) spent in transit
6 cities visited
13.5 books read
1 fabulous time

Mongol Road Trip Parts IV and V–Erdenet and Mörön!

I arrived in Erdenet at night and was graciously hosted by a friend of a friend (Note: for purely selfish reasons, I love the Peace Corps. They’re really nice, and they’re everywhere). I got up bright and early the next morning for along, full day of Running Around.

First order of business: the hill with the Buddha on it. I couldn’t find the way up so I had to sneak through someone’s property to get there, but this being Mongolia, no one cares.


Followed by assorted memorials, statues, and carnival rides.



Other than my various hikes, nothing of major interest happened in Erdenet. As a city, I liked it better than Darkhan, and the area around it is really pretty, but the smaller cities I visited were still my favorite. Two days after I arrived, I caught a shared van to Mörön where my best friend in the world was the twelve-year-old who shared her chips at me and didn’t laugh when the van eventually got around to Mongolia’s third-favorite national pasttime, Making Fun Of White People.

Mörön was the first and only time I checked into a hotel–I didn’t have super high expectations and was pleasantly surprised to find that the hotel my van dropped me off in front of was actually really nice and had a hot shower. No English channels on the television, so I put on the Portuguese channel(?) because it was the closest I could get to home. The good news is that I hate the Portuguese Price is Right just as much in Mongolia as I do, well…everywhere else.

My first full day in Mörön was spent walking around checking out the sites. I found a stillborn amusement park:


Assorted monuments and statues:



And what looked like a miniature golf course (sans the golf) devoted to all of Khovsgul Province’s villages:

Khovsgul was one of the loveliest places I’ve yet seen in Mongolia.

And, as I quickly discovered, also kind of dangerous. Mörön is surrounded by pretty low hills, so I climbed up to the top of the first one:

And then noticed that the next hill was just a little ways behind me, and just a little taller than the hill I was currently on. And seeing as how the views could only be enhanced by the three foot height difference, I climbed the second hill.

And then realized that the hill behind me was so close, and just a bit taller, and wouldn’t the extra two feet make for some even more spectacular views?

And the next thing I knew it was getting dark and I was two hours out and nervously trying to convince myself that the tracks all over the hills belonged to giant dogs. As opposed to, you know, wolves.

The next day I headed down to the market to meet up with my ride to Khatgal. When my ride turned out to be a douche (and doubled his price as soon as I put my stuff in the car), I wandered around looking for another ride while he followed me in his car and yelled at me, which was joyful experience I highly recommend. I eventually did find another ride, but he wasn’t leaving for another few hours, so I loaded my stuff in his car and walked around eating chocolate raisins and admiring the wolf carcasses some dude had propped up on a piece of metal.

At some point walking around got boring, so I parked myself in front of a shed to read until it was go time. And who should appear but the woman who owned said shed, wanting to know what I was doing. In my broken Mongolian, I explained that I was waiting for my ride to Khatgal and pointed at the van. She made understanding noises, and then became very concerned over what she perceived to be my inadequate footwear and pants for the weather. I attempted to tell her that no seriously, I was good, but she forcibly dragged me into the shed, plopped me on a stool, and built me a fire.

Next to which we hung out. For three hours. Just me, the nice lady, and a pile of dead animals.

With my limited Mongolian, we talked about her kids and my job and then I ran out of things I know how to say, at which point she pulled out her phone and enthusiastically declared we were going to listen to English music now. And that’s how in the depths of Northern Mongolia, sitting in a hut next to a pile of dead animals, I jammed out with a Mongolian grandma to Taylor Fucking Swift. Our dance sesh was taken to a whole new level when, right around the bridge to Blank Space, someone dropped by with a dead horse.

Has blank space. Will take names and/or farm animals.

And that was Mörön. Stay tuned for the next installment of Kulturschock, when I almost freeze to death in a tent.