Sunday 29 May 2011

Mongolia- Ulaanbaatar

 Language

I’d read that the Mongolian language sounds something like two cats, hissing and spitting at each other with the intermittent reprieves of one coughing up a hairball in the other’s general direction.  While this description might appear unjust to the outsider, I am amazed by its accuracy.  Every morning, I climb the steep foothills beyond the university for a view of the city, and I am sure I pronounce more Mongolian words through my laboured breathing than I could ever hope to accomplish through careful study.  How distressing it is for a Canadian, unable to properly pronounce thank you, please, excuse me, sorry!
 
Food

Westerners will tell you that Mongolian food is not very good.  This isn’t really true.  At its very worst, Mongolian food is interesting.  I firmly believe that you can eat anything if it has been salted heavily and boiled long enough, and the Mongolians do both of these things with great proficiency.  Horse is delicious, you can’t ruin mutton, and fermented dairy products are a convenience for the lactose intolerant.  
Enjoying a bottle of fermented camel's milk.  Behind me is my attempt at making sense of the Cyrillic alphabet.
Music

Through a series of fortunate events beginning in Saskatoon, Dayle and I ended up at the Canadian ambassador’s house for a Sunday afternoon BBQ.  One of the diplomats I met there works at the Canadian embassy in Beijing and is involved in the belaboured and hellish negotiations of sending some panda bears to Canada.  It may be this untoward responsibility that has led him to become familiar with every bar and pub of consequence in UB.  (Actually, he is a remarkably cheerful person, maybe owing to the happy knowledge that the mother of his four children is a Taiwanese supermodel.)  Anyway, this was all very fortunate for me, because he invited us to see a Mongolian band playing at Ikh Mongol that evening.  I went, and the set was… really good.  Actually, I think my jaw dropped.  I doubt the following will do justice, but visit the links to hear traditional Mongolian instruments and throat singing.



Ulaanbaatar

We have been concentrating on a number of things in UB, and I’m not sure how to summarize them without being tedious. 

Most of our time has been at the State University of Agriculture.  We are compiling a database of possible funding opportunities relevant to collaborative research between our universities, and we are helping to write grant proposals in English.

We attended a conference titled A Case for Complexity: Accounting for Diversity in Mongolian History, Culture, and Ecology.  Among those at the conference: a social anthropologist returning from a winter with Gobi nomads, studying herders’ perceptions of government assistance following dzud (winter disasters); a Xiongnu Iron Age archeologist; an agricultural economist; a Tibetan freelance photographer who documents disappearing indigenous cultures; two somewhat confused veterinary students. 
 
The State University of Agriculture is associated with the Mercy Corps project, “Market Opportunities for Rural Entrepreneurs.” (http://www.mercycorps.org.mn/index.php?cid=188)  We became involved with a Mercy Corps training course organized by the college for members of "extended producer groups,” which are cooperatives of rural entrepreneurs (mostly herders).  Dayle gave a presentation (translated by the agricultural economist) on Canadian livestock production marketing.  The point was to provide an overview of how livestock production is organized and marketed in Canada, as a way of providing ideas for local producer groups that are currently discussing how best to organize themselves and target consumers.   From what I could tell, she was received rather well, with animated discussion and questioning.  The herders expressed disbelief when she claimed Canadian dairy cows are milked three times a day, and demanded the price of a Canadian heifer when she mentioned production of over 30 L.  They didn’t appear especially interested in our quota system.  They erupted into giggles when she described how sheep producers in Canada have targeted ethnic groups.  They laughed and scribbled furiously on their note pads when she alleged that foreigners coming to Mongolia are willing to pay money to experience a few days of a herder’s life and work, and to buy hand-made products from them.  When she claimed that mare urine is harvested for pharmaceutical use, our translator asked her to repeat herself three times before he would believe her.  
This gentleman thought I was exotic enough for him to request a picture with me.  He has blue eyes.


A room full of herders and other producers at Dayle's presentation

Ulaanbaatar



Cashmere- separating the hairs from the wool



Cashmere production- spinning

Spring


UB sits in a valley, so there is opportunity for early morning hiking.  Hawks, groundhogs, squirrels, and ducks may not be unusual, but they all look so different here that is still a delight to find them.  Just look at this squirrel, with a black smudge of smoke for a tail and devilish tufty ears!







Dancing on top of a hill

…And we have been hectically organizing the remainder of our stay in Mongolia (not enough time!) and noncommittally studying the language before leaving for the countryside.  So that's me caught up, more or less.  

Friday 20 May 2011

so this is what China smells like

















Conversation in English/Mandarin, with Dayle as translator: 

 "Could I take your picture?"
Old man:  "If you buy my post cards." 
"What if I gave you the money for postcards, and took your picture instead?"
Old man: "I have a family you know."
"Okay, so how much for the postcards?"
Old man: "15 TLR"
I pay the old man.  He gives me change.
"This is change for 20 TLR."
Old man: "I'm 74 and have bad knees!"
"Oh."




Tiananmen square

Quesnel Canada geese





Saturday 14 May 2011

Bears

  -->
After a series of cheeky inside passes on our drive to work in the morning, our camp supervisor ran right over a bear.  He was a fat little bear, and he rolled around in the ditch a long time before he died.  His abdominal muscles contracted so fiercely with each breath, I wondered if he hadn’t torn his diaphragm, pushing his guts up into his chest.

I quite like bears.  I like running into them on the clear-cuts, and the way that they peer at you dimly, sometimes in confusion, and sometimes with curiosity.  I like knowing that they quietly go about their lives here, several hundred kilometers from the nearest town, and largely unaware that people even exist.  I thought it sad that this one little bear’s life was so rudely interrupted.  And I thought it sad that it ended in agony.

On the way back to town I saw a big black bear fooling around in the top of a trembling aspen.  I've never seen such a big animal in such a tall and slender tree!

Friday 13 May 2011

a word on tree-planting

  



I've always like the lovely stippling effect the Sun has on log decks.  It's better at sunrise.

This little fellow reminded me of the Lorax, the way he was posturing on top of the pile.



Deer at the Canfor saw mill.


Between final exams and China I took a two-week vacation to trant plees.  As luck would have it (or wouldn’t) most of this time was spent waiting for the remnants of a long winter to melt away and uncover something to plant the trees in.  So instead I spent several days sprawled on the plastic mattresses of old motel beds strewn with colourful back-country maps and ineffective government safety regulations, taking pleasure in the simple things in life, like motel-room art (my current quarters boasts a Siberian and a Bengal tiger cuddling, and a Persian kitten playing chess with a mouse) and stale beer.


             Another year on the prairies and I had thought the party might have simply gone out of me.  After finals I forced myself with an uncommon resolve to flinch through two hours of free beer at a popular club, watching thin blondes on tall heels coyly gyrate their hips to party remixes.  Everyone else around me seemed to be having a good time, and so I concluded clearly there must be something wrong with me.  What I learned in Prince George this week is that the necessary ingredients were simply not available at that time.  These as it turns out are old friends, a little pub on the side of a highway, and an old-fart soul cover band (think three Northern flavours of “Joey-the-Lips” Fagan and a red-head with pipes). 


That painful night at the Saskatoon club I was asked why I don’t dance.  I dance.  All tree-planters dance.  We dance with wild abandon and without a care for the corners of tables, or the constraints of gravity.  We spin and swoop and stomp our feet, losing the beat for a moment only to reclaim it without a hint of self-consciousness.  And in the middle of this bedlam is usually John, a student and planter from the DRC, dancing like he’s straight out of a Micheal Jackson music video. 


I have re-evaluated my previous self-doubt and have predictably concluded that clearly there is something wrong with the prairies.