A shout out to the fam!!!

10-26-2008

This weekend was my cousin’s bat mitzvah in Michigan. In my time abroad I have missed out on weddings, birthdays, babies, and other momentous occasions of my friends and family. The only time I get a little homesick is when my work isn’t going well and one of these moments is passing me by (luckily, work is going pretty well). I have found that I am quite the family person. My family has been spread out throughout a few states for my whole life, and I always looked forward to the times when we all came together for whatever occasion it was that brought us there. I remember when I was young, first telling my mom that I wanted to move to Michigan one day… then some amount of years later, I changed to Arizona. These days, I know better. Michigan is a great state and I now know that I can handle the cold, but I would never commit myself to dealing with the cold year after year… with no known end. Arizona has a lot to offer, but I just can’t imagine being somewhere warm and not having the beach. I used say that Arizona would be perfect if it just had the ocean. However, the best things these states have to offer me is family. Many of my Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins are in Michigan right now, celebrating the Jewish coming of age of my only (first) cousin younger than me. The last time everyone gathered together in such an event was my other cousin’s wedding. And the next time (I think) will be one year from now at another cousin’s wedding. Over the years, we have only seen each other sporadically; sometimes more than others… but every time despite the physical distance I have always felt a closeness with my family, even if we don’t talk all the time. I may not have been there for every relationship, or breakup, wedding, child, or other momentous occasions, but that does not change my love for them. Some I haven’t talked to in years and others, the internet has provided an easy way to say “what’s up” every once in a while. We all have gone our separate directions leading our lives differently. In my family, we have a beautifully wide array of life paths; we’ve got doctors, lawyers, iron workers, probation officers, computer techies, store workers/owners, secretaries, teachers, and much more. (I’ve never been fond of groups of people who are all the same). We’ve got the outdoorsy, and the indoorsy, the book worms, bike riders, sports fanatics, and whatever other classification you decide to come up with. And somewhere, I fall into that mess. But we all come from the same blood. (and I include any and all members who have married in… in this instance, blood is used figuratively)
To be honest, I have few solid memories of my times spent with my family, as I was pretty young for most of them. I could probably come up with more if I thought hard or had the chance to reminisce. But this loss of recall of specific memories does not change my love for them.
Our family seems to only gather for occasions. Being the (2nd to) youngest of a bunch of cousins, I was pretty young for many of the occasions and have foggy memories of all the bar mitzvahs, deaths, and weddings. I think where my memory starts to become a little more clear is my grandmother’s death (though still patchy), and though it was a somber occasion, there is nothing more beautiful than spending so much time together (due to the Jewish tradition of sitting shivah). The next, I believe was my bat mitzvah… a whirlwind of events that I hardly remember, ending in my aunt and cousin moving to Michigan. If I recall correctly, the next time a large amount of us were together (that I was there for) was my Cousin M’s wedding. It had been a long time and we had all grown quite a bit. And thanks to my photo happy hands, I have some awesome snapshots of my family that I was sure to bring with me to Mongolia. That was the last time I was at a large family gathering, and the next will be my for my other cousin M’s wedding, which will be immediately after I return from this whirlwind of challenges, experiences, and at times, solitude, that we call the Peace Corps. There is nothing I would rather do after completing my time here than to see a large chunk (at least) of my family. You’ll notice, I never refer to these gatherings as my WHOLE family… this is because my WHOLE family is never there. Due to the size, some are always missing for whatever reason… leading to even larger gaps between the times that I see some family members. But the truth is, no amount of time can go by that will cause me to lose site of the meaning of family. And I think that being so far away has made me more apt to keep moving when I am back in the U.S. So, if you are reading this (some are)… be ready for some visits!!! (maybe I can even drag my mom along ; ) and for those of you who are reading this and are not in the family…. I’ll briefly explain. She’s not exactly the ‘traveler’ (sorry ma! It’s true! But my public props to you for getting out a little more while I’ve been gone) If I’ve done nothing else in the peace corps, at least I did that… unknowingly influenced my mom to go somewhere new.

And this is where I’m going to take a minute to give some props to the other part of my family… commonly known as my friends. The way I see it, there are small differences between ‘family’ and ‘friends’… at least, for a person who has been as fortunate as me to have many lifelong friends. It is very interesting when you go so far away to see what happens to your relationships. Some you hear from every day, some once in a while, others you’ll never hear from until you are back… and that’s ok. I think I’ve made it clear above that a person does not need to be in my eyesight, or even earshot, for me to hold them dear to my heart. There are many people that, even when I was in the states, I had somewhat lost touch with, but this doesn’t change the love. Some of my friends I have known since preschool or kindergarten, others I met when I was in middle school, high school, college, or post-college. And with each person, there is a connection that drew us together. No matter what path we pick, no matter our mistakes, achievements, or idleness, there is always the connection that caused us to become friends in the first place. Just like my family, I can not see these people for many years, but the moment I see/talk to them, the relationship is picked right up with an ease that makes you appreciate the invisible energy force that brings two (or more) people together.

And to come full circle, I want to end this blog with a HUGE CONGRATULATIONS to my cousin D for her Bat Mitzvah. I’m sure that she did wonderfully and I can’t wait to see the pictures. I’m sad I was unable to be there for this occasion, but I’m sure you all enjoyed and appreciated your time together. And I best see you all in a year!

ger livin.... ger lovin

this was written a little while ago... but might as well post it. i'll just apologize a head of time for the crappy writting lately, i just haven't been in the zone... lucky i'm writing at all!


My life has changed a bit since I moved into my ger. First of all, it is great to have a Mongolian family to live with. The children love to hang out in my ger, and Baatar, who lives in another ger, loves to come by to watch English movies or to speak English. I don’t have as much time to myself, but it is well worth it, and it’s possible that will change a little as winter sets in. I now get my water from the well and light fires to keep warm. Lighting fires is possibly one of my favorite things about my ger. In the winter, there will be some very cold times… usually in the morning, but once my fire is well-lit my ger warms up pretty quickly. Also, my family gave me dung, which is GREAT because it lights really quickly! It is pretty well insulated, so it holds the heat for a sufficient amount of time. I love the feeling of the warm fire on my skin. No matter how cold it is outside, I can make it nice and toasty in my ger. It’s like having a bonfire in the middle of the room. It must be the California girl in me that likes to make it nice and hot in my ger… and then I step outside to feel the cold air on my skin. I don’t think I will ever claim to be an expert at lighting fires, as sometimes it takes a lot longer than others. I love the feeling of lighting the fire to stay warm and enjoy cooking over the fire as well. Not having running water is really something that I have become indifferent to in my time in Mongolia. True, I don’t take regular showers, but bucket bathing gets you just as clean and can also be relaxing. (not to mention, that I had to do this even when I had running water and I could always go to the shower house…) It is really hard to explain to people who have never been in a ger, how comfortable they are. It sounds weird, but there really is something about not living with corners that creates a very relaxing and comfortable atmosphere. My ger is small, but I really don’t need much space. I’ve never been one for LARGE living spaces, so I kinda like the size.
Winter is just beginning, after a pretty long fall… I get the feeling that the winter is going to be a little more difficult for me this year. Part of this is self-induced by moving into a ger, but the other part is mental. I always new that I wasn’t really a ‘cold-weather’ person, but had never really tested myself. I am now going on my second winter living in one of the coldest climates in the world… and I can honestly say; I am dreading it. I know that the winter will come progressively, as it did last year, and I will continue to add layers to the clothes that I wear, but I also know that the winter is LONG… really LONG. I know that it will be cold for a long time. On a good note, I have my ger, and I can make it as hot as an Israeli summer in here if I want. But it’s also a bit of a walk from town and I will end up spending a lot more time walking to and from work this year. I know that I just need to get in the right mentality. Last year, it was all very new to me and was more about seeing what it was like to live where it’s too cold, while this year, I feel like I will be mentally testing myself. I know I hate to be cold, and I knew it coming into the Peace Corps in Mongolia, but after this I can check it off my list of things to do… live in a cold place (check), then I’ll grab my surfboard and stay in warm places for a while. Believe it or not, despite all my griping, I can tell that I have toughened up a little since last year. This time last year, I was already wearing my long johns and my heavy coat. This year, I’m still wearing my California-made jacket. Only yesterday did I step into the world of wearing a beanie, but I left it at home today. This is either due to global warming… or it means the cold doesn’t defeat me as quickly as it did last year. (I’m hoping the latter)

Ha Ha, check out this article! <3 mongolia!

The Mongolia Obsession
The Most Disgusting Food. Ever.By Tim WuPosted Thursday, Sept. 25, 2008, at 6:58 AM ET


I have eaten my fair share of food that some people might label "gross." There was even a time, in my early 20s, when I made quite a habit of it. Pigs' ears or fried crickets? Please. That's kids' stuff. I prefer to test my limits: Pass the duck brains.
It is a test of will, not unlike diving off a high cliff, when you order your hand to put something into your mouth while every instinct screams, "No!" And sometimes a food that looks strange can be quite pleasant in ways you don't expect. I have fond memories of the time I ate a squirming live octopus tentacle in Korea—not only did it taste pretty good, it also brought fond memories of a woman who used to twirl her tongue while French kissing. I wish I could say that snake blood brought on fond memories, but it just tasted like a nosebleed. On the happier side, I can report that deep-fried scorpion tastes just like cricket.
Unfortunately, none of this prepared me for the culinary horrors of Mongolia. I, who consider myself the owner of an iron will and a stomach to match, still shudder when I think about some of the things I ate and drank there. There were times when I longed for a nice plate of deep-fried scorpions.
If you have ever wondered why we generally drink cow's milk, I can tell you: Most of the other types of milk are just disgusting. They get under your skin in a special dairy sort of way, rather like eating a stick of butter every morning might. Forced to choose, I think I'd say the best is yak milk, especially if it's hot. But I would stay away from horse milk unless it's been distilled into alcohol. Camel's milk, I shudder to recall, is musky and feels like drinking bottled smoke. (I think I finally understand why Camel is a brand of cigarettes.) Consider also that Mongolians like their milk heavily salted, and the phrase acquired taste takes on new meaning.
As an all-dairy nation, and probably the world's worst place to be a vegan, Mongolia is very cheese-centric. I am below no man in my taste for what some people might describe as abhorrent forms of cheese. I like English cheddars that have gone rotten and overaged gorgonzola that has turned brown. But the problem with Mongolian "cheese" is that it is nearly as hard as rock and as acidic as battery acid. Eating it is not horrific, but it is rather exhausting.
All this is surely survivable. It is the mutton, the unending mutton, that gets to you. After just a week, I felt like the Troll in The Hobbit who complains, "Mutton yesterday, mutton today, and blimey, if it don't look like mutton again tomorrer."
The common complaint about mutton is that it is gamey. Granted. But the insidious part is not so much the flavor as the smell. When I returned to Beijing, Evan Osnos, now at The New Yorker, who has done some great writing on Mongolia's gold rush, asked me, "So, do you still smell like mutton?"
I did.
To be fair, Mongolian cuisine had certain satisfactions. After a day of hard riding, gnawing on mutton bones seemed entirely appropriate. Mutton dumplings and mutton mixed with noodles can sometimes be good. And after a while, I developed a taste for fermented horse milk, particularly when distilled to a clear liquor—though it may have just been that a few shots did wonders for the mutton.
I can also report that Mongolian vodka did the job, though I wasn't that excited about Bimba's way of preparing it. In the morning, large black beetles would gather under our tent seeking warmth. Bimba thought it a good idea to flavor the vodka with a few of these beetles—their death throes adding a Genghis Khan touch to the whole thing.
On our very last morning on the road, the mutton problem became a crisis. At fault was our dear driver, Bimba, who decided it was time to celebrate the trip by buying a whole sheep and slaughtering it. As we went into a local ger to eat breakfast, I noticed that the sheep's head had been removed, and the internal organs were being poured into a giant pot, the same way you might empty a can of beans.
Surely this was to feed the dogs, I thought. No one really wants to eat the lungs, stomach, and intestines of an aged sheep.
Au contraire. I'm sorry to say that we had to watch the whole mess boiling for a while on the dung fire, yielding bubbles of brownish-gray scum. Afterward, a giant steaming bowl of internal organs was placed before us with some ceremony. Out came knives and a mixture of anatomy lesson and breakfast as we sampled one organ after another. I must stress the degree to which our dear friend Bimba considered this the way to cement our friendship. There was no backing away from trying each and every organ and making a good go of the whole thing. Even fearless Miki looked a little pale.
Comparatively speaking, I suppose the stomach and heart were the highlights. Despite our host's enthusiasm, I felt there was something deeply fishy about the lungs—they had a spongy texture that you had to bite hard to get through. There were many organs that I didn't really recognize but also did not enjoy. And as for the intestines and connecting flesh covered with fat, I felt, for the first time, what 19th-century writers refer to as "rising bile." I said to myself, "This is like a horror film, except I am eating the special effects."
All the while, the sheep's severed head sat off to one side, watching us sadly. Next to him sat his forearms and legs, placed in a small pile. But fear not. We did pack that head into our jeep, and back in the capital, we ate him for lunch. "Omoshirokatta," said Miki. "That was interesting!"

http://www.slate.com/id/2200544/entry/2200548/

Milk tea and progression

10-10-08 (i think)


(this picture was taken from the internet)













I was in the countryside with my director and her family, visiting some good friends of theirs. After going through many of the usual rituals of drinking tea, airag, and vodka and after the usual discussion about how good I am because I drink Mongol tea, eat Mongol food, and drink Mongol airag; the Mother of the household went outside to get some milk so she could make a fresh batch of milk tea. She milked a few goats and came back with a tin pail full of milk. She lit the fire, poured water into the large wok, along with the green Mongol tea leaves, and when the tea was brewing to her liking, she added the milk she had just retrieved. She proceeded to churn the tea with a large deep spoon, filling it with liquid, lifting it above the wok and pouring it back in, in a series of fluid motions that she had done millions of times throughout her life, probably beginning around the age of 4 or 5. She then added some salt and sifted a little while longer; all the while the rest of the people gathered in the ger, (around 8 or so) talked, drank airag, and played the finger game around her. I sat there, participating in the finger game, airag drinking, and conversation where I could… all the while my eyes kept returning to the woman making milk tea. It was nothing I hadn’t seen a million times before, and it seems everyone makes milk tea the same way, but the motions of her weather worn hands caught my eye each time I found myself in between conversation opportunities. In these situations, I either leave the Mongolian that is too fast for me to understand as background noise to my thoughts and my body simply feeling the experience, or occasionally I test myself to see how much I can understand. As the woman put the strainer over the tea pot and poured the freshly made milk tea through it, leaving the tea leaves behind, my thoughts returned to the woman making tea and I watched her serve each person in the ger, beginning with the oldest male of the household, proceeding to the oldest woman, and so forth. I sat with my tea, allowing the Mongolian words to swirl around the room with the steam rising above my hands. I began to think of the entire tea making process that I had just witnessed. It was at this very moment that I realized how far I have come in my cultural development, for this woman had just milked a goat for our milk tea, and I sat there and drank it without a second thought. In fact, I didn’t even blink twice when she went outside and came back with a tin full of milk. In the past year, I have been exposed to many different situations that I would NEVER experience in America, and it is interesting to think what kinds of things I have gotten so used to in my time in Mongolia, for this is a truly amazing country with a beautiful culture.

I sit here writing this, burning hot in my ger, almost exactly 24 hours from our first snow of the year. I have kept my fire relatively lit throughout the night, and it is like a furnace in here. Every so often, I step outside to feel the brisk “winter” air on my open skin. I put winter in quotes simply because this is not even close to what the winter will get to… this is just the beginning.