Thank you, Brett Favre

Today, Thursday, 6 March 2008, our legendary and beloved quarterback retired from the NFL. As a fan, owner and admirer, I am saddened that he will no longer suit up, but I am happy that he has finished his career on top, the greatest player in history. After 16 years with the Packers, we will always remember the great games, the memorable moments, and the amazing finishes. We will remember the Super Bowls, the championship games, the playoff appearances. We will remember the records. We will remember the leader, the team player,the iron man and the hero. We will remember how he inspired us. For me, however, what I will remember the most is how he played because he loved the game, and how I loved the game more because I could watch him play it.

Thank you, Brett.

(Photo by Dilip Vishwanat/Getty Images)

Mongolia? China? Where the heck are we?

It's time we set the record straight! Since arriving in Mongolia-- we've gotten lots of questions and emails from friends, family, and people interested in where we are, what were doing, and how we do it!

One issue that seems to consistently pop up is our location and language. Many people think that we are living in the Chinese province of Inner Mongolia-- while we are in fact living in the very independent, very much separate country of Mongolia. The Chinese population sometimes refers to it as "Outer Mongolia," but this in fact is pretty offensive to most Mongolians.

Most recently, we recieved our alumni magazine from Ripon College. We eagerly flipped through the pages, very much interested in all things Ripon, and all the amazing construction and improvements happening! When we came to the Class Notes section, however, we noticed a glaring mistake in the information about us. In the magazine, it says that we are "of Mongolia, China." This is simply not the case! Any information blurring our residency, specifically between Mongolia and China, is a bit of sensitive subject for us, because we very much want information regarding our Peace Corps service location, and our location in life, in general, to be accurate.

The problem is that, for some reason, many people have already confused Mongolia with China. Yes, it is true that Inner Mongolia is a region of China sharing a name, and distant ethnic history. It is also true that our mailing address includes "via China," as mail in this part of the world is generally routed through China. We are, however, very much living in the country of Mongolia, a developing, large, landlocked country in Central Asia, sandwiched between Russia and China, with a population of only 2 million. They have one of the oldest used languages, Mongolian, with many dialects and written scripts. We live in the city of Darkhan, and really enjoy the work that we do here, and the Mongolian people have shared an immense amount of culture and their heritage with us, and we have grown sensitive, like them, to Mongolia being forgotten or mixed up with the Chinese province of Inner Mongolia.

Into the Winter Fog

I recently recalled my most vivid memory from the summer. I went out for what I thought would be a short run in the hills. The -20 plus temperature and the fresh snow were all the more incentive to get out into the sun of the late morning. The opening to the hills, just across the street from our apartment, the gateway to the best running space of my life, welcomed me yet again, this time a good three weeks since I’d last entered it.

After about twenty minutes, I decided to venture off the paths, paths with which I felt too familiar. I turned into a great valley and set my sights on a hill in the distance, a summit I’d many times before considered making. On the white steppe there was an open space between two herds, one of horses, the other sheep. I split them, crossing over the vast land, dipping down in to and out again of crevasses. With a stone in my right hand I jogged onward, looking around every so often for wolves and wild dogs. In the distance, off to the North, I could see two herders on horseback in their winter dels (Mongolian traditional clothing) surveying their flock. The air was cold but fresh. This was as far off a path as I’d ever been in Mongolia. There was nothing to keep me safe but the stone in my hand and the legs keeping me moving. I had no water, no phone, but I was dressed for the occasion, I had my music keeping me going, and, as always, I was ready for the next adventure.

I was exhilarated and already exhausted! I felt great. I thought about Mongolia, how I didn’t want to go back to work, how I’d never been anywhere like this before. Despite wearing three layers of socks, I hoped the snow, at times to my ankles, wouldn’t make it through my tennis shoes. Always searching for the best places to step, the snow much deeper in some spots than others, I, slowly but surely, crossed the wide valley.

After an hour or so, I had reached the base of my destination. I stopped and looked up. Summit wasn’t that far, but could I really run to the ovoo (sacred rock piles marking sacred locations and stops along roads and paths)? The face was stony, like most of the smaller hills here and similar to hikes in the Rockies. I began my ascent determined to hop my way to the top. Finding the footing too inconsistent and my breath shorter than usual, I hiked the remainder of the rough face. Keeping a steady clip, I moved quickly up the hillside.

As I reached summit, I felt a new kind of cold. Now at the highest point in the area, I could see not only the openness, but I could feel it too. It was beautiful. This was my first winter climb in Darkhan. All was white and quiet. When I began my run, I was entranced by the majestic white fog that hung in the distance. I made it my goal to get there. There was something mysterious and wonderful, and, with the way it was pulled and pushed by the wind, even tempestuous, about the whole scene. For a time, the sun seemed to stay away, waiting for the whisking whiteness to settle itself. I’d seen these hills in all of their autumnal beauty, but nothing in that season was quite as inviting as this. Once at hilltop, I placed the rock in my hand atop the ovoo and circled it three times, offering prayers for a safe journey and a Packers victory on the upcoming Sunday. I found a seat on a flat rock and I took it all in. As I gazed outward, the mist hanging everywhere else, yet not enough to keep me from admiring grand valleys, hill spines and mountains far off, I felt I knew exactly why I was supposed to be in Mongolia – for moments like these. I estimated that I’d probably been gone around three hours now. The frigid wind on my face, above my nose and beneath my eyebrows, was intense, even painful, burning. My legs were sore. My shoulders ached. The quickly cooling sweat on my back beneath my layers, my gloves sticking to my Shuffle reminded me I hadn’t as long up there as I would like. I was completely at peace, in just the place I knew I was meant to be at that moment. I closed my eyes thinking of the ease with which I could breathe, thinking that despite the rigors of my life in the last six months, there were moments like these.

In this place, I recalled my most vivid memory from the summer. The heat was oppressive, keeping me still and unwilling to move. Shaded beneath the outdoor kitchen on the lone bench outside the house of my host family, I sat silent and alone with my eyes closed enjoying an unfamiliar cooling breeze. On break between lessons at the school and awaiting what would undoubtedly be a hot lunch and tea prepared by Eej (Mother), I sat leg-stretched thinking about where I wanted to be exactly at that moment – right there. The invigorating air swept over my skin and re-enlivened my mind. For the first time in weeks I was able to think clearly. I hoped that across the field dividing us Cady had found a cool spot too. I thought about language training, cross culture, my new friends, how much everything had changed in the last month. I thought about Mongolia and how right it felt to be there. I smiled as I thought of home, wondering what everyone was doing and if they were all as happy as I was at that moment. For twenty minutes the air was different, the heat was gone and I was in a different Mongolia, in a different place in my life that I hadn’t known existed.

Sitting atop my unforgiving hilltop, I considered how special a moment this was, this, not just another summit, this, not just a new space, but rather, this, another different place, a different Mongolia, a different me. I was humbled. I was thankful. And I was cold. Looking out, I mapped out my route back home – scale down the southward spine, meet up with a herder’s trail and take it all the way across the valley and in to town.

With my left hand covering my face, I made my way down the hill. I moved again into a jog, watching carefully my footing as the rocks were loose and unstable. With each step, I quickened my pace into a run so that by the time I reached the base I was in a decent sprint. The cold was manageable again.

I felt the exhaustion of my journey thus far but felt inspired by the long and open road ahead of me. A well-traveled, well-worn path, this trek had most certainly been taken by many a herder and his flock. Free from the snow of the surrounding everywhere else, I was able to move quickly through the extensive and beautiful valley. In the distance to either side, tall chains of hills kept my focus forward to where in a long way off I could see where they might end. Recalling confrontations in trips past with guardians of these hills, I slowed my clip every quarter of a mile, spun around and once again surveyed the open land for wolves and wild dogs. There were no threats in sight. In point of fact, I was more concerned with my endurance. I was not sure how much further I would need to go and I was really starting to feel the arduousness of my journey.

After another mile or so, I came to a fork in the trail. I took what I thought was a direct path into Darkhan. After another quarter of a mile, I reached the ger districts (peri-urban areas on the outskirts of cities predominantly lined with gers (traditional Mongolian yurts) that are overcrowded and have limited access to running water, sanitation or proper heating). I knew that I was now at the furthest point on the opposite side of where I needed to get. I was saddened to no longer be where I was, but encouraged to be that much closer to home. The dichotomy was great. The hills were a winter wonderland of steppe and snow, the furthest point from any pollution I had been to in Darkhan. Outside of the area of industry, the “Drunken Hill” ger district is one of the most polluted locations, with its coal-burning gers and wooden houses, an area of great poverty.

As I made my way into this part of town, I slowed to a walk as exhaustion and poor breathing air got the best of me. And because I had never before been there, I was struck hard by the quality of living, the contrast between this side of the hill and the other. This, I could only imagine, was a harder life. It was certainly a slower pace of life. I thought about my students. I thought about how it was possible that many of them lived in districts similar to this one. I should consider this more when I am teaching, I thought. I cannot push my agenda on them, but rather I need to consider their needs, their abilities and their perspectives more seriously. I must narrow the gap which most certainly exists. And here I could really see that gap. I was greeted with more “unwanted attention” than I had been accustomed to in Darkhan. To those who stared in my direction, I simply did not fit in there. I, too, was struck by my unfamiliarity with this place. How different it was than where I had just been. How different this was than the Darkhan I knew. In many ways it reminded me of my host community in Bagh 5. Yet its greatest difference was just how large it was. It is said that somewhere around 100,000 people live in Darkhan. Walking around the city, one would be hard pressed to believe this. Now I did.

After walking quite a distance and not yet getting to the other side or locating any place familiar in the distance, I decided to take a hard left and head to higher ground where I could get a better look around. Passing by delguurs (small stores which sell groceries, clothing and/or other goods), hashaas (fences, but also the areas enclosed by those fences) and wild dogs, I felt like I was in a maze. I could not simply go straight up as hashaa walls forced me to wind my way before continuing higher. I was growing concerned, as my impeccable knack for getting myself lost seemed to be rearing its ugly head once again. I was relieved then when I made it to the edge and the only thing before me was the hill over which I was hoping to see Darkhan.

I first made my way down into a trench and then upward again. When I reached the top of the hill, my greatest fear was realized. I was lost. I could see nothing in the distance, the fog was too thick. What little I could see, I did not recognize. For a minute, panic overtook me. It was beginning to get dark now, I hadn’t had water in probably well over four hours, and I did not know how much further I could travel in my fatigued state. Up higher on the hill, I saw a herder and a flock of thirty or so sheep and goats. Considering my options and fearing I had simply gone too far into the ger district passed Darkhan, I made my way to him. My plan, I thought, will be to explain my situation to him and ask for directions. How could this have happened, I thought? I began waving to the herder. Why does this always happen to me?

And then, just as quickly as the panic had come over me, a wave of clarity hit me. I stopped. I turned around. I cleared my mind. I think I know where I am, I thought. And sure enough, I was exactly where I needed to be. In fact, I was on one of my old and more familiar running trails. With hope restored and a last little bit of energy mustered, I began to run again. I was running on fumes, but I knew I how close I was. I could be home in another thirty minutes. By now my black gloves were colored a heavy white. The exterior of the black Loki covering my face was also thick with ice. The interior was soaked from the perspiration of my breathing and sagging down below my nose. So wet and heavy, it had held up brilliantly. The air I was breathing was still warm. My Shuffle was, more or less, glued to my glove. But, the music played on! The layers closest to my body were heavy with sweat and the outer shells were just barely keeping out the cold.

Running down that last short hill, home less than a hundred yards away, I reflected on the run, that the best part was how each turn came as it did, how it took me on a journey through my own backyard, and that all along the way, I still enjoyed the wind on my face.

Festivus

If you’ve seen the Seinfeld episode you’ll remember that Frank Costanza explains to Kramer that instead of celebrating Christmas he prefers a “Festivus for the rest of us” free from commercialization, pomp and pageantry. Festivus, he recalls, is threefold: 1) instead of a Christmas tree and tinsel, there is a single aluminum pole, 2) instead of expressing well wishes, there is an airing of grievances and 3) instead of opening gifts, there are feats of strength.

Inspired by Frank’s revolutionary holiday, we, the 13 or so PCVs, 1 German volunteer and 1 VSO volunteer, decided to have our own New Years Festivus celebration. 3 apartments were chosen to host different legs of our moving Darkhan Festivus. Beginning at 3:00, at the first stop, we began with a feat of strength: drinking local "Kick-a-Poo" brand juice with pickles and eating tofu hushuur followed by taking a shot of vodka.

From there we walked to the market and hired 3 horse cart drivers to take us from one end of town to the other (a “tradition” begun last year). As we huddled together for warmth, drinking our homemade Kahlua, we were greeted with mixed Mongolian reactions, some yelling “Happy New Year!,” and most just staring dumbfounded.... It could just be that we were singing "Star Spangled Banner" instead of more traditional, jolly carols.

Cady and Peter after horse cart ride

When we reached our destination, stop number two, we watched, for collective edification, the aforementioned Seinfeld episode. Afterwards, we were treated to an edible multi-faceted diorama of food representing many of Mongolia’s local "intricacies" as "witnessed" by the present company. When the picture had been consumed we moved into the next feat of strength: leg wrestling. There were many rounds, many winners and a lot of laughing. Equally hilarious was the airing of grievances that followed. On a sheet of paper we each wrote those things which had grieved us in the past year. Needless to say, most of what everyone wrote down was seconded by the confirming fits of laughter among the others in the room. It was decided, after reading every grievance, that the leaves of paper should be set ablaze.

Melinda explains the edible picture

Kevin and Peter Leg Wrestle

This one's for you, Grandpa!

So, by foot or taxi we all moved to our final location where our first act of business (if you don’t count the pizza that I and a few others wolfed down before everyone had arrived) was to burn our grievances. With the grill a cookin’, we fried the brats a friend had brought back from Germany, ate pizza and ravioli and drank homemade piña coladas and Kahlua, vodka and beer. And with the empty beer cans we were finally able to construct the last component of Festivus – the aluminum pole. We hung out, drank, made balloon animals and toilet seats, and performed the final feat of strength: wall squats. We rang in the New Year standing around the Festivus pole. With drinks in hand and music filling the room we began 2008 with a dance party.

Cady about to "drop the ball" just seconds before the strike of midnight

Ahh, Festivus...

First picture of 2008!

Gold's Gym Mongolia

2 days ago I joined one of Mongolia’s few workout facilities, a small room in a building near the market near Cady’s office, about a 15 minute run from our apartment.

3 days ago I ran to the gym intending to “join.” When I arrived, however, the door in the front lobby leading to the stairway leading to the gym on the 3^rd floor was locked. I was told by the jijuur that I would have to wait 40 minutes until the gym opened at 5:00 p.m. Okay, whatever. So I ran the 3-story steps leading up the back side of the building. I was getting bored after awhile so I went back to the lobby to check the time. 4:40. The jijuur was gone. I sat down on the lone bench. I waited for another 10 minutes. As my impatience was growing thin, a man in full camouflage gear walked passed me, a guy who clearly looked like he worked out. So I followed him. This time the door leading to the hallway was open. A good sign. As I reached the second landing, G. I. Dorj flew down passed me. He looked annoyed. Why? When I reached the gym I discovered why. The room where the equipment had once been (as I had once been there to check it out) was completely empty. I called Cady. She didn’t know why. I called Cady’s translator, a member of the gym. She said: “Tomorrow gym will be open 1 to 8. New Year’s party was there. Maybe tomorrow you will come back.” I ran home.

2 days ago I ran to the gym intending to “join.” This time I arrived well after the jijuur’s suggested opening time, covering all bases. When I reached the gym the equipment was still gone. In a nearby room, however, I heard voices. Inside I saw the owner (one of Cady’s CHF clients), her assistant, two young men and all of the exercise equipment. In Mongolian I asked if they needed help moving everything back into the bigger room. Yes, she said. And so began my 15, 000 per month T membership, carrying dumbbells, straight bars, plates, benches and carpets. By 6:30, I had started my workout.

Yesterday I ran to the gym. I worked out.

Tomorrow I will run to the gym…

High Above IST

Taking advantage of the great hiking and climbing, Jacob and I took it upon ourselves to explore the mountains around our IST (Peace Corps conference in mid-December) site. It was one of my favorite days since coming to Mongolia.

Jacob and Peter

A herder overlooking the valley below, the mountains in the distance

Just before our descent, a picture-perfect sunset

Going Home Again (Visit to Sukhbaatar)

Just after IST, a Peace Corps conference held just outside of UB, Jacob, Dwan, Cassandra and I visited our host site. We went by each home and even saw our Mongolian teachers. Below are a few pictures from the trip:

Peter at sunset

Peter's Eej, Aav, and Doo

Dwan, Peter, Cassandra, Tsetsgee (Our LCF), and Jacob