Sunday, January 13th, 2008
Hey everyone,
So I haven’t been posting much here lately, and don’t really know when/if I’ll be doing serious writing here again. More likely is the occasional post when I have writing that’s polished enough, or find interesting links etc… (like below). Otherwise, I encourage you to head over to my writing blog, where you can also subscribe to updates and read some of the crazy stuff I’ve been writing. Though that blog is a bit more high-volume than this (at least during the month of January I’ll be posting daily).
Oh, and I guess I have to finish uploading the photos too…
I leave you with some amazing music videos (after the jump):
More…
Sunday, January 6th, 2008
So I’ve posted more photos over at flickr, I’ll keep posting updates as they’re uploaded: http://flickr.com/photos/yule
In other news, I’m now back at Middlebury, taking a class in Creative Nonfiction (we have a class blog) and so am starting a new blog for those writings. I’ll probably still post the more polished pieces over here if they’re relevant, but if anyone’s interested in following my writings more closely, head over to the new blog, Reflections on a Ridiculous Place.
Here’s a little preview to whet your appetite!
Thursday, December 20th, 2007
Alright, so I guess treat this as a draft, even though I’ve handed it in already for credit, it’s not really complete. But there’s still some good stuff in there. Here is a link to a pdf version which preserves all my sexilicious typographic manipulations, I’ll post one in HTML as well for online viewing, with some typography preserved.
Here’s the PDF: [US Letter] or [A4]
Abstract:
Changers are traders who emerged during the traumatic early 90’s as an organic answer to Mongolia’s problems of economic disconnectedness, revealed by the collapse of the regional socialist framework. Today, despite more than fifteen
years of transition, they remain a vital piece of the Mongolian economy. Connecting herders to factories and to Chinese merchants, they allow for goods to navigate Mongolia’s notoriously sparse landscape economically.
Focusing on one sub-group: those who trade the livestock by-products skins, hides, wool and cashmere, this paper aims to understand them as a phenomenon: how and why did they emerge? What is their role in today’s Mongolia? How has changing evolved, and will its evolution continue? Is there a place for changing in post-transition Mongolia?
Despite evidence of changing’s transitional “ad-hoc” nature, the institution seems to evolving in step with the economy as a whole. The further up the supply chain one looks, and the more volume a changer processes, the more formal their operations. For now, the vast majority still operates firmly in the informal realm, with little official contracts or business agreements, but the future is far from clear. Changers seem to appreciate the benefits of evolving along with the economy; without such evolution the place for these traders in the future is uncertain.
The paper closes with a look to the future: as factories begin to search for formal contractual arrangements to ensure predictable supply, changing becomes a target for formalization and incorporation. What does this mean for the future of these notoriously individualistic and unorganized traders? Will they cease to be changers?
Sunday, September 16th, 2007
The day before yesterday we returned from our nomadic homestay. Two weeks out on the steppe, living in gers with nomadic herding families. Each of us lived with a different family, and met every day or so in small groups for language classes (I was in a group by myself). Otherwise, we helped the families with their daily lives, and watched the world revolve and the grass grow. Wrote a lot, studied Mongolian, watched crappy TV (my family was the only one with a TV). Ate lots of mutton. Also, a constant theme of much overseas travel, our group was wracked with gastrointestinal chaos periodically. Somehow I managed to not get food poisoning or bad diarrhea, not sure how/why, but I was certainly the only one to escape relatively unscathed. I wouldn’t say I was healthy, but compared to the others, I was in excellent shape. The food was quite rough… basically the same thing for all meals. Some form of soup made with dried meat (sheep or goat), potatoes and lots and lots of salt. Maybe a carrot. Maybe. Also, there were often noodles made of flour. And LOTS of fat. LOTS. Also, following a slaughter, there’d be a bowl of boiled organs on the center table with a knife. To eat, one merely takes knife and organ in hand and slices some delicious morsels (riiight). So now I’ve eaten… sheep heart, spinal chord, liver, blood sausage (intestines filled with blood, then boiled. Like blood-jello?), lung, and probably some other things that I couldn’t identify anatomically. But that wasn’t a regular occurrence (though it was my first meal on the steppe).
Daily life involved lots of sitting around while my host-father (Enkhamgalan) went out and did stuff. Or going out with him to herd the sheep and goats, or cows. Every morning he would drive them out onto the steppe to graze for the day. Then at night we’d ride out on horseback and herd them home. The calves were kept in a pen to prevent them from nursing during the night. In the morning, Ochirchimeg (host-mom) would milk the cows, then let the calves out. Other duties included gathering argal (dried cow and horse poo), which is the primary fuel source, either with my two seven-year-old host sisters or alone (after the first few days they went to the district center for school); fetching water, which meant riding on the back of Enkham’s motorcyle to the river, filling up the water jug, then riding back with it perched precariously between my legs; cooking dinner (once Ochirchimeg and the kids had gone to the Soum center), which meant peeling potatoes, rolling out the dough for noodles, and slicing onions; sweeping up the ger; also, I appointed myself resident fly-assassin, and spent many minutes pacing in circles around the ger, long underwear in hand, hunting for flies to eliminate. There were SO MANY. Being woken up by flies landing on you is quite the experience. Also, as the day warmed, they sorta went crazy. I couldn’t really stand to be in the ger during the mid-day frenzy, so I’d often sit outside on a rug and do my homework.
I’ll write another post with more details and reflections, but for now here are some poems I wrote during the homestay. (Disclaimer: These are all rough, and still need revision. Comments and critique are encouraged.)
These first two were from the first week when I was still getting used to things, and getting frustrated at the pressure to chronicle that often accompanies journaling. Things got better with time, though. And they’re meant to be tongue-and-cheek.
When to Write?
Never write in the morning, for it will ruin the rest of the day.
Write only before empty short
meaningless existential
times.
When depressing frustration suffocates only the small
electric potential of
empty space.
Mood
fucking writing draws me into
the black abyss of fuck-all moods.
A fly crawls across my neck and
I welcome its retching and sucking
with dark, sado-masochistic pleasure.
The sun warms my skin, slowly
twisting blueprints into a
carcinogenic state of chaos
Alright, now for the nice, normal poems 
The Herd
One mass, assembled
A stream of fleece
Flowing, bound by ground
Horse and voice
Ger
An architecture whose elegance
Could only emerge from Time’s
Eternal forge, casting
Function, form, philosophy.
Swarms of flies, driven mad by midday sun
Melt silence into winged static.
Timelessness embodied in its chests,
The malchins’ mournful voice serenades his herd;
A wood-framed home in a woodless land.
Ode to Pepto
O Pepto, how gracious thou art
Calming the stomach’s sea
Thy fair complexion glows as a rose in Spring
Thy taste, as sweet as the finest chalk.
Mongol Khel
A slurry,
frozen sounds cascading from blurred lips;
A blank stare and painful silence hang.
The mind reels, frantic
In its parsing, permutating,
Semblance-searching, stirring
The soup of memory,
Murky in its endless depths.
Lastly, a quote from one of my fellow voyagers:
“What a fucking ridiculous place.” -Kevin James Close
