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