Home Sweet Ger

Near BALGAI, MONGOLIA — Preparing for bed on the steppe is a strange ritual. First I take off the clothes I wore to keep warm during the day: the fuzzy brown sweater, the two layers of long underwear, the smoky pair of Gap cargo pants. All of them are covered in sweat, sweat that will freeze in the night and lower my body temperature. I rummage through my bag for new set of clothes: another layer of long underwear, blue sleep pants, a T-shirt and a hat. I put on the sleep pants and the T-shirt, but keep the long underwear tucked under my shoulder, to hide under my pillow for later. Only then can I put on a fresh pair of wool socks and tuck myself into the Mummy sleeping bag.

Maintaining the appropriate body temperature during the night will take balance. I must weigh the heat of the fire against the icy winds of the steppe outside. It's four hours after dark and already Bobby's pocket thermometer reads -20 on a quick trip outside. Getting through the night, like everything else out here in the Mongolian countryside, requires careful planning.

Thankfully, I don't need to invent a way to survive out here. Our hosts, with decades of experience and the wisdom passed down from generations of nomads, are experts. The most important line of defense against the elements is the ger. The ger, usually called a "yurt" in English, is a specialized tent with features even the most advanced North Face structure can't match. The base of the structure is a circular lattice of wood, about four feet high. At the top of the lattice, several dozen wooden poles are angled inward so they meet in a small circle. This opening is the chimney, and it is supported by two thick beams that drop to the floor. These wooden pieces (which aren't found out here on the steppe, they come from distant forests) are wrapped around the outside in a thick layer of white canvas. In the winter, wool felt blankets are hung around the insides of the tent to keep out the howling winds.

The felt is less than an inch thick, but it's throughly windproof. On this cold night I can hear the wind howl, but it doesn't penetrate this warm space. A small iron stove is the only source of heat, and it's placed right in the center of the structure.



Our party arrived an hour after an awe-inspiring sunset with empty stomachs. Tonight, our hosts are the family of Battir, who Bobby has hired as our van driver. We've only met a day earlier, but Battir's mother, father and sister are very welcoming when we haul our still clean bags from the van. They implore us to take off our coats, and start feeding us bowls of buuz, a fatty mutton dumpling, and airag, fermented horse milk. Vodka comes out later, and we do several shots to honor our hosts.

By 9 p.m. the bottle is put away, Battir goes off to an adjoining ger where Bobby and he will spend the night. Bobby then begins to figure out sleeping arrangements. This ger, like all others, appears cylindrical from the outside, but in reality is five-sided. One side is the entrance, another contains a small armoire, and final three sides have thin mattresses that serve as chairs during the day, beds at night. Battir's mother and grandmother take one bed, Jin and Myriam squeeze on another side, while Battir's father has the smallest bed to himself. Caleb and I are placed on the floor on opposite sides of the fireplace.

Maybe it's the heavy dinner, or the excitement of beginning the journey, but I'm not tired after getting in my sleeping bag. I scan the surroundings. Grandma is already asleep. Husband and wife, sleeping in separate beds, are conducting conversation in whispers. A portable short wave radio is quietly playing an Old Mongolian folk tune. Then I return to the ger. The outside seems so plain, just a circle of off-white fabric, but inside it is colorful. A ring of hand stitched flowers has been carefully sewn and placed at eye level. The wool blankets that provide insulation are colorful scenes from nomadic life: a strutting ram, a picturesque sunset. In between one bed there are a few family photos, one of Grandma on a visit to Ulaanbaatar many years, another of a young Battir in front of his home. Opposite these is a small altar, where Buddhist prayers can be performed. Although the interior of the ger is wide open, each bit of space has been carefully compartmentalized, to ensure that all basic life functions can happen in this small space.

After the radio is turned off and the married couple stop chatting, I take stock of where I am. As the dateline suggests, I'm not entirely sure. We are somewhere "near" Balgai, a town of a few dozen, several hundred miles from anywhere. All that separates me from that nothingness is a couple of layers of felt and canvas. The mind wanders: If my heart stops, there is no defibrillator to restart it. If a piece of an old Soviet Military Satellite falls on me, there is no government official to report it. If quicksand swallows the ger whole, there is no one to pull us out. But I've already let these worries go. My eyelids are closed and in my dreams I head toward the stars.


Previously: "Welcome to Our Home"

Welcome to Our Home

Near BALGAI, MONGOLIA - Mongolians are incredibly hospitable people, ready to give up their bed and welcome strangers into their homes without notice. But there are a few rules that should be followed once inside.

Enter the home clockwise. Don't point your feet towards the door or the altar. Don't touch anyone's head or take their hat. Always ask about the family and their livestock - "Are your sheep fattening up nicely?" - before moving on to general matters.

On Tsagaan Sar, the most important of Mongolian holidays, the number of customs and formalities increase. Thankfully on this trip to the countryside, I, along with another American, a Malay and a German, had Bobby in tow. Bobby runs the UB Guesthouse in Ulanbataar along with her Korean husband, Kim. They met in London, where Bobby, a Mongolian, was studying English. Now they're in business together, giving foreigners a taste of Mongolian life as they move along the Trans-Siberian route.

With winter business scarce and Bobby not able to attend her own family's celebrations (because of a death in the family during the year - another custom) she came along with us as a free translator, guide and all around nice person.

And so, when our hosts offered me a small pink perfume bottle, I knew to take this container with my right hand, unscrew the top, inhale deeply, and then hand it back with my right hand.

When the family patriarch offered the first of several rounds of vodka, I was able to dip my ring finger in the glass, flick it three times toward the sky, sun and the ground, and then down the shot.

Bobby also explained to our hosts why we wouldn't be interested in sheep's back, a block of solid fat that is a New Year's delicacy.

She told us how to eat dried milk candy, a Mongolian specialty that's hard as a rock shaped like a pile of dried white worms. First, suck the mound, then nibble away at the sides. This way, no teeth are broken while ingesting calcium.

Yes, Bobby's presence is most welcome here in the Mongolian countryside. With temperatures reaching -35 at night, we wouldn't want to offend our hosts.

A Generous Serving

KANSAS CITY - I think there's a line between being friendly and being annoying. But that's just me, and clearly my definition isn't in line with the local customs here.

Yesterday evening we pulled in from a long day of driving (and a diversionary stop in Albany, Illinois: home of Indian burial mounds and the Desperado Casino in southern Iowa) to collapse at a hotel and get a bite to eat. This being Missouri, we wanted to try some barbecue. I inquired where the nearest place was at the front desk.

"Oh, just go down the street. Be careful crossing at the light," our receptionist said. I think she was trying to make up for putting us in a room with a king size and a roll away.

At Rudy's, we were served a mountain of food. I'm still on Asian portion sizes, but this was massive by any measure. The server, in suggesting this "sampler plate" described it as containing "eight slices of ham, ten slices of roast beef, four ribs and a stack of fries." She left out the six pieces of bread, but managed to rattle off this monstrosity with incredible nonchalantness.

It was nearly ten when we got to eating, which is really late for an area of the country that prides itself on eating "supper." We had a large side dining room to ourselves, and an extra-inning match up between the Kansas City Royals and the St. Louis Cardinals.

I sat there, trying to eat the meal for nearly an hour. A very large black woman came in from time to time to check in on the game and see how we were doing. Very full, thanks.

Shopping for Hong Kong's Next Megatalent

HONG KONG - I've never been one for "American Idol." I could never get too excited by a bunch of teenagers from Kentucky squaring off to win the favor of Paula Abdul by singing hopelessly sacrine renditions of Barry Manilow songs. Clearly 40 million Americans, and the hundreds of millions of others who watch around the world, disagree.

Competition does excite me. When I saw that the nearby Westwood mall would be having a "Chinese Folk Singing Competition" this Saturday, I was interested. It didn't matter that the sign advertising it was all in Chinese, and didn't list a time. I was there.

I wandered over to the mall around 1 p.m. This turned out to be the perfect time, as the concert was in high gear. The first performance I saw was two teenaged men, each with guitars and harmonizing in Cantonese. I didn't recognize the song, but they were pretty tight.

There was about 100 people in the crowd, young children, some clutching guitars and all fussily dressed, with their parents. This competition, it turns out, was strictly for children.



The next contestant was a young girl, who was maybe 7. She got up and started singing. The song was "It's the End of the World." Not the REM song, but an old standard, sung in English. Her tone was good, but it was clear she definitely didn't speak English had just memorizied the lyrics.

The judges seemed to like it. There were two of them, dressed formally and gazing constantly at the singers. They were positioned for maximum drama - only about two meters from the stage and blocking part of the audience. For the performer, they were the only thing that mattered.



The third act was better. This person was a bit older, maybe 16, and dressed very fashionably. This was fashionable in the Hong Kong sense, so that meant ripped jeans with a lot of pockets. He opened his mouth, and I couldn't believe it: out came "Wonderful Tonight," by Eric Clapton.

It's a nice song, but this guy didn't have the range or the language skills for it. I'm not sure if he knew this was about a man and his wife, or just generally about life, but by just shifting the accent from the "wonderful" to the "tonight," all feeling seemed lost. He played guitar quite well, but just couldn't connect.

After that I left; I'm not sure what the results were. My vote was with the "The End of the World" girl. But I do know that the definition of "Chinese folk singing" is much broader than I originally suspected. Maybe at the next competition I should enter. I can do a pretty mean rendition of "Crazy."

Excuse me, you're a little close

BOSTON - Shaws supermarket, 7:00 P.M, on a Thursday evening.

I'm picking up a few dinner essentials: chicken breast, roasted potatoes, apples and a few cans of seltzer. I decide, in the interest of time, to use the self-checkout.

Waiting in line, my thoughts turn to Chinese class. There's an oral exam this week which I've haven't studied for and will probably screw up, an upcoming skit project and I don't have a partner yet and a slew of character-copying to do.

"Excuse me. You're a little close."

I look up. A woman, in her late 20s with a very cropped haircut has turned around in the line to chastise me. Apparently I'm invading her personal bubble.

I'm not touching of her or even in danger of touching her. I am perhaps a foot away from her leg. But it's too close.

I mumble an apology and step back. But why should I? The concept of "personal space" is largely an Victorian construct. In China and elsewhere people crowd in large masses, standing close. There's little queuing, and when there is people make sure no one can butt the line.

So why shouldn't I stand close? I'm only trying to show her the rest of the world.