Guest Posting: The Young Artist

Below is a special treat: A guest posting from fellow Alaskan Amy Crawford.

Tsetserleg, Arkhangai -- The brown hillsides rolling off to the west and east of town, from a distance, appear quaint and well-ordered: pastel-colored roofs on tiny white-washed houses, lines of fences, cute little gers smoking through the day. I always marvel at how things appear from afar: no outhouse smell, no random cow heads or dead puppies on the dusty streets; you don't see that the fences are slatted boards thrown together, old car hoods for fence doors. Which is not without it charm or resourcefulness, and is certainly without pretension.

Amongst these rough dwellings live some of my favorite people, quiet generous souls making somewhere between 40 and 100 US dollars a month, some shoveling coal in the electical plant or washing school floors, some teaching their second language to adorable though rowdy children. And all of them with remarkable talents: every woman can gut a cow, clean the intesines and re-stuff them with vegetables and/or blood; most ride horses and sew deels (the traditional Mongolian dress). Meanwhile most of the men don't think twice about slitting a sheep's stomach and reaching in through the gut cavity to sever the artery; they can repair a 1960's Russian truck with home-made tools, ride a horse bareback. To them it's a matter of course--like vacuuming or driving a car for us.

Then there are those in the back of a ger or house crafting silver jewelry, stitching by hand Mongolian boots, painting, writing. They are quiet artists--no coffee houses to display paintings or read poetry; no art shows or shops to display or sell their work. They work away silently, finding the odd buyer but existing almost entirely in obscurity.

Last night my friend Enkhee (talented in theatre but working at a bar) introduced me to his friend, an aspiring screen writer named Ganholog. Ganholog was born in the countryside but came to this town to attend school; here he discovered TV and movies and studied them on his own throughout his schooling. Unable to afford college, he began writing on his own and now at 25 has produced a screenplay he thinks is worthy of production. He has done this with no art community, no schooling; only the help of his friend Enkhee. He wants to enter this script in US contests; there is no outlet for such a thing in Mongolia.

Aside from a lack of schooling or art community, another major obstacle lies before him: he doesn't speak English. So he hired a Mongolian English teacher to translate; and while Jackie captured his ideas, she writes with the proficiency of a U.S. 8th grader. Which is where I come in: he wants me to "fix" the dialogue.

I sat down with milk tea and read through the 81 pages, and though it was unsurprisingly "amateur," its also clever and funny in places despite the translation problem. Most surprising though was that he chose to set it in the U.S.; the obvious problem of being a bad imitation naturally arose.

Why not write about Mongolia? I asked, and he said he thought that wouldn't be very interesting for foreign audiences. We had a long conversation about what he knows, of what he has the knowledge to write, how to create an authentic piece of work, etc. and the upshot (for me) was that, despite the uniqueness of his life, the myriad remarkable things he could write about, he is stuck trying to imitate a life he has never known or seen. It's a difficult thing to witness: Mongolians are still proud of their culture--just today the "cool" kids at my school were practicing for a performance in which they'll sing an ancient Mongolian song about marriage. What Mongolians have always known they do remarkably well. But those trying to reach into the "outside" world have incredible odds to overcome.

I hope Ganholog will write about Mongolia, but that of course is his choice. And despite the near certainty that his script will never be read, I'll spend the next few evenings going over the script with him, trying to capture the "feeling" of his work so that I may recreate it in English. I suppose the result doesn't matter so much as the process--sometimes a soul just needs to be heard.

Giving Thanks

Although it's a trite observation, spending Thanksgiving here made me freshly aware of what I take for granted in the US. Of course, every year I'm thankful for all the obvious things like family, friends, the opportunity for meaningful work, groomed ski trails, and parks. However, living here for these few weeks has caused me to add other things to my list: air that is safe to breathe, water that is safe to drink, building codes, literacy, pedestrian crosswalks, cloth napkins, spices, soap and toilet paper in bathrooms, smoked salmon, and architecture.

That list of things I miss comes easily to mind; however, living here is not just about missing things. Some things I have here are hard to find in the US. The one most often in my mind is awareness of my privilege. I am reminded of it when I see the children and elderly taking the garbage I leave in the alley, or the homeless person who sneaked into the stairwell of my apartment building to sleep. I feel it because I pay next to nothing for luxury and comfort that few here can afford, because I live extravagantly on a few dollars a day, and because almost anything connected to the US is viewed with such frank admiration. Although I can't say I'll miss these daily reminders when I go back, I can say I'm thankful for the perspective.

(Photo courtesy of E. Beavers: Terelj Park)

Terelj Park

This weekend we went again to Terelj Park. What a relief to escape the noise and pollution of the city. The weather continues to be mild (lows around 0 degrees F. and highs in the teens and twenties), and still there is no snow.

There are a number of inholdings in the park. It seems that most of the people who live there in the winter herd livestock. The unfortunate aspect of that land use is a proliferation of fences. On the plus side, however, is getting a glimpse of how the year-round residents live.
This man dressed in his traditional deel trotted his pony up to visit us as we ate lunch at a high point (about 1900 m.) Those ponies can go anywhere! We offered chocolate and oranges, and he seemed pleased to pose for photos.

I continue to be surprised at the sun's warmth even this late in the year. It's so much stronger than the weak rays that manage to reach Alaska in winter. Of course, when it goes down the temperature plummets, and people in the park heat their gers mainly with wood (or sometimes coal). We encountered this family on its way to gather wood Sunday morning.

I also was surprised to spot some birds wintering over. I saw the familiar chickadees, and two fairly large woodpeckers (one with black/white/red markings and the other a dull brown). The highlight, however, was being checked out at fairly close range by two huge, dark buzzards (wingspans at least 5 feet-- no lie). They circled overhead low enough for us to hear the wind in their wings, leaving me with a prickly feeling that we'd briefly been considered for lunch. Or perhaps they were merely paying their respects to the ovoo (at left) by circling three times.

(Photos courtesy of E. Beavers)