We left Tsetserleg around 4:30 on Monday afternoon. It had already been a long day of presenting and being presented to, so none of us were particularly thrilled about getting back in the cars and driving onwards. But in we got and on we went. The paved road ended abruptly about five minutes out of Tsetserleg, but the gravel that replaced it was reasonably smooth – for the first half of our journey, at least. For that I was most grateful: I was about halfway through the third book in George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire at this point and unwilling to put it down. But I was eventually forced to do so, as reading, rough roads, and I are not a good combination. But the scenery was interesting and afforded us plenty to see and talk about.

We had quickly left the mountains surrounding Tsetserleg for the more open steppe that covers much of the country, but there were always more on the horizon, whichever way you looked. Steppe and mountains alike were still the dead, dry brown of winter, but we had blue sky above us and a good road beneath us; not a bad way to watch afternoon fade into evening.

About an hour outside Tariat, a canyon opened on our right, growing larger with every minute we drove. Dashaa carefully maneuvered our car off the road, around the ditches, and through the intervening herd of yaks so that we could pile out for a closer look. The canyon was deep enough that little sunlight reached the base, even during the height of the afternoon. Snow still covered the near bank, reaching all the way up to just below the lip, and the river’s surface was still frozen solid. Some of the ice retained its coating of snow, but green swirled unexpectedly through the the white of the exposed ice. This would be no calm stream come summer.

Чулуут Каньон / Chuluut Canyon

The other cars had pulled ahead while we dawdled at the edge of the canyon, but we soon caught up: they too had stopped not far ahead. We jumped out again, to take more pictures. The canyon walls sloped less steeply here, and more trees grew on the banks. I would have loved to see this canyon in September; larch trees  hold their green, needle-like leaves until late in autumn, turning a lovely golden color after aspens have dropped all their leaves, before they too succumb to the cold. But Чулууд, as I learned the canyon was called, had begun to leave the throes of winter behind. A stream of liquid water snaked its way through the ice here, only to be subsumed by it further downstream.

It was past dinnertime when we arrived in Tariat, but we’d had sandwiches and snacks in the car to tide us over. I was glad of my sandwich; I consistently forget that ноготой шөл doesn’t translate to “vegetable soup” so much as “soup with vegetables.” Mutton soup, in other words. I’ve already expressed my general dislike of mutton, and boiled mutton is my least favorite preparation of the meat. The milk tea wasn’t really to my liking either; I’m not generally a fan of the stuff, and this struck me as unusually gamey. I’m glad I at least tried, it though – we later learned that the reason for the unusual taste was that it was made from yak’s milk.

We were joined at dinner by Mike, the PCV at whose school we’d be presenting the following morning. Mike is truly what my friend Eric would call a “hudoo rat” : he’s a ger-dweller as well as a soumer, and his soum is six hours by mikr from the aimag center. Eric has a modem and can sometimes get Internet access in Delger, if he sits in exactly the right place and the Internet gods are willing. But Mike doesn’t get Internet in his soum at all. For him to get online, he has to make the six-hour trip to Tsetserleg. Suffice to say, he doesn’t spend much time on Facebook. The Embassy had provided us with the contact information of the PCVs we’d be meeting along the way, so the Lisas had asked whether any of them wanted goods from the capital. Mike’s requests were simple: baked goods and macaroni and cheese. He got both.

Tumpin: A wide, shallow wash bucket. Photo credit to former PCV Belen Diez.

Mike had plenty of entertaining stories to tell, including several about his dog. Peace Corps pets tend to be adopted/rescued strays, and Mike’s dog was no exception. Her name caused a double-take for a lot of us, though: “you named your dog Tumpin?” But while most PC pets are “rescues” in the sense that the were taken in off of the street, so to speak, Tumpin was truly rescued as a puppy – from an outhouse. In the summer. And then rescued a second time, when she fell in another outhouse after Mike adopted her. Her name, it would seem, is well-earned.

Our one presentation at Mike’s school the next morning flew by, and before we knew it, we were on the road again. But not the road to Tosontsengel – at least, not yet. First, we made a quick side trip to Khorgo.

There aren’t many volcanoes in Mongolia, but Khorgo is one of them. And even though it’s been extinct for seven thousand years, it still sticks out from the surrounding area. The rocks are darker, sharper; the mountain, strangely rounded. There are trees, but they’re sparse and scrawny.

One of these things is not like the others… Can you guess which one is the volcano?

We bounded out of the cars and up the mountainside, ignoring the wind and impending snow. Khorgo is clearly a tourist destination; while it doesn’t have marked trails, like you would find in America, the steeper part of the climb had concrete steps that cut through the strangely-mounded scree. For that, we were all grateful; screes are never fun to climb.

We only had an hour to explore, but we reached the lip of the volcano in far less time. The volcano itself might not have been very tall, but its crater was impressively deep. Phil warned us to stay away from the edge, telling us that the had lost Fulbrighters to volcanoes before. We tittered nervously, waiting for the punchline, but there wasn’t one: two live volcanoes, two lost Fulbrighters. This one, thankfully, wasn’t active, but falling into the crater would certainly result in serious injury at the very least.

Tattered flag atop the volcano’s main ovoo. Photo courtesy of Amraa.

I would have liked to climb higher but was informed that we didn’t have time. So back to the cars we went. We reached the base just as the first flakes of the threatened snow began to fall, and then we were back on the road once more.

What a view, awesome!

Check out immu’s flickr Photostream !

I tagged along as a photographer/videographer, capturing interviews with business leaders at each of the locations we visited. I included five of the short films about these small businesses in a previous post.

Here are the last two:

Last November, I traveled with a few people who work with the NGO Mercy Corps to visit some of their projects in Arkhangai Province. It was a great way to see everyday life outside of Ulaanbaatar, and also heartening to see how an organization as big as Mercy Corps is able to really make a difference in individuals’ lives.

We visited seven small businesses that were being aided by small business loans, grants, social and business training, or all of the above. The businesses included a small bakery, a ger felt and factory, a carpentry coop, a sewing coop, a massage therapy group focusing on people with disabilities, a milk producer, and a felt handicraft production group. It was eye opening to see just how far a little assistance could go. One new sewing machine or table saw really gave people a chance to expand their business and livelihood in such a productive way.

Here are some of the vignettes that came out of the trip:

All this is to say, there is a significant difference between Ulaanbaatar and the rest of Mongolia.

This past weekend, I finally had the opportunity to get out of the city for a few nights and into the other part of Mongolia. I traveled with my roommate to one of the central provinces: Arkhangai. I was tagging along on a work trip as a volunteer photog and videopgrapher for Mercy Corps, the development NGO she works with. But I still think I got the good end of the stick.

We left Ulaanbaatar early on Sunday morning, escaping the morning pollution fog for the fresh country air. We weren’t 30 minutes outside of the city when I could already tell the difference in air quality. It’s amazing how humans can adjust to challenging living situations – but living in heavy air pollution is one I hope I am never fully comfortable with.

Goat Herder on Side of Road

I had been on the very same road leaving town five years ago, but now with four inches of snow covering the steppe and slight mountains, it looked completely different. As we made our way to Tsetserlig (Arkhangai’s capital), we passed horse herds, goat herds, cattle herds, and yak herds with dozens of kilometers of nothing in between.

I found I was more than content to simply stare out my frosty window, letting my mind wander as we passed over rolling hills. ‘Picturesque’ doesn’t begin to describe the beauty of the Mongolian countryside. Pristine, ancient, crisp, calming, majestic… none of these words really do it justice. This was the scenery that called me back to Mongolia.

We visited seven different small business that Mercy Corps funds and supports in different ways. Four of the projects were in Tsetserlig, the province capital where we stayed. Another two were in the ancient capital Kharkhorin, about a 5 hour drive from Ulaanbaatar. The last was in Kharhun and was the most difficult to reach.

Tsetserlig

We left Tsetserlig for the tiny town of Kharhun around 10 AM and drove on paved roads (a luxury here) for about 30 minutes before veering off onto what more closely resembled tire tracks in snow than any sort of real road. From what I gathered, our directions were some version of “keep going straight, cross the mountains, you’ll get there eventually”. And 3.5 hours later, we did get there. Kharhun is essentially a county seat – a small government center with a population of only a couple hundred. Still, compared to the isolation that surrounds it, arriving at our destination felt like we were definitely entering a significant population center.

The Road to Kharhun

Kharhun's Town Sign

We got out of the SUV, stretched our legs and introduced ourselves to the owner of a felt-making operation and his wife, sons, and employees. He showed us around the property and demonstrated the equipment that helps turn wool into felt. He sells 300 felt blankets used for the shell of the Mongolian ger (or yurt) annually. We were checking out some new equipment that allows him to produce felt in the winter, a time when he was previously idle. After the demonstration and a brief interview, his wife prepared a lunch of mutton, boiled potatoes, milk tea and bread for us – a warm and welcome meal after the journey. After a few hours with the ger felt-maker and his family, we thanked them for their hospitality and raced the sun as we headed  back to Tsetserlig.

Felt Factory

The next day we visited projects around Tsetserlig, a city of about 20,000. We spent time with a baker, carpenter, masseuse, and members of a sewing coop – all using modest grants to improve or expand their businesses. I could only catch bits of what each of the business leaders were saying about their livelihood (the interviews were all done in Mongolian).

The final day, we stopped in Kharkhorin on our way back to Ulaanbaatar to visit a milk producer and felt handicraft cooperative. All very typical and practical Mongolian businesses. I was surprised to learn that the felt handicraft cooperative was the very same that made felt items sold in my favorite shop in Ulaanbaatar. I’ve been eying slippers and felt coasters for a few weeks, knowing they’ll make excellent Christmas presents.

Felt Handicrafts

Returning to Ulaanbaatar after four days away felt both shocking and slightly relieving. Shocking because the crazed and hectic city has never felt more so. When compared to the quiet and still of the countryside, Ulaanbaatar’s overcrowded streets, orchestra of car horns, brown haze, and bustling citizens are jarring. Still, I felt a sense of relief to be coming back to a city I’m beginning to know. I have friends here now. I know my way around. Ulaanbaatar is indeed becoming my home away from home.

Peace Ave in Ulaanbaatar

When I was in elementary school in Korea, we had our opening ceremony at the playground. There was no such playground or even a suitable field for hundreds of students to line up. Supposedly, about 1,600 students are enrolled in school, but barely half of them showed up for the early morning ceremony. Without a playground, it still was a pleasing view, with kids wearing neat outfits lining up one after another, surrounded by Bulgan Mountain. Many girls were wearing French maid looking dresses (black one-piece with white apron). Teachers dressed up nicely for the opening day; most male teachers wore ties, while female teachers were displaying luxurious-looking one-piece dress and dells (Mongolian traditional outfit).

Some students prepared singing or dance performances as part of the opening ceremonial events.

It was interesting to see that these girls were dancing to a Girl’s Generation (the most popular idol girl group in Korea) song.

This girl was on her own. I think it was tango, but not totally sure. 

Each class lasts 40 minutes, with either 5 or 10 minute break in between, 14 classes in a day, from 8AM to 6:45PM. When a teacher does not have a class, he/she usually takes a break.

At teacher’s room, I was greeted by a bunch of teachers, and a middle-aged male teacher poured me some horse milk (called Airag). It tasted like sour yogurt and my palate wasn’t very pleased. Then, he offered me a curd (called arol), which I felt was like a rock-solid soap-tasting cookie. I could not finish it and I had to sneak it into my pocket to eventually throw away off their sight.

Students were very entertaining. When my fellow computer teachers introduced me to class, I could feel the strong curiosity from students. I was very limited in introducing myself in Mongolia. My speech was basically
“Hello everyone.
My name is Jae Jun.
I’m a computer teacher.
I came from Korea in June.
I know Mongolian a little bit.
I lived in America for 11 years.
It is nice to meet you all.”

A student would shout “Welcome to Mongolia” in English while a few other students would bust out random Korean phrases. Then, I walked around and made eye contacts with them, showing interest in their notebooks (some notebook covers had pictures of either Beckham or Messi, by which I could relate to them) and writing their names in Korean characters per request. This was a very refreshing experience.