The Wisdom of a Seven Year Old.

Over the last four years while trapped in a medical bubble, I have become ridiculously less aware of the world. I know it and I hate it. As it kicked off when I began travelling, I had no idea about the happenings in Turkey save a rough idea that some sort of riot had been happening. 

I met a seven year old with a Turkish mother and French father. They live in Istanbul. She speaks turkish and french. In an effort to remember some french, I made an effort to spend some time with her. With the brutal honesty of a french seven year old, she told me she understood some of what I said but not lots. She also told me how police shoot people in Turkey. Her parents say they are proud to be part of something so significant for their country. They mentioned the ongoing extensive amount of government media control and how when the protests began, one of the major tv stations showed a documentary of penguins. This was one of the young girl's favourite songs.

Embarrassed I knew so little about it, I went online and found this article.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2013/jul/20/turkish-protests-enlightened-emboldened

Hopefully you find some of this as interesting as I did.

Mongolian Fooding

There are times in life you are sure that you have something in the bag. A few weeks ago, my friend Denbe came over with a pot of food for dinner. It was sheep's innards boiled with water and salt. The dish looked similar to a first year medicine anatomy lesson- all the body bits were in there. While I am willing to try many a new thing, this was slightly pushing my limits. So I suggested I make some pasta to make sure there was enough food. I made a fresh cherry tomato pasta with lots of garlic and oregano. In short, delicious. I presented it to my friend to be had alongside the innards. Sitting back to wait for the praise that was bound to follow, I was fairly sure it was going to substantially impress this friend and some others that had joined us. They tasted it, politely smiled and asked to be passed the innards. What?!?!?!?! resonated around my head as I tried to choke down another piece of rubbery kidney. 

If Mongolia has taught me one thing, taste is socialised. Mongolian food and I have not discovered a natural affinity for each other. But my Mongolian friends place their cuisine amongst the world's best. With most dishes consisting primarily of mutton, salt and flour, it is food that has allowed people to survive the harsh winters over hundreds of years and probably contributed to some outrageous cholesterol levels. The whitegoods, mentioned in early posts, also feature heavily. Cheese, Airag (fermented mare's milk), yoghurt and cream are offered to any household visitor. Said to cure most illnesses, markets have Airag stands to make sure it is readily available to the public. There is much ritual surrounding these foods. Firstly, there is the ready offering to household visitors. If any is dropped on the floor (a verifiable sin), the sinner must rub a little on their forehead. Milk blessing are undertaken daily with women tossing milk into the sky three times. 

One of the things, I do enjoy here is the generosity with which food is offered. When arriving into anyone's home the first thing done is that you are offered a seat and something to eat. This may the bowl of lollies every Mongolian home has. I refused to have one at mine due to the amount of black teeth children have and the fact I feared I would just eat them all. This lasted a week as I felt I was the worst host ever. The next thing you are offered is milky, slightly salted tea and then the whitegoods. This may continue to escalate until a full meal and the vodka arrives. This generosity historically allowed people to maintain the nomadic culture and easily travel across the country, ensuring every ger is a haven where food and shelter will be provided with a smile.

This generosity does mean no quick visits. I popped in to pick up something from my friend, Amgaa. Amgaa and I had been working together closely at the Hospital and he had taught me much about Mongolian medicine and it's politics. He had undertaken training in South Korea for a year and was relieved to return home to some good Mongolian food. Within two minutes of arriving at his apartment, I heard the line that often causes me concern, "Sarah, sit down, I will make you Mongolia's national dish." What followed was four hours of food and chat with others arriving. By the end, I left with the item I originally popped over for and a strengthened respect for the time Mongolians are willing to give to others. 

My friend, Denbe was determined to continue to teach me Mongolian food ways. She arrived a week ago, armed with Khuushuurr making ingredients. A Kuushuurr is the Mongolian equivalent of a samosa, a fried mutton pancake. As we were cooking in my kitchen, I was a bit cheeky and sneakily added garlic, ginger and cumin. We rolled out the dough, stuffed and fried it. The result was delicious and something I would be happy to find  at 3am after a night out. A bit of fusion and we both had a bit more appreciation for the other's cuisine.

Ger Grumbles

Part of the attraction of the sweet Ger lifestyle was experiencing a different way of living. A different way of living that is an unescapable norm for many in the world. One billion people in the world don't have access to safe water. While Mongolia's economically improves it status, infrastructure is lacking and there are many without running water at home.

Ger life had been going magically. I enjoyed the extra tasks I had each day. I felt like my home and I had established a symbiotic relationship that led to our greater good. There is a tap roughly 60 metres from my ger. Every morning I go, fill up my little white bucket and return for a bucket wash. I boil water every evening and let it cool overnight for the next day's drinking water. Washing dishes involving fetching water, boiling it and filling my dry sink. The dry sink is a setup with a small bucket with a tap above a sink that is manually filled. After finishing, any dirty water is then carted to a sink hole by yours truly. Washing clothes takes a bit longer and is a weekend activity. My handy shower bucket doubles as a manual, electricity free washing machine. My pit toilet now seems like a sensible option and my thigh strength has improved considerably. I am using less electricity and water than I ever have before. 

Part of the challenge has also been to not look like a person without residence. Camping in the bush and on boats, I am comfortable living basically and consider any form of swim as a legitimate shower alternative. But I am not used to having look hospital presentable at the same time. Added to this pressure is the fact that Mongolians look look good, always. I needed to maintain my business and feel like I have been doing an above par job.

This romance of this symbiosis came to an abrupt holt when gastro arrived. I am normally completed immune to any disease that might possibly make me thinner. Except this one. Only lasting two days, gastro with a pit toilet when it is constantly raining and no running water in your ger is less than average. I did what any sensible human would do, curled up and died (well almost) but not before calling my mum to have a moan.

Hospital Blues

So the last few weeks at the hospital have had their ups and downs. The hospital services a region of about 100,000 people. It is missing what would be considered as fairly essential equipment back at home. No blood gas machine, limited imaging, limited treatments, even more limited pathology testing. Patients stay in small metal beds after walking up the stairs as there is no elevator. They bring there own food and linen. Nursing care is limited. Pain management non-existent. This results in a different practice of medicine. Doctors are left to guess patient's diagnoses, often unable to ever confirm via testing. It is frustrating for the Mongolian Doctors who are unable to fully utilise the knowledge for their patients. Even more frustrating for those who have worked in more developed countries and know how different things can be.

I have been rotating through several areas. ENT (Ears, Nose and Throat), Maxillary Facial Surgery (very fancy dentistry), Opthalmology (Eyes) and lots of Obstetrics and Gynaecology (lady bits). There have been some eye opening moments such as becoming acquainted with equipment that I wasn't sure existed past 1950. You know how cartoon doctors often have a headband with a big circular mirror on it? I was never sure what that was and never gave it much thought until I got here. Turns out it is a old school otoscope (ear checker) and muchin use in Mongolia. The user rotates the mirror over their eye so they can see through the whole in the middle. They then reflect a very big lamp onto the mirror and direct it down the ear canal where they are holding a small tube so the ear drum can be seen. Physics is not a strong point. I am frequently easily distracted during a pool game and mess up the angles. Anything that requires lining up light and bouncing it off way too many objects is not an instrument I am going to like using. Ever. At least my incompetence with this has provided much hilarity for onlooking doctors and medical students. While maybe not acquiring the most useful clinical skills, I have seen lots of advanced disease. This does take out much of the guess work. It is like playing Cluedo but instead of working out who the murderer is, they walk up to you and introduce themselves, possibly with an 'It was me. I did it with a candlestick in the Library.' t-shirt.

Today was sub par. A sick woman presented to the hospital a few days ago. She has been down in the very limited Emergency Ward. She has continued to deteriorate since arrival. Limited testing has made it very difficult to work out what is wrong with her. I popped into to see her this morning on arrival. She had gotten worse. Another key testing machine had broken and this limited our options even more. While I was there, she rapidly went downhill. I requested she was moved to somewhere we could resuscitate her if needed to be, thinking it was a bit odd this hadn't been done already. I would soon find out why. The patient crashed. I moved into resus mode. No one else did. It turns out resuscitation isn't a skill doctors here readily have. One other doctor knew how to perform basic resuscitation. The defibrillator then wouldn't work. The only instructions I could shout were in English. There were limited drugs on hand. With all these factors working against her, the patient passed away with all her family watching. To be fair, given her illness, I don't think caring for her in Australia would be easy either. But it is awful and unfair to watch people die because of lack of resources and education.

In Australia, we are currently in the process of deciding to send all asylum seekers offshore to Papua New Guinea. Regardless of what you think of asylum seekers (I am pretty sure no one risks their life and their families based solely on a desire for a free meal at the other end), they are people that sometimes have complicated health issues. PNG is a place full of people also with complicated health issues. This is combined with limited health resources and alternative governance. While there is no easy answer in the current debate, situations like the one above occur when stress is placed on a poorly resourced health system. Sure there may be legal opinion and polls that deign this not to be our nation's problem (the odd UN Convention may disagree with that). But supporting a decision that places stress on a poorly resourced health system and compromises the health of others is questionable at best. We have access to exceptional health care because we are born in a country that thinks that's important. Should the quality of your health care be determined by where the stork decided to deliver you?

Ger-ish Nights

Sleeping in my ger has been a delight. It reminds me of living on a boat, the tent billows in the wind and there also a breeze constantly drifting across the wooden floor. The rain hits the canvas at night and sends me to sleep. There is a cute mouse that pokes it's head in from outside and occasionally musters the courage to run across the floor. It will be considerably less cute if it gets into my food but until that day, cute away mouse.

The first night in the ger though was a surprise. Returning from the Khorkhog, I was a little tipsy and keen to hit bed. I very elegantly walked into my ger, turned the light on and begun the bed proceedings. One thing I had yet to learn about Mongolian gers was that there is a no knock, just enter approach to visiting people. Within five minutes of returning home, I turned around to find my ger filled with my delightful Mongolian-only speaking neighbours, including their three year old grand daughter. There is normally pretty clear procedure on welcoming someone into your ger, even if they appear unannounced. Offer them tea, a variety of Mongolian dairy products and lollies. This is done with everyone, everytime and ensures there is no speedy popping in to borrow a cup of sugar. At this point, I was in no state to proceed with this protocol, I managed to smile a lot and find a clip on kangaroo for the three year old. They eventually seemed to believe I would survive there alone and bid me good night or in Mongol, bayartai. I recovered my poor form in the following weeks. I also got very good at locking my door as a wide range of surprise visitors continued to appear.

Khorkhog Times

My friend, Leah, has garnered many mentions in this blog so far but her partner, Andrew, has yet to feature. This is due to Andrew's first foray into running a Mongolian photographic tour with another friend, Batmaa. Andrew is an impressive photographer and writer. He has learnt over the last few years whilst crazy travelling the world. I'd give you a link to his site but you will continue to be disappointed with my photos from here on out so I might delay that. He has been taken a couple of Australian photographers around Mongolia, shooting the wild beauty on offer. Inviting Leah and I along, he had brought them back to our fair town for the night to experience a traditional Mongolian BBQ, a Khorkhog. 

  

A Khorkhog is an outside activity. Rocks are collected from a river and placed in a fire to heat up. Traditionally a goat would be gutted, the stones would be taken from the fire and placed inside the goat with vegetables. The whole thing is then cooked in the fire until deemed tasty. The modern day Khorkhog looked a little different. Instead of the gutted goat, the river rocks are heated and then placed in a pot (or metal milk container) with mutton or goat, veggies, water and salt. It then cooks away while participants kick back and enjoy the view.

For our Khorkhog, Batmaa's husband, Toggi took the reins. We had 4WD'd down to the river, scattering wild horses across the Steppes as we went. Toggi led us to collect and wash the river rocks. He then set about running his own cooking show as we relaxed with a few beers. The veggies (token) and meat were chopped and thrown into the pot with a little water and salt. The stones were piled in with tongs and the lid quickly secured in place.

When it was deemed the pot had hit tasty, it was taken off the fire. It's contents were emptied on the lid and the free for all began. The ribs are regarded as the tastiest morsel and soon everyone's fingers were covered in juices and the ever present animal grease. To finish the meal, the hot stones are taken from the pot and rubbed over the hands, or any other body part, to improve circulation. What is failed to be mentioned in this semi-romantic procedure, is that the stones are hot. Crazy, third degree burn hot. While the Mongolians sat there serenely with their stones, I am juggling mine back and forth, hoping the whole process finishes asap before blisters appear. 

With full bellies, we lay around the river grass and the vodka was passed around. It may sound that vodka is a constant in Mongolia and it is but it is about ritual more than alcoholism. After the Khorkhog, generally the most senior Mongolian male takes control of the bottle and passes the glass. He keeps the glass full and passes it with his right hand. You must receive it with your right hand and bring it to your lips. Here it is up to you, gulp or take nothing. It took me awhile to get the take nothing bit. The glass is then passed back to the man in charge with your right hand and the ritual repeated with the next person along. This continues until the bottles are empty.

The sunset was stunning. Mongolia definitely does a sunset. Armed with Vodka, I had hit the photographers for a free lesson and hopefully you will experience the benefits in the future. Feeling a little tipsy (hiccup!), we piled back into the old Russian troopy and I headed back for my first night in my ger. 

Khashah Dog

I want to introduce you to Khashah Dog. Mongolia has the most beautiful dogs. They are a genetically unique breed, can pretty much do anything from eating mutton fat to pulling sleds and have excellent, fluffy tails. I don't know enough about animal husbandry to tell you anymore than that. 

When in regional towns (aimags) or villages (soums), gers are generally located in a yard or a khahshah. These are owned by individuals. The ger districts, comprised of many khahshahs, have been rapidly expanding due to the impending end of a government policy that allows every individual to lay claim to a khahshah of their own.

A Khahshah normally has a dog to protect it. They wander wild and fend for themselves. For me, wandering scary dogs are a big deal because a dog bite would probably mean an eight hour bus trip to the capital for a rabies shot. Khahshah Dog terrified me the first night I met him, wandering in late with a friend. I obviously send the friend into the yard first as a sacrificial lamb. Fortunately, we both made it through safely. Since then though, Khahshah Dog and I have developed an active adoration of each other. I talk to him incessantly and throw him leftovers (he hates sushi). He sleeps next to my ger at night and follows me up the street. 

Mongolian Baileys. A Marriage.

Over several efforts, there has been slow perfection of Mongolian Baileys. It is indeed a perfect marriage, aided by the brightly coloured Mongolian food photos in the background. I feel Chinggis Khan would dig it.

Ingredients

- milk

- chocolate condensed milk

- coffee, brewed at Leah and Andrew's- the only place that makes coffee out here

- Mongolia's finest vodka, determined by the change in your pocket

Method

Mix all ingredients in a vessel of some description. Drink and share with a friendly Mongolian nearby.

My Mongolian Palace

I got word that my ger was finished and ready for me to make it my own. I went to check it out. It was magnificent. A five wall beauty. Huge by Mongolians standards. People were amazed that I was going to live in it by myself. The people who were renting it to me had gone to much effort. It had a fridge, dry sink (more explanation later), a hot plate, a traditional stove (with chimney), sofa, armchairs, tables. The stove had been installed with much insistence for fear I would get cold. I feel I am at much greater risk of burning the whole thing down. Firing the stove may need to be a supervised activity. 

In a wave of excitement, I raced down to the local market to grab a few fundamentals. My priority was a few Mongolian posters. I had admired the poster in the kitchen at Leah and Andrew's and was thrilled to find out there was a whole poster industry. Think bright colours, photoshopped foods, horses and gloss. After purchasing an excellent kitchen poster and a requisite horses galloping in gold frame poster, oh and a couple of knives and forks, I was ready. I moved the rest of my clothes in and claimed my Mongolian palace.

For further explanation of my new home, a ger is a traditional Mongolian tent used by the nomads. There are similar version of it right through Central Asia. It is comprised of an inner lattice attached to a door. The number of lattices determines the size. Mine is five wall or lattices. Wooden roof slats are then attached between a big wooden circle that forms the centre of the roof and the lattices. A canvass inner goes on the outside of the lattice, then a layer of felt and then a waterproof outer. The amount of felt determines the warmth. Winter gers have a serious amount of felt. The whole thing is a remarkably simple and effective structure that has served the nomads for eons. It can be assembled in a day and be carried by yaks or camels (though trucks tend to be more popular these days).

nb. None of these gers are mine. It is coming- just you wait.

 (My radical neighbour in some ger buidling action)

Hospital Day 1

After all the shennigans in getting here, it was time to start at the hospital. My interpreter, Iyon and I met the Director of the Hospital and were lead to the grand tour. Upon entering the hospital, two things became clear. Firstly, the supply and demand relationship was out of whack. Thick queues of people lined corridors waiting to be seen, streaming out onto the street. Each person carefully clutching a small, pale blue book that was their personal health record. The hospital services a region of about 100,000 (about the size of Darwin) and the hospital is about the size of Alice Springs Hospital (services a lot less than 100,000) Secondly, this was not like any hospital I had encountered before. There appeared to a doozy in the time-space continuum and I had somehow landed back in the fifties. Limited running water, no elevator between the 4 floors, minimal pathology testing, medical equipment I had no idea how to use. Amongst the midst of this, I somehow ended up in maternity and spent the rest of the day there. 

Women arrived by themselves with their own food and blankets. When it was deemed necessary they were moved into a 2 bed waiting room from the ward. If there are more than two, they all sort of share the space. Eventually when the moment gets closer, the women are then shuffled into a birthing room- think stainless steel chair and stirrups, and procede to give birth as doctors and midwives bark at them. So far I haven't seen any pain medication used. After giving birth if there are concerns about bleeding, a large piece of cloth is tied around her stomach and wrenched tight, well beyond a girdle. It is left there for two hours with further pressure occasionally added. Women are then put back in the waiting room and eventually transferred to the ward (think a room with four beds, nothing else). 

So Day 1 was spent here, adjusting to a very different type of medicine. I delivered my first Mongolian baby, my name was even misspelt in the official record to validate this. To be fair, Mongolian women so far have made birthing look ridiculously easy. Delivering a baby really just involves putting your hand out and giving a bit of a tug. In the midst of these challenges, doctors and midwives worked together well and the Maternity Department had a much friendlier feel than any I have previously encountered in Australia.

Arriving in my new home, sweet home.

After an interesting arrival, life settled down quickly in my new town. Leah arrived and was impressed I had already met the entire police force and immigration. To be fair, they were all lovely and quite strapping. I moved into Leah and Andrew's flat and slowly settled into the nuances of Mongolian life. Outside the flat each morning is an old Mongolian lady who throws milk to the sky in a blessing. Milk men line the park on motor bikes, with jerry cans of the good stuff. The pervasive scent of mutton fat fills the air.  

 

With Leah and Andrew's place being delightful but way too intimate for a six week guest stay, I still needed a place to stay long term. Mongolian hospitality began to show itself in abundance. I was offered a small hut in the ger district out of town by a lovely family, who promised to have me for dinner and fill up my water containers when I needed it. But with no phone reception and a dog gauntlet into town, I had to turn it down. I was still holding out for a ger.

Leah and I headed to an NGO to ask for any accommodation leads. We walked into a big, white Soviet style building with a flaking paint job. The lights were on, computer screens lit up but it was completely deserted. We walked out the back yard to a ger. It was packed. In a ceremony for a volunteers, the workers had packed into the ger in a big circle. Vodka, cheese and Airagg (fermented mare's milk- once again as good as it sounds) were being passed around freely. A Morin Khurr (a traditional two-string horse head fiddle) was being played and people would take turns to stand up to lead a song. It was 10 am.

After a bit of Vodka, cheese and a bunch of introductions, I got roped into singing. Embarassingly, Waltzing Matilda was the only thing that seemed appropriate. Somewhat less impressive than the throat singing that preceded me. But on the plus side, it is also easily picked up on the Morin Khurr, leading to a rock n roll jam Mongolian style. It was all a bit rowdy and hilarious but as we left, I thought that would be the end of it. Later that afternoon, Leah received a call, stating that my fellow rock n rollers would be happy to assemble a ger for me and have me live in their yard. Win!

Meat 2 vs Body 0

Meat, there is no escaping it in Mongolia and there is no mistaking where it comes from. There is no black polystyrene containers and glad wrap. The local meat market is a room where one wishes for gumboots amongst the counters of butchers. There is a yak, beef, mutton and horse sections. No part of any animal is neglected. But sheep's tails and ribs are considered the best bits. Truly holistic trade. You will notice no lamb. It is not considered favoursome enough- wait till it's mutton, apparently that is the tooth-pick-requiring business. The go is to drift around the counters until you find a piece of meat that takes your fancy and order. I just pick my favourite butcher, difficult as they are all pretty delightful. Must admit vegetarian days have increased dramatically.

Meat 1 vs Body 0

In an effort to help my body combat the meaty Mongolian diet, today I kicked off some sprouting. This is is also an ode to former housemate, Jules, Alice's Sprouting Queen. Go Gut, Go!

On the Road from UB

After returning from the Horse Trek, I had a day to finalise my visa and hit the road. Cruising along to bad pop tunes and tales of his 'very fat but delightful' wife, I rocked up to Immigration with my super driver, Ganbat. Sans interpreter, I walked up to counter and requested my passport only to be told they had no record of it. This was the start of my worst day in Mongolia to date. After an hour of much smiling and then arguing, we eventually sorted it out. I left with my passport and adrenaline pumping.

Ganbat and I raced around to find medical scrubs, apparently essential and not hospital provided. I was eventually dropped off at the bus stop. In the midst of carrying a stupid amount of shit, I had my phone pickpocketed. Fuck. While this is a current occurrence at the UB Bus Centre, it posed several problems. The biggest being I had no way of contacting anyone, including those at the other end. I was furious at the world and myself for the first hour of the bus trip. But over the next seven hours, the insanely stunning landscape, yup more rolling green Steppes, and the fact the girl next to me was transporting baby goldfish in a jar from the big smoke, got me back to human.

I arrived to my new home, a kilometre out of town in the pouring rain. There was a white guy. Leah and Andrew had been stuck out country in the rain whilst hiking, another common occurrence when there are only dirt tracks everywhere. They had sent Jason to come meet me. Needless to say, the guy's a winner.

The next day, I decided to be independent and sort out my business before Leah got back. I trotted off the local Police Station to report my phone loss for insurance. Mongolian is not a language that rolls off my tongue or any other body part. There is also minimal English around. Things started to get interesting when the Immigration guy rocked up. Before I got deported, we all quickly decided dependence was the way to go and I could sort it when Leah got back.

Phone loss is becoming a recent feature in my life, this being the second Iphone I had lost in 3 weeks. It was disturbing how much I craved crap communication without it. Over the last few years, it has become an additional limb and not one that does anything useful like gesticulate wildly or feed me. I decided it was time to shed. 

(This zen lasted two days. I tried. I am just saving off grid for another day. I now have a glittery, strawberry throw up pink cheapy. Anyone pickpocketing this monstrosity is giving it straight back.)

Horse Trekking

With time to kill waiting for a visa extension, I jumped at the opportunity to head out of UB for a 2 day horse trek with a couple of Aussie blokes I met. After a night out together, they seemed to lack any serial killer traits so I figured it would be okay.

Jamie was a social worker that had spent the last year working at a children's refuge and his younger brother, Geoff was visiting on his way to live in Canada. We left UB early and headed to a Ger camp an hour out of the city. It was my first journeying out onto the Steppes. They are simply stunning, so much green rolling space. It reminds me of the desert around Alice Springs, the same feeling of vast emptiness.

We headed off on our horses. I was a little nervous. I had eaten horse the night before. But I figure this could go either way. It invoke fear in my horse, making my ride sweet or cause intense dislike, making my ride a bumpy road to hell. With my black stead, it just seemed to provoke disinterest. Horses here are as Mongolian as Chinggis Khan. They are wild horses, set free by herders in the harsh winter to increase their chances of survival. While mighty, they are also short, you sort of slide off a horse instead of falling. 

After a day's riding, we pulled into a ger. Our guides, a couple of young Mongolians, took us to another local ger where we sampled some Mongolian whitegoods. These people take dairy to a different level. Hard cheese, soft cheese, sweet cheese, cream, goat's milk, cow's milk, fermented mares milk. Whilst I appreciate the high energy value these provide in the winter months, I won't be smuggling any back to Australia.  

After dinner (boiled mutton soup- at this point still a novelty), the boys and I climbed a nearby hill and watched the sun go down. Over a bottle of vodka, the super moon rose along with our blood alcohol level. We then headed back the ger to find six kids sleeping there too. We found a bit of space, threw down mats and slept like logs. Vodka turns out, is very critical for a good night sleep in a ger. 

We woke up like kings the next morning and had a cuppa. It was at this point things were getting a little critical. What you will notice in the vast rolling green Steppes is that there are no trees. There are also no toilets. This is fine for the boy folk, more challenging for the ladies. I had been keeping together for the last 24 hours but it was time for a pee. I trekked off for about a kilometre to where I finally felt my modesty would be preserved. Mongolian woman are more relaxed about this. I guess I will be soon too. Upon returning, we wandered over to the guy in the ger next door for some shearing. This man and his family had about 100 goats they would bring in intermittently, leaving them to roam the Steppes at other times. Shearing was done with shears and a cigarette. The kids would drag a new goat over when dad was finished. The wool would then be graded. The good stuff would be sent off for commercial use. The lower grade would be felted for lining the ger.

With rain threatening, the rest of the day was spent riding back to our starting point across a landscape devoid of any other humans. We spent late afternoon kicking back and watching kids ride horses. Four year olds would need lifting up onto the horse before galloping off alone, putting our poor horse efforts to shame.  

Mongolia Begins.

Typical of anytime I have travelled, I had done little planning and figured it would all just work out. It normally does. I had travelled a fair bit- how different could this be?

It turns out very different. Ulaanbataar, Mongolia's capital that is spelt a million different ways, is a mess caught between it's release from Soviet clutches and recent explosion into the modern era, fuelled by a resources boom. Chaotic traffic, including the odd Hummer and stores such as the ever painful Louis Vuitton, mixed with cold, concrete squares and Soviet architecture. All of this occurs under the watchful eye of the revered Chinggis Khan, who appears in many forms from statues to vodka bottles. 

Yet passed the grey boundaries of the city are the Steppes. This is what I flew into. Green, undulating hills without a tree in site. Small enclaves of 2-3 Gers, the white circular tents symbolic of Mongolia's nomadic existence. Also, yaks. These animals have now hit my top five greatest animals ever. I apologise for the times I have inadvertently eaten you while here. Alongside the great yet bashful yak roam goats, sheep, cows and of course, wild horses.

My friend, Leah, bussed up from out bush (out steppe sounds wrong) and met me at the airport with a wealth of Mongolian treats. We rode into UB through traffic without road rules with Ganbat, the taxi driver who would soon become my invaluable guide to the city. I hadn't seen Leah for four years, since leaving Darwin for the thriving metropolis of Adelaide to start med school. She has been living in Mongolia on and off for four years. Leah forms half of Leah and Andrew, a couple that undertakes some of the wildest travel in the world. I have spent the last few years looking at their travel photos online, which acted as a major catalyst for coming to Mongolia.

Over the next day or so, Leah introduced me to a few of her mates over beers and vodka at several UB's wealth of night spots. The expats I met living here read like characters in a Kurt Vonnegut book- the French guy that looked after the Yak trade, the Indian journalist that kept it cool, Nigerian soccer players recruited to play for UB. Random barely describes it. After pointing out a few critical sites and supermarkets, Leah left me to me own devices and headed back to the rural town where I would meet her later. 

Battling this mesh of old and new is Mongolia's youth as they look to define their identity in the face of all this crazy. As little kids they ride horses bareback across the Steppes and  yet as they grow, particularly living the UB city life, there is societal pressures that have only really emerge in the last twenty years. I got a bit of glimpse into this on two separate occasions.

After the first round of battles with Immigration, I took my interpreter out for lunch. Dealing with my own immigration is shit, I can only imagine how irritating it must be to have to do it for someone else. My interpreter was a 21 year old UB girl dressed up to the nines and generally delightful. She picked a hipster Indian restaurant in town. Post Hong Kong, I was happy as long as it wasn't dumplings. Sitting and having a chat over bad Indian, I looked across the restaurant at an immaculately groomed woman with a ridiculously smooth face. I hit up my interpreter "so what's the go with plastic surgery in this town?". She looks at me and close her eyes. "Look here" she says, pointing the a fine scar forming the crease of her eyelids. "I had it done when I was nineteen." On further questioning, she revealed that out of six friends, four had the same operation, the other two didn't need it. She went on to describe the surgery undertaken by Mongolia's wealthier folks- botox, collagen, breasts implants. Nose surgery also features on many young girls agenda. "Anyone with a really defined bridge of their nose has had surgery," added my interpreter, "many girls want it." Streaming on Mongolian TV, South Korean music videos show young pop stars with faces that impossibly combine the mainstream ideas of Caucasian and Asian beauty. As Mongolian continues to become wealthier and more western culture floods in, it will be interesting to watch how these young women define  ideas of their own beauty.

My second run in with UB youngins' was through a chance meeting with an Australian documentary maker. Ben spent several years making a doco on hip hop in Mongolia, aptly named "Mongolian Bling". I spent a night out on the town with him and met one of the guys in his film. A  young UB hipster with an air of disinterest and a strong edge of US ghetto to his accent. He spoke of challenges to the local hip hop scene in the face of major international commercial markets. Also mentioned, was the difficult of growing the underground scene and taking it to a broader audience. Suggestion of this hidden UB arts scene is scattered through in street art and whispered mention of underground gigs. 

Mongolia so far has many faces. Exploring it is going to be an adventure.

Leaving Last Known Address

I rolled out of Alice Springs and Darwin with a whole bunch of love from friends and the raw environment they reside in. Over the next few months, I am headed to Mongolia, via Hong Kong, for a rural hospital placement. I will then jumped on a train, ride on through Russia and end up in Norway for a Neurology placement. This blog is set up mainly to appease my mother but anyone else is welcome to read along. Here we go.

Hong Kong High Rises

So on the way to start my Mongolian horse army, I decided to pay a visit to Greg. He assured me during a Christmas catch up that Hong Kong would be somewhere unexpected and a place I would love. The man was not wrong. As Greg was off conquering all things financial, I spent the first few days there alone, kicking back in an apartment with the view below. Hong Kong is a wild mess of people, high rises, temples and markets all compacted around a port that has served many a pirate. This very organised mess is only contained to about 20% of the island, the rest is tropical greenery that contains beautiful trails and warrants further exploring.

Exploring the city with limited dollars meant I ended up eating in a few very authentic places. My favorite was one day at a second floor dim sum restaurant that smelt amazing and where I never had any idea what I was eating. Through the noise of Chinese chatter, spitting and scraping plates, I heard a woman call out. I looked up to see an Asian lady beelining for me between a maze of dim sum trolleys. She sat down next to me with aplomb. "You can't eat your dumplings like that, you will burn your mouth." She proceeded with a good half an hour lesson on dumpling eating and general Hong Kong goodness. I like this place. 

Upon Greg's return, I was treated to some amazing food and views across the harbour. The day I left, we scaled the Peak behind the city. This was where the British would reside on high as mosquito born diseases plagued the city below. As sedan chairs are now a no go, Greg and I marched our over-martini-ed-from-the-night-before selves up the Peak and suffered for a view deemed suitable for a monarch. Now time to jump on Mongolian Airlines and head to Ulaanbataar.