What a difference a year makes...

Story time. Tonight I was hanging out with the sitemates at Bob's place. Susanne was cooking us a delicious dinner of barbecue chicken, naan, sautéed green peppers, and onion rings. I had about ten minutes until it was ready, so I decided to run Jagaa out for a pee first. When I got outside, I found myself in the midst of what might have been the biggest snowstorm we've had all season. While Mongolia is quite cold, it is equally dry, so we get very little snowfall throughout the winter. Not only was this storm unusually heavy; it was also exceptionally beautiful. The sun had set a while earlier, but something about the way the apartment lights shone on the windy scene was quite breathtaking. Standing outside with Jagaa gets to be quite tiring, but sometimes I'm grateful that I get to be outside to appreciate something I would have otherwise missed. This was one of those times.

After a few minutes, Jagaa had done nothing but sniff around, but I continued to wait. Just then, from opposite directions, two young girls came skipping toward each other, screaming "goy yumaa!" and "yamar goy yum be!" among other exclamations, all of which basically translate to "this is so beautiful!" When they'd reached each other, they embraced with great affection, as Mongolians love to do, and they proceeded to dance and cheer and continue their litany of praise for the beauty of the night. Normally when I bring Jagaa out and she doesn't do her business right away, I begin counting to some arbitrary number in my head, after reaching which I will go back inside. Sixty or one hundred or occasionally two hundred. I was doing just that as this scene unfolded, but I became so caught up in the euphoria these girls were expressing that I completely lost count. Soon, two very young boys ran out and joined them. They all held hands and danced in a circle for some time. I tried to capture the scene with my camera, but the results of course did little justice.

Eventually, one of them noticed the foreigner with the little dog standing off to the side. Without exchanging any words, they ran over to me and grew captivated by Jagaa. As I've mentioned before, pets are a rarity in Mongolia, so I draw even more attention than usual when I have a leashed dog with me. However, because dogs are basically security guards in this country, most Mongolians are very frightened of them. The children, in spite of their fascination, were no exception. They'd move closer and whistle at Jagaa, which invariably caused her to bark, which in turn made them recoil and cry "eejee!" That's Mongolian for "my mother!" but it's basically used where we would say "oh my god!" Eventually, through my broken Mongolian, I convinced them that Jagaa was harmless, and it became clear that she was much more afraid of them than the other way around. I picked her up and calmed her down, and she allowed them to pet her. I decided to take some more pictures, and they were elated to pose for me. After each one I took, they demanded to have a look, to which they'd again say "goy yumaa!" and "yamar goy yum be!" They then requested to take a picture of Jagaa and me. It was pretty adorable. So adorable in fact, that I forgot all about dinner. Soon Trinh stuck his head out the window and called me in. While I was getting my food, I heard them saying my name, pleading that Jagaa and I come back outside and play with them again. Those of us inside laughed it off, and I told them I was eating. "Afterwards!" they insisted.


We sat down to dinner, but soon they'd discovered which door was Bob's and so of course they got to a-knocking. It was still cute, but we were eating, so Zoloo went over to try and avert the problem. She pretended to be the only person living in the apartment, claiming that she didn't know anyone named John and had no dog. All the while, Jagaa was of course barking in the background. She shut the door, but they did not relent. Trinh went to the door next and spoke to them in English, asserting that he knew no Mongolian. Then he switched into Cambodian, his mother tongue, which astounded them even further. Finally, he switched into Mongolian, which he's pretty good at. After shutting the door, they still weren't placated, so Bob went over and tried some Spanish on them. They were loving this multilinguistic assault, but of course they remained unappeased. Finally we shut off all the lights and laughed to ourselves until they went away.

I feel a bit overly sentimental posting this story here in its entirety, but for some reason, it feels very important to me. When it was happening, somewhere pretty early on I realized that I was experiencing what would become one of my most enduring and cherished memories from my time in this country, that the image of those children dancing in the windy snowscape was one that would stay with me the rest of my life. How appropriate that almost exactly one-year prior, I had been visiting Oberlin with some friends, and my mom had called me to tell me a large packet had arrived from the Peace Corps. She'd asked me if I'd wanted her to open it for me. I had. Inside was my invitation to serve for two years as an English teacher trainer in Mongolia. In the three hundred and sixty five days that have followed that moment, this country has consumed my life. Even before I arrived in June, perhaps especially before then, it was all I could think about. Since I've gotten here, it has grown into a complete and total reality, the norm, that to which everything else is compared. When I really think about life in the place I was born, America seems the foreign country. Of course, I miss my family and friends back home, but it's amazing how used to things you can get. I've built a life over here now as well, complete with great friends and a full-time job and routines and goals and thrills and sadnesses and a woman so wonderful I'm going to make her my wife. It's amazing to think that all of this has happened in so short a time, but it's even more amazing to think that after not so much more than another year, it will all have finished.