Live From Mongolia

by Patricia Sexton

  In no time at all, Tobie had set up the shot and was asking me if I was ready to roll. Facing the inky depths of the camera in front of me, I wasn’t quite, but it was now or never. Besides, I had a little trick to help me out. During one of my visits to CBS, an Evening News producer had confided to me that all novice reporters squeeze the cheeks of their backside tightly, very tightly, until they’re numb, and then let go. Apparently, this takes the edge off the anxiety. Miraculously, it was working.

  “I’m rolling in three,” Tobie said.

  Licking my lips and my teeth the way I’d seen other reporters do to moisten their mouths, I began. My heart was thumping so vigorously that my entire body jolted with each beat.

  “Here we are—” I opened, and Tobie stopped me.

  “Patricia,” he said, peering out from behind the camera. “We aren’t live. You can’t say ‘here we are’ to viewers that aren’t here.” Tobie and I had quickly come to an unspoken understanding that he would be the one to call the shots, which was just as well. Not only was I unsure of what I was doing, but he was very sure of what he was doing.

  “Of course,” I said, taking a deep breath to start over. Behind Tobie, the small crowd that had drawn to watch us was growing ever larger.

  “This week,” I said, pausing just long enough to see if Tobie would emerge from behind the camera to correct me again. When he didn’t, I continued. “The Roaring Hooves Music Festival makes its way from the idyllic countryside to Ulaanbaatar.” Behind me, the crowd was completely silent. No twitters of laughter, no one reminding me of my lines, just silence. Emboldened and full of adrenaline, I went on to explain to the camera the festival’s cultural and historical significance.

  “Good,” Tobie said as he switched off the camera.

  “Really?” I asked, hoping he’d elaborate.

  “We need to interview an official from Roaring Hooves,” Tobie said. “While I move us to the hole-why,” he said, pronouncing “hallway” in his polite English accent, “see if you might find someone who will talk to us,” he directed as he adjusted the shot to take in better light. Giddy, I skipped the length of the concert hall to where the performers were.

  Backstage, officials from the Music Association were silently mingling with the musicians, who were waiting their turns on stage. Pointing at my ID badge to identify myself, I whispered that I’d come from MNB, and that I was looking for someone to interview. Immediately, eager hands flew into the air. I’d hardly needed to ask. Waiting for noisy applause to mask our departure, I collected an English-speaking official from the association and headed back to where Tobie was waiting.

  “Tobie, this is Mister …,” I said, trailing off with good reason, as I’d forgotten the man’s surname.

  “Mister,” the man began, picking up where I left off, following for several seconds with an uninterrupted stream of consonants.

  Just what I was about to say, I thought, before Tobie gave us an authoritative thumbs-up, cuing us that he was ready to begin rolling. The official began gulping and smoothing his hands on his pants; he was so nervous that I nearly told him about the Evening News producer’s method for relieving anxiety.

  “How long has the Roaring Hooves festival been running?” I asked after signaling back to Tobie that we were ready. Behind us, at the entrance to the concert hall, one of the guards had opened the double doors just wide enough so that he could peer out, watching us in action.

  A long moment later, the nervous official had answered my question and then some. After explaining the ideology of Roaring Hooves, he’d gone on to describe in detail the festival’s goals to incorporate other art forms into the music program. And he didn’t stop there. Answering questions I hadn’t even thought of, he’d clearly hit his loquacious stride. On and on he went until he gasped and ran out of breath. When we’d finally finished, the security guard standing just outside giggled and waved, poking the length of his arm out just enough to transmit the message and add a thumbs-up.

  After interviewing one of the musicians, Tobie and I settled into the back of the concert hall to listen to the music. A hush fell over the crowd as a Mongolian fiddler stepped onstage and began to play the country’s most revered instrument, the morin khuur. Like most things in Mongolia, it stems from a legend involving a man, his horse, and some shedding of tears. A boxy violin, the moorin khuur has only two strings, is played from the front like a cello, and has a horse head carved into its handle.

  Legend has it that a heartbroken nomad had gathered the remains of his beloved flying horse, whose wings had been clipped by a witch, to create the instrument. Legend also has it that the sauntering, moaning strains of the melancholy music have the power to make grown men cry.

  I sneaked a peek at Tobie, who was nowhere near tears. Neither was I; I’d done it! I’d overcome my fears. I’d reported! I’d corresponded!

  I could hardly believe what was truly possible when I’d spent so many years in banking doubting just that.

  CHAPTER 10

  Currying Flavor

  Japan ranks fourth for aid donation to Mongolia. Due to successes Japan and Mongolia have had working together, implementation of other projects is being considered.

  —Evening news voiceover, MM Today broadcast

  Batma had news for me. Soon, I’d have a roommate. In fact, very soon—she was due to arrive that evening. Now, Batma had sort of sprung this on me like I shouldn’t mind, and I didn’t, not really. But I admit to feeling just a tad jealous at the thought of some interloper usurping all the attention Batma had lavished on me thus far: giggling over my attempts to pronounce Mongolian words, giggling over her attempts to pronounce English words, eating endless bowls of mutton soup in the kitchen while she looked on, and breakfast of that single fried egg waiting for me every morning.

  However, business was business, and for Batma and her family, I was a paying boarder. She’d hinted that they’d needed to augment their income, so that’s just what she and Badaa had agreed to do.

  Late one afternoon, I found my way downtown to the State Circus, where I’d meet this new roommate. She’d just arrived from the airport, along with a few others who’d come under the auspices of the British company’s internship program. Urna had arranged for Meg to be taken home to meet Batma first, and then driven back into town to meet me. And from the looks of it, Urna had even managed to do all this on time!

  “Patricia, this is Meg.” Urna introduced us cordially, but in her usual unceremonious monotone. “She’s your new roommate now.”

  And that was pretty much that. Meg and I shook hands and smiled at each other uncertainly. She had fair skin; eyes that seemed to be colored green or gray or blue, depending on the light; and long, lustrous, fiery red tresses, which I’d soon find out didn’t match her gentle personality. In a word, Meg was just gorgeous. And she didn’t appear to have spent much time working at it; she was sporting worn-out clothing and even more worn-out gear.

  Meg was just twenty years old and a pre-med student from a small town in Maine. This was her first experience living overseas. She’d also come to Mongolia to intern but at the State Second Maternity Hospital in Ulaanbaatar, where she’d begin work in just a few days. In the meantime, it was up to us to get to know each other, as we’d be spending time in pretty close quarters for the rest of the summer.

  “So, what’s it like here?” she asked softly.

  Urna was ushering us into the State Circus for a performance, and there wasn’t much time to talk.

  “Want to come to quiz night with me after this?” I whispered, looking forward to showing off my newest friend to my week-old friends. Tobie would be there, and so would my friend Evan and his colleagues, whom I’d met a couple of times.

  “Sure,” she said, flashing an appreciative smile.

  Every Thursday evening, Dave’s Bar hosted quiz night. On the eastern edge of Sükhbaatar Square, with a view of the statue of the general himself, Dave’s was not just popular; it was a religion. And it was ab
out as packed and emotional as a Sunday service in Harlem. A week or so before each quiz contest, Dave himself singled out one of the regular patrons to perform the very difficult task of moderating quiz night. It was an honor bestowed on the few that could ask humorous, yet intelligent questions to a raucous and bellicose crowd.

  But that was only half the battle for the moderator. He was also required to compose the quiz himself. With a crowd made up of an eclectic mix of backpackers, expats, local Mongolian celebrities, and a smattering of children, this was no easy task. With just a week to prepare, moderators could often be seen pulling all-nighters at local Internet cafés, drafting quiz questions to suit everyone’s taste. In fact, in just a few weeks, Evan would be tapped to moderate.

  The circus performance didn’t last long, and Meg and I left the hall, heading east to quiz night at Dave’s Bar. Just as we arrived, Evan was telling a tale I’d heard him tell before. He’d obviously mastered this particular one, and absolutely everyone within earshot was positively spellbound.

  “This. Is. Not. Good,” he was saying in a mock Borat accent, his tone invoking gloom and drama. Pulling his glasses down the bridge of his nose and peering over their top with an air of wise, imposing authority, Evan had such good command of this story that I listened to it all over again. Meg and I sat down at the picnic table across from him.

  In Evan’s second year working for the Peace Corps in Turkmenistan, he’d been saying, after he’d learned the Turkmen language and grown close with the family he’d been living with, he began occasionally preparing elaborate Sunday-dinner-type meals for them. One weekend he would make pizzas, another burritos. Ingredients for these dishes were not easy to come by, and often his meals required days of preparation and experimentation. And then he decided to make an authentic Indian chicken curry.

  It took weeks to procure all the ingredients. He even called a friend living in India to order just the right curry spices, which of course had to be bought, shipped, and then checked through Turkmen customs. This was a long, slow process. When his package from India finally arrived, Evan still needed to buy a local chicken.

  “Which was more difficult than ordering the spices, paying for them, having them shipped, and then getting them through Turkmenistan customs—combined,” he added wryly, and went on.

  Once Evan had gathered all the ingredients, he spent an entire day cooking. Proud of his result, he served the curry to his waiting dinner guests. The cries of pleasure that had honored his efforts after the burrito and pizza meals were replaced with silence. Finally, the patriarch of the family spoke up. Gruff and plainspoken, he looked at Evan for a long time before he finally delivered his verdict in English, “This. Is. Not. Good.”

  With raised eyebrows, Evan nodded slowly and deliberately, still peering authoritatively over the rims of his glasses, and finally finished his monologue. And none too soon, as the quiz was about to begin. In the meantime, Evan’s audience was in hysterics. Every time he told that story, it got the same reaction.

  “What was the name of Genghis Khan’s wife?” the quiz moderator asked, and we were off to the races! There were half a dozen teams competing, with half a dozen or so people in each team. Huddling and whispering, we wrote down our answers on a sheet of paper.

  “Name four British politicians to have served as prime minister in the last century.”

  “Who invented the printing press?”

  “And in what year?”

  “What color was Genghis Khan’s hair?”

  Genghis Khan’s hair?

  Although it’s definitely not a widespread belief, in parts of Mongolia a person with red hair is thought to be either a devil or some sort of witch. Meg, my new roommate, was a redhead, and we would spend a lot of time discussing the color of her hair. During the course of the summer, she would often face particularly antisocial behavior from locals.

  On one occasion, while she was stopped at a crosswalk on her way downtown, a man on a motorcycle pulled up, glared at her, revved his engine, and drove into her legs. Not once, but twice in a row. Another time, a man sidled up to her, and hissed, “Go home!” in English, directly into her ear.

  Meg and I would both be ultimately interested in getting to the bottom of this behavior, but at that moment, she’d only just arrived in Mongolia, and we were short one final quiz question. As it happened, I’d done some reading on Genghis Khan before arriving in the country, and I’d discovered something astonishing about the man.

  As it turned out, one of Genghis Khan’s ancestors may have had an affair with a redhead. Generations before he was born, a woman from a clan from which Genghis Khan would eventually descend, slept with a “golden-hued man,” as redhead men were called back in the day. The woman had been widowed, and shortly afterward had begun a passionate affair with this mystery man. Apparently to explain away the scandalous nature of the affair, the woman claimed that the man entered her ger through a hole in the roof and departed on the rays of the sun! Of course, divine intervention isn’t frowned upon like a lusty affair with an unwed woman is frowned upon, and the widow might’ve needed a good explanation. Because with this mysterious heaven-sent prowler, she bore three sons. She even referred to them as “children of heaven.”

  So, to keep all her children from arguing with each other over paternity issues, the widow sat them down and told them a parable. To each son she presented an arrow and told him to break his arrow in half. They did as she’d instructed, and the mother then tied all five arrows together and gave each of her sons a chance to break them.

  None of them could, and she had made her point: a family’s strength comes from sticking together. Incredibly, thousands of years later, at modern-day weddings and family reunions in the Western world, we hear this very same folktale.

  But back to Genghis Khan’s hair. After the widowed mother died (presumably to join her deity boyfriend aloft the sun’s rays), the brothers ignored her advice to stick together, looted the inheritance, and kicked the youngest son out of the family. Off on his own, the exiled brother kidnapped a couple of wives, founded a few clans, and participated in a few wars. Eventually, he had children and grandchildren, one of whom married a real shrew called “Monalun.”

  One season, some of Monalun’s relatives were defeated in battle by another clan. The few survivors fled to her land and set up a little refugee camp. Monalun was very unhappy with these unwanted houseguests, so she hopped on her horse, rode to their camp, and trampled them to death. Of course, that led to another battle, which left pretty much everyone dead, aside from just one of Monalun’s sons and his baby nephew. The man and boy stole away to safety and lived happily ever after.

  Years later, the uncle’s descendants would save Genghis Khan’s life in a decisive battle, and the nephew’s great-great-great-grandson was none other than Genghis Khan’s father!

  All this, supposedly, from illicit sex with a redhead!

  Of course, the very fact that Genghis Khan is so revered in Mongolia and may have been a redhead himself would leave Meg and me with more questions during our summer in the country. After all, why would a local man drive a motorcycle into someone’s legs who happened to share a characteristic with his adored national hero? Meg and I told ourselves that the Mongolians probably had assumed she was Russian, which was a more plausible, if not slightly less interesting, theory. After all, plenty of Mongolians still harbored resentment for the way they had been dominated by the Soviets until just a few decades ago.

  “Time’s up,” the moderator called out, collecting quiz papers to tally the scores.

  “But Genghis Khan’s hair! How the hell would anyone know that?”

  By the time the quiz drew to a close, everyone was so full of beer and local vodka that we took the verdict very, very seriously.

  “And the winner is …” The moderator paused for effect, taking a leisurely sip of his tumbler of Bolor vodka. “Is…”

  “Come on, mate,” a saucy Australian backpacker called out.


  With a cash purse of at least twenty dollars, the stakes were high.

  “Team number four,” he finally said. Although we’d nailed the question about Genghis Khan’s hair, team four had just squeaked past us when the scores were tallied. While they erupted in cheers, the rest of the crowd resumed their garment-rending disappointment.

  “That’s bullshit!” someone called out.

  “They cheated!’” another team accused.

  And then things died down, and everyone went back to their beers and their conversations.

  “You must be just yearning to pop a kid out,” Pimples said to me, apropos of absolutely nothing. “How old are you, anyway?”

  Twenty-four years old and from the United Kingdom, Pimples was teaching English at a local school in Ulaanbaatar. He’d gotten his nickname “Pimples” because he had a lot of them. Pimples wasn’t particularly popular, but he always seemed to be around. And he always seemed to be asking people things that were none of his business—without the benefit of an inflection point at the end of his question. In other words, he tended to state as fact whatever he’d already assumed to be true about the target of his interrogations.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” he pressed, smiling a hard smile. “You must be just desperate to have a baby.”

  Pimples and I hadn’t liked each other from the moment we’d met, and our relationship had gone straight downhill from there. At a bar one night, feet propped up on the seat across from him, he picked at his toes as he laughed at a recent accusation. Earlier that day, someone was saying that Pimples had been hanging out with the guys, taking a break from his teaching job.

  “Close your eyes, everyone,” he’d supposedly said while producing a small plastic bag from his knapsack. To my surprise, everyone had done as they were told. “Okay, now,” he went on, “put your hand into the bag and guess what’s inside.” Just as unbelievably, one of the guys obeyed, and as quickly as he dipped his hand into Pimples’s bag, he yanked it right out. Inside was a collection of wet, used condoms.