Naadam, Airag, In-Laws

July 11th to 13th is Naadam, the biggest event on the Mongolian calendar. Three days of competitions in three sports: horse-racing, wrestling and archery. We've picked up tickets for the first two days, so I'll submit a report on all the fun in a couple days time.

According to an opinion piece in last week's UB Post, there are significantly fewer tourists here than last year - possibly because people are putting off a Mongolia visit to coincide with next year's Beijing Olympics. The tourist presence is definitely noticeable, but there is general disappointment in the trade. These few weeks are when the many Mongolians who work in the tourism industry expect to make most of their year's salary, so a poor year means that a lot of people will be feeling the bite. I had to diappoint a taxi driver the other day by refusing point blank to pay ten times the correct fare, about which he was most bitter. I could hardly begrudge him his bitterness, as his greed had given me a chance to show off my mastery of Mongolian and meet his outrageous demand with a cry of "Yakshtay!"

However many tourists are here, the festival is a big holiday for everybody in the country. Street vendors selling Kvass are everywhere. Kvass is a Russian drink that has a lot in common with ale, I think, but is very low in alcohol and sweet - it tastes for all the world like a bitter shandy, and I find it really refreshing on a hot day. Most of the bars have now got tables out on the street, and are barbecuing beef or mutton, the smell of which is very enticing, a lot more so than the usual waft of steamed buuz.

Just down the road from my friend Niall's home, there's a ger just set up selling the traditional Mongolian summer drink, Airag- fermented mare's milk - so walking home the other day we popped in to try a bowl. The taste is not much of a surprise - salty and tangy, somewhat like a pro-biotic yoghurt drink. Traditionally, menfolk drink gallons and gallons of the stuff until they vomit (as depicted in Marzan Sharav's picture "The Airag Feast") - particular kudos going to those whose powerful stomach muscles allow them to projectile vomit clean out of the ger door. I quite enjoyed the Airag but didn't feel overly keen to test out my regurgitative prowess. This might not have taken much encouragement though, as I'd just spent the day at a large village outside UB meeting some of my very charming and kind in-laws. My wife's Uncle was fascinated to find out how much vodka a man of my height could drink before getting drunk. The fact is (and it's nothing to boast about, of course) I can put back a considerable amount, providing it's just straight vodka I drink, and that at no time am I required to go out into the fresh air or indeed stand up - both of which prove instantly fatal.

Anyhow, Naadam kicks off tomorrow at 11am, with an opening ceremony at the Central Stadium, and we'll do our best to get down there in time to get a seat. The horse-racing takes place somewhere out past the airport, I think, but we ought to be able to find a bus going there. Apparently you don't see much unless you're chasing the horses by car, but I'd still like to get out there and soak up some of the atmosphere. In the evening there's a free concert at Sukhbaatar Square, which I aim to catch from the terrace of Dave's Place. I might make my own contribution to festivities, as it's wednesdays that I like to go down to the English Pub and play a few banjo tunes (speaking of which - thanks for sending the thumb picks Barry! Golden Gates too, just like I asked for). My wife is trying to teach me to sing a few Mongolian songs, but I'm finding memorising the lyrics a little bit more challenging than the 'Lonesome Road Blues'.

Capital of Culture: 2008 Pledge

Friday, 22nd June 2007
Thoughts turn increasingly homeward - by the beginning of September I should be saying goodbye to Mongolia (only for a while, I hope) and returning to my much cherished home city of Liverpool. Of course, what with Skype, emails and blogs of all things, I've hardly been out of touch with home for more than a day or two in all the time I've been out here in Mongolia. Family and friends aside however, the homeward-turn of thoughts brings me to dwell on the excitement due to kick off on the 1st January 2008, when Liverpool will begin its year as the European Capital of Culture.

I regularly read through the letters pages of the Liverpool Echo and Daily Post on their shared website at http://icliverpool.icnetwork.co.uk and, sad to say, there has been a little bit of negativity now and then, concerning the readiness of the city for the upcoming festivities.

"THE Capital of Culture next year is the biggest farce of all times...It is not safe to be in Liverpool at night as there are loads of thugs, then you have the nightclubs and most of them should be closed down." J.W. Hill, Bootle (Liverpool Echo 19th June)

"WITH regards to Capital of Horse Manure. I would like to express my concern for the vast amount of horse manure on the pavements in the city centre. Besides it being an obstacle course, trying to get from one place to another with building work, you have to dodge the horse manure. It is not being picked up and traffic is actually driving through it and spreading it even more. It is disgusting for we who live here, I just can’t imagine what visitors must think." J.L.H., Bootle (any relation?)(Liverpool Echo 18th June)


A letter arguing that Liverpool needs a Giullianni-style mayor reads like poetry in its description of the state of the city:

"JUST an average day's commute into Liverpool ...

A residential suburban street covered in dog faeces.

A man at the back of the bus with his feet up on the opposite seats.

A teenager on the same bus who looks like he hasn't washed in a month, scratching his filthy head with even filthier nails.

An alcoholic vagrant using a low-rise wall in London Road as a bed.

A discarded syringe near the pharmacy in London Road.

Pavements near the Odeon cinema covered in thick black gunge.

A man blowing the contents of his nose directly onto the street.

A passenger throwing cigarette ends from his car window in Water Street.

What a filthy, degenerate city this has become..." Peter Bradshaw, L36 (Liverpool Echo, 15th June)

I am kind of assuming that for all the changes in the last 6 months (no more NORTON FOR CRAP! That's the city turning its back on its culture and heritage right there!) Liverpool is still something of an untidy city with a degree of social decay, but I'm not sure that these are really enough to hold the culture year back. Of course Bill Bryson famously gave the city a gentle ribbing for the "festival of litter" in his "Notes from a Small Island", and it's certainly arguable that both the litter and the whingeing are integral aspects to the city's culture which it just would not be the same without... Well, on second thoughts, it may well not be the same without them, but it would clearly be an improvement.

Anyhow, to cultivate a a more positive atmosphere for proceedings now that the countdown is ticking, and acknowledging that in the past I've had more than my share of sarcastic comments to make about the city and about 2008, I'd like to ask people to join me in a sincere pledge to be not remotely cynical about the Capital of Culture year from now on; not to complain about the failures of the City Council (which can easily be acchieved by not making any reference at all to the City Council); or the Culture Company (ditto), nor about the involvement of 'outsiders' in the celebrations; to refrain from throwing MacDonalds cartons into the gutter or a garden hedge, perhaps even to pick up the occassional coke can or snickers wrapper; not to spit noisily and aggressively whilst passing people in the street; not to opine that everything in the John Moore's Prize Exhibition at the Walker is shit (even if it is - which in 2006 it most emphatically was not - for which, incredibly, we had Tracey Emin of all people to thank); not to complain that Manchester is trying to steal Liverpool's limelight with its own highly successful festival; not to bemoan the lack of funding for bluegrass related events, nor the complete lack of interest or indeed response shown by the various committees for pet projects (such as a 'Mongolian Invasion' of Sefton Park which, by the beard of Genghis, I will see happen!); not to be smug that however crap we thought the 08 logo was it's nothing like the joke that got foisted on the London Olympics; not to complain about property prices; nor make jokes about the Writing on the Wall 'literature' festival; such as, for example, putting 'literature' in quotes; not to revel in past glories when Liverpool was the GREATEST CITY IN THE WORLD, but to take a degree of pride, tempered by humility, in its evolving present; not to make fun of the letters in the Post and Echo, nor the reports by the hard-working journalists, be they about Stab Boy or even Stab Boy's Mum, and especially not if it's the latest Funding Crisis being reported on by Deborah James; not to repeatedly complain that the Literature section of the official Capital of Culture website neglects to mention Ramsey Campbell, Clive Barker, Olaf Stapledon or even "Redburn" by Herman Melville; nor to wonder what over-priced events citizens of Liverpool will need a special discount card to attend, and why we should be following in the footsteps of tourist traps like Chester and Windsor in implementing such a discriminatory scheme, against the Liverpool museums' fine example of being free to everybody; not to call for the head of Boris Johnson, Margi Clarke, Ulaanbaanjo, or whoever else might inadvertently offend somebody by giving an honest opinion on the city; not to subvert a list of pledges into a catalogue of complaints; in fact, to each do our humble best towards making the year a memorable one, for ourselves and for whatever visitors and guests might grace us with their presence; to celebrate Culture in as many aspects and with as open a mind as we can; and finally, to reserve a special place in our hearts, pockets and all headline events for the Banjo, which was, after all, John Lennon's first instrument, to say nothing of the city's many other fine banjoists over the years.

Summer Teaching, Sore Thumbs

Thursday 7th June 2007
Extremely good news is reported in today's UB Post for Mongolia's hard-working primary and secondary school teachers: the state is set to increase their salaries to in the region of $300 a month. This is a considerable raise - at present teachers in state schools are earning $60 - $100 a month - even in private schools the salary is only $200. The article was a little bit vague about when this increase will take place, however, as there seems to be an indication that the aim is for teachers to be earning $350 by 2015... so I'm unsure just yet whether the news will be any cause for celebration.

Mongolia's brief Spring seems to be over, and a hot and sweaty summer firmly established - although I'm told it may yet snow again, as it did overnight a week ago. For now the heat is here - to happily coincide with my district of the city having no hot water for the past three days and, I'm told, none until the 15th June. Bracing cold showers are now the order of the day.

There having been a short period of doubt since the school term ended, I've now had my summer job confirmed: I'll be working for three months tutoring the management team at a vodka distillery - perhaps it's an environment that I'll find myself better suited to. The plan is to give a structured lesson each day and then follow the lesson up with conversation with my students. I'll assess each student's ability and come up with an achievement plan for each and, god willing, we'll work together until September on improving their English, hopefully to everyone's satisfaction. There have been hints that the job may get me out and about in the countryside occasionally, but for the most part I'll be office-based.

Other than any opportunities that work throws up, this does now mean that I'm highly unlikely to see much more of the country for the remainder of my stay - as it is my firm plan to head straight back to Blighty once my contract is up in order to get over to Ireland in time for this year's Johnny Keenan Banjo Festival. Oh, and of course to see family and friends and stuff. For the present, in as much as I am planning for the future, I'm thinking that if I spend a year back in England working I'll be able to come back to Mongolia with some money in my pocket, and that then I'll have the luxury of not needing a salary, and be able to do as I please. I'd like 2009's sequel to this blog to be a year in a ger, far away from the smog, general chaos and satisfying variety of restaurants and bootleg dvds of the metropolis. It is entirely possible that my childhood ambition of becoming either a lighthouse-keeper or an astronaut may intervene, but I'm advised that it is a good thing to have goals.

Be assured that if work does give me the opportunities I will get myself out into rural Mongolia. I recently met a University professor of traditional medicine who I'm helping with a translation of a paper he's written on the early influences of Indian medicine in Mongolia. A very interesting man, he has kindly offered to let me join him on one of his trips to the countryside when I am free to go.

I did get back to Manzushir on Saturday, with a group of friends. It turns out that there's a bus to Zunmod for just under $1 each way, although this time we were getting a lift in a hybrid camper truck that had started its life in Ireland. There must be an increasing flow of traffic from Western Europe braving the journey here: at the hotel outside my apartment there are two 'Rotels' parked up today - converted HGVs fitted with every convenience - that appear to have made their way here from Germany.

We stayed at a new ger camp tucked away in a small valley at the edge of the park, and a very pleasant evening was had by all. I think that the ger cost around $30 for the night, which price included unlimited wood. The wood was needed as it was a cold night - it snowed some time around 2am. Worryingly, the chimney of our stove was propped up by a piece of wood and did not look remotely sturdy. After catching the chimney as it toppled out of place early in the evening we alerted staff at the camp, who made a makeshift repair. Later in the evening the chimney fell down again, narrowly missing braining and branding one of our party, and filling the ger with thick smoke. We got out into the very fresh air and this time staff replaced the stove with one that wasn't falling to pieces.

Out in the streets the bars now have their tables and sun shades out. Dave's Place now commands a respectable corner of the Culture Palace's tall-columned terrace - where along with the English conversation club host Dave and a very talented travelling Irish trad musician Sarah, I played a few tunes last night to a very generous audience. I'm hoping to make it a regular Wednesday night thing for the summer, at least until somebody objects forcibly enough. We'll be playing a mix of bluegrass and sing-along rock favourites by request. I've really not been playing much since things stopped at Mealody, so it's good to get back into it. I seem to have lost all my thumb-picks, however, so if anyone happens to be heading out to Mongolia this summer, please consider bringing me a few, as a desperately needed act of charity. Golden Gates by preference - large size, medium gauge.

Women's Day

Thursday 8th March
In Mongolia, and I am also assuming throughout the former Soviet Union, today is Women’s Day. This means that there is no school today - yet another holiday which I only found out about at the beginning of the week - a pleasant surprise which has occurred frequently enough to leave me a little disappointed on those Mondays when I discover that I'm expected to put in a full week’s work. Today men and children will do the housework and the chores. Since most other holidays in Mongolia involve throwing a party for which the women have to cater, this might be considered to be the only day’s rest for women in the entire calendar.

Yesterday, my friend and colleague Ganaa suggested that we put on a small party, at my apartment, for the women in the English department. Ganaa is pretty good at coming up with such ideas; they are preceded by him spending some time dropping heavy hints at me to try and get me to suggest what he is thinking. I will do my best not to be corralled in this way, but inevitably I succumb to his charming persistence.

The women were planning on going out to take advantage of the 50% off happy hour(s) at the Rendez-vous restaurant, but were very happy to accept Ganaa and my invitation for ‘afternoon tea’ to start their evening. Ganaa and I slipped out of school early (we didn’t have any lessons anyway) and hurried off to make preparations. For a total cost of about 30,000 T (£14+/-) we were able to serve up a big bowl of sangria (made with red wine, orange juice and a lot of ice and fresh fruit), vodka (of course), some cheap and slightly unpleasant chocolates, a few russian beers, bread, jam, cold sausage, green tea and English tea, and biscuits. The main course was the pride (and absolute limit) of my culinary skills, learnt from my dear friend Rossella in Calabria: spaghetti ‘aglio e olio’ (with olive oil and garlic). It takes about 10 minutes to prepare but is, for all its simplicity, deeply satisfying. There’s some kind of cheese I buy here which is very like Italian Pecorino and goes very well with pasta. Incidentally, there is very little dairy produce in the supermarkets, which runs contrary to what I had expected; perhaps this will change in the summer, or maybe people get their dairy goods from country cousins.

The ladies were very impressed. Initially they were very suspicious of the punch, but I managed to convince them that Ganaa had had no part in its preparation.

We were asked to sing some songs for women. Ganaa did a very good job with two hearty traditional Mongolian tunes. I sang the old English ballad (about the faithlessness of men) ‘Come All Ye Fair and Tender Maidens’ and then, feeling on a roll, sang a song I wrote myself the other week. Admittedly, the song is a bit on the maudlin side, but I felt the inevitable requests for the deeply dreary ‘Yesterday’ surely justified my trying out, for the first time, a song of my own composition. I’ve sang a lot of old traditional songs, many of which have pretty lame lyrics, and a very large number of which concern the death of parents, etc. Nonetheless, this was the first time that I can recall that a song I’ve sung has provoked a comment about the content. During the song: one of the teachers loudly remarked “What terrible lyrics.” Kind of off-putting, but fair comment perhaps.

Our efforts were well-received: I had to hand it to Ganaa, that in spite of my initial reluctance, he’d had a very good idea. Furthermore, as Men’s Day (well, actually, it’s Soldier’s Day) is only a week off, we have thrown down the gauntlet and feel fairly confident that our generosity will be handsomely repaid.

After the meal Ganaa and I were invited along to join the women teachers at Rendez-Vous. Eating and drinking there was followed by a trip to a nightclub somewhere for dancing and a Mongolian rock band whose name I didn’t learn, but whose songs I’ve heard on the radio, and who were pretty good. All this was courtesy of our principal, who is scrupulous about making sure that the teachers at the school feel valued on these occasions.

I think that slowly I’m getting along better with my colleagues, which is a very happy situation to be in. There are a lot of factors that can create awkwardness between the foreign and Mongolian teachers - not least the huge discrepancy in pay (as I have remarked, I believe that we are paid about four times more than our colleagues) which, however inevitable given the economical incentive needed to attract native speakers, can be a bit of an embarassment. I have discussed it with my colleagues, who certainly don’t express any resentment of the situation. I feebly try to justify it to myself by remembering that I’m losing money by being here - my bills in the UK still need to be paid - but I still feel a bit guilty about the quality of life I’m able to lead (ie - I can eat out whenever I want, buy any of the groceries I feel like getting, etc).

I've had a slow and lazy start to the day, but have at least cleaned up the carnage from yesterday's gathering. Ganaa had offered to send some women round to do the tidying for me, but, given the occasion, I felt that this somehow would not be right.

Chicken, Cossackbilly

Saturday 3rd March
Mongolians do not eat a lot of chicken. I have been asking about this, and one possible explanation may be related to the Mongolian taboo against eating young animals. Being informed that in England we almost exclusively eat lamb rather than mutton, Mongolians tend to adopt a rather dismayed and disapproving expression, which is somewhat touching coming from such a legendarily blood-thirsty people. "We do not eat baby animals," I am informed. Certainly, fond memories aside of tender cutlets and chops served by barbecuiste extraordinaire Graham 'Little Blue Boat' Stopforth on the Weaver last summer, I could happily forgo lamb for mutton: mutton does not taste so bad. As far as chicken goes, I am not yet won over. From the few leathery scraps of stewed bird I've eaten in the school canteen, it seems that the Mongolian taboo also applies to poultry, and a hen that has lived a full and productive life gets thrown into the pot only when it has died peacefully in its sleep from extreme age. Unfortunately, they do not make great eating.


It’s semi-official (ie, not official) folks: Bluegrass music now has a home in Mongolia, at the Meal Ody (wonderful pun) Jazz Club and Restaurant. Resident jazz combo 'U Bop' have for some mysterious and possibly sinister reason encouraged me to provide some musical contrast either between or before their Friday night set and I am very happy to oblige. Last night they played another blistering set, of which it was somewhat daunting to step up on stage during the interval. I was joined by a very amiable Ukrainian fellow, Vadik, on the harmonica. Vadik had borrowed a friend’s harmonica, which was happily a C harp (ie, perfect for blues in G). I played “Fireball Mail” and he got straight in there with some great bluesy blowing, and a very entertaining Cossack interpretation of flat-footing. Vadik carried on to hold “Mountain Dew” together whilst I bellowed the song at the clientele - making the most of the initial shock-factor that my particular approach to singing tends to create. Being on a roll, I then demonstrated my versatility and range by singing “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” (which of course shares the same chord structure and has mostly the same melody as “Mountain Dew”). We then quit while we were ahead and let the musicians get back to work, whilst we proceeded to celebrate our success somewhat disproportionately to our achievement.

Tsagaan Sar, Darkhan, Mealody

Monday 26th February 2007
I apologise for not reporting sooner on Tsagaan Sar - the Mongolian New Year. One problem has been that it is impossible to write about Tsagaan Sar without writing about buuz and, now that the festival is over, I don't find my mind (or my stomach, more to the point) returning to the subject of buuz with much enthusiasm.

Tsagaan Sar - either 'White Moon' or 'White Month' - is the most important festival on the Mongolian calendar. The practise and traditions go back a long way, and strongly reflect the nomadic culture. During Tsagaan Sar people visit the homes of their relatives and friends, greet each other with a special embrace that shows deference to the older party, and eat buuz. Each home, for the 3 main days of the festival has its dining table loaded with food: a boov: stacked layers of a special kind of bread (one layer for each decade of the senior member of the household) on which are piled sweets; and a lot of cold mutton - traditionally a whole sheep is cooked for Tsagaan Sar. In the houses of the older people I visited there was always the back and ribs of a sheep, in the houses of younger people there was simply a huge bowl with various cuts of mutton in.

White Moon is very much a family occasion, but, hospitality being a deeply ingrained tradition, foreigners are invariably invited to spend Tsagaan Sar with a surrogate family for the weekend. I travelled up to Darkhan with Ganaa, one of my fellow to teachers, to visit with his family there. We caught a taxi there on Sunday evening, along with Ganaa's girlfriend and his brother, who was returning home from work in Korea (there are a lot of Mongolians working in Korea - I heard an estimate of 20,000 workers, from Mongolia's population of 2 million). Darkhan is about a 4 hour drive in a taxi, on what must be a pretty good road by Mongolian standards: single-lane and pot-holed, of course, and also fairly busy with traffic that . I couldn't see much of the countryside in the darkness, but when we made a brief relief stop I stepped off the road into a deep drift of snow. The stars were fantastically bright and clear above - such a profusion of stars that the constellations were almost lost amongst them.

Although we arrived very late, we were still able to visit three homes At each one making the traditional Tsagaan Sar greeting, drinking milk tea, followed by vodka; meanwhile, a big pan of buuz would be boiled. Buuz are boiled dumplings - balls of beef wrapped in dough. They don't taste at all bad, but it is kind of disheartening to be faced by a plate piled with 20 or 30 of the things, accompanied by nothing but cold mutton and maybe potato salad. Small gifts would be given by the host to the guests. More vodka was then drunk, accompanied by a round songs, one from each guest. More milk tea and then vodka - and then suddenly, everybody was putting on their coats to leave, we all piled into a car and slowly drove to the next home, where the whole process began again. From apartment to apartment, to a ger in the old town, back to another apartment in the new - it all becomes a bit of a blur.

There are many small ceremonial civilities that make up the festival, which, broadly speaking, is about reaffirming the bonds of family and friendship. Men exchange snuff bottles with a special open handed gesture. The bottle is always left slightly open, and returned to the giver that way. One of my fourth graders, dressed in the traditional deel, passed me a bottle for a snort at a class on the Friday before Tsagaan Sar.

Monday we saw the sights of Darkhan before beginning the circuit of calling on relatives again. With a population of 100,000 Darkhan is Mongolia's second city. The sights include Mongolia's Tallest Building (a 14 or so storey tower block which I am pretty sure is smaller than the Ulaanbaatar Bank building and numerous new apartment blocks in the capital) and the view of the old and new town from the top of the low hill between the two. Old Darkhan is wooden houses and ger; new Darkhan is a lot of crumbling tower blocks built in the 1980s. The graffiti painted on the wall outside Ganaa's brother's home included Take That and East 17.

It isn't such a pretty city, but the people are certainly friendly, to judge by Ganaa's relatives, and I was made to feel very welcome. By Monday evening, however, I was quite ready to head back home. Vodka-fueled 'negotiations' from my hosts regarding taxi fares finally secured us seats in a Micro Bus headed back to Ulaanbaatar at about 10pm. For the next four and a half hours I did my best to doze - my skull being cracked at every pot-hole along the way. I didn't exactly feel great at school the following morning, but pretty much everyone had a buuz-glazed look to their eyes.



It took me the remainder of the week to recover. By Friday, I was ready to head out in search of Mealody - a small jazz club/restaurant somewhere in the University district. I'd tried to find it the previous week, as Chuluun, the Inner Mongolian musician who played some Monrin Khuur and sang Khoomei at my apartment, had urged me to go and see his friend's band. Unfortunately, I'd gone to a place called Blue Melody, where a girl punk band were playing, not the jazz-fusion I'd been lead to expect. I'd then spent more than half an hour walking up and down (passing Mealody three times as it happens) looking for the place, before finally retreating home with the excuse, at least, that I would have died of exposure had I spent any further time searching. This time I phoned in advance to clarify the location.

Mealody is a very pleasant, cosy little place, and I'm very glad to have found it this time round. Furthermore, the band were phenomenal. The jazz was less experimental than I guess I had feared - it was just good, exciting, entertaining music. 'U-Bop' (I must say that Ulaanbaatar's name really lends itself to musical puns) are an English guy on piano (Steve Tromans), a Mongolian drummer (N. Ganbat) and an American Double Bass player (Andrew Colwell). They play original music, arrangements of popular Mongolian songs and jazz standards. Throughout their playing is characterised by energy, enthusiasm, and sheer talent - they are a bloody good band. For a centrepiece they played a wonderful, moody tune, in which Andrew sings Khoomei - tri-tone ‘throat singing’ - which you should listen to on the JazzMongolia MySpace site to get some idea of (the site’s shared with other bands so I’m not sure who’s doing the singing on it). It was a wonderful evening.

Furthermore, the band very generously allowed me to take things down a notch or two in terms of musical sophistication and play ‘Cumberland Gap’, ‘Down the Road’ and a few others in the break. I’d missed an earlier set by a Japanese player of the Cavalkino (I’m not sure of the spelling, but as all those who attended the Grapes bluegrass jam will remember, it’s the Brazilian cousin of the ukulele), but we chatted and hope to get a chance to jam together in a few weeks’ time.

Khoomei Sweet Khoomei

Thursday 15th February
My attempts to track down some traditional music have been a bit half hearted in the two and a half months I've been here in Mongolia. I've heard a few traditional singers at Christmas parties, but other than my visit to an instrument maker's shop last week the rest of my time I have been somewhat culturally delinquent. At last I have rectified the situation, thanks to my friend Bulgaa who texted me this afternoon to ask if I was free this evening. Would it be okay for him to call around to my apartment with his friend Chuluun?

Chuluun is originally from Inner Mongolia and plays the Morin Khuur and is a Khoomei singer. He arrived at my home with the distinctive, roughly bar-bell shaped Morin Khuur softcase on his shoulder. I've heard the Morin Khuur played and I've heard throat-singing before - Bela Fleck and the KLF have both recorded with the unearthly tri-tone singing. Words fail me to describe the experience of hearing the music sung in my living room. I'm hoping to hear Chuluun play tomorrow so I will try and find something to write worthy of his art.

In the meantime, here's Chuluun with his instrument, and also in mid-Khoomei playing the banjo. I had hoped to possibly post the first picture on the web of Khoomei being sung to the banjo, but then I Googled and confirmed that there's nothing new in cyberspace - here's the Myspace page of Arjopa, a Khoomei singer in Germany who plays an old English zither banjo.

Full English, White Moon, Abraham Lincoln's Vices

Thursday 25th January
Without the chaotic pressure of school, the past week has been quite relaxing. I am ashamed to report that I haven't been out to the mountains, hunted any wolves or ridden any horses during my holiday. My excuse is that I have kept myself quite busy by teaching two conversation classes each day. I am enjoying teaching the conversation classes, largely because it has been made very clear that my duty there consists of chatting amiably and encouraging my students to do so.

One frequent subject of my conversations with students has been the upcoming festival of 'White Moon' - which, being the Mongolian new year, is second only to the summer Nadaam Festival. The festival, which I believe falls on the 18th of February this year, is a time that Mongolians traditionally spend with their family doing three things - drinking milk tea, vodka and eating 'buuz'. Buuz are boiled meat dumplings, and I am repeatedly assured that that nothing but buuz are eaten throughout the festival. As with Nadaam, there will also be wrestling and horse-racing: as everybody knows, the horse-racing is done by children in Mongolia, and promises to be an interesting spectacle. The reigning champion of Sumo in Japan is a Mongolian, Asashoryu, and by all accounts he is having another very promising year so far. Last night a Mongolian friend told me that Asashoryu's brother won the Nadaam wrestling bout last year. He also told me that Asashoryu was sent to Japan to compete in Sumo by his father in hopes that the traditions of the Japanese sport would help to improve his son's temper and undisciplined character. Asashoryu is a much beloved character in Mongolia, I have heard numerous stories of how he is liable to punch in the face anyone who doesn't show him enough respect, and then consider that person to be honoured to be felled by such a legendary fist. The Speyside distillery have recently begun marketing Yokozuna whisky in Mongolia in honour of the great man - Yokozuna being the highest ranking in Sumo. This week's edition of the UB Post informs me that Asashoryu has won this his 20th 'Basho' and is now ranked as the 5th greatest Sumo wrestler of all time.

For the time being I have transferred my bibulary loyalties from the Grand Khan Irish Pub to Dave's Place English Pub. Cornering the proprietor (Dave, of course) late on Saturday night whilst he was engaged in a merry game of Jenga with some of his regulars quite happily acquiesced to my playing some banjo at the bar on Sunday evening. A proportion of vodka in his veins at the time may have been responsible for his carefree decision - certainly when I arrived at the pub on Sunday morning for a Full English breakfast he seemed a bit apprehensive about any details that might have been agreed to in regard to my playing. I hastened to reassure Dave that nothing had been promised, only that he had agreed that I might come down and play that evening and 'see how things go.' When I returned to the bar as arranged at 7pm to pick, Dave happened to be absent on business elsewhere. The various customers who left as I played were careful to express their gratitude for my performance as they passed me on their way out.

Dave's Full English and his meat pie and chips are very good. There is something very reassuring in knowing that there is no corner of the globe where an Englishman cannot begin his day with fried eggs, bread, mushrooms, bacon, sausage and tomato, accompanied by toast and baked beans. Here in Ulaanbaatar that can only be achieved satisfactorily on a Sunday morning, if Dave's confident dismissal of the Grand Khan's Full English is to be credited: but I think once a week is enough. Afterall, I don't want to be thouht of as a xenophobic, homesick ex-Pat, railing about the indignity of being forced to eat all this foreign muck, and not being able to get a decent pint of bitter and people not knowing how to queue properly.

Abraham Lincoln was inordinately fond of telling raucous and rough-hewn tales, at the slightest provocation and particularly to illustrate his point in an argument. Gore Vidal's excellent biographical novel 'Lincoln' illustrates this side of Lincoln's character very strikingly throughout. Doubtless one important source for Vidal was "Lincoln's Yarns and Stories" by Colonel Alexander McClure, a very lengthy collection of hundreds of Lincoln's annecdotes - some, no doubt, apocryphal, but most as reported by this or that person and covering Lincoln's life from his early days as an Illinois lawyer to the long and difficult years of the Civil War. The book is an extremely entertaining oral history, possibly of wider interest than to Civil War obsessives like myself, and is my recommendation for the week from the Project Gutenberg free e-book website. My favourite quote isn't from one of Lincoln's stories, but from one of the editor's introductions to a tall-tale:

It is true that Lincoln did not drink, never swore, was a
stranger to smoking and lived a moral life generally, but he did
like horse-racing and chicken fighting.

Chim-chim-cheroo, Gifting, A Dog is for Life

Wednesday 27th December 2006
I was pleasantly surprised yesterday to learn that not only do we get Monday off for New Year, but also Thursday and Friday. I suspect that I am almost beginning to enjoy teaching, nonetheless a break will be very welcome. I still have to get up pretty early tomorrow because the 11th grade students have asked me to play a couple of tunes at their New Year’s Prom, and I agreed to head down there at 10am to run through ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown’ and ‘Let It Be’ with one of the students who is a pretty good guitar player. I have now committed myself to running a Bluegrass jam at the school one or two nights in the week.

Last night was our parent corporation’s New Year do at the Grand Khan, and of course also my banjo picking debut there. I had been asked to come down at 7pm to play at the night’s “opening ceremony”: when I got there I found out that they had a whole slew of professional entertainers lined up for the night, and that they meant for me to play outside alongside an accordion player in a Santa outfit. I was dismayed at the notion that I was to be expected to freeze my fingers off as some kind of amusing hillbilly freakshow, while the real musicians would be playing in the pub’s luxurious and warm interior. A troupe of dancers were running through their routine for the chimney sweep song from ‘Mary Poppins’ as I sulked and Lhagvaa very generously said I could play a few tunes with a keyboard lounge jazz player. The old guy didn’t look massively thrilled at the honour of backing me up, but he gamely suggested ‘Country Roads’ as a song he knew, and of course picked up the ‘Worried Man Blues’ very easily.

Outside there’d been fireworks (and an accordion playing Santa), then the guests rolled in, in their tailored suits and flowing ball gowns. Tables for the serving of free booze were everywhere - a limitless supply of beer, wine, whisky and of course vodka - all the very best stuff. I did my best to pace myself and had a glass of beer then a bottle of Guinness before I played. Then a large Chivas Regal with plenty of ice as the lounge Jazz carried on and I hung around feeling very scruffy in my Wranglers, waiting to be called on to play, thinking that piano man had decided to just ignore me. The crowd were all elegantly dressed and suavely enjoying their wealth and privilege, and I couldn’t quite see “Now we’ll pick things up with a bit of Hillbilly music, folks!” going down too well. The professional dancers filled the floor and the PA blasted out Chim-chim-cheroo. Finally, just as I had decided that maybe I would have another whisky, the excitable announcer jumped up and let loose a string of showman talk and flung out his arm in my direction. There was a polite scatter of clapping, the keyboard player looked at me with world-weary reserve and I stepped up onto the stage.

Well it didn’t go down like a lead balloon, at least, and one guy shook my hand when I stepped of the stage, with what I felt was admiration - doubtless for my bravely giving it a go in spite of my obvious shortcomings. There was no rapturous applause, however, and kind of glad it was over, I settled down to some uninterrupted (except by amazing food) drinking. Let me assure any prospective future employers that there is no way that I would have allowed myself to drink excessively on a week night - but the principal and various big wigs from the school and the corporation behind it gave me every encouragement. I am sure that my extremely agile and energetic dancing later in the evening won me the many admirers that my banjo playing had failed to arouse; I am sure, but the memory is a bit hazy, so let’s just say it did.

Woke up this morning feeling considerably less than great, and then some. Sunlight was pouring into my bedroom - grabbed my watch: 9am. Got up and showered, brushed my teeth and gargled mouthwash. Did not really feel much better. Thinking that it might not be such a good idea to turn up in front of class drunk, I phoned the School. Someone answered in Mongolian, I said Good Morning and my name, they said something else in Mongolian and hung-up. I have spent so much time boasting to my employer that I never take a day off work that I realised that I would have no option but to go in, and catch my 10am lesson. This I did. The freezing walk didn’t really freshen me up any, but it certainly woke me up a bit more. I had three classes left to get through. Stayed sat down for them and didn’t write anything on the blackboard, which would have made me feel nauseous. Kept as far away from the students as possible, and found that, in all, the lessons went fine. Had a good chat with one of the best students in one of my worst classes after the lesson: she said that the previous teacher, an American who quit just before I arrived, had ranted at them on a regular basis about how much he hated teaching them. They aren’t bad kids, but this class simply do not understand the work that they are being shoved through - I need to go back over basic grammar with them, and hopefully some of it will stick.

Lunchtime I decided not to brave the canteen. Yuan Yuan, the Chinese teacher, arrived carrying a waste paper bin and a smile. In the bin she had a shivering puppy that she’d found out on the street. I guess it was a couple weeks old and in a sorry state, but didn’t look injured and its eyes weren’t glazed. I suggested she get a little rice and milk for it (my friend’s dog has just been ill, and the vet told them just to feed it that).

She came back shortly with a little bowl of the rice and milk, and the news that the school had told her that she must not keep the dog on the premises. “He’s so nice,” she said, “you take him, Jim. Yes, you like him.” “I can’t take a dog, Yuan, and I don’t know anybody here I could give him to.” “Yes, you take him, you like dog. He so lovely.”

I guess the drink still hadn’t quite worn off; I agreed to take the dog if she still had it after my next and final lesson. But I’d be taking him to the vet for an injection or finding someone with a gun. Yuan said it was no problem, I could just put him back out onto the street, and I was so very kind. “Please don’t ask me for any more favours, Yuan: you’ve used them all up.” She laughed.

We took the shivering dog back to my apartment (“Here your new home, dog! Very nice!”) and tipped the little feller into the bath. I showered him for about 20 minutes, until the water ran off him clear. He didn’t protest much and drank a bit of the water. I dried him a bit with a tea-towel and then carried him through to the kitchen, putting him down on a folded seat cover in a plastic basin. He lay curled up, and I shut the kitchen door and went for an hour or so to lie down.

I felt better when I got up. Checked in on the dog, who I’d decided to call Jamsran, after the chief ‘Wrathful Deity’ in the Mongolian/Tibetan Buddhist canon. He looked considerably better, and was still curled up in the basket. I had to go back to the school for a teachers’ meeting. Would try and get some dog food on the way back. The meeting turned out to be about the Christmas ‘Secret Santa’ system that the school runs. We had been asked, last week, to pick a number and so a name of one of the sixty or so members of staff. That person we would secretly give a gift to during the week. The gift was typically a chocolate bar or piece of cake. On the staff room door was a list of the names of the staff, with a column along side it for each of the days of the last week in the year. Throughout the week, it was eventually explained to me, people put stars or smiley faces next to their name as they received a gift. I got a piece of cake one day and a coffee mug on another. Smiley faces on the chart. Some members of staff had dozens of smileys, and some none. There was a great deal of gleeful excitement amongst many of the teachers about the whole process. Well, tonight was the grand finale of the whole thing - which I had had no idea about. A teacher read through the names on the list and then revealed who that person’s ‘Secret’ Santa was. They then gave the person they’d received a chocolate bar or piece of cake from an extremely expensive looking gift (a lot of framed paintings, baskets with champagne bottles and chocolates in, etc.) out of gratitude. It took about an hour to go through the whole list. I was the only person who hadn’t bought a gift for my secret Santa. Myself, I received a plastic bag, containing the very same box of chocolates that I had given as a gift, and a bound notebook. Is there any meaning to the return of the original gift in Mongolian culture? Was this some kind of snub?

After the long, long process of sitting through the counter-gifting we then each had a gift to collect with a lottery ticket we had each been given. Some people had dozens of tickets, so I assume that the school had been selling additional tickets. I stood in front of the gift table, hungry, tired and hung-over, while a mad scramble of teachers pushed past me to get their gift or gifts. I got another mug.

I was starting to worry a bit about having left Jamsran so long, was mentally preparing myself for a torrent of abuse off Puru’s mother for keeping a stray dog in my apartment. One of the teachers had told me that you need a license for a pet, and also gone on about the various illnesses the stray would probably have. Thankfully, things were drawing to a close at the school. There was now a raffle for which our lottery tickets doubled. A dozen prizes of ascending spectacularness, each winner being accompanied by much cheering and jollity. Sadly, I didn’t win anything; finally, the humidifier and the (drumroll) deep fat fryer were triumphantly carried off and I was able to leave.

Stopped off at a small supermarket on the way home in hope of finding dog food, but no such luck. Would try the bigger supermarket further past the apartment. First though to drop off my gifts and check up on Jamsran.

He had certainly picked up his spirits. He’d knocked over the bin, figured out what I’d put the newspaper down for (Good boy!) and playfully chewed at my boots as I walked in. I left the kitchen to discard my coat and he started to yelp as though he was testing out his voice: it sounded like he would have the capacity to get a fair bit louder. Felt very paranoid about my neighbours complaining, and tired and hungry. Went back into the kitchen and cut small slices of smoked sausage, which I attempted to get Jamsran to sit down for. He wanted more; he scratched at fleas. I left the kitchen, and he again started barking.

I would have to take Jamsran to the vet tomorrow, and I was supposed to be going to the students’ prom for ten. Well, gentle reader, I thought it through. I could not house train a puppy and leave it alone in the apartment every day. He’d been washed, warmed up, fed some. It wouldn’t be fair to let him get any more used to the apartment. If I took him to the vet, it would be for injection, because I couldn’t look after a dog. Maybe if I let him out near some warm pipes somewhere he might survive the night. Maybe some other dogs would look after him, like the cheery bunch I’d seen peering out of a hole in the ground near the market. I cut a few more slivers of sausage and put some newspaper down in the bottom of my school bag, wrapped Jamsran up in a teatowel, gave him a couple of slices to chew, and placed him in the bag. He sat quietly as I zipped the bag up.

Puru and Mungun knocked on the door just as I was leaving - to give me a present of a 2007 calendar featuring the President of Mongolia or somebody. “Thank you, thank you, very nice. I’ve got to go out now, thank you.” Jamsran shifted in the bag, but didn’t bark. I did not want to let the kids see him. I did wonder why it is that you’re always smuggling puppies out of buildings to abandon them in the arctic cold when you’re hungover. Some kind of penance, I guess.

Jamsran kept quiet as I descended the six floors and left the building. It was some time after nine, and there were plenty of people about. I walked away from the tower blocks, hoping that I would get a chance to stop and let Jamsran out without anyone walking past. Maybe I should just unzip the bag and leave it somewhere.

As chance would have it, just round the corner from my building, I saw a homeless guy emerging from a manhole. I hurried over. “Excuse me, do you speak English?” I tried. The guy, who was not too scarily drunk, looked a bit confused. “Please, I have a dog,” I continued, opening my bag like a kitchen appliance salesman. He called to someone else beneath the ground, and a young lad climbed up.

I have been warned very strictly to avoid the homeless people here: the manner of these two (luckily) seemed to be very gentle and understanding. The young man held Jamsran against his chest and stroked him. They didn’t seem to be expecting any payment so I quickly handed them a T10,000 note, for which they were very grateful. I hurried off, feeling a little sad, but immensely relieved. Maybe things will work out for Jamsran.

With a certain sense of irony, I walked to the Korean restaurant, and treated myself to dinner for my good deed. The meat in my Bi Biim Bap was very good, although I couldn’t decide if it was pork or beef.

London and Belfast residents: Lhagvaa and ‘Beer Band’ are flying over to Europe today and playing sometime somewhere in your town! Lhagvaa does not know the details, but the Mongolian Embassy may know as they have sponsored their trip. Go see them, and say hi. Oh and tell them how famous and well-respected I am as a musician in Europe

Banjos & Morale, Statistics

Thursday 21st December 2007
[temporary edit]

In this climate, and Christmas being just round the corner (which we teachers from God-fearing Christian nations get off as a holiday out of respect for our deeply held religious beliefs), I saw it as my duty today to do my best for school morale by bringing my banjo into work with me today. I am ever reminded of the importance that the great Ernest Shackleton placed on the banjo in helping bring his men through the ordeal of 18 months or so trapped in the Antarctic: “It’s vital mental medicine, and we shall need it.” I played in most of my classes (although managed to also actually teach some, too), and also in the school lobby and staff room. On 26th December the corporation which owns the school and numerous other enterprises, including the Grand Khan Irish Pub, have now formally requested that I perform at said prestigious venue (which a colleague informs me is the most expensive restaurant in Mongolia) for the corporation Christmas Party. The request was made through the school - I was given the number of what presumably turned out to be the manager (who I'd already met many times) to phone to make the necessary arrangements. I am not very good with Mongolian names yet. After googling the correct name of the pub - now changed in all posts - I discover that my ambition of being the first banjo player to pick at the Grand Khan has already been crushed - see link on the side panel

Was charmed yesterday to uncover another little feature of my soviet time-capsule of an apartment (which I have had to sign a contract for today - have refused to sign the inventory until it is itemised - I need to know if I can take the collection of cheap pottery elephants and the puppy emerging from a barrel with me) . Up on the wall by the door to the flat there is a battered little plastic box which I had thought was some kind of heater or ventilator. My young home help (whose name I asked and found out is Puru Tstszga - her little sister is Mungun Tstszga) gestured at it and I realised that it has a little plug. Once inserted the right way round the box came alive and beautiful cello music played in a haunting blend of classical western and oriental style wafted out. The radio is tuned to only one station, and I guess was there for the voice of Big Brother back in the communist era. I tried to stop them but Puru and Mungun insisted on tidying my flat yesterday which took them about an hour. I gave them a few candies and some bacon to give to their parents (ok - it’s Mongolian bacon which I tried and don’t like. I buy expensively delicious imported Hungarian bacon for my own consumption now) - and of course also thanked them by playing 'Old MacDonald Had a Farm.' Mungun thanked me by bowing down to the floor in a ‘salaam’ gesture. Through someone at school I am aiming to hire a cleaner so I can avoid either cleaning up for myself or becoming dependent on child labour.

The UB Post, which is one of two Mongolian English language weeklies, has printed the National Statistic Office’s report on the ‘Economic and Social Situation of Mongolia.’ I learn that my salary is certainly a comfortable one here - for the first time I find myself beating a national average: by more than four times. What’s more, I am going a good way towards keeping my monthly expenditure below the N.A. (T242,000) - having no rent to pay and being such a tight-fisted bastard. The average monthly income in Mongolia (T190,000) is up 42.6% on last year. I don’t know how inflation stands here but the stats say household expenditure is up 9.6% on last year, so I guess the average Mongolian’s standard of living has probably improved (the average salary being T52,000 below the average expenditure notwithstanding).

Production of beverages, handbags, fur, petrol, clocks and coal are up! But, sadly, knitted goods, spirit alcohol, metal sleepers and macaroni noodles are down.

Concentration of Nitrogen Dioxide in the 13th microdistrict was 19 times the maximum allowable quantity for air quality; various other stats relating to atmospheric pollution baffle me but look suitably ominous. Incidentally, I can’t believe that I managed to write about my trip to the country without mentioning the wonder and sheer joy of breathing such (however cold) fabulously clean air for a day.

Crimes against freedom, human rights and reputation are down 50%! Attempted murder is up a mere 5.7%,’ negligent murder ‘(well, you know, with the best will in the world, it’s going to happen from time-to-time) a better 9.1% and death by ‘unfortunate occasion’ (most regrettable) a respectable 20.5%.

Finally, the report tells us that for the first 11 months of 2006 the nation had in total “2,492 disasters of T5.4 billion loss registered” in which 178 people died, 1061 ger and houses burned down and 14.6 thousand head of livestock were lost. No indication in the report as whether this is up or down on 2005.

Now to do my bit for the flagging Mongol spirit alcohol industry. Cheers!

Genghis Khan, Horse Belly, Old MacDonald Had a Ger

Saturday 16th and Sunday 17th December
Thursday and Friday I suffered with a very heavy cold, still making it to school and heroically managing my enormous workload of classes. Happily, I managed to recover most of my strength by the weekend. The Mongolian family I know had invited me to join them on a visit to their relatives in Baganuur, a town some 75 miles from Ulaanbaatar - which meant that I would make my first journey through the Mongolian countryside. The family - husband and wife Tso and Shinee and their daughter Misheel - arrived to pick me up around 8am on Saturday morning: we were leaving early to catch the sunrise. The outskirts of Ulaanbaatar as we headed East took us through crowded Ger districts, where the smoke was thickly rising from chimneys: picturesque, but also a considerable contribution to UB’s air pollution problem. The road itself was cracked and broken, filled with craterous pot holes. The scenery, however is quite spectacular - the mountains surrounding UB are part of one of the country’s longest-established national parks - and before too long the charming grime of the capital was left behind, and we were passing herds of sheep, goats and horses, where the ger now belonged to livestock herders. Everything was dusted with snow, though happily for the grazing animals the tops of the grass still shows brownly through. Sunrise was quick and dazzling, and brought with it the unearthly blue skies that had greeted me to Mongolia two weeks ago, and the memory of which had been a little lost in Ulaanbaatar’s grimy haze. Happily for the top of my skull and any eventual long-term effect on the roof of the car, the road surface improved too. Considering that this was the only road East out of UB (as far as I can gather) we met precious little traffic coming in to the home of half the nation’s population; such traffic as was largely consisted of big green trucks overloaded with furs and hides.


Our first stop was to see a forty foot tall shining steel representation of old Genghis himself, sat astride a Horse and glowering out over distant mountains and grasslands. This statue, The Chinggis Khaan Monument, is quite an awe-inspiring sight: it’s also somewhat surreal in its present state as the statue has been built, but not the base - so it is currently supported about 15 feet above the ground on iron girders, and a giant crane stands beside the fierce father (both figuratively and, statistically speaking, literally) of the nation.

Shortly afterwards we stopped for breakfast: tea, ham and gherkins. My companions introduced me to another Mongolian culinary delight - they dropped slices of ham into their tea (which was English Breakfast tea, for your information). I decided not to join them in this.

Shinee’s younger brother lives in the residential district of Baganuur. The town entirely consists of the familiar concrete soviet architecture: the lack of the bumper to bumper (and too often closer) traffic of UB made a welcome change. As in the capital though, the streets were full of people wrapped up well but otherwise ignoring the chill and passing the time of day in a very cheery manner. Our host’s apartment was in a building even closer to disintegration than mine; the apartment itself, of course, was very comfortable, modern and clean - in complete contrast to my own.

We were treated to our second breakfast of the day: tea, sweet pastries, some chopped ham and gherkins and an enormous bowl of cold horse meat. Tso very enthusiastically tucked into the horse meat, and carved me off a big piece. Of course it tasted very good. I asked what the large and less than appetising thing was in the middle of the bowl and was not surprised to learn that it was the stomach. Tso sliced off a piece that I was surprised to see him manage to fit in his mouth and laughed as he insisted that I try some. The verdict? Well, certainly chewy, with an interesting texture. I am sure that it has many beneficial properties.

Eating was not entirely the business of the day, but the rest served only as interludes. We paid a brief visit to the town square, where there is a monument to the town’s favourite son: a greatly admired early 20th century poet and writer and general champion of the Mongolian language.

For the afternoon, now accompanied by two of Shinee’s brothers and their wives, we drove out into the countryside along a frozen mud track for several miles, to a Ger camp: one of the many tourist camps in the country, which do not only serve as an attraction for foreign visitors, but which are a convenient way for town and city dwelling Mongolians to stay in touch with their nomadic roots. I don’t know the figures, but I imagine that the majority of Mongolians are now apartment dwellers - nonetheless, only going back as far as their grandparents’ lives must probably take the overwhelming majority of Mongolians back to the Ger.

We had to wait about half an hour in a small restaurant building whilst the stove was lit in our ger. Once it was ready the party tramped over to it through the crisp snow. First, however, I paid a visit to the ger where our evening meal was being prepared by two cooks. As soon as I stepped inside the heat enveloped me. The stove in this ger had been burning for hours and the entire place was as warm as you could possibly want it. My attention was occupied by the stove, in which the fire was burning fiercely. A round lid had been removed from the top and in it a large pressure-cooking pan was placed. There was an inch or two of fiercely boiling water in the bottom of the pan. One of the cooks used tongs to remove red-hot stones from within the stove; these were then dropped hissing into the pan. Next, a layer of meat - large chunks of red beef on the bone - were pressed down onto the stones. This was followed by another layer of stones and another of beef, until the pan was almost filled. Finally, a packet of chopped herbs was sprinkled liberally in and what little space remained at the top of the pan was filled with peeled potatoes, carrots and swedes. The steam and odours arising from the pan were already pretty enticing. The lid was fitted and the pan left on the heat of the stove (although with the hole in the stove top re-covered too): I was told that it would be left to cook for half an hour.

Our own ger was not as hot as the kitchen ger, but was certainly warm enough. The atmosphere was very convivial; the ger was prettily decorated by the hand painted wooden furniture - chests doubling as beds around the side of the ger and a a big table doubling as a chest in the middle. I warmed myself by the stove until Shinee told me that the men’s side of the ger was across the table on the far side from the stove, to which I reluctantly but manfully retired. Touching the woollen sides of the ger I was surprised that I felt no chill at all. The camp is by a frozen river and it must easily have been past -20c outside.

Whilst we waited for our food there was a round of shots of Chinggis Vodka accompanied by toasts of very high-minded sentiment. There were a good few of these. Finally, the pressure cooker was brought in and the lid removed, issuing gouts of rich-smelling steam . I was served with a sizeable piece of backbone, and we all ate heartily with our hands, exactly as I had previously only seen in cartoons and Robin Hood movies. The result was extremely good - the meat wonderfully well cooked and seared by the hot stones. I ate the marrow or whatever the buttery stuff is in the middle of the vertebrae - very tasty. After eating, we took up the hot stones and juggled them from hand to hand - this being good for the circulation, apparently. Then more Vodka.

I went out into the starry night to slide around on the frozen river for ten minutes or so with the kids. Damn cold outside but a very suitable after dinner pastime. Back in the ger my banjo had been got out for me and left to warm up on a bed at the back. I very happily repaid the hospitality of my hosts by playing through a good number of tunes and singing as well as the vodka had left me able. 'Old MacDonald Had a Farm' is definitely going down well here. Apparently the song is known to Mongolian kids with lyrics in their own language. They only get animal noises at the end of verses rather than throughout, however. Tso and the kids had earlier taught me a melody to a very popular Mongolian nursery rhyme, which I fully intend to keep playing.

Either the stove was burning low or my enthusiasm for the banjo was not shared as much as the vodka gave me to imagine: at any road, it was soon enough time to clear out and head home. The ger had got somewhat colder once we’d stopped feeding the fire: I was left to imagine how cold it would get overnight as we travelled back to the fully central-heated apartment in town. The road presented no problems in spite of the ice: there was no other traffic and I am thinking that the breathalyser is yet to be introduced to rural Mongolia. Once home, there was time for my kind hosts to prepare one last meat-focused meal (beef dumplings), to be washed down with beer and then bed.

The sky was overcast once more as we drove back to Ulaanbaatar this afternoon. Approaching the Genghis statue we stopped as a horseman herded his shaggy-coated, short, stocky horses across the road. The rider, thickly wrapped up against the cold, was the first horseman I had seen in Mongolia. He seemed to look at me with equal curiosity as we passed.

UB Banjo Debut, and Hypocrisy

Wednesday 13th December
Drinking a can of Hite beer with a picture of a fearsome looking rap group/ overweight boy band called ‘guys666’ on it. They appear to mean business.

There’s an acoustic guitar in the staff room which one of the Mongolian teachers gets down and strums on from time to time. He strums through Beatles songs or 12 bar blues and indicated that I should bring my banjo in to school today (by pointing at me with a nod, miming strumming and asking “Yes?”). I did so, and we had a pretty good pick together in one of our free periods, he had no problem with the 'Worried Man Blues' and another teacher asked for 'Country Roads,' which impressed no end. I managed to fall in on a Mongolian song in A minor and we played a few others. I then proceeded to start teaching him 'Duelling Banjos,' which entirely undermines the past four years of my complaining about having to play it - but now I have it in mind to impress drunk American businessmen in the Great Khan. All very promising.

Earlier, in the first of my 4th grade classes I managed to last 10 minutes of trying to teach a very reluctant to study class, before offering that if they finished the present piece of work I would sing them a few songs. I guess it shows how much I am pining for an audience that I had to resort to bullying a bunch of 9 year olds into demanding that I play for them. I left the room for a minute to get the banjo and they were all, as threatened, sat quietly for my return. Gave them a brief history of the instrument of course and a run through ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown,’ my playing given an extra bit of sparkle by the certain knowledge that this was the finest bit of banjo-picking they’d ever seen. Followed with ‘Oh Susanna,’ to which I chalked up the words on the blackboard. Of course, it was all part of a structured lesson plan: in the previous class we’d done the weather (“Yesterday it was snowing. It was very cold.”) so ‘The sun so hot I froze to death,’ was a great lyric to have the class sing along to. I say sing along - I considered changing key to suiting their voices etc., likewise the tempo to make it easier for them to follow the words, but decided that that would compromise the performance too much. Anyway, they enjoyed it, and I did too. I did get the class to help me write another nonsense weather verse, which I won’t reproduce here for copyright reasons. If only I could record them singing it, overdub some sleigh bells and release it in time for the Xmas no.1 spot. We even went on past the lunch bell without the kids scrambling for the door.

Later in the day I had a second 4th grade class. Some of them actually already knew the words to ‘Oh Susanna,’ or close enough to the words for Mongolia. Somehow though, I didn’t get the same buzz - until I got a request for ‘Old Macdonald Had A Farm’- which has a fine bluegrass pedigree, having been recorded by Flatt & Scruggs on their Carnegie Hall album. I undermined two weeks of building a stern disciplinarian persona for the class by jumping up and down and making farmyard noises to a host of animals/verses shouted out by the kids. Another teacher walked in at the end of the lesson and I made such a good impression that I was required to sing her a bunch of songs too.

At the end of school there was an English Department staff meeting. We had it whilst sat on the kiddie stools in the Disney Room. If that room is chosen to keep the meeting from running on and on then I’m glad we were only in there for two bloody hours. The subject was discipline in class; I suspect that the reason for the meaning was not so much to placate us non-Mongolian teachers regarding our concerns, but to make us consider not saying anything and just getting on with things in the future. It was most probably the meeting with the highest ‘number of things written on a blackboard’ to ‘actual decisions made or any kind of meaningful conclusion’ reached ratio discrepancy I have ever sat through. The gist was: just deal with it. I did manage to have a good say on the subject of discouraging the younger kids from associating the foreign teachers’ lessons with ‘having fun:’ a sad failing of so many of my predecessors, which has been a foundation of many of the problems later teachers have experienced. One thing about teaching, which anyone who knows me will have gathered from my tedious list of unacceptable behaviour in the classroom, is that I am really, really enjoying being an unashamed hypocrite. On which subject, I don’t allow my students to use “really, really” because “it’s crass.” Red line though the second "really" and a snidey comment every time.

School's Out, UB Banjo Debut Postponed

Thursday 7th, Friday 8th & Saturday 9th December 2006
Thursday it snowed: a light powdery snow which was almost invisible even walking out in it, but which fell all day and compacted hard on the pavements. I think I have already mentioned a significant hazard of walking out on the streets of UB: that there are manholes left uncovered presumably by people living down in the sewers and amongst the city's hot water pipes. Steam rises from many but not all. Walking to the nearby supermarket after school in the snow I spotted a further hazard: one manhole had been covered, presumably by the inhabitants, with a doormat, on which a centimetre of snow now lay, turning it into a pretty effective pitfall for the unwary. I haven't had a really good look down any of the holes, being well brought-up I am always reluctant to gawp into people's homes, but the drop seems to usually be only a few feet, and so unlikely to cause instant death. I will report further when I inevitably take a fall.

Friday of course I could have faced just about anything, the weekend being upon me. I even managed to get the 4th graders talking about the weather in the past, present and future tenses.


Saturday morning was another cold and mostly cloudy day. Ate sweet pastries and chocolate biscuits for breakfast, washed down by tea. Headed out around lunchtime, determined to 1) post christmas cards and 2) get an Internet phonecard. Slippery out on the ice, particularly at Sukhbaatar square. Lot of people milling about as usual in very sociable groups, entirely impervious to the chill which may be deduced from the photograph I took. Although there has been less sun than my first two days may have led me to expect (this being the first really sunny day since), there still has been no wind to speak of so the weather is quite easily tolerated, and when moving simply feels fresh and crisp. I bought a couple more hand-painted cards from a dishevelled old guy outside the central Post Office. Swapped a few Russian phrases (“Ya iz Liverpoolya”, “Mnya za voot Jimi” and “Rusky, err, ya n’panyemai-oo”). He was only asking T500 for his cards - again, there was no way I could refuse. In the post office, fairly run-of-the-mill printed Christmas cards are T1000 - T2000. Browsed through the small selection of English books in the State Department Store - which I am told is the largest selection in Mongolia. Not an enormous range of choice but there are quite a few Wordsworth Classics at T9000 of which I may return for ‘Tender is the Night’ and maybe ‘Nicholas Nickelby’ after payday. Most of the other books I would read there are very short, and I’m reluctant to shell out T9000 unless I’m guaranteed a decent length read, goddammit.

Back to the Post Office to address my envelopes and write out the new cards. Quite a few homeless people hanging around in the Post Office - one guy going through the bin next to me as I wrote and slurping the remains of coleslaw from a food carton. Not that you won’t find the same thing happening in any British town, and furthermore I wasn’t directly harassed in any way. It may be that they are allowed to hang around but not to harass people, and so instead play up on the guilt of wealthy westerners. Or it may be that he was hungry - well, indeed, he must have been.

Managed to get myself an internet pre-payment card and so get online at home - hence this blog.

Around 9.45pm packed up the old banjo, wrapped up, and again marched off across the centre to the Grand Khan. Place busy as expected. The manager wasn’t around, I got a beer and watched some Man U v Man City. The band were setting up when he did finally arrive. He uncomfortably explained that he needed to find a band I could play with, like a Jazz band, as the banjo didn’t really go with their music. I heartily agreed with the latter but suggested that instead I’d like to play a few tunes solo before the main band, mainly for the hell of it. He agreed to this and said I should come down tomorrow. Stuck around to watch his band: he didn’t play with them tonight, instead there was a slim sunglassed rocker type singing and the band played Mongolian rock - either covers or songs of theirs that were famous as people often joined in with the singing.

I got home shortly after one, after a ride in one of the unlicensed taxis. He took a minor detour before heading towards the house and then shook his heaed no when I, in my typical magnanimous fashion, offered T1000 in payment - had to shell out another T500: very disappointing.

The front door to my building was locked, to my alarm. I rattled on it a bit and was considering what my next step would be other than freezing to death, when movements sounded within, and the door (which had been padlocked) was opened by the young girl who helps me with my shopping. I felt very guiltily ashamed, even though it wasn't so late really, at having disturbed her, maybe because she looked a bit reproachful, as one does on getting woken up from sleep. Glanced into the window of the super's room as I passed and it appeared she had been asleep in there on her own on night door duty. [Edit: actually, her entire family of four live in the tiny 'super's room' beneath the stairs.]

Teaching Already, UB Banjo Debut?

Tuesday 5th December
Arrived at school at about 8.20am today - staff room very quiet. Was checking my emails when a teacher said I should have started teaching a class at 8.30am. What class? where? teaching what? Of course, no one had bothered to tell me. And so my day began, dropped right in at the deep end with my first class - no idea at all who the students were, where the students were or what they’ve been studying.

I have 3 classes - years 9, 10 and 11 - maybe I also teach one class of year 4 some time too? Did my best to be a hard-ass - insisting on conversations being stopped, phones and iPods put away. Had a markedly low turn out for the second of two classes, where I had thought the first had gone well. I did enjoy teaching "The Monkey's Paw" which proves to be a most entertainingly written yarn that seems to have caught the class’s imagination - though that may well prove to be a product of my imagination. A Ray Bradbury story has proven less captivating for another class, although I’m enjoying it, and surely that's what counts? Have been given the impression by my class that English (American that is) teachers come and go pretty quickly - I am beginning to suspect that the English the kids do know has been mostly self taught through the internet and time spent in the States. Got some pleasure out of telling the students what low grades I’d given them for their ‘Olympics’ work. Well, I’ve got 7 months to get better - and surely one good class is a good hit rate for my very first day teaching?

Was given yet more work to mark which kept me in school until half six. I also wasted ages, as requested by the deputy, organising a schedule for tomorrow’s Oral exam (well okay, the time was actually wasted figuring out (with a little help) how to use Excell) only to be told at 6pm that the schedule had already been done. One and a half hours after my contracted finishing time.

“Did I email you a copy of your contract before you came here?” I was asked breezily.

“No you didn’t,” I replied, and did not add: ”the only thing you did was tell me not to bring me a spoon. And I needed a bloody spoon.”

Anyway, the contract looks okay. I get paid at the beginning and middle of the month, presumably $350 a time, cash. My rent’s paid while I’m at the school - I’m responsible for utilities. Foodwise, I can easily live on $10 a week when I need to[Edit: ! ], which should leave a bit of money to play around with, once I get all my cashmere and oil-painting buying out of my system.

Strolled over to the Great Khan at a quarter to ten, swinging the old banjo from one hand then the other, keeping as good an eye to the dim and uneven ground as I could - wary of the many missing manhole covers (but stumbling nonetheless on a piece of rubble in the darkness). Strolled in the brisk cold, the streets now much emptier but folks still as always strolling about and none, happily, too menacing looking as I rehearsed how I might explain to my insurance company news of my mugging. Strolled briskly then arrived gladly in the welcome warmth of the Great Khan and dispensed with my body warmer and berghaus - these providing quite ample insulation, particularly with my ski gloves tightly cuffed into the sleeves, and my hat tied beneath my chin. Pushed through the busy bar, many wealthy young Mongolians and a liberal sprinkling of American business types quaffing beers and chatting, to find the manager of the pub and lead singer of The Beer Band at a tall stool with a group of equally burly sorts all drinking and joking - the manager greeting me expansively and asking what I might drink, and approving when I said I would join them in a beer. His band, he told me, would be arriving late, maybe 11 o’clock, as they were “filming a strip” somewhere else - they being “the best band in Ulaanbaatar.” Their absence did not seem to be any source of concern to him, and I was truthfully very happy to delay my Mongolian performing debut and relax after a grinding day at the school, by drinking and dodging the banter as best I could.

Well the band, it seemed, were not coming at all, and more beers were drunk, on the generosity of an ex-pat American colleague mein host. After eleven, however, the band did arrive, so it was announced that they would be performing four or five songs, and that I should come backstage and meet the band. I did so, and shook hands with the band and on my sponsor’s prompting rattled off two rounds of the Worried Man Blues, possibly to the band’s polite confusion. I didn’t play with them on stage, and was rather relieved when I went out and listened, as there was no rhythm guitar for me to follow. I could easily see why the lead was frequently described as “the best guitarist in Mongolia” - he played blistering, competent solos throughout on “Money for Nothing”, “Smoke on the Water” and “Sweet Child of Mine” - and with an entirely relaxed manner. I think that I’ll ask if I can play a couple songs solo before the Saturday set, and am feeling cautiously optimistic that I’ll pleasantly surprise them if I show I can hold my own.

So, with a merry glow I sauntered off, retrieved my coat from the beshawled check room woman, who happily received a T100 tip that I felt I dispensed with the generosity appropriate to the business class company I was keeping, wrapped myself up and bounced outside. I half intended to walk but, even though I had lost the address that the manager had written down for me (that is to say: my own), I confidently crossed the street to a parked-up taxi - and perhaps my confidence communicated well to the driver, who quickly understood my request for the Chaplin Bar, and drove me home. This time handed over a T1000 note with what I felt to be the correct degree of confident generosity and we bid each other a cheery farewell. Realised I had left a glove in the taxi and had no trouble flagging him back down and retrieving it, which inexplicably added to my satisfaction with the night’s proceedings.

In the apartment building, 1am or thereabouts, the little girl rushed out of the super’s room again to call me the lift, but I indicated I’d take the stairs. I guess maybe she doesn’t go to school herself.

School, Taxi, Food (Meat), Audition Nerves

Monday 4th December 2006
Either I slept through my alarm or it didn’t go off. So I didn’t get up until well after eight and was barely ready for school until 9am - shortly before which the sun had risen, a deathly red crescent over the vaporous horizon. Today was probably another overcast day - but I didn’t see much of it. Took a brisk walk to the school, toting the banjer so’s to be off for the Great Khan Irish Pub straight after work. As I’d be spending the day indoors I had dispensed with the thermals, and my legs felt the chill. I made every effort to combat the pollution by breathing through my nose - nature’s filter mask. I was rewarded a little later in the day with a nose bleed.

The next eight hours were pretty much occupied by the same task, which, surprisingly enough I found to be quite engaging. Namely, I sat on a kiddie stool and marked English essay questions for the 8th, 9th and 10th grades. Uniformly pretty bad as far as content and grammar, but the spelling I am sure was above the UK average. I scored very strictly and left snidey but hopefully also mildly encouraging comments. The essays about ‘What makes a successful school’ were often quite entertaining and witty - the essays about 'The problems Mongolia faces' predictable and dull - but some nationalistic responses were quite enlightening (“We are the sons of Chinggis. Think - only think!!” after lamenting that once other nations were "scare of Mongolia, now Mongolia is scare of other Nations.”) Lots of students wrote of the national characteristic being laziness - curiously, all students whose work displayed more than a fair share of the alleged Mongolian national character...

I didn’t manage to get away from exam marking until 5.45pm. Fellow teachers said a taxi to the pub shouldn’t cost more than T700 and no one offered me a lift, so I headed out into the freezing cold and before too long a cab stopped. The driver, a burly fellow, did not seem overjoyed (altho was by no means antagonistic) at my lack of Mongolian language. I repeated "Irish Pub" in as Mongolian an accent as I could manage and tried pronouncing the name of the central square (Sukhbaatar) a few times, all to much shaking of his head as we weaved through the traffic. It was, at least, warm in the cab. We passed what I was pretty sure should be the turn off for the centre - the driver indicated I was not to worry. He pulled over the cab and started bellowing out to passing students - presumably saying "Can anyone find out where it is this foreign fuckwit wants to go so I can get on with my job?” He was mostly ignored. Eventually a few students came over, but they also seemed to have trouble understanding me, even though I kept pointing at my map of UB. Finally, he drove on further round what proved to be the Baga Toiru - an inner-ring road (it actually turned out that my sense of direction had proven pretty good, in conjunction with the map and I had a fairly good idea where we were). Well, a bunch of students at the Uni understoond and explained and off we roared, changing lanes alarmingly to rush through junctions. There was heavy traffic at the centre so the driver and I were able to nod confirmingly to each other as we approached the Grand Khan. I paid magnaminously with T2000 largely out of guilt at having failed to learn enough Mongolian to give simple directions, and was rewarded by surprised gratitude.

In the Grand Khan Irish Pub of course I was an hour late for my appointment with the manager/band leader. Feeling foolish and out of place I asked if he might still be around and was told that he could be summoned in 10 minutes. Sat there feeling rather nervous , overawed by the sheer size of the place, and the many tables of well dressed young people and wealthy American businessmen. I rehearsed suggesting that it might be more appropriate for me to come back on Sunday afternoon, or when I’ve got a bit of a band together. However, the manager proved to be happily unconcerned about hearing me play tonight - we chatted a bit and he suggested I come down tomorrow at 10.30pm when his band would be playing. I said that would be great.

Lured by enticing aromas I decided I would get some food - ordered a burger and fries that I’d seen someone else get and was rewarded with an (inevitably) monstrously meaty burger and delicious but few fries. Amazingly, the meat all vanished - possibly, as with the school meal, because I have somehow hypnotised myself into believing that the cold means my cells are just absorbing the stuff up.

Then met up with a Mongolian family I knew from Liverpool. They chastised me for having already eaten but I gamely volunteered to try and cram in a bit more so they drove us to an upmarket traditional Mongolian restaurant, called Modern Nomads. The food was great - I had a selection plate from the children’s menu which was very substantial - meat and veg boiled dumplings, miniature fried meat pasties, little meat pastry balls, oh, and a bit of meat. There may have been more meat - there was also a bit of salty chopped carrot.

They drove me home and the family became the first guests in my humble apartment for a pot of tea. Fond farewells and, falling asleep as I tried to write up this blog entry, I got to bed about 10pm. 1am I woke up, somewhat having difficulty with digestion, but not quite enough to warrant raiding my heartburn pills and, my mind turning with this and that, did not fall back to sleep until after 3am.

Banks, Banjo, Beef Stew and Beer

Saturday 2nd December 2006
Spent much of my day tramping back and forth across UB spending a lot of time waiting in banks to find I couldn’t use a card and also being directed to ATMs that only take VISA. Discovered a curious Mongolian approach to queueing in the banks. People form a neat orderly line, or something close to that, and then one after another people come into the bank and go straight to the front of the queue without so much as an 'excuse me.' It was later explained to me that these people are 'in a hurry.' Found a ramshackle market area fascinating: men in traditional dress tramping about, three dogs taking the sun at the edge of their hole into the underground pipe network. My eyes are swimming, either from fatigue or the polluted air.

Outside a bank just off UB's main square a large number of the employees were putting up a Christmas tree, of which I snapped the pleasant photo at the top. I understand that Christmas is a fairly new concept to Mongolians, which is being heartily embraced in a city that loves to shop.

At the State Department Store bought a teapot and knife fork and spoon for approx 3000T and a stack of traditional watercolours and oil paintings which I was blown away by for 44000T. The paintings inevitably display variations on the same scene: steppe, mountains in the background, a ger, and horsemen leading herds of horses. Some shows camels and sand dunes. The brush strokes are deft and the choices of colour very pleasing.

Arriving back at the apartment block with a big bag of groceries, a small girl came out of what I assume to be the building supervisor’s room. She smiled and held up 6 fingers and I nodded and said, “Yes, six,” then she, with another smaller girl ran ahead and called the lift. She pressed the floor button for me and they followed me to the door. I had some trouble with the luck and so put my groceries down - when I opened the door the girl carried my bag across the threshold. Felt confused as to whether it would be appropriate to tip say 100T (I had, I’m afraid, given 500T to a young boy begging in the centre - there was no one around to see. He very politely said thankyou) but as she didn’t ask I didn’t and nodded and thanked her a few times - in English of course as I have yet dared to try any Mongolian.

Cooked a very passable beef stew (using some of the pound of prime beef I bought today at the supermarket in the State Department store - unless I'm very much mistaken it cost about 25p)[Edit - I was very much mistaken. It probably cost about £1] and settled down to some Mongolian TV. On a music channel was somewhat surprised to see a very slickly produced Mongolian rap video by some feller called Golog, featuring Mongolians in Nazi uniform, living a sort of gangsta rap lifestyle in beerhalls with fur and jewelry-wearing women draped over them. I am later informed that young Mongolians find the swastika (which I believe, in common with many cultures, to be a symbol of ancient usage in Mongolia) and Nazi uniforms 'cool' and assuredly don't mean anything ominous or racist by it. Hmm. Actually, the comparison between the 'cool' use of Nazi and pimp imagery is worth considering.

Sunday 3rd December 2007
Didn’t get up until nearly 11 and after breakfast practised some Banjo in the kitchen, which, being in the middle of the flat I figured to be least likely to cause annoyance. Got a bit carried away with my picking and there was a pretty loud tapping (I won’t say banging) from the floor above, which was a bit embarassing. Stuffed teatowel under bridge and carried on pickless for a while, but felt guilty and self conscious.

Walked the long way into town, along a frozen river. The day was overcast and seemed considerably warmer than the previous days. People appeared to be using generators in some capacity to draw water from a deep hole in the ice, or into the earth beneath the ice, as it doesn’t look like much of a river, tho hard to tell in its present state. There was also a wall built of cut slabs of ice across the river - for what purpose if any I could not fathom. Bought 5 hand painted Christmas cards (Mongolian horsemen crossing snowy steppes) from a pleasant old feller in the street. He may have overcharged me at 1000T a card but its hard to haggle when something is so fine and so cheap already.

At first I walked past and then went back and in to the “Grand Khan Irish Pub” - a very smart joint near the central square. I asked about the possibility of playing there and was told to come back tomorrow before 5pm to see some guy who may be the owner or a performer. Anyhow, they were polite and encouraging so I’ll give it a go. Explained I’d be teaching at school but would get there as close to 5pm as possible.

Walking home I also stopped at the "Bavarian Bar", enticed by the advertised Happy Hour and Chinggis Beer at 1800T a 1/2l - served cold in a thick tankard the beer was extremely refreshing. The bar not remotely Mongolian in appearance although also not much like the beer keller it strove to be - the only other customers in the bar were a young couple at a table together. Tipped the guy 200T which seemed fair and well received. Bed as early as I could make it under circumstances I had 15 years ago thought never to be in again: school tomorrow. Groan.