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!

Arriving in Ulaanbaatar

Friday 1st December 2006
I landed in Ulaanbaatar (henceforth, following standard practice, in the main referred to as UB) around noon. It being a beautiful cloudless day, the flight provided compelling window-gazing: looking down after take off from Beijing almost the first thing I saw, with a leap of excitement (such as is possible strapped into an airline seat) was the Great Wall as it zigzagged crazily over a ridge in a sea of mountains. Much of the Gobi was dusted in snow: I could make out the spokes of tracks made by horses and herds centring on gers; then gentler mountains, forested on their shaded sides, and, as the plane circled round to land, Ulaanbaatar: tower blocks dimly visible in a haze of smog. The contrast with the wild beauty of the landscape was staggeringly emphasised by the cooling towers and one enormous chimney of a power station belching out smoke and vapour in the foreground. An ominous sight, although perhaps coloured by my optimism it also had the look of a frontier town: a colony on a near virgin planet, poisoning its own air but as yet unspoiling the vast beauty around it.

I was very much arriving to the unknown. For the next 6 months I'll be living in UB and teaching English and as much as possible playing and teaching Bluegrass banjo. It is understood that I have zero experience teaching English. As for what I have to expect I know very little except that I'll be teaching full-time and that as far as my accommodation goes I "don't even have to bring a spoon"

Smart black uniformed guards, both women and men, in the tunnel connecting the plane to the airport had perhaps been selected for their posts for their powerful, broad mongolian features - skin flawless, dark, calm eyes, assured and competent expressions. And in that tunnel (which had twee carriage-style lamps on the wall) a first touch of the frigid chill outside, which the pilot informed us was 15 below zero under the dazzling midday sun.

No hassles, thank God, at immigration; no eyebrows raised at my ticking the ‘work’ box of my entry card and my final apprehensions vanished when on walking out into the arrival lounge a tall dark woman approached me and asked “Mr Fallows?” (I was disappointed, though, very disappointed, that she had not seen fit to stand there with a card with my name , which I have always seen as an essential part of the (however sterile) romance of airports. My contact from the school introduced me to an older, short and broad fur-hatted gentleman whose name and position I did not catch, and we left the terminal.

Walking out of the building - seen framed there in the doorway as I approached - stepping out into that bright sun and cold air, there was what I swear seemed to be a wolf (and so I like to think must at the very least have been a dog with some wolf in it), watching me calmly.

We walked to the car.

My hosts drove me through the city for my first look at my future place of employment. It was cheerfully explained that most of the pupils were from well-off backgrounds, spoiled and entirely unmotivated to learn. The school - closer to UB’s centre than I had expected - stands out as being a very flashily modern building, but was much smaller than I’d imagined from the pictures I'd seen. I didn’t seem to elicit more than the occasional curious glance from pupils, who were obviously quite used to seeing westerners about the place. I was introduced to the staff in the staff room - who again happily appeared to be the best sort of run-down, get-through-the-day teachers on the whole and who all spoke English, mostly pretty well too.

Dinner was a compartmented tray with four hand made burgers oozing grease on a bed of pasta and soggy chips that could have acchieved English canteen standards - also a purple-coloured side-helping of pickled beetroot, potato and peas. A small hundreds-and-thousands topped piece of cake and a cup of sweet tea to wash it all down. I actually managed to eat most of mine (left the chips) and can in theory see how the fatty meat is suited to the climate, but I cannot hide the disappointment to have gone from the best Chinese food I ever et in Beijing to school-bloody-dinners. Well, they made me a cup of lemon tea and most importantly of course it was free - a perk of the job.

As I asked for it I got approximately five minute of introduction to the course I’ll be teaching from Monday (the course proper may start a week on as next week is an ‘English Olympics’, whatever that means) - once I’m settled in I’m to teach literature however the hell I please and of course there's my afterschool Bluegrass class too. I was told that I’m to set homework ‘at least weekly’. Will try and have a good look at the course books on Monday.
Having had a chance to send a few emails I was summoned to go and see my new home, which (forbodingly) up to this point had ‘not been quite ready’. It seemed and indeed surely was even colder when we stepped out of the school than earlier at the airport, causing genuine relief once shut into the car. The cold is certainly invigorating.

The apartment (see charming photo at the top of the page - my apartment is close to the centre of the picture, four floors down from the top) turned out to be very close to the school - 5 minutes walk, in fact. My heart rose with delight on turning into the giant frozen mud courtyard overshadowed by our building: having been alarmed last night on finding on-line dreary pine and chrome ‘luxury apartments’ for rent in UB, I was pleasantly relieved to see a crumbling concrete relic of socialism. We entered a narrow yellowed hallway and found the creaky lift, which I intend to avoid using as much as I can. A second guess on the unmarked buttons found my flat on floor 6. The landlady was inside: on seeing the living room I thought for a moment that I would be living as a guest, but no, the whole apartment is mine and yes, it seems that the school are paying. The kitchen has a painted Mongolian dresser; there’s a Russian Doll, a puppy emerging from a barrel, two Chinese tigers and countless other bits of charmingly revolting tat in the front room's enormous wall cabinet. A 3-piece suite (altho it appears that the Mongolians don’t bellieve in slouching - the backs are certainly going to do my posture a bit of good); the bedroom has a carpet on the wall and a traditional Mongolian style of wooden bedstead; there’s a balcony between the kitchen and living room for drying clothes and I guess summer use; bright, ill fitting carpets and plenty of heat but it’s by no means stifling. I love it. Mountains visible towering over the city (and later, the sun setting red over the power station I’d seen earlier from the airport, lighting it redly afire).

No spoons though.

I felt a twinge of a tear when I was left there alone, suddenly a resident of this crazy post-soviet city on the far side of the world. I unpacked and then (around 2.45pm) resolved to go out and change my last Y100 note to get some groceries in. Wrapped up plenty before going out, but resolved to skip a few layers so as to guage what’s suited and also so as to be able to upgrade my cladding. So: t-shirt, cotton sweater, fleece, berghaus, boxers, socks, jeans, hiking boots, gloves and lastly, me hat.

Needed 'em - the cold was biting where my face was exposed. but without the wind and wet, by no means unendurable if I kept walking. And in the bright sun, amongst bustling bodies it was exciting - again, the most apt word I can find is exhilerating. Saw a young man emerge from beneath boards at the foot of a building, maybe a street kid, and later a young man with flowing black hair and tall leather boots striding puposefully and warriorlike. The traffic honking and people laughing and shouting at each other - mini vans pulled up outside cigarette kiosks calling out some kind of trade (I later read that these are unofficial taxis, shouting out a destination for any takers [Edit - wrong! They were licensed 'Micro-buses' - the unofficial taxis are literally any car that stops]) - dozens of little internet cafes, bars, saunas, phonecard booths: all with grimy neon plastic signs in garish script and illustration. The air sadly had me choking on the fumes, possibly owing to a contrast between an inherent clean quality not fully mixed with the auto poison, probably in reality just very unhealthily polluted.

At the Khaan Bank I changed my Yuen for crisp new Mongolian notes. I found that I can live cheap here if I can avoid being tempted by baubles and fripperies. Just round the corner from my flat there's a supermarket, where I was happy to be able to find ample groceries to suit my tastes. For T12000 (£5?) I bought:

1 small (250ml) bottle vodka
1l orange juice
1l milk
1/2l cooking oil
1 loaf (delicious) bread
1 tub butter/marg
2 onions
6 carrots
1 bag beansprouts
1 jar chilli sauce
small bag washing powder
small bottle washing up liquid
1 jar strawberry jam
2 2l bottles drinking water.

I cooked myself a passable stir-fry once home, followed by bread and jam. Ran myself a bath of passably hot water. Poured myself a congratulatory vodka and orange. And so to bed.