Christmas makes sense in Germany. Mulled wine, marzipan cake, snow, the thick red suit worn by said archetypal father-figure famous for benevolence (commonly known as Santa) – all make sense.
Christmas in Australia is perceptibly displaced. But that’s ok, I’m used to that. Santa just hangs out at the air-conditioned shopping centre and we buy cans of fake frosting to decorate the baby-pine tree we’ve hacked from our neighbour’s bushland.
Christmas in Mongolia is the third-generation of displacement. Yes, the weather is cold. Fucking cold. And it's white, with snow, all over. 10-meter tall Christmas trees stand erect in Sukhbaatar Square and outside the State Department Store, complete with large baubles and lights. Street vendors that previously sold phone calls from their portable house phones, now sell tinsel. All these elements seem especially forced considering that Mongolia is a Buddhist country.
At Mongol Televis the other day, I observed the editing process of a Festive Season Special. It documented Santa running across town sprinkling sparkle on trees. Said father figure was dressed in a blue deel (traditional Mongolian dress) with white fur trimmings on the sleeves and headdress. In Shamanistic tradition, the colour blue, connected to the endless sky, is very significant.
Ariunn, our Mongolian Director, told us to produce a Voice Box Festive Season Special. She told us months ago. In fact, she told us right before we started filming our first episode. We’ve therefore had it in the backs of our over-stimulated minds since then.
When someone tells you to do something special, invariably that something, which would otherwise be a cinch, all fun and merriment galore, becomes trying. Indeed, the making of our Festive Season Special has been an experience in resourcefulness, for reasons forced and otherwise.
‘SPECIAL’ PLAN #1
The Khan Bank sponsors the Voice Box Show. While buttering them up for more milk, we swindled tickets to a particularly popular Mongolian pop star’s album launch. She was releasing her album in 4 languages, which I personally think is pretty remarkable.
We attended her launch, spoke to her ‘manager’ and agreed to share a dinner. Later in the week, over Indian, she agreed to be involved in our Festive Episode. In response to asking if she would mind singing a Christmas Carol, she balked. No, she would rather write a brand new melody to sing on the show. Awesome, we said, very awesome.
At this dinner, she also indicated that she would set me up with the sexy lead singer of an up-and-coming Mongolian Indie band. But this is story is for another time.
Ecstatic with the way our ‘special’ episode was coming together, Mitch and I departed for Beijing (see blog entry #2) with very rosy cheeks and hands resting languidly on our bellies as we reclined in our director chairs.
Upon return to UB, we contact our pop star-godsend. We communicate only through her ‘manager’. I’m not sure if this procedure is a product of the language barrier or of temperament alone. Through 'manager', we deduce she is busy. The festive season is very demanding for a pop star-godsend. We learn that an entire new single has been written and composed. Wasn’t that what the Voice Box team requested for their Festive Season episode? We are delighted. How fantastic. How freaking fantastic. We have exclusivity to release the brand new single from one of Mongolia's finest artists. Ariunn will be happy with us.
We then learn that Voice Box is to fund the single: the studio time, the musicians, the producer, the equipment. Indeed, the lyrics and vocals will both be donated free of charge. I do not often use this word, but here it seems appropriate: we are bamboozled. I explain, probably in a clunky, graceless way that the production cost equates to about one sixth of the Voice Box annual budget.
Hmpff, divas.
As it conspires, we now have said pop star-diva as a guest on the show, no earlier than about May 09. By May, she will have finished recording her next album. Then she will have time to talk with us. I'm sure by May she will feel free to be candid about being an internationally acclaimed musician, about singing in English and share with us some of her very powerful and evocative Aretha-Franklinesque music.
As Producer of Voice Box, the lesson is to not pack all our ‘special’ eggs into one sequins-covered, all singing, all dancing Santa’s sack. Moreover, I should have known that a talented diva is the kind of diva to have the prerogative to act like a diva.
‘SPECIAL’ PLAN #2
With two weeks to deadline, our ‘special’ episode was looking a little matte. Should we sing carols with the orphans out at the Lotus Children’s Centre? Doll them up in red and green foil, recline in an armchair and appreciate the true meaning of Christmas.
There just wasn’t time. My older brother Roly and his mate Craig were about to arrive. We had a trip planned to the South Gobi. We would be away 6 nights and by the time we returned, our episode needed to be ready to print to tape and go to air. Yes, the orphans would have to wait. Perhaps they can be bunny rabbits or eggs at Eastertime.
Roly and Craig are on an oddessey. Beginning in Vietnam they’ve travelled overland through China and up to UB. When they leave from here, they will head yonder through Siberia to Moscow and Europe, then South America. By nature of small-budget world-trips, we simply had no option to cancel or postpone the Gobi plan.
But how would our ‘special’ episode come to fruition while we were away adventuring? Permaculture. – multiple yield, efficiency of resources. The purpose of our side-story dash to Dalanzadgad was to sandboard the Hongol Dunes. So, our adventure holiday quickly transfigured into the “Miranda goes Merry Gobi ‘Special’ Episode”. The premise unfolded effortlessly: Miranda is curious how people in the Gobi celebrate the New Year.
Brother and friend arrive on train.
Team of seven vagabonds, one sass-pot tour guide, one dark and mysterious van driver and one broadcast camera curl into Russian van.
Team drives for 14 hours to Mandalgobi, capital of Dundgobi aimag. We stay overnight in dark and mysterious van driver’s ger.
Through a Peace Corp contact, I had managed to organise filming at the Mandalgobi 1st school for early morning, day two. Sass-pot tour guide tries to ban said filming, expressing the need to get on the road first thing. I argue and throw my weight about and confirm the filming time.
Day two: I wake very early, waking everyone else in the ger. In the dark of the morning, by a soft-glowing globe powered by an old car battery, I paint myself in elfen make-up. Mitch has taken ill, almost seriously ill given the climate. He must sleep. So I demand dear brother to help with the camera. He obliges. A beautiful semi-lit morning; still and pinkening as we drive through the small, brown town to school. Intended vox pops are filmed: young people making their ‘09 resolutions (yes, ‘special’). To debrief, Roly and I enjoy a MacCoffee (n.b. very popular 3in1 sachet of brilliance) with the school’s Principal. And we’re on the road by 11am.
We drive. I learn to knit. I knit housemate a beanie. We drive.
It grows dark, early, because it is winter. Despite out team’s merry singing (Roly and Craig have brought their guitars along), tension between dark and mysterious driver and sass-pot tour guide becomes apparent. We are currently in a town. This, indeed, is an abnormality when in the Gobi. The intention has been to travel further South and spend the night bunked with a family in their ger, as close as possible to desination: Flaming Cliffs. The difficulty with nomads though is that they move about. They’re hard enough to find by day. Additionally, our Driver, it is revealed, has never been to the Gobi Desert before. He has never been to the Gobi Desert before? Never been south of his hometown Mandalgobi? If one was to put all the sealed roads in Mongolia end on end, they would not even stretch across the breadth of the country. It is imperative to know the land, to know mountains and turns. No need for alarm though - our sass-pot tour guide, quite ripe at 21 years of age, has been to the Gobi many times. She knows the way. However, she advises we spend the night safely in this town.
The hotel is novel, much like a Soviet version of a Sport and Rec camp. We steam pre-frozen buuz for dinner and enjoy some vodka and generally participated in groupism in a pleasant way. Leaving early the next morning, I notice a very motionless dog curled into the concrete corner of the hotel’s steps. I think she has frozen to death. She hasn’t. She is breathing. Just.
The Flaming Cliffs are the edge of an ancient ocean, a contemporary endlessness. The cliffs are vertical, rising up from the seafloor. I feet cheeky being allowed preview to the textures and contours of the seafloor. Surely one needs to be in a submarine or be heaps good at scubadiving to enjoy such privledge. Two gers, perhaps occupied by the same family, sit erect on the edge of the cliff: two lighthouses for dinosaur ghosts, two eyes.
After a 3pm lunch of 2-minute noodles, hot water supplied by the food-barren village resturaunt, heavy stone-grey clouds pillaged the blueness of the sky. Dark and mysterious driver is explicitly anxious. We set sail anyway.
More knitting, until it grows too dark. Darktime in the desert dispels the vast plains. Now you drive through a dense forest, with walls parallel to the slug of the van’s motion. And then, when the van needs to find another option of road, he does a 120 degree scan, high beam tailed by his body.
After one such scan, sass-pot tour guide turns from the passenger seat to address the gang.
“Of course, I am sorry. Usually there is a mountain to left. Now, cannot see in night. There are three options. I will tell you them after we go round back to ger we passed.”
The ger we passed was abandoned for the winter. We had stopped to ask for directions about half an hour ago but discovered it was locked. Upon returning, it is still locked and still abandoned. It is still night but growing increasingly colder.
Sass-pot tour guide again turns, her left arm holding on to the back of the drivers seat quite tightly. Do I notice a slight twitch to her nose?
“Of course, I am sorry. The driver has never been to this part of the Gobi. I have been a number of times and know these roads but it is too dark to see. Of course, there are three options. We turn around, we break into this ger, we sleep in van.”
Going backwards is boring. Breaking into ger turns out to not be possible. (Not to mention the poor ettiquette of the act.) We wrap the van in a large covering, line the van’s windows with our sleeping mats, pad ourselves up in sleeping bags, unnecessarily cook a pot of pasta on a camping stove resting on the large platform hiding the engine (yes, it’s inside the van, between the driver and passenger seats), necessarily drink multiple bottles of vodka, share some ‘anti-nausea’ pills, allow dark and mysterious driver to wake every hour to turn on the van to heat the van and next thing I know it’s the morning and I can’t feel my legs. There is some commotion when I wake though. Some of the boys are out and about. Someone, not sure who (I’m still a little groggy from the dead-sleep) climbs into the van accompanied by a gust of frozen wind. This person announces that we are in a snowstorm. Our van is going nowhere.
In the light, dark and mysterious driver is able to break the lock on the ger and we mobilise. Groupism is efficient and after maybe twenty minutes we have collectively moved all the gear, food and warmth into the ger. The ger is decorated in a homely way, complete with photos of its owners. We rationalise that the people that belong to these faces would not mind that we broke two locks to make camp in their springtime home due to the extreme conditions we have found ourselves in. They are nomads and are most likely well acquainted with the adversity of the Gobi. Which is probably why they have moved elsewhere for the winter.
‘SPECIAL’ PLAN #3
Ecstasy. Circular, confined, out of communicaton. For days. Who knows how many. Such bliss. We sit around in our new den for a little bit. I knit some more. We talk in groupism some more. Joke about who we will eat first, when it comes to that.
But shit, Voice Box. My jolly disposition at our enforced hibernation gives way to my commitment to producing said ‘special’ episode. We’re just going to have to film the whole thing in the ger. An introduction in which I explain our original plan followed by the revelation of getting waylayed in the Gobi and stuck in this snowstorm. So very jenxin (Mongolian for ‘authentic’). Roly and Craig can play ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on their guitars. But no, their guitars were left outside the van last night and all the strings snapped in the weather. Well, it will just be a group sing-along-then. And we can cook a Christmas Cake on the ger-stove, with the eclectic mix of flour, sugar, peanuts and sultanas we have in our box of food. But no, we must ration our supplies. Who knows how long we’ll be here. This ‘special’ episode is looking even more matte.
Expecting to be in this ger for a number of days, there isn’t too much immediacy to filming, so I sleep. I wake grumpy to the sound of the boys returning from a hike into the snowstorm. Annoyingly, on their journey, they met the neighbours. The neighbours confirmed the road to Hongol Dunes was passable and in fact, we had been heading in the correct direction the evening before.
Groupism repacked the van, and I remained grumpy at my denied bliss-out. Furthermore, the show was back on the road.
‘SPECIAL’ PLAN #4
Hongol Sand Dunes are incredible. The highest dune lengthens his spine at two hundred metres, give or take according to the wind patterns. The tips of the dunes are razor edges. When the line is disrupted say by a footstep, sand falls away elegantly. When the side of the dune is disrupted, the visual pattern is much like the run in a stocking, where the sand falls away not only downwards, but up the dune also. It takes over half an hour to climb to the highest peak. The horizon is curved, the land is a moonscape. The furthest sight is softened by the atmospheric gases. We are still and now, after the hike up, our breath slows right down. We are people and this world is our soul. Beauty is in moments and is permeating in this moment of eternity.
We take photos, mainly of ourselves, with the backdrop of epic endlessness. We pin a toothpick Australian flag in the peak of the dune and take photos of us as conquerors. We set the camera’s timer and take a group shot with half of us not quite in shot, falling away down the sand. Then the guys sandboard downwards and I have that ‘Boys Light Up’ song as soundtrack in my mind (Is it Coke that used this for one of their advertisements? Go marketing.)
Then there is silence in my mind. The cool air pinkening my cheeks.
Back to camp and its camel riding. We get out the camera, dress everyone up in tinsel and merrily traverse a very wide, barren plain. It’s freezing. On sunset, we pause from camel riding to interview the very Jim-Morrisonesque Santa Claus I have accidently run into as he meanders the Gobi desert. Yes, an eccentric plotline but they were looking for ‘special’. While filming, the sun hands over to the moon and our bodies begin seizing up with the increasing cold.
Three days driving home and more knitting and the final touch to our ‘special’ episode reveals itself, as if organically. This is a ‘Wizard of Oz’ tale. Each bizarre segment filmed along our journey is in fact an archetypal hallucination from my collective dreaming. Or something like that. Due to our evening spent in the Russian van and in the snowstorm, we are a day late home. Our deadline is two days away. We film the introduction in which I slip on ice on Sukhbaatar Square and some kindly elfin men help me, taking me along the festive yellow brick road.
Indeed the final product is an eccentric hybrid celebration of celebration. Like I said, it’s a tough challenge to be ‘special’. Somehow though this episode makes sense in the way Mongolian Christmas makes sense. Or doesn't.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Correspondance: the essence
EMAIL TO VOICEBOXTV:
On 1/11/08 7:21 PM, "Uyangategsh Altansukh" wrote:
Hello! voicebox
My name is Uyangategsh Altansukh. I am 12 years old and i am in the 7th grade. I go to public school 21. I really like watching voicebox. It is really fun as well as educational. The next day after Halloween i put on the tv with my mum and voicebox was on and i really wanted to enter in having a chance to be on your show.. My mum wrote me the e-mail address and i quickly put on the internet and i started writing. I was born in Mongolia but i was raised in London. I went to London at the age of 2 and came back to Mongolia when i was 9.I really like to enter in competitions including educational as well as just fun ones. I have 3 medals in English, 2 in math and 1 in Mongolian. I have 1 big trophy that i won in the 6th grade saying that i was the best of the best in all of Mongolia. 800 students entered and i won! I also have a ribbon for "the city's best English student" Well that would be it if you translate it. I love to talk and i always talk to my self and act as if i am Oprah or Ellen Degeneres. I like to watch talk shows. So i think it would be a perfect match if i entered in your show. I also write a lot of books as well as translate them. Please, this would mean a lot if i got the chance.
From, Uyangategsh
p.s. thanks for taking your time to read my letter
REPLY FROM VOICEBOXTV:
--- On Sat, 12/6/08, Miranda Stokes wrote:
Hello there Uyangategsh,
How are you today? Thank you so much for your email. I am very sorry it has taken so long to reply. We have been very busy getting the new season underway.
It is very great to hear from you. You sound like you have achieved so much at such a young age. We would be delighted if you would still like to come to help us film at some point. We will have maybe two sessions of in-studio filming during December. When we have confirmed the dates, I will let you know. Otherwise, we will be going to schools to film Street Karaoke and talk to students. Maybe we could visit your school? Do you have a teacher we could ask to visit?
If you’re able to, please send me your phone number or your parents phone number and I will contact you when we have filming dates planned.
Thanks so much again for writing – and for watching our show! Of course, if you ever have an suggestions on how we can make the show more enjoyable – let us know.
All the best,
Miranda
REPLY FROM UYANGATEGSH:
Hi
My socks nearly fell off when i got your e-mail. Since i wrote to you i got another medal in English. It was the city's english competition. I got in 2nd place. The 1st place winner won by 1 point. People keep on telling me how unlucky i am. It is ok. There is plenty of other compeititions coming up. I had my phone but i lost it so i will give you my mummy's. Her phone number is -------.Thank you so much for emailing me back. I don't know what teacher you could talk to. My class teacher is a Mongolian language teacher so she has no idea what anything means in English. But my English teacher is not up to my standards. HAHA. I will tell you why. My teacher told us what iron meant. So one kid asked that ironman meant a person who irons clothes and my teacher was like yes. It was funny. But maybe i can have another teacher that teaches high schoolers. But before i can talk to the teacher i hope you can call my mum first and tell her the dates for the show.
Bye.
On 1/11/08 7:21 PM, "Uyangategsh Altansukh"
Hello! voicebox
My name is Uyangategsh Altansukh. I am 12 years old and i am in the 7th grade. I go to public school 21. I really like watching voicebox. It is really fun as well as educational. The next day after Halloween i put on the tv with my mum and voicebox was on and i really wanted to enter in having a chance to be on your show.. My mum wrote me the e-mail address and i quickly put on the internet and i started writing. I was born in Mongolia but i was raised in London. I went to London at the age of 2 and came back to Mongolia when i was 9.I really like to enter in competitions including educational as well as just fun ones. I have 3 medals in English, 2 in math and 1 in Mongolian. I have 1 big trophy that i won in the 6th grade saying that i was the best of the best in all of Mongolia. 800 students entered and i won! I also have a ribbon for "the city's best English student" Well that would be it if you translate it. I love to talk and i always talk to my self and act as if i am Oprah or Ellen Degeneres. I like to watch talk shows. So i think it would be a perfect match if i entered in your show. I also write a lot of books as well as translate them. Please, this would mean a lot if i got the chance.
From, Uyangategsh
p.s. thanks for taking your time to read my letter
REPLY FROM VOICEBOXTV:
--- On Sat, 12/6/08, Miranda Stokes
Hello there Uyangategsh,
How are you today? Thank you so much for your email. I am very sorry it has taken so long to reply. We have been very busy getting the new season underway.
It is very great to hear from you. You sound like you have achieved so much at such a young age. We would be delighted if you would still like to come to help us film at some point. We will have maybe two sessions of in-studio filming during December. When we have confirmed the dates, I will let you know. Otherwise, we will be going to schools to film Street Karaoke and talk to students. Maybe we could visit your school? Do you have a teacher we could ask to visit?
If you’re able to, please send me your phone number or your parents phone number and I will contact you when we have filming dates planned.
Thanks so much again for writing – and for watching our show! Of course, if you ever have an suggestions on how we can make the show more enjoyable – let us know.
All the best,
Miranda
REPLY FROM UYANGATEGSH:
Hi
My socks nearly fell off when i got your e-mail. Since i wrote to you i got another medal in English. It was the city's english competition. I got in 2nd place. The 1st place winner won by 1 point. People keep on telling me how unlucky i am. It is ok. There is plenty of other compeititions coming up. I had my phone but i lost it so i will give you my mummy's. Her phone number is -------.Thank you so much for emailing me back. I don't know what teacher you could talk to. My class teacher is a Mongolian language teacher so she has no idea what anything means in English. But my English teacher is not up to my standards. HAHA. I will tell you why. My teacher told us what iron meant. So one kid asked that ironman meant a person who irons clothes and my teacher was like yes. It was funny. But maybe i can have another teacher that teaches high schoolers. But before i can talk to the teacher i hope you can call my mum first and tell her the dates for the show.
Bye.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
The Welcoming Committee
Fortunately my camel-soul is still meandering along some steppeland between Beijing and here.
Even having negotiated the local rate in Mongolxel, fragmented all the same; even having packed our cameras, tripods and luggage into the backseat of the car, not the boot, or maybe because of it; even while judiciously monitoring the meter; the taxi driver still managed to hit his magic little button to triple the rate instantaneously.
Due to the fact I am judiciously monitoring said meter, I immediately anger. Mitch orders stop. Eventually the driver pulls over. We stagger our belongings out of the backseat while arguing manically with His Spinelessness.
And, there it is: that niggling anxiety that permeates the living, working in UB.
In saying this, it was a great hot bath just now.
Even having negotiated the local rate in Mongolxel, fragmented all the same; even having packed our cameras, tripods and luggage into the backseat of the car, not the boot, or maybe because of it; even while judiciously monitoring the meter; the taxi driver still managed to hit his magic little button to triple the rate instantaneously.
Due to the fact I am judiciously monitoring said meter, I immediately anger. Mitch orders stop. Eventually the driver pulls over. We stagger our belongings out of the backseat while arguing manically with His Spinelessness.
And, there it is: that niggling anxiety that permeates the living, working in UB.
In saying this, it was a great hot bath just now.
The Trans-Mongolian: homebound
Here we are. The final 30 minutes of our voyage across the Gobi Sea, homebound. Yes, this time we were successful in catching the train. In fact, we were at the station a whole hour early, reminding me how little meaning I find in the process of waiting.
I believe the character of Amanda in Tennesse Williams’ ‘The Glass Menagerie’ was inspired by our Mongolian carriage attendant. If you have never seen/read/endured this play, Amanda’s catchphrase is ‘Rise and shine, rise and shine.’ This comparison is a bit unkind. Our attendant is quite friendly and sweet and it is probably our own fault for sporting/showing off our Mongol-xel (Mongolian language). She has been chattering at us ever since we greeted her with a jenxin (authentic) ‘Sain bain oo’ (are you good). She does not seem to realise that our obliging nods and bewildered eyebrows reflect our true lack of comprehension.
She plays a game with us. She passes our cabin, jabbers something, and then turns up the volume of our In-Berth entertainment. Joyfully, the anthem known far and wide- The Mongolian Horse Song- bellows. I then turn up the Black Keys playing from my laptop. She then turns the Horse Song louder. I then resign from editing footage of the Great Wall and enjoy the cacophony. I might write to the Black Keys and suggest they employ a throat singer.
The train ride has been an enjoyable haven, with the rhythm of movement asking me to sleep, snooze, nap, lie, listen to music, poetry, Mitch turning pages of Hunter S. Thompson’s ‘The Rum Diary’ and occasionally, as a break from these rhythms, attend to Voice Box.
Last night, at the border, with the changing of the train wheels, we were jailed in customs for a number of hours. On previous Trans-Mongolian experiences, I have been allowed, even encouraged to remain on the train and witness the swapping. To my bemusement, not this time.
As you do, standing listlessly with a group of disparate people in the same derailed situation, we made friends. The Breakfast Clubesque group comprised of:
1. Two British English Teachers, Returning Home From Korea. Teaching of course - Correct English. I was a bit apprehensive to confess that Voice Box also aims to be educational even considering it’s an Australian initiative.
2. An odd, anxious woman from Bulgaria, pacing. Did you know Bulgaria and Mongolia have some Bilateral Agreement whereby Bulgarians don’t need a Mongolian visa? I was a little suspicious therefore as to why she was pacing.
3. A young Mongolian girl (is 17 considered young?) returning from a year living in Australia and her father, who had met her in Beijing.
So with our cast and with three hours of waiting, how do you think the evening panned out? Well, we drank some beer, snacked on Chinese fruit roll-ups, didn’t drink some other icky beer and waited. I understand that such experiences, in foreign countries, late at night, and with a chorus of semi-colourful characters are fatalistically designed to foster patience and compassion and incite curiosity in humanity etc etc. but I had been on a roll with editing our episode on the historic relationship between Mongolian and China and well, when you’re on a roll….
Rolling in to UB now, the ger districts are whiter than when we left, softer with the snow. The air doesn’t look cold. The rooftops of the wooden houses are brilliant strong colours, like the colours of plastic chairs in Australian primary schools, maybe other primary schools also, I’m not sure. The buildings of greater solidarity are cement rendered and painted in slightly more pastel tones and bordered with cream frames. There are two girls pulling a cart with a barrel, of water, I assume. They wear puffy, pastel winter coats, made in China, I assume.
In old folk mythology of nondescript origin, it is said that the soul travels at the pace of a camel. Fortunately, we have not flown home from Beijing. Though, my reunion may still be a few days yet. We’ll see.
I believe the character of Amanda in Tennesse Williams’ ‘The Glass Menagerie’ was inspired by our Mongolian carriage attendant. If you have never seen/read/endured this play, Amanda’s catchphrase is ‘Rise and shine, rise and shine.’ This comparison is a bit unkind. Our attendant is quite friendly and sweet and it is probably our own fault for sporting/showing off our Mongol-xel (Mongolian language). She has been chattering at us ever since we greeted her with a jenxin (authentic) ‘Sain bain oo’ (are you good). She does not seem to realise that our obliging nods and bewildered eyebrows reflect our true lack of comprehension.
She plays a game with us. She passes our cabin, jabbers something, and then turns up the volume of our In-Berth entertainment. Joyfully, the anthem known far and wide- The Mongolian Horse Song- bellows. I then turn up the Black Keys playing from my laptop. She then turns the Horse Song louder. I then resign from editing footage of the Great Wall and enjoy the cacophony. I might write to the Black Keys and suggest they employ a throat singer.
The train ride has been an enjoyable haven, with the rhythm of movement asking me to sleep, snooze, nap, lie, listen to music, poetry, Mitch turning pages of Hunter S. Thompson’s ‘The Rum Diary’ and occasionally, as a break from these rhythms, attend to Voice Box.
Last night, at the border, with the changing of the train wheels, we were jailed in customs for a number of hours. On previous Trans-Mongolian experiences, I have been allowed, even encouraged to remain on the train and witness the swapping. To my bemusement, not this time.
As you do, standing listlessly with a group of disparate people in the same derailed situation, we made friends. The Breakfast Clubesque group comprised of:
1. Two British English Teachers, Returning Home From Korea. Teaching of course - Correct English. I was a bit apprehensive to confess that Voice Box also aims to be educational even considering it’s an Australian initiative.
2. An odd, anxious woman from Bulgaria, pacing. Did you know Bulgaria and Mongolia have some Bilateral Agreement whereby Bulgarians don’t need a Mongolian visa? I was a little suspicious therefore as to why she was pacing.
3. A young Mongolian girl (is 17 considered young?) returning from a year living in Australia and her father, who had met her in Beijing.
So with our cast and with three hours of waiting, how do you think the evening panned out? Well, we drank some beer, snacked on Chinese fruit roll-ups, didn’t drink some other icky beer and waited. I understand that such experiences, in foreign countries, late at night, and with a chorus of semi-colourful characters are fatalistically designed to foster patience and compassion and incite curiosity in humanity etc etc. but I had been on a roll with editing our episode on the historic relationship between Mongolian and China and well, when you’re on a roll….
Rolling in to UB now, the ger districts are whiter than when we left, softer with the snow. The air doesn’t look cold. The rooftops of the wooden houses are brilliant strong colours, like the colours of plastic chairs in Australian primary schools, maybe other primary schools also, I’m not sure. The buildings of greater solidarity are cement rendered and painted in slightly more pastel tones and bordered with cream frames. There are two girls pulling a cart with a barrel, of water, I assume. They wear puffy, pastel winter coats, made in China, I assume.
In old folk mythology of nondescript origin, it is said that the soul travels at the pace of a camel. Fortunately, we have not flown home from Beijing. Though, my reunion may still be a few days yet. We’ll see.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Back story: by torchlight
UB has been my home for two months now. At the start of this year, it was my resurrection. From late January, I spent two and a bit months sharing my dear friends bedroom, teetering on the windowsill of her life in UB. At the time she was the Producer/Presenter of Voice Box. She is an incredible woman, vivacious and very capable.
So, my return can be accredited to a number of reasons:
1) I want to be Gabrielle Brady.
2) Australia just doesn’t know good mutton when she sees it.
3) On a Scale of 1 – 10 “How ratifying is your job?” Voice Box rates well with a score of 10.
4) Nomads seem to have a pretty good religion.
5) I really like Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’ and fortunately in UB nightclubs, this song provides the metronome.
6) Mongolia is a fascinating country, with absurd contradictions, a growing and brave potential and an endless, inspiring blue sky.
I will share here, now, some pictures of the return. If you find these writings obscure, I’m sorry. Just go with it.
ON BEING HEALTHY
It's unhealthy, isn't it -
all these heavy metals in the water
and all the black tea
and being unable to sleep
due to all the black tea?
It's unhealthy, isn't it -
having no hands, begging for food
and asking them to avert their eyes
to hand you their rejected baked goods?
Unhealthy when they don't -
hand or avert?
It's unhealthy, isn't it -
to not introduce yourself as an artist
while damning the lack of bravery
and integrity and symmetry.
Isn't it unhealthy,
I spit.
ON ASSIGNMENT
This focus is a coma.
This beer is a pinch.
This task is a beanstalk.
This is a love song.
Only once before have I written such a story
and that was of him.
This working is a poem; a jig.
ON THE NEW NIGHT
Striding in to the new night
the darkness sharpens and the
yellow lights come to focus.
New eyes from the post-afternoon Stupa.
The movement of light, a slow dance,
a sharp wink, I don’t look at the pavement.
Not for this mille-moment.
I feel like weeping
but the cold air
and the movement of night.
My face is sandy under this light.
To this night, I am the Camel.
ON THE LACK OF RIGHTS
silence after the payment and we can walk away poorer he richer from the violence silence all round except our cries and they call us drunk and want us in the for the night but we can walk away poorer after the payment the horn was constant from my compression and the comic absurdity the taxi union flocking flicking me square on the forehead and a punch later to tell me to stop my compression silence with the horn constant and cries as he has his hands on Graham’s throat throttling it screaming for us to leave his Mongolia and I pinch at his neck to attempt to stop Graham not breathing Graham writhing and the police
So, my return can be accredited to a number of reasons:
1) I want to be Gabrielle Brady.
2) Australia just doesn’t know good mutton when she sees it.
3) On a Scale of 1 – 10 “How ratifying is your job?” Voice Box rates well with a score of 10.
4) Nomads seem to have a pretty good religion.
5) I really like Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’ and fortunately in UB nightclubs, this song provides the metronome.
6) Mongolia is a fascinating country, with absurd contradictions, a growing and brave potential and an endless, inspiring blue sky.
I will share here, now, some pictures of the return. If you find these writings obscure, I’m sorry. Just go with it.
ON BEING HEALTHY
It's unhealthy, isn't it -
all these heavy metals in the water
and all the black tea
and being unable to sleep
due to all the black tea?
It's unhealthy, isn't it -
having no hands, begging for food
and asking them to avert their eyes
to hand you their rejected baked goods?
Unhealthy when they don't -
hand or avert?
It's unhealthy, isn't it -
to not introduce yourself as an artist
while damning the lack of bravery
and integrity and symmetry.
Isn't it unhealthy,
I spit.
ON ASSIGNMENT
This focus is a coma.
This beer is a pinch.
This task is a beanstalk.
This is a love song.
Only once before have I written such a story
and that was of him.
This working is a poem; a jig.
ON THE NEW NIGHT
Striding in to the new night
the darkness sharpens and the
yellow lights come to focus.
New eyes from the post-afternoon Stupa.
The movement of light, a slow dance,
a sharp wink, I don’t look at the pavement.
Not for this mille-moment.
I feel like weeping
but the cold air
and the movement of night.
My face is sandy under this light.
To this night, I am the Camel.
ON THE LACK OF RIGHTS
silence after the payment and we can walk away poorer he richer from the violence silence all round except our cries and they call us drunk and want us in the for the night but we can walk away poorer after the payment the horn was constant from my compression and the comic absurdity the taxi union flocking flicking me square on the forehead and a punch later to tell me to stop my compression silence with the horn constant and cries as he has his hands on Graham’s throat throttling it screaming for us to leave his Mongolia and I pinch at his neck to attempt to stop Graham not breathing Graham writhing and the police
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The Introduction: by highlight
It would appear to be a good time to produce a piece of blog. Things are serendipitously colourful in Beijing, where I am currently on a working jaunt. The colour here highlights my real life in China’s neighbour’s capital, Ulan Bataar. In Ulan Bataar, I make a TV show. A youth program sharing conversational English, exploring the Mongolian culture, for the benefit of Mongolian people. The conceptual aim is community cultural exchange. The reality is bizarre.
Our program airs on the national station, MNB. It reaches every edge of the disparate and vast country that is Mongolia. I once viewed our program on a TV the size of a tape deck, powered by a car battery in a tepee, in the Khovsgol region, close to the Russian border. We were visiting the Tsaatan people, an ancient nomadic group who still herd Reindeer in a near-to traditional way. The people, smiling ceaselessly, asked us to stay and live with them long-term to teach them English. It was a tempting offer, but three-days horseback from the nearest phone just seemed a little too inconceivable to my Sydney-psyche. The Tsaatan people are keen to modernise their business skills. Their export is handicrafts made from Reindeer hide, antlers and any other periphery that ensures maximum utility of their beloveds. They are keen to learn the language of International Business and safeguard themselves against non-mutual financial arrangements.
Today we are filming a Mongolian punk band, resident in Beijing, specialising in Throat singing and electric Morin Khuur, the traditional Mongolian up-right two-string guitar played with a bow.
Yesterday we filmed on the Great Wall, the historic symbol of the divide between the steppe-lands of the ‘barbaric’ nomads and the sedentary agricultural plains of China.
The day before yesterday, we filmed a stand-up segment on Tiananmen Square. A group 50-strong of Chinese men and brightly dressed Korean women gathered like a proscenium arch, curious about our efforts. The ‘Voice Box’ production team is a double-act, with Mitch, my co-producer, and I co-managing all aspects of the show. As the Presenter, on this day, filming humble dialogue relating the 1989 Tiananmen Massacre to the July 1st, 2008 murders in Sukhbataar Square, UB - I felt like Mao, addressing the people. Somewhat. A 5 foot 8, green-eyed female Mao, sporting multi-directional blonde curls and over articulating my English enunciation. (On a side note, if this TV career fails, I may relocate to Beijing and charge people who want to take their photo with me. I can now empathise with those murals with the cutout space for your face.)
Our primary mission in Beijing has been to purchase new equipment, including camera etc etc. The Voice Box show was conceived three years ago by the Director of an English language school in UB. In exchange for 2 seasons of airtime on MNB, Voice Box agreed to donate its empire of camera equipment to the Mongol Televis Youth Department at the end of the contract. We have just begun the third season, and therefore have been rendered camera less. Until the day before the day before yesterday that is.
This morning we were supposed to catch the Trans-Mongolian 1653kms home. We were 5 minutes late to the station and trains leave and don’t turn around and this train left on time. So, we’re here for another 4 days until the next train, enjoying the balmy -3 degree sunshine. I believe it is currently -23 degrees at home. Winter is ready for us. I am told the Soviet playgrounds, heroing pastel camels and other obscure desert animals, have all been snowed in while we've been abroad. I know that my apartment, layed-out in true Socialist format, will be my sanctuary upon return. The only offset to the incredibly warm heating is of course the heavy pollution across the skyline and subsequently the persistent hint of Emphysema. Still, it’s an interesting real life and for now, I might order another real coffee in this side-story café in Beijing.
Our program airs on the national station, MNB. It reaches every edge of the disparate and vast country that is Mongolia. I once viewed our program on a TV the size of a tape deck, powered by a car battery in a tepee, in the Khovsgol region, close to the Russian border. We were visiting the Tsaatan people, an ancient nomadic group who still herd Reindeer in a near-to traditional way. The people, smiling ceaselessly, asked us to stay and live with them long-term to teach them English. It was a tempting offer, but three-days horseback from the nearest phone just seemed a little too inconceivable to my Sydney-psyche. The Tsaatan people are keen to modernise their business skills. Their export is handicrafts made from Reindeer hide, antlers and any other periphery that ensures maximum utility of their beloveds. They are keen to learn the language of International Business and safeguard themselves against non-mutual financial arrangements.
Today we are filming a Mongolian punk band, resident in Beijing, specialising in Throat singing and electric Morin Khuur, the traditional Mongolian up-right two-string guitar played with a bow.
Yesterday we filmed on the Great Wall, the historic symbol of the divide between the steppe-lands of the ‘barbaric’ nomads and the sedentary agricultural plains of China.
The day before yesterday, we filmed a stand-up segment on Tiananmen Square. A group 50-strong of Chinese men and brightly dressed Korean women gathered like a proscenium arch, curious about our efforts. The ‘Voice Box’ production team is a double-act, with Mitch, my co-producer, and I co-managing all aspects of the show. As the Presenter, on this day, filming humble dialogue relating the 1989 Tiananmen Massacre to the July 1st, 2008 murders in Sukhbataar Square, UB - I felt like Mao, addressing the people. Somewhat. A 5 foot 8, green-eyed female Mao, sporting multi-directional blonde curls and over articulating my English enunciation. (On a side note, if this TV career fails, I may relocate to Beijing and charge people who want to take their photo with me. I can now empathise with those murals with the cutout space for your face.)
Our primary mission in Beijing has been to purchase new equipment, including camera etc etc. The Voice Box show was conceived three years ago by the Director of an English language school in UB. In exchange for 2 seasons of airtime on MNB, Voice Box agreed to donate its empire of camera equipment to the Mongol Televis Youth Department at the end of the contract. We have just begun the third season, and therefore have been rendered camera less. Until the day before the day before yesterday that is.
This morning we were supposed to catch the Trans-Mongolian 1653kms home. We were 5 minutes late to the station and trains leave and don’t turn around and this train left on time. So, we’re here for another 4 days until the next train, enjoying the balmy -3 degree sunshine. I believe it is currently -23 degrees at home. Winter is ready for us. I am told the Soviet playgrounds, heroing pastel camels and other obscure desert animals, have all been snowed in while we've been abroad. I know that my apartment, layed-out in true Socialist format, will be my sanctuary upon return. The only offset to the incredibly warm heating is of course the heavy pollution across the skyline and subsequently the persistent hint of Emphysema. Still, it’s an interesting real life and for now, I might order another real coffee in this side-story café in Beijing.
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