Not sure what to call this–it turned in to a rant

The toilets here are abso-freaking-lutely disgusting. I just gave myself a belly ache because I was trying to hold on too long. I never got excited about doing a pooh until I came to Mongolia where fibre is NOT in their diet. To me it’s a game to see how many prunes/tinned peas/tinned fruit/fresh fruit/water I have to consume because I can actually poop. It’s usually directly related to the amount of Mongolian food I have to eat. The more Mongolian food, the harder my digestive system has to work. So there you go.

On Wednesday morning I was at the stage where I wanted to kill myself – of course not literally but that’s the expression I would use to describe just how much I did NOT want to get out of bed to go on this work trip. But I had to get up and pack. And I did. I think I have 6 different bags with me – I was not in the mood to be careful with my packing and I was not about to leave my camera (itself it’s own bag) or my laptop (for photo editing and blogging) behind. And I was not going to come unprepared. Dad left a useful legacy in Mongolia, being the solar shower (good for carting water so I can clean my teeth and wash hands, not good enough to shower), saucepan set and mini gas cooker. So I’ve got pasta and pesto and I have never felt so privileged in my life. Instead of having to eat bento (dried mutton soup) or fresh mutton noodle soup for breakfast, I can cook two scrambled eggs OR pesto pasta. I seriously spent TWO HOURS this morning trying to decide what I’d eat. Decisions decisions.

In Mongolia, travelling regularly for work, I’ve come to appreciate many things and I’m so grateful I feel I need to do something about it. So when I’m reading my Kindle under a tree instead of having to play Mongolian card games (I’m too competitive to play even snap – I’m not about to ruin work relationships by playing card games and getting the shits because I’ve lost), I want to tell the Kindle man that I am ever so grateful for his book reading device that has an ever lasting battery. And when I open a packet of Allens lollies and savour the smell of the amazing sweetness and flavours, I want to write to Mister Allen and tell him thank you very much – very, very much, for your delicious lollies. And when I go to the gym in my amazing Lorna Jane gym gear, and can work out being all comfortable and stuff, I want to tell Lorna that she’s great. And when I put on my comfy knickers, grey hoodie or trackies, I want to tell the makers of Bonds clothing that I have never appreciated their warmth or comfort or practicality so much in my life. I plan on writing to all these people but the list keeps getting longer and I still don’t know how to send letters from the post office.

The only shit thing is that none of the things I have come to love and appreciate are available in the country I currently live in. Too bad, my choice and that’s why I’m here.

So the trip was a loooooooong one again. 12 hours in the car listening to very bad music. Even for a while we got to listen to the same CD that we listened to the WHOLE trip to Choibalsan and back (remember that first trip to the countryside I did where I became so delirious after two days on a shitty road that I decided I’d be better off to dislocate my shoulder so a helicopter could pick me up?). We stopped quite regularly and I was in the same car as the director of my project. Mainly so she could get up me for not asking permission to go to Russia (yeah, okay, I deserved that one). We had a few moments of bonding and I hope one day soon she’ll actually give me some work to do.

The first stop we had was for a mid-morning snack. It was half a sheep wrapped in gladwrap. I snuck around the back and ate a muesli bar. The second stop was actually fruitful and we ate a lot of delicious Korean food in Erdenet (where the big copper mine is). The third stop was another vodka stop (did I mention there was copious amounts of vodka in the previous two?) where we met the aimag coordinator for our project and he served a round-up drum (you know the size? The big maybe 30L drum?) full of airag> bloody fermented horse milk. And a whole massive container of Mongolian cheese.

And fresh wild strawberries. I will give them the credit they deserve. THEY ARE DELICIOUS!

I do not like Mongolian food. I don’t like mutton, I don’t like mutton soup. I don’t like soup. I don’t like yogurt, especially the kind that tastes like the cow was milked and then wiped its ass in the yogurt. I don’t like horse milk, camel milk or any fermented versions of it. I don’t like sheep tongue or brains. I don’t like dried cheese, dried curd or fresh curd. I don’t like salty tea, nor do I like preserved cream with salt in it. I don’t like vodka, I don’t like dried mutton or potatoes. I can’t eat tomatoes.
This leaves me in a bit of a pickle. Mongolians are staunchly patriotic and not adventurous or worldly when it comes to food. Their diet consists of everything I listed that I hate, and nothing more (except cucumber and carrots in summer). So when I’m handed vodka I do my bit and have the biggest sip I can stomach. And then they get pissed off because they think I hate them because I didn’t drink their vodka (and I’m given a LOT because I’m on the only whitey and I’m cute and young). And then they offer me airag (fermented horse milk) and I do my bit and take the biggest sip I can stomach. And then they get pissed off because they think I hate them because I don’t drink their airag. And then they offer me cheese – again, I take the smallest bit and they get pissed off. And then I leave the fat in my soup.. blah blah blah. You get the picture. I try to be as kind as possible but it pisses ME off.

In MY culture that they’re so keen to learn about, I don’t eat meat for breakfast lunch and tea. I don’t eat dairy products like they’re going out of fashion. I don’t shot 1/4cup (seriously) of vodka in one sitting with no mixer. In MY culture, we don’t pressure people to drink if they don’t want to. We don’t make people eat our food if they don’t like it or make them feel ungrateful if they don’t eat it all. We don’t bitch about people if they’ve gone to bed at 10:30pm because there are 40 people speaking and playing cards in a language they don’t understand. This is why it’s so hard for me to participate in some facets of your culture: because I wasn’t born in it; you’ll have to take me as I come and accept me as I am. And hopefully one day know that I love to be here, but it’s also really tricky for me.

I totally realise I’m a guest in their culture and at times it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. It is just very, very difficult to create relationships with people when they base it on your vodka drinking abilities and the fact that you reject their offer of food, every time. It got to a point the other day when I was just beyond it. There’s nothing I can do to make myself eat mutton fat soup or drink airag. No Western person in their right mind could drink any more than a tiny bit. It tastes like you’ve left the milk out of the fridge for two weeks with the lid on and then added white vinegar and some horse ass. It’s fucking disgusting and if you’ve grown up on it, I’m sure it’s very refreshing. But it makes my stomach churn.

So anyway, I had this massive tantrum in my head about all of the above: just because I can’t eat your food doesn’t mean I don’t like you, silly!