Only in Mongolia

Mongolia has heaps to offer, it is a country full of natural wonder with such diverse landscape. We don’t often get a chance to venture out of the city so when someone said “Camel Polo”, we though that sounded like a good idea.

Actually getting information about events here is part of the fun. There might be a mention prior to the event in the local English newspaper, but one never expects all the information needed to participate. We knew it was a two-day event over a weekend, out by what we call the “Big Chinggis”, a huge stainless steel statue in the middle of nowhere. No idea about what time, admission costs, amenities available, but hey, this is Mongolia.

We got a group together, booked two minivans, planned a picnic lunch, and thought we had all bases covered. On the Friday night, word was out that the event was in the city on Sunday. Although shifting the event from the countryside to the city would be a logistical nightmare, we did accept that - hey, this is Mongolia, they do that sort of thing. So on Sunday morning we set off, not knowing if we would be watching polo or just having a picnic in the countryside.

The landscape is changing now as the snow is melting and dried grass is being exposed. The roads are still really bumpy and the sun warmed the window on one side of our minibus. From a distance we could see the silver Chinggis rising over the hill, and fortunately a crowd gathering in the surrounding area. The event hadn’t been moved, that was just a rumour.

The car-park was still ice and there was some snow still on the ground when we made our way over to the swelling crowd. The surrounding hills were still covered with snow and the Big Chinggis with his horse sat atop the building that houses a fantastic museum. You can climb the internal stairs to get a panoramic view from the horses head, but I expect the wind up there was cold.

Double humped camels, all plump with hair were watching us as much as we were watching them. We joined everyone else who was thrilled at the dexterity of the rider who could keep his place between the humps while dipping down to connect the end of the mallet with a large leather ball. Young boys were the stable masters, holding the ropes of camels that waited to have their turn.

There were teams who exhibited a strong enthusiasm to win, all sharing a war cry every now and then. The camels looked so graceful as they bounced from one end of the pitch to the other, their hair making them look like oversized Afghan hounds, flouncing in rhythm to their bounds. They looked as though they were hard to control, the riders pulling them from one direction to another following the ball. Occasionally one would slip on a small mound of ice in the middle of the uneven pitch, the snow having been cleared from this area of the field.

Zealous riders would swing their hammer towards the large ball and miss it but connect with the shin of the camel. They were prepared with shin guards wrapped around their legs but the poor animal would still let out a high-pitched cry. There was one camel that had a bandaid stitched to its rump, I wonder what kind of noise he made as that was done.

Bandaid on a bum

We stood at the edge, marked with a piece of tape lying on the ground. More than once the ball would roll over the tape and we would scatter as it was followed by galloping camels.

We had our picinc lunch, rather posh I think, with ample bottles of wine including Moet, plates of food, cucumber sandwiches, quiche, scones with jam and cream. So it can’t be said that we didn’t do it right. Of course the bubbles were drank from paper cups, but hey, this is Mongolia.

Our group of Pole Enthusiasts

Yum, lunch

Camels are prized possessions for the nomadic Mongolians. Not only are they a form of transport and help carting heavy objects, but they are a source of meat, milk and clothing. My camel hair socks have been a blessing through winter. While I was chatting with a guy on the sidelines I asked “How much does a camel cost?”  Not that I was planning on taking one home, just out of interest. His reply was maybe 500,000 tugrugs ($350) which is about the average monthly income in the city. So if you are a nomad, it would be an advantage to have a good breeding pair.

Those birds are really heavy

They Killed Kenny

Friend being interviewed for Korean TV

Every ger should have it's own basketball hoop

It was a gathering of expats and Mongolan’s alike, the locals dressing up for the occasion. Kids looked cute in mini deels and couples with matching finery looked splendid atop the camels. I couldn’t help but think that it could reflect the time when Chinggis really was on top of his horse in this very same field. Legend has him finding the silver batten that he took into battle to create his empire.

Hey mum, look at me

Would have to have been the softest seat in the house

Regal spendor

Modern Nomad

As the sun started to sink, the air got cooler and we decided to pack up the picnic blanket and head home. We trundled back through the mushy grass, waved goodbye to Chinggis and headed back to the smog of Ulnaanbataar. Our little event in the countryside was over, we had, yet again, been witness to something that was unique. But hey, this is Mongolia.

James climbing on a camel

Glad he shaved

Chinggis impersonation

James getting off a camel

 This entry dedicated to Ainslie Popplewell, who I understood got some pleasure from reading my rambling. R.I.P.

I Love a Surprise

I love a surprise, like yesterday when I said “Maragash Altsi” as I put my coat on to leave.  A pair of eyes peered over the top of a mask and just fixed on me.  Maybe I said it wrong so repeated in English “See you tomorrow”.

Mary, not sure it is her real name but close enough for me, turned and fled into the next room, only to be quickly followed out by an English speaking student nurse.  “Aren’t you staying for the party, they are having dinner to celebrate Women’s Day?”  Oh bugger, why didn’t they tell me, well they did, but not when they were having the party and Women’s Day is 2 days away. I had friends coming over for Wooly Grier’s Knitting Night (that is another story) and had to clean the apartment and get ready. So I made my apologies and trudged out of the ward, feeling rather guilty.

Women’s Day is a big thing in Soviet countries. It is sort of like Mother’s Day but you don’t have to have had kids. Your male friends/partner is supposed to smother you with gifts and affection (are you reading this fellas), florists do a roaring trade and womanhood is celebrated. Wonder what Germaine Greer would have thought. But the best thing is….it is a public holiday.

So this morning, to make amends, I bought a pretty pink heart shaped cake with a pink 8 on top (Women’s Day is the 8th of March, score that date into your memory bank guys). We all sat around the table in the staff room and discovered the pink cake was chocolate on the inside. Everyone politely had a slice, served up in anything, cups, bowl or plates. When finished, those lucky enough to have a bowl or cup took my used tea bag and poured hot water on top, sort of doing the dishes and having a drink at the same time. My dear old mum would have been happy to see the tea bag wasn’t being wasted but did 4 cups, really a bit like dish water by the 4th.

I felt pretty good, I had made up for the mistake of the day before, took some photos and everyone was smiling. Then one of the doctors stood, said something to me in Mongolian and beckoned for me to follow. Not wanting to blot my copybook again, I did as requested. A quick stop in the corridor for a two minute consultation with a patient and we headed down stairs.

In the main foyer, a crowd had gathered, but that wasn’t unusual. This area is where patients present to register and get their appointments. Monday mornings in particular are frantic. Patients are allocated an appointment time and from what I understand, it can be any time that day or the following days. They may have to go away and come back, I think a big ask of those who have travelled from the countryside. From there they go to the room where they will see the doctor, just standing around because there are only a few chairs, till it is their turn.

Behind the throng of people at the desks in the main foyer were tables set up in a cleared area. About 6 nurses from our ward sat at two of the tables, taking blood pressures. Don’t know who was doing the blood pressures on the ward. Another table was covered with brochures, I spotted the one I have designed for care givers. In broken English I was told this was Open Day., where they advertise for the ward. Didn’t think Palliative Care needs advertising, but then again I guess it is a new concept here.

A few months ago I had talked with one of the ward doctors about having information leaflets for the patients and families, to educate them a bit about health issues etc and was told that they did have them, but didn’t display them in the rack where patients and care givers have access, because they take them. Mmmmm

But the frenzy that was generated at the table with all this information supports my theory that there is a lack of health education in this country. There was a real crowd crush as they scrambled to reach brochures that I think were related to healthy diet, signs of different cancers and lifestyle causes. There were some on different drugs, like the ones put out by pharmaceutical companies for doctors, not sure how much good they would be, but they were free and just as popular. One good thing the Russians did here was promote great literacy skills, so I just hope that all of the information is read before it is used to start the fire in the ger.

One of our ward doctors sat at the table with me, people would come up with their medical record. Everyone keeps their own medical records here, nothing is kept at the hospital or doctors surgery. So when you go to the doctor, regardless of where, you have your health history with you. It is surprisingly compact, and efficient if seeing different doctors all over the place. So, with presentation of the medical records, Dr M was doing mini consultations, listing suggested medications for treatment which they could buy over the counter at the pharmacy, all within the throng of those grabbing brochures. I had to suppress the giggles when one of the security guards came up and started adjusting his trousers to show off his swollen legs. No such thing as privacy here.

On another table were samples for the tasting. The ward makes its own laxative, a mix of dried fruits, oil and water. This was being spread on morsels of bread for sampling. Fortunately not as popular as the brochures, but still finger licking good and drawing a crowd.  

I wandered around in my white coat and was stopped by a guy who presented his health record to me along with a sheaf of urine and blood results. Obviously the white coat indicated that I knew what I was doing, rather than being part of the costume that had been enforced when I first arrived. I tried to tell him in Mongolian that I really don’t speak the language, gave up and said it in English. Then he spotted my phone with which I had been taking photos, and insisted that I record our meeting for prosperity. I turned it around to show him the product and he was more than pleased with the photo, said something in Mongolian and that was that.

On the big screen TV that is encased behind glass was the promotional video showcasing the surgical unit, a bit of “theatre” to entertain (That was a bad joke wasn’t it?) A few sat on the old fold up wooden chairs, like those old ones you see in country cinemas, taking in the movie of someone’s operation, mammogram and blood taking. But all good education in a country where statistics say that if you are diagnosed with cancer, the average life expectancy after diagnosis is about a year. 

There is a lot of cancer that reflects the lifestyle of the country, fatty meat and dairy eaters who drink vodka and smoke equates to liver, lung and gastric cancers. Ovarian cancer is predominant in the women. The hospital screens all staff once a year with ultrasounds, x-rays and blood testing and a few weeks ago one of the doctors was getting her own treatment. Hepatitis is common among health professionals. I have gotten over the shock of walking into the staff room and seeing one of the staff with an IV line in getting a top up of something. I have seen the proven hangover treatment of a few litres of saline run into a person who is recovering under a doona in the seclusion of the doctor’s office. I guess with such acceptance of sticking needles into veins at the drop of a hat, it is no wonder that infections are so predominant. During winter small bottles of Vit C syrup are a big seller at the supermarket checkout and most of the ladies I work with seem to be big into vitamins.

So, the excitement in the foyer eventually died down and the crowd thinned. All the brochures were gone, well most of them, so there was nothing much to pack up but the cute black sheep scales and the left over laxative. Wonder what is for afternoon tea.