Dund Govi (as in the desert)

Again, I am hesitating to post more reflections because my limited time does not do them justice. The last two weeks have been overwhelming – the type of overwhelming that lights your heart on fire and pushes you on.

It started with my trip to the Gobi. I lived with a famous long-song singer. I learned a morin khuur (horse headed fiddle) song from him called “The Weeping Camel.” It’s played in patterns of three (resembling the camel’s gate), rather than in fours, which models the footsteps of a horse. Why is this distinction significant? Camels are king in the gobi, almost beating out the horse in importance to the survival of the herders who raise animals in the desert. Camels are also more surreal in the snow than they are in the sand. As I moved in, so did the snow that literally changed the entire feel of the area.

And it was cold. The kind of cold that took my breath away when I opened the door. The kind of cold that laughed at the small stove in the ger. The kind of cold that made you appreciate the glory of indoor plumbing at a whole new level…as you walked outside to use the “natural toilet” as my translator called it.

Yes, I learned the workings of “anthropological fieldwork,” arranging my own driver, accommodations, translator, even gas purchasing. At times I truly felt as though I were a ‘real’ anthropologist. Especially when I dipped into the gendered nature of my research: how women resist or participate in celebrating Mongolian culture through the promotion of the morin khuur (yes, I know that does not really make sense, but no worries, I’ll post my 40 page paper that explains it all…and then some).

I learned to talk to these women. More importantly, I got them to talk back.

They seemed to laugh when I said I wanted to speak with them at some point. They even left the room when the men began to talk. But as the smells of a large meal started to enter the room, I realized it was my chance to talk to the women, alone.
“I have been here for three months,” I said as my introduction when I entered the kitchen, “and I still cannot fold those things,” referring to the dumplings they were making. The next 20 minutes was spent with women fussing over me, laughing at me, using their best teaching techniques to no avail. Finally, the oldest daughter said, “She can play the morin khuur, but she can’t fold dumplings!”

The door was opened, and I was in. Finally.

And man, did they have a lot to say.