#Covid-19 travel

[allthecanadianpolitics]

The U.S. is ending its COVID-19 vaccine requirements for international air travellers and Canadians at the border as of next week, officials announced on Monday.

By the end of the day on May 11, international air travellers, federal employees and federal contractors will no longer need to show proof of COVID-19 vaccination, the White House said in a statement Monday

[...]

The statement added that the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, along with the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, will also “start the process to end their vaccination requirements for ... certain noncitizens at the land border."

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Tagging: @politicsofcanada

#cdnpoli #uspoli #canada #united states #travel #border #border crossing #canada/us border #us/canada border #coronavirus #COVID-19 #vaccine mandates #coronavirus vaccine #COVID-19 vaccine

[wanderingthedesertalone]

Corona Alone a Diary Revisited: An American’s Experience of the Covid Lockdown in Mumbai 

Lockdown In Retrospect

Mediocre Graces: In any case, by the end of the Pandemic, I had somewhat been restored to good graces, not that I was ever greeted in Anand Nagar(8) at least with the Atithi Devo Bhava(11) spirit, I got on the good side of the local gang and befriended a Muslim woman who sells fish in a roadside stall, but it was too late, lonesomeness and faithlessness in humanity had grabbed a hold of me. Sadly, I am no longer able to speak to the fish merchant. She married, her husband is conservative and doesn’t allow her to speak to men.

On Lonesomeness: It’s worth noting that many endured the Corona epidemic in complete isolation. According to The Wall Street Journal, 35.7 million Americans, including myself, lived alone (Byron) around the time of writing the first journal entry. However, not just did I live alone, I was an expat, I lived alone in Mumbai, India. Regardless of the negative stigma that goes along with living alone, solitude never bothered me, in fact, ever since I was divorced, in 2012, I’ve preferred to be alone. Besides, I could always grab a cup of coffee and talk to strangers, I have the gift of gab when needed, but the double-whammy of isolation and becoming a pariah had pushed me to the brink of insanity. I’ve come to believe that those things that don’t kill us make us weaker and since the Covid outbreak I’ve become impatient, nervous and have lost faith in humanity, as I’ve already said.

Too Much Fluff: In all, the NPR article is woefully misguided and simply tried to make a buck off of Covid lockdowns, like so many other news outlets were doing at the time. A better story would’ve been on those who live alone before the Pandemic, whether for reason of mental health, a willful solitude or social ineptitude, that chronicled each persons’ descent into madness; I despise fluff journalism, maybe because it reminds me of the way that Bollywood paints India as an endless serene landscape of humorous follies in love that can easily be overcome when it’s something else all together, not easily, or that I would like to, put into words. This isn’t just fluff, there’s comedy for sure, there’s humor in all tragedy but there’s a reason for sharing the gritty details of lockdown in India, I feel it’s important to share these stories lest we live them again! In the past year, I’ve filled 6 volumes with recollections of lockdown, I hoped to get them published by a newspaper, that failed.

Diary Excerpts and Commentary

A Note to the Reader: The following excerpts are from the journal of an expat living in Mumbai (recorded between Feb 2019 and Feb 2021), during Covid lockdown(1). Dates have been replaced with titles because, unless indicated in commentary or prose, they’re irrelevant:

It Begins: There’s a few cases of Covid in China and other places but I’m not too worried, this will have as much effect on me as the 2003 SARS outbreak(6), there’ve been many such scares in my lifetime. Besides, I caught the virus from a wedding party in Sri Lanka, it was like the Flu, high fever, mild delirium and a little trouble breathing. Interesting thing about Sri Lanka, all of the land and wealth seems to be in the hands’ of the Nords, the locals have very little and the price of food is like that of America or Europe. Also, airport authorities took a child’s Queen Conch shell away right before boarding, she was clearly enamored by her seemingly magical wave machine. After they took it from her, she cried all the way back to Mumbai.

The Flasher: A few Covid cases have been confirmed and I’m beginning to feel like an unwelcome guest in a foreign land, an unusual notion in a land where the locals say “Atithi Devo Bhava(11).” Typically, Indians are hospitable, on my travels to the South they were, of course, taxi drivers tried to scam me there, but cabbies the world over are a special breed of scum, you should’ve seen the way they took me to the wringer in Hong Kong, hospitality is a source of national pride here. This afternoon, there was a knock on the door, it was my landlord. I found myself baffled by what he said. I opened the door and he began to speak, timidly and slowly in broken English: “there’s been a complaint,” he said. “What’s wrong?” “A man is walking around outside naked.” “Oh, I see. Thanks for informing me,” I said and shut the door, believing that he was telling me of a dangerous predator lurking among this slum’s numerous tightly knit alleys at night. Later, I came to find that the landlord was attempting to tell me that the neighbors had accused me of going on moonlit strolls in the buff, I was the predator. I was shocked and enraged when I found that I was, according to gossip, a flasher, but consoled myself by telling myself that none of this is the landlord’s fault, he just wants to prevent other tenants from rioting. People are scared and looking to point a finger at an invisible assailant. This will be forgotten quickly and my name restored, I guess it’s not contradictory to be both hospitable and two-faced. Why do I care about my reputation in a slum? I don’t want any trouble.

Last Days of Freedom: Worry has set in, even chain restaurants no longer accept cash, not from me at least, I tried to buy something to eat with good ol’ paper money at McDonald’s and they refused to serve me. Worse luck, as the Chinese say. I’m working on a project here and I’m paid in cash, so credit isn’t something I have access to. This doesn’t just affect me, a large portion of the population is paid, untaxed of course, in cash and most likely doesn’t have a bank account. Also, everywhere I go my temperature is taken.

Days of Optimism: Lockdown began, I went to get groceries for the 2 days that we are told we must shelter in place and plan to go to bed early. There was hoarding and ransacking of shelves at the local grocer, but I’m sure that it’s just hysteria and this whole thing will end soon. Another interesting thing happened at the store today, two women got in a fight over the last box of cookies, the first woman, a pudgy mother with a bad attitude towards everyone that I had had the bad luck of having a few encounters with before, used to admonish me saying “smoking is a bad addiction,” I wagged my finger and said “sugar is a bad addiction,” laughing my way out of the store. It was the first time I’ve laughed in days, I’ve been in a daze, everything is quickly changing and feels so dire. The fowl woman, she lost the battle and the box of cookies. A word about change, I’m often told that nothing changes in this little hamlet and I believe it. It’s hyperbole, things change here, but slowly, there’s digital gadgets for sale, but there are also oxcarts that sell food and other remnants of the past. It’s not that nothing changes, It’s that time seems to go by slower here, like the locals heartbeat at a slower pace. I always feel rushed but they take as much time as the seasons.

Two Days In: The two days passed, but lockdown continues, the food I bought didn’t last. Even worse, I wasn’t informed that lockdown part 2 had begun without the first installment ending, I slept through the grocery shopping time, 6AM. I snuck out for an evening walk despite lockdown, 2 interesting things happened on my covert walk, I saw many others outside as well, they all spoke of the cow that wandered into the open air temple that’s adjacent to my apartment complex, some are feeding here, even the Muslims, having taken up many of the folk traditions of the Hindus they live among, agree that a sickly heifer wandering into the temple is a good omen, the other interesting thing, The Green Eyed Lady (an Indian with green eyes) made me some Khichdi(24). There were also Chinese in Haiden, Beijing, a district home to many Russians, who have green eyes. Isn’t genetic splendid? In any case, the woman asked me if I had eaten, usually more of a salutation than invitation here, I said “no,” so she brought me a bite to eat. The food supposedly heals the sick.

Big Changes in a Little Town: Since implementation of the Janata(5) Curfew, many continue to sit along alleys in large groups or participate in sports, not wearing masks(4). Yet, as I walk enroute to purchase groceries, these intrepid individuals say “here comes Corona” and cover their faces with their dupatta(7) or a handkerchief. This change of attitude towards me is, although slight, I’ve always had my fans and detractors here, is palpable. Maybe it’s just my nerves. Before lockdown, I sometimes played Teen Patti(19) with neighbors at least, never understood the rules though. Anyway, the shelter-in-place decree will be lifted on Passover, this must be a good omen, not that I sincerely believe in such things, I think to myself and reiterate my resolution to weather the storm in Mumbai. One concern about the transmission of Covid, Indians don’t have a sense of proximity, they always crowd.

One Good Deed: The endless bad news has left me exhausted. A few thoughts before bed, having lived in other parts of Asia and meeting many people from Europe, India is like America in one way, heterogeneity. It’s a type of melting pot, not a melting pot of strangers from far off lands but a mixture of old kingdoms, who have their own languages and cultures, forced under one, possibly too small, umbrella. Adding it up, Indian society, due to its long history, caste system and numerous religions is exceedingly complex, for example Muslims created the first free public institutes of higher learning, yet in some regards they’re treated like would-be separatists (Khurshid). Thinking about the day’s event, I sit on the small broken cot that’s my bed, I have to get this fixed soon, it’s interesting, the cost of handwork is very cheap here, in the US, anything that artisan might do is expensive and it’s more cost effective just to throw the old away. I’m reminded of this Chinese woman I met in Beijing, she told me “I’m not Han(23).” “Interesting, which ethnic group do you belong to?” “I’m Miao.” “Is there anything unique about the Miao?” “We don’t eat dogs. All Chinese people are the same, we are one people, the only difference between Han and Miao is that we don’t eat dogs.” I was teaching adult English at the time for extra income. India is more like America than China or Europe, diversity is endless.

Anand Nagar Has a New Song: The decree wasn’t lifted. Another day, thousands more Covid cases and locals have begun to shout “go home Corona!” Despite the taunts, I’m staying where I am. I don’t have much of a choice, there aren’t any flights anyway, the airports, in a panic, have shut down, everything, with a mere 2 day warning, has come to a grinding halt. I guess this isn’t merely more sensational media. Besides, the situation is becoming bleaker in the US and airports are havens for communicable diseases, they pack people in, from all over the world, like sardines. Have you ever seen the projected distribution of an epidemic? It all starts with airports. Resolute that this virus will blow over, I buckle down for the Summer of Corona in India.

Foreigners Have it Too: Nothing good has come from lockdowns so far, it has fostered hysteria, mob mentality, greed and anti-foreigner sentiment. This “City of Dreams,” has become a nightmare! The nation has fallen into the clutches of fear of contracting the virus from a foreign national. Hysteria, I tell you! I only hope that this all ends soon. Despite an anti-foreigner hysteria, according to The World Health Organization there are a total of 1637 people infected by Covid-19, a mere 49 of which are aliens(3) (The WHO). Yet, the locals blame it all on Tablighi Jamaat(13)(BBC), why not? Trump is calling this outbreak “The China Virus.” The borders have closed, looks like I’m staying here for a while, I didn’t plan on leaving anyway. Besides, there’s talk of easing restrictions. Back to the human condition, I had always been considered an outsider here, I had always been greeted with mocking and mistrust, to some degree, but there were those who accepted me. The first day I arrived the children called me names and adults mimicked the way I speak with derisive tones and gestures, I guess imitation is the highest form of flattery? I despise epigrams, I really do.

Nostalgia for Slightly Better Days: Before lockdown, there was a woman with a fish tattoo on her arm who often invited me to play cards but I shied away from her after neighbors had told me that she “accuses people of rape to blackmail them for money.” I don’t usually listen to gossip but wanted to play it safe. Other than that, I was at least invited to weddings, funerals and dances during the Graba(22) celebration. Funny story, the first year I refused to dance, a man jokingly told me that if I dance with a girl I have to marry her. I didn’t actually believe him, I’m not that gullible, I’m just not fond of Indian music. Back to the present, it’s not the time for nostalgia, although I can’t think of a better pastime right now, maybe if foreigners in India practice social distancing, unlike the locals, they won’t catch the virus and the stigma will dissolve. The other night I went for a walk just to break the monotony of watching time go by and hoping the world would heal. This morning, I was again accused of perverse behaviors by my landlord. I wasn't walking the alleyways naked, but I am being watched. On the walk, locals barred the alley and told me “no foreigners allowed.” Yet, they daily gather to play Cricket while sentinels watch for cops so that they can quickly disperse.

There’ Gestapos In This Movie Too: I guess I should mention something good too. Lockdown has caused a sort of hush here and now daily I can hear the sound of an infant being bathed through the one tiny window my studio apartment has. Through the 4 foot square aperture I can hear the infant laughing as warm water rushes over it. I now hope that things will return to the way they were before, just subpar not “holy crap the world is on fire and we are all going to die!” A combination of police and concerned citizens, working with the police, now stand along the main road with bamboo canes in hand. They remind me of stories my grandfather told of the Gestapo. Both are poised for violence. The police, they resound the sentiment of the concerned citizens, ridicule the foreigner. Now, I usually get an escort, something that is only afforded to me, to stop “roaming” as I go to get essentials. There are now dots painted on the sidewalk, we are supposed to stand on them to ensure social distancing, the locals don’t obey this. If I do the same, I’m informed, thwack would go the cane. I’ve begun to see in black and white, not metaphorically but literally, I feel as though I’m watching a movie about a distant authoritarian time. The brutalist architecture(24) is reminiscent of Russia and North Korea, it doesn’t take much imagination for the arabesque attributes to obscure. I haven’t slept much.

Building a Wall: This hamlet is bluffed by a river by a river on one side with a small foot bridge for crossing into Neilam Nagar. The police have blockaded the entrance to the crossing and are building a wall to, I believe, keep the several hundred thousand impoverished residence of this hamlet trapped like mice on a sinking ship. I truly fear the wall, perhaps it’s because of my education, having been forced to read the line ‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall(20),’ throughout school, it’s almost a national anthem. Walls and golf courses have always seemed as despicable things to me. Neither the rich nor the influential politicians are suffering the same as we are in the slums. They play golf in their gated communities…

The First Stone Tossed: As the situation in India worsens, so do the jeering. Now, a few individuals throw rocks at me, a tactic usually reserved for thwarting the region’s menacing wild dogs, as I venture into the ever more dangerous streets at the permitted time, 6AM, to get essentials, in an attempt to diffuse their frustrations over the region’s spreading epidemic. Yet, returning to the political quagmire that is America keeps me hopeful that sheltering in Mumbai will become easier. Rocks tossed or not, I’m staying in place. Oddly, despite not eating much, I’m gaining weight, it must be stress. Supplies have run thin, some are hoarding and there’s talk of a 2 week prohibition on supply trucks entering Anand Nagar.

Insomnia: Depression has set in and money has mostly ran out. Immediately before lockdown, I was given a promotion but as of yesterday, the company I worked for has permanently shut their doors. I’ve just now realized that I haven’t left my house, let alone gotten out of the broken cot for days. I look at the clock, it’s 5:50 AM, the allotted time for shopping. Getting groceries at dawn isn’t a matter of waking at dawn; I haven’t slept in days either, just sat on this cot watching time go by. Insomnia is starting to take a toll, I’m beginning to hallucinate, time has lost all meaning, at times days go by in minutes yet other times, minutes last for a small eternity. It has been days since I’ve had a face to face conversation with another human.

Home Invaders: Somewhat dazed, I sit on my bed contemplating the meaninglessness of time when there’s nothing to do. Jolted from my daydream-like state, there’s a pounding sound on the door. The sound is getting louder. I hear shouting. The words come into focus, “foreigner, we’re coming in! We’re breaking the door down,” says the unfamiliar voices. I spring to my feet and bolt the door. The pounding becomes more and more rapid and fear takes a hold of me. But then I hear a familiar voice, the voice of my neighbor, she shouts something in Marathi and the marauders leave. I fall into a sleep and don’t wake for 2 days. Food was cut off for 2 weeks, I had to get a bite to eat from the Hanuman Mandir(18). They handed out plates of rice and lentils.

Vigilantes: Days go by and panic worsens among residents of this Mumbai chawl(8). Due to rising fears, vigilantes begin to safeguard the streets from “roaming.” These sentinels attempt to impose restrictions of their own device on me: they inform me that I am not permitted to walk along certain roads because they are afraid that I carry the virus, this happened once before on a late night walk but now it’s the norm, although I’m merely in search of a store to buy necessities and wearing a mask. In the end, these vigilantes won’t cause a reduction in hanging out on the street, this I know, but a few of this slum’s inhabitants get to feel empowered because they are the new sheriff in town. I guess we all need a whipping-post and there’s good among the wicked, a local temple and a few individuals are handing out grains to the needy. We are all needy here. At this point, the lockdown has gone on for months.

The New sheriffs in Town: Currently, there’s two police along Mumbai’s backstreets, those who were given authority by the Mumbai Municipal Corporation (MNC) and vigilantes. Feeling harassed and completely rejected by society, loneliness takes hold of me, I begin to search for a way out of this “city of dreams,” maybe returning home while a buffoonish leader (Trump) who makes a mockery of the US isn’t so bad, I think to myself. All things considered, it’s nearly impossible to abide by laws set by both the government and a hysteric mob anyway.

No Payment Until April: At least I have a roof over my head, I think to myself, an article in Aljazeera, Foreign Tourists Face Hostility in India Amid Coronavirus Panic informs that an Israeli woman was evicted from her home in Goa due to locals fear of contracting COVID-19 and others were forced out of their hotel (Purohit), I can go a day without milk, but not without a bed, not to mention, the police had recently found tourists living in a cave because they are trapped in India and have ran out of money (NBC). I haven’t yet been evicted, but am also out of funds and live under constant threat of eviction. Rent payment is suspended until April (Delhi High Court). I lay on my broken cot, I will try to get it fixed on the black market, and continue to doom-scroll taking note of the day’s death tally and searching for any sign of things getting better. Passover has passed but Covid hasn’t.

Nobody Goes Home for That Price: I do some research and come to find that the US Department of State is offering “repatriation flights,” these flights carry a $2000 price tag (a promissory note for the aforementioned amount must be signed before boarding the plane) and a random port of arrival is where I’ll end up if I choose to return home through the ever so benevolent government, how can anyone pay this price during a Pandemic (this thing has been upgraded to a Pandemic, how lovely words are). Upon arriving at this port, the returning expat must find their way home through barricades and the threat of being infected by Corona (Genter). I harden my heart and again resolve to weather the storm in Mumbai. Besides, if the promissory note isn’t paid, I will be banned from international travel. I’m a Digital Nomad. I travel, work at an incredibly low rate and can only afford to survive in developing countries.

August’s Heat: The death toll jets upward and 75 degree angle, it’s updated daily. While bombarded with an endless stream of bad news, jeering has morphed into threats of violence, sleep is still a rare occurrence, heat rash has caused the parts of my body covered by clothing to become as freckled as Little Orphan Annie, I’m as poor to boot, my field of vision is filled sprawling geometric patterns and my temper is quick.

Worse Than the Daughters of Temperance: As the situation thickens, stores begin to deny me service. A shopkeeper refuses to sell me certain items that are in stock and we aren’t barred from sale, I have just been informed that liquor and tobacco have become contraband. The more than nagging need to satiate addictions during lockdown aside, this proprietor allows Indian nationals to purchase products, but denies me the same goods. He’d have me starve to death! I, like all outsiders, have become the face of a faceless virus that has ruined lives, in fact “Muslims were initially blamed for the spread of infection (Siddiqui),” a group that is no less a part of India than Sikhs(10), yet, like Jews anywhere in the world, are perpetual outsiders. All things considered, this is mass hysteria! Nobody I know has died from Covid yet. A sampling error? Perhaps. Nonetheless, I sit in my room without a breeze (I don’t have A/C) and ponder what society has come to, Freud’s mob mentality.

They’re Trying to Starve Me Out: That shopkeeper has changed his mind, I returned to him to buy groceries but he yelled “go away foreigner white face.” He then insisted that a clerk not give me an old box, although I was carrying a heavy load and had no tote. The hypocrisy of people here is an in the face classism, a rule for me and a rule for them. The Covid cases are increasing exponentially! So are my headaches. They’re not headaches as much as a feeling that every nerve ending in my body is being prodded with a needle and the inside of my brain shrinking. Now, I sit at home alone, the rats scurry across the floor, the heat comes in waves, time stands still and there’s nothing to laugh about, Covid cases are in the hundred thousands and the death toll is staggering as well.

Befriending the Gang: August’s heat, insomnia, constant dread and lack of nutrition are getting to me, I don’t know how much longer I can go on. Even local pharmacists have begun to convey a fear of me and insist that I have a cough when I go in to ask for something for heat rash. Unlike the grocers, the pharmacists sell me goods, but with great hesitation and suspicion in regards to my presence in this chawl. Finding tobacco is now the chief task of every day. It’s sold on the black market, along with chocolate, alcohol and meat, at exorbitant prices. So, like a heroin addict, I slink up to a back alley leant-to and buy a pack of smokes. It’s just like buying illicit drugs: there’s an obligatory period of making small-talk, ambiguity over whether or not the man actually has tobacco, razzing, phone calls and scurrying about to find it. In the end, I walk away with cigarettes at European prices and a dirty feeling.

Suicide Among Death: Lockdown continues and most in this chawl have lost morale. The neighbor sent her son over to tinker on my electric piano. She told me of what has been dubbed The Flower House Girl. A young woman hung herself from rafters due to endless confinement to her home and the bleak picture of tomorrow that the daily news paints. What a shame! I had wondered what the fire department was doing on the main street. They took her out of the third story window with the truck’s ladder.

Another Year Another Onion: Did I mention it’s a New Year? I didn’t even notice that the year had changed, the date passed unceremoniously and with festivities. Again, the police have rebuilt the wall that surrounds this chawl, tightening the perimeter, I’m not sure if it’s to keep Covid out or us in. In any case, food has scarcely made it through the makeshift wall and news is that food supplies will be cut off for 2 weeks, again. In any case, that which makes it in is mostly sequestered by the gangs, anyhow. It’s that I’ve got the most onions mentality(12). Despite rarely eating, I continue to gain weight. Speaking of onions, there are now over nine million confirmed Covid cases and farmers are protesting the price gouging of seeds, stating that “We are the ones who have provided food, milk, vegetables when the whole country was in lockdown, we were still toiling in the fields. It is the government” not gathering in New Delhi “that has put us at risk by introducing these laws during Covid (Hollingsworth et al).” My heart is with these brave men and women and if I had the strength I would be beside them. All things considered, despite the news and friends’ proclamations that a new year brings new hope, this may be an onion of a year too.

The Walls Close In: Yet again, the police have reduced the circumference of the wall. I feel claustrophobic or like I’m slowly, very slowly drowning. I go to bed, but sleep doesn’t come. I hear the rats fight over the last morsels of food in this chawl, when I wake, there’s inevitably a rodent corpse on the footpath in the ally that leads to my house. Food has been cut off for 2 weeks. I gave the last of my supplies to a family, in total it amounted to a pound of rice and a pound of lentils. Now, the cot is less of a fishing net with big holes and more of an empty frame. I lay on the floor instead, will I be able to get somebody to fix it, I don’t know. I have to get my family to send money first.

An Altercation: We are now allowed an evening walk, so I venture out to the usual chants, a ragtag team of would-be thugs follow me. A wave of exhaustion washes over me and my pace slows to a crawl in front of the BJP(14) Office. As I cross in front of the office, beneath the flag, a scrawny slum-bastard walk up and says “are you British?” “I’m American,” I reply. “I hear they call you Hari(15).” I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he speaks. “What of it?” “More like Harry Potter.” “I guess that’s funny,” I say and try to walk away, but he grabs me by the collar and takes a swing, he misses. I return the blow, my fist makes contact with his face. My heart is racing. I fear an all out retaliation when, like roaches from beneath rot-wood, members of the local gang emerge from the alleys and come to my aid. I had been buying tobacco from them, at highway robbery prices for weeks, and so it’s in their interest to act as my vigilante guardians, in some regards, the gangs are better than the police, or at least their corruption and self service is laid out on the table for all to see, where the cops are supposed to protect and serve, protecting and serving often isn’t the case here, it comes down to ethnic and caste schisms.

Two Deaths and a Ghost: It’s another day and the death toll has spiked again. Feeling that I escaped death and death being the only thing the news reports on I begin to wonder, had I been killed by a mob, would my death have been reported as a Covid death? Is the death toll real? There’s a little hospital in this chawl, it’s certainly not inundated with the dying and morticians don’t walk the streets singing “bring out your dead,” as they did during the Black Plague of 1665. In fact, of the 3 who purportedly died in Anand Nagar, one was an elderly with Emphysema, the other was a suicide and the last one, I saw him walking down the street the other day, risen from the grave as by some Covid era miracle. Truth be told, he had gone back to his family home and returned. Not an easy task, much like during the Holocaust, traveling papers are required to go anywhere, there’s not even any trains, minus a few for displaced workers. A combination of lack of food, a growing mistrust of the government’s intention with regards to lockdown and dire times brings these lyrics to mind: My wife fixed up a tater stew/ We poured the kids full of it/ Mighty thin stew, though/ You could read a magazine right through it. Always have figured/ That if it’d been just a little bit thinner, Some of these here politicians/ Coulda seen through it(21).

Are the politicians duped or am I? What about herd immunity? I feel like I’m living in the Dust Bowl, except there’s no storm of dust and the sky isn’t black. The enemy is invisible. Or, am I the enemy? So much for relativism.

Police and Indians: On another outing, again attempting to purchase essentials, those things that whether for sustenance or pleasure, an invisible hand has decided that I may indulge in, I find that even local authorities seem misinformed about the number of foreign nationals in India with Covid. Recently, police stopped me for questioning and informed me that “foreigners are the cause of Corona Virus.” After looking for a quarantine stamp on my hands several times and not finding one they insisted that I run back home and followed me on motorcycles. This was witnessed by several locals who cheered the police on. As the police resounded sentiments of this chawl’s inhabitants, it reinforced negative feelings. I didn’t eat that night. The days following the police harassment, locals continued jeering me by saying “the police will come and hit you,” while mimicking the thwack of a cane on their posterior. Not just are they misinformed, they’d like to see me hung.

Read the Sign: In case you feel incredulous in regards to my claims about placing a stamp on the hands of foreigners and the police’s blindingly Orwellian allegiance to the BJP, the party who blamed Covid on Muslims and foreigners, The National Library of Medicine has this to say about it: tourists who arrived in India from affected countries were put in quarantine for 14 days in their port of arrival, their “left hand was stamped with ink” to maintain the date and time of their home quarantine, “a move that could risk assault, due to stigma towards Covid suspects [foreigners].” Individuals violating the quarantine can be penalized via Indian penal code Section 188, 269 and 270 (Siddiqui). The police, like the locals, are looking for a whipping-post and have a draconian view about foreign nationals in India during this crisis, what a hoot it would be to cane them. Bollywood is no “City of Dreams,” in fact, misinformation abounds here, signs, obviously posted by Conservative and nationalistic Hindu Vegans, reads as so: ‘Ways to avoid Covid/ Don’t eat meat/ Don’t smoke/ Don’t talk to foreigners.’ I no longer see the good that I jotted down in an earlier journal entry. Also, tired of the word “misinformation,” not sure who gets to decide what’s misinformation, although I myself used it in this entry, just tired: days crawl by and the feeling of isolation causes a pressure on my cranium and a meaninglessness to all things.

Mending a Bed: Despite having become a pariah, I was able to get the cot fixed, for a small fee, a tailor was willing to come over, and work against the law, they despise me, but like money enough to look past it. The work doesn’t look great, it’s rigged. Most everything here is rigged. I’m never sure if this is the ingenuity of a race of impoverished people or the result of an attitude that declares good enough is good. In the end, most everything is a hodgepodge of corrugated steel, broken bits of wood and rope with exposed electrical wires that run through water and the elements in general. I’ve always said, if the manpower here became a collected force and decided to stop pollution, get the rivers clean, enforce something like an ADA, demand fair housing they would be an unstoppable force. Instead, they divide themselves along ethnic schisms.

A Pickpocket: Food has returned to the stores and shopkeepers are serving me, but I was pickpocketed at the register. I took my wallet out to pay, right before my eyes a man reached in my wallet and took a 500 out, it was the last of the money I had. I came home empty handed. For the first time since my divorce, I broke down and cried. Now I sit wiping my eyes. Is all hope for humanity lost? I cannot answer. Besides Covid, there’s so much political turmoil! It looks as though there won’t be a smooth transition of power this time.

What I’ve Learned From the Steppenwolf: I’m concerned for the nation’s migrant workers, other visiting foreign nationals and those who descend from Mizoram and Assam, these individuals may be more prone to the psychological effects of loneliness than myself. Culturally, Indian life centers around an extended family, whereas I’m more akin to Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf. All in all, it’s tough to live overseas in the best case scenario and down-right depressing when you’ve become public enemy number one. But, as I said, I have a tough enough skin to survive this, but there are those who’ve been cannibalized by their own society. Anyway, lockdown should end in 3 weeks, the infection rate is on the decline. We are now aloud out in the evenings and I have taken to sitting with friends in front of the Rukhmini(16) Temple. It’s like the opening line of a joke, a Jew, a Muslim and a Hindu… Among us, there’s a Muslim, a Jew, a Christian and a Hindu priest. All in all, I need them not, but it’s nice to have some companionship, even if there’s little communication. I have returned to good graces.

Family Matters: Although I feel alone, I’m not jealous of India’s family structure. Locals often ask me about my family, casual things like “how is your mother?” “I don’t know. I don’t keep in touch with my family very much,” I respond. It’s a matter of privacy and staying out of gossip. Here, grown men never grow up, they are fed and coddled by their mothers. I had recently met a man who can’t cook for himself, nor wash his own clothes and still occasionally sleeps in bed with his mother. Speaking of men, spouse abuse, along with drinking, is on the rise. It’s not uncommon to see and hear it. Too often, after dark, I witness, when I sneak out for a walk to break the munatiny, men hitting women by the open air temple that my house is adjacent to. Speaking of temples, Hanukkah recently passed. I lit a makeshift menorah, but even that gave me little joy. As for now, the best thing is drinking chai by the little Rukmini temple.

Down With the Wall: The wall has come down! Lockdown isn’t over, but the wall has come down. Alas, air travel has returned, the government has announced “air bubbles” and I’m returning to America. After everything, I was never again treated as more than a second-class citizen in that chawl but it matters not, I’m leaving! In the end, the locals’ reaction to me and the psychological impact of the loneliness, their words and actions heave upon me, have caused deep scars. On a more disappointing note, all local newspapers have declined to publish my recollections of lockdown. An earnest question, were we fed false dichotomies, ones that stated wear a mask or everyone dies and get the vaccine or everyone dies, just for some political experiment or agenda? It’s just odd that after the farmers protested the Covid number began to decrease.

Integrity Intact

No Amnesty for the Wicked: One might say, you’ve survived the worst, why bring this up at all? Isn’t it time for amnesty? I feel the answers to this was best put into words in the video Pandemic Amnesty: Do you Forgive and Forget and so I will summarize what the author said, “there were things that happened that there needs to be a recognition of, and there needs to be a public apology. There needs to be a promise that this never happens again. There needs to be people who actually pay for their behavior, potentially criminal behavior. […] Until the people who did harm admit that they did harm this kind of thing will just keep repeating itself. […] Some people were victims, other people were perpetrators, and then there [were] also enablers (Wand).” For instance, The Deccan Herald reports that there have been “attacks on people from India’s northeastern region […], suspecting them of being carriers of the virus.” Assaulting your own people is like cannibalism, that’s all there is to it! As it was written in the newspaper, apart from being called “Corona” or “Chinki(9)” India’s [Asiatic] people were spat on and forcibly quarantined, despite showing no Covid symptoms, all because of their looks and an ignorant fear that anyone who looks different are the root cause of the Pandemic. Also, they were denied entry into their apartment complexes, evicted, merely threatened with eviction or forced out of restaurants to make others comfortable and none wanted to share transport with them (Karmakar). Of all things, it’s not time for amnesty.

Ignorance isn’t an Excuse: There needs to be punishment for these wicked deeds! There’ll be no retribution for foreigners who suffered in India, but locals, those from minority communities, who had just days before lockdown been upstanding citizens, deserve retribution and possibly reparations. There those who died from the virus and those who died at the selfishness and ignorance of mankind, for those who died by the hand of man have this to say: “To forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time ( Elie Wiesel).” Ignorance, for good reason, has never been, nor shall it be an excuse for breaking laws and committing atrocities. The Atlantic is wrong in their assertion that we should just forgive and forget (Oster). Perhaps, in the name of healing, it’s time to forgive, but should never forget!

A Clear Conscience: During The Covid Outbreak, I may have lost my mind, found myself in complete isolation and on the brink of starvation at times, but at least I kept my dignity. I threw no stones and attempted to obey the laws, even those that actively brought hardship into my life. I defended myself when needed, I live by the adage “walk gently and carry a big stick.” As for the war of the ethnicities in India, I guess it’s none of my business, alone, I can’t defend the minorities. And in regards to retribution for the wicked, my hands are also tied. However, I won’t give amnesty, not in my heart. Forgetting and moving on, as Oster’s article suggests (Oster) is, to reiterate, akin to allowing the cycle to repeat again. In the end, my travels have provided me with armor to protect against cabin fever, I’ve endured hardships and loneliness in remote villages of Nepal and have been “the stranger” in the metropolitans of Hong Kong, Bangladesh… But there are those among the Indians whose identity and self-worth come from a tightly knit family and friend structure, many of which took their own lives due to isolation. Others starved to death because of lack of income and others died due to the rejection of medical services. Luckily, I was not immune to the effects of isolation, but well insulated from the threat of Corona by a chawl that exists off the radar and societies’ fear of foreigners, local inhabitants keep me at arm’s length and so, I didn’t catch the virus during lockdown.

Notes

1: The views herein are not the of WTDA but the author. At WTDA we publish a variety of news, depending on what we deem to be an interesting story at the moment.

2: At the time of writing, Covid hadn’t yet been declared a Pandemic.

3: Citation no longer available at The World Health Organization.

4: The author of this journal wants it to be known that they don’t, nor did they ever, believe that masks are/were an effective way of preventing Covid-19 but were forced to wear a face covering by Indian law. At the time, they obeyed the law.

5: Public.

6: Hyped media, having no real effect on the life of the author.

7: A long scarf worn by Indian women.

8: The Marathi word for neighbourhood which is colloquially used to denote a slum.

9: North Indian slang for India’s Asiatic population.

10: A religion that combines attributes of Islam and Hinduism and originated in India.

11: Guests are G-D.

12: In 2019, due to flooding, there was an onion shortage. An entrepreneur had been hoarding onions. At the time, not only did he declare that “onions are the new gold” he purportedly sold the onions for 3 times the market value. To the author, it serves as a symbol of the selfish psychological state that caused some of the worst aspects of Covid lockdown.

13: A 3 day Islamic spiritual event in India’s capital hosted by a 100 years Islamic Missionary Movement. Due to the cases reaching over 300 after the event, the meme was coined: China is the “producers” of the virus, and Muslims are the “distributors.”

14: A political party, of which Prime Minister Narendra Modi is the leader of. Every neighborhood has a BJP office.

15: A common male name in India and regional pronunciation of the Anglo name Harry.

16: The primary wife of the Hindu G-D Krishna.

17: The name of the slum in which the writer lived during lockdown.

18: A temple in the slum in which the foreigner lived during lockdown. The temple is dedicated to the monkey G-D, a deity who helped Rama in the Hindu epic, the Ramayana.

19: A poker-like card game in which the players make melds with three cards.

20: Mending Wall by Robert Frost.

21: Talkin’ Dust Bowl Blues by Woodie Guthrie.

22: A dance form native to the west Indian state of Gujarat, performed in October to honour the Hindu Goddess Durga. It is also celebrated in Maharashtra. People gather on the streets, dancing in pairs of men and women where they rhythmically click sticks together.

23: The largest ethnic group in mainland China, about 91% of the population.

24: A South Indian dish made of rice and lentils. It’s a comfort food that’s supposed to aid in healing.

25: Brutalist architecture emerged during the 1950s in the United Kingdom, among the reconstruction projects of the post-war era.These buildings characterised by minimalism and bare building materials. They are commonly seen today in old Soviet Union countries and Central Asia, reminding many of totalitarianism.

#lockdown #travelogue #Covid-19 #memoir #India #autobiography #travel #online diary #memories of Covid #Pande #coronavirus #pandemic #mumbai #maharashtra #expatliving #overseas #police #mob mentality

[ryukisgod]

#charmed #the truth is out there #memes #warlocks #you just know in the future there were people who were like we don’t need the vaccine #and people who think warlocks are just a conspiracy #and people who think they can defeat warlocks with herbs and clean eating #Gavin #season 1 #anti vaxxers #meme #Covid 19 #television #fantasy #witches #coronavirus #time travel #s01e08

[memorylang]

Hallowe’en and Mongolian Proficiency | #64 | November 2022

In this entry, I pick up with November 2O22’s beginning, from what was the start of my new Peace Corps assignment to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. 

Chronologically, this takes place from the start of my third and fourth weeks back in Mongolia. As part of my current Peace Corps continuum, I spent those weeks in the remainder of my reeducation. Capping that off would be my Language Proficiency Interview, in which a rater would formally assess my Mongolian language level. I also spent these weeks becoming first acquainted with the city's municipal department of education and a handful of local non-profit organizations. 

I’ve still felt especially grateful to St. Joseph’s Day, Mar. 19, 2O23, during which I made serious progress on this piece, while a dear friend was simultaneously taking care of tasks. Now from November 2O23, we at last revisit November 2O22! 

At the Education Department

I felt surprised on my first day at work, Mon., Oct. 31, 2O22, with my main counterpart taking me to meet some 45 coworkers across our department’s, at the time, five sectors. We began from our little space in an office at the back of room 505. As we approached one-by-one desks together, my new counterpart would attempt on the fly a translation of the job title of whomever we were greeting. In my brown gridded notebook I tried to jot a list of people’s names, nicknames and titles. We walked from one desk to the next like this, office room after office room. 

After the initial hello to everyone working in our department, I remembered too that I’d brought from Reno joke calendar pages gifted by my Bostonian friend Jim. I felt distributing the pages would be a lovely way to ensure that everyone I met got a slice of American English. And so, the next days at work, I began revisiting people’s desks to deliver to them these jokes.

On my solo visits to people’s desks I would also bring my Mongolian-English Oxford Monsudar compact dictionary to assist me as I helped people to interpret. I stayed at one’s desk usually till I got a smile of recognition about what made the joke funny. Sometimes nearby coworkers’ who’d understood their jokes would help newcomers, too. 

The method of visiting four dozen people’s desks did wonders for my ability to understand pretty well quite a diverse slate of English abilities. The actual process of ensuring that each of my coworkers received their pages actually took many days, though, in part because some were out of the office when I first arrived. Nonetheless, I noted their names on a whiteboard in the office space of my main counterpart and me.

Allhallowtide With Friends

As I mentioned, my first day at the department office was Oct. 3I. So that evening after work, I met up with Peace Corps Mongolia for a Hallowe’en party gathering. I felt glad that the M3I Peace Corps Trainees had handled arrangements for it. All I had to do was to navigate to Star Apartments!

M3Is there in the community center felt eager to hear how my first day at work had gone. All I had to do after getting off work was arrive then swap into my Captain America get-up. Still, I enjoyed having the chance to get in costume. I’d brought the shirt specifically thinking how it would make an easy albeit on-the-nose costume. The Trainees looked great. We got to meet our Peace Corps staff’s kids, too! I enjoyed getting to be a proud hero.

As folks were leaving, I became graced with many candies to take home. I of course took the leftovers, so I spent time filling my backpack. Our Director of Programming and Training was around too, so we spoke briefly. He said kind words about the magnitude of my returning to service, especially with my interest in starting a foreign service career. When we were by the gate outside on the icy night, he impressed upon me that my choosing to return to Mongolia after three years away was something so meaningful to people. 

I returned to the education department office the next morning, Tues., Nov. 1, 2O22, for my second day of work. I needed to meet my ‘big boss’ to sign some paperwork. My main counterpart and I actually ran into him in the elevator! I felt welcomed when he said in Mongolian that my look was handsome. From the elevator we headed to his office to get the Peace Corps Volunteer agency agreement signed. He wished us well with our cooperation. He had a very kind smile. 

I was grateful that night to return to simple little St. Thomas Aquinas Church for its All Saints’ Day Mass. Singing “One Bread, One Body” across the Pacific was still a joy. The Gloria reminded me of the same Mongolian one in Erdenet sung years before.

The next day, Wed., Nov. 2, All Souls’ Day, I accompanied the Peace Corps on an excursion to the world’s largest equestrian statue of Chinggis Khaan, giving me a break from my work duties. On the adventure the new cohort got to practice in the bus, “Аяны шувууд” /Aynii Shuvuud/, my go-to Mongolian song. 

Throughout the week were also a blend of misadventures, involving joyful times throughout our city, Ulaanbaatar (UB). The tasks were mostly either to get supplies or to complete Peace Corps paperwork. Still, a key Thursday night highlight was reuniting with my Peace Corps Pre-Service Training Cross-Cultural Facilitator Bulgaa. She welcomed me to dinner atop the Shangri-La mall and had even shown me the school where she works. A Friday night highlight was joining my coworkers at the gymnasium for volleyball, reminiscent of my months in the countryside with my host family in Nomgon, Selenge. 

Cathedral Reunion: Second Sunday

A couple days later, that Sunday, Nov. 6, I traveled across town to the cathedral I remembered years earlier. Well, I got off at one bus stop too soon. Still, I'd left my apartment so early that I still arrived on time. 

As I approached the hazel-colored stone ger-shaped building, it felt quite familiar. Though, it sported an unfamiliar 30th anniversary poster on the door through which I entered. 

I came early for an English Mass that’s usually scheduled at 9 a.m. Sundays. Instead, a priest explained, there would be adoration. 

I enjoyed the time I could spend in prayer. 

A woman greeted me in passing with a hand on my shoulder. I took her to be an ICM religious sister, for she was Black and wore traditional Mongolian clothes. 

Before the benediction, I received a sheet in Mongolian listing the words to say and sing. I remembered that “ерөөх” is a verb that relates to blessing and praise. 

I learned during Mass in the cathedral that we were celebrating the 125th anniversary of the ICM Missionary Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. It also celebrated their 27th year in Mongolia and the 25th anniversary of a certain sister's consecration. The cardinal celebrated the Mass. (He was among the cardinals whose elevation we'd celebrated this spring in Vienna.)

Before Mass, I also received a pamphlet with an English translation summarizing the cardinal's homily. By the time Mass began, I realized that it turned out the Sister who greeted me was the same Cameroonian Sister Lucilla whom we honored that day. 

I also reunited with one of the pastors I knew from Erdenet, the one who had helped me evacuate. I also met again a UB Catholic I’d first met when I had come back to the cathedral during Advent 2OI9. Parishioners and staff even recognized me despite my having gotten to visit with them only once, those three years prior!

Sunday Night Language After School

I took the southern bus from the cathedral back toward the Narantuul/Dunjingarav area where my practicum group had gone before, when we’d lived at Holiday Inn. I found my way well enough. Then began the walk. 

I looked for the National Park area and then for Park Od Mall. I had read that this mall was near another mall named similarly but different. Along the way, I passed a Singaporean school, which surprised me. The trek reminded me of a dark walk in Malaysia’s Petaling Jaya on my way to St. Ignatius Church. 

I found the Park Od Mall lovely to know it had a glass bridge. The person with whom I’d meet found that detail quite mundane. “It’s a bridge,” she wrote, haha.

Happening to work in this mall was a Mongol who had contacted me years ago, during the pandemic’s start when I had just returned to Vegas. This evening she had invited me to visit her to practice my Mongolian. So indeed I came. She was so cute! When I arrived, she simply invited me behind the desk, and there we sat working. 

Turns out she owned the very store where we sat with my language notebooks open. I felt so surprised. She imported Korean products to sell. She was also heading back to Korea soon, so we just happened to be in Mongolia at the same time. 

She identified my lisping and quickly suggested remedy sounds I could make instead. I felt stunned by how kindly she diagnosed and remedied some of my most troubling pronunciation challenges. I wondered why she was so generous to me. She reminded me of the many warm young people I had met in China as an exchange student years ago. Still, I returned her favor with English advice. 

The hour felt quite, quite late by the time we finished in her office. So she walked me back to the bus stop. She looked fully wrapped in her warm coat, such that one could barely see her eyes from beneath everything.

She helped me to ask young folks also at the bus stop which bus route was right for me. In the cold, I got a deeper crash course in how to use the clunky UB Smart Bus app to parse the right route. It hardly made much sense with my limited data, though. 

My newfound friend was off to Korea, but asked if I could help her with English. We accepted that a video call could work too. I appreciated her generosity and wished her the best. She wished me likewise. I took the cold bus from the shopping area back to my apartment. 

Monday Reunion With Former Students

The next night, Mon., Nov. 7, I walked for a bit with M3O Eric and M3I Kat then traveled to reunite with two of my former students. M3I Kat joined me. I found the Tse Pub where Google Maps routed me, and its downstairs interior indeed resembled the one to which I'd gone with friends Adonis and Buynaa nearly three years earlier. 

Kat and I found a table to await my students. They came from my senior English teachers class and my junior Chinese translation students I’d taught at the National University of Mongolia, Erdenet School in 2OI9. Since that was years ago by fall 2O22, however, they had both since graduated. Curiously, the Chinese translation student’s brother, another of my friends, was in Dubai! 

I chatted with my former students over simple food and drinks. I felt like Tse’s prices had risen since their original $1–2 USD pricing. Nonetheless, I found their $3 rates competitive. Inflation does that.

My formers asked me whether I had a crush, which was surprisingly hard to answer. So I respond truthfully, "Мэдэхгүй," pronounced as I tend to prefer, /Мэдкү/. This answer seemed somewhat disappointing to my formers. Still, I felt conflicted as to whether chance encounters warranted the emotionally taxing label. 

Nonetheless, more exciting to me was the reality of having gathered together so many friends, new and old, in a seemingly familiar place. UB after all was a city I had visited only sparingly in the nine months I spent in Mongolia before. To reunite here with such warm people was a magical joy.

Tuesday Assembly Follow-Up

The following night, Tues. Nov. 8, I visited an associate pastor and his family, whom I met briefly at their church the prior Oct. 3O Sunday I came for Brian Hogan's talk. His family lived in an area near mine, hence my ease of accepting their invitation. He, his wife and children were pleasant. We enjoyed a living room meal, for which I remembered to bring the customary gift of something white such as milk. 

During our conversation, the husband taught me that we use a different verb in Mongolian, “гаргах,” to refer to the specific kind of killing of an animal I would witness soon. My main coworker was from Хархорин /Harhorin/ and had invited me to come visit her hometown with her to collect the winter’s meat. Harhorin has been especially famous for its location beside Mongolia’s historic capital, Хархорум /Karakorum/. 

I felt so surprised too that one of the pastor’s sons was superb at English from having learned it on YouTube. The son would have to work on his Mongolian language, though. Still, it was my first time to encounter such a situation in which a Mongol child in UB would know English better than Mongolian.

Wednesday Reunion and Finale

In order to secure my travel with my coworker to her province, she had called my language tester (her childhood friend) to move my test a day early. So the next night, Wed., Nov. 8, my meet-up with my friend Adonis moved a day earlier thanks to some flexibility on his part. He also brought along one of his students to meet me. 

We met in a place entirely unexpected to me. Yet the moment we entered, I knew exactly where we were. It was the Modern Nomads in which I had shared my Last Supper in Mongolia among fellow evacuating Peace Corps Volunteers who wanted a final Mongolian meal in March 2O2O. Thankfully, my friend had me and his student sit in a different section of the restaurant. 

His student's name reminded me of one of my former Mongolian language teachers, as her name was Bulgan too. In the English language portion of our conversation, we spoke at length about speaking with confidence. Thankfully my friend and I gave her relatively the same advice.

After dinner, Adonis started practice drills through frequent Mongolian language errors of mine and how to address them. I felt amazed by the precision with which he identifies and addresses my linguistic challenges. He really did make use of his degrees in psychology and linguistics.

In the restaurant, I overheard through the speakers a bittersweetly unmistakable song. I listened to this exact violin track morning after cold morn’ in Erdenet, rising for work many days. It was Degi’s sweet rendition of "Аяны шувууд" /Ayanii shuvuud/, the Mongolian song I sang for Teachers’ Day 2OI9. Hearing the familiar song with a familiar friend in the familiar place gave me a spiritual sense that God and Mongolia smiled, “Welcome back.”

The next morning I would take the language exam for which I had been preparing so long. Then that day I would leave the capital for my return to Mongolia’s countryside. 

Tested and Set Free

The morning of Thursday, Nov. 9, my LPI began after some time. I was back at what we called “Cluster B,” behind the Peace Mall. The name felt fitting despite no connection to the Peace Corps.

In the familiar room where I practiced many afternoon lessons alongside fellow evacuated Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, M3O Eric, I was alone this day with our tester. Our trainer Sumiya had prepared us well. This was much less stressful than my original LPI years ago. This time the tester and I spoke about my experiences in Mongolia before evacuating and upon returning, rather than something about where to put luggage. My tester too had been one of my teachers during our weeklong In-Service Training 2OI9!

After I finished, I felt glad to see Instructors Sumiya and Bolormaa in the corridor, as well as staff member Erka. I very gratefully spoke some Mongolian thanks to the three before grabbing my backpack and charging phone then hustling down to and out of Cluster B toward my apartment. I’d need to grab my sleeping bag and be ready to go.

As I walked back to my apartment, I reflected on how to some degree, the test was not about accuracy. It was a test about understanding. And yes, I definitely fell short of my grammatical accuracy and proper pronunciation many times. Yet, for the most part, I think I was understood, even if at times I didn't understand. I crossed the street onto Sukhbaatar Square’s sidewalk.

I continued to cross the sidewalk and noticed conversations from my fellow board officers of the Overseas Dispatch, an online experiment in forming community during the pandemic. At the traffic light as I waited to exit Sukhbaatar Square, I responded to the team’s messages and our consensus to gracefully dissolve. 

Up next, I was off to a province to which I hadn’t been before. 

You can read more from me here at memoryLang.tumblr.com :)

#Peace Corps #Mongolia #memoir #story #Catholic #God #memoryLang #USA #scholarship #hotel #Asia #countryside #Coronavirus #COVID-19 #UB #culture shock #travel #winter #Ulaanbaatar #Erdenet

[transpantastic]

Episode #393 We've taken a couple of trips recently, while waiting for George's final stage of surgery. Our travels weren't without complications, as Jess got covid which almost upended one trip, and George got shingles which has postponed his surgery.

#transgender #podcast #travel #shingles #COVID-19 #hot air balloons #surgery #polyamory

[touriscar]

¡El “gusto” de mi primera salida pospandemia!

¡Que hay de nuevo Skylets!

Hoy les traigo lo que escribí hace unos meses para un concurso gastronómico de la revista "Asomarte".

Esta travesía tomó lugar después de unos largos 18 meses en los que pensé que perdería la cabeza por el encierro, la preocupación y la desesperación que me generó tan horrible época que nos tocó vivir: la pandemia por COVID-19. Considerando estas condiciones era evidente que mis expectativas y emoción se encontraban por los cielos por mi primera salida pospandemia, así fue como mi salón y yo nos adentramos al suroeste del estado de Querétaro, en  una comunidad otomí llamada Villa Progreso, localidad del municipio de Ezequiel Montes, a una hora aproximadamente de la capital. 

Visitamos unos talleres de ixtle en donde conocimos el trabajo que conlleva la obtención de este material y cómo realizan de diferentes colores y tamaños las variadas artesanías: estropajos, cepillos de exfoliación, cinturones, además de las reatas ocupadas cotidianamente en la charrería, cabe destacar que dicho proceso es sumamente complejo y tardado.

Posteriormente, paseamos de forma breve por las magníficas calles de Villa para así encaminarnos a la Bodega “Bothë” en donde elaboran una gran variedad de excelente vino artesanal y de ahí pasamos por fin a la añorada y más importante parte de nuestra aventura: comer en la cocina tradicional “Los Yugos”.

Este lugar tan pintoresco está decorado con objetos antiguos, además, una vibra rústica me hizo recordar los tiempos más entrañables de mi vida en los que solía comer en casa de mis abuelos (muy lejos de donde me encontraba en ese momento). Quizá ese sentimiento de familiaridad le dio ese último empujoncito que necesitaba la experiencia para volverla mágica. 

Aquel día se presentó la oportunidad de experimentar un buffet basado en productos de temporada, dentro de los cuales tuvimos el placer de degustar nopales de santo, mole de xoconostle con carne de cerdo, tortitas de cilantro con queso, ensalada de nopales con chapulines, arroz, tortillas del comal, agua de sabor que compartía el mismo ingrediente principal que nuestro segundo plato (xoconostle) y un exquisito postre para nada convencional, del cual quedé fascinada: gelatina de garambullo con queso. ¡Uuh!, una maravilla de sabores y olores que te abrazan y apapachan el alma y por supuesto que también satisfacen nuestros gustos. 

La chef, María de los Ángeles Esperanza Pérez, es la genio culinaria encargada de dicha  comida tan especial y majestuosa, la misma que recibió una constancia por parte de la Universidad Autónoma “Benito Juárez” de Oaxaca, una Escuela de Gastronomía, por su participación en el evento “Zimatlán Gastronómico 2022”, lo cual incrementa el estatus y la jerarquía con la que cuenta tan delicada e inspiradora mujer.

Toda esta experiencia fue cerrada con broche de oro en aquel magnífico lugar, me hizo sentir que tanta espera encerrada valió toda la pena del mundo. Cierto, no fue el viaje más largo, ni visité el lugar más exótico del mundo, pero Villa Progreso y su gente tienen una facilidad para hacer sentir a uno en casa, aspecto que no cambio por nada. Para mí, todo ese recorrido es súper recomendado.

Fotografías de autoría propia.

#tourism #travel #turismo #viajes #holiday #vacaciones #pandemia #vino #ixtle #queretaro #covid 19

[cyarskaren52]

Biiiiiiiitch What? Thousands of people were dying a day in NYC, emergency rooms were overflowing. The maskless were perfecting fine with spreading Covid, and I practically had an anxiety attack every time I went to the store. And there’s outrage over the police in Minnesota killing black men in front of perma traumatized children and teenagers. The teenager who filmed the murder still traumatized from seeing the wickedness in front of her. This is what you wanna go back to ? Three years later? Biiiiiiiittttttttttcccccvh what?????

#three years #Covid #coronavirus #covid pandemic #public health #covid symptoms #pandemic #covid is airborne #covid travel #covid19 #covid virus #covid 19 #Minneapolis #minneapolis minnesota #minneapolis police #minneapolis mn #minnesota #cell phones #George Floyd #george floyd protests #police brutality #criminal justice #democracy #protest #prisons

[memenewsdotcom]

U.S. to require negative covid test for travelers from China

U.S. to require negative covid test for travelers from China

View On WordPress

#America #Beijing #china #coronavirus #covid #covid-19 #health #meme #memes #news #pandemic #test #testing #travel #vaccine #virus #zero covid

[dangerkeith3000x]

Welp...I was bound to get it eventually. At least I'm not pregnant?

#i was the only one in my extended family who hadn't gotten it #covid 19 #test #yesterday i felt like i was going to die #virus #a day in the life #i feel better now so far #week off from working at the office #time travel

[gradling]

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: hot girls still wear masks

#this is brought to you by traveling #jam posts #covid 19

[daltongraham]

Yeah, it's like a bad cold. With extra brain fog and utter exhaustion.

But for someone like me--a spoonie in the high risk category several times over--there's a heavy layer of fear that a mere cold doesn't have.

Will it get much worse, sending me to the hospital? If so, I'll be all alone because my spouse has it and won't be allowed in, and my partner lives with someone high risk and can't chance it. How will I charge my devices, to keep in touch with my loved ones? Will someone steal my charger and/or devices? How will I be my own advocate about my many meds and conditions when I'm so damn sick?

Even if I don't get bad enough to go to the hospital, will I get long covid? My doctors don't know if Paxlovid prevents it and advised against taking it unless I get worse.

I've had two telemedicine appointments in two days when all I want to do is sleep. Now in the middle of the night I can't sleep for worrying. I can't watch my shows because my ears are too sore for my airpods.

Thanks to the many, many people we encountered on an ill-advised funeral trip (me, it was me who advised against it, I thought it was too risky in the current outbreak, I was right) who simply Did. Not. Wear. A. Mask.

So fucking simple, but over 60% did not. Calling out the vile sea of humanity at Charlotte airport in particular. (3 days to get from Back East to California due to mechanical problems and weather. 3 days of constant exposure to unmasked masses.)

Spoonies have been begging for masking for our fucking lives. Now I too am one of the statistics. Hopefully being vaxxed and double boosted will save me. Goth bless the scientists and teams who figured out the vaccinations and at home tests.

#covid 19 #travel in covid #i'm terrified of long covid #pandemic #spoonies #high risk group #personal

[canichangemyblogname]

Went to vote yesterday, and I was about two booths away from a father and his very young daughter. She couldn't have been older than five, so she was getting a little squirrelly as she waited for her dad to vote. At one point, she was kinda poking around at things, namely, her dad's shoelaces. I then hear him say, very gently and very quietly, "Hold on. I'm almost done, sweetie. Gotta make sure I protect your books."

I smiled.

#In my line of work- I am frequently confronted with some of the most extreme ideas #(Anyone who was following me during the COVID-19 vaccine roll-out and COVID-19 travel restrictions might remember my rants) #So. It was nice to hear a genuine person with genuine concern for his child's future

[bravolesfilles]

Lost Vegas & Stardust

1.2022

#outside las vegas #neon lights #neon museum #las vegas #lost vegas #fujifilm #blog #blogger #travel blog #COVID-19 #wearing mask #lights

[prince-ofthe-stars]

How is it that my parents both just tested positive for covid but I'm still showing negative? I'm legit curious because technically I started feeling sick first waking up Tuesday morning with a horrendous sore throat and mum came home from work that evening feeling much the same. Then the day after on Wednesday my dad started feeling awful too. My sore throat lasted two days and now my sickness has shifted to sinus, snotty nose and chest cough. Dad has bad body aches too aswell as mum mum has same symptoms as me but with loss of smell and taste and gut problems. Not totally sure about dad but he's really feeling like shit and I imagine he's dealing with the same as mum. Any insights, help and advice would be much appreciated. Sorry for the ramble. (It's Friday afternoon now as I write this)

#ollivers travels #covid #covid 19 #positive for covid #covid test #covid help #coronavirus

[memorylang]

In Mongolia at Last | #60 | October 2022

Today marks the second month to the day since my return to Mongolia. I’d persisted two and a half years in finally getting to share this story of having returned to Mongolia. I wish I could have gotten to it sooner! Still, I hope as you read on you’ll know what’s kept me busy. I start first with the juiciest bit of us returning then circle back to how I got here. 

Mongolia

The morning of Tuesday, October 18, 2O22, I step from Turkish Airlines back into Mongolia, the “Land of the Eternal Blue Sky.” I wear the silver дээл /dehl/ shirt I received from my host family for Naadam in 2OI9. I lug the silver backpack my mother planned to gift me when she was still alive. 

I had considered leaving my silver backpack behind in the States because of its wear. But it’d been with me for so long around the world since 2OI7. I chose to bring it back, still. 

This airport looks different than I remember. Eric, my fellow evacuated Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, comments that this must be the new airport, I think. Immigration definitely feels like a warm breeze here compared to the cold floors we knew before. I pass through without challenge. 

I feel elated for another reason, too.

Right at the door from immigration stands my Country Director.

Our American leader grins with her characteristic welcome and diplomacy. We share a big hug. We chat about how nice Ulaanbaatar’s new Chinggis Khaan International Airport is. We’ll have plenty more time to chat later, anyway. Beside her stands our General Services Manager, a Mongolian man with whom I hadn’t shared too many conversations. Still, he beams, and I’m so glad to see him. We three know each other. 

The New Chinggis Khaan International Airport

Baggage claim is smooth, so smooth. I grab my bags with relief to see they’re all here this time. I’m still surprised by how cozy this airport feels. I trek toward what seems to be an exit. I feel excited yet disoriented, recalling my 2OI9 trip into Beijing during service as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I exit baggage claim.

Wandering out, I spot suddenly to my right these huge Peace Corps Mongolia “Hello Again 2O22” banners held by familiar figures of staff I haven’t seen in over two years. I enthusiastically take up hugs with anyone offering. I embrace both my past Regional Manager and our Safety & Security manager, with whom I don't even recall being so close. Still, goodness, what a difference years apart yet online make. 

I’ve barely a moment to wait as I’ve bags to load onto whatever bus we’re taking this time into the city. I shuffle on through, gleefully greeting any Peace Corps Mongolia staff member as we recognize each other. Amid my new reality, I notice too an unfamiliar blonde woman and man. I hear somewhere they’re with the U.S. Embassy.

What Comes Next?

With bags loaded, I’m free. I hop back off the bus to see. It’s a brisk 6°C (43°F) this October morn. 

I take in the moment. M3O Eric stands beside me outside. We had similar ideas. I'm astonished to learn that Eric was late to our bus meeting in Seattle because he was seeing a mutual friend of ours, my Nomgon neighbor, Sam.

I'm not shocked for long though beside Eric and me, beside the bus, stands too our Director of Programming & Training. Of course, the director and I share a huge hug. He tells Eric and me with a wide smile how today staff is to swear us in immediately and get us back to serving soon.

We’re glad to hear it. I’m genuinely excited about the prospect of serving again so soon. But, I’m not sure whether to believe they’re really about to reactivate us. Still our director sounded reliable.

Not long after, the M3Is file through and onto the buses. 

Once everyone’s about settled, we all hop back off for a big facemasked photo. I brave the cool with my coat left on the bus so that my дээл /dehl/ is entirely visible. As the Peace Corps Mongolia banner unfurls, I stand toward the front, beside it. Next to me stands Ken, with whom I chatted from our Seattle hotel. Peace Corps is really back in Mongolia. 

Staging in Seattle

That preceding Friday afternoon on October 14, 2O22, my flight to Peace Corps’ staging lands in Seattle, Washington. I’m walking across the plane that brought me out of Vegas when I receive a text. It’s from a Trainee in the new M3I cohort, Chris. He’s landing in Seattle about when I do. 

I head to SeaTac's baggage claim. I remember having met my fellow M3Os, Marisa and L, at the Philadelphia airport three years ago. Now I’m back in Seattle, where I visited my first and second times last summer. It won’t be long before I don’t travel alone. 

Sure enough, the tall man Chris walks up. He explains he's from Portland. I remember my time there around this time last October. Chris’s flight to Seattle was his very first flight, he beams. I welcome him to the Peace Corps with a smile. 

First Ordeals

I find not long after meeting Chris a complication. My orange backpack seems not to have arrived with me. So I head to Alaska Airlines’ desk. Its attendants send me back to the carousels. I wait quite a while longer, with Chris staying by my side. 

The ordeal occurs for about an hour. During this time M3Is Ken and Darcy, who'd texted having also arrived, go ahead to the light rail. Meanwhile, another M3I, Alex, arrives beside Chris and me, too. I remember Alex’s face from Zoom calls preceding today. 

Our trio decides we ought not to keep waiting. I come back to Alaska Airlines’ desk to put in a mishandled bag ticket, hoping my bag arrives the next day. Wow, this feels like Munich this summer. Then haul our things to the light rail, too. I remember October’s NYC trip yet with more walking here. I think too about that time I traveled to D.C. from Vegas when the Capitals were playing our Golden Knights. 

Our trio rides the light rail a while. When at last we hop out, we lug our luggage uphill many blocks. Now this reminds me of San Francisco last August yet sweatier. I’m wearing the heavy coat I’m bringing back to Mongolia, though I really don’t need it for Seattle’s October. I’m pleased to pass by the public library I remember from my Seattle solo adventure last summer, though. 

Peace Corps Arrival

At last we reach the hotel. Chris, Alex and I split as we check and head to rooms. Upstairs I find Peace Corps staging staff of Nick and Maya so friendly. I feel weirded out somewhat by how tight COVID-19 protocols remain. Still, I see my fellow evacuated Returned Peace Corps Volunteer Eric, M3O, and feel a bit better despite the oddness. 

Eric and I catch up over Mexican food a brief walk away. I like how he has real Southern calm about him. I remember conversations we shared when we were Trainees in the ger camp outside of Ulaanbaatar (UB), three years ago. We were two of our cohort’s members also into Chinese studies.

Staging 

Eric and I return to our hotel, and staging begins. I try not to too blatantly draw attention to how I’m one of us two evacuated Returned Peace Corps Volunteers who were serving before in Mongolia. I try to focus more on getting to know my new peers. In among the first activities then, I get to know a fellow Asian American seated behind me, Christine. I’m surprised by what led her to Peace Corps but feel confident that she’ll be fine. 

I expect to get to know others in the M3I cohort more when we’re together the next day. There are about half the Trainees in this cohort compared to those in Eric’s and mine. Still, when the traditional ice-breaker comes asking what weird thing we packed, I decide to reveal a piece of my heart. I packed my bus card from our first summer in UB, and I want to see whether it still works in Mongolia. 

Navigating the Old and New 

After the evening session, I’m on a side quest. My sister Becky and her new boyfriend Solomon are also in town. That night, they pick me up from the Renaissance Seattle Hotel where Peace Corps is staying, and they take me to enjoy delicious Indian food with them nearby. I recall when I visited Becky last summer in the Seattle area, too. Her boyfriend Solomon’s quirky, funny and wise. 

Saturday I go back through staging. It exhausts me at times. Its minimal acknowledgment that this ain’t the first staging for evacuated returnees bugs me sometimes. I still remember plenty from my first staging. Personally exhausting too is how memories left dormant for two and a half, sometimes three, years would ping pong back to me. 

I stay upbeat while getting to know the new Trainees. At least I’ve only 23 names to learn right now. Eric and I had to learn so many more as Trainees in 2OI9. 

Bonding 

During one of staging’s identity exercises, we’re asked to consider three aspects of our identity that will become most apparent about us in Mongolia. I announced that three regarding me would be that I’m young, Asian and single. I remember these from what coworkers and locals would often say to me. 

At lunch, I walk with many M3Is to a pizza place where we can build what we like. I get my Subway-style everything meal. I enjoy the company of the down-to-earth Midwesterners with whom I dine outside. One reminds me of my former sitemate from Wisconsin, Emilie, our volleyball star. I miss her. 

I’m surprised by how many in the new cohort also have China backgrounds. That’s nice. Our walk again past Seattle’s major public library reminds me of conversations I had there with the National Peace Corps Association. I’ll miss the stellar stateside Walk Around Allowance that Peace Corps provides, too. 

New Recruits

Amid staging, I also reunite with/meet for the first time Rowan, an M3I I met virtually back in fall 2O2O. We’re so glad to meet at last in person. She feels to me like an old friend. I also enjoy hearing the teaching background of Ken and the social work background of Darcy. As part of the ice-breakers, Rowan and Darcy are in my doodling group, which I enjoy. Humorously, some of the Trainees mistake our group’s drawing of someone sad and alone to being a drawing of a blood sacrifice upon an altar. (It’s because of that red marker we had.) 

I meet as well Kat, a person whose backgrounds of both Chinese and Germanic descent mirror mine. I’m surprised by how well-dressed Caroline of Massachusetts is! We have quite a few from Massachusetts here. I pass along warm wishes, “Minglaballers for life,” from a past college classmate to two Trainees who trained with him in Peace Corps Myanmar before the global evacuation that followed Peace Corps China’s and Mongolia’s evacuations.

One Last Night

That night after staging’s main day concludes, I return to the place where Becky (and now 'rock' star Solomon) is staying in Bellevue. It was here last summer that I received the very silver journal in which I'm writing my current experiences. Tonight Becky cohosts here a talent show that's more of an open mic.

For my act, I share the story of how “Frozen II” moved me during evacuation. With its significance on the floor, I sing an unrehearsed, "Show Yourself.” They receive my song well. The night reminds me of when I similarly performed the song once during the pandemic back at my college parish, the spring preceding our other younger sister Vana’s future fiancé’s graduation party. 

Throughout the Saturday too I’d checked with Alaska Airlines on the status of my missing backpack, but no specific luck. It feels too much like the summer’s Munich ordeal awaiting my bag from Singapore and Qatar. I pray everything just arrives in time. 

Sunday in America

My final morning in America, I get back on the phone with Alaska Airlines to hear that my luggage made it to the airport. They lack time now to deliver it to our hotel. But it’s here in Seattle. 

My college parish community prayed for me this weekend, I learn. What could have been worse was better! I conclude that the Devil had been trying to rattle me one more time along my path back to do good ‘round our world. 

I report my bag’s return to our desk officer Nick. He commends me for my good humor. That was something my past priest would say, too. (Thanks to that priest I’d been discerning with the Jesuits after coming back from Southeast Asia.) Unfortunately, our priest retired not long after Reno’s new bishop from Seattle came and replaced him.

Sunday Service

For Sunday Mass, I find that my nearest parish is the archdiocesan cathedral! So I stroll across the bridge over roadways to attend Mass. It’s a beautiful area that reminds me of New England. During the service I consider how this was the very cathedral from which the man who made himself pastor of our parish in Reno came. 

The Mass also reminds me of parishes I attended in Southeast Asia, with their unfamiliarity yet allure. The cathedral even reminds me how last Sunday I celebrated Mass in New York’s cathedral! My prayers today are of thanksgiving not petition. Still, I hope I’ll have a Catholic parish to attend in Mongolia. I hope I won’t go long without Christ’s Eucharist! 

Heading Out 

I hustle back to the hotel after Mass, ascend the elevator to my room, grab my bags and descend again. I reunite with the Peace Corps Trainees. The friendly Nepali American Trainee Sareena leads my team. I appreciate her chill directness. 

All Trainees receive yarn of a similar color to that which Eric and I received three years ago. Though, this shade is slightly greener than our electric blue. We fasten these to our bags then cross the street to our waiting bus. 

Eric is away, however, forcing our Peace Corps community to wait a while. In the meantime, chow down on my leftover everything pizza. This seems endearing to some folks in the cohort, at least. 

We board the bus. At last Eric appears! We set off for to the airport. 

Beside me sits Ken, the likable English instructor with quite a penchant for fun methodologies. From him and an M3I Eric, I learn that quite a few of the Trainees beside Rowan have waited these pandemic years to accept their invitations to serve, as well.

I enjoy talking with Ken. He reminds me of the M3O Ken I knew, with whom I hiked in Ulaanbaatar our days before Swear-In. I missed Ken when he Early Terminated (ET). Still, I hope none of the M3Is ET.

Seattle's Airport

When we arrive back at the airport, I have to split from the group to head back downstairs to Alaska Airlines’ baggage claim. I’m glad I don’t have to be a group leader since that’s responsibility I don’t want to think about. I entrust my welbeing to the friendly Rowan. Then I beeline straight back to Alaska’s desk. 

I see my bag’s a bit dirtied. But, it’s my bag. I’ve awaited it. Desk Officer Nick had advised me to insist on compensation, so I get a brochure on how to reach customer service for compensation. I report the phase of the mission accomplished and trek back upstairs. 

Back in Time

In line before bag weighing, I help some people who feel extreme stress. This reminds me of my experience helping the M29 during evacuation. I miss her, too. 

Further along the airport line, I receive a compliment from a man for the wooden Holy Spirit cross I wear. I comment how it reminds me God is always with me. The man agrees. His daughter served in Peace Corps Namibia, he explains. He kindly lends us his luggage scale as we near the front. 

Unfortunately, Turkish Airlines calls my bags too heavy. So I, like some Trainees who came before me, must reconsolidate my belongings. I’m not too concerned, but the process annoys me. I just brute force my hope that this all works out. And it does. 

Forth in Time

I’m rewarded by seeing Sareena, tall Tom and our other leaders awaiting me. I feel consoled seeing Jeff, too, an older gentleman with good spirit. The clump of Trainees reminds me I’m no longer alone. I’m with a new community. 

Once our cohort reaches our gate, I take a video call with both my siblings and recipients of this year’s inaugural Lin Yuejun Lang Asia Scholarship. I have fun getting to speak with them before I leave the country. Our recipients seem really cool too, having studied in South Korea and Thailand. Glad my siblings get to see me having fun. 

I also have time to complain to Alaska Airlines’ customer service to get more than the normal points compensation for the baggage issue. I don’t like complaining, so I appeal to integrity. A little compensation tempers my temper some. 

Nearby, folks from the training cohort claim to recognize members of Mongolia’s famous band, the HU, who wait in line. The Trainees suggest they’re visiting home between tours. I’m surprised Trainees recognize them. Some daring Trainees even walk up for pics. I honestly can’t tell if it’s really them, and I choose not to bother. Still, it’s cool to think that may be the HU. 

The Flight

Our cohort boards. For the long flight, I'm seated with both Kat and Sareena. Our Asian American trio speaks at length from Seattle to Istanbul.

I enjoy sharing Asian roots with my new peers. Sareena strikes me as someone who could really lead, and Kat seems so thoughtful. I enjoy getting to know what’s bringing them to Mongolia as I go back. Their perspectives on culture, psych and privilege both warm and challenge me.

Across continents, I also decide to see, “X-Men: Days of Future Past.” The film both further celebrates my having seen Hugh Jackman on Broadway and feels like a sequel to my having seen in Southeast Asia, “X-Men: First Class.” I’m glad too that “Days of Future Past” has a continuity that reminds me of “X2,” which I saw so many years ago, back in school. 

Anyway, the superhero thrills keep me awake while I fight the jetlag. I don’t think I glean particularly monumental lessons from these. Neat to see President Kennedy, Peace Corps’ founder, referenced. I like Marvel flicks. 

Through Istanbul

The M3Is, Eric and I spend little time in Istanbul’s airport before we board again for Mongolia. That said, I do have time to split from the group to catch foreign Pokémon in “Pokémon GO.” I complete a raid and plant a Pokémon on a gym. I don’t expect I’ll be playing video games much after we land. 

Anyway, close enough to midnight local time, we hop back on a plane, this time for Ulaanbaatar. Seats shuffle a bit, though Kat and Sareena aren’t far. I kick off trying to rest against jetlag. 

Past about 6 a.m. local time, I hear Trainees worry about declarations and immigration. “What did you put as your visa number?” one asks, tapping my shoulder. To be honest, I hardly care. I don’t remember those responses affecting much. 

Turkish Experiences

During the flight, I also reflect on Turkish people I met lately. There was a young sports player named Ozan I met while returning to America from Europe this summer. There was a Haluk, too, the young Muslim I met in New York this month. Remembering them reminds me how connected our world is. 

I also remember, while maybe Turkish or not, a thoughtful Asian flight attendant with a dark, wavy bob who had served on our flight from America to Turkey. She stood out to me because of a time on the flight when I simply requested a snack. Another attendant had answered my request, actually. But I noticed across the plane that the female attendant said something to him. When the man returned with a snack, I received not only one but two, as well as a sour cherry juice I remember choosing from her earlier on the flight. That above-and-beyond care struck me as so in line with that personal way God loves. This is how I am to love.

I’m also still wrapping my head around the realization that I’m really going back to Mongolia. Looping in my head is “Breathe” from “In the Heights.” Two and a half years… and I’m going back. 

Peace Corps Mongolia to Ulaanbaatar

After we land in Mongolia, get our bearings and get the bannered photo, we hop back aboard our buses. We’re separated in accordance with COVID-19 mitigation standards. Peace Corps and Embassy staff step on to wish us well before we’re off. For the road, we’re treated to modest plastic bags of snacks and water. 

I sit toward the back, recalling my experience when we first came to Mongolia, and I sat there, too. This time, however, I’m without so many in this row. Social distancing limits close quarters. 

As we ride through the countryside from the new airport to the city, I remember my winter trips from the airport when I took leave. Though Mongolia had snow already in mid-October, the cold isn’t like that which I remembered from December 2OI9 and January 2O2O. Still, I feel as though having pined for this landscape. 

Unfortunately, we see across the hillside no herding occurring through a Prius. I guess we’re in the wrong season or place to spot that. Still, I recall seeing that among the biggest surprises to me in response to what our former Director of Management Operations had said, that we would, “see people do things with a Prius you [we] never thought possible.” Still, that was among the greatest things I witnessed that summer in the countryside. 

As our bus nears the city, I think back to what few adventures I’d had in the capital, getting to see friends at their apartments, for example. I’d no sense of the city’s apartment geography, so I’m not sure if I’m looking in the right direction. Still, I know I’m seeing UB. 

Re-Education

We arrive at a hotel I don’t recognize and ascend without roommates because of pandemic restrictions. The hotel is so fancy. After dropping our bags, we’re to wait some time till we can head up to the conference floor for another round of COVID testing. I’m so pleased to see again medical staff with whom I hadn’t even been close. They seem so pleased to see me, too. I'm pleased to meet in person our new Peace Corps Medical Officers, too!

Back in my hotel room, I put on my good shoes to replace my hiking boots and wear my black mask from Singapore. Then I head back to the conference center on the top floor for official opening remarks. There are some introductory health and safety sessions. I journal that afternoon of our situation, “Having a vibe like both PST and Final Center Days conferences at the same time, Eric and me, alongside 23 M3Is.” 

Swear-In

By intros’ conclusion, it’s time for a ceremony that I quickly realize is what I think it is. Our Country Director directs my fellow evacuee and to the front. I'm glad to have been wearing the very same shirt I wore when I first swore in three years ago.

In front of the room, before our audience of Trainees, our Country Director hands us new certificates. We raise our right hands. We repeat after her. This is surreal. 

Sure enough, we're sworn in. Two newsgroups interview us, GoGo Mongolia and TenGer TV. I describe in English my mother’s story that brought me here. I tell the reporters about my time teaching at МУИС /MUIS/ in Erdenet and in the orphanage.

That night, I locate in my luggage my copies of my original Swear-In documents. I really am a Peace Corps Volunteer again. My re-education begins.

In my next tale, I’ll take you through my first days back in Mongolia.

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me :)

#Peace Corps #Mongolia #memoir #story #Catholic #God #memoryLang #USA #scholarship #Asia #Coronavirus #COVID-19 #UB #travel #winter #Ulaanbaatar #seattle #istanbul #flight #memories

[lemememeringue]

jealously bitter and indignant abt ppl who just.. live like normal. people around me are sick and dying. how are you able to function. why are you immune to consequence. why do I feel like the unreasonable one? when do I get to drive past the flag memorial for community members lost and feel this gut wrenching reality is in the past?

#mine #death tw #yes I'm still salty abt colorado #it's one thing that other ppl I don't know are doing things #but one of my friends is flying to another continent for a wedding #meanwhile I'm here. not even sure if I should travel to another state #my coworkers talk abt concerts and cons and covid scares all in the same breath #I had a panic attack abt getting lunch at the mall #I feel like I'm crazy #covid-19 for the historians