Keith Cochrane and the Mystery of the Mongolian Toilet

Now I know what you're all thinking. What kind of a heartless freak would follow up a post about "Vaginal Slopes" and "Phallic Rock" with one primarily dedicated to Fecal Matter?

One that knows his strengths. Just like the Great Genghis Khan, I know the importance of building on past victories.

After Khan showed the Kazakhs who their daddy was in 1219 did he opt not to go to the Middle East for fear of "not being fresh enough."?

Absolutely not. He found something that works for him and now, so have I. Potty humor is what I do best, and potty humor is what you will get. (Until I run out of ideas)

But onto the issue at hand. For the past month, I have been living in a dorm provided to me by my university. It is a living, breathing model of Soviet architecture, complete with all of the usual Communist quirks: pieces of my ceiling are constantly raining down on me, the hot water is as dependable as Italy in a World War, and the bathroom houses a traditional "Mongolian Toilet".

I've seen a few impressive things in my day but none can hold a candle to the feat of engineering that is The Mongolian Toilet.

Top View: Mongolian Toilet

Side View: Mongolian Toilet

The first thing you notice about The Mongolian Toilet is that unlike the traditional western toilet, it drains from the front of the bowl, rather than the back. This would be inconsequential if not for one glaring oversight on the part of the Soviet Toilet artists.

When comparing toilet X-sections, you will notice the area shaded in red on the Mongolian Toilet. This zone serves as a stopping point for any and everything that enters from above. I don't know if there is a technical name for it, but it is best described as a Poo Poo Pedestal.

How did this happen? Why did the Soviet engineers bother to include such an unnecessary shit stop? I mean, pit stop? Many conflicting theories are available on the subject.

The first and most promising theory is that the toilets are in fact faulty. Someone in the USSR screwed up and made thousands of flawed toilets. He ended up in Siberia and the toilets were all shipped to Mongolia. Out of sight, out of mind.

An airtight story. Or so it would seem...

A much likelier scenario in this blogger's opinion is that Joseph Stalin, one of history's proudest men, ordered the inclusion of the Poo Poo Pedestal in all Soviet toilets. Proud in every aspect of his life, nothing brought him more joy than to stare at a particularly impressive bowel movement. Consider the amount of beets in the typical Russian meal, and you are guaranteed to see some crazy color schemes. It's like Pablo Poo-casso up there.

Whatever the reason, faulty design, or Poo Poo Pride, I am 100% in favor of Mongolian Toilets. Sure you have to clean them much more frequently, but that is a small price to pay to be able to stand up, turn around and say "Yeah. I did eat that."

Until next time,

Genghis "Poopin' ain't Easy" Cochrane

KharKhorin - 1st City of the Mongol Empire; First City of my Heart

While out on a not-so-typical man-date the other night, I was told the oldest of Mongolian Adages: "In Ulaanbaatar, there are two ways to survive the winter: you either drink yourself through it, or you escape to the countryside."


Now I know what you're thinking. "Lord Cochrane, I know that Mongolia has long winters, but surely it hasn't started yet." Well my friends, you are absolutely right, but since I'm going to be drinking my way through the winter, I thought I might take an opportunity to see the famous Mongolian countryside before the cold months set in.

The trip to Kharkhorin (the first capital of the Mongol empire) was set up by two German girls who live in my building. When asked if I wanted to join, I responded with a resounding "NEIN!" My German must not be as good as I thought, because they were very confused to see me in the car the following morning.

Here is one of the better roads we drove on.
Right outside UB and right outside Kharkhorin, the roads are paved, but everywhere in between there is just a tangled mess of country roads. Here is the GoogleEarth projection of the roads between Kharkhorin and UB.




Our driver, Okhtober, or "Halloween" as I instantly dubbed him, handled himself very well, only occasionally asking a local sheep herder directions. His navigating skills were of the "eeny meeny miny moe" school of driving, but on these roads, that's about all you have.

The trip was fairly uneventful. I saw and rode a camel, stayed my first night in a Ger, and even saw where Klaus Teuber got his inspiration for the Sheep Hex in Settlers of Cattan. (These pictures look ever so good if you click on them by the way).



Settlers is the ultimate conversation starter with Germans for future reference. We argued the merits of wheat and ore late into the evening to the sound of the howling Mongolian wolves. The only thing we could agree on is that Mongolia is getting hurt by being landlocked, leaving it without the sheep port it so needs.

Sadly none of us brought the game along, so we played cards. Amazingly Okhtober managed to learn our game (31, an easy version of Gin Rummy) and even convinced us to play for money. This without using any English. He started out hot as the Gobi, but his luck ran dry as something that is very dry. How about the Gobi?

Yes, it was a very boring trip until we came across possibly the greatest sculpture I have ever seen: Phallic Rock. Eat your heart out Michelangelo, but if your David had this thing between his legs, he would not have needed a sling to slay the angry Goliath. 'Nuff said.


The Phallic rock is one of three sights to see in Kharkhorin, after the Monastery and the Monastery gift shop. Because I am not interested in Monasteries or giving, I just saw the Phallic rock three times. The rock (pictured above) is pointed squarely at a geological feature known as "The Vaginal Slope" (pictured below). The slope is named for its unique shape.


Now I'm saving myself for marriage, so I can't tell a vagina from an antique typewriter. However, my German compatriots assured me that the name "Vaginal Slope" was more than accurate. There was sex in the air, and my sleep was filled with dreams that I don't fully understand.

Yes, all in all a great weekend. I just returned from a dinner with two girls that I am going to be tutoring on the side. Two adorable Mongolian twins. Since their mother does not know any English, I was forced to work out my payment with the daughters, and let me tell you, these are some no nonsense kids. I can't wait to mold them into little sasstalking-machines. The first lesson, "Talk to the Hand" went very well. Almost too well...

And such concludes my life up until this moment. The weather has not turned too cold yet, but apparently it is the smog that is the real killer. As it gets colder, the Mongolians pick up their Gers and move them closer to the city for warmth. Following this, they do not have gas stoves for heat, and therefore burn anything they can (tires, old furniture, dung) for warmth. This leaves the city in a black haze that I have luckily yet to experience. This is why they say you have to drink your way through winter, or get out to where the air is fresh. I am going to add a third branch to the adage and simply get high on the smog fumes. Take that you nasty season!

I have still not seen a Yak nor ridden a horse, so stop asking. You will be the first people I tell in the whole world wide web. Don't you worry.

Also big shout out to my first and only follower Alex Ripp. The rest of you could learn something from her unwavering spirit and magnificent moxie. You have to start building an Empire somewhere, and I am honored to have her under my flag. Join the Hoard or get out of our way...

You've been warned,

GC

Pictures of things

Blogger will only let me upload the smallest picture size, so like my life, these are not as epic as I would like them to be.

Here are some pictures from the weekend trip to Terelj. These first two I think could be featured on "Visit Mongolia" postcards.

Here is one of some Jockey children. Mongolian Jockeys are usually between 7 and 12 years old because the horses are small and require a lighter and more limber frame.


And this last one is maybe my favorite building in UB. I'm not sure what it is called or what will be inside it when it is done, but it strangely resembles a glasses lens and that's concave with me.

My First Week

It's been a long, long week, fellow Blogthusiasts. Both for me, for America, and for the world. Let's start with American news. This week saw the coming of one of the most dreaded and horrible natural phenomena that America has to prepare for. Something that under improper action and preparation can ravage the nation.

I'm talking of course about the Republican National Convention.

What's the difference between Sarah Palin and Hurricane Gustav?

Gustav doesn't wear lipstick.

Horribly predictable and unfunny jokes aside, the real news this week was that I started teaching. I am teaching three university level courses: a general English seminar, and two American Studies Classes. I explained to the department that a Canadian might not be the best choice for an American Studies professor, but they assured me that I am the right man for the job.

Maybe it was nerves, maybe it was just the fact that I forgot to prepare a lecture, but my first class was not the smoothest of affairs. After talking and trying to promote conversation for about an hour, I concluded my class by thanking the students for being my first class... ever.

A collective and understanding "Oooohhhh" swept the class. "Oooohhh", I think is a Mongolian exclamation that means "So that explains the high levels of suckitude". Some things are not lost in translation. (Though most are...)

As the week progressed though, I started to find my groove, and instead of leaving the classroom to the sound of "Oooohhhh", I left to the sound of the phrases "Thank you teacher!" and "Thank you for being my teacher!" I'm not sure what these foreign phrases mean, but I think they were in reference to the large pit stains that seem to increase in size as class progresses. I am confident though, that I will be a good teacher, and if I'm not, hell, I'll just say I was and give them all A's anyway. Mongolia apparently lives on corruption, so I am just trying to assimilate myself culturally and professionally.

I won't go into the long and possibly boring details of my weekend, but the highlights include a concert featuring French and Mongolian artists (too much french and not enough Mongolian for my liking), a cocktail party at the American Ambassador's house (I got to try out all of my Sarah Palin jokes on unsuspecting Ex-pats. No one laughed, but I think it was just the language barrier), and a work retreat to Terelj national park, shown here:

Or not...

As usual the Internet is being a jerk, so I will show images on a separate post. Terelj is about 65 kilometers from UB and is a popular destination for a day trip. Our work retreat involved hanging out in a Ger (yurt is politically incorrect, Stalin) drinking copious amounts of vodka, and competing in several sporting events.

My coworker Gundee started the gold medal flurry for our department with a huge wrestling victory, and I continued the trend, first by being the hero in the soccer match, and second by winning a race to the top of a mountain. The race was not your daddy's race, oh no, but each team was a male and a female holding hands. Chimgee and I hit some bumps along the way, and the conclusion of the race was more of a (not so) brisk walk, but we finally won. The prize for each victory was a bottle of champagne (consumed immediately), a bottle of vermouth (very confusing) and a box of candy. The Mongolian Ferrero Rochers. The vermouth means that I have to convert one of my limited cupboards into a liquor cabinet. Hurrah!!!

My victories brought pride and honor to the department. One guy, a 60+ year old security guard (maybe my next Asian kiss?) was extremely impressed. He sat in our Ger for almost an hour talking about me with my coworkers. I of course threw in an English comment now and then, but mostly just smiled, nodded, and sipped. "Bottoms up" is a favourite Mongolian phrase I have learned.

It has been tough not speaking the language and makes large chunks of the day very tough. It is unfair for me to expect people to abandon their mother tongue in my presence, but for some reason, I sort of thought they would. This is a very western viewpoint I think.

Normally I hate it when people talk about me in other languages (MOTHER, you dutch deceptress), but being here it is much more frustrating when you know that the conversation around you has nothing to do with you. It was nice to be the center of attention, even if I couldn't understand everything that was being said. The smiles and thumbs ups said it all.

I told my coworkers I won the two events in honor of Mongolia's two gold medals. They liked this, and we celebrated by singing songs. First I lead the group in a rousing rendition of "Yesterday", and then we sang Mongolian songs late into the night. I did some improv throat singing which was met by the loudest of giggles.

Alright, that is all for now. I will get back on later and put up some pictures for all y'all. I need to start taking Mongolian lessons as soon as I have a regular schedule. "Hello", "Thank You", "Teacher", and "Hooshuur" (traditional Mongolian mutton filled pastry) are not quite enough to carry on a conversation. Though they do allow me to eat like a king and be overcharged for it. Pictures coming soon...

Cheers,

Ussain "If you want to feel good about your athletic self, come to Mongolia" Cochrane