Mongolian Connections: Lingua Franca

Before Mongolia, I’d never traveled alone in a country of which I did not know the language. Though I was intimidated by this prospect at first, I’ve discovered something: I do know the language. Sort of. Not Mongolian, but English; one can get by in Ulaanbaatar with just English, and even in the countryside, “Hi” and “Thanks” seem to be pretty standard knowledge. Though I feel weird expecting people to know English, I also feel weird trying in Mongolian sometimes, when they probably do know enough English to help me. I’d never had to realize before how universal English is. Sure, plenty of countries don’t have many English-speakers, but generally nations are implementing English in their curricula (which is convenient for would-be traveling Americans who can teach it just about everywhere except Spain). One (very very strange) article I read in a Mongolian newspaper mentions the importance of educating people “in internationally recognized English language.” (There was more to that sentence, but I’m not sure exactly what it said; it in itself is evidence that there should be more English education in Mongolia.) And English isn’t in use just for the benefit of native English speakers; my Bulgarian friend who lives in Switzerland communicated with me and university employees completely in English, and almost all tourists here use English. At a café, I’ll hear a German speaking with a Mongolian, both in English. On one countryside-tour, the Frenchman in our group used an English translator, and he then translated into French for his wife. English has become the language of international communication. With European-Mongolian interactions, this is interesting because the language is a neutral third ground, what Esperanto was meant to be (and sort of failed, but we should keep working on it!) Of course, it’s only a neutral third ground for the non-American/British/etc. But I’m not complaining about that.

This de facto universal language just sort of sprung up organically, as, I suppose, languages have to. (Unfortunately for poor L L Zamenhof.) English is one connection here, but the idea of an international language of communication is another; of course, the idea of a neutral language that different nations used to communicate reminded me of one of my favorite things: Latin. In the Middle Ages, educated people spoke Latin; monks and scholars from different nations communicated in Latin, and texts were written in Latin so that everyone could read them. If you knew Latin, you knew that, even in a very regionally centered world, you could find someone with whom to communicate. In many senses, English is the new medieval Latin.

I wonder what this indicates about the world. The elite of the medieval world used an international language to communicate, before vernaculars came into fashion, and now, after a hiatus when the elite sort of just spoke all the languages they’d need, English has become a necessity for travellers and/or speakers of obscure languages. What does our age have in common with the Dark Age that necessitates such a language? Furthermore, I think it’s significant that not only the elite are speaking in this new universal language; for the first time in a long time (ever?) the common man in one nation can communicate with the common man in another. Of course, for the first time in a long time (ever?) the common man is travelling. But I’m not sure that’s all there is to it.

As much as the similarity between Latin’s function and English’s function interests me, the differences between the languages interest me, too. I’ve always thought English to be near-impossible to learn. Why don’t “through,” “though,” “cough,” and “tough” rhyme? It makes no sense. But when I speak to people who’ve learned English as a second language, they tend to have the same response to my denigrations of my language. They all say that English is easy to learn. Part of this, I think, is the fact that one is exposed to English all the time, even in a foreign country. But the other reason, as my friend K pointed out to me, is because English is so flexible. Though its irregularities must be frustrating, its lack of structure means that there aren’t grammatical tomes to be pored over. Perhaps it is very difficult to learn to speak English correctly (who/whom, “to boldly go,” final prepositions), but it’s pretty easy to pick up how to construct sentences.

English’s flexibility is also one of the things that makes it Awesome. It absorbs phrases and words effortlessly; “je ne sais quoi” and “fajita” are both equally at home in the English language. (Though you don’t even want to know how I just tried to spell that first one.) Somehow, they’re as at home as “whatever” and “hot dog.” Other languages aren’t like this, I think. K says that Chinese is so rigid that foreign words sort of just can’t be imported, while “home run” makes it into Spanish as the bastardized “jónron,” because that fits Spanish’s rules. In Latin, words have to fit a grammatical structure, and so foreign terms often had to be forcibly wedged into that structure. (And looking at how Ancient Greek imported foreign names can lead to hilarity.) English, however, takes words just as they come. I’m sure this isn’t true with some words, but for the most part it is more flexible than other languages.

This might be the reason for another difference between English and Latin: how they change. English is rapidly transforming, picking up new structures, new words, and new grammar in addition to new idioms. Latin, on the other hand? Though style, syntax, and vocabulary changed, I can read Plautus and I can read Abelard, and they were separated by over twelve centuries. Most English speakers can’t even manage Shakespeare fluently, and he was writing sort of recently. This is for reasons other than the rigidity and flexibility of Latin and English, respectively; I think part of it also has to do with who is speaking these languages. Latin was preserved by the intellectual elite, and it was taught to people as a second language. Little monks would be constantly corrected, and one wouldn’t put up with mistakes in scholarship. Latin wasn’t given a chance to evolve much in the structured settings in which it occurred. Compare this to how grammatical errors and stylistic faux pas are allowed not only in everyday conversation, but also even in published works and the New York Times (though not the New Yorker, of course). English and Latin both serve(d) as common languages, methods of communication across cultures, but the ways they play that role, the origins, the evolution, their use, and the repercussions, are quite different.

The modern English/medieval Latin connection is the subject of this Mongolian Connection, but I think I also, after a couple months of writing about why Mongolia is Awesome, want to remind everyone that English is Awsome, too.

(And I’ve used four words or phrases imported from other languages in this post, just by accident.)

Meditations: Marriage for Love or for Money?

Throughout the Secret History of the Mongols, and further throughout my readings on the Mongol Empire, I encountered a theme that’s common in pretty much all history and a lot of literature: marriage as a political tool. Genghis Khaan would take a wife in order to secure his relationship with (i.e. superiority over) that tribe. When you can have as many wives as you want, this strategy works pretty well. Morris Rossabi put it clearly when he stated that “the Mongols often used marital alliances as a means of binding non-Mongols to them.” The Ilkhan Abakha, for example, established a good relationship with the Byzantines because his wife was a Byzantine princess. Even Edward I of England considered marrying a Mongol in order to secure an alliance with them.

Of course this is not a Mongol innovation; East or West, children of prominent families have often been entered into marriages for political or monetary reasons. In fact, marriage was seen very much as a financial alliance for probably most of history. This is old news to pretty much everyone reading this, so I don’t feel the need to go into too much detail about it.

Reading about it this time, for some reason, I didn’t feel like many people do about the whole thing. The general cultural consensus is that we are much more advanced than those people, that our freer society allows us to marry for love, and that this is a much improved system. In our movies and books, girls (and boys) often escape arranged marriages (Pocahontas, Ever After, The Princess Bride, etc.) and end up in happy relationships with the ones they truly love. Awww.

But using marriage as a method of alliance was actually a very good idea. It does not apply so much anymore, because our political/financial systems just don’t work the way they used to, but I think it’s a mistake to view political marriages as just a cruel arrangement for the parties involved. Sure, a princess might get shipped off to a foreign land and wed to a man she couldn’t stand, but that marriage could potentially save thousands of lives. Wars have been prevented by beneficial marriages, and nations have been founded and developed because of a single partnership. In that sort of a context, a single girl’s romantic unhappiness just looks pretty insignificant. And of course, we need to remember that a marriage then did not mean what marriage now means. Mongol khans may not have spent much time with their wives at all, and even for European royalty, one simply was not expected to try to have some lovely romance with one’s spouse. A life in general then was different from a life now, and it usually was not intended to involve rose petals and affectionate glances. (That’s not to say that people in the past did not long for romantic love, just that it took a very different form and was thought to occur in a very different social context, usually outside of marriage.)

Our modern ideal view of marriage is that it should create a happy family; the old view of elite marriage was that it should create peaceful nations. And that seems to me to be a legitimate cause. So my point is, maybe we shouldn’t boo so much when a king insists his daughter marry the slow-witted neighboring prince. And maybe we shouldn’t cheer so much when she elopes with her true love and leaves the countries in the tension that could have been avoided with a  bit of personal sacrifice on her part.

This brings me back to the namesake of this blog, Our Lady of the Mongols. She seems like a heroine in a modern context, someone who stood up for herself and refused to be a victim of the system. Of course, hers is an extreme example, and being shuffled from one khan to the next isn’t conducive to any sort of happiness, and probably not going to produce much of an alliance, either. I do think it’s admirable that she chose her personal religious devotion over agreeing to be sent off to yet another khan on her father’s say-so. But that doesn’t make her father the villain; he was being a politician, and he probably thought he was choosing his constituents’ security over his daughter’s comfort.

Of course, times have changed, and Malia isn’t going to be betrothed to Prince Harry in this lifetime to preserve that “special relationship.” (Though if they fell in love on their own, the Sun would have a field day!) In our world, we are expected to marry for love, and if two young people are being used as bartering chips in corporate deals, we tend to get a little indignant. So why is this? As I mentioned before, the system itself is no longer one that benefits from marital alliance, so that changes things. But even when examining situations in historical contexts, we often think that people should not be unwillingly wed for the greater good. It seems to me to have to do with our culture’s broader philosophy of individualism. The individual now comes above the greater good, often above family or politics. Is this why we now view political/financial marriages as so barbaric? Because we place a higher value on individual happiness? Do we thus place a lower value on community security/success? Is it really a zero-sum game? Does our modern world value individual happiness because, in the newer system, it is thought to contribute to community security/success?

Of course, I don’t have any answers to these questions. (I never do!) But a scenario that lies on the cusp of the marriage as a tool/marriage for love transition showcases all of these themes, and then some. Some of you may have heard of Consuelo Vanderbilt. Consuelo was the only daughter of Alva Smith Vanderbilt and William Kissam Vanderbilt. (I list Alva first very deliberately.) Consuelo’s story is not a happy one; she made her debut in New York society as an elegant heiress, and she was secretly engaged to a man she loved. However, her mother wanted a marital alliance for her only daughter that would be advantageous to the Vanderbilt name, and she threatened/cajoled/manipulated her daughter into breaking off her engagement and instead marrying the Duke of Marlborough, a man Consuelo had met and disliked. The Duke didn’t like her any better than she liked him; Consuelo was marrying him to bring honor to the family name, and the Duke was marrying her for her multi-million dollar dowry. After a few years of unhappiness and the births of two sons, the couple divorced. Consuelo was no longer young, and though she married again, she never lived the Hollywood fantasy that she, as a girl with a secret fiancé and more money than she could possibly spend, could have hoped for. The Duke of Marlborough also married again, and that one ended more poorly than the first.

There was no happy ending for either Consuelo or the Duke; their arranged marriage was not one that ended in love like in the novels. It was just two people whose happiness was sacrificed in order to provide security for their families. But the thing is, it worked. The relatively new Vanderbilt family proved their worth and established themselves, and the Duke filled his family coffers. When I visited Blenheim Palace, the Marlborough family’s estate, one of the tour guides made a joke about me being American and said, “We like American money here. Without American money, we wouldn’t be here like this.” He explained that Blenheim is only privately owned because of the Vanderbilt money. The leftover interest of Consuelo’s dowry is still used to maintain the estate (now supplemented by entry fees), and the Duke of Marlborough lives in a private wing there. Unlike many estates, which could not afford their own upkeep and taxes, Blenheim Palace did not decay due to lack of funds, but flourished because of a single miserable marriage. On the one hand, Consuelo’s life is sad. And if a movie were made about her, we’d probably root for her to marry her secret fiancé. On the other hand, I like visiting Blenheim, and thousands of people now enjoy the estate that was built with a teenage girl’s tears. So what do we think here? Were those tears worth it?  If it were our own daughter, or our own estate, which would we choose, and which should we choose? Our posterity, or posterity in general?

Mongolia is Awesome: Blizzard vs. the Golden Horde

Some of you may be familiar with the gaming phenomenon “World of Warcraft,” or at the very least with the enlightening South Park episode about it. Part of the brilliance of WoW lies in the fact that people keep playing it, and keep paying for it. In addition to paying the regular price of the game, gamers have to pay $20 each month to stay connected to the World part of  Warcraft, and because the game is engineered to keep people playing, Blizzard makes millions from regular subscriptions, in addition to the money from selling the game.

But Orcs and Elves are no match for the Mongols. Apparently, in Mongolia, players just don’t have to pay the monthly subscription fee. Though they have to pay for the game (and a computer), apparently there is a nationwide hacked account that gives Mongolians access to the game for free. This was described to me as “an official Mongolian server” for WoW, but what exactly “official” entails was not made completely clear. Though I doubt that it’s official in the sense of government-sponsored, this is Mongolia, and the government could be just that Awesome.

Mongolian Connections: Coffee Empire

I’m sure there is some deep sociological significance behind a “Coffee Republic” knockoff in Mongolia called “Coffee Empire,” but it’s just too deep for me to dissect. I’m hoping it has to do more with historical than with political ideology, but who knows?

Meditations: Rubbish and Resources

My guidebook has a “responsible camping” section, which consists of instructions to limit one’s impact on the environment and ecology of the areas through which one treks. In a country like Mongolia, whose appeal (partially) relies on its seemingly untouched landscapes, and which is home to some of the few completely intact ecosystems in the world, low-impact camping is pretty important. I can appreciate that, no matter how inconvenient carrying trash around for weeks is.

So I was a bit surprised when, while making dinner on the steppe, my Mongolian guide just disposed of trash by dropping it on the ground. Wet wipes and newspaper I could clench my teeth and deal with, but when he left the tinned-meat can and plastic wrappers just sitting there, I furtively picked them up and packed them into a plastic bag to dispose of at a later date. When we finally got to Darkhad, the trash was given to the mother of the family we stayed with to get rid of more responsibly. But what does getting rid of trash “more responsibly” mean? One day, I noticed by the cabins a little mini-landfill next to the family’s toilet. (I think the landfill may have been in a past toilet, actually.) There was the trash, still taking up space, still looking ugly and disrupting the natural landscape. So taking the trash here wasn’t any better than littering, I thought.

But then I realized: Wait, what is the difference between this mini-landfill and our own landfills? I’m (shamefully) not sure exactly how trash disposal works in the US, and though I know there is a concept of “incineration,” there are also landfills, so I don’t know exactly how much trash becomes ash and how much is carted away to out-of-sight garbage dumps. In any case, Staten Island is proof that there are landfills to which at least some of our trash goes to rot away over centuries or millennia or more. But, unlike with the family landfills of the nomads, we don’t see these dumps (and in the case of Staten Island, we actively avoid them). When I think about it, that actually strikes me as a worse method than the Mongolian way. Just like we can go to a supermarket and pick up processed packages of “pork” or “beef,” without having to confront the fact that what we are eating is in fact killed animal, muscle and fat and nerves, we can place our Doritos wrappers and plastic forks into clean plastic bags and have them disappear from the tops of our driveways. This, actually, seems pretty irresponsible. We should have to deal with the waste we produce; we should have to understand the ecological price of all that Styrofoam. I’m not saying we ought to coat the streets with our filth or allow it all to pile up in our living rooms (like Sarah Stout) and out the doors until we have to move our whole town (like Springfield), but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have to drive by landfills on a daily basis. Or take our trash to the town dump where we can see it all pile higher and higher. If we see the results of our lifestyle, maybe that would make it harder to ignore, and perhaps even be an impetus for change?

But okay, how would we change our lifestyle? How much unnecessary trash do we really produce? We recycle our plastics and magazines and take our canvas bags to the store—so that’s pretty good, right? Sure, but I think there’s still a lot more trash than we think about. After coming from the countryside back to UB, I watched a single lemon I bought get wrapped up in saran wrap for my purchasing ease, and I bought the packaged set of apples and of peppers. A lot of the food we eat is packaged, and we can avoid that waste just by making our own bread, for example, or cookies or lasagna. (Which also means fresh, homemade food!) And in my case, at least, there’s more than that—all those wet wipes for cleaning while camping instead of cloth. And keeping my to-do lists on notebook paper instead of my computer is easier, but isn’t that environmentally irresponsible?

Okay, now I’m being nitpicky. Which brings me to my next point: a partial disavowal of most of what I’ve said. There is more to environmentalism than waste disposal. Resource use is also a big factor. And surprisingly, some “environmental” behaviors are also majorly resource-heavy. (Though none are quite as bad as flying hundreds of people into Copenhagen or using valuable money to buy fake carbon credits.) I’ve heard (but cannot confirm) that recycling paper actually requires more energy and even creates more waste than just cutting trees and creating new paper. Making a ceramic mug supposedly requires the material and energy of 1,000 paper cups, meaning my mug that I bought and left in Oxford is actually ecologically unsound. (This, at least, makes me feel better about spending an entire summer using red Solo cups instead of buying a glass.) Of course, if throwing out paper and disposable plates, etc. uses up valuable space for litter, there are still environmental repercussions. However, a (somewhat dubious) study was recently released calculating that in 1,000 years, all the trash in the US would take up landfill space equaling about 35 square miles. To put it in perspective, that’s less than 8% of the area of Phoenix. (And as far as I’m concerned, putting the landfill right on top of the city would be more than environmentally responsible enough to make up for the landfill itself.) If that study is true, and the facts about the resources used to recycle or make non-disposable silverware are true, actually, creating trash might be the lesser evil. So, all in all, what does this mean for our lifestyle? Should we decrease our use of disposable items? Increase it? Use up our valuable time and energy to make our own food or stick to Doritos? Or does it all add up to not making a damn bit of difference? I’m inclined to think we should move from any and all trash/recycling arguments and focus on bigger environmental travesties like corn subsidies or golf courses. Or Phoenix.

Steppe Trash (At least it's all biodegradable... Wait, is goat horn biodegradable?)

Mongolia is Awesome: DESTROY!

That’s just how the Mongols cut and blowdry. The best part is that it’s two doors down from “Victory Fashion Shop.”

Meditations: Stalin Lives!

Walking around Ulaanbaatar, one cannot escape the feel of Stalinism that absolutely pervades the place. If I were given only three words to describe the city, “Stalinist” would indubitably make the list, and I’m not sure that, if I were given only one word, “Stalinist” wouldn’t be it.

It shows in the city’s name: “Ulaanbaatar” is translated as “Red Hero,” and it received its name in 1924 after being conquered by communists. (Who exactly the “Hero” is, I have yet to discover, though I suspect it is Sukhbaatar, who also gives his name to the main Square of the city.) And the buildings… I never realized until I got here how much of an effect architecture has on a place (which shows how little I’ve been paying attention). Most of the standing structures in Ulaanbaatar were built by the USSR, and they look like exactly what you’d expect: Square apartment buildings. Period. But it’s a neglected sort of Stalinism, like an abandoned communist city, despite the crowds of people walking around, knowing to avoid the open manholes and unbothered by the bits of wreckage that stand on (or are) the side of the road. Grass pokes through the concrete and makes a reluctant appearance in backyards and parks, but even the plants here look Soviet.

But here’s the thing: Ulaanbaatar is not communist. It is not Soviet, and officially, it never was. The Mongolian people are pretty ready for the future, evidenced by some of the new modern buildings and the rapid privatization of the country’s industry. When the coordinator of International Programmes dropped me off, I asked about a statue in front of the NUM and wondered who it was. She said she doesn’t like him much, that he was president of Mongolia when the NUM was founded, but she does not like him much (she repeated), because he was friends with Stalin. So people’s attitudes seem to be very un-communist.

My first meditation, then, is very appropriate to Mongolia in general (as I’ll get to later): How significant is the past? What prompts a people to reject their past, and once they collectively want to, how easy is it? Is it even possible, or does the past still stand as long as the buildings do? How are our own societies still tied to the past? Did America emerge the way it did due to the very fact that it was without a past, that it was a people starting fresh and erecting their own buildings? Getting back to Mongolia, is the Stalinism something that will wear off as new institutions of the country emerge (i.e. democracy, capitalism, technology), or has it made enough of a mark that they’re stuck with it for a while? What effect will new institutions have not only on the literal remnants of the past (buildings, statues, etc), but also on people's views of the past? And I haven’t even started with gers yet.