Trying on a new pair of shoes at Narantuul

Narantuul

Ready for winter

Terej

Terej

Before

after

Favorite graffiti

Outside my window before pollution

Outside my window after

MYIS students and me

Tsargaan Tsar

A picture of me from the Mongolian Lunar New Year celebration taken on the 24 of February 2012

Dust in the wind

Published Friday March 2nd in the UB Post

Cheap and easiest way to get to America? Grab an umbrella and wait for a Mongolian dust storm.

In the spring 2001, a particularly cantankerous dust storm hitchhiked its way from the dunes of of Sainshand, drifted across the Pacific, plummeted down the icy British Columbia coast, scaled the Colorado Plateau and finally landed in Arizona, where many believed the sun had set precipitately.

The dust storm had traveled over 11,000 km, originating from a severe drought in the Gobi Desert of Mongolia and northwestern China.

Severe dust storms are nothing new to the world. From the Sahara to the Middle East, dust storms have routinely upset the daily commerce and goings of humanity, killings hundreds and confusing thousands.

The United Nations newsletter reported in June 2009 that 52 people were killed and 320,000 animals lost their lives in a particularly severe two day dust storm in Mongolia in the spring of 2008.  Just last year, Australia suffered from the worst dust storm the country has seen in 70 years. This year, a dust storm in Riyadh, the largest city in Saudi Arabia, completely blackened the sky during the afternoon.

With the growing power of Asian dust storms over the last century, researchers have been pointing climate change as the root cause. Powerful and enduring, dust storms from Mongolia frequently travel as far away as South Korea, Taiwan and Japan.

Climate change worldwide is making Mongolia hotter and more arid. Since the 1940s, the mean temperature in Mongolia has increased 3.4° Fahrenheit, this when compared to the global mean of 1° represents a dramatic increase in the given the time frame. Further, with strange rain patterns over the last few decades, soil erosion has become rampant on fragile pasture lands.

The combination of the increase in temperature and erosion of the soil are large factors in the potency of spring dust storms. Another player is the reduction of rivers in Mongolia due to glacial drop offs, which is speeding the process of desertification.

Called ‘yellow dust’ by the locals, the dust blowing from Mongolia and Northwestern China creates environmental and health problems for the inhabitants across Asia. Studying the contents of the dust, toxicologists have discovered that yellow dust has 16 times the metallic substances of normal dust.

Yellow dust can cause problems with human skin by activating the cellular detoxification system, essentially changing the arrangement of proteins present in ordinary cellular demarcation. In effect, yellow dust can modify the way human cells divide. It can also negatively affect human respiratory systems and produce bothersome lacrimations.

To combat desertification, the Ministry of Nature and Environment of Mongolia has partnered with other countries to set up a monitoring system for dust storms, arrange plans of action in case of a severe storm and developing forecasting methods. Other ways to combat desertification, as established by the UN, ask countries to prevent the over-cultivation of the soil, limit overgrazing and impart legislative action to prevent desertification.

Generally, Ulaanbaatar experiences 15-30 days of extreme winds, a time ripe for dust storms. Experts advice locals to carry masks designed to filter out small particles. They also suggest carrying water, as the high temperatures associated with dust storms can quickly dehydrate.

If a dust storm is visible on the horizon, getting away from the storm as quickly as possible is a good option. However, with winds traveling upwards of 75 mph, getting away can be tricky.  If in a vehicle, it’s a safe bet to pull to the side of the road and let the storm pass through.

Most important, if the dust storm has already landed, it’s safer to stay put and take cover rather than move around, due to issues in visibility and the potential for flying objects. 

Dust storms will be here soon, but a little prevention can go a long way. Through the efforts of the Mongolian government and environmental scientists, dust storm research and prevention might finally get the waft it needs to take effect. Until then, grab a mask or an umbrella. 

Native Americans linked to the Altai Region

Published on Friday Feb 3

Sometimes Jesuit priests just get it right.

In the 1580s, Jesuit priest José de Acosta published an article hypothesizing that that Native Americans reached the North America continent through some type of land bridge in eastern Russia.

Nearly 450 years later, his hypothesis holds and has recently been aided by DNA fingerprinting linking Native Americans to the Altai Region of Siberia.

Native Americans, originally called “Indians” by Columbus, who was a tad confused as to what continent he had landed on, have been linked to the Asiatic region for centuries now. Yet disputes over when they crossed the Bering Strait, which group of Asians they were related to, and which group was the first to cross, continued to battle it out in the footnotes and dry pages of academia.

The theory of the Settlement of the Americas, which postulates that Native Americans crossed from Asia to America 16,500 and 13,000 years ago, has been widely accepted since the 1930s.  The theory revolves around the idea that Siberia was once connected to Alaska by a strip of land called the Bering land bridge.

The Clovis Indians, with their infamous Clovis point arrowheads, were thought to have been the first to migrate from Asia to America at the end of the last glacial period.

 By the 1950s, many anthropologists and archeologists had started citing blood work as evidence of the theory of the Settlement of the Americas. It was discovered that blood type O was predominant in South America, while blood type A was predominant in North America among indigenous peoples. Anthropologists also used skull analysis to link Native American and Asian groups.

In 1973, British scientist and host of the show The Ascent of Man, Jacob Bronowski, speculated that there must have been two different times of migration to the Americas. He claimed the first group to come was the type O blood group, while type A followed in the coming years. This evidence of earlier habitation was quickly supported by sites found in areas across North and South America. The advent of carbon dating further dappled the Settlement theory, revealing that some Native American tools were upwards of 25,000 years old.

While the multiple migration theory has since been accepted, the debate regarding Native American Asiatic origins has waged on into the 21^st century.

A recent publication by a team of University of Pennsylvania anthropologists published in the American Journal of Human Genetics has a good chance to cool the century-long debate.

By looking at genetic variations in Altaian populations, the team discovered a unique mutation in two types of DNA shared by Native Americans and Southern Altaians.

Anchoring a border between Mongolia, China and Kazakhstan, the Altai Republic holds a diverse past has been a meeting place between various ethnic groups for thousands of years. The Altai Mountains span from Russia to the Gobi Desert, and it is thought that the region is the original location of the Turkic body of languages.

Working with Ludmilla Osipova, a researcher at the institute of Cytology and Genetics in Russia, the team has discovered similarities between Native America and South Altaians in mitochondrial DNA, passed maternally, and the Y chromosome, which is passed paternally.

The group collected 1,500 DNA samples from Native Americans and 750 samples from people in the Altai region. The findings are highly accurate given the large number of gene markers examined for the study.

While there have been smaller studies conducted since the end of the 1990s showing genetic correlations between people of the southern Siberian regions and Native Americans, this particular study is unique in the amount of samples taken. “We’re using hundreds of markers to find genetic regions [which means] the mutation we get is much larger,” said Theodore Schurr, one of the study’s authors.

The team hopes to conduct further studies in the region using high-resolution methods. By potentially ending a century old debate, further research can now be undertaken in the Altai regions of Kazakhstan, Mongolia and China, shedding more light on the relation between this unique region of Asia and the origins of Native Americans.

The Cola Wars

  (published in the UB Post on Monday January 23)

The bell sounds.

The hiss of a Pepsi can sprays its carbonated glory into the rafters surrounding the ring. The snap of its opponent, a muscular Coke can with bulging red biceps, sends shivers down the spines of all in attendance. The cameras surrounding the ring flash as the Coke can takes the first swing. The Pepsi can ducks, coming in with a hard right.

The war between Coke and Pepsi is the new Hundred Years’ War.

 It will last well into the 22^nd century and beyond, from coast to coast, mountain to mountain, villa to villa, couch to couch, and if we are lucky (or should I say, if the space tourist industry is lucky), from planet to planet. The war started at the turn of the 20^th century with blind taste tests, massive marketing campaigns, catchy slogans and ample buzz words. The goal? To be the number one cola, the number one caffinator, the number one can of sugar and carbonation. To win the cola wars.

We are witnessing the start of a Cola War in Mongolia and no one seems to be paying attention. No one is building barracks, no one is stocking up on water, no one is running to the countryside for cover.

Opening a small plant through local bottler MCS in 2002, Coke and its popularity have soared in sales for ten years now. In 2008, MCS opened a USD 22 million dollar Coke facility in Mongolia just to meet demand. When the smaller Coke factory first opened its doors in 2002, Mongolian consumers chugged four eight-ounce servings per person. Six years later as the new factory was opening, a typical Mongolian consumer drank 70 servings per year. Odjargal Jambaljamts, Chairman and CEO of MCS added, “Both the bottling company the Coca-Cola Company have exceeded all projections of profitability and sales. Our investment in the new plant is just our first step to bring world class manufacturing to Mongolia.”

Translation: the cola war is far from over.

At the end of the last decade, Pepsi too stepped onto the battlefield to wage war against Coke in the land of the Mongol Empire. Realizing they’d better catch up quick, Pepsi signed a deal with GN beverages to produce Miranda, Pepsi and 7-Up to compete locally with Coke. Setting up a factory with the latest German and Japanese technology to ensure quality, Pepsi has wasted no time in laying a solid foundation for their tactical operations.  

To better train their cola soldiers, Coke has been sending Mongolian workers to the Coca-Cola University in Shanghai. One can only imagine the type of strategic planning, quality control tactics and rigorous boot camp that must go on there:

“What is this soldier!?”

“A bottle of Pepsi, sir!”

“Who is your target?”

“Pepsi, sir!”

“Do you drink Pepsi soldier!?”

“Never, sir!”

“Soldier, how many grams of sugar are in a Pepsi!?”

“Forty-two grams, sir!”

“Wrong! Forty-one grams! Drop and give me twenty push-ups!”

Other Coca-Cola boot camp ideas? The trainee must crawl on his or her belly across a field of crushed Coke cans. The trainee must be able to open a glass bottle of coke with his or her teeth. The trainee must be able to tell the difference in a blind taste test between a can of Coke and a can of Pepsi. The trainee must do push-ups with four cases of Cokes stacked across his or her back. A background check must be performed on the trainee and his or her family to weigh their Coke vs. Pepsi consumption. If over the course of a single year, the trainee’s family has consumed more Pepsi than Coke, the trainee is automatically disqualified from attending the university.

Pepsi appears to be a bit more laconic about their training procedure for potential cola warriors. Does Pepsi have a secret underground base (possibly in Russia or China) where they train future factory employees? Is there secret cola military base underwater off the coast of Japan? What is the Pepsi Challenge and what are its true implications? The debate keeps conspiracy theorists across the globe up at night trolling Wikileaks for information. Only the cola gods know what sorts of weapons of mass consumption Pepsi has in store for the steppe.

As it stands right now, MCS group and their Coca-Cola warriors seem to be winning the race to provide popular mixers and afternoon pick-me-ups to a growing economy of cola connoisseurs. Further, MCS owns a number of bars and retail outlets, which only increase their chance of winning the war. Even Santa Claus has weighed in on what beverage he prefers. But the war is far from over. Lying dormant like a sleeping blue giant, Pepsi seems to be preparing for a large assault across the cityscape of Ulaanbaatar. By opening a factory in Mongolia, Pepsi is one step closer to infiltrating the cola masses and filling their minds and stomachs with carbonated goodness. Is Pepsi up for the challenge?

From Time to Time

From Time to Time

By Cooper Baltis

“Will you read me that story?” he asked, closing his eyes and adjusting his head on the pillow.

“Which one?”

“The one you have been working on. You know, the one loosely based on us.”

“But it’s not finished yet,” she replied, turning her body towards him and tracing her finger along the outline of his chin.

“But you’ve been working on it for almost a year now,” he said, yawning.

“I know. I just…it’s just that, well, the story is still in a developmental stage. It’s still premature.”

“Developmental stage? Premature? You writers are so crazy. How are other people supposed to read your work if you’re afraid to read it yourself?”

“I’m not afraid to read it. I’m quite proud of it actually. I just want it to be perfect, that’s all,” she said, dropping her hand and rolling to her other side.

“Alright, if you say so. I’m tired anyway.”

The next morning came and went.

The next week came and went.

The next month came and went.

The next year came and went.

Still, she never revealed to him the story she had been working so diligently on.

“Well can you at least tell me the name?” he asked one cold winter day, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“The story is called Two Lovers,” she replied.

“And you say it’s loosely based on us?” he smirked as he added creamer from a plastic container with a bright red top. “Sounds like it’s tightly based on us.”

“I’ve never heard someone refer to something as ‘tightly based.’”

“You’re a writer. You should be used to new phrases.”

“Antimeria and neologisms?” she asked, leaning over the kitchen counter on her elbows and smiling.

“If you say so.”

As he slurped from his cup of coffee, he reached out to graze her elbow with his fingers.

The winter changed to spring.

The spring changed to summer.

The summer changed to fall.

The fall changed to winter.

It happened all over again.

Time passed quickly and slowly, as it is prone to do from time to time. The days merged together, the seasons blended, the arguments came and went, friends appeared and disappeared, the actors on television aged, clothes grew tight and threadbare, newspapers yellowed.

He proposed to her one evening after taking her to a small sauce-stained Italian restaurant on the edge of the Bronx.

 He had thought to call ahead and have the restaurant participate in the proposal but quickly tossed the idea out. She was a consummate critic of excessive sentimentality, a minimalist with a disdain for kitsch. She was the type who didn’t want to live in some fantastical movie existence, didn’t care for a Disney ending. According to her, those things existed only in fiction. He knew her well enough to know that. At least he thought he did.

The dinner went well, the food came and went as if it were on wheels, the wine in their glasses stayed full, the bill continued its steady climb up the credit card ladder to an unknown peak. He didn’t mind, money comes and money goes.

She wondered why he’d decided on this restaurant, wondered why he was wearing his best suit, wondered why he’d shaved, wondered why he’d put on cologne. He seemed nervous, glancing back and forth across the restaurant as if an ex-girlfriend sat in a booth nearby. As if there was something she couldn’t see. He kept wiping the sweat off his brow and readjusting his posture, harrumphing and looking down at his watch.

She took the last bite of tiramisu and watched in slow motion as he dropped to one knee.

A ring was procured, her hand was softly grasped, a black velvet box snapped opened, she found herself saying ‘yes’ before the question could escape his mouth, she found herself giggling, she found herself with a sparkling ring on her finger. She found herself with a husband.

Time continued to slide by as if someone had hooked it to a rope and dragged it through the warren streets of transient memories.

They moved in together, they married, they honeymooned, she published her third novel, he got a job promotion, they redecorated the apartment, his father died, they prepared a room for the baby, they had a girl named Elle.

One day, after putting Elle to sleep, she cuddled in next to him on their living room sofa.

“You still working on that story?” he asked suddenly.

“Which one?” she replied.

“Two Lovers.”

“You haven’t asked me about that in quite some time,” she said. “What made you think of it?”

“It just came to me. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it. So…”

“So…?”

“Well do you have anything to read me? You must be finished with it by now.”

“No, but I can tell you the two characters have had a child.”

He laughed, “Sounds familiar.”

“Most things do.”

“So is it a boy or a girl? Let me guess…” he sighed.

“Ok, guess,” she smiled faintly up at him.

“Why can’t you just tell me? It’s been…I think almost seven years now. Eight years maybe?”

“I want it to be perfect, that’s why,” she said.

“Will it have a happy ending?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You should know by now,” he sighed and laid his head on top of hers, smelling her freshly shampooed hair.

Days continued to fall like dominos.

Hours blended together, clocks ticked incessantly, morning yawns, movies before bed, expanding waistlines, new wrinkles, new bills, new worries, new triumphs.

Time skipped like a stone thrown across a vast stream.

She published her fourth novel to rave reviews and he received another promotion at work. They had a son named Elijah and Elle grew into the dresses her mother used to wear when she was a girl. A family dog was purchased, a car was leased, computers, televisions and cell phones were replaced. The years piled on like sacks of flour.

One day, while having a heated discussion at work, tragedy struck, as it is prone to do from time to time.

He fell to the floor, his right hand on his heart, his trashcan toppled over, his pencil holder swiped off his desk, his co-worker’s mouth agape. He was rushed to the emergency room. Hands in starchy plastic gloves moved him onto a bed. Doctors hovered around him. He closed his eyes and drifted away.

He awoke with a plastic tubes sticking out of his nose and chords taped to his arm. She rushed to the bedside and grabbed his hand.

“Hi sweetie…” he whispered with a hoarse voice.

“Oh,” she sobbed. “How do you feel?”

“Pretty good for a guy waking up in the hospital with tubes sticking out of his nose,” he said, trying to move.

She laughed through her tears, “Don’t move, just relax. I’m right here. The kids are with my mom.”

“Hey, whatever happened to that story you were writing?” he asked, closing his eyes and resting on the pillow.

“Why? Why are you asking me right now?”

“It just came to me…while I was out.”

“I couldn’t finish the story,” she cried, holding his hand.

“But why?” he asked, looking down at her from his hospital bed.

“Because it was about us.”

“You’ve told me that for years now…”

“I didn’t want the story to end. I mean, I don’t want the story to end…”

“All stories must end, you know that.”

“I know, but not like this.”

“Well, you should tell me about it someday,” he said faintly, resting his eyes.

“I will…someday when it’s finished.”

Cobwebs from an Empty Skull (revisited)

Cobwebs from an Empty Skull revisited

The following are updated fables from Ambrose Bierce’s 1874 short story collection, Cobwebs from an Empty Skull. They have been updated by myself to introduce their messages to a new audience. The epigrams remain unaltered.—Enjoy, Cooper Baltis

Published on Wednesday January 11, 2012 in the UB Post. 

Timon never knew he would end up in the Gobi Desert, stuck with nothing but a camel, the shirt on his back, a large knife attached to his belt and a pair of scratched sunglasses. His throat was parched and the skin on his nose and the back of his neck was blistering. He was hot and lonely, grief-stricken and scared. Having no one else to talk to, Timon asked the camel what his thoughts were on turning back and going to the last oasis they had passed.

            “Personally, I have no desire to go back to the oasis,” said the camel, spitting at a lizard scattering nearby. “That was two days ago and truthfully, I’ve seen better oases.”

            “I agree. I too have visited better oases,” Timon said. “Maybe if I carried two tanks full of water on my back, I wouldn’t be dying of thirst. Listen camel, I can’t go on any further.”

            “Well, I’m not going anywhere but straight. I have enough water in my two humps to last for quite some time,” argued the camel. “It looks like we have ourselves a little problem here.”

            “Well, if you won’t go back and I won’t go forward, we can only remain here in the middle of the desert,” Timon said, hopping off the camel.

            “True, but soon enough you will die of thirst,” the camel replied.

            “Not so,” Timon said, looking at the camel over the rims of his sunglasses.

As the camel dropped to his knees to rest, Timon pulled the knife from his belt, assassinated the camel and appropriated the water from his humps.

            A compromise is not always a settlement satisfactory to both parties.

_____________________________________________________________________________

The same man named Timon was trying to cross a rather large wall after escaping from the Gobi with a belly full of camel meat. As he neared the top of the wall, a slathering bull ran to his assistance. The bull struck Timon’s backside, catapulting the tall man over the fence. Timon stood, dusted off his slacks and turned away from the bull.

            “You are welcome,” the bull called out, upset that Timon had forgotten to thank him. “Assisting you was my duty.”

            “Some duty,” Timon said, turning back towards the bull. “Next time, keep your horns to yourself. I did not require your services in the least bit.”

            “Seriously? Out of the benevolence of my beefy bull heart, I helped you get over the fence and all you can say to me is good riddance? Did you not want to reach the other side?” the bull snorted, the thick ring from his nostril gleaming in the countryside sun.

            “Of course I wanted to reach the other side of the fence,” Timon said, waving his hands at the bull, “but I could have done it better myself.”

            This fable teaches that while the end is everything, the means is something.

A young rooster was flirting with a pretty hen one morning at a barn outside Nashville, Kentucky.

            “Layin’ eggs isn’t that hard,” he boasted, leaning against a rusty pick-ax. “Heck, I once laid four eggs in three days.”

            “Did you?” she laughed, battering her lashes. “How did you manage to do that?”

            Not answering her, the young rooster turned his back on the hen and addressed himself a couple young chicks that were pecking at a worm.

            “Hey, pay attention to me,” he said. “I once laid an egg...”

            The chicks chirped, ripped the worm apart and passed on, ignoring him. The young rooster, red with ire, strutted his way up to the oldest rooster in the barn. He puffed his chest and looked the big bird straight in the beak.

            “I once laid an egg,” he began.

            The old rooster nodded gradually, as if a rooster laying an egg were an everyday occurrence.

            “Well?” the young rooster asked, ruffling his feathers again and standing taller.

            “I once laid an egg next to a watermelon,” the old rooster said wearily. “I compared the two. The vegetable was considerably larger.”

            This fable is intended to show the absurdity of hearing all a man has to say.

@Fool: You tweeted the other day that happiness is the sole aim of man.

@Philosopher: True, it is.

@ Fool: But how can you be certain? The sole aim of man has always been disputed.

@Philosopher: Most men find personal happiness in disputation.

@Fool: Socrates once said…

@Philosopher: Stop it right there! I detest foreigners, especially foreign philosophers.

@Fool: Wisdom, they say, is of no country.

@Philosopher: Yes, of none that I’ve seen.

@Fool: I’ve been thinking about what you said. Why do you hate foreigners?

@Philosopher: I hate them simply because I am human.

@Fool: Yes, but so are they.

@Philosopher: Excellent fool! I thank thee for the better reason.

            A hippopotamus drinking at a sandy river bed in Africa was surprised to see an alligator lying with his mouth open. He huffed and stopped directly in front the gator.

            “My toothy friend, you may as well shut that ugly mouth of yours. You are not large enough to embrace me,” the hippopotamus said, wagging his little curly tail in agitation.

            “I really wasn’t expecting to attempt it,” replied the alligator. “I try and extend my hospitality to everyone I meet here.”

            “You remind me,” said the hippopotamus petulantly, “of a certain zebra who was far from vicious. He went around these parts kicking the breath out of just about anything that passed behind him. After the other animals got wind of it, everyone around here just made sure never to walk behind him. Easy enough.”

            “It’s not important what I remind you of,” the alligator replied, sinking his teeth into the Hippo’s leg.

            The lesson conveyed by this fable is a very beautiful one.