#cianfrani

Mongolia II - Matt To see Mongolia is to leave Ulaanbaatar, the capital. Mongolians are nomads, and the nomadic tradition is still deeply cherished. Urbanites, who blend comfortably into the global megapolis value any chance to escape to the Steppe. It isn’t far from the truth to say that every Mongolian knows how to ride a horse.

Ulaanbaatar is a chaotic city under recovery from the brutalism of Soviet urban planning. There are 3 million people in Mongolia and forty-three percent of them live in Ulaanbaatar. High-rises, condos and commercial buildings climb fast. Louis Vuitton opened a store that immediately became the highest grossing of all its worldwide locations. Meanwhile, public infrastructure is neglected. Traffic is such a nightmare that the mayor devised a desperate scheme whereby cars with certain license plate numbers were restricted on certain days. Of course, one only needs to own more than one license plate. A relatively easy task in a political environment of favoritism and back door deals. The pay-to-play system especially benefits foreign mining companies that take what they want and give back only the usual “operating costs” of exploitation, i.e. bribe money that finds its way into the Louis Vuitton store.  

Outside of Ulaanbaatar, existence appears almost divorced from the political. Individualism is a liability. Survival depends on communalism. Yet the people do more than survive on the Steppe. They live.

Life on the steppe is hard. The land cannot be easily farmed. The storms cannot be stopped. The rivers cannot be easily dammed or bridged. The distances cannot be easily covered. It’s cold at night and hot during the day. The herds must be constantly monitored.

Yet there is a calm, a peace in the land. The horizon stretches infinitely. Disintegrating hills mountains outcrops wrinkle the land, revealing an history beyond human comprehension. Small lakes reflect the unobstructed sun like sheets of plate glass. White circular Gers sit naturally amongst the brush weed and iron rich earth. There is a surrendering here; a surrender of ego and meaning. The steppe cannot be fought. It cannot be adapted. You must adapt. I imagine it must be analogous for astronauts or divers.

In the sea, in space and on the steppe orientation is everything. We drove 5 hours to the Soum (a seasonal outpost used between the migration seasons) via Land Rover over unmarked terrain. We used no GPS map or compass, simply intuition and memory. The door of the ger must always face south and when sleeping the head must always point north. In this way, home becomes the only absolute reference. A beautiful irony considering a nomad by definition has no fixed concept of home.

Being nomadic means moving light and fast, with only the essential possessions. I felt comfortable here somehow. For me, mobility is everything and this lifestyle seemed to suit me. Of course, that is a privileged delusion. A romanticized, Orientalist fantasy. The fact is, this life is hard and to want anything more is almost is a struggle. It is not tourism and you don’t get a break. You don’t get to go home to your post-industrial conveniences with a feeling of rugged self-satisfaction. 

So, the people of Mongolia are faced with the challenge of reconciling a desire to modernize with out compromising the nomadic tradition, the core of their national and personal identity. Modernization is not Westernization and the Mongolian people are tough, resilient and wary of the schemes of foreign influencers. I hope to return sometime soon. 

1) On the edge of Ulaanbataar lies the Ger District, a massing conglomeration of gers and other structures sprawling from the city center exponentially every year. The government incentives people from the country side to fill in the edges of the city with little support beyond offers of land plots. This transitioning to a stationary lifestyle illustrates the effect of two contradictory paradigms encountering each-other; nomadism and capitalism. 

2) Traveling to the Soum involves many obstacles and hazards. Encountering a river means stepping out of the car, quietly observing, throwing a stone or two into the middle driving across, praying the water doesn’t flood the engine. 

3) The family home of Gonchigoo, our protagonist. We slept here with his parents and nephews, all facing north. 

4) Gonchigoo’s father surveys the Soum atop an outcrop. Built on these high-points in the landscape are modest Buddhist shrines, whose subtly do not betray the edicts of essentialism and presentness. 

5) At 4am, Gonchigoo’s mother prepares the salty milk tea for breakfast before we got to meet the herd. 

6) Gonchigoo, with some scholarship support from SDC, is now a doctor in Ulaanbaatar as well as a member of the Ministry of Health. He still sits effortlessly in the saddle. 

7- 9) We arrived at the end of the rain season and the beginning of the migration season. The herders move their homes with the herd, using horses trucks and collective participation. This day, we helped members of Gonchigoo’s extended family push the herd across a few rivers. 

10) The next generation of Mongolia. 

Moldova II - Matt

Moldova. The Bolsheviks really did these people a disservice. After the Berlin wall came down and the USSR dissolved, the satellites flew adrift with nothing to keep them in orbit. In many cases, these wayward nations found new systems to orbit if not the means to orbit their selves.

Moldova, however, found itself stuck in a vortex between the current superpowers of the EU / US and Russia. The situation, debated on the streets and in the halls of parliament, is whether to try to participate in the entrenched and monopolized Western market, whose impossible regulations and standards negate any chance to compete, or, to pay homage to Russia, the abusive boyfriend who left them with nothing and (according to some alarmist speculation) seems to have plans to take everything once again.

Historically, Moldova has been a meeting point for many peoples and in recent history has shared its closest kinship with neighboring Romania. Before World War 2 and the subsequent Soviet colonization, Moldova had an ethnic majority of Romanians. After the war, and as part of the usual Soviet methodology, Russians and a few other groups from the sphere were conscripted to repopulate the country. Moldova was forced to undergo a program of Russification. The written alphabet was converted to Cyrillic and the language of Romanian was changed to Moldovan (Romanian by a another name). Still today, if you ask a Moldovan what the official language is, they will give you an answer in line with their ethnic background or allegiance to Putin.

If the successful expansion of the Soviet empire can be attributed to a mix of calculated exploitation with a relentless commitment to an idealized worldview, than how different is that to the formula of democracy and capitalism. Not very, save one technical difference; the Soviet implementation of centralization.  

Moldova, left with out the centralized organ of support that was Moscow, atrophied. The urban landscape is dotted with the evidence of a misguided vision of a perfect future. Buildings, monuments, bus stops and signs made of concrete domes and arches and spirals crumble underneath overgrowth, overuse and the weight good intentions.

Without industry or access to capital, the migration rate of Moldovans is high. It’s common for one or more family member to be abroad, looking for work. The challenge now is to bring skills learned abroad home and invest them in the local infrastructure. Contrary to the Western myth of migration, migrants do intend to return. Home is home, and as one expert we spoke with put it, they are not trying to be little Swiss or little French people. The point is to encourage and enable the migration cycle in an effective way, rather than reinforce the false polemic of the usurper bleeding wealthy countries dry; a narrative politicians comfortably rely on during campaign season.  

Moldova has a long way to go towards autonomy, but as we saw, the energy is there. If the regional political situation can stabilize, and if a compromise between political differences can be reached, Moldova has every possibility to provide for its people.

1 -2) Symbols of the Soviet regime remain throughout the landscape. Monuments and idols were produced and installed in a style of surplus that would make Marx proud. Many Moldovans still experience a deep nostalgia for the Soviet days, when there seemed to be a semblance of order and a government that provided basic needs for (seemingly) nothing. Yet, many did not consider how unsustainable Soviet spending was, as well as the implications of being completely dependent on a parent country that would exploit and eventually abandon them.  3) Galina, our protagonist. Currently she lives a life of subsistence, growing what she feeds her family without the possibility for savings. Her story is somewhat typical for the Moldovan country side with the exception that she has 7 children, which is a lot, even in an Orthodox Catholic community. Galina received emergency support from the Swiss Development Cooperation in 2009 after a bad flood in the area. As a result she was able to bring her standard of living back to where it had been before the flood, which 6 years later is still just subsistence living. Since then, a few lessons about charity vs. development have been learned.

4) These Orthodox shrines demarcate the village boundaries while also protecting the community within.  5) Signs of communist resurgence are everywhere, especially during election season. The split between pro-West and pro-Putin clear. In fact, the region of Transnistria has been fighting a separatist civil-war to gain independence and acceptance with Russia. There are many that would see all of Moldova follow suit. 

6) Our guide Marcel. His story is amazing, but also telling for Moldova. In his youth, Marcel moved to Rome, lived in a squat with other Moldovans, worked, saved and returned to buy an apartment. During the Iraq war, when Americans needed affordable support services but dared not hire the locals (potential enemy combatants), Marcel was hired for security and transportation services. He trained in Virginia, and served many tours in Baghdad. After coming back to Moldova, he now works with aid organizations like SDC and USAID, has worked with the US Embassy and also promotes local businesses. Marcel is a great example of the migration cycle; go abroad > gain skills > come home > implement skills to the benefit of your home. Furthermore, Marcel is an expert in security driving, conflict-resolution and location scouting. Production teams coming to Moldova, be advised: Marcel is your Location Manager. 

7) Soviet brick brutalism painted yellow to seem a little less brutal.  8) Chisinau is very green city, with beautiful parks and many scenes perfect for Socialist Realism murals. 

9) The Eiffel Bridge, built by the French architect to connect Romania with Moldova, before his tower went up in Paris. 

10) A solitary soldier stands guard of a defunct Soviet train station. He’s 21, will retire from the army soon and leave Moldova, in search of something else. 

moldova I - patrick (deutsch)

dösende alleen. alte sowjet-paläste ducken sich im sonnenglast. ab und an wind von rotem samt. aus tiefen träumen schrecken platanen hoch. schütteln sich. schatten flattern auf ins helle mittagslicht. chisinau.

samtpfotig, ich. ziellos meinen weg setzend. mit halbgeschlossenen augen, aufmerksam.

chisinau, ein wald in einer stadt. ein verwilderter garten im hinterhof europas. wildrosen blühen hier. auf längst vergessenen gleisen rosten kriegszüge.

chisinau, eine stadt in einem wald. ein in bernstein gegossener glaube, dem die zukunft abhanden gekommen ist. wie leicht und weit mir hier plötzlich alles ist.

samtpfotig, ich. ziellos meinen weg setzend. mit geschlossenen augen,  ziellos meinen weg setzend.

galina, meine kleine bäuerin. irgendwo an einer staubigen landstrasse,  in ihrem kleinen blauen häusschen. irgendwo, gewiss. wenn ich mich nur an den namen des dorfs erinnern könnte. wir graben gemeinsam das feld hinter dem haus um. sie reicht mir frischen ziegenkäse. er schmeckt nach salz und vanille. sie erzählt wie hart ihr leben ist. ich sehe es selbst.

später: ich biete an, essen einzukaufen, sie schreibt die einkaufsliste. ihr jüngster sohn, juri, rennt damit los. ich verzweifelt: warte!

im krämerladen hinter der theke eine matrone mit kopftuch. ihr busen pflügt wiederwillig durch das wirrwarr aus regalen, säcken und kartons. aus einem plastiksack fischt sie schuhe, legt sie juri hin. er schüttelt den kopf. die matrone wühlt in einem anderen winkel und karton. dieses mal passen die schuhe. es folgen knallrote plastiksandaletten für die jüngere schwester! waschpulver, bettwäsche, hosen – vielleicht für die ältere schwester? ich höre auf zu zählen. juri zeigt auf die süssigkeiten hinter dem tresen, murmelt etwas. die matrone stockt, verblüffung blüht wie ein feuerwerk in ihrem gesicht auf.  unser übersetzer flüstert: der kleine hat gerade eben 3 kilo schokobonbons bestellt! hinter mir lacht matt laut auf. ich schüttle den kopf. 1,5 kilo!  mehr gibt es nicht! ich fühle, wie die absurdität wie eine nahende welle endlich über mir zusammen bricht.

samtpfotig, ich. mit geschlossenen augen,  weglos zum ziel.

galina ist zu tränen gerührt. dankt uns. dankt uns nochmals. mir ist nicht wohl bei der sache. in mir nagt die erkenntnis: das richtige zu tun, ist manchmal nicht das richtige. später: wir lassen unsere kamera-drohne hinter dem haus steigen. es ist windig, die drohne driftet, wir müssen die szene mit galina nochmals wiederholen. dann will sie plötzlich besorgt wissen, ob wir uns über sie lustig machen. nein! gelehrt erkläre ich, wie wir mit der drohne vom kleinen ins grosse kommen. das konzept! subtext, metaebene, der blick aufs ganze… galina schaut mich ausdruckslos an. davon verstehe sie nichts. dann beginnt sie erneut davon zu sprechen, wie hart hier das leben ist. gott aber habe einen plan und werde später gewiss für die belohnung sorgen. sie seufzt und ich verfluche innerlich alle kleinen und grossen menschen-götter mit ihren ewig leeren versprechen.

dann aber begreife ich und die erkenntnis ist ein faustschlag in die magengrube. dehnt sich und hallt über dunkle abgründe hinweg. plötzlich fühle ich mich dumm und beschämt. was rede ich hier mit galina? was rede ich hier über dinge mit worten, die in ihrer welt keine wurzeln haben?

galina, meine kleine bäuerin. irgendwo an einer staubigen landstrasse. galina in ihrem kleinen blauen häusschen. galina mit den sieben kindern. galina die hart arbeitet. galina, die andere worte besitzt, diese welt zu umfassen. ach, galina. meine eigene wortlosigkeit dir gegenüber schmerzt mich am meisten.

dösende alleen. sonnenglast. ab und an wind von rotem samt. aus tiefen träumen schrecken alte weiden hoch, schütteln flaum aus ihren haaren. plötzlich schneit es.

moldova I – patrick (english)

dozing boulevards. old soviet-palaces duck in the sunshine. now and then a wind made of red velvet. plane trees wake with a start from deep dreams. shudder. shadows flutter up into the bright daylight. chisinau.

velvet-pawed, me. aimlessly going my way. with eyes half-shut, alert.

chisinau, in the middle of a city: a forest. a wild garden in the backyard of Europe. here, wild roses blossom. on tracks, long forgotten, military trains rust away.

chisinau, in the middle of a forest: a city. a belief, cast in amber, that has lost its future. how easy and far away everything seems to be for me.

velvet-pawed, me. aimlessly going my way. with eyes shut, aimlessy going my way.

galina, my little peasant woman. somewhere along a dusty country road, in her small blue house. somewhere, sure. if only i could remember the name of the village. together we dig over the field at the back of the house. she hands me fresh goat cheese. it tastes like salt and vanilla. life is hard, she says. i can see myself.  

later: i offer to buy groceries, she writes the shopping list. her youngest son juri hurries off with it. i, desperate: wait!

in the village shop behind the counter a matron wearing a headscarf. her bosom ploughs unwillingly through the clutter of cupboards, sack, and boxes. out of a plastic bag she retrieves a pair of shoes, places them in front of juri. he shakes his head. the matron digs in another corner, in another box. this time the shoes fit. then bright red plastic sandals for the younger sister! washing powder, bedspreads, trousers - maybe for the elder sister? i stop counting. juri points at the sweets behind the counter, mumbles something. the matron pauses, bafflement blossoms in her face like fire works. our translator whispers: the little one just ordered 3 kg chocolate bonbons! matt who stands behind me laughs out loud. i shake my head. 1,5 kg and not one gram more! i feel the approaching wave of absurdity breaking down over my head.

velvet-pawed, me. with eyes shut, aimlessy going my way.

galina is moved to tears. thanks us. thanks us again. i feel a bit uneasy about that. i slowly realize that doing the right thing sometimes is not right. later: behind the house we let the camera drone fly. it is windy, the drone drifts off, we have to repeat the scene with galina. then we asks anxiously, if we make fun of her. no! scholarly i explain to her, how we get from the small to the big using the drone. the concept! subtext, meta level, the view of the whole … galina looks at me without expression. she does not know anything about that. then she again starts to talk about how hard life is for her. the lord, however, has a plan and he surely will take care of a reward later on. she sighs and i curse silently all small and big human gods with their ever-empty promises.

then, however, i understand and the realization is a punch in the gut. widens and resounds across abysses. suddenly i feel stupid and ashamed. what am i talking about with galina? what am i talking about things with words that do not have roots in her world?

galina, my littly peasant woman. somewhere along a dusty country road. galina in her small blue house. galina with her seven children. galina who works hard. galina who has other words to embrace this world. ah, my own loss for words with you is hurting me the most.

dozing boulevards. sunshine. now and then a wind made of red velvet. old willows wake with a start from deep dreams, shaking fluff from their hair. suddenly, it is snowing.