The Words Were Hard to Find

Dear Queasy,

Im not even sure you'll get this though I know you're back from HK I dont know facebook active you are yet. Anyhows, I thought of you a fair bit today so it made sense.
So I’ll save the bombshell for later.

Mongolia is mental. I’ve already mentioned the driving which just gets crazier with every day but watching even the locals make mad dashes across the road on a regular basis only to stop the cars with their hands on the bonnets doesn’t get old. A girl here said she saw two buses go headlong into each other and with the attitude these buses take it doesn’t surprise me- I can almost see them going straight for each other, challenges in their eyes. ‘Go on, if you think you’re khan enough’. (I’m sorry, when you don’t have a common language puns are a lost concept).

Do you remember when we used to read Jess’ manga almost voraciously? You know those young Japanese guys were always a certain type- a piercing or two, a bomber jacket and that Asian punk look? Mongolian youth are the same- ripped jeans tucked into those big, leather biker boots, baggy jackets and stubble combined with the slight air of just having been kicked out of a rock band.

I am having a few wardrobe crises (this relates to the bombshell- wait for it). Firstly I hadn’t brought any wash stuff for excess baggage reasons and when I got here, it sounds obvious I know, everything was in Cyrillic. There are only so many times you can put shower gel in your hair and not feel the consequences. Subsequently I now smell like a combination of papaya, avocado and yoghurt and my hands smell constantly like yoghurt. This was all completely irrelevant of course because I ended up at the Mongolian hairdresser’s today. (I’m building up the suspense but the upcoming bombshell will explain all.) The hairdresser had blatantly never had to deal with Western hair before and there were several moments when I had more in common with Aslan than the businesswoman she had been asked to present. Not to mention I was marginally worried that she might start liberally applying the ‘blackening shampoo’ that I had seen advertised on TV. Now that would really mess with my Aussie blondage (a neologism I particularly like because if you take out the ‘l’…) Anyway clothing –wise I’m having a few difficulties cobbling together out of random Asian clothes and my own skewed version both of propriety and fashion something that could be called businesslike. It’s a task not lightly undertaken. I thought of you again and how you’d come quicker to the realisation than I of how other people perceive our clothes. I fear it may be too late for me. I’m doomed to either frumpy or whore. Well I’ve managed to get a jumper/shirt that comes up to my collarbones, a skirt that covers my knees (even though my tights are covered in holes that I’ve failed to craftily hide under my heels or too high up my skirt.

So I come to my bombshell. I may or may not be presenting the news on national Mongolian TV every weeknight this May.

Yeah. That was my reaction. WTF. Or as I would say with Duffy (you have to meet him. You’ll fall in love. Everyone has) Why The Fuck Not. Largely I’ll sat straight up it has nothing to do with me- it’s a right place right time kind of gig. The last volunteer, Biljana, did this so it’s a matter of the best English speaker continuing her legacy. Since I’m English and almost no one else speaks it, it was a no brainer. But I’ve never been more thankful to both Pip and Lead. How else would I be so quick at editing things down to the slimmest version to create the headlines? (Or leads as they’re called in TV). And all I could think when I was sat in front of the camera was- cast your golden net with your eyes, pause, speak slowly, breathe, enunciate. I must have been the only person they’d seen to annotate the text. Still I think once we’ve played to a live audience of 500 several times over, there’s little that can rock my nerve. I’m trying to convince myself that the English speaking audience in UB is that minimal. Not to mention on Sundays I’m supposed to host a media/entertainment programme for twenty minutes- only this time I choose the theme, write the script and deliver it myself.

I somehow feel I’ve done a Bridget Jones and am somehow even less qualified and professional than she was.

Anyway my queasiest of Pease I’m missing you and our endless discourses infinitely and hoping you’re doing well adjusting to life back in the UK.

All my dramatic love,
Lizzy