Nathan Leaves His Host Family, Misses the Soup

It sure was hard leaving my host family last week. Though they were paid to make sure I was fed and housed, they went above and beyond to make sure I was comfortable and cared for me like one of their – most of the time. The upside of being a guest was that I didn’t really have any chores to do because as my host mom told me, I wasn’t there to help them, I was there to study. Any time I would try to help out in more than a token manner like carrying water up the stairs or picking up after myself, I got shooed away. (My host mom even did most of my laundry for me.)

Most families gave their trainee some sort of traditional dress to wear for the swearing in ceremony; some were Mongolian shirts, some were as involved as whole, head-to-toe outfits. As a going-away present, my host parents had a beautiful blue Mongolian jacket made for me in addition to the silver shirt they already gave me for Nadaam. The sewing co-op that made it (they had a lot of business that last week from us) had told my host folks to pick it up at 1 in the afternoon before I left, then 6, then 9, then finally at midnight. We were supposed to have a little ceremony that evening, but unfortunately, it wasn’t finished in time. Instead, at 5:45a.m., they woke me up, brought me into the living room where my brand new хурэм (jacket) was draped ceremoniously over the couch in front of full spread of Mongolian food, and sat me down to do it up right. Good morning!

In addition to the food, they gave me a tiny bottle of the finest Mongolian vodka, peanuts, a set of ankle bones (used in a kind of dice game) and a post card with their contact information and special sentiments.

As is customary, I gave them a box of good Russian chocolates and a bottle of vodka. I also gave them a packet of flower seeds to grow for next year, and for my four year old host sister some new Barbie clothes that my mom sent from the States and a bottle of bubbles. Because most ceremonies in Mongolia are not complete without a drink of vodka, the three of us popped one open and shared in celebration. It’s unlucky to do less than three shots, so of course, we obliged tradition (a few times), then around 6:30 they drove me to the school where the other eleven Americans were loading up meekers in a mob of well wishes, hugs and candy.

On our formal evaluations from Peace Corps, we were asked if we would recommend them again as hosts. Leslie and I both (independently) wrote that we didn’t, but only because we don’t want to share them with anyone. My host family expects us back periodically, which we will certainly try to accommodate. I mean, nobody makes soup like my host mom, nobody raises a toast like my host dad, and nobody laughs quite like my little host sister. How could I pass that up?