Since my novel, Liberia’s Deadest Ends (2013), I have
been intermittently writing the next novel in between work assignments. The
inspiration for my sixth novel was Mongolia, where I worked in 2010, during the
longest, coldest, bleakest winter on record.
This is the fourth book with Jorja Himmermann, the
Australian aid worker, as the protoganist. Here in Ulaanbaatar, the capital of
Mongolia, and the coldest capital in the world, she works as a health expert
administering the inaugural competitive grants process to support health
clinics and hospitals in urban and regional centres. I’ll add more information
on the synopsis in future blogs.
The novel began at the end of 2013 in Australia after
working in Sri Lanka and concluded in Paris in 2015 after working in Pakistan,
with the read-through in Georgia. In between I had nine country visits and the
launch of my regular blog section “Giving Naturally, Giving Ethically” in
Australia and New Zealand’s Wellbeing
magazine. The Mongolia book was stalled on 80% completed for some time before I
had renewed inspiration in Paris, sitting underneath a black and white
photograph of American writer Ernest Hemingway in the 1920s during his travels abroad.
He sat in the very spot (not the exact seat, of course). The fact that it was
raining for most of the time in Paris certainly helped me to focus.
The next stage is the publication process. To date,
there have been seven iterations of the title. I’ll inform readers of the
definitive title when it’s confirmed, along with a tentative release date - expected to be by the end of the year.
Here are excerpts of two chapters:
CHAPTER 4 – THE DOG AND THE NAKED
MAN
Everything has beauty, but
not everyone sees it
Jorja Himmermann
arrived in Mongolia in January in the middle of the nation’s coldest month in
the country’s longest, bleakest winter on record. Mongolia’s high elevation,
and its remoteness from the sea, categorized the climate as extreme
continental. Typically, winter temperatures oscillated between minus twenty
degrees and minus thirty-five degrees Celsius. However, the winter of 2010
consistently pushed daily temperatures to minus forty-two degrees. It was
brutal to the extreme: punishing and life-threatening. Often the wind was
unrelenting, reaching forty-four kilometers per hour. Not for the faint-hearted
or faint-skinned, the wind cut, stung, and burnt Jorja’s pale skin until it
turned red raw.
Construction was booming, especially
during the previous five years, but when snow fell, it was temporarily halted;
when the wind whipped up, it was halted again, and when the temperature dipped
below minus thirty degrees Celsius, it ceased. For the most part, construction
ceased in the winter of 2010. Beside her apartment, in the vacant plot of land,
pipes, construction equipment, and snow-covered machinery remained in the same
place untouched, unmoved. A wooden hut on stilts provided shelter for the guards,
but the yard dogs roamed free, leaving paw marks in the snow. The sheep dog,
never seeking protection from the elements, seemed to be a statue of security.
Solid and square on the white ground, the bankhar
rarely moved. Every morning, at the first glow of sunrise, Jorja glanced
out of her bedroom window to observe the weather and the great mastiff. In the
evening, before switching off the light, she glanced into the construction site
to look for the sheep dog. It was always there. Each time she would scrutinize
his eyes to check whether they were open, to check their color, and to check
whether it was observing her. If the male guards were not present, the great
mastiff’s eyes remained closed. Perhaps it detected people by their scent or
movement. In any case, it appeared to be a most effective sentinel. Jorja
decided that he needed a name, for she had determined that he was indeed male,
and she called him Brik.
After switching off the bedroom light, and
before climbing into bed, she’d peek out of the side window to the fifth floor
below to see if the naked man was undertaking his daily exercise routine. On
one occasion, with his back to Jorja, exposing his domed wobbly buttocks, he
bent from the waist, to the left, to the right, to the left, and to the right.
Another time, as he faced the window, his arms were outstretched as he
undertook twenty squats. Rise and crouch, rise and crouch, and rise and crouch.
This action led into a swifter crouch and a forceful rise while extending his
arms outward as if pushing away a boulder: crouch and push, crouch and push,
and crouch and push. As his pale knees jutted forward, his alabaster posterior
stuck outward. Sometimes his action was more of a footsweep: standing firm with
legs apart and bringing one leg across the other: footsweep left, footsweep
right, and footsweep left. Always naked in the coldest of winter, he was always
focused, as if in a trance. The man was almost as large as a sumo wrestler, so Jorja
named him Bruce.
Brik and Bruce were similar in many ways.
They were both the largest of their species. They were both epitomes of
concentration, meditation, and utter absorption in their inner being. They both
appeared to demonstrate a gentle exterior with an underlying, secret ability to
unexpectedly explode with the brute force of a champion conqueror. For this
reason, they both compelled Jorja to voyeurism. They differed only in their
movements and outer covering. Brik never seemed to move at all: stoic, still,
calm, and inert. Bruce, on the other hand, was in constant motion: deliberate,
concentrated, defined, and regimented. Brik was all hair and hound, whereas
Bruce was as naked as the day he was born.
CHAPTER 5 – THE FALCON FLIES HIGH
The mountain falcon flies
high; the wise man’s child speaks in proverbs
Jorja’s first
meeting with her boss, Dr. Khorgolkhuu Noyonbaatar, head of the nutrition
department, sent her team into a flurry. “He’s tough and demanding,” Oyugun
advised. “Everything has to be perfect.”
“I think Mrs. A. Rongu is tougher,” said
Jorja. “She’s a dragon lady.”
“She is bossy, that’s true, but Noyon is
really, really, threatening,” said Solongo. “You can speak your mind, but he is
the one who makes the decisions. Just don’t make him angry.”
Oyugun had a pack of cards in her hand. “I
think we need a message card today because you need to know what the future
will bring to you, Jorja.” She shuffled the pack and placed a card face up on
her desk. Jorja moved closer to Oyugun as she stood over the card. “I have drawn
the falcon. It is a good card if you obey its message.”
“You must pay attention Jorja,” said
Temulbaatar. “It is a message for you and Oy’s card is always right. Oy, you
can read it now.”
While she interpreted the card’s message
she rubbed moisturizer into her hands. “The falcon says providence is on your side. The opportunity
presented to you is congruent with your soul’s purpose. Even if you don’t feel
fully prepared or have doubts in your ability to manage the complexities of
this venture, you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the support that will come to
you in unexpected ways. Stay focused on the goal. Commit one hundred percent of
your being to the task. This isn’t the time for over-analysis, introspection,
or retreat, but a time for action. Be willing to adjust your course of action
as the need dictates.”
Everyone silently looked at each
other. Batuldzii finally said, “It is a truthful message. Come on, we can’t be
late.”
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