Weather Adaptation — The Body Understands First
We arrived in Ulaanbaatar in early spring. The temperature wasn’t extreme, yet the air felt unfamiliar—dry, thin, and as if it had its own way of “touching” the body.
There was none of the humidity we’re used to in Jogja. No stickiness on the skin. Instead, the opposite: skin that dries quickly, chapped lips, and a throat that constantly needs reminding to drink.
Around us, the city seemed to be in a state of quiet suspension. The trees were still bare, their branches exposed against the pale sky. The grass lay flat and brown, as if winter had only just loosened its grip. Cars passed with a thin layer of dust on them, as though everything had just risen from a long sleep.
The buildings stood without urgency—worn, muted, slightly dim—like remnants of another time that had chosen to remain. They did not try to appear new, nor did they collapse. They simply existed, calmly, within the present.
We began to notice something small but persistent: static electricity. Every time a hand met a door handle, a car handle, a faucet, or any piece of metal, there was a tiny jolt. Not painful, but enough to make the hand recoil—followed by laughter.
At first, we thought it was a coincidence. It wasn’t. It happened almost all the time.
The layers of our clothing—poly, spandex, wool, fleece—rubbed against each other, as if contributing to those little sparks. Our bodies seemed to become part of an unseen electrical circuit.
There were small moments that kept repeating: a hesitant hand before touching a door handle, the same reflexive movement, and the laughter that always followed.
In the moving dryness of the air, a few birds crossed the sky. Crows were the most visible, the easiest to recognize. The others were less certain—one small, like a sparrow, another with a fuller chest, almost like a pigeon. They felt like the ones who stayed, who did not leave when the cold came, and had not yet been replaced by anything else.
In the morning, the air could feel quite gentle. A sweater and a T-shirt were enough. But by midday or late afternoon, the wind could arrive suddenly, carrying a different kind of cold—sharper, more penetrating.
In a single day, we could experience several layers of weather. Brief warmth, the return of cold, sometimes even light drizzle or a thin fall of snow that came with little warning.
Spring here was not an explosion of color, but a pause. A slow, almost hesitant transition. Everything seemed to exist in between—between a cold that had not fully left, and a warmth that had not yet arrived.
Our bodies learned to read these changes. Adding layers. Removing layers. Adjusting without much thought.
Everything happened faster than our understanding.
Before we could explain what was actually happening, the body already knew how to respond.
Socialization & Participant Relations — An Unplanned Closeness
We arrived as a group from Indonesia, with our own rhythm, our own habits, and of course, our own language.
Then, without much planning, we became part of something larger.
Friends from Romania, Nepal, Mongolia, and other countries gathered in one shared space. Each bringing different languages, habits, and backgrounds.
Names that at first felt unfamiliar slowly became familiar.
Andreea and her friends from Romania, warm and welcoming. Pradeep and Manish from Nepal, who always seemed to have something to tell—stories, thoughts, small pieces of the day that kept conversations alive.
Age, Tsasa, and Tuguldur from Mongolia, always making the effort to be cooperative, meeting every situation with a willingness to adapt and help.
Also Adrian, Huge, Valentin, Michele, Matteo, and more—whose presence carried a light, warm, and playful energy.
Strangely, it all felt enough.
There weren’t always long conversations. There wasn’t always full understanding.
Sometimes it was just sitting together after dinner. Smoking outside the hotel. Sharing the coffee we brought from Indonesia. Sometimes just exchanging glances, then laughing, without really knowing what was funny.
There were small, unplanned encounters—along hotel corridors, inside buses, in waiting rooms before performances.
Conversations came in fragments, mixed with English, gestures, and guesses.
And somehow, it still made sense.
Like when we walked with our Romanian friends into the countryside, and without realizing it, the distance between us simply disappeared.
Some connections even felt like more than just “people we met during a festival.”
There were moments of presence that were hard to explain—not intense closeness, but something calm, like meeting someone you feel you’ve known for a long time.
We also saw how these relationships extended into a wider circle.
Sue Giles, in her light and supportive way, never really placed herself at a distance as an “international president.” She was present simply as a person—laughing, playing, and occasionally appearing in unexpected ways.
Uyanga and the Mongolian team were not just organizers, but bridges—connecting all these differences into a shared experience.
And in the middle of it all, we realized something simple:
Closeness does not always come from long stretches of time. Sometimes, it emerges from the right space, from shared experiences, and from a willingness to be present as we are.
Like some connections that feel as if they have always existed, even though they have only just begun.
Food — A Body in Constant Negotiation
Food became an essential part of our adaptation.
It wasn’t only about taste, but about how our bodies responded to something different from what we were used to.
From the beginning, we had already been given a picture—thanks to Uyanga—that food options in Mongolia are not always varied, especially when it comes to vegetables.
Many of the dishes we encountered were simple: meat, flour, and filling preparations.
We tried, as much as we could. Some felt familiar. Others took time to accept.
Buuz, at a glance like dim sum, but larger. Tsuivan, noodles with a mix that felt “close, but not quite the same.”
At times, we also came across small surprises—like cabbage appearing in a dish, offering a fleeting sense of “home.”
But beyond that, there was something else we had to keep in balance.
Our bodies have their own rhythm. They cannot go too long without food. They don’t always adapt well to small portions or long gaps between meals.
So we began to negotiate.
With the tight schedule. With the available food. With the needs of our bodies that could not be ignored.
Sometimes we saved food provided by the organizers to eat later. Sometimes we looked for something extra, just to make sure our energy held.
There were also small moments that felt important: drinking unsweetened hot tea after a meal, or having coffee bitter enough to accompany something sweet.
Simple things, yet they helped us stay connected to our own habits. Including the chili powder Abdul brought from Indonesia—which became a favorite for Misenga.
Not everything fit. Not everything was easy. Some things felt lacking. Some had to be accepted.
But in that, we learned something else:
That eating, in a journey like this, is not only about being full.
It is a process of adjustment. Of keeping the body ready.
And of finding ways to keep going, even when things are not always ideal.
Travel & Transition — In Between Points
The journey became a space of its own.
Not merely a movement from one city to another, but something in between—a space that seemed to have no clear destination, yet held many things within it.
From Ulaanbaatar to Erdenet, then to Bulgan, and further into soums scattered across the steppe.
These distances were not always felt in numbers, but in long durations, and in landscapes that shifted slowly—absurd and awe-inspiring at the same time.
At the beginning, traces of the city were still visible: buildings, highways, orderly activity.
Then, gradually, everything disappeared.
Replaced by brown earth, sparse grass, and vast open stretches that seemed to have no boundaries.
Sometimes, we were lucky to find smooth roads. The car would glide almost silently. But more often, there were what George called “bouncy roads.”
The vehicle shook, the body adjusted to the rhythm, and conversations were often interrupted by sudden movements.
Inside the car, not much seemed to happen. Or perhaps everything happened in silence.
Some slept, trying to catch rest between tight schedules. Some stared out the window, not really searching for anything. Some rehearsed in their minds—replaying scenes, recalling rhythms, imagining possibilities. Others simply chose silence, without needing a reason.
Occasionally, conversations surfaced—light, fragmented, then gone again.
And in the middle of those long stretches, something could arrive out of nowhere.
A song that suddenly came to mind, a memory from another place, or a small idea that slowly began to grow.
Like when the car paused briefly in the middle of the steppe, and a fragment of The Long Road (Pearl Jam) surfaced uninvited.
Or when, without any plan, a Mongolian friend—who looked like a member of KISS or Megadeth—started playing the Tovshuur inside the car, filling the space that had been occupied only by the sound of the engine and the wind.
These journeys also carried other moments: encounters that quickly became close, and partings that arrived without much time to prepare.
Like saying goodbye to our Romanian friends, somewhere along the road as our paths diverged.
There was no grand scene. Just embraces, smiles, and the road pulling us apart again.
At that point, the journey no longer felt only about moving forward, but also about leaving something behind.
And perhaps it is in spaces like these that change happens.
Not always visible, not always realized, but slowly shaping what we carry into the next point.
Performance Space & Conditions — A Stage That Is Never the Same
We never truly knew what the next performance space would be like.
An art hall. A soccer field. A sports hall. A cultural center. Multi-purpose rooms that sometimes felt more like enlarged classrooms.
Each came with its own character. None were ever neutral.
Some spaces were enclosed and warm, with audiences seated neatly, facing one direction.
Others were open—football fields—with wind constantly moving, carrying sound away, and sometimes bringing it back.
In some places, the sound system felt “adequate.” In others, it became something that had to be constantly negotiated—volume rising and falling, unstable frequencies, microphones that couldn’t always be relied upon.
And in almost every space, there was no lighting that could truly be controlled. No blackout. No shifting of atmosphere through light.
What we had was simple: natural light, or whatever room lighting already existed—neither of which could be adjusted to our needs.
None of this was a disruption. But neither could it be ignored.
Strong wind could alter the rhythm of a scene. A space that was too large could change the way the body moved. The distance from the audience could shift the intensity.
We couldn’t impose a single fixed form.
These spaces “spoke.” Sometimes softly. Sometimes very clearly.
And we had to listen.
Listening to the direction of the wind. To how sound bounced—or disappeared. To how the audience sat, moved, and responded.
At times, we had to make quick decisions—shifting positions, changing orientation, simplifying a scene, or, on the contrary, clarifying a gesture.
The stage was no longer something that was “prepared.”
It became something that was “encountered.”
And each encounter always carried a different possibility.
Performance & Transformation — LARAS in Motion
We arrived with a work we believed was already finished.
Its structure was clear. Its rhythm was familiar. The parts we considered “strong” had been tested many times in Jogja.
But soon after the first performance in Erdenet, we began to see that LARAS could not remain still.
It had to move.
Sometimes the changes were driven by technical needs. Strong winds forced certain scenes to be shortened. Vast spaces demanded larger gestures. Unstable sound systems pushed us to rely more on the body and on precise rhythm.
At other times, the shifts came from the audience’s response. Parts that usually “landed” suddenly felt flat. Gimmicks that had worked before did not always translate in a different context.
At that point, we couldn’t force it. We had to search again.
“I think I need to create a cross-cultural gimmick,” Ricky said at one moment.
And it wasn’t just a remark. It became a direction.
Sometimes change came from sudden intuition—a pause extended, a gesture sharpened, or a small decision that unexpectedly altered the entire feeling of a scene.
There were also moments that shifted something more deeply.
Like after our visit to Gandantegchinlen Monastery. The experience of hearing prayers we did not understand linguistically, yet felt strongly through sound and atmosphere, found its way into the performance.
A small addition emerged toward the end—a new way of bringing in a “sense of prayer,” without needing to explain its meaning.
Beyond that, adjustments kept unfolding: costumes modified for safety and flexibility, rhythms adapted to spatial conditions, and ways of interacting with objects and audiences that continued to evolve.
In a single day, with three performances, we could even present three different versions of LARAS.
Not because we intended to be different, but because the situation demanded it.
And in that, we began to understand something:
LARAS was no longer something fixed. It could no longer be locked into a single form.
It had become something alive.
Something that grows, adapts, and keeps rediscovering itself in every space it encounters.
Language & Communication — Beyond Words, It Still Arrives
We did not share the same language with most of the audience.
There was no verbal dialogue in our performance that they could understand literally. No explanatory text. No narrative guided by words.
And yet, the performance continued. And somehow, it still arrived.
We began to notice it in the way they watched. In their sustained focus. In the laughter that emerged at the “right” moments, even without a shared language. In the silence that felt full, not empty.
Most of all, in the responses they gave afterward.
One student shared their impression: about the importance of loving nature, about human relationships, about how life is not only about money.
It was more than just “an enjoyable show.” It was something they had thought about, and felt.
At that point, we paused for a moment.
Because what reached them was not exactly what we had “intended,” and yet it felt wider—as if the work had found its own path.
We also witnessed other forms of communication that were just as compelling. Conversations came in fragments, mixed with English, gestures, and guesses.
And somehow, it still made sense.
Did we fully understand each other literally? Perhaps not.
But something else was at work beneath it: rhythm, intuition, presence—making everything feel coherent.
Not long after the first performance, we received a message.
It was written in Mongolian. Then translated, with all its limitations.
We read it slowly.
Not every sentence felt complete. Not every meaning could be confirmed with certainty. But something arrived. Clearly.
About home.
About loss.
About kindness.
About a sense of closeness, even from a distant place.
And perhaps, that was enough.
Languages may differ. Sentence structures may shift. Translations may never be perfect.
But feeling, somehow, still finds its way.
Once again, we were reminded that a performance does not always speak through words.
And perhaps, it is precisely there that it becomes something we can share.
Very simple.
Yet it felt immense.
Engaging with the Audience — A Distance That Disappears
The students in Mongolia welcomed us warmly.
From the very beginning, it was clear that they did not keep their distance. There was no excessive awkwardness, no sense of “watching from afar.”
They were present.
They didn’t just watch—they greeted us, asked questions, made comments, and interacted in ways we couldn’t always predict.
Their questions were simple, sometimes almost whimsical:
Do you like e-sports?
Is there snow in Jogja?
How old are you?
Are you cold?
Do you prefer buuz or khuushuur?
These questions came naturally—unfiltered, unburdened—driven by genuine curiosity.
We responded as best as we could. Sometimes with words, sometimes with gestures, sometimes with laughter.
And the conversation continued, even when it wasn’t perfect.
There were also other gestures that surprised us.
After each performance, some of them would come closer and offer us something.
Small, simple, yet deeply personal: hair clips, keychains, candy, chocolate—even organic fertilizer, and two 100-tugrik banknotes.
At first, we didn’t quite know how to respond.
But the volunteers accompanying us explained that this is how they express appreciation.
Not only through applause, but by giving something they have.
A very direct, very human way.
It was charming, yes. Unusual, also yes.
But through it, we felt something more—that the connection didn’t end on stage.
There was a closeness that wasn’t constructed. Not formal. Not planned.
It simply appeared, out of brief encounters that were somehow enough to leave a lasting feeling.
Objects & Props — When Things Become Meaning
In LARAS, simple objects carry multiple functions.
A spatula. A cutting board. Paper bags. A cloth.
Nothing “special” in form. Everyday kitchen items. Ordinary things. Yet within the performance, they do not remain as themselves.
In one moment, they become animals. In another, part of a structure. Sometimes a source of sound. Sometimes simply a quiet visual presence.
Their meaning is not fixed. It shifts with context. And when brought into a new place, these objects are also “read” in new ways.
What feels clear to us is not always the same for an audience in Mongolia. And precisely there, another possibility emerges: meaning does not have to be identical in order to arrive.
There was a small moment that made this especially clear.
At the beginning of the 3rd performance, on a school football field, one of the wooden spatulas Ricky used for percussion suddenly broke.
There had been no warning. No time to prepare. The object that had long been part of the rhythm could no longer be used.
After that, we searched for a replacement in a local market, with the help of Age, a local artist who had been accompanying us in Erdenet.
We found another spatula. Not the same. Its shape was different. Its character felt different in the hand. Visually, it clearly did not “belong” to the same set.
But there weren’t many options. And we didn’t dwell on it.
The performance continued.
The new spatula was used. It entered the existing system, even with its slightly different nature.
And strangely, nothing truly felt “broken.”
As if the object had never needed to be perfect.
It only needed to be present— and willing to become whatever was required in that moment.
Musicality & Sound — From Prayers to the Steppe
This journey was also filled with sound.
Not only the sounds we brought with us, but also those we encountered along the way.
Ricky’s guitalele—compact, light, yet enough to fill the small spaces between journeys.
The Tovshuur, with its two strings, played inside the car when the road was smooth enough. Its sound was simple, dry, almost without ornament, yet it felt deeply connected to the land we were passing through.
Ricky tried it. A few notes came out hesitant at first, then gradually found their own path.
Elsewhere, we encountered the Morin Khuur, the bowed instrument with a horse’s head at its tip. Its sound stretched and curved, as if pulling something from afar—something not only heard, but drawn out from a vast space.
Then there was the Yochin, a struck instrument, similar to a dulcimer. Its tones layered quickly, forming patterns that felt both rhythmic and fragile.
In their hands, these instruments were not merely tools, but part of everyday life.
There were also sounds that belonged entirely to the landscape.
A gathering of crows circling above a hill—their calls overlapping, uneven, almost coarse, yet forming a kind of moving texture in the air. Not a single voice, but many, folding into one another as they traced wide, patient circles.
Above an open field in a soum, the sharp, distant cry of an eagle. Brief, cutting through the space, then gone again—leaving the sky feeling even larger than before.
And over a lake, a group of ducks flying low across the water. The rhythm of their wings came in soft, steady pulses, accompanied by short calls that echoed lightly across the surface—appearing, passing, then dissolving into distance.
On the other hand, there were also sounds that were almost inaudible.
The wind across the steppe. Footsteps on dry soil. The long silences in between journeys.
These sounds did not always present themselves clearly. Sometimes they existed as a background, slowly shaping the atmosphere.
From all this, we began to realize:
Sound does not always need language. It can become a bridge without translation. It can convey something without explanation.
And in many moments throughout this journey, sound became another way for us to find one another.
Landscape & Atmosphere — A Space Too Vast
The Mongolian steppe has a scale that is difficult to describe. It is not only vast, but vast in a way that feels multiplied.
As far as the eye can see, there is no clear boundary. The horizon seems pulled far back, as if creating more space than actually exists.
The sky feels very close, and at the same time, very far. Close, because nothing obstructs the view. Distant, because it can never be reached.
The soil is brown, the grass sparse—not dense, not fully green. Everything seems to exist within a restrained palette, and precisely because of that, every small change becomes noticeable.
We saw many animals—goats, sheep, cows, horses, camels, yaks—spread across the vastness, often with no visible herder.
Sometimes there were gers, traditional Mongolian homes, standing alone, far from others. Like small points on an immense canvas.
The wind was almost always present. Not always strong, but enough to keep the air in motion.
And at certain moments, everything felt deeply quiet. Not because there was no sound, but because the space was too vast to hold it.
In a place like this, humans feel small—very small.
And yet, strangely, at the same time, one becomes intensely aware of their own presence.
Every step feels distinct. Every movement visible. As if, within such an immense space, even the smallest presence still carries meaning.
We found ourselves imagining: what if the entire steppe became a stage?
Without boundaries. Without walls. Without lights.
Only body, space, and time.
We once stopped by the edge of a river and walked along its bank.
There, several springs emerged—small, clear sources feeding the flow. Each of them, we were told, was believed to carry its own benefit for the body, its own quiet form of healing.
At another time, we visited a lake that was almost entirely frozen.
Its surface held a thin, pale stillness, while around it, horses wandered freely in great numbers. Nearby stood a few buildings—what seemed to be summer houses—empty for now, waiting for a different season to return.
And in the middle of the steppe—wide, open, and nearly without markers—we came across something that remained.
A wall.
Not whole. Not completely ruined either. Standing alone, as if it had forgotten it was once part of something larger.
A history teacher who accompanied us, together with the mayor of the third soum, told us that long ago, there had been a small town here.
There had been a temple.
An artificial lake.
A life.
Now, this was what remained.
The wall was made from layers of compacted mud and gravel. Still clearly visible. As if time had not tried to hide itself.
Each layer might have been a day of work, a season, a single intention to build something that would last.
Then time moved on.
The wind arrived.
People left.
And what remained was only this fragment— still standing, without much explanation.
We stood there for quite a while. As if reading something that no longer had a language.
Perhaps all places are like this. Once full, then slowly becoming memory.
And perhaps what we are doing now—this journey, these encounters, these performances—are also being formed layer by layer, toward a shape that, one day, we too will leave behind.
Spiritual Moments — Understanding Without Comprehending
At Gandantegchinlen Monastery, we encountered something different.
Not something grand or dramatic—quite the opposite. Quiet, simple, almost without emphasis.
We entered one of the rooms.
Young monks sat in rows, chanting prayers. The rhythm was repetitive, steady—flowing as if without effort.
Occasionally, cymbals rang. A drum was struck softly. And there was a wind instrument made from a conch shell, its sound as if coming from a very distant place.
Nothing tried to stand out. There was no climax. No “main scene.” Everything unfolded as a single, unified whole.
We did not understand the words. We did not know their meaning.
But we understood the feeling.
There was a calm that was not empty. A presence that did not need explanation. Something that arrived directly, without passing through thought.
Then we moved to another part of the complex.
There stood a pillar. Not something grand—if anything, it felt like a remnant.
Cracked. Old. Alone.
We were told it was a fragment of the past, one of the few things that had survived destruction.
People approached it, then whispered into its cracks.
Prayers. Hopes. Or perhaps something they did not want anyone else to hear.
We could not be sure.
But the way they did it—softly, closely, almost as if speaking to something alive—gave the place a different presence.
At that point, we did not speak much.
Ricky, usually full of humor, fell silent. Tita gazed for a long time, as if trying to grasp something difficult to explain.
And without us realizing it, something from that experience came with us.
It entered the body. Then slowly entered the work.
Not in the same form. Not as imitation.
But as a feeling.
As a new way of bringing something into presence—something that does not need to be understood, yet can be felt.
And perhaps that was when we truly understood:
There are things that do not need translation, because they have already arrived—long before we try to comprehend them.
Humor & Absurdity — What Keeps Everything Light
Amidst everything, there were many light moments.
Moments that were unplanned, insignificant in terms of any “agenda,” yet somehow made everything feel more alive.
In Ulanbaatar, Ricky jogging from one traffic light to another. Not just once. And always with a kind of seriousness that was hard to explain.
No one really questioned it. We simply accepted it as part of his rhythm.
On another occasion, after a Javanese–Nepali conversation that somehow connected without translation, and after playing in the water by the lakeside with friends from Nepal, Ricky went jogging again.
This time on the steppe. In the middle of a vast open space, with no audience, no clear boundaries. Like a scene that did not need a reason.
There were also conversations across languages that, logically, might not have been fully connected, yet felt completely right.
Half-formed sentences, hand gestures, facial expressions, and laughter blended into a form of communication that was strange, yet somehow worked.
About smoking rules in Romania. About coffee from Indonesia. About families back home. About screen time and dinosaurs.
Conversations that might sound simple—even random—but always carried a sense of honesty. And because of that, they felt genuinely enjoyable.
There was no pressure to sound clever. No need to appear intelligent. Everything unfolded as it was.
These small moments—easily overlooked—became a balance to everything else we experienced.
They kept the journey from becoming too serious. Too “important.”
There was always space to laugh. To feel a little strange. To not always make sense.
And perhaps, that is what kept everything human.
Алтангэрэл Энхтайван – Golden Light of Peace
We called him Age.
He almost always appeared while in motion.
Sometimes dragging coils of sound system cables across the cold, dusty school floor. Sometimes arranging chairs for children who came rushing in like flocks of little birds, eager to watch our performance.
Sometimes he sat behind the steering wheel with fogged-up windows while Indonesian dangdut remix songs played softly through the car speakers.
Sometimes he stood alert, holding a phone with Google Translate open, his face serious like a diplomat’s — even though all he was trying to say was:
“Are you tired?”
We met Age in Erdenet, a mining town that seemed to stand somewhere between wind, dust, and a sky far too wide.
While he was with us, there were two English words that came out of his mouth more than any others:
“Happy.”
“Respect.”
Everything else he entrusted to his phone screen, body language, and smiles that always arrived a little faster than words.
After the very first show on the first day, Age invited Ricky outside the school gate for a cigarette while waiting through the two-hour break before the next performance.
The air bit softly at their ears and fingertips. Cigarette smoke rose thinly before the steppe wind swept it away.
They did not really know each other yet. Age could not speak English at all.
Suddenly he typed something into Google Translate and showed the screen to Ricky.
“You and your younger sibling’s acting are very good. I like it. You look very similar.”
Ricky laughed in confusion.
“Which sibling? My sibling didn’t come to Mongolia. The person performing with me was my wife.”
Age’s eyes widened. Then he quickly typed again, explaining a Mongolian belief: two people destined to be together usually have similar faces.
After that, during every Q&A session he hosted — throughout the next twelve performances — Age always repeated that story to the children watching our show. With the same enthusiasm each time, like someone who had just discovered a small secret of the world and could not bear to keep it to himself.
As if it were an important fact everyone needed to know.
That was Age.
He handled many things at once, yet never seemed like he was working.
He arranged audience chairs inside school halls that smelled of wood and wet shoes. He crouched near loose electrical sockets while turning on the sound system. He opened the events. He guided the Q&A sessions.
He was also the one who took Ricky to search for cigarettes at a small roadside shop filled with stray dogs. The one who helped find a replacement for a broken spatula at the cheapest price possible. The one who sometimes brought food from the hotel restaurant after noticing we were too exhausted to move.
And somehow, at some point, Age also began feeling responsible for our health.
“Tell Ricky to dry his hair.”
“Tell Ricky to wear extra pants.”
“It’s cold outside. Strong wind. He must not get sick.”
Those sentences appeared through Google Translate with the tone of a fussy parent worrying about a stubborn child.
There was one slightly longer English sentence that Age always said with complete confidence, as if it were an official phrase he had memorized since childhood:
“Let’s go hotel to car!”
Its grammar was a mess. The sentence itself seemed to stumble halfway through. Yet strangely, no one ever misunderstood him. Everyone immediately knew what he meant.
The sentence usually came after performances ended. While we were still sweating in the cold air of Erdenet. After our hands had been busy folding fabrics, stacking props, and making sure no small object had been left behind in the corner of the hall that had just become our stage.
Outside the building, the Mongolian air bit gently.
Breath turned into thin smoke. The evening light reflected off the body of Age’s Toyota Prius, already waiting with its trunk open like a mouth ready to swallow the entirety of our performance: paper bags, ropes, wooden spatulas, a small suitcase, bamboo sticks, buckets, and costumes.
Usually we were still trapped in that post-show exhaustion — the kind that leaves the body feeling empty while the head still hums with applause, music, and children’s voices.
Then from a distance, Age would come hurrying toward us, half shouting, half laughing:
“LET’S GO HOTEL TO CAR!”
And instantly everyone moved.
Not because the sentence was grammatically correct, but because inside it was a simple promise we trusted: the show was over, the props were loaded into the car, and soon there would be warm food waiting at the hotel.
Inside the car, Age often played viral Indonesian songs that somehow he had found online. One of them was the dangdut remix “Lagi Cantik.”
Ricky suspected Age had also requested that song, one night when several festival participants gathered at a pub near the hotel, and representatives from each country were asked to show their traditional dance moves.
In the middle of that supposedly artistic international atmosphere, suddenly Indonesian dangdut remix exploded from the pub speakers.
Chaos.
And everyone danced.
Apparently, Age had secretly done a little half-joking research about Indonesia before we arrived.
But the most memorable experience with Age happened on a free day before our departure to Bulgan.
That day the weather was terrible. Strong wind came roaring like a freight train passing somewhere in the distance. Thin snow fell lazily and melted against the city’s black asphalt.
The night before, Uyanga had forbidden all participants from leaving the hotel, especially from going to the countryside.
But secretly, Age and Erka had already made their own plan to bring the Indonesian and Romanian teams into the countryside.
Uyanga gave in.
The media partner joined us too.
That day we rode horses across grasslands that seemed endless. We practiced archery while being struck by the steppe wind. We entered a warm ger filled with the smell of milk, wool, boiled meat, and stove smoke. We joined a vodka-drinking ritual where everyone had to sing in turns before taking the first sip.
Then we returned with our heads full of Mongolian wind.
“This is the best I can give you,” he said through Google Translate.
Two days earlier, Age had also taken us to a hill on the edge of Erdenet.
At first we thought we would head straight back to the hotel after surveying the venue. But the car kept climbing higher, slowly leaving the city behind.
During the drive, Age typed something into Google Translate:
“Mongolian people believe that if you climb a mountain, you will receive a spiritual experience.”
At the top of the hill stood piles of stones and wooden poles draped with faded colorful prayer cloths weathered by the seasons. The wind made the cloth whisper softly, like an endless unfinished murmur.
Crows and eagles circled through the gray sky.
Then Age taught us how people usually prayed there.
Ricky never really said anything to Age. But after seeing the last venue — an open football field with synthetic grass battered by strong winds — he had secretly been worried.
What if it rains tomorrow?
What if it snows?
Could his Jogja instincts — the instincts he sometimes used to “negotiate” with weather and performance situations — work here in Mongolia too?
Somehow, it felt as though Age sensed that anxiety.
As if he were saying:
“Then let us speak with our universe.”
Absurd.
And perhaps precisely because of that, it felt important.
Age was a theater actor from a local group in Erdenet. He was not part of the touring performers who came with us, nor was he someone standing onstage during those performances.
Yet throughout the thirteen performances in Erdenet, his presence felt like an anchor player quietly keeping everything in motion.
He took care of the things that seemed trivial yet determined whether a performance lived or died: children running around, chairs needing to be arranged, slightly malfunctioning sound systems, car trunks that were never large enough, finding shops for extra food, Google Translate, changing weather, and even our fluctuating moods caused by exhaustion and cold.
Like many of the best stage workers, Age worked in spaces that rarely received applause.
And yet from there, the rhythm of the entire journey remained intact.
We love you, Age.
Our story with you is one of the most beautiful souvenirs we brought home to Jogja.
Reflection — LARAS Is Never Finished
At the beginning, we believed this work was already complete.
It had a form. It had a rhythm. It had gone through a long process in spaces we knew well.
We brought it to Mongolia with that conviction—that our task was to “present,” to perform something already finished.
Now, we are no longer sure.
Because throughout this journey, LARAS never stopped moving.
It changed. It adapted. It learned from different spaces.
From the wind in open fields. From the echoing sports halls. From stage floors that were not always even. From distances between us and the audience that were not always ideal.
It also learned from people.
From audiences who did not share the same language. From responses that could not always be predicted. From laughter, silence, and questions that were simple, yet honest.
And from events we never planned.
From prayers we did not understand, yet felt. From long, quiet journeys. From meetings and partings that arrived without warning.
These changes were not always large. Often, they were small.
A slightly longer pause. A gesture subtly shifted. A part that was let go, or one that appeared unexpectedly.
And through these small changes, LARAS became something different from when it first set out.
Perhaps that is how it should be.
A work is never truly finished.
It only pauses—within a certain space, at a certain time, with certain people—before continuing its journey.
Mongolia, in this sense, was not merely a place where we performed LARAS.
It was a space where LARAS learned not to remain fixed.
Not to be finished.
And perhaps, for the first time, we also learned not to force it to be.
Thank you, Mongolia.
Warm regards,
Ricky & Tita
