Slump City II

Pushing Buttons

It was 10 pm, it was 10 degrees, and my girlfriend and I were locked out of our apartment building—barred by a closed door and a set of buttons, four of which required pressing in some unknown sequence.

“We’ll systematically try combinations,” I told her. “There are only eight buttons—it’s just a matter of time before this works.”

Bijani suggested we go to the Emergency Services Department next door and ask for help; I started pressing buttons. Ultimately, I couldn’t keep track of the combinations I tried, so we went to a restaurant, hoping some longtime resident would open the door meanwhile. 20 minutes later, we returned. I pressed more buttons.

Eventually, my fingers froze up and we walked over to the Rescue Station. I found the words for ‘lock’ and ‘building’ in my Mongolian phrase book and after some pointing and smiling, two uniformed men very kindly agreed to accompany us.

Rescue… Men

Our new friends walked purposefully to our apartment and got out their flashlights where they looked the door over. They began trying combinations.

Neither one wore a jacket, but they stood there pressing buttons, and when that didn’t work, they walked around to nearby buildings, asking people if they knew how to get into our wing of the complex. A little after 11:00 they went back to the station, returning minutes later with three guys in orange jumpsuits. The six of us (Bijani had gone back to the Police station) shone our flashlights on the door. After a lengthy discussion, the newcomers started trying combinations, systematically.

When this tactic failed, we all started pulling on the door really hard, and finally we hit on an idea with some promise. One of the officers ran to the station, quickly rejoining us a hammer. As the rest pulled, he wedged it into the latch and with a pop, pried it open.

I went upstairs, comforted by the heat and the impression that guys everywhere are all the same. Bijani suggested we buy our rescuers some vodka, but they were on duty. I ran to the grocery store below our apartment and bought them a cake.

B-lighted

This event was the week’s highpoint. Later on we were briefly fired and my visa, which showed no potential for an extension, was set to expire. I felt bad for myself and, for the first time since I tricked her into coming here, I felt bad for Bijani for the following reasons.

A) I’d become a miserable cheapskate

B) Fun is a 14-hour workday, for me

C) She’d be alone here when I got deported

Then again, nobody is perfect. I set about looking for a loophole in the visa regulations. My original plan was to overstay my visa and go into hiding, but Bijani pointed out that the odds in favor of disappearing in a three-million person country are not great. Plan B, a train-trip to China, fell through when I couldn’t get a Chinese visa in time, so I booked a last-minute flight to Korea.

One of the advantages of living in a small country like Mongolia is that airfare barely costs more if you buy it the day of a flight. One of the disadvantages is that all the local currency you bring with you hoping to exchange it at Seoul International airport becomes worthless the minute you leave Mongolia. No one would touch it.

Redeemption

After two days in Korea, I flew back to Chinggis Khan International and received another three months on my tourist visa. Of course, this whole expedition was costly, but then, it turns out, I’m only a cheapskate when it comes to going out to dinner.

In order for us to stay and to pay for my expensive mistakes, we’ve both had to get second jobs as teachers, which hasn’t made things easier. And then we still face our share of problems at the paper and in day to day life.

But then, I tell myself, living in a foreign country, on your own for the first time, isn’t really any different than camping. Nothing goes the way you expect; there’s always work to be done and you constantly have to improvise and make do, but then, that’s the fun. Most days, I believe this, and in the end, I like it. Every so often, however, it requires some convincing .

Slump City

Beauty Beheld

I came to Ulaanbaatar intending to like it. A friendly reception and a job I enjoyed made that easy for the first few months. And then, the city has its own merits. Despite housing something in the neighborhood of one million people, Ulaanbaatar feels negotiable; surrounded by hills, even its worn soviet architecture, interrupted by an occasional skyscraper, can be very appealing.

I grew accustomed to seeing the best in the city, overlooking or accepting what might repel me in urban America. Traffic, garbage, dirt, 20-degree handicap ramps, walkways for the blind disrupted by ledges and poles: I ignored these things daily. Smog? Well, the city kind of smells like camping all the time.

Cold Shoulder

Then it got cold—not so cold, but enough to make life generally less pleasant. Then things started going wrong. Previously I laid out the UB Post, wrote four stories a week, and ensured the paper had sufficient, reasonably correct, English content. After the editor-in-chief returned from the countryside and I relinquished some of these responsibilities, I found that I now struggled to finish two articles-an-issue.

Every sentence I wrote looked like a slug trail. I spent lunch hours staring at blank pages, and making matters worse, I suddenly couldn’t land an interview. An official with Mongolia’s Olympic Committee canceled on me and then disappeared to Korea. A teacher and a professor I’d counted on delayed our meetings. I went to the US Embassy and the Vice Consul fainted at a press conference before I could interview him.

Better Luck Next Crime

These events made for a few slow weeks, but then it looked like I’d have a pretty nice recovery. Snow arrived, as did my girlfriend (and now co-worker), Bijani, from America, and I prepared for things to start going my way. They didn’t. Within a few weeks of her arrival, I impressed Bijani by getting robbed twice.

First I hung my jacket on a restaurant chair and my wallet disappeared. A few days later, I stowed my backpack under a seat at an internet café. I was speaking with my mother and father via webcam when I looked down to see my bag was gone. I ran out the door. My parents sat at their computer for half an hour, staring at the Russian guy who filled my seat.

My bag had a spare key and the address of my apartment. After some reflection, I sprinted home and sat on my floor until getting through to my editor. He called a locksmith. In addition to the usual difficulties of living with someone for the first time, these few days didn’t allow me to give Bijani the best introduction to life in Ulaanbaatar.

Writers, Lock

It got worse. Returning home from a late dinner, we found the main entrance to our apartment locked. The door has a combination: push the right buttons and it opens. I don’t know what they are; it’s never closed. Normally in these situations, one simply presses the most worn buttons. Workmen had painted our door the day before.

(To be continued)

Two Measures of Modern Mongolia

Nowhere Was Never Closer

In many ways, a city is as modern as what you can buy in it. Ulaanbaatar’s streets are dusty and its sidewalks are uneven, but you can find a floor of designer perfume vendors at The State Department Store, the city’s most famous mall.

Mongolia borders no oceans, but a country isn’t really landlocked when a sea of Chinese food, DVDs and Houston Rockets t-shirts sits to the south. Cars with California license plates regularly make their way to Mongolia via China, shipped three-at-a-time in crates, then run by rail to Ulaanbaatar.

What Mongolia does not get through China comes from Russia, which provided virtually all Mongolia’s imports before the USSR’s collapse (those Socialist days are long-gone; citizens tore down UB’s Stalin statue and sold it to a bar). Today, Russia’s two most relevant contributions seem to be petrol and vodka, not necessarily in that order. In terms of recipient appreciation, there’s a clear favorite. Everyone complains about Russian fuel prices; few protest vodka imports.

“It’s the one good thing they gave us,” UB Post editor Sumiya said during my first week in Ulaanbaatar.

Printer Malfunction

Now, of course, Mongolia makes its own vodka. The most popular brand, like many things here, is named Chinggis. I got my first taste at an office party on a Wednesday, printing day. Sumiya had returned from the countryside, but he still had two weeks of vacation left, so Togoo, a veteran from our parent company’s daily, joined our staff to make four. If he, Kirril (Australian reporter), Bulgamaa (Mongolian reporter) and I worked non-stop, we’d get the paper in just after the 6 pm deadline.

That was good news. We sent the paper to press closer to midnight than 6 the last two weeks and now the printers hated us. At 10 pm the week before, at least one guy got fed up.

“He went crazy,” Bulgamaa told me. I thought of some spectacled guy throwing type everywhere. Well, we’d make this week different.

Our staff clicked along until afternoon when a woman entered the office. After saying hello, I recognized her as Sumiya’s mother. She too had returned from the countryside bringing provisions for the office. That meant there was a party upstairs. Bulgamaa told me to bring a cup.

A Shot of Modernity, Tradition

All four of us joined the cast of photographers and sports writers in an advertising office. Sumiya’s mother handed Kirril and I bowls of clear liquid: horse vodka. It’s watery and less alcoholic than vodka, and comes out of a horse.

Drinking in Mongolia is tricky because finishing too fast prompts someone to immediately refill your container—drink too slowly and someone yells at you to chug.

“I’m going to be sick,” Kirril said, “You have to drink this.”

He had a bad experience visiting countryside gers, drinking three shots at every residence like a well-mannered guest. He’s never recovered, but I couldn’t help him. We looked around without lifting our containers until Khastagara—the second coolest person who comes into our office—spotted us. “Faster, faster,” he said.

Hahaha, we laughed, and pretended to drink faster. Sumiya’s mother filled the cups we still held in our free hands with airag: fermented mare’s milk. Earlier, a Mongolian told me not to drink it if I’d had surgery. It’s the sourest thing I’ve put in my mouth on purpose.

“Drink, Drink,” said Khastagar. His name means hawk, and he wears a bright red helmet while riding his moped around. He’s a great photographer. He’s also a jerk.

The coolest guy who comes into the office is Gray Wolf. Nobody knows what he does or where he comes from, but he’s sinewy, ambiguously ethnic, and has a long ponytail. Every other week he storms into the office demanding to see the editor. Sumiya is never there when he stops by.

I finished my horse vodka too quickly and Sumiya’s mother refilled my bowl with regular Chinggis vodka. I had to leave. Stuffing some cake into my mouth, I grabbed Kirril and we headed downstairs, apologizing that we had a lot of newspaper to finish. I felt light headed, but back at my desk, everything seemed more manageable, except the airag—that went down the sink.

This episode proved easy enough. I figured I could handle some drinking on the job. I soon learned it’s during vacation when drinking becomes mandatory and serious and much more difficult.

Make Mine a Dribble

A week after Sumiya returned to work, the Mongol News Group held its two-day staff retreat. Each year, the company charters twin city buses and lugs its employees to a company in Terelj national park, several kilometers east of Ulaanbaatar. Everyone goes: the administrative staff, the doormen and women, the printers, the advertisers and all the various papers’ journalists.

I sat in the back of a bus next to Sumiya, four other adults and two dead sheep the company bought for lunch the following day. We left around 10:30 in the morning. At 11:00 we opened a second bottle of vodka.

“I never drink before noon,” I told Sumiya, but that wasn’t an option. I wanted to join the fun and Sumiya was persistent. I also wanted vodka to stop spilling on my pants from the sippy cup he had me hold while he poured—Mongolia’s roads are not well suited for pouring or drinking and driving.

Intermittently I packed rolls into my mouth, and felt only slightly nauseous by the time we reached Terelj. I had to learn from mistakes made by the last English Editor to go on this trip; Sumiya said he found him passed out behind a ger covered in stomach acid. At the hotel, we sat down as a company for lunch, rested for an hour, then headed to a nearby field for an office Olympiad: tug of war, sumo wrestling, soccer, and a relay.

The Team that Thinks Together Drinks Together

We divided ourselves into three teams. The UB Post joined Five Rings, the sports paper with which we share an office. Onoodor, the large daily and administrative/other personnel formed the second and third teams respectively.

“Who are those huge guys?” I asked Sumiya.

“I think those are the printers,” he said.

Oh. Printing is not an academic profession here, and those four giants formed the administrative team’s core. Any notion that teamwork is more important than strength in tug of war is not true. They killed us. I didn’t know fingers could hurt so much. Sumo wrestling ended badly too, but the white collar journalists got revenge during the beautiful game and a crazily complex relay. It was fun, but people took this stuff seriously; there were cash prizes for the winners. Our team made $10 per person and the administrators earned the same (hapless Onoodor won nothing).

Afterwards, it was time to drink in earnest, so the UB Post staff sat with the sports guys and women and passed around cups of vodka. Unlike parties in the US where people get their own drinks and gather in small groups, everyone sits in a circle drinking from communal cups in Mongolia. The cup stops when there is no more vodka. We had a lot of vodka.

So What’s Old?

One Mongolian guidebook said that the introduction of beer decreased drunkenness in Mongolia because the human stomach can only hold so much liquid and beer has so much less alcohol than hard liquor. Everyone here seemed to drink superhuman quantities and hold it together. Then there was dinner. Then there was a disco.

We spent the night in a ger outside the hotel, and the next morning Sumiya and I got up and went to find some horses. He had said something about drunken yak riding earlier, but today I was willing to settle for less. We climbed a ridge and looked down on a horse herd, some vehicles, and power-lines running toward a ger encampment in the next valley.

It was getting late so we headed back to the busses and then to Ulaanbaatar. Sumiya said this is the best day of the year. It’s a lot of fun, but for relaxation, I prefer work in the city, where if you want alcohol, you usually have to go out and buy it.