A flat search and fees

Baby Steppes

I graduated from college and then realized other people had done a lot for me. With toddlers, parents love to applaud ‘first words,’ ‘first steps,’ ‘first teeth.’ If they’re the type that doesn’t like to see their children leave the nest, they continue this behavior through college. But, I thought, that’s when it ends. After you graduate, you’re on your own and you rely on numero uno for support through a second nascent progression, from first job, to first bills, to first plumbing mishap.

I wish this expectation turned out true: that I could say I’ve managed for myself here in Mongolia; that I braved a foreign country and a language barrier alone; that I’ve independently made a comfortable and productive life. Everything is fine, but I haven’t done much on my own.

This fact came into clearest focus when I rented an apartment in Ulaanbaatar.

Thanks… Thanks a light

Apartment hunting consisted of telling my editor, Sumiya, that I wanted to find a place. He took me to buy a classified paper, scanned it for apartments near the office, made the phone calls, and accompanied me to the one we selected.

There, he did the talking.

My Mongolian is not good. I can say hello. I now know the Cyrillic alphabet. I can count to 10. I know how to say thank you too, but I don’t use those words anymore because I botched them the first 15 days I was here. “Bayar laa laa” I said — ‘Thank you candle’ or ‘happiness candle candle’ depending on how people choose to interpret it. Now I just wave.

aPARTment of Darkeness

Heading toward the apartment, Sumiya and I traversed the square in front of the office and then headed north-east, dashed across a wide, shrubby median-divided road and passed a movie theater, a police station, a fire department, and what looks like another police station. Seven minutes later we arrived in the rear of a faded-orange concrete building, run down but appealing in its own way: a flat roof that looks like an extended summit of a Greek column gives it some class.

A perpetually-open metal door guards the entryway, which smells somewhat strongly of urine and leads to a dark stairwell whose walls contain undersized windows and a collection of knee high hooks. On the third floor, we entered another large metal door and I looked inside apartment number 34 or 36 or maybe 32 (Street names and apartment numbers are not always clearly marked in Ulaanbaatar and people generally navigate using landmarks).

A room with a loo

Chipped wooden cabinets, a dangling light bulb, and a small hallway with a smaller bathroom/shower/toilet complex at its end greeted me, along with the little family who owned the place. Before me stood a spectacled gray haired man in a rockets shirt, a spectacled girl about my age, a toddler playing with blocks, and a matron. I looked around. “I can’t live here,” I thought.

I said a Mongolia hello, and then spoke some little English with my age-mate. Peering into all the rooms, Sumiya asked several questions, but I was busy imagining sitting alone, away from a hostel, for $300 plus utilities. That started sounding pretty good.

In the largest room I found a sizeable, gold sheeted bed with matching gold pillow cases, a child’s desk, a dresser, a glass case with a Middle Eastern tea set, and a TV. A half-wall punctured by an arched window and arched doorway separates the kitchen into two rooms. I love this feature. In one half of the room there’s a sink, a pantry and a chair. In the other you there’s a fridge, a Bunsen burner, and a table tucked into a corner near a large window.

I’d get to keep all the furniture. “I’ll take it.” I told Sumiya. For the price and the location he didn’t think it was that bad. “What about a vacuum cleaner?” he asked. Oh yeah. He negotiated a vacuum cleaner and I have an option of getting a phone. “What about the laundry,” he asked. That I do in the shower.

Admittedly the place has a few quirks. There’s a smorgasbord of real and linoleum tile in the kitchen and the bathroom; there’s fake wood on the ceiling and the floor; there’s a giant picture of osh-kosh wearing white children that I need to hide. Water drizzled to the toilet bowl ran continuously until I shut off the valve. I flush the toilet by filling the tank with a tea kettle. It had character and I decided to call it a fixer upper. I agreed to return the next day and sign the papers.

Sumiya and I headed out the door. “Bayar laa laa,” I told family: “Benevolence candle candle”

“Goodbye” said the English speaking daughter.

Bank Run

Sumiya did not come with me when I signed the lease. I had enough money for one month’s rent (about 320,000 togrogs or $300) and I figured I could handle this transaction.

After making the short walk from work to the apartment, I looked blankly at the Mongolian contract before me. Selenge, the girl I spoke with the day before, provided a summary; it sounds like, as long as nothing breaks, I’m fine. I took out my wad of cash, but Selenge explained her family needed the money up front. No problem, I said, I’ll run to an ATM.

It took three days to collect it. $1800 is just over 2,000,000 togrogs and Mongolia’s largest bill is tg 20,000. ATM cards, I discovered, limit the amount you can withdraw from any one machine and the amount you can withdraw on any one day. Some machines only give 10,000 togrog notes and as I ran around the street near my apartment, I stuffed my wallet and pockets and backpack with dozens of bills. I looked like a money scarecrow or a large, walking, money piñata. Someone just had to beat me and gather up the prize and if I had known how much I was carrying, I would have done it. It would have been so easy (I later learned that you can go to a bank teller to make a large transaction).

Supper Man, who can live on the third floor, all by himself

In the end, things worked out robbery free. I installed myself in the apartment, organized my belongings, and bought some dish soap. I make use of the fridge and the burner and manage to feed myself regularly. So far, I’ve kept things simple with Russian spaghetti and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but soon I plan to venture out into the wild kingdom or oils, spices, packaged dumplings, and animal species.

Accomplishing something I should be able to do—albeit in an inefficient and dangerous way—is at least a relief and at most a hidden source of pride. Now it’s time to take a break from baby steps and go to work: that is until I have to figure out how to pay my first bills.