“First of all, I’m not going to Mongolia. I thought I just said that. Second of all, I don’t think he needs any hippy-trippy books. A man struggling to find himself should be reading Unlimited Power by Anthony Robbins or The Wealthy Barber or someone else who’s made it big in this world. You’re always going on about how great fiction is, but fiction is just that–fiction. Dreams. I live in a world of facts and like Churchill said, facts are better than dreams. Everyone else is basing their life on some false hope that makes absolutely no sense.”
“One day you just might learn that fiction is high art, Harry, root of the truth. The great works of literature describe layers of what it means to be human–and some of us find meaning in those stories as they point to universals. I wonder about some of those books you read, which you don’t really need at this point. They may help a few people by marking out the path of one successful man, but their value is more in the way they can motivate the few people already standing on the precipice of success and needing a gentle nudge. The rest of us are too far back and wrestling with some pretty powerful demons for that to work just yet.”
I dismissed her with a wave of the hand.
Part II | OUTER MONGOLIA
CHAPTER 1 | I SEE MARK AGAIN
A week later I was on a flight to Mongolia with a bag full of books, two of them written by Hesse. I felt a sense of relief and freedom looking out over the Pacific Ocean. Elena’s gentle prodding made me feel I was somehow in divine hands now, and as much as I teased her for the unconventional views she went on about, a tiny part of me believed them too.
Some of my tropical vacation destinations could be considered third-world countries, but I never noticed the poverty since I often traveled direct from airport to resort. Leaving the Ulaanbaatar (UB) airport and passing over the roadway into town made for a jarring experience. I expected to see those ger tents Mark wrote about dotting a sweeping landscape like some picturesque brochure. Instead, I noticed thousands of them wedged together in slums covered in dirty speckles of snow. With a charcoal gray sky and the occasional grim face on the side of the roadway, I felt like I landed on the edge of the world with the next stop somewhere between the Twilight Zone and the harsh mining conditions where the little girl worked in the beginning of Doctor Zhivago. Perhaps it was the dullness of the end of winter or the idle cranes and half-completed buildings downtown, but my initial assessment of UB was that it lacked the aesthetical character needed to be considered a world-class city. It was late, and I was tired and needed a hot shower and warm meal. The hotel promised a shiatsu massage, catering to Japanese businessmen who appreciated that sort of thing. So, after an early dinner I treated myself to a not-so-gentle walk on my back before laying a leaden head on my pillow to sleep for thirteen hours.
My muscles staged an open revolt the next morning. While Benadryl helped with the overnight sleep, my head felt like it needed to be held up by someone else. I decided to postpone the search for Mark. In an act of indulgence draped in necessity, I went for another shiatsu massage, drawing an older man with hands like a linebacker. I spent the rest of the morning in a steaming pool inside a spooky cave, then took in a late lunch at the hotel restaurant, finishing out the day propped up in bed watching American movies on the television set that hadn’t even made the cut on American cable. I fell asleep around seven, grateful that I took another Benadryl before dozing off so that I could sleep through the night. It was an old trick that prevented the dreaded 3:00 a.m. bug-eyed wake up that plagued most overseas travelers trying to switch over to the new time.
The next morning, I woke up groggy, but fresh from rest. I was ready to go find Mark. After breakfast, I hauled the backpack full of books over my shoulder and trotted down to the lobby to rustle up a taxi. I approached the friendliest-looking person I could find at the front desk, a boy about the same age as Mark.
“Good morning, sir. How is your stay?” he said with a chipper smile. Seeing the imposing Genghis Khan imagery everywhere, I half-expected to be greeted by brutes clutching longbows and sabers. Instead, he and everyone else I encountered so far displayed a courteous gentleness bending towards hospitality. I kept waiting for the warrior edge to emerge on their faces, but that history must have been wiped clean by centuries of Buddhist influence. Of course, as a general principle the hospitality industry doesn’t hire beastly people. So, I reserved final judgment until after I rubbed elbows with a few more people on the street.
“So far so good,” I responded to him. “Everything has been pleasant and comfortable. By the way, I think we spoke the other night when I checked in. Sorry if I was a little grumpy with you all.”
“It really is no problem, sir. It was a long flight from America, I’m sure.”
“Miserable. By the way, your English is very good. Not like some of the others. Where did you learn it?”
“Ohio, sir. I went to Ohio University in Athens, Ohio.”
“Really? Athens? Didn’t know there was an Athens in Ohio.”
“Yes sir. I studied for my bachelors after spending my last year in high school there as a foreign exchange student.”
“Did you like Ohio?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Ohio is really a wonderful place. I love it there. I still have many friends who email me. Someday I might go back for a visit.”
“Did you travel much outside of Ohio?”
“I went to Washington, DC once, but that is all. Very nice, the White House and Washington Monument. Someday I hope to bring my family there.”
“I’m curious; would you rather live here or there?”
“I don’t know. My family is here. I love Ohio, and there are many opportunities in America, but I like it here. Here is home. I miss some things, though.”
“Like what?”
“Football games and keg parties.” He said this with a youthful laugh. “So crazy!”
I looked at his nametag. “Listen, Zul. I was wondering if you could help me with a taxi. I need to find an address.”
“Of course, sir. I am happy to help. Do you have the address?”
“Yes, it is here.” I showed him a printout of the address Mark had given me to send the books to, and he studied it for a few seconds with a searching face. I waited for the aha moment to wash over him, but it never happened, and he seemed to plunge further and further into confusion. After asking me to wait in a polite tone, he showed it to one of his colleagues, who then showed it to another, the three of them all staring at it like an unsolvable riddle. A few minutes later, Zul came back over to me, holding the paper between us.
“Excuse me. Is this a business or residence, sir?”
“I thought it was his home address. It’s from a friend of mine, but I don’t know if he’s living there or not. Why?” As I spoke, I realized how stupid it was of me to fire off a single email a few days before telling Mark I’m on my way but giving him no other notice that I was coming. He might have thought I wasn’t serious, and I hadn’t heard back from him yet. The idea of surprising him revealed how reckless and unwise I’d become in such a short time.
“Well, looks like it might be in the ger district. On the edge of town, I think. I really don’t know. The roads are not marked well. They keep changing as people are moving. Do you have a phone number for your friend?”
“No, sorry.”
He stood deep in thought, and I wondered if this request either went above his pay grade or outstretched his mental capacity. Nevertheless, I was touched by how much time and effort he and the others were putting into something they could have shrugged off as not their job.
“Listen, Zul. Why don’t you find me a taxi where the guy speaks a bit of English? I don’t mind driving around a bit to find it. I’ve got time.”
“I will go with you, sir.” He stunned me with a matter-of-fact resoluteness. “Just let me fetch my coat, please.”
Something told me not to argue with him, but to just let him come with me. I was already piling up curious experiences over the past few day
s, so I just rolled with it. The two of us jumped in a dirty old taxi and drove across town, Zul playing tour guide as he pointed out Sukhbaatar Square and its massive bronze statue of Genghis Khan seated on a throne. I always thought it was spelled and pronounced Genghis, at least that’s what I was told growing up. Somewhere along the way either the locals changed it to Chinggis or the rest of us were wrong all along.
I suppose I expected more of the downtown area, with a few high-end shops and not a single five-star hotel. I marveled that a city hundreds of years old still looked like it was just getting started. Zul must have read my mind, because he discussed its roots as a nomadic Buddhist monastic center evolving vis-à-vis a culture where moving around a lot is the norm. For a people who spent millennia living in tents they could pick up and take with them to follow the food, the notion of a city that stays put is still new even after hundreds of years. I began to see more and more of these round tents as we moved beyond the city square and toward the outskirts of town. As Zul put it, UB is a small city surrounded by thousands of gers. Some of those communities, particularly along the outer edges, are more fluid as families make a temporary stay, while the ones closer to the city center form more permanent peri-urban neighborhoods. Many of those neighborhoods resembled some of the shanty towns I’d seen in southern Maryland during my youth whenever we’d drive down from Baltimore to my grandfather’s place.
I heard Zul in the front seat, talking with the driver while they both kept glancing at the envelope as a touchstone for finding their way. I could sense we might be getting close as the taxi stopped and backed up, trying a different route, then turned around again while they studied sides of buildings interspersed among gers. At one point, the driver stopped to ask a crusted old man standing on the corner in layers of drab clothing and a huge furry hat. The old man grumbled something and cast a curious glance at me; my window rolled down to let me escape the driver’s choking cigarette smoke. The neighborhood looked a bit rough, though I found the Mongolians themselves, despite being gentle when in conversation, very tough looking. Of course, as a product of the Cold War era, etched faces underneath giant babushka hats always looked rough to me. Nevertheless, I was determined to buy one of those hats when I had the chance. They looked warm at a time when every part of me was cold. In the end, we stopped in front of a small red brick building that looked out of place among the gers. I couldn’t make out the Cyrillic lettering on the sign over it, but Zul turned to me and nodded, his demeanor shifting from slight anxiousness to quiet triumph.
“I think this place where your friend is.” I could tell from the way his English was breaking that indeed this venture had stretched him far out of his comfort zone. “We will wait here, or I can come with you if you’d like.”
“Thank you, Zul. I can take it from here. Why don’t you head on back to the hotel? I’ve taken up enough of your time.” I slipped him 25,000 Tugriks (about $20 U.S. back then) and after some hesitation, he took it.
“We will wait to make sure you find your friend.”
I glanced around, noticing a few people on the muddy street noticing me. My blond hair, blue eyes, and sleek businessman’s coat set me apart and while I didn’t quite fear these faces, they gave me a bit of a stir. I rapped four times on the door and waited. A single window seemed to be covered in brown paint, so I had no way of knowing if anyone was inside. I glanced back at Zul’s placid face–an expression I would come to associate with Mongolia–then knocked again. Maybe I should have listened to Elena and at least gave him the date I was coming so we could arrange a meeting. I heard an inner door slam and then the movement of someone approaching. A bolt popped and then the door cracked open, an unfamiliar face on the other side. It scrutinized me and then opened wider, so I could see it was an oversized man on the verge of middle-age, with rosy cheeks and western features.
“May I help you?” The thick accent sounded European.
“My name is Harry. I’m looking for a friend of mine, Mark.” At that, his face softened into a smile.
“Oh, Mark. Yes. You’re a friend of Mark’s? Please do come in out of the cold.” I thanked him and sent Zul and the driver off with a confident wave, shutting the door behind me and pulling the heavy backpack from my shoulders. I let it land on the carpeted stone floor with a thud.
“I am Stefan. Can I fix you a cup of tea?”
“That would be great, thank you.”
Stefan motioned for me to sit down and made a quiet shuffle into the back room. I moved over to an old fabric couch and at the last moment decided to sit in one of the two large wooden chairs with red velvet cushions. I felt an annoying fluorescent light bearing down on me from above–bright and humming. While I found some comfort in the chair after enduring an hour of old springy seats in the taxi, between the harsh light and the slapdash décor I remained uncomfortable. The air also carried a musty smell that reminded me of my graduate school apartment where the only cleanup that occurred happened when someone’s girlfriend couldn’t take it anymore. An overused ashtray stared back at me on the wooden coffee table, along with an old copy of the German magazine Der Spiegel. Stefan returned a few minutes later with two large steaming mugs, placing one of them on the table beside me and plopping down on the couch with his, pulling his feet underneath him as the Buddhists do.
“You from America, no?” he said with a pleasant smile.
“Yes, Mark and I used to work together. I came to bring him some books and to see what he’s been up to.” I motioned to the backpack beside the couch.
“Oh, he didn’t say. Anyway, would be good to have some new books around here.”
“You are from Germany?”
“Yes, but I’m half Swiss on my mother’s side.”
“I was in Germany once upon a time. Whereabouts are you from?”
“Oh, a little town near the Austrian border.”
“I passed through there in the summertime on my way to Salzburg. Seems like a great place to visit in the winter.”
“I could ski before I could walk, actually.” That made me chuckle.
“Any skiing out here?”
“Mongolia? No.” He waved his arm in defeat. “People here just drink vodka to get through the winter. I thought the Swiss Alps were cold. Your man Mark came here at the very worst time, in fact. Der hat eine meise!”
“Where is Mark, by the way?”
“He is working. He has a job selling environmental products.”
“Oh, is that where he is now?”
“Yes. He returns late afternoon. You can wait here for him, but that might be a long time and there’s no telling when he’ll return.”
“Any idea where he might be, exactly?”
“Hard to say, really.” He looked around and then made a self-conscious twitch. “I work for GI Zed, if you are wondering why I am home today. I usually work from the house on Mondays. Sometimes Mark returns home for lunch, though I am not sure about today.”
“What is the GI Zed?”
“It’s the development agency for the German government.”
“Interesting. What are you doing for them?”
“I am working in the energy efficiency program area. Clean cook stoves, solar panels, products like that. Mark is working with one of our affiliate partners on distribution.”
“That’s fascinating. With all the pollution, I would say you have your work cut out for you.”
“For sure. In the summertime the skies are clear. Today, it is overcast, but most of that is pollution. Did you know that this country spends the equivalent of four percent of its GDP on health costs directly associated with the pollution in winter? Climate change is driving the nomads to UB, but they have no livelihood here, so they cannot find work and are very poor. Sixty percent of the population lives in the ger district. Some build houses, but most still live in their gers. They wind up burning whatever they can get their hands on just to survive. I’ve seen people burning old truck tires. Pay attention when you’re outside as you
can sometimes see different colored smoke coming out of the chimneys: yellow, green, red. Almost no one has running water. Imagine having to get up in the middle of the night, negative thirty-five degrees Celsius, just to take a crap in some hole outside? It’s a big mess.”
“Wow, I had no idea.” I’d heard much of this environmental rhetoric before from the tree-huggers back home. So, much of what he said I softened in my mind. Although, the precision and authority with which he spoke, along with the burning tires comment, swayed me to consider his perspective. No doubt I was taking in some of those toxic fumes while we sat in the living room, which was still cold, but being warmed by something. “By the way, how do you heat this place?”
“Ah, good question! We have installed solar panels on the roof that generate some electricity. So, we can use energy-efficient radiators. Most of the people in this community use coal-burning stoves. We are trying to switch them over to more energy-efficient devices, with limited success. They are still quite expensive.”
I drank my tea, its spice filling my head with energy. Stefan seemed to have a wealth of knowledge about clean energy, Mongolia and pretty much any topic I mentioned. He had been living in UB for the past four years, and from his demeanor appeared both committed to staying on indefinitely or traveling back Germany at a moment’s notice. Perhaps what gave that impression were his fashionable eyeglasses pointing toward a futuristic world juxtaposed against thick cashmere socks and embroidered felt slippers. While his jowly face and short-cropped hair edged with specks of silver gave him a comical look, there was no mistaking the intensity of his steely gray eyes. He appeared a man who ate life, both in the literal and figurative sense. He wasted no time on pretention, directing his energy to a professional drive aimed at wielding technology for the common good. His erudition and ease of navigating a conversation with polite sincerity and a hint of humor very much reminded me of the Europeans I’d met over the years, who often seemed more educated and sure-footed than my countrymen–or me, for that matter.
Crossing Allenby Bridge Page 6