From Stefan I learned that Mark was very lucky to have found him and his friends at the Mongolian barbecue restaurant because not that many locals speak English and his first few weeks in the country were rough going. The large monastery in UB rejected him first, assuming he was a tourist and he couldn’t convince them he wanted to stay. Something in Stefan’s voice gave me the impression that perhaps Mark hadn’t tried very hard. I’ve heard these monasteries are famous for turning people away to test their mettle. So, without any options he approached a table of laughing expats and therein found a job and a place to live. I detected a bit of self-praise in how Stefan told that part of the story as though he and his friends had rescued Mark from a grim fate.
After an hour of listening to Stefan, the unease of overstaying my welcome began to set in. Waiting there for Mark was not an option I considered worthwhile. I could wander around looking for him or come back later. Instead, I chose to leave the contact information for my hotel and the backpack, telling Stefan to feel free to rummage through it since he also seemed to be deprived of reading material beyond the magazine that looked several months old. Stefan threw on a massive Russian coat and flagged down a taxi that was in even worse shape than the one that brought me there. He gave the driver the name of my hotel in Mongolian. After a firm handshake, I was off again. Stefan seemed to be taking care of Mark, and from the way he spoke of him, enjoyed having him around. That was reassuring and not altogether unsurprising. Mark’s innocent vulnerability made him the kind of guy people wanted to help.
As we wound our way through the narrow muddy streets, I observed the fuel gauge on the taxi nearing empty. This had been the case with the other taxi, and I wondered if these guys lived hand-to-mouth and couldn’t afford the cost of filling up the tank. Who knows, maybe they feared thieves who might siphon off a few liters overnight. While I considered this, and observed the passing scenes of people trudging through a thick mix of snow and mud, I caught site of Mark’s unmistakable bright face passing by. He stood away from the road, talking with two Mongolians. I shouted for the driver to stop, and he bounced his body sideways, but it didn’t seem to register with him. So, I clutched his shoulder and again shouted for him to stop. I felt the car lurch to a stop, and he stared back at me, face burning with surprise. I pointed out the window and mumbled something even I couldn’t understand. He answered with a shrug. So, I shoved a fistful of Tugriks at him and bid him farewell, stepping out of the taxi and slamming the door. Oh well, another botched interaction.
Mark hadn’t seen me, and even as I approached the trio standing beside a puffy white ger, he seemed deep in conversation and unapproachable. I hung back several yards behind him, like a stalking lion waiting for an opportune moment. The younger man standing next to him could have been an interpreter, as I watched Mark pause a few times while the other spoke to the older man in their tongue-twisting language. I circled around them to place myself within Mark’s view, but he remained focused on the conversation. This went on for several minutes, and during that time I took notice of the surroundings, wishing I had a warmer hat on. Mark wore local garb, complete with a fur hat that covered his ears. His looked different–more Soviet style than most of the ones I’d seen. When his conversation ended and he shook hands with the older man and turned to walk away with the younger one, I belted out in a Russian accent.
“Eh, comrade!” He glanced over his shoulder, gradual recognition twisting into a smile.
“Harry? What the hell…” His voice trailed off and so did the color in his face. I wondered if he thought I brought horrific news. “Wow, you’re here! I didn’t expect you so soon… is everything OK?”
“Couldn’t be better.” I moved closer and saw the other one scrutinize me with protective eyes. “I was in the neighborhood and just thought I’d come and check on you in person.”
Mark reached out an ungloved hand and shook my own, still in shock seeing me in person and trying his best to appear welcoming. It was difficult for both of us not to feel awkward, and again, I regretted not taking Elena’s advice to send him my arrival date. It would have been challenging anyway since I booked my flight last minute.
“Well, welcome to the edge of the world! I got your email, but didn’t know when you were coming. So, this is a pleasant surprise.” He shook his head as if I were a toddler with a hand stuck in the cookie jar. The color trickled back into his chapped face and we stood there gazing at each other. “I’m so glad you’re here, Harry. It’s really great to see you.”
“Absolutely, and you’ll be happy to know that I brought some books for you. They’re at your place. I was just there. I met Stefan.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Seeing you just now was purely coincidental. I was actually on my way back to the hotel.”
“Well, lucky me. Why don’t we go warm ourselves up somewhere?” He turned to the other man, “Harry, this is Tsenguun, my friend and interpreter.”
“Nice to meet you, Tsenguun.” I butchered his name, stuck out my hand and he gave me a firm shake and pleasant nod.
“Tsenguun, I think we’re done this morning. Do you want to join us for an early lunch?”
Tsenguun demurred, not wanting to be a third wheel, I suppose. They agreed to meet up again after lunch, and once he said goodbye the two of us started for the direction of Mark’s place. Walking beside him, I detected a slight shift in his gait. Could have been the cold air, but he seemed to walk with a bit more spring in his step, as if leaping into the future. His presence and the way he spoke about his work as we made our way through streets and people displayed an effortless quality, like when the sails are trimmed just right on a sailboat hitting its sweet spot. Indeed, I sensed Mark had found a sweet spot, if but a temporary one. As we neared his little house, he stopped and put a hand to his brow.
“Just remembered. I don’t have a thing to eat in the house. Unless you want leftover mutton that didn’t taste good the first time around. Why don’t we jump in a taxi and go someplace decent?”
“Sure, I’m up for anything.”
“I know a great Indian-Mexican restaurant,” he said, hailing a passing car. I shot him an incredulous look as we climbed inside.
“Indian-Mexican food in Mongolia? Sounds like a recipe for indigestion.
“Believe it or not, it’s quite good.”
CHAPTER 2 | MONGOLIAN STYLE INDIAN MEXICAN FOOD
I didn’t get sick from the Indian-Mexican culinary fusion. In fact, Mark was right. The food delighted my taste buds despite none of the dishes tasting either Indian or Mexican–more like a smorgasbord of curried bean dip wrapped in various tortilla-like flatbreads. After a few days I had already grown tired of the Japanese cuisine at the hotel and the occasional local dish I tried and set aside after a bite, or in one instance, a single glance. During lunch I began probing Mark on his life and new job. In addition to Stefan, he had another roommate. Her name was Sarah, a twenty-four-year-old ex-Peace Corps volunteer trying to set up a website for people to give to other people. Mark didn’t know enough about it to clue me in on the specifics, but as he spoke about her I observed the subtle cues of romantic interest. He knew more about his job selling environmental products, and I relished in learning the details on something that up until then I’d only read about. Even when I watched him earlier with the old man in front of his ger, I could tell he was good at the soft-sell. Others trusted his face to tell the truth.
“They sell themselves, Harry. People here need them, and that’s what matters most. A clean cook stove means less coal burned, which means their monthly expenses go down. Of course, the family and even society benefits from reduced pollution. They’re still burning coal and maybe other things, but a lot less of it. Some of the other products are a bit tougher to sell because clients cannot see the immediate financial benefits. An extra felt cover reduces heat loss and solar panel kits give them access to electrical options, particularly for those who are not on the grid–people living on the fringes, but I’m
finding that these don’t sell as well. Most of the kits are first generation, so they break down a lot. Besides, they’re very expensive.”
“I saw you had an interpreter. Why don’t they just have local people selling to local people? Would save the cost of having two of you pounding the pavement–or muddy snow in this case.”
“Well, sadly, innovative products sell better when outsiders… especially westerners, are presenting them. Somehow our ideas are worth more, even though they’re not even made by us, but have words written in English, which is good for marketing. We represent the future, I suppose.”
“That makes sense. That guy back there was looking at you like you had all the answers. I bet you could have sold him a pile of nuts and bolts and he’d be happy.”
“Not exactly. These people aren’t stupid–especially after years under the Soviets and now the Chinese trying to spread their influence. They’re suspicious of outsiders. There’s a strong nationalist undercurrent flowing through the country right now. So, I’m a little surprised that they are so accepting of western influence–albeit technological. By the way, all we’ve done is talk about me. Which I notice you have a habit of doing–steering conversations away from you.” He drew a deep breath and his eyes twinkled under the dim light of the restaurant. “When I got your email, I was surprised that you were coming for a visit. I mean, I asked and all, but why come all the way here?”
“I just retired from the bank, and I’m scouting out some investment opportunities as I’m kicking around the idea of maybe starting my own fund.” This was an on-the-spot fib that flashed into truth as my mind grabbed hold and ran with it. “I’m off to China next, but I figured I’d stop in and see how you were getting along on the other side of the Great Wall. Besides, I hear there’s some mining opportunities here, so I may poke around a bit. You mind that I’m here?”
“Not at all. Of course not! Like I said, I invited you. It’s just a surprise to see you come all the way out here–and so fast! But it’s awesome and I can’t wait to see the books you brought. Can’t thank you enough, Harry.” The mood eased after his comments, and I could sense both of us relaxing into our cups of tea. “You seem curious about my work. Would you like to see more of it? This afternoon’s not good–you look jet lagged anyway. Are you free tomorrow morning? Say 8:00 a.m.?”
“Sure, I would love to see you in action again as long as it won’t interfere.”
“Don’t worry, if anyone asks I’ll just tell them you’re a potential investor. Who knows… might help!”
The following morning, I arrived at Mark’s place a few minutes early. Despite a warm head from the new fur-lined hat I bought the previous afternoon, my extremities were freezing. I rapped on his front door. Once again, Stefan answered, and I wondered if he had taken on the role of Hausmeister as he seemed to relish greeting visitors and serving them tea. When I sat down on my same chair, I noticed the open backpack and ten books stacked neatly on a wooden side table. The eleventh one was missing, one of the Hesse books: Demian. Interesting. Elena had insisted that I choose that book, along with another one I’d never heard of. I read Demian on the flight out there, though much of it was lost on me. Strange little book about strange little kids. I wanted to meet Sarah, or at least catch site of her, but Mark appeared alone and within minutes we were off, trotting through the snowy mud.
We found Tsenguun on the corner. Underneath his coat I noticed a cheap grey suit hanging over his skinny frame. He could have passed for a high-school kid, with a face full of pimples and hair crying out for a wash and comb. After chatting with him while the three of us walked abreast, I learned he was taking a semester off from Cornell and had gotten the interpreter job to earn enough money to finish his degree. A mere three years away from the motherland and he already sounded like a wise-cracking American kid, slipping in expressions like “my bad” and “that’s so dope”.
We walked together through the ger district, piles of litter everywhere and the neighborhood worsening–tattered clothes and grimy faces like I’d seen in National Geographic pictures of poverty-stricken countries. There was also an air of melancholic desperation hanging over everything. I had friends come back from various third-world countries saying that the people were poor but happy, as though they had something to teach us about the true meaning of life. I didn’t see any of that where Mark brought me. No, the people appeared tired and worn out and the misery so thick I could feel it weighing me down. I’m not sure, but maybe places like India and Thailand are different given the milder climate, as the cold weather in Mongolia no doubt compounded the woes of the poor. I know my edgier side used to creep out more during the winter months when I lived on the East Coast. Though it did make me wonder if vacation travelers to any of these countries see more than the odd beggar or a passing slum corridor. Walking with Mark and Tsenguun through the thick of economic hardship endured by people used to living somewhere else ripped my mind into a thousand tiny thoughts that engulfed me.
We approached a ger and the two of them stepped up to the wooden door. Tsenguun shouted something through it and we stood there waiting until a thin-looking man appeared and motioned us to enter. I followed as the others did, removing my boots at the threshold and placing my hat down on a small table near the entrance. A pleasant hint of incense floated into my nose. The dingy white covering on the outside belied the beauty of its interior. I was surprised at the spaciousness and cozy atmosphere inside the ger. Carpets and furs lined the floors and the walls, and it seemed like every space was made to serve a purpose, though it was obvious that these people were poor. An old man sat on a bed covered in layers of blankets that doubled as a couch. A woman in her early twenties with a young baby wrapped in beautiful red fabric sat on a stool a few feet from the warming center stove. The baby looked up at me with curious eyes as the young man motioned for us to sit down on the couch-bed beside the old man. The entire scene felt awkward as the four of us huddled together and I overheard the woman shout something to an older woman moving about on the other side of the ger, presumably to rouse her into doing something for us.
Our host pulled over a faded and chipped green plastic lawn chair and sat down across from us with a proud mist in his eyes. Both he and the old man seemed happy to see us. I tried to hide my discomfort, wondering which local custom or protocol I might have inadvertently breached. Mark appeared well at ease, and I heard him say a few words in their language: sain baina uu to break the ice (later I had Zul at the hotel write out this simple greeting and practice it with me). The old man turned to me with a pleasant smile, patting my arm as if sharing an inside joke. I nodded and tried my best to become invisible. It was Mark’s show, and I didn’t want to ruin it with any bombast. Nevertheless, Mark tried to fill me in on the discussion as it seemed like he’d already met this man before. He spoke just loud enough for me to hear, but no louder.
“His name is Bold. He and his family used to live in the countryside. The old man is his father. Both of his parents live with them, which isn’t that usual for Mongolia, but in this case his father was injured by a horse and they had to move in with his son’s family. They were all herders up until about a year ago, when the harsh winter killed off most of his flock. He sold the rest of it and they moved here. He’s been looking for steady work, and is mainly doing odd jobs. He wants to purchase a clean cook stove to save money on coal and to reduce the smoke in his house, but he hasn’t the money. He’s asking about financing to pay it off.”
“Can you do that?” I asked.
“We normally go through a small bank, but they ask for collateral for non-business loans. Some people can use gold or silver jewelry, but he doesn’t have much. So, it may not work out unless we can tie it in with a business loan. I’ve heard of some people creating businesses just to qualify for a loan and then they use part of the money for our products. Not ideal.”
“Can he use the cook stove as collateral?” I asked.
“Yes, but it’s not enough to c
over it since the unit loses its value too quickly.”
“How much do the things cost?”
“Our units run about forty dollars U.S.”
“Christ, that’s nothing!”
“But for this man that is a lot of money,” Tsenguun broke in to remind me where we were.
“Then I guess he can’t buy it,” I muttered in resignation, looking around the ger as if I might spot a worthy piece of collateral–a throwback to my days as a loan officer.
I heard the baby cough and glanced over at it. It was still studying us from its mother’s arms and I felt precious eyes fall on me.
“Who is this little guy?” I asked with a smile, never quite sure how I felt about babies. They are cute as long as I don’t have to hold them.
“This is Altansarnai. She is seven months old,” Tsenguun answered.
“Does her name mean something?”
“It means golden flower. Golden rose.”
“She is coughing. Does she have a cold?”
“No. Actually, she has been coughing blood and the doctors think she might have a lesion on her lung,” Tsenguun answered with a solemn glance at the girl.
Crossing Allenby Bridge Page 7