The taxi system in Ulaanbaatar is a unique one and I like to think it reflects a Mongolian practicality and hospitality. While there are professional taxi services, complete with yellow cars and calling cards and distance meters, it’s much more common to be picked up by a private car. Anyone and everyone can be a taxi in Ulaanbaatar, the only requirement a car. I’ve come to appreciate the practicality of this system: I have a resource that you need, so let’s make a deal. Of course there’s a safety concern in the back of my head regarding this unregulated system but it seems to go quite well: the worst story I’ve heard is that foreigners are consistently overcharged. I didn’t feel comfortable taking a taxi until I had my bearings on the geography of the city and knew a few key Mongolian words, but now it feels pretty straight-forward.
I’m motivated to write this entry because of my most recent taxi ride, in which the driver tried to convince me to let him be my boyfriend. This awkward conversation was made all the more so because I hadn’t learned the Mongolian word for “boyfriend.” When I finally figured it out I laughed and said “Oh, I already have a boyfriend,” (the classic defense for unwanted suitors). His response: “Oh, that’s okay – you could have two!” No, no, but thanks anyway.
The first taxi ride I got up the gumption to do, I was picked up by two young men listening to Western pop songs. It was around dinnertime on a weekend, so I realized that my taxi ride was probably funding their night out.
So far I’ve had one grumpy driver, but mostly they’ve been friendly at the least and often chatty. This may be the location where I get the most Mongolian practice, as a matter of fact. On one memorable taxi ride the driver asked me the usual “where are you from, why are you here” questions, but when I mentioned Seattle he lit up. “My older brother lived in Seattle!” Oh really? That’s nice, it’s a beautiful city. What I didn’t notice was that he was dialing his cell phone, and when he got someone on the line he handed the phone to me, saying “Angli-hel! Angli-hel!” (English! English!) Sure enough, he had called up his brother so that we could…chat about Seattle? It went something like this: Oh you lived in Seattle? It’s beautiful. Yeah, okay…we’re at my stop now, I have to go.
I’ve been picked up by old married couples that continue their chatting and bickering with me in the back seat. I’ve had rides from small families. I can imagine the conversation when they see me on the side of the road, arm out, fingers down, “Well, honey, should we give her a ride?” “Oh sure, why not? We have time, it’s not the kid’s bedtime yet.”
I’ve been turned down by drivers, as well, after I tell them where I want to go. “Oh sorry, I’m not going in that direction.” If you’re headed home from work and stuck in traffic, you may as well have some company in the back seat and make a couple bucks while you’re at it.
Have I mentioned the traffic yet? It’s horrendous. There are too many cars and too many potholes and too many
behind the wheel. Cars will regularly drive over sidewalks, do U-turns in the middle of a busy road, speed up when a pedestrian tries to cross the street, drive in between the middle of two lanes of traffic, then honk angrily at another car when they do the same. One day I counted five fender-benders. Luckily for pedestrian me, the traffic is often so backed-up that you can waltz across the street between cars that are practically parked. Otherwise, it’s a game of depth perception and courage to cross the street. I spent the first few weeks always waiting for a local Mongolian to fall in step with, but I feel a sense of pride to notice that at times I’m the one that Mongolians fall in step with.
Mongolia has helped me to appreciate honking as a means of communication (“Coming through!” “The light is green!” or even “Outta my way!”) but I will never be able to appreciate the honk of a car stuck in traffic, honking at other cars stuck in traffic (and this happens all the time! Again, Mongolia is the providing to be the perfect training ground in my pilgrimage for patience…)
The bus system is quite effective, if at times overwhelming. A number of bus lines run all around the city, it’s only a matter of figuring out which number goes where (there are no convenient bus guides to explain it all), then suffering the pollution, horrendous stop-and-go driving and crammed spaces until you get to your stop. Mongolia has no “queue-ing culture” to speak of, so getting on and off the bus can be an adventure for sure, and once you’ve made it on the bus, you may be crammed shoulder to shoulder. Mongolia is not the first place I’ve been on crammed public transit, but such intense closeness still seems unnatural and bizarre. With so many people packed in together, I’ve found myself face-to-face with people’s dandruff, examining someone’s cuticles or absent-mindedly studying the weave on someone’s clothing. I zone out and realize I’m making eye contact with someone across the way. And the push-and-shove philosophy is exacerbated with such crowds – there are no “excuse me”s on Mongolian busses – you literally push your way to where you need to go.
Just today I was lucky to get a seat on the bus on my way home from training, but then a duo of high school teens entered the bus and stood right above me. This would have been no problem, except that they were munching on a bag full of pine nuts. Pine nuts are very popular here, and vendors sit with a huge bag of the dark red nuts and sell them by the cup. At this point, they are still in their shells, so a favorite Mongolian snack and pastime is munching on the pine nuts, cracking the shells open and eating the nut inside. Well, considering the lack of personal space, these girls standing above me on the bus had no qualms about throwing their pine nut shells out the open window above my head. And yes, one or two shells fell in my lap. And no, they didn’t seem to notice or mind.
There have been a few times when the lack of personal space has an encouraging outcome. More than once, I’ve seen anonymous hands reach out on a bumpy bus to help an old man as he hobbles to the door. I’ve seen a sea of supportive strangers protect a baby’s head as his momma is trying to sit down. As much as I try, it’s hard to keep these beautiful images in mind, though, as you have elbows in your ribs amidst the rush…
My apartment, however, is about a 20 minute walk to the nearest bus line and only a 30 minute walk to the center, so I find myself walking quite often. Walking is relaxing and a nice relief from the traffic as I find myself passing scores of cars stalled and honking. But walking isn’t without its hazards. Along with the aforementioned street-crossing caution, you have to pay particular attention to each step as unfinished construction sites abound in the city. I can’t quite figure out what sort of city planning is happening that will start one sidewalk project when it has left upended cement blocks and open manholes on a previous project a few streets down. Every time I walk to the center, I trek up and down miniature mountain ranges of unused dirt, pick my way around fjords of litter and hop over small canyons – plumbing projects left gaping? Sometimes I truly can’t decipher the history of all the sidewalk mishaps.
I hope I don’t sound like I’m complaining, though. All in all I’m doing pretty well at keeping an adventurer’s brain – conquering those construction sites like Marco Polo wove through the Silk Road!! Or at least keeping a sense of humor about it all. I feel lucky to have travelled in developing countries before – disrepair in and of itself is no longer shocking or offensive.
One day, as I was walking along the streets with a friend of mine, another American, he said, “you are going to have such intense culture shock when you get back to the States!” I laughed and asked him what made him say that. He pointed at an open manhole we had just passed, with piles of abandoned cobblestones nearby. I laughed even more because, either focusing on traffic or lost in thought, I hadn’t even noticed it.
More soon. <3
