An unexpected phone call

I was awaiting a visit from Gustavo and his wife last Thursday when about 8:30 Gantsetseg called me her voice sounded frantic. Whether because she was frantic or because we were talking over the phone I do not know, but I was unable to understand just what the problem was. Although I was not comprehending the details it was clear that something was bothering her about her husband and husband's family.

She paused as if waiting for me to say something. I hesitated unsure of what she had just said and not sure that asking her to repeat herself was the best thing to do. So I asked if she wanted me to do something in particular or just wanted advice. She then made the first clear statement in the entire phone conversation: she said "Call me in 10 minutes."

I waited ten minutes and then called back. This phone conversation was clearer to me. I understood that he father-in-law had called because there was some problem with her husband. She wanted me to take her from her home to her parents-in-law's home which was some 14 miles away. Not far by American standards but late at night with temperatures below zero, those fourteen miles could be a long, arduous trek. So not completing understanding the situation, I agreed to come to her place, pick her up, and take her to a suburb of Ulan Bator. I took Kevin with me.

When we arrived at her shack north of the city, she was dressed for the weather and putting a scarf on her daughter. I asked again what was wrong. She said that her husband called her and said that her father-in-law had been in a car accident. When she asked what hospital he was in, her husband Erdenesuren told her to come to his parent's house. "I hope he's alive," she said to conclude her explanation of the situation.

We got in the car and drove to a suburb east of Ulan Bator. Traffic was light but the roads were icy in spots so it took some time to get there. I talked with her some, but it was clear that she was unaware of the details of the accident or her father-in-law's condition.

When we arrived at the house where she was heading she asked us just to drop her off. I offered to go in with her or to wait for her, but she declined. So Kevin and I dropped her off, watched her proceed through the gate with her daughter, and then drove back home.

Later, I learned that her father was driving to a town east of the city in the early morning before the sun was risen. The roads were icy and slick when he collided in his small car with a bus. He was killed instantly.

As far as I can tell, all but one member of the immediate family are not Christians. Gantsetseg has no desire to participate in the Buddhist rituals that the family is doing and has planned. Please pray for peace for Gantsetseg, for wisdom for her as she deals with her own grief and the grief of her family, and for the salvation of the family including Gantsetseg's husband.

Do you want your car washed?

Some things about Mongolia just trouble me ... well, not just me: they trouble all of us expatriates who live here. Certain happenings are frustrating especially when it seems that foreigners are being treated differently.

It often happens here that boys wash one's car unsolicited and then expect payment for a job poorly done. It would be difficult to endure at that, but it is especially difficult when I overhear the youngsters telling each other things such as, "Over there, a foreigner just got out of his car - go wash it!"

An American friend of mine came to Mongolia burdened particularly by all the poverty here. He determined by God's grace to give money to every person who asked him for some; not much, usually he only gave money worth 50 cents or a dollar, but he consistently gave to everyone who asked him. He even would make the effort to get the small bills in Mongolian currency that amount to about a half dollar or dollar from the bank in order to have something to pass out.

He gained such a reputation about town that groups of children would seemingly instantly materialize whenever we went downtown. We would step out of his car, begin walking towards a store or restaurant, and before we reached the door we would be surrounded by dirty-faced boys and girls holding out their grubby little hands for money. He would graciously and without prejudice hand them all a Mongolian bill worth fifty cents or a dollar.

However, if one of these greasy-palmed children dared to try to wash his car he would become upset with him. He could not speak Mongolian but still would often complain to the boy, "Why are you washing my car?" He would lament to me and others that he could not stand people touching his car with a filthy rag.

I remarked to him one day that his attitude seemed odd to me. To anyone who asked he was willing to give money without question; but if someone tried to earn his money by washing his car he would become upset. "If you want to give money away why not let them work for it?" I pointed out. But to some men, a car is an important possession and not just anyone should touch it.

Well, if you feel that way about your car, do not come to Mongolia and drive. Mongolian boys will spot you parking your car and run over to ask, "Do you want your car washed?" Sometimes they do not even come over but just wash it anyway. But now police are getting in on the racket.

Today, I parked my car to run into a building and conduct some car insurance business. I did not need any money and was not planning to buy anything so I came without any small change. I had some larger bills (the smallest amounted to about $10 US). So as I got out of my car and crossed the street I waved off several boys who asked me, "Mister, do you want your car washed." The boys often claim that they have no change and want to take the entire $10.

As I was on the stairs in the building, I looked out the window and sure enough my car's windshield wipers were sticking up - a common signal used by the boys to announce, "This car is to be washed." I frowned as I made my way out of the building. I had no small change and did not want to give up a whole $10 for a job not well done.

I got in my car and started it. Before I could pull out, two boys came and planted themselves on my window. It would be difficult - they knew this - it would be difficult for me to look behind me and pull out into traffic without running the risk of "accidentally" hitting one of the boys. Hitting someone with a car even if they are not seriously injured can be an alarming experience especially for foreigners.

I rolled down my window to have a discussion with the boys in an attempt to move them away from my car. The conversation went something like this.

Boys: "Hey, where's our money for washing your car."

Me [using my most authoritative voice]: "Did I ask you to wash my car? Why did you wash my car? I don't have any money to pay you (that is, I had no bills to offer them). If you would have asked me I would have told you not to wash my car."

Boys [looking a bit put out as if I had deceived them]: "But we washed your car."

Me: "But how am I going to pay you? I don't have any money [to pay you]."

Boys: "Do you have any money?"

Me: "All I have are big bills. Do you have change?"

Boys: "You could get change."

Me: "You get the change and I'll pay you."

At this one of the boys began to call to other boys - "Do you have change? Do you have change?" None of them had change. (Strange because they had been washing cars all day for small bills but suddenly they had no change.)

The other boy sat with his hands on my window sill looking dejected as if he had just lost his favorite pet. "Don't you have any bills?" he asked with big, sad eyes.

"I don't have any small bills," I repeated gently.

There were two policeman just down the street stopping motorists. I contemplated shutting the car off, getting out, locking the doors, and walking down the street to talk to the officers. But being a foreigner and seeing they were busy, I decided against it.

Instead I told the boy, "This is getting old. Just go." He had probably spent all of three minutes running his soiled rag over my vehicle.

He just stood there leaning against my vehicle his hands inside with his look of sadness. Finally, an older boy came over. With a very disgusted look the older boy said to me, "What! Don't you have any money?"

I responded firmly, "I didn't ask these boys to wash my car. If they would have asked me, I would have told them not to wash the car because I have no small bills."

The older boy asked, "How much change do you need?"

"Nine dollars and fifty cents," I replied knowing that fifty cents was the going rate for such a small service. "But these boys don't have change, and I didn't ask them to wash my vehicle. Do you have change?" I asked the older boy.

To which the older boy responded, "No, call the police." I was not certain if he was talking to me or the little boy attached to the door of my car, but I said anyway, "Call the police," little expecting what would happen next.

Within a minute or two, one of the officers made his way down the road, "Do you need change?" he asked holding out ten dollars worth of change the smallest of which was worth a dollar. I thanked him, handed him a bill worth $10, and took the money. Before the bills were hardly in my hand the policeman said in a surly manner, "Give [the boy] the money." At first I was surprised at his commanding tone, but taking the hint I took one of the bills worth $1 and handed it to the boy who then pealed from the side of my car and went off to make another dollar.

I was surprised first of all that a policemen had change and secondly that he seemed to be on the little boys side. I will not say any money changed hands for the policeman's part in finding change, but I will say that the policeman is well aware as I am that the going rate for the wipe down a person's car with a dirty rag service is only fifty cents. And I will say that it is very unusual for a policeman to leave his post in traffic to deal with other matters.

But like I say, if your car is an important possession to you and you do not want just anyone to touch it then maybe Mongolia is not the place for you.

Buying a car - the Mongolian experience

What follows is a daily journal of the last few weeks as I tried to purchase a car. The goal of publishing this post is not to complain or murmur. I want to give Americans who have never lived an a foreign country an idea of what some of the obstacles are like.

Also there are three reasons that we have a vehicle. The first reason is to be able to take the family out (especially in the winter) without standing out in the cold waiting for a taxi. We've noticed that it's getting harder to get taxis. Of course, the price of gas here has more than doubled since we left and may have something to do with it. We've also found that having a car makes the regular shopping trips so much easier. You can go to one store, put the items you've purchased in the back and then head for the next store. It is such a time saver when shopping. Most importantly, a car gives me the flexibility to visit Mongolians all over the city.

So without further ado, here is a journal of my car buying experience.

Preparation: Wednesday

The goal is to buy a vehicle. I’ve already asked Mongolian friends about it and narrowed it down to two cars. I take Kristie out to show her the type of cars that I am anticipating that I will buy. Kristie likes those choices, but we must wait for the money to arrive from the US. We have picked out a Toyota Mark II. It is a vehicle that is ubiquitous in Mongolia, known for its reliability, and easy to find parts for. The car we buy will probably be ten years old and have about 100,000 miles on it. It may even have a few nicks and dings, but there is no point in buying a newer car in Mongolia where the roads will tear up the suspension and dings and nicks are the norm for a car.

I call Bob that evening and tell him that my money for a car should be here in the next day or two and ask if he has time to take me to look at cars. He says maybe and that he’ll call me when he has free time.

Preparation: Thursday

The money for a vehicle is in my bank account. I call Bob, and he suggests that he can take me out tomorrow.

Day One: Friday

Bob and I go out to look at cars. We look all over and cannot find the car that we want which is strange because they are all over Ulan Bator. One of the last places that we visit has one, but they want almost $1,000 more than I am willing to pay. We finally find someone with the kind of vehicle for which I am searching at a reasonable price. But the windshield needs to be replaced and won’t be ready until Monday.

We go by to look at the vehicle. Not only does the window need to be replaced but also it is apparent that the door to the gas tank does not open. But the price that the seller offers is about what I want to pay. Fortunately, the windshield replacement work is being done right next to the place that does government vehicle inspections. Since a vehicle inspection is required to register the car, we go ahead and run the vehicle through the inspection. With the inspection done, we are ready to register it and get a license plate for it on Monday when the office that does that kind of thing opens.

Day Two: Saturday

The seller of the car wants to do the paperwork and receive his money today. I don’t want to give the seller any money until I see the car on Monday. Besides all the banks are closed and I haven’t withdrawn the money for the car yet. The transaction will have to wait until Monday.

Day Three: Sunday

Nothing happens

Day Four: Monday

Today should wrap up my car buying experience. On the schedule: meet with the seller to look the windshield, complete the sales paperwork, take the paperwork to the district traffic police station to receive a vehicle registration card in my name, take the vehicle registration to the municipal traffic police station to receive a license plate, and put the license plate on the car. If all goes well, I could have the car home by dinner. Then Tuesday I can take it to a mechanic to have the oil changed and some other small things repaired.

We arrive at the windshield repair place and find that they have not even taken the old windshield off yet. The seller is upset and asks why the work isn’t done when they’ve had two days. But all his scolding won’t complete the work any sooner.

We leave there and travel across town to complete the paperwork at a notary public. After the paperwork is completed I pay the seller his money. Bob talks him down $100 because the windshield needs to be replaced. Then Bob and I take the paperwork to the district traffic police station where we find out that we need to have an application form filled out, pay $1.60 for registration, present proof of residence, and pay a fine because the car was not registered within three days of entering the country. We agree to pay all that but the policeman working at the window refuses to take it. We must pay the $1.60 at a bank and then return with a receipt to prove we paid it. Perhaps someone doesn’t trust the police to receive the money directly … of course, if you can’t trust the police, whom can you trust? Probably though, the police do not want to be bothered with carrying change for those who offer to pay with large bills.

We leave, go to the bank, and pay the $1.60. Then we go by my office to pick up the proof of residence. We return to the police station and wait in line for an hour. When we finally reach the window, the police officer complains that we haven’t paid the fine (about $21.50). When we say that we’ll pay it, he refuses to take it. He informs us that we must go to another office in the same building to pay it. We give up our place in line and find the other office, but no one is there. We wait for about five minutes before someone shows up. He tells us that the person who will take the money for the fine is out and he’s not sure when he’ll return. We wait another 45 minutes. Finally, the registration window is closing, and we realize we won’t finish the registration today. We head for home.

Day Five: Tuesday

I arrive at the police station a few minutes before ten and call Bob. He has not even left his house yet. It doesn’t matter: the police officer who takes the fines is still not there. There are several others waiting too. I wait a half-hour for Bob. After he arrives, we wait another forty-five minutes or so. No one seems to know where the police officer we need is. Finally, one of Bob’s friends arrives dressed in plain clothes. Bob begins a conversation with him and they enter the police station together. Soon Bob comes back out with his friend. His friend looks at my paperwork as Bob explains things to him and then takes it inside. He comes back out and says that the fee is about $5. After he goes in a second time, Bob comes back and explains that his friend is doing me a favor and needs another $4. I ask who his friend is. It turns out his friend is a police officer who happens to be on vacation. That’s why he isn’t in uniform.

I wait another half-hour before Bob’s friend returns and says to come back at four to pick things up. It looks like another day lost.

I return to the district traffic police station after four o’clock and the vehicle registration is ready for me. I take the registration downtown to the municipal traffic police station. Behind the municipal traffic police station is the place where they issue vehicle license plates. I find my way behind the building and que up at a window. There seems to be some hold-up as the line, which was moving, is now stopped. But it does not take too long before we start to move again. Approximately, half an hour later and $10 poorer, I pick up a license plate for the vehicle.

I call Bob to see if it’s possible to pick up the vehicle tonight. Bob says that its too early to pick up the vehicle, the seal on the newly placed windshield has to cure. He says that we will pick it up tomorrow.

Day Six: Wednesday

It has now been a week since I started the car-buying process: part of the hang-up has been the weekend, part has been the trouble at the police station. Perhaps today I will finally have a car.

Bob calls about 10 A.M. which is early for him. He asks if I am ready to pick up the car. I thought he’d never ask! As we are traveling to pick up the car, Bob asks me where the triangular sticker is. I know nothing about a triangular sticker; all I have is a rectangular sticker from the car inspection. Bob says I need another sticker for my windshield. That means more work somewhere!

When we go by to pick up the car, the windshield is ready. Unfortunately, the other small repairs have not been done because Bob didn’t trust the car’s seller to have them done right. One of the small repairs is the gas tank door. It will be hard to fill the car’s gas tank if we can’t get the door open. Also since Friday, gas has gone up about 30 cents a gallon! Using a screwdriver, we finally get the door to the gas tank open.

I put gas in the car on the way home, but Bob says that his mechanic cannot look at the car today. He’ll check it out tomorrow.

Later, I go by the municipal traffic police station again. A driver there tells me I need to pay a tax at the district tax office to get the rectangular sticker. I go by the district tax office and pay the tax – they’ll actually take my money at the tax office. But the tax lady says that we need a stamp from the district traffic police station. I was just there for two days and no one said anything about another stamp and sticker. It’s too late to try to get the stamp today.

The entrance to my garage has a slope to it, to allow entrance into the basement of the building. When I go to park my car in my garage for the night, I find that the car is so low that it scrapes the bottom to try to enter the garage because of the slope. I know that the mechanic will raise the suspension tomorrow so I don’t worry about it; I simply park it outside, something I won’t be able to do when it gets colder.

Day Seven: Thursday

Will today be the day that my car is finally done? I take it to Bob’s mechanic and they remove the rear struts and springs. It takes several trips to the car market before we finally have the correct springs for the car. Once the springs are changed the car is high enough off the ground to fit into the garage. We also change the oil.

At the end of the day, we decide that the front brakes need to be changed. By the time all this work is done, there is not time to re-visit the dictrict traffic police station and see about the other sticker.

Day Eight: Friday

I go by the police station by myself on the way to a lunch engagement. I look at signs on different doors. There doesn’t seem to be any place that I haven’t seen before, and none of those places are giving out stickers. I decide to wait until Bob has time to go with me.

Instead I head over to buy a set of brake pads and have the front break pads changed.

Day Nine: Saturday

On my way to the airport, I am stopped by a policeman (not an uncommon occurrence in Mongolia). He tells me that I am missing a stamp on the back of my car registration. I ask him where I get one. He tells me that I get one at the district policestation. I tell him that’s where I got the car registration. He tells me I need to go back and get the stamp. I am very frustrated by the whole experience.

Day Ten: Sunday

Nothing happens

Day Eleven: Monday

Bob and I go back to the police station and ask where I get the stamp I need and the triangular sticker. We’re told to go back to the window that we were at a week ago. We go back to that window. The policeman there says that we need to show them a document that proves that we had the vehicle inspected. Bob reminds them that we gave them that document when we registered the vehicle. They say it doesn’t matter that they need another copy. As we drive to the local vehicle inspection station, I ask Bob if it’s common for Mongolian drivers to have to visit the vehicle inspection station twice. He claims that it is not. I begin to suspect that the policeman who originally gave us the car registration overlooked the stamp on the back.

We arrive at where the vehicle inspection station used to be before I left Mongolia over a year ago. Bob’s friend there says it is no longer a vehicle inspection station for small vehicles, only for public transportation vehicles. The inspection station we want is down the street. We drive down the street and don’t see any place inspecting vehicles. We ask half a dozen bystanders where the vehicle inspection station is. No one seems to know. We drive back to see Bob’s friend at the public transportation vehicle inspection station. He gives us new directions, and we find it. We ask for another copy of the inspection document that we were given a week ago. The lady at the station claims that we have to return to the original station that inspected the vehicle, which is across town. We drive across town and arrive at the vehicle inspection station that we originally visited about ten minutes after the lunch hour started. No one is available to help us. I offer to Bob that maybe he has other work to do; but he’s determined to get this done and says we’ll wait until they re-open in an hour.

About 45 minutes later, we have a copy of the inspection document that we need. We drive across town to the district traffic police station and turn in the document. The vehicle registration is now complete.

Wow! I thought when I began that I would be writing a chapter. I had no idea that it would end up being a whole book.