Did you lose something, mister?

Recently, while driving we noticed a container had fallen off a truck and was in the middle of the street. Here's a picture

Who said that speaking Mongolian couldn't kill you?

The Mongolians have a way of agreeing with something that is said similar to the way that we say, "Uh huh." The best way I can describe it is this: put your tongue way up near the roof of your mouth and make sure that your mouth has lots of spittle in it. Then quickly inhale. Mongolians make this sound many times in conversation usually subconsciously I am sure. I asked someone one time what it meant, and he did not even notice that he had been making that sound. But it is just one way that Mongolians quickly and unobtrusively express their agreement.

Several years ago, I decided that if I wanted to speak Mongolian like a Mongolian person, I would have to learn how to make that sound. The first few weeks that I made that sound, my tongue close to the roof of my mouth and with a quick intake of breath I always expected the Mongolians to laugh at me. After all, to American ears such a sound seems odd in speech. (One American described it as a cough.) But the Mongolians did not react at all. They just kept right on talking.

With time, it has become second nature when my mind is in Mongolian mode to simply make this sound whenever I want to unobtrusively express agreement. Well, let me tell you that speaking Mongolian in this way can be hazardous to your health.

Last week, I was eating rice at lunch with some Mongolians. I do not even recall what the conversation was about but remember that subconsciously I wanted to agree so I did the little quick inhalation thing. But one should never try to inhale quickly while eating, especially while eating rice. The result was several pieces of rice heading down my windpipe. I briefly choked, coughed, and tried to be dignified in it all.

Fortunately, the rice did not get lodged in my windpipe; and after some coughing and hacking I was able to breathe again. But I'm telling you, speaking Mongolian can kill you.

Missing my 15 minutes of fame

I had just finished my lunch at home and was preparing to go out again when a phone call came for me. On the other end of the line was a Mongolian speaking frantically. She said that she was from the local committee (a layer of bureaucracy here in Mongolia) and had some questions for me. When did I arrive in Mongolia? How long was I planning to be here? (How do I answer that one?) Did I have a valid visa? Did I have residency permission? How many foreigners were living with me? What kind of work was I doing?

After I answered all her questions, she demanded that I come down to her office immediately with all my official documents and with copies of them. I hung the phone up and explained what had happened to a Mongolian friend who was at our home.

"Oh yes," she said, "Koreans, Chinese, and Americans have become the most prominent foreigners in Mongolian. Many of them are here past their visa's expiration date or have not obtained residency permission. So the government recently passed a law requiring all foreigners without the proper papers to leave the country immediately."

I pulled my passports out, hoped everything was in order, and went to make copies of everything: passport front page, visas, residency permission, etc.

When I arrived at the official's office, she was on the phone talking obviously to another foreigner. She was putting many questions to the other foreigner too although it seemed that the foreigner she was currently speaking with did not have all his things in order. Finally, she hung up the phone and turned her attention to me.

I handed her my passport which she looked at briefly.

"Where is your visa?" she demanded. I showed her my visa which is valid through 2010.

She fired off another question, "Where is your residency permission?" I showed her my residency permission.

Next, "where is your work permission?" I explained to her that my visa type did not require residency permission. We sparred briefly before she agreed that I did not need work permission. (I do not hold a wage paying, Mongolian job.)

Then she picked up my wife's passport. "Who is this?"

"My wife."

"Where does she work?"

I explained that she did not have a job either.

"What about the other four passports?" She spoke as if she were frustrated that all my documents were in order. I wondered briefly if she was going to pull out a bureaucratic hurdle for me to jump through.

"Those are our four children." Should I add, "They don't work either"?

"Fine," she said taking my copies and handing back my passports and refraining from assigning me any bureaucratic obstacles to overcome. And that is when I missed my fifteen minutes of fame. [CAUTION: THE REST OF THIS POST IS SATIRICAL]

You see, the quickest way for a missionary to become famous is to die on the mission field. But for those who are not ready to die, the next best way to become a famous missionary is to be kicked off the mission field. So that means that by allowing me to stay, the Mongolian bureaucrat caused me to miss my fifteen minutes of fame.

Muddy Mongolia

Several days of rain have turned the streets into lakes, the sidewalks into dirty puddles, and the rest into mud. It reminded me of an update I wrote the first year I was in Mongolia; it follows below -

It has been raining here in Ulan Bator. I have enjoyed the rain. It has been a fine Oregon drizzle. The type of rain when it is too wet for the school children to go outside; but after a few days of Oregon drizzle, it is better to let them go out than race around the classroom. The teachers at Westgate know what I mean. We had that kind of rain this week. I loved it! As I was walking along a sidewalk, I closed my eyes and imagined that I was walking along Scholls Ferry Road between the church and our old apartment on Beard Road. But I soon had to open my eyes to avoid stepping in the creek. That piece of sidewalk only lasts for a block and ends in a gutter full of water.

In Ulan Bator, this type of rain only lasts for a day or two. Because therain sewers in Ulan Bator are often plugged, a little rain soon is enough to cover the potholes in the streets. That does not bother the taxi drivers, however, they will just drive on the shoulder alongside the street. The truck drivers and bus drivers do not even care enough to do that - they simply plow through the small lakes, bouncing and jostling cargo and passengers alike. It makes for an interesting race on some badly potholed streets as the smaller, quicker taxi drivers pass the trucks and buses during lake-less stretches of road. Then when the taxi drivers reach the small lakes they drive up on the shoulder while the trucks and buses plow right through splashing muddy water on the taxis.

Every once in a while, you get in with a taxi driver intent on destroying his compact vehicle. He too tries to plow through the small lakes. Although he drives as if enough speed will allow him to hydroplane over the potholes, of course, he hits the deepest part of every pothole. You soon begin to cringe as you enter every lake. You know that if the next pothole separates the axle from the car, you will have to swim for shore. It sure is hard to dodge the buses while you are swimming.