ULAANBAATAR, Mongolia - Here in Mongolia, everyone knows someone who speaks English.
I first observed this phenomenon in the Russian border town of Kyakrt, where faithful blog readers will remember I nearly wound up broke and trapped inside Russia. Arriving in Kyakrt by minibus, I waved goodbye to three friendly passengers: a student, his girlfriend, and The Man with Pink Bubble Gum. After helping me lower my giant rolling suitcase to ground level, The Man with Pink Bubble Gum gestured toward my notebook. He took my pen and wrote a name and phone number on a blank page.
"Mongolia. Anglski. Mongolia," he said.
I understood. In Mongolia this person spoke English.
Hearing this the student took the notebook and wrote another name and phone number inside.
"Tour guide. Ulan Bator. Speak very good English."
Then they left. Leaving me stranded 150 miles from the nearest city with insufficent funds to cross the border. English speaking people in Mongolia are all well and good, but right then an English speaker in Russia would have been better.
This morning my mission was slightly more mudane. Jin and Myriam, two Filipino girls teaching English in Hohot, China and I wanted to head to the Black Market, a venue on the outskirts of Ulanbataar famous for Mongolian handicrafts, crappy haircuts and counterfeit everything.
We walked 15 minutes from the UB Guesthouse to the Chinese Market. The sky was clear and the air typically frigid. My exposed nose and cheeks felt the now-familiar numbing sensation of walking outdoors.
The Chinese Market is a series of four crumbling concrete pillars in the middle of a square. They appeared to be the remains of a highway overpass, but no four lane highway has ever crossed Mongolia. In the summer Chinese merchants sell imported bok choi and pork. Now the place serves as a gathering place for minibuses, the cheapest form of public transport in the city.
Myriam knew the Mongolian name for Black Market, and spoke Russian, the country's most popular second language. She approached the first minibus and said our destination. The driver shook his head and pointed toward the end of the line. She tried the second to the same effect. She kept moving toward the
"I don't understand," she said, in her German-accented English. "Last week they were all going to the Black Market."
We decided to hail a cab.
Two minutes later a late-model mint Nissan with no markings pulled over. Taxis aren't regulated in Mongolia, so anyone with a set of wheels and time to kill can be a taxi driver. We agreed on a price of 1,800T a person to the market - about $1.50, and started inching our way through the heavy Ulanbataar traffic.
The driver immediately took out a cell phone and starting chatting. Talking and driving are pretty common in this part of the world - Eliot Spitzer isn't in charge - and didn't really pay attention until the driver passed the phone to Myriam.
I could hear a man's voice talking loudly in choppy English on the other end of the line. Myriam had to ask her questions repeatedly, but eventually she was able to hang up the phone.
"The Black Market is closed for Tsagan Zar," she said, "We need to get out of the taxi."
Thank goodness for English-speaking friends.
