The Mongolian sense of time

September 7, 2008 by Karin.

or, How an 8 Hour Drive Took 12 Hours.

Let’s go over the numbers:
2 vans
2 Mongolia drivers
1 interpreter
1 social worker
360 kilometers to travel
8 hours predicted for the drive
17 Habitat for Humanity volunteers on vacation mode

These factors together led to our first experience in “Mongolian time.” (We didn’t just live it, we lived it up.) This is what happened:

Shopping, 10:30am: On our way out of town, the vans dropped us off at the State Department Store where we exchanged money and stocked up on processed snacks from Eastern Europe. Seized by a sudden ”I don’t know when my next meal will be” panic, I grabbed a post-breakfast ice cream from Lavazza.

Sickness, 11am: Instead of heading out of the capital after the department store, the vans turned back to the B&B. Francine, one of the liveliest members of our group, had assumed an uncharacteristic position: doubled over in silent anguish. While our leaders tucked her into bed, the rest of us waited outside and watched the locals go about their daily life.

 A boy with a big head and his two small friends.

Absorbing the local culture, 11:30am: Outside a nearby building, two men circled each other, gearing up for a street brawl. The younger one held up his hand while he dug into his pocket. We gasped, expecting a knife, but he was only pulling out his cell phone, which he placed carefully on the ground. We, along with the building occupants and passersby, watched the older, larger guy pursue with angry shouting and aimless punches. Cell phone man didn’t say much but kept backing away, turning only to lauch an occasional spot-on back kick. It wasn’t a fair fight at all and ended when cell phone guy backed out of the front gates. Someone from the second story dropped a tissue down as consolation for the larger man, now with a bloody face and no one left to yell at.

Manly games, 2pm: After two hours of driving on signless dirt roads, our drivers started asking for directions. Before we had time to doubt their competence, they pulled up at a sports festival, a naadam, located in the middle of nowhere. The naadam was sponsored by the train company for its employees and their families.

 It was the most action we had ever seen concentrated in the middle-of-nowhere countryside and we had to wonder, how did all these people locate the festival? How do you give directions to a random field of grass two hours west of Ulan Bator?

Under the relentless blue skies of Mongolia, shade is rare. The locals stayed cool wherever they could find relief, such as under their vehicles.

 This family was entering their 11 year old son in the horse racing competition. Unlike other participants, their horse only had a square of fabric for a saddle but they assured me, (through the aid of the Mongolian phrasebook) “Yes. Horse. Fast.”

Our interpreter, Hoghi, bought some boiled mutton from a vendor wheeling his barrel of meat from car to car. Like all the mutton (and indeed, all the meat) we would have on this trip, it was tough. But like any meat stewed in salt, it was pleasant on the tongue and came attached to a tasty bone to gnaw on.

Van relief, 4pm: Our vans stopped and while some of group wandered toward discreet dips in the horizon for bladder relief, the rest of us watched our drivers perform intervention magic on our overheated vehicle. They yanked out the suitcases so carefully lodged behind the heads of two others and myself.

 Flipped up the seat of the front passenger, poured hot fluid out and cold water in. Team member Chris offered to hold a plastic water bottle to receive  the fluid coming out of the vehicle and watched helplessly as the stuff melted the top of the bottle and traveled downward to burn his fingers. Luckily, we had handwipes and Tina’s aloe vera on hand to perform an intervention of our own. 

Lunch, 5:30pm: The restaurant was a one room space in the middle of what resembled a strip mall in a ghost town. Exhausted and hot, we sat down to a lunch of mutton stirfry, steamed white bun, and sheep milk. The can of Sprite as a particular stand out. Ahh tasty, so tasty.We asked the driver how much longer the drive would be. He said 5 or 6 hours. In Mongolia, it’s better not to ask…but it would take us a long time to learn that.

Stocking up on water, 7pm: Driving over a bridge spiritually protected by blue silk sashes tied to the rails, we watched the silhouettes of bathers in the lake. Our drivers pulled over at the chance to refill their water containers. The rest of us got out of the car, 17 cameras pointing at the stripped down Mongolians and quickly found ourselves assaulted by tiny, excited flies. But the flies didn’t bite and couldn’t distract us from the magic of the moment. On the other side of the bridge, a herd of horses decended into the lake for a drink.

Sunset, 8:30pm: “Why are we stopping again?”"The driver’s pulling over so we can take photos of the sunset.”We had already been taking photos of the sunset (and of the sheep, and electrical poles, and many gers) from through our windows. Most of us were too lazy to unfold ourselves from the cramped van again but not wanting to seem ungrateful, we handed our cameras to the van driver and had him take photos of the sunset for us.

By the time our driver pulled up at the hotel in Kharkhorin, we were hardly surprised that it was almost 11pm. The Mongolian sense of time that allows for diversions and flexibility turned out to be well in sync with that of our group’s: our individual agendas, cameras, and of course, unpredictable bladders. And with that, we grabbed our suitcases and headed straight to our rooms…and to our first sit-down toilets in 12 hours.

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