I returned to Mongolia 15 years ago after an absence of 13 years, save for the occasional 2-week leave from work, and that time I spent a semester and a half at a local university drinking endless cups of brown, watery 150 Tugrik instant MaCcoffee at the café strangely, or perhaps egotistically, named "In my memory", writing the first and so far the only book that got us into trouble with the local intelligence who apparently had little else to do than to pore through the ramblings of teenagers to catch the tell-tale signs of drug dealery. But I digress. When you visit a country for a short period, be it home or not, you hardly have time to immerse yourself in the spirit of the country and the city and feel the nitty gritty and dirty shiny of it all. So after 13 years, it took me a while to readjust and finally understand what the hometown of my childhood had become.
The most striking, ubiquitous, and inescapable feature was and still, unfortunately, is the traffic. In 2008, it wasn't half as bad as today. But it was still terrible compared to Singapore, whence I came after a 6-year-stint of airconditioned job experience in a city that is eerily similar to a meticulously managed giant airport transit lounge. Traffic, transportation, and how people got around the city were just as carefully thought out and managed. A sharp contrast to the traffic in UB.
In many ways, the city was the same as it was, stubbornly unchanged in some ways and changed nonchalantly in others. Whether positive or negative, it was inevitable, but the speed at which Mongolia and Mongolians adapted and embraced change and transition, despite all their protests, is impressive. We say it is due to our nomadic DNA. Maybe so. I, for one, never herded sheep a day in my life. The closest I come to the nomadic lifestyle, even today, is preparing firewood at our house on the outskirts, also called the "summer-house". But that's hardly unique to the nomads, it's just a thing that humans must do when in need of fire.
This "nomadic DNA" presents itself in traffic in UB. The haphazard, seemingly aimless, flippant, fickle, and non-committal way of driving that often results in U-turns on a bridge, constant lane-changing to the greener side, the complete lack of turn signals by drivers and the abrupt and unexplained stops in the middle of the road followed by emergency blinkers. Until Mongolia, I had not needed a driver's license. I had to get one here, I was told. In my non-driver's naïve, fresh, unknowing eyes, the drivers in Mongolia seemed to be the best drivers in the world. To navigate through the chaos of it all, when anyone and anything can come from anywhere and still live to drive another day, every day? I thought that made them the best, most aware, focused drivers. It was this ability to handle the chaos that I found impressive. Now I know better: They ARE the chaos. It is not that they drove better, quite the opposite. They are being cooked in the soup of their own creation. For one, I found that the driving courses do not teach the trainees how to use their lights, which explains the large number of drivers driving around with their high beams on at night in the city, blinding the oncoming traffic and starting an insane back-and-forth of blinking high-beams, daring each other to end the madness. But I digress. The way we drive is a reflection of the way we govern. At first, I was impressed by those who could navigate through the chaos of red tape, sloth-like government processes, and civil servants with their heads screwed on skewed and still have successful businesses or careers. Now I know better. They ARE the chaos.
