Priorities
Narantsogt (Natso) Baatarkhuu
“You sure you want to tag along? I can go and buy it,” Ganbat said.
“I don’t trust your easily distracted brain, and this is an important purchase,” Chimgee replied.
It was a late December Sunday, and the convenience store operating out of the ground floor had no mayonnaise. That’s not true, it may have had mayonnaise, but it was closed. And if you wanted to keep up the appearance of a good family for the invited guests, you had to have mayonnaise, the creamy condiment pronounced by Mongolians as mainuuz, to chase down the traditional dish of steamed dumplings – buuz.
Five p.m. – the stores were closing in an hour. Chimgee and Ganbat left their two children watching TV, and started their hunt.
As the two exited the elevator, an elderly woman in an astrakhan coat approached, her hands clutching two bags of groceries. Ganbat flashed a munificent smile, pushing the elevator button to hold the doors open. When his wife, Chimgee, eyed him suspiciously, Ganbat said, “Practicing my politeness.”
Outside the building entrance they heard a distant shout. It was a boy, about ten years old, running toward them from around the corner.
“Hold the door, please!”
Chimgee and Ganbat squinted to see the kid’s face: The boy’s red, runny nose and soiled puffer coat were enough to convince them not to hold the door. After all, the key fobs were there to let only the residents in. Ganbat let the door go. The boy raced up the stairs and stretched out his hand just as it clicked shut. The two passed him – without a word – like boulders rumbling down a slope.
The family lived in the Khan-Uul district of Ulaanbaatar, the capital. Formerly known as the Ajilchdyn Raion, or Workers’ District, it was full of abandoned factories and underutilized plots of land. The nine-story, beige and burgundy-colored building they lived in was called Ölziit-34b, and it had been built parallel to the Üildver road. There were two other high-rise buildings, 34a and 34c, diagonal to 34b, creating a triangle formation. Although these two buildings didn’t fully meet, the gap between them on the south side was blocked by the walls of a wool refinery compound. That meant the neighborhood was suffused year-round with the pungent smell of sulfur, and the only exit was northeast, where a traffic arm and a metal gate was the sole point of entry and exit.
Chimgee and Ganbat were appropriately dressed for the weather, yet they couldn’t help but shiver as they reached the large shadow cast by 34a and -c towering above them. They headed to the center of the three buildings, a parking lot, which Ganbat likened to a junkyard. For Chimgee, the herd of cars parked along the perimeter and on either side of the thin median reminded her of sheep in a pen.
Ganbat, walking ahead of Chimgee, pulled out his car key – and stopped dead in his tracks. “What’s wrong?” She, too, spotted the blue Honda Accord, parked sideways in front of their car, a Toyota Prius.
Ganbat peeked through the semi-frosted window of the double-parked vehicle. “Great. Didn’t even leave utasny dugaar.[1] How are we going to get a hold of the owner?” Ganbat stood dumbfounded.
Chimgee studied the culprit-vehicle. She approached it, gingerly placed her bare hands on the passenger window and pressed her weight against it. She pushed the top part a few more times, and the vehicle rocked slightly.
“Shouldn’t we push from the back?” Ganbat asked. “Its parking brakes are probably set. But we may have a better chance at moving it out of the way than if we try to make it slide sideways.”
“I’m trying to trigger its alarm, you idiot,” Chimgee said.
“Oh, so they will come out.”
“Help me rock it then.”
“What if people…see us?” he murmured. “They’ll think we’re trying to steal it.”
Chimgee was disappointed when her husband left her hanging at times like this.
When they first started dating in college – they had both studied economics at the Khümüünlegiin Ikh Surguuli[2] – Ganbat seemed thoughtful and smart. During a seminar, he would be the first to ask questions, sometimes dumb and sometimes thought-provoking, and quietly observe the unfolding discussion, eying the instructors and other students in turn like a herder watching newborn lambs after a difficult delivery. Chimgee was infuriated to see the smugness on his face. What’s so great about getting people to talk? But over time she thought he had potential. There was something altruistic about this gesture. Then came the courting, and she had no time to reflect on their future. It was all about the highs she got from day to day. If she had only known then that what she had thought was altruistic was in fact a way to hide his own ineptness…
When she removed her hands from the car’s cold metal, her fingertips seared in pain. She checked them and saw some skin had peeled off. Luckily, she wasn’t bleeding. Chimgee let out an exasperated sigh.
“Let’s just go.” But she turned around to see her husband holding his phone up at her. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Documenting it,” Ganbat said. The trio of camera lenses in his phone were presumably recording a video. Ganbat started narrating. “Za,[3] so, look at this car. They blocked my own car and didn’t leave a number. We’re just trying to draw them out, right, haira[4]?”
“No, stop it,” she said. For some reason when he trained his gaze on something nearby, his left eye went further into the socket than the other, which she had found funny at first, but soon feared would be passed down to their children. And it had been.
Ganbat shifted his gaze from the phone to her. “I thought we could put it on Facebook and – .” His words trailed off. He put his phone away and looked down. Then, with newfound conviction in his voice, he half-asked, “Wouldn’t it help?”
This frustrated Chimgee. “What?”
“We’ll be the good guys, exercising our civic responsibility to expose these bad people and encourage reform through public shaming.”
“Double parking here is hardly considered evil,” Chimgee said, amusement and judgment seeping into her voice.
“I mean, he’s actively being a nuisance to people. I was hoping to build some clout while solving this. You know, like you did in your video.”
The video in question was of Chimgee’s interaction with a customs officer who tried to charge her for the parcels she picked up from America. Despite her pleas that it was a care package from her aunt, the customs officer insisted on payment of the import duty. So, she recorded her interaction and put it on Facebook, which brought five minutes of fame and messages of solidarity from former classmates and acquaintances, and even strangers who hated the customs office. That had gained her over four thousand followers in recent months.
“Yes, but I’ll have to edit it to make sure it’s good, and, remember, the stores are closing in less than an hour,” Chimgee responded, walking past him. She also wanted to say, “Ask before recording me,” but thought she should pick her battles.
They arrived at the edge of the compound where a wrought-iron gate hung askew between tall stone posts. Apparently, someone had slipped it off the pins. The gate’s top right edge rested against the stone frame, making the whole thing look very precarious.
Ganbat nudged Chimgee. “Can I fix this? It looks like it might fall and crush somebody.”
Chimgee looked askance at him. “I said we’re in a hurry.”
“It won’t take long. Plus, how heavy can this gate be? I’ll just slip the thing back onto the pins,” Ganbat said.
“Let someone else handle it.”
“Like who? The SÖKh[5] will say they have no budget, the Kontor[6] will say it’s not their job, and someone could get hurt in the meantime.”
He had a point. “Fine, then do it already,” Chimgee agreed.
“Great. But first…” Ganbat handed her his phone and motioned that she should film him.
“What are you – Oh, I’m not doing that.”
“Come on,” Ganbat said. “It’s like that tree that grew in the forest and nobody heard about it.”
Chimgee scoffed. “First of all, the saying is, ‘if a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, did it make a sound?’ Second, – ”
“Of course it makes a sound. Why would that be the question? The saying is about whether humans can hear a growing tree, right? Anyway…” Ganbat gestured that she should start filming.
Ever the discussion prompter, Chimgee thought. He knows that’s not how the saying goes. He is just trying to make me lecture him. Not today. “Have you heard of trees growing loudly then?” she retorted, while fumbling with her husband’s phone. She exited the camera app, clicked on the gallery icon and deleted the video he had made of her earlier.
“Yes, I told you when we were at the resort. Only you kept dismissing it.”
“That creaking sound?! It was the wind moving it. You know you’re worse than your children,” she said, handing the phone back to him. “Just fix the tree unrecorded or follow me.”
“The gate is not the tree in this context,” Ganbat said in a petulant voice. “I’m the tree.”
Chimgee started to say something but decided against it. Skirting around the gate, she looked back at him. “Like I said, we’re in a hurry.”
The path took them to the side of Üildver Road, where, coming out of their apartment block’s towering presence, they could see more of the murky gray sky and the thick blanket of smog. There was no snow, not even a strong wind. If it weren’t for the smog, they would have thought it was pleasant weather. They could also see other residential buildings, five to nine stories, pylons with dull, hard edges, each surrounded by two-meter-high cinder compound walls that pushed against the narrow sidewalk they headed east on. It consisted of sections that the pavers had forgotten to connect. They hopped over gaps, waddled across pockets of ice, and walked in a caravan formation to let oncoming people pass.
“Let’s try Suvd,” Chimgee proposed. “They must have some mayonnaise.” She stepped onto the curb, extending her left hand to the side, a universal gesture to hail a “taxi.” She faced the oncoming traffic, which was waiting at a red light fifty meters away. Ganbat grasped her hand, making a show of supporting her balance, as if she were walking a tightrope. Chimgee knew this was an empty gesture, but kept her cool, relaxed demeanor, and stepped down.
“Maybe we shouldn’t get a cab,” Ganbat said. “Suvd is within walking distance.”
“Do you want to lose the few available jars of mayo to other shoppers? What if they only have a dozen left, and they get fewer by the minute? Plus, it’s cold.”
Ganbat furrowed his brows. “How many are we buying?”
“At least three jars.” Chimgee shifted her eyes to the side.
Mayonnaise was important. Suddenly, everything was about mayonnaise. It was all everyone talked about on Facebook. All the influencers, politicians, spokespeople:
“Mayonnaise is good for the ailments caused by air pollution!”
“Did you hear that? I’ll get a jar and fix my black lungs!”
“The holiday is not the holiday without mayonnay.”
“I know a good, hard-working family when I see a jar of mayonnaise on their table.”
She wouldn’t have bought into this craze if it hadn’t been for her former classmates, some distant relatives, and everyone else making a whole song and dance about how they were competent because they were able to find mayonnaise. It was as if not being able to buy mayonnaise meant you were the lowest of the low at risk of being ridiculed on the Internet. And she couldn’t bear it, not when she had four thousand followers.
The traffic light turned green, and a pack of vehicles sped toward them.
Ganbat also raised an arm, trying to see which of these drivers would decide to take a break from their own business to provide them with chauffeur service. Cars zoomed by, briefly quivering as they roughed over cracks and potholes, but otherwise accelerating. They kept their arms aloft.
A silver Prius flashed its blinker and changed to the rightmost lane, delivering hope to the couple. It pulled to a stop, and the driver, a middle-aged man, rolled down the window and craned his neck. “Where to?” he asked.
“Suvd,” Ganbat replied, consciously adding gruffness to his voice. Without a response, the driver rolled up his window and pulled away.
“I hate it when they do that,” Ganbat complained, his voice shifted back to high-strung.
“What happened?”
“He just drove away without a word.”
Chimgee scoffed. “Aimaar büdüüleg[7]! Why even stop if you don’t plan on picking the person up?”
“I guess his heart’s not really in it.”
“To be a taxi driver?”
“Yes,” Ganbat said. “I guess he has better things to do. He only wanted to take us if it was on the way.”
“You’d think they’d respect our destination and not act on a whim if they take our money.”
“Well, there are those who do that, and they have yellow colors and a sign that says ‘taxi’.”
They looked at each other pointedly for a moment and laughed.
“Can you imagine taking actual taxis?” Chimgee said, giggling.
“Like some chump tourist coming from the airport.” Ganbat’s remark was interrupted by another second-hand Japanese import that had the steering wheel on the wrong side. Ganbat and Chimgee looked expectantly at the driver, but he just cocked his head in the sense of “Get in.”
The couple plopped onto the faux-leather backseat, greeting the driver. He reciprocated, without turning around or making eye contact through the rearview mirror. It was as if his nape and head of hair greeted them back, but his voice was relaxed like the soft-spoken DJ droning on the radio. The faint scent of air freshener convinced them the car was hygienic, and they both unclenched their judgment muscles – the ones that helped them make a slightly disgusted expression on their faces when they are out and about. Some taxi cars were grimy, either reeking of tobacco or worse. But this one was not too bad. Just like Ganbat’s car, it had the steering wheel on the right side – most Priuses in Mongolia were imports from Japan. Pre-owned vehicles with the steering wheel on the right side. Right-hand-second-hand cars.
“Where to?” the driver asked, again without turning around.
“Suvd,” Ganbat replied, “the Khan-Uul branch.” Then he added, “Noilloson uu?[8] Has your trip meter been reset?”
“Sure enough,” said the driver, as the car momentarily sat idle with the click-clack of the blinker and then pulled away.
“Shopping?” the driver logically surmised, glancing at them through the rearview mirror.
“Yes,” Ganbat affirmed. Then he added, “We invited some guests for a holiday dinner.” Chimgee turned to look at Ganbat as if to let him know, Too much information!
Ganbat disliked taking “cabs” because it meant you had to be alert and vigilant so as not to be prey to the mind games these “taxi drivers” played with their passengers. They would first try to impress you with their expertise on socio-political affairs and current events. Granted, most of the time it would come across as an uninteresting hack-move, and you could passive-aggressively express your indignation at them for “talking your ear off.” But then there are the sly ones who feign an interest in you, get you talking, and just when you’re in the pleasant throes of a new friendship, attack you with a brazen overcharge. Stay aloof and pay exactly what you’re supposed to pay, Ganbat told himself.
“Where do you live?” the driver asked, breaking the silence that had settled between them.
“In one of the Ölziit apartments,” Ganbat replied.
“What is it like to live there?” the driver continued.
Chimgee and Ganbat looked at each other. “So-so,” Chimgee blurted out, which sounded like a question. It was actually the truth. They had lived there for about ten years, with their eight- and six-year-old son and daughter to show for it.
“We bought an apartment there back in 2013,” Ganbat said, “when the government’s 100,000 Family Housing Program was still running.” His eyes widened in disbelief as soon as the words left his mouth.
“Ooh, lucky! I’m happy for you. My family of five hasn’t had the fortune to move to an apartment yet,” the driver said.
Oh, this guy is good, Ganbat thought. But he doesn’t know the full story. “I mean we lived in the ger district before that, in a yurt handed down from my uncle on the plot of land that we rented. In the beginning we couldn’t help but marvel at the modern amenities, you know? Especially the shower stall, which was a welcome change of pace from the embarrassing-in-hindsight traditional way of washing. Think about it? Carrying canisters of water from the nearby water station, standing on a boat-shaped nickel tub and pouring stove-heated water over yourself in this day and age?”
“I just did that this morning,” the driver deadpanned nonchalantly, and Chimgee clasped Ganbat’s hands to make him stop talking.
“But sometimes I think,” Ganbat continued, “the apartment life is not for us.” And here, the driver turned down the mumbling on the radio as if expecting a long-winded speech bubbling up within Ganbat.
“These overcrowded, poorly managed apartments make life seem un-Mongolian. Everything from commercials to – what – opening remarks for Buddhist congregations have eloquent references to the open steppe and the clear sky as the symbols of our nation. But in reality, we have life-threatening gray smog in the winter, and cold, cramped, and sunless apartments in Ölziit.”
“So true,” the driver said, egging him on.
“And that’s not all.”
“You’re suddenly so talkative. What’s gotten into you?” Chimgee laughed forcefully.
“Your husband is a philosopher.”
“Oh, of course not,” Ganbat said. “Well, only when the occasion arises.” It felt good to be heard, to unspool one’s bellyaching thoughts to a sympathetic ear. Then everything stopped. The car had pulled up in front of the supermarket.
“We’re here,” the driver said. “Three thousand.”
“Hey, isn’t that a bit too–?” Chimgee started, but Ganbat’s hand sprang up with three crisp one thousand tugrik bills, as he cut her off, “It’s okay. Thank you, akhaa.[9]”
They hopped out of the car, dusted their coats, and ambled toward the supermarket, entering through the automatic double doors as the warm air blasted from above.
“Hope you realize it soon enough,” Chimgee said without looking in Ganbat’s direction. Muzak serenaded the trickle of shoppers, and a staff member pushed a long stack of shopping carts behind them.
“What? He sounded nice! Oh…” Ganbat sucked his teeth. Shaking his head, he hustled to dislodge a cart from the stack and trundled it back to her. “Yeah, he tarkhidakh[10]-ed me. It should be a thousand at most, right?”
Their cart rattled as the entry gates swung inward to allow them through. Ganbat looked at her like he had a new idea. “Maybe the going rate has increased?” He honestly didn’t mind paying him so much. The conversation had been worth it.
“Nope, and you said it yourself: The supermarket was within walking distance.” Chimgee stopped by an array of New Year’s holiday gifts laid on a table in the front: clear-plastic gift bags bulging with biscuits, chocolate bars, sweets, juice boxes, biscuits and candy bars. She tried to pick one up, hissed, and dropped it.
It was her fingertips, starting to bleed from pushing the Honda. “Wow, it might actually scar,” she said, holding up her palms.
“That’s nice,” said Ganbat, scanning through aisle names above them. It was obvious he hadn’t heard her and was just saying his placeholder phrase to pretend he had.
“You admit you’re gloating then?” Chimgee said, and the strong inflection in her voice let Ganbat know that something was wrong.
He looked at her fingers and tsked. “I told you not to push that car.”
“Just put those in.” She motioned at the gift bags, and Ganbat dropped two into the cart before they moved on.
The muzak faded away, and a chirpy voice announced that the store would be closing in ten minutes. They had made it just in time. Or had they?
The Suvd supermarket was one of the largest chains in the country, with a branch in almost every province, but it had been upstaged in the capital by a business named Bi-mart. Because the Khan-Uul branch was in a refurbished warehouse, the store had a high ceiling and tall shelves with pallet racks. People liked to complain that Mongolian stores imported most of their food from Russia, and lately South Korea. There was nothing wrong with the imports in and of themselves, but the extended turnover time caused stores to mostly carry “üzmeriin khüns,”[11] long shelf-life products high in preservatives and low in nutritional value.
After scrambling through several aisles dedicated to alcohol, candy and canned meat, they finally reached the condiments, where a small line had already formed.
“What is this line for?” Chimgee asked the nearest woman.
“Mayonnaise,” answered the twentysomething girl in a brown wool jacket, the supermarket uniform. She stood at the head of the line, handing out jars of mayonnaise from a glass display with a lock. “Due to the mayonnaise shortage, the government has mandated that stores limit mayonnaise sales to one jar per person.”
“Please get your IDs ready,” the woman said to the dwindling number of patrons in front of the couple. Her hands moved autonomously, aiming the barcode scanner at the national ID of the shopper in front of her, and then handing over a jar of mayonnaise in smooth motions like someone who’s done this countless times. “The faster you can get verified, the faster we can give you your product and close up shop.”
“IDs?” Chimgee mumbled. “What is this, the nineties?” She rifled through her purse and wallet. No sign of her ID. “Do you have your ID on you?”
“Yes, I do.” Ganbat said.
The store clerk thanked the customers in front of them. Ganbat and Chimgee were next. Ganbat held up his ID for the woman, who nodded and placed a single jar on the counter.
“Finally,” Chimgee said. She lifted it up and moved it toward their cart, but the searing pain from her fingers made her realize how much they hurt from the car-pushing debacle. The 500 milligram jar with its blue cap slipped from her hands and fell to the floor, scattering shattered glass mixed with mayonnaise.
“Be careful when handling our merchandise! You’re going to pay for that,” the associate reminded her.
“Of course – and I’m so sorry – just let me get another one, and I’ll pay for two,” Chimgee said.
“No, I have already added this jar to your ID. Do you have another ID?”
“What? No, I don’t have mine on me.”
“No ID, no mayonnaise, I’m afraid.”
“Please,” Chimgee said, “we left our kids at home, paid three thousand tugrik for a taxi, just so we can get some mayonnaise. Can we please have just one more jar? Would we be able to get verified by some other means? Like eMongolia?”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” The clerk called for someone on a walkie-talkie and locked the glass display of mayonnaise. Another woman arrived with a mop and a long-handled dustpan. If either of the store staff was fuming at Chimgee for adding an extra job before closing time, they didn’t show it.
Chimgee apologized profusely with a pleading look. But the clerk acted like she hadn’t heard her and left the counter without making eye contact.
The look of dread contorted Chimgee’s face.
***
It snowed, and the night sky of Ulaanbaatar temporarily escaped from its toxic haze. Outside Ölziit 34b, car doors slammed in succession. Figures in traditional garb were seen ambling toward the entrance. Voices commented on the aesthetic value of the apartment building – throats were cleared, noses blown. The group huddled in front of the brown metal entrance, shocked they needed a key fob to unlock it. Someone fished a phone out of their pocket and dialed the contact “Director Chimgee,” as another thumped on the door.
A brief beep was heard from behind the entrance, which was then opened by a boy with a red runny nose and grimy coat.
Inside, the elevator button was pushed incessantly before the sound changed to shuffling footsteps echoing in the stairwell illuminated at each landing by motion-sensing lights. The visitors were heard whispering, “These steps are ceramic; they won’t last long,” and “These chalked walls will be vandalized soon,” and even, “Someone’s sure to steal these low-hanging lamps. Apartments these days are not as they used to be.”
But they hushed one another when they came to the open door, and greeted the host and the hostess with hearty hellos, the disdain absent from their voices.
The hosts, too, opened their doors with considerable smugness, standing there bathed in a halogen light brighter than that of the hallway, welcoming the guests with the loud noise from a flat screen TV and the scent of freshly steamed buuz.[12]
No visitor thought to ask for mayonnaise, and even if they did, it wasn’t the end of the world that the hosts didn’t have it. One of the guests thought the photo of a pre-teen boy on the TV looked familiar. It was apparently a news segment about a child who had gone missing a day ago. Indeed, it was the boy they had seen earlier at the entrance.
“By the way,” Ganbat said, after unmuting the TV at the request of one of them. “Do you guys know the phrase, ‘If a tree grew in the forest and nobody heard it, did it grow’?”
Footnotes
[1] Phone number. Note: It is a common practice to leave a phone number on the dashboard when a parked car will be blocking another one in a residential parking lot.
[2] Mongolian University of Humanities.
[3] Okay.
[4] An affectionate term for one’s romantic partner; literally means love.
[5] Suuts Omchlogchdiin Kholboo: Apartment Owners’ Association.
[6] Water and heating services office.
[7] “So rude!”
[8] Literally, “Have you made it a zero?”
[9] A term of endearment for a male older person (literally means “older brother”).
[10] To con someone.
[11] Literally “food for display.”
[12] Dumplings filled with minced meat.