The Black Market of UlaanBaatar
Entrance to the Naruun Tuul, the black market |
You hear about the market long
before you actually visit it. It is spoken about with ominous fascination. “You
went to the black market?! Wow.” And the next question, invariably, is “So… did
you get robbed?”
Every person who has been to the
market has a story. Either they got robbed or they know someone who did.
Sometimes it happens on the way to the market. Tourists, flush with cash tucked
into a neck pouch, take the minibus marked 'Зах' (it's pronounced by coughing up some phelgm while saying "zacht") from Peace Square in the center of town. A short ride later, they emerge
at the market realizing their neck pouch is still there, yet missing the money!
It’s magical, really. How did they do it? Pick-pocketing in Ulaanbaatar is so
ubiquitous that it has even inspired “How To Get Pick-Pocketed” step-by-step
guides, such as this one.
When Mendee asked if I had a
saddle, I responded with a blank stare. Instead of saying, “Yes. A saddle.
s-a-d-d-l-e. It’s what you put on the horse you just bought,” he
just remarked, “No problem. We will go to the black market.”
The black market! It was exciting
and scary at the same time. I was actually going into the hive of scum and
villainy itself! (Apologies to Tatooine, but Mongolia is weirder.) With all the
stories I’d heard, I devised a plan not even a mother would love. I would hide
some money in one sock at the bottom of my shoe, more in the other shoe, and
some in my underwear. Together, these wads would be sufficient to buy all the
gear I needed. Bwah-ha-ha, my money was impervious! It was genius.
"We don't serve their kind in here" (Tatooine cantina bar) |
Black market grounds. Photo by Peter Menzel |
We then entered the sprawling
grounds of the market proper. The other two guys were going on very ambitious
treks, over a month. It was actually fascinating hearing about
their plans, going over their maps, listening to their fears and excitement. To be
honest, I was secretly jealous. Yes, perhaps my beard was thicker and fuller
than theirs, but these men were attempting to be Men. Theirs is a story that
deserves its own blog post later. Anyway, they had to pick up all sorts of
camping gear, and so it was a relief when we finally reached the Department of
Horsey Stuff.
Pretty. Pretty damn uncomfortable for your jibblies |
This little corner consisted of a
few worn tents draped in colorful equine decoration of every kind imaginable.
There were bright red and green tassels, gold-fringed bridle pieces, tan
straps, silvery bits, bronze rings, and a host of other odd items whose purpose
I could only guess was horse body-piercing. Next door were piles of sewing
gear, heaps of raw leather, and stacks of colorful saddles of all designs.
There were a few worn Western saddles that actually looked comfortable, Russian
saddles that looked cheap and painful, and plenty of fresh new Mongolian
saddles purposely designed to bash a man’s bits into fine powder. Squatting around
within was also a small tribe of chain-smoking wrinkled old women. Their
gnarled hands were busy hand-sewing giant needles though thick pieces of
leather to create new straps and ropes.
I had absolutely no idea what a
fair price was for a saddle, or girths, or saddle-bags. Or for that matter,
pretty red and gold tassels which I hoped were not screaming that my horse was gay. Mendee was not only there to negotiate for us, but
also make sure we had everything we needed. He was our Mongolian fixer, worth
every penny. We agreed on a “Russian” saddle that had pretty green embroidery,
complete with Buddhist-style knot designs on the leg fenders. I was surprised to find the girths were made of horse hair. It
looked soft and comfortable compared to the hard straps that were used on my
horse-trekking up north. So resourceful, these nomads! Re-using horse hair. Brilliant.
Why didn’t all the ranchers use it?! Instead of this setting off alarm bells,
it made me feel smug that my horse would be the most comfortable one out there.
Mendee nodded his approval, and the stupidest decision of my trip was
locked in.
Meat section. That ain't filet mignon (by Tim Corrigan) |
The super awesome 500 Tookirig bill. Ball sweat not included |
“OK, … 200,000 Tookirig, you can
count it."
No response.
" … Uh, what’s the problem fellas?”
One of the highlights of the
market was the long aisles of traditional clothes. There were brightly colored
vests, Mongol long-sleeve shirts, caps, and pants. But the highlight and our
reason for coming to this section were the deels: the long cloaks that are the standard
outer-wear for both men and women in the country-side. Most rural families make
their own plain ones of thick cotton and burlap and no ger is complete without
a sewing machine. But here in the city, there were thin light deels of synthetic
materials, silks, thin soft cottons, all intricately decorated with gold and
silver thread patterns. It was fancy and upscale. Browns, greens, whites,
oranges, and even purples and pinks made it clear that this was an item of high
fashion. I wasn’t looking for such a deel, however. After my experience freezing
in the north, I wanted something thick and warm, something ordinary-looking
that would help me blend in. Earth tones would be nice; after all, it would
likely be covered in mud and horse-poop by the time I returned. I settled on a
burnt orange-brown deel with little decoration. However, I allowed myself to
pick out a fairly bright golden-orange sash.
I look so Mongolian it's scary. |
“How do I look?” I asked my fellow
Westerners, who were also rummaging for outfits.
Brad replied, “Brown and
orange. Like a Buddhist monk.”
Perfect.
I glanced down at my battered
sneakers which had endured Tokyo asphalt, Philippine skinny-dipping, Chinesecave mud-bathing, and several weeks hiking, um, er… donkey-riding, in Nepal.
Perhaps these were not the best choice for horse trekking. Mendee steered me
down an alley and around a corner I nearly fell into a bin. Behind it were two
more, each stuffed with used black boots of all shapes and sizes, heaped upon
each other in piles that came up to my waist. After looking through them I
realized the workmanship was about on par with Masai flip-flops. (I realize
this comment might not resonate for many, but Masai flip-flops are made by
cutting off a piece of car tire and tying them to your feet with a string.)
Believe it or not, they ran a marathon in these shoes made of tires |
These Mongol boots consisted of
leather nailed onto a block of wood. But then again, I would be riding, not walking. And for that, the
high-topped boots were just what I needed to avoid chafing my legs. I haggled
the price down to a reasonable US$10 and pulled out another wad of stinky
Tookirig from my sock. Feeling quite satisfied with this transaction, I
thought, “What could go wrong with these sweet babies?” Such was the incredible
naivety of my happy shopping trip on that bright sunny day.
It had been a very successful trip
to the black market. In fact, on our way out I smiled to myself at how worried
I’d been about thieves. At that very moment, two large men appeared out of nowhere
and bumped into our friend Pete. He was stopped in his tracks. The men looked like they
didn’t see my friend, even though they were obviously blocking him. At that
moment, from behind him another smaller man walked up and, so quick I barely
noticed, quickly put his hand into my friend’s back pocket and walked away. He
disappeared into the crowd before I realized what happened, and when I turned
around the big men who had blocked were also gone in the crowd. Pete turned
around, startled.
“Did you see that? What just
happened?”
“Dude. It all happened so fast, but some
guy picked your back pocket. I think. I mean, I’m not 100% sure.”
“Yeah, I felt that too!" But then he laughed. "You
know what? All I had back there was a piece of paper! I had left it there on
purpose. They got nothing. Ha ha!”
“Oh man, you should’ve wrote
something on it, like: "Congratulations! You came all the way to the black
market and all you pick-pocketed was this piece of lint.’”
“Yeah! Or how about: ‘This quality
piece of paper is worth more than a 100 Tookirig bill. Well played.’”
A hundred Tookirig was worth about 1 cent.
“Ha ha ha!!! Oh man, that is f-ing
hilarious!! Nice one.”
They got nothing. You would have
to be pretty dumb to put money in your back pocket in a place like this.
But then again, I had noticed plenty of clueless Western tourists in the city.
Many more than I expected, to be honest. Mongolia, or at least the 3 day
packaged-tour version of it, was definitely on the map. We were all a little
shaken up by this and quickly made our way back to the car.
Just another day in the Land of
Blue Sky.
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