Worth Talking To

Some of my most frustrating and, alternatively, rewarding moments in Mongolia, have occurred in supermarket check-out lines. Many of them at the same supermarket, come to think of it. For a little while, I was so frustrated and embarrassed from repeatedly having less tugruks on hand than the total my groceries rang up to, that I avoided the store altogether, even though it is the most convenient one near my home. However, there was also the time in Erdenet, back in the early days, when I had a mini “conversation” with a little girl in line ahead of me. She was staring at me and making faces back was better than trying not to notice. I asked her age in my own version of sign language, and she happened to speak the same language and showed me on her fingers. I had communicated and a Mongolian had understood and responded.

This evening brought a rewarding moment. One of those men with a single bottle of vodka, and the smell of alcohol in their pores came up next to me in line. These guys are always impatient, addicts feeling the first withdrawal symptoms, and they usually try to push ahead of me. This guy was starting to edge forward, so I started to edge in too, to give him less opportunity to shove past me. But his foot was sticking out, and I kicked it as I shifted. Mongolian law states that if you kick someone’s foot you have to shake their hand, or at the very least, touch their arm sympathetically, to indicate you meant no harm. I made an apologetic sound (that’s MY culture) and touched his elbow, and he promptly, and seriously shook my hand. The cashier was still wrapping up the last customer’s credit card payment, and this fellow was getting really ancy. But instead of pushing ahead of me, his attitude had changed after I demonstrated a basic understanding of human decency. He now went into an elaborate, silent pantomime indicating he would like to pay for his single bottle of alcohol ahead of my pile of groceries. I told him I understood in Mongolian, and let him go ahead. By now the cashier was finished, and as he moved ahead of me, he continued his pantomime, perhaps to reinforce the practicality of his request or to indicate he meant no rudeness. Then, I guess he paid and was gone, but he left so quickly I hardly noticed as I shifted my groceries along on the conveyor belt that wasn’t made to convey anything. It was sad, but I felt much better, (and better able to appreciate his sadness) than in the past when irritation usually overwhelms pity.