It’s Not the Quality of Your Machine but the Quality of Your Mechanic

We drive another four hours. There is still time left before the sun sets that we can spend part of the day making for Khövsgöl Nuur. Thanks to Little Bat we are once again on the path toward the child. When all four wheels of the Machine are back up on firm land and Little Bat unties himself from the crushing rope, Uncle touches his forehead to Little Bat’s. I expect him to say something, some words of blessing, but the touching of skin seems to be enough. I search Little Bat’s form for signs of injuries, but it is too soon to tell. Should the worst come to pass, it could take time for the body to swell, for his insides to liquefy, his interior silently remapping itself.

After a few hours we come to a small outpost with a handful of buildings and an elderly couple manning the operation. We fill up with groceries, the gas jugs patched and back up on the roof. The woman gives us directions, detailing what to expect of the landscape. Despite his age the man crawls under the Machine and searches for any damage from our encounter with the sinkhole. He finds none. In Mongolia, we have a saying: it’s not the quality of your Machine but the quality of your mechanic. Most cars in Mongolia are decades old cast-offs from the days of the Soviet Union. Most are completely rebuilt, the outer shell the only part that is original.

Mun hands me back my bag of tögrög. Carefully I wrap it up in my robe. We have yet to even meet the first candidate and already the bag is half depleted. Relax, Mun says, but he drives more gingerly than before. We do not travel as quickly. Now when he turns the car, he keeps both hands on the wheel. There is a small knot of concentration deep within him, his focus aimed completely on the landscape and the subtle markers that signify where we are. From time to time he fingers the bruise in the middle of his forehead, as if reminding himself of his responsibilities.