people, or about one quarter of the population of the country, live in the capital city of Ulaanbaatar, which happens to contain almost all the paved roads in Mongolia. Not that they are very well paved: the thousands of cars that career around each day have to detour around the many deep potholes and unfilled trenches that pockmark the patchwork of mismatched asphalt that passes for paving here. Crossing these busy roads is an unpredictable adventure. Mongolians generally -- well, most often -- drive on the right, the same as North America and Europe. But even if a car is approaching on the right side of the road, one has to exercise great care. The driver suddenly may swing into the left lane to avoid a pothole. Luckily, the roads are wide and this behavior doesn't seem to bother other drivers, who may seize the opportunity to pass on the right, if there is space between the pothole and the sidewalk, or who may wait for the driver ahead to wander back to the right to pass. There seems to be general agreement that pedestrians will give way to an automobile, the one exception being if the vehicle is actually stopped, or if a crowd has been waiting too long to cross a busy but slow-moving street, when by some telepathic signal, everyone will advance en mass to block the traffic and cross.

Mongolians drive a car as though they were riding a horse, an activity for which this country is famous. They are confident; change direction at will with a quick flick of the wheel; and proceed at a gallop with the assurance that the way ahead will open up before their charging steed. Fortunately, it usually does, and there are surprisingly few fender-benders each day. More often, a car is stopped because a wheel has fallen off, and the driver is underneath wiring things back together.

No wonder Mongolian horsemen once conquered the known world. Back then, there weren't even traffic lights. There was no reason to slow down until they reached the shores of the Caspian Sea, and even then it was a but a simple flick of the wrist to continue further west.

Air So Good You Can Taste It

he number of cars in Ulaanbaatar has increased dramatically in recent years. A surprising number of brand-new Hyundai, Toyota, Mercedes-Benz and BMW jostle alongside battered as well as new-looking Russian jeeps, Ladas and tank-like Volgas, along with a weird mixture of Russian, Korean and Japanese buses and mainly Russian trucks. Brand-new American, Japanese and Korean 4x4 sports utility vehicles indicate the influx of foreign money into the capital. Most of the older cars are battered and belch oily smoke. The newer cars may sport a dent or two, and all the Mercedes, naturally, are missing their famous hood emblem.

With all this traffic, bad gas, poor maintenance and black-belching diesel engines, not to mention the coal fires from the Gers and the four Russian power stations lacking basic pollution control on their stacks, the air in Ulaanbaatar can get dangerously thick. Today was a good example: by 9a.m. it was impossible to see the mountains, as a blanket of clear, cold air contained the warm fumes close to the ground, creating a toxic white fog. I made the mistake of walking to downtown and back. Within half an hour, I felt giddy and sick. The afternoon winds now have pushed away the inversion and the mountains can be seen clearly, but my headache remains. I'm sure they don't even bother to measure street-level carbon monoxide here. Why worry? And the winter is only just beginning.

Take Me To This Piece Of Paper

ne look at the battered, bouncing and jam-packed buses was enough to convince me to take a cab. In this, Mongolians excel. There are true taxis, I'm told -- I once saw a car with a TAXI sign on the roof -- but the joy of Ulaanbaatar is that any car will function as a taxi, and everyone charges the same rate per kilometer. All you have to do is to stand by the side of the road and stick out your arm. Within a minute, a car will stop and the driver will open the door for you.

And you don't just get battered old cars stopping. I've had rides in BMWs and Mercedes, even one of those luxury SUVs. For 200 or 250 Tugrogs (about 20¢ US) per kilometer, you can go anywhere in the city. Anywhere, that is, if you can communicate your destination to the driver. Not many adult Mongolians speak English, so I've had to solve this problem by asking Javhlan, the translator in whose apartment I'm staying, to write my usual destinations in Cyrillic on a PostIt note, which I then show to the driver, who mutters the incantation until he or she figures out exactly where it is I'm bound.

Finding an address in Ulaanbaatar is not that easy, even for Mongolians, because there are no addresses. Really! No one of the several hundred highrise buildings in this city has a unique number, so of course, there is no apartment or office mail delivery, just post office boxes -- if you can get one. There are microdistricts, buildings, entrances, floors and apartment numbers, but none are actually written anywhere, so even once we've arrived in the area, the driver has to ask the locals for directions. A typical address might be Microdistrict IV, Building 5A, to the left of the bus stop, 3rd entrance, 2nd Floor, Apartment 78. Trouble is, there are several bus stops and at least eight entrances. Good luck!

I carry a small collection of these pieces of paper at all times. If I were to lose them, I'd be stranded. Lost in Ulaanbaatar without a PostIt note! What a fate for a westerner. Let's hope it never happens.