mongols on parade

Driving home along the lake, we notice a car stopped in the middle of the road. Both airbags have popped, and the right front tire is perpendicular to the wheel base. The driver is slouched low in the car, cell phone against ear, and I stereotype the driver as a woman.
We stop to make sure there are no injuries and ask if they need help. "Yeah," says the driver, who turns out to be male, "I'm all fucked up." We call 911 and try to figure out how his car got in this shape by itself in the middle of the road. No immediate signs of accident or cause, such as shards or another car, or a large, immobile object that could do such damage to his wheel. There's no getting much out of him, other than protestations that he's not a loser-guy, and requests that we not stereotype him as a dumb Chinese, because he's not Chinese, he's Mongolian. I am fascinated by Mongolia; it is a linguistic hybrid whose past is an intricate network of Empire seizures and overthrows. About a dozen languages are spoken in the country: in the north, Russian and Kazakh are spoken, in the South, Chinese and Mandarin; throughout the country Mongolian and various Turkic languages are spoken by about 90% of the population. But he is too drunk for me to ask him about his country; instead he takes a leak by the lake. My annoyance that he is in no shape to tell me about his country is compounded by the fact that it takes nearly an hour for the police to find us.