Ulan Bator, Mongolia
Monday, September 15:
Number of times in one day: 1
1.
Time of day: 3:35 p.m.
Location: About fifty meters from Chingghis Khan Square, the heart of the city.
Were you alone? Yes
Was he alone? Yes
What happened?
A young 20-something guy, all baseball cap and ‘tude, pulls up next to me as I’m walking down the street. He rolls down the window on the driver’s side of his beat-up Honda and stares directly at me. I am alone and, as usual, strikingly tall in these streets. A first assessment: how long before the lights at this crossing change? I ignore him — after all, foreign women are not always a common sight in Ulan Bator — but in case there’s any question of intent, he’ll pucker his lips and offer a smacking pout in my direction. I dare not look at the small crowd of mostly business people waiting alongside to cross here. At the pucker, no one says a word, though a woman beside me will tisk and sigh loudly. Later I will prefer to think of this of benign sympathy. If this all weren’t so sad, primal and — perhaps, ugly — perhaps it would be funny.
Tuesday, September 16:
Number of times: 1
1.
Time of day: 12:15 p.m.
Location: Peace Avenue — a main promenade in Ulan Bator.
Were you alone? Yes
Was he alone? No.
What happened?
I received leering glances from three men—they looked like businessmen—as they passed. Are these varying degrees of surprise, if not, seeming hostility? It’s possible to imagine these looks as Mongolia’s nationalistic undercurrents at work. I live here: an uncomfortable thought. I plug in headphones lest I overthink it, and walk a little faster.
Wednesday, September 17:
Number of times: None.
Thursday, September 18:
Number of times: None
Friday, September 19:
Number of times: 1
1.
Time of day: 6:23 p.m.
Location: My neighborhood grocery store, near home.
Were you alone? Yes
Was he alone? Yes
What happened?
It’s Friday night, and in Ulan Bator, this means alcohol (lots of it). I’m picking up some groceries on the way home at a local supermarket. I queue to pay whilst juggling bread, milk and a bottle of wine, but not before the man in an ordinary suit and loosened tie in line behind me belches a hot stench of vodka’ed breath in my direction. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Instinctively, I spin around.
Surprised, he leans forward, leers in my face and mutters a sentence made staccato by drunkenness. I don’t speak Mongolian but this I do understand: it is hostile, and somehow searing. I feel blood rush to my cheeks — not embarrassment, but a sudden urge to whack him in the face with said wine bottle. I move away to recover some personal space, pay up quickly, make sure to glance back over my shoulder to check if he intends to follow. In the back of my mind is a recent instance when a female friend was followed home, recently. She called a male friend from his nearby apartment to “come get her, quickly, before he does anything.” My own housemate is tall, foreign and male: I wonder if I needed to make the call just now, where would he be? (Must I really need to remember his Friday night drinking schedule?) In a few long minutes, I am home.
Saturday, September 20:
Number of times: None
Sunday, September 21:
1.
Number of times: 1
Location: Ulan Bator’s cross-cutting back streets, outside of a basement karaoke bar.
Time of day: 10:20 p.m.
Were you alone? No, I was with a male colleague.
Was he alone? No, a group of guys.
What happened?
My friend and I were standing in front of the bar, when a group of young, drunk guys stumble out. One of the guys yells out something unintelligible, finished with a “you, English!” They all burst out laughing. We sigh. Is it ever worth responding? We walk away, quickly. Instead of taking the shorter route, this time, he’ll walk me to my door.
