Sometimes it is easy to forget I’m on the far side of the world. When I spend time in the school, which is a two story renovated house, with my fellow students and the staff, speaking English and laughing at our paltry attempts to speak Mongolian, it seems like a normal pattern. We play ping-pong and talk about life at home, getting to know each other.
But sometimes, it is impossible to forget I am on the far side of the world. The streets distinguish themselves from any I’ve seen in the world, and so far, they have shaped what parts of Ulaanbaatar and Mongolia I have experienced. For instance, the air here is (for now) warm and dry, filled with dust and exhaust kicked up by the vehicles battling the congestion. When I walk on the sidewalk, my throat becomes dry, and I spend the walk thinking about the water in my backpack, which is locked to discourage pickpockets. The sounds of the street fill every building, including my hotel room. Honking from cars, whistling from police who try to manage the traffic, engines shifting, brakes squeaking. It is quite engaging, although I can’t say it lulls me to sleep at night.
The roads themselves look like they have been abandoned halfway through a construction project- some potholes are halfway filled with gravel and the sides of the road are torn up, as if someone is about to put down some piping. But I haven’t seen a single construction worker on the streets. Perhaps they are all been hit by the cars jockeying through the streets, and are unable to continue their work.
People here drive like I have never seen before. The amount of traffic is similar to that of Indonesia, but there are no motorcycles, only cars, and the bravest and biggest vehicle has the right-of-way. There are lines on the road, but no one seems to pay attention to them, and there are as many lanes of traffic that need to be. Today, I saw an uncontrolled intersection with two or three lanes coming from each direction, and there were a lot of cars trying to turn left. The way they turn left if simply to start turning in front of the oncoming car which either darts around or screeches to a stop with a loud honk, sometimes inches away. Needless to say, I am thankful not to be driving here.
Walking has its own hazard. Of course, there is always a threat of being hit by a car, but so far we have walked in a large enough group that vehicles are forced to stop for us. It’s also a matter of being aware and looking both ways several times. There is a system. I haven’t mastered it yet, but with my Bali experience, I’m not too worried. My favorite trick is to shadow a local person, standing down-traffic of them, and just walking whenever they do. There are plenty of ways to be safe; its really just a matter of being stupid, because the streets and sidewalks will get the stupid people.
As if traffic weren’t enough, the sidewalks are filled holes, shattered glass, overturned bricks, uncovered manholes, metal sticking up out of the dirt, and spit. They sound a little dangerous, but Mongolian women rock the sidewalks in one to three inch heels. They are fearless. So I watch them, put on my purpose walk, staying vigilant, and think to myself, Here I am, walking down the street in Mongolia.
