Men in Mahia Peninsula

I am standing on a picnic table at a rest stop on an empty stretch of highway in Mahia Peninsula taking pictures of the ocean when two men pull into the rest stop on ATVs. I turn to see that they have parked between me and my car. They have face tattoos—big circles on their lower faces that go down to their neck. They don’t look like tribal tattoos, more like wheels or gears. These men look menacing. One of them immediately starts asking me questions and I’m displeased to see that the infamous Arkansas meth mouth has made it all the way to Mahia. 

“Where are you from?” he demands. 

I usually pretend that I don’t speak English when I encounter men I don’t want to speak to; mumble lo siento no hablo inglés muy bien, and keep walking but these two have caught me by surprise so I respond that I’m from America. I immediately regret it. Some people, after hearing that, talk to me about how much they want to visit or which family members live there. But with these men, I immediately feel like it makes me a trophy. They are staring at me like they want to eat me. 

“Oh, Ameeeerica,” he says, drawing it out suggestively. “So whereabouts you staying? Staying in your car? It looks like it.” He peers into my windows as he says this. 

Shit. This is not good. It wouldn’t do any good to deny it so I confirm. When I can’t avoid talking to creepy men I draw myself up tall and speak from my chest, projecting confidence. But these two have already seen my hesitation meaning that I already have the lower hand in this encounter. They know that I am scared and they look like they are enjoying it. I am polite but firm, giving disinterested one word answers and this only seems to make them more aggressive.  

The interrogation continues: “Where are you staying? In Mahia? You could come stay at mine.” 

Ugh. I reply that I’m headed to Gisborne and he looks me up and down. 

“Are you traveling alone?” he asks. 

Jesus Christ. If I answer yes to this question I might not make it to Gisborne. I have the good sense to tell him that I am meeting my boyfriend in Gisborne. It’s not true and if anything were to happen, it would probably be days before anyone realizes I’m missing. I am suddenly so so aware of this fact. But hopefully if these men think that a man is waiting for me, I can leave safely. Wheels are turning in my head as I try to figure out how to extricate myself from this situation—they are still between me and my car and it doesn’t feel like they will let me leave politely. The man asks my name and I don’t think to lie, although it’s probably not important. He knows where I live. I click the button on my keys, flipping the key out. If this escalates, maybe I can poke him in the eye with it. I should run first, though, because in a physical altercation I will lose every time. He asks whether I have Facebook and I say no. He asks how he’s going to get in contact with me so he can show me around. How do I respond to this? Do I give him a fake number? What if he calls it and finds out it's fake? Do I let him follow me on social media? Then he would have the power to stalk and harass me, even if I block him. Do I say I don’t need a guide? What if this makes him more aggressive?

Stalling, processing which of my options is most likely to let me leave alive and unharmed, I slowly say “oh um…” 

And then a miracle happens. A car pulls into the rest stop beside us and the men turn to look at the recent arrival. I quickly cross to my car, get in, and immediately lock the doors. I speed away without even buckling my seatbelt. I giggle hysterically—I can’t help it. I’m terrified and my heart is beating fast. 

I can’t get this encounter out of my head for days. I play it on repeat and think of how I could’ve handled it better. What would I have done if the other car hadn’t pulled in? What will I do if this happens again? 

I hope I never find myself in this sort of situation again but as a woman, I know that there is always a next time. 

What I should’ve done is go on the offensive. I should have steered the conversation somehow to their female family members—mothers or sisters. These don’t seem like the kind of men who respect women but maybe with thoughts of women they are close to in their heads, they might speak differently to the woman in front of them. I should’ve engaged with their humanity, asked questions about their lives and interests and emotions. What do people need? They need connection—to be seen, heard, understood. These men might think that they want to be violent with me—to steal my safety and security—but I doubt they know that it could be any other way. These men do not come to exist in a vacuum—they are created by a culture where a lack of respect abounds. Would it change their behavior if they were treated with respect paired with boundaries? I don’t know and I don’t want to be given an opportunity to test it. 

I live in one of the safest countries in the world and still I ponder what to do the next time I meet a man who wants to assault me. Anyone who tries to argue that there is not something profoundly wrong in the relationship between men and women must be viewing things from a vantage point that I am not privileged enough to share. 

The photos are lovely, though