PARTY TIME

I would be remiss in my attempts to give any semblance of an accurate portrayal of Mongolian culture if I neglected the enormous party element any longer. So, without further adieu, I give you the epic party post.

haha...that's not water...

I think one would have to live in Mongolia for a few months, as I have, to begin to understand the scope of partying and celebration that goes on here. As with any nation harboring a prevailing collectivist societal wind, Mongolia boasts a mainstream culture that is extremely social in nature. As I may have mentioned in previous posts, Mongolians’ self-concept is derived almost entirely from their relationships with their personal surroundings–family, kinship groups, friends, work, etc–and not on subjective qualities, actions, or any of the aspects inherent to the trends in individualist cultures (like that of America). In Europe and the West, a combination of plague and industrial revolutions over the centuries contributed in altering social constructs in a direction that favored individualism for survival and comfort over collectivism. In Mongolia, however, the maintenance of one’s position as a part of one’s group is still the deciding factor in one’s survival–be it survival in the workplace, in the family network, or quite literally, survival in the face of extremely harsh weather conditions.

To tie this back into partying, then, socializing is not just a good time; on the contrary, partying serves to fortify and reaffirm a sense of belonging and solidarity among members of a group. And though no Mongolian would ever contrive an enormous party just to let people know they are included, and though said reaffirmation is never a driving force in the social decision making process involved in planning and executing a party, the results are still the same–partying continues to strengthen relationships and provide windows of opportunity in the modern Mongolian context.

To illustrate these concepts, I’ll have to limit my explanations to just a few of the holidays that I’ve experienced since my arrival in Mongolia (which are many–there is usually at least one that is widely recognized and celebrated per month!), namely weddings and New Year celebrations. But before I do so, let me make it perfectly clear that the social importance and crucial adherence to tradition in some of these celebrations do not, in any way, preclude excessive behaviors or wild, wild…stuff…Sometimes at school parties I can’t tell whether I’m at work or on a disco MTV Spring Break Girls Gone Wild Pirate Ship of Naughtiness. That should be a bit more elucidated in the following explanations.

Weddings

Weddings are definitely among my favorite celebrations in Mongolia, and this might be due to the fact that one of the first big social events I ever attended was the wedding of a gym teacher whom I had never met from a school located in Kharkhorin, north of my town. I was invited as the guest of another volunteer living in the town, and I was a bit nervous as a complete stranger. I quickly realized upon arriving, though, that this wasn’t a problem; once again, evidence of a collectivist culture–I was friends with one of the guests, and was therefore deemed an acceptable presence at the wedding. This may seem strange from a western perspective, but the reason for that lies in the contrasts between conventional American weddings and Mongolian ones. Because you see, Mongolian weddings are just huge parties.

A Mongolian couple is considered married the instant they move in together (and sometimes sooner, depending on the couple; relationships rarely last longer than 3 months without the issue of imminent marriage, or splitting, being decided.) It is perfectly acceptable, therefore, for children to come into the mix before any official, legal marriage takes place. With this being the trend in Mongolian relationships, the formality of the actual ceremony of marriage is often disregarded (at the last wedding I attended, the groom and I were the only people who dressed up, and everyone else was in tanktops), and there is a lot more room for fun and carousing.

My first wedding began as most Mongolian weddings do–dozens of people sitting on whatever surfaces they can find in a large circle in the living room and exchanging awkward pleasantries and introductions. A large spread of fruit, candy, a sheep rump, meat, sausage, sliced cucumbers, juices, beer, and vodka was set in the center of the room, and no one seemed to be touching it. A few guests were timidly sneaking bits of the display into their hands and eating them surreptitiously after a few minutes, so I took that as a sign to do so as well. So did everyone else, and eventually the trays of food were passed around clockwise until everyone was eating. Then the youngest male family member of the bride took a seat next to a large wooden drum filled with fermented horse milk, or airag, and spooned portions of it into a series of bowls with an ornately-carved ladle. He would then pass the bowls to whomever he decided should drink, and they would return it to him for refills to be passed on to other guests when they were finished. Traditionally, each bowl of airag should be drunk to completion, but if the recipient does not want to finish it, he or she can touch it to his or her lips and attempt to return it. The distributor usually refuses to take it back at first, but he is bound to accept the unfinished bowl after three attempts. He then adds more airag to it and passes it to someone else. It gets all over the floor in the process, as tradition dictates that even untouched bowls still require more airag to be added upon being returned to the distributor even when they are already full.

According to tradition, each guest is required to drink three bowls of airag, three bowls of Mongol aerekh–the clear, high-content fermented byproduct of traditional Mongolian cow dairy items–and three bowls of straight vodka, and not necessarily in that order. As a result, every single guest at a Mongolian wedding gets completely plastered. It’s actually kind of beautiful–the laughter increases by the minute, refusals to drink get more absurd and are met with more hilarious denial from the alcohol distributor, faces get redder, songs erupt, food gets everywhere, and the atmosphere takes on a tremendously jovial feeling to it. Eventually, this is tempered by periods of quiet during emotional standing toasts, first by the parents of the new couple and then by the other guests. After the toast has been said, the speaker is expected to sing a song–any song–and all of the guests join in the singing after the first few words. The speakers go in order according to where they stand in a counter-clockwise fashion until everyone–including the foreigner–has spoken and sung. The whole thing gets more and more like karaoke and less like homage as the drinks pour.

I once sang “The Star Spangled Banner” out of drunkenness at a wedding, and by the third line the guests were telling me to sit down. A rendition of some Bjork song–I don’t remember which–had me just as unpopular at another wedding not too long thereafter.

During all of this, except for the toasting period, the bride is expected to resupply empty trays and plates with food and candy and continue food preparation. The groom sits at the north end of the room in a centralized position and stays there for most of the night.

At one wedding, I made it clear that I wasn’t feeling up for six bowls of fermented dairy on top of three bowls of straight vodka, so my punishment was 15 shots of straight vodka in two hours. The pressure was immense–even a colleague of mine who is allergic to alcohol was made to drink. But my social credibility was at stake as a new member of the community, and succumbing to partying as a social inclusionary behavior paid off for me in the long run.

New Year

Unlike weddings, New Year parties never put me in danger of becoming the event photographer (as the only one with a camera). So This portion will have more photos.

My experience with new year parties has been limited to large-scale school/work events, but I’ve seen enough to know that the New Year is just as alcohol-soaked as weddings, if not more so. Once again, it is customary for work parties to lay out lavish spreads of food and alcohol on long tables in a large hall. At my particular branch of the Mongolian University of Science and Technology, the New Year celebration was held in the gym with a ring of 20-meter-long tables arranged under huge departmental logo banners on the walls. Every table boasted at least $1,000USD of food and drinks, and I was surprised to see that the school had even splurged on baby pigroasts for each table.

a lavish table spread at my school's faculty new year party

the cyrillic text on the pigs was written with mayonnaise. it says "happy new year" in mongolian. the other side said the same thing, but in russian. no one even thought about eating any part of these charred piglets.

I should note that there were actually two parties for the new year that week–one put on by the senior class in honor of faculty, and the second put on by faculty in honor of themselves–neither of which took place on or even close to New Years. Both were also combined with the Mongolian version of Christmas, as the two are considered to be one holiday.

my seniors in front of the great new year's christmas fiberoptic tree

Like all Mongolian parties, both celebrations were rife with performances and speeches. Several of the departments competed against one another in risque coordinated dance routines. I was not so surprised to see that the performance that swept the adoration of the second celebration’s crowd, though, was a ten-minute slapstick routine featuring men dressed in pig-masks and Ming Dynasty Chinese clothing  jumping around the room, mocking Mandarin language in loud twangy squeals, and hitting people in the head with buckets. No one could stop laughing long enough to explain the cultural significance to me, but it was a pretty clear display of anti-Chinese sentiments.

senior students performing at the first celebration, which was put on by the senior class in honor of faculty. the girls all made their own dresses for the occasion.

That it was a vocational party meant that there was an added element of the announcement of professional awards, as well. These garnered little attention, as alcohol had distracted much of the guests. Most of the awards were announced to deaf ears, and eventually the ceremony slipped into a slightly debaucherous dance festival with flashing lights and wild motion. The most fascinating thing about this, though, is that the instant a slower song came on, everybody grabbed a partner and assumed the respectable, agile movements of the traditional Mongolian waltz without skipping a beat. Then a techno song would return to the playlist and everyone would resume grinding.

awards!

For the sake of brevity (or something close to it), I’ll spare the details on the other holidays and just describe some of the basics. Teachers’ Day, for my community, was more insane than New Years–more vodka, more money spent on pizza and fish and chicken and pineapples and all sorts of things that aren’t usually available in Mongolia. Soldiers’ Day may have already happened, and if so I don’t remember it, but I know schools and government offices are closed (which means everything else is, too). Men are expected to drink a lot. Women’s Day is coming up in March, and traditionally women are completely relieved of their domestic responsibilities and men have to assume the stereotypical Mongolian housewife role for an entire day (staying at home, cooking, cleaning, tending to the fire, taking care of children, washing clothes, etc). The king of Mongolian holidays, though, is Tsagaan Sar–or “White Moon.” It marks the beginning of a new lunar year, and it usually takes place in February. For each family, it calls for the preparation of thousands of meat dumplings (buuz), candy, alcohol, and gifts. In urban centers, families will leave their houses each day for three days and visit dozens of households around their community. At each house they are offered small presents, buuz, and sometimes even money, and they are expected to return the favor when visitors enter their homes at another scheduled (or unscheduled) time during the three-day period. In the countryside, this holiday can often last up to a month.

On a personal note, I was told by an English teacher colleague that I would be exempt from the normal responsibilities of a Mongolian Tsagaan Sar host due to “the global recession” (and I was impressed at her vocabulary when she said it), and that I would only need to prepare “pizzas, a meat dish, and one candy bar each for eleven people.” No small feat, that. I still luck out as a foreigner, though; the average Mongolian spends up to 3 months’ salary in preparation for Tsagaan Sar, and a few pizzas from scratch and horse meat curry won’t set me back too much.

m'little pizza in m'little oven

I’ll say it again–it is next to impossible to fully convey the intensity and importance of the party lifestyle here, and my frustrations as a foreigner are even harder to contextualize without offering some idea of the allocation of funds for these events. My school, for instance, may have spent over $20,000USD for the most recent Teachers’ Day party (which was the source of the wild video clip earlier in the entry). While these expensive celebrations are happening back to back, the school can’t seem to get its hands on the money to replace a few broken sewing machines or to repair the ceiling in the English resource room.  And to make matters worse, preparing for these events seems to take precedence over making the necessary arrangements for the beginning of the following semester. My work has yet to finalize its spring semester course schedule, and we are already approaching our third week of classes–and all because teachers and administrators were too busy preparing their dance performances, drinking, and making decorations. Having never experienced anything like that in my entire life, I’ve caught myself feeling a judgmental regard swelling up somewhere under my tolerant exterior; but then I remember how important these social activities are to the maintenance of a solid communal unit, and it begins to (almost) make sense.

Without going into too much detail, my relationships with my colleagues last semester suffered immensely under the pressures of our discrepant work ethics, and at the hands of a few gossipy parties who feared for the security of their own jobs and resorted to some group-damaging self-preservation.  I thought that I had officially been excommunicated from the interpersonal network of my surrounding job culture. But I put on a smile and went to these New Year parties, and by the end of the first night I had waltzed with all of the enemies I thought I’d made, looked at camera-photos of their children, and made my way back into good graces just by sitting at a table and eating and drinking and laughing with everyone. Vocational survival = achieved. That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?

rare party fruits