In America (here I go beginning a comparison…exactly what I shouldn’t be doing) getting an advanced degree is usually a lot of work. To get my Master’s degree it took me two somewhat grueling (and at times, very grueling) years. I would not, however, say that the completion of my degree was necessarily an American cultural event.
Now, on to the party…
Last week Thursday I was told: “Tomorrow night you’re going to be busy.” Seeing as how I didn’t have any plans I was wondering how they knew something that I didn’t. They told me that I was going to go to a celebration for a teacher at my school who just received his PhD. In Mongolia, I was told, when people get their PhD they usually get a big party that is a lot like a wedding. The party is held in a reception hall, or in this case, a hotel (ironically, this is the same hotel where we always came as trainees when would have sessions in Darkhan. It was trippy to say the least.). There is cake, dinner, people give speeches of congratulations, singing and dancing, and, of course, plenty of drinking.
I arrived at the hotel a little before 7:00 p.m. We (every teacher from my school was invited) waited, as is customary, in the lobby about a half an hour before we went into the large banquet room. Then, word came that were should enter. What I saw was the most elegant presentation of tables I have seen in Mongolia. The room was a rectangle. There were two very long tables along the sides. There was another long table along the back (furthest from and facing the door as is customary in Mongolia) where the honored guest and his wife sat. Also at this table was the director of the school and other honored teachers. Down the center of the room were four round tables. The table at which I sat was closest to the stage.
Each table was beautifully decorated with plates of appetizers, glasses, bottles of vodka and juice, cans of beer, a bowl of fruit, and a cake. My counterparts told me that such a party costs a lot of money. I could see why. In fact, we each gave 6,000 Tugricks.
First, we sat down. We waited. More people came. We waited. Then, the lights went down low, music that could have been from Rocky came blaring through the speakers, and the man of honor and his wife entered the room to the voice of an announcer who you would have thought was calling a heavyweight boxing match. We all clapped and cheered. When everyone took their seats the first bottle, the best bottle, at each table was opened and each person’s shot glass was filled.
For the first time, I was a table with all of my counterparts. It was me and 11 Mongolian women. Ladies, all the ladies…. To take the first shot there is a traditional order: honored guest first, then the oldest man, then the other men by age, and then the women by age. As the only man, I was to begin. In order for the next person to begin drinking the person before them must finish their drink entirely. What was I to do? I took the shot in one swig.
I guess you could say that it was all downhill from there…
While my harem drank one-by-one, the first performance came to the stage. Somehow, lucky for this social commentator and general Mongolia enthusiast, our table was directly in front of the stage and my seat was closest to it. In Mongolia, most celebrations begin with the playing of the traditional musical instrument, the horse fiddle, a beautiful sounding two-string instrument. They played two songs, both of which everyone in the room knew and sang along to except myself. And so there you have it, the perfect Mongolian celebration recipe – drinking and singing. Interestingly enough, it almost always seems like everyone Mongolian in the room can sing. People in this country are very talented.
Next, dinner was served. Soup. Mongolians have this thing about soup. It has to be scalding hot. And no matter the temperature outside, soup is the meal of choice. It takes me back to the summer during my training when temperatures peaked into the low 100’s and still they would serve shuul, soup. Can you imagine that? In fact, the host family of one of my closest friends, Jacob, served him schuul for 90% (not an exaggeration) of every meal, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Really rather amazing when you think about it. It almost drives a PCV to madness. I doubt highly that Jacob will ever look at a bowl of soup the same again. So, what did I do? I shook my head, smirked, and thought to myself: “Of course, schuul.” To make matters worse, I was wearing a white dress shirt and the soup was colored red from beets. A few shots in me, I slurped and splattered. I knew I shouldn’t have worn that shirt. Unfortunately for me, it was the only clean, this-event-presentable-ish one still hanging in the closest.
As we ate, a cute little girl, the niece of the announcer came to the stage and sang a song in Japanese. Random? Maybe anywhere but in Mongolia.
Following that, the lights were brought down low again, the Rocky music and the announcer’s booming voice returned. “It’s time to cut the cake!” He calls to the front Erdenbat, one of the school’s most well-respected and longest-tenured professors. He is also our department advisor. Erdenbat is far and away my favorite counterpart. He and I became good friends at the department picnic a month before. Erdenbat may as well be a comedian because 1 out of every 4 things the man says gets a laugh from everyone within earshot. Edenbat is asked by the announcer to cut the cake. Regrettably, he says, he is too old and not experienced in the ways of pastry dissection. He calls to the front, to the cake, the head of the Food Science department (yes, that is correct). I’d like to tell you that he did a masterful job, that the first slice was cut like something out of a movie. I’d like to tell you that. The piece was put onto a plate and brought to the rear of the room where the guest of honor received it, said a few words of thanks and took the first bite.
Mongolian cake…. Hmm…. It’s not American cake. It looks the same, but the taste is a little different. I’d like to note here that the small cake in the center of my table stayed untouched the duration of the night. Maybe the ladies know what I know.
Anyway, Erdenbat. Erdenbat, with microphone in hand (I think they knew what they were doing with this move) continued his act. He calls my table to join him in a song. The first name filling the room – Peter. Erdenbat has this way of making you do anything that he wants you to do. You simply cannot say “no.” I don’t know how he does it. So, my table and I stand and join him. They sing. If I knew the words, I would have too. I did, however, stand with my arm around Erdenbat, his arm around my back. When our 13-part harmony stuttered to a close, we took to our table. Erdenbat and I exchanged a hearty handshake and broad smiles. One of the ladies gave up her seat for “the man,” who sat next to, you guessed it, yours truly. And what would you guess we did know? If you’re thinking: “Fill up those glasses!” then you are correct. We all raised our glasses, Erdenbat began, we all followed. I took it in a full swig.
And then it happened.
Erdenbat did this thing he seems to always do when he drinks (always meaning, the one other time I have drunk with him, the picnic). When he drained the clear sneaky punch in his glass, he turned it upside down and put it on the top of his head. He looked at me with perhaps the biggest smile I’ve ever seen a person wear. We all started laughing. The ladies asked for my camera. We took a picture. We laughed heartily. We drank more. Indeed, it was the highlight of the night. You see, Erdenbat does not speak English. Well, that’s not true. His vocabulary includes: “Yes,” “No,” “Thank you,” “Good bye,” and “Peter.” It doesn’t ever matter though. I always have a translator. And even if I didn’t, the man says everything he thinking with his face, his body. I almost never wonder. Besides, he’s always happy.
Peter and Erdenbat at the party!
One by one, each department made its way to the stage, gave some words of congratulations, sang a song, laughed at the end and took their seats again.
Then, the tables were pushed back and the dancing began. We (yes, I include myself, the non-dancer) danced traditional Mongolian dances. I had two dance partners. Both of them led. Both of them were thoroughly amused. I couldn’t stop laughing.
After somewhere around 10 Mongolian-sized vodka shots, two bad Mongolian beers and a night packed full of true Mongolian culture, I decided to call it a night.
Happy PhD!
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment