Housewarming Party

I’d like to share my experience of a housewarming party for my coworker that I attended recently. I think it sums up how social events go when you can’t speak the local language and you’re only vaguely aware of customs and appropriate behavior.
Normally I avoid social events at all costs (more because of my hermit personality than anything). I ended up going to this one because I was at school in the evening when everyone was getting into cars to go. My counterpart Oyuha grabbed my arm and I was whisked into a car before I could ask where we were going. It turned out to be a housewarming for the Japanese teacher, Duya’s, new apartment. I was happy to go because Duya is a really nice lady, but I wasn’t planning on staying long.
It turns out my counterpart, who might be more antisocial than I am, was thinking the same thing. I usually like to go with her to events because I can count on her to help me slip out early. This time, however, she took me by surprise. After about 30 teachers had squished into the little living room (my other 2 English-speaking counterparts didn’t come), and we accepted the first round of milk tea, she suddenly sprung up and told me she was leaving while the host was in the kitchen. I was smooshed in between the Russian and geography teachers on another sofa, so I just said, “Oh, I…. Wh……uh…..wait!” But it was too late. She had somehow made an escape without anyone else noticing.
Being abandoned by my counterparts made me realize how much I rely on them. At teachers’ meetings I sit in between them and they tell me what’s going on (or, more often, show me pictures of their babies on their phones while ignoring the director). At parties, I choose one and shadow her so she can help me talk to the other teachers. But I had missed my opportunity to leave with Oyuha. After that, the party devolved into a Seinfeld episode for me, with everything I tried to do resulting the most awkward possible situations.
I decided I should get up and leave like Oyuha did the next time everyone seemed preoccupied. It was getting dark and therefore cold, and I couldn’t talk to anyone or eat any of the meat salad or dried mutton anyway. After a few minutes, I slipped out of the seating area as stealthily as I could (no easy feat, as I’m twice the size of my coworkers) and found my purse. With my shoes on, I was next to the door and ready to go, but I decided I couldn’t possibly leave without thanking the hostess. In hindsight, this was a terrible idea, but my instinct for politeness forced me to go to the kitchen and find Duya. I said, “Sorry, I have to go, but thank you very much.” She grabbed my forearm, “You have to go?” “Yes, sorry, but thanks.” “Oh, drink some wine!” Then somehow I was back in my seat (how did she do that?), exactly where I started, but now with 60 eyes on me. Suddenly everyone was aware that I was trying to leave.
This was a topic of great interest and distress. Everyone now looked around and noticed that none of the other English teachers were present. Talk erupted in the room—“Oh no, Oyuha left Joyce! Why would she do that?” “Where are Lkhama and Oyuntungaa?” “Oh dear, Joyce is having a bad time,” “Joyce wants to leave,” “What should we do?” It was clear that it would be impossible for me to sneak out unnoticed after that, since everyone was so concerned. It also totally gave away that my “need to leave” excuse was bogus. I wracked my brain for prior engagements I could reasonably have at 9pm on a Monday evening.
Next they started talking to me. “Ohh, Oyuha is bad. Why did she leave you? Where did she go?” “Are you bored?” “Drink more wine!” I decided to just settle in and accept that the next few hours were going to be spent on that sofa. It was a good opportunity, actually, since without my translators, my coworkers discovered that I can actually understand them, even if I was too overwhelmed to give more than one-word answers and head shakes. Between my shy personality and poor Mongolian language skills, I think they generally assume that I’m a deaf mute. (I am fine with this arrangement.)
Apparently assuming I was unhappy because I was hungry and couldn’t eat the meat dishes, Duya spent the next 20 minutes bringing out everything in her home that wasn’t meat: kimchi, a boiled egg, a mostly-empty jar of pickles, bread and jam. (That conversation went something like this: “Will you eat an egg?” “Oh no, I’m not hungry.” “Ok, here’s an egg. Do you want kimchi?” “No, no I don’t need— ” “Here’s some kimchi. What about bread?” and so on.) Every time I thought she had exhausted her apartment’s vegetarian food stores, she would appear with something else. I ate a bite of the kimchi, which I had never tried before, to be polite. It turned out to be shockingly spicy and I only had wine to wash it down with. I ended up going through 2 glasses really quickly. Duya’s husband exclaimed, “Wow! You really like wine!” while pouring me a third glass. So my reputation as a wino will have circulated around school by the next morning. All the teachers, who are generally disappointed by my and Oyuha’s refusal finish all the vodka shots we’re given at meetings, pointed at my empty glass, “Joyce likes wine! Get her some more wine!” I might have drunk the third one just for something to do, but fortunately by then they had switched brands and this one tasted like someone had been soaking their dirty socks in it.
The conversation shifted from how terrible it was for Oyuha to leave me alone to my eating habits. This, for reasons I cannot fathom, is a topic my coworkers find fascinating and discuss at length at almost every get-together. (“Joyce doesn’t eat meat.” “Does she eat eggs?” “Will she eat pickles?”) I generally don’t interrupt and just let them speculate, since it seems to entertain them. They also entertained themselves throughout the party by periodically pointing at me and the only single male teacher and telling us to “introduce ourselves” then waggling their eyebrows. (I had no idea before this party that any of the teachers at my school were single. I’ve been in Arviaheer so long that if someone over 20 tells me they’re unmarried, my first thought is, “Why?! What’s wrong with you?” and I start looking them over for some sort of grotesque deformity.) Of course, there was the inevitable fat-pinching ritual. This isn’t really a ritual, but I’ve noticed whenever a group of women gets together, they will at some point take turns pinching their own fat rolls and then others’. I compare it to American women complaining about their fat thighs as a means of bonding. Every time, one will point to me while grabbing her stomach fat and ask if I have some. I pull my jacket back to show my own tummy flab and they seem satisfied.
Next came the singing ritual. Often at parties Mongolians will pass a big bowl of airag (fermented horse milk) around the room, letting each guest sing a song. One person takes the bowl, stands up, and leads a song. You don’t really sing alone, as everyone joins in after 2 or so lines. Still, this is a source of stress for many volunteers. Often, volunteers only bother to learn one Mongolian song. So if someone before you chooses that song, you’re out of luck. Of course you can always sing an English song, but then you’re soloing. When it was my turn, I pulled one of my fool-proof tricks: smiling and slowly shaking my head. It doesn’t matter what someone is trying to peer-pressure you into doing—sing karaoke, eat goat guts, dance--absolutely no one can overcome a good-natured smile/head shake. I said I didn’t know any Mongolian songs, so they told me to sing an English one: “Sing ‘Jingle Bells’!” “Sing the alphabet song!” “Sing ‘Happy Birthday!’” “Drink another glass of wine—then you’ll sing!” I silently thanked the Lord that the dirty-sock wine was too awful to drink. Otherwise I really might have ended up holding a big bowl of horse milk and slurring out “A, B, C, D, E, F, Geeeeee…” for the amusement of all my coworkers. Instead I smiled and shook my head until they got bored and moved on. (Although after each song, everyone would yell, “And now Joyce will sing an English song!” and I’d have to start the grinning and head shaking all over again.)
With about 30 guests, you can imagine how long it takes for every person to sing a song. I was amazed that all the guests knew every single one of the songs. I didn’t know any, however, so I was pretty bored. I texted my volunteer friend who lives in another province, explaining that I was trapped at a work party. Her advice? “Get real drunk.” She followed up a few minutes later with, “Like, embarrass yourself ‘cause you’re so drunk.” My snort laugh interrupted a lovely song about horses, which earned me a few glares. My friends are so helpful. Anyway, it seemed to go on and on. One woman, who’s a very good singer, somehow knew an extra 2 verses of every song. The person leading it would finish and start to sit down and she would start it up again with a new verse. At that point, it was getting close to midnight and I really wanted to go home and eat something that wasn’t a boiled egg, so I spent a lot of time sending death-stares in her direction. Finally, everyone had sung and given a speech wishing the new homeowners good luck and we all headed out.
I guess the point I’m trying to make by sharing this is that, although Peace Corps service presents many, many challenges, sometimes it’s what you’d least expect—like going to your coworker’s house for dinner—that turns out to be the most difficult. I can go to the bank and pay my rent in a language I don’t really speak, I can start a fire with cow poo, I can go camping in the desert in -30-degree weather, and I can explain when to use the past perfect versus the past perfect continuous tense, but please don’t make me go to any parties!