Eleven Weeks in Javkhlant: An Aural Reflection

I arrived in Javklant on the 6th of June, and it was my home until the 13th of August, when I left for my site. In those weeks, I discovered a culture that was as different from my own as it was the same; for every element that seemed dramatically different, there was another that seemed remarkably similar. I could expound dryly upon these various contrasts and similarities, but Mongolian culture--(perhaps all cultures)--is too rich, intricate, and beautiful for that.

I want to instead share one aspect that accurately demonstrates the interplay of these elements of contrast and similarity: song

Mongolians love to sing--which is no doubt one reason for the ubiquitous karaoke bars throughout the country (even Javkhlant, with a population of about 1800 and more animals than humans, has a local karaoke bar). They sing at almost every event, from birthdays and parties to ceremonies like the one held on the first day of school. It is very common, from what I hear, for someone to start singing on a long bus or van ride--amidst strangers or near-strangers--and the whole vehicle to erupt into song. (Note: The prominence of alcohol on such trips should perhaps not be discounted.). A large cache of widely known Mongolian songs propitiates the communal and perhaps community-building role singing has here.

My host sister, Ulaana, loves to sing, and would occasionally go out to sing in other villages--she even sang one night for Javkhlant's Naadam celebration, one of the larger festivals in Mongolia. She has a beautiful voice, and as she was trying to teach me a song, I asked if I could record her singing it. The song is called Nud, which translated to "Eyes" (images are from in and around Javkhlant).

For me, my host family's propensity towards song was a familiar melody. I recall many Christmases with my mother's family in North Carolina: my cousins would whip out their guitars, one of my aunts would hop on the piano, and suddenly the house seemed to harmonize with music and singing.

Mongolia may be a different country and a different culture, but I think some aspects span across distances and peoples: singing is one. During the summer, I recall sitting around the table in my host family's little house as my youngest host sister, Tsagaana, prepared dinner. My older host sister, Ulaana, and my little 'nephew', Bombule, and I were sitting around the table. I listened as they chatted, and then began to break into song. (images are of my host family and my community in Javkhlant)

Many of the songs my family sang sounded like they could be American songs: the same bouncing rhythm and easy words. Not all Mongolian songs are like this, though--many traditional songs take a lot of practice and skill, and one type--throat-singing--is sung (as far as I know) exclusively by men. Throat-singing is produced in the back of the throat, and from what I gather, has been sung in Mongolia for centuries, at least since the time of Chinggis Khan (AKA Gengis Khan). Of course, a lot has changed since the time of the great warlord--but throat-singing hasn't gone anywhere. Rather than being stuck in the past, it has transformed into something relatively modern without sacrificing its traditional feel:

The included clip is the work of Baatar and Bombo, two natives of Javkhlant captured in the pictures. These two young men actually sang this song during the opening ceremony for the village's Naadam. While it may sound pretty modern--and is--the singers are tied to a pretty old tradition. Both are buuh, Mongolian shamans. When they performed this at Naadam, one (Baatar) was wearing purple-blue robes and the other (Bombo) had the pelt of a wolf across his shoulders. (I'm still doing some fieldwork concerning Mongolia's native religion; more details to come!)

Mongolia's landscape doesn't sound the same as others. Perhaps it is the quietness of the hills, bare of soughing trees, that has given rise to a culture in which sound is special, even sacred, and where there has been something of aural explorations giving rise to unique vibrations. However, in all the sounds arising from the throats of the Mongolian people, the implications of singing are clear--it is a link that ties Mongolians to their family, community, heritage, and belief. And the more I reflect on these things, the more similar our cultures seem.

I go forward with the tunes of Javkhlant in the back of my mind, but will keep my ears open: in Mongolia, there is always another song to be heard.

Until next time,

Karen