Why dont you come to the party ?, Markey asked, in a lovely southern english accent. It was so unexpected to hear that familiar cadence, becasue this was at an outdoor kebab stand in Ulaanbaatar, the Mongolian capital.
And so I went…furtively organised, nobody really knew where the party was going to be held that night, except that there was a party, and it was going to be fun. For the past year monthly parties had been organised by a group of young Mongolian men, who just wanted some space for themselves to meet other guys, and not get worried about what they called ‘paparazzzi’ and police harrassment. Have a few drinks, disco-dance, snog, be intimate, perhaps a shag later…these ‘exclusive’ parties were a way for UB’s gay men to come together as a community. I was with a group that included one westerner who had been to Mongolia several times in the past, Peter; Zogor, who worked for a local youth organisation that ran a drop-in center ; Nurak, a lovley, fair, Kazah Mongol who loved to toss his mane of hair about; Jokla, who worked for a volunteer agency and who was just coming along for the ride, intrigued to be at such a party fopr the first time; Tusheko, an articulate and tough looking 21 year old, looking very much like the rough and tumble wrestler type, and of course, Markey, who was working as an English teacher, having just returend to Mongolia after several years abroad. “Dont expect too much, Markey intoned—this is not the UK”.
The nightspot near the University had been made exlusive for the night, and people without tickets were refused. A large “Welcoiem to the party” banner was emblazoned outside. People got to know of the venue only a day to a few hours before, through calling or texting others. When our gorup arrived at about 9 PM, it was quiet, but the best time to get good sofa-like, comfy seats, not too near the balring loudspeakers. It was a decent-sized place - about a half-sized basketball court. Strobe lights, disco balls, lasers, a dj, the works. Tickets were at 5000 tugruk ($4.50) each. The ‘tax’ as it was called, gave you a bottle of beer, half a liter of bottled water, and a plate of salad–cucumber, sliced tomatoes, julienned carrots, and salami. Entertainment was promised–and sure enough, at about 10:30 PM, the lights dimmed, the smoke machines started puffing, and sylph-like, a trio of ‘ladies’ in veils and flowing, diaphanous robes glided gracefully onstage, to the tune of what seemed like a belly-dance. They gyrated and the audienced whooped it up. Nurak, sitting beside me, whispered into my ear one of the few engliush words he knew–”Transgender”. “Three”. Indeed this was one little spectacle that night. Peter had been to one gay bar near Sukhbaatar square a year ago, and said that such public performances were extremely uncommon, but he had seen one such performance in the bar, which had since been closed down by local authorities, and the patrons harassed frequently. “Its very tough to be a gay man in Mongolia. People dont understand, can’t comprehend what its like. We are so lucky in other countries”, he said, shaking his head.
There was one other performer–a young man did acrobatic turns on a pole in the midst of the dance floor–turning somersaults in mid-air, doing splits, while the music blared and the lights sparkled. This pece was electric — every movement heightened by the flashing lights. He started bare-chested, with loose pantaloons, then gradually stripped, ended up wearing a thong, while vaulting across the dance floor. The audience of 80 gave him an ovation.
There was a dancing contest, too - Otok, dressed in a tank top that wouldn’t look out of place in a heaving gay nightclub, had nice movements and a sense of rhythm. These reminded me more of the gracefulness, sense of natural flowing movements and rhythm that people in the island countries seem to have–different from the often stilted, awkward-looking and asynchrous movements that one sees in other countries. The emcee gave out awards for best dancer of the night, as people cheered.
Then it was time for dancing once more—disco, and even some slow pieces, while guys danced together glued to each other. Even if one didn’t understand a tad of Mongolian, and many of the guys spoke no more than a few sentences of English, it was fun, friendliness and drinking all around.
Drinking. Mongolians, are in general heavy drinkers - the cold, long and harsh winters may have contributed to this, as people tossed about vodka like it was water. Despite the heavy drining, most people remained controlled, a few were raucous, a bit rough, and occasionally an argument would turn violent, with shouting, pushing, shoving–like any other bar. Cooler heads intervenned, protagonists tearfully apologized to each other, and a few minutes later they were at it again. One guy fell off a chair, taking three other chairs with him. He sat on the floor for a few seconds, looking as if in a daze.
Zogor got into a fight over nothing in particular. Probably some jelous boyfriend got upset. with the flirting, the cajoling and the humping and heaving. People will dance in a circle then sidle up to people they fancy. For me, being old enough to be a father to some of the guys there, it was pleasant and reassuring to be flirted at and returnign the sexy looks and suggestive hip thrusts. Some couples were more demonstrative–hugging tightly and kissing open-mouthed on the dance floor. No gentle pecks on the cheek for these cool mongol guys.
Markey was only partly right–the party wasnt like those in England, it was much friendlier and better !
(names have been changed)
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