Bitsuum

Thursday. Feb 7. 2008. Bitsuum.
Everything began promptly at 5pm today. Originally the plan was to go to Buuma’s place at 4pm, but she called me at 3:30 and again at 4:25 (to remind me) to move the time back. They pull up in a new looking SUV, Buuma gets out of the passenger side to shake my hand and say “sain bainuu.” Her daughter, the one driving, is confident speaking English and translates back and forth for her mother and me. I learn that she is living in Ulaanbaatar (“UB”) and is visiting just for the holiday.
The front door leads right into the kitchen. I trade my boots for slippers and am lead into the living room to a couch adjacent to the tv. Just as in the day before, plates are placed on the table, I am offered tea, and am commanded to eat. Much of the evening until 8 I am left alone with the Mongolian wrestlers on the tv, feeling awkward being the only one eating.
I learn that Buuma’s daughter is dating an Italian guy she met in Singapore that speaks 7 languages. While we are talking about him he calls her on her iPhone. Later she tells me that she much rather be in UB because its colder in Ondorkhaan and she doesn’t like how the bathroom isn’t connected to the house.
I am told today is called Bitsuum which means the first day. It is the first day but its not. It is more like welcoming in the New Year. They tell me that the most important thing for the day is that you must be full of food, symbolic of the year to come. I am told I cannot leave until I am full.
Around 8 they all congregated in the room and began to build a decorative tower of ellipse shaped baked goods, topped with firm white dairy product and sugar cubes in the shape of hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs. A smaller one is put on a mantle as some sort of offering.
A huge platter of meat lays on the table. The husband cuts it with a pocket knife and hands me a few slices. The daughter asks me if I can eat fat, my hesitation to answering that question is good enough. She then says she knows that Europeans and Americans have trouble eating it. Instead of buuz, we are fed horsher which are bigger and deep fried—very tasty.
Around 9 they bust out the Vodka. I knew that this was tradition for this time of year so I thought I was prepared. I had been told that I could pretend to take a sip and then give it back. After pouring us each a shot they wish blessings on the new year and we clank our tiny glasses. I take a microsip and I feel like someone poured a combination of gasoline and fingernail polish remover down my throat then lit it on fire. The daughter hands the shot glass back and I attempt to do the same. He shakes his head and they tell me I must drink the whole thing. Uncertain and unprepared for this I look at him in disbelief for an awkward moment. Normally they take 3 shots but I am told 1 is ok. Confused and unprepared for this I try to get rid of it with a few sips only to find there is still half a shot left. I am advised to space it out more, eating between sips, to make it more tolerable.
They keep telling me to eat more, reminding me that I can’t go home until I am absolutely full—that is their duty for the day. Horsher after horsher, bites of salad here and there and I am stuffed. Still they insist that I eat more. I try to motion to my stomach and say “bitsuum” thinking it means “full” but they laugh and tell me that it means “first day.” Oops.
By 9:45 I am home, having watched nearly 3 hours of Mongolian wrestling and eating intermittently for almost 5. I have been in good company, warmed by their hospitality.