Humphrey.2012.Hospitality and Tone

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Hospitality and tone: holding
patterns for strangeness in
rural Mongolia

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Caroline H umphre y University of Cambridge

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In rural Mongolia, hospitality without expectation of a return is a prime ethical and practical virtue,
but it is always performed rather than merely spontaneous. Oral maxims of hospitality designate the
acts to be performed, lending them a crafted, aesthetic quality and forming a holding pattern that
mediates the mutual vulnerability of the host and guest. It is argued that this situation can be
analysed through the concept of ‘tone’, a cultural artefact’s organizing affect. The production of
affective reassurance – the ideal of hospitality – is, however, often shot through with disturbing
emotions and negative forms of distancing.

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Most writing on hospitality is concerned with the intersection of political and ethical
matters – questions of the rights of strangers,generosity,thresholds,status,authority,and
mutual respect. One way or another it deals with the double-bind of hospitality, best
known in Derrida’s argument that the ‘law of hospitality’ is universal and is culture itself
and not simply one ethic among others (: ), and yet that absolute hospitality is both
‘inconceivable and incomprehensible’ (: ). This problematic had been perceived
earlier by Pitt-Rivers (), and was further developed by anthropologists who drew
attention to specific ethics of generosity that work ‘compulsively’, as it were, against
political calculation (Dresch ; Shryock ). Such issues cannot be ignored, but this
paper is concerned also with the how of the ethics of hospitality,their interpersonal effects.
Encounters of hosts and guests have to be conducted in some characteristic way,a manner
of the people, place, and time. It will be argued that such interactions should be seen not
simply as the outcome of the unmediated volition of the people who see themselves as host
or guest: that is, as a reaction to, or decision about, ethical precepts in given political
circumstances. Rather, the enactment of hospitality creates its own intervening zone of
craft, evident in a depersonalized repertoire of ‘things that are done’, which detaches acts
from actors and speeches from speakers, and focuses attention on these artful ‘things’
themselves (offerings to, gestures towards, mutual stances, verbal expressions, properly
directed glances, etc.). Borrowing from literary studies, I propose such enactments can be
profitably analysed by using the concept of tone.
Using this idea does not mean retreating from universality, because it is difficult to
conceive of any community that does not employ some hospitality repertoire having its
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S64 Caroline Humphrey
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own tone, yet it recognizes that what that tone might be like in one cultural setting – let
us say, grave, or warmly effusive, or aggressive – would be different from another. Tone,
being intrinsically relational, is a productive idea that immediately involves the affect of
hospitality encounters, and leads to further interesting questions of modulations of
tone, and, to continue the musical analogy, of wrong notes or altogether jarring chords.
Tone, as analysed in Sianne Ngai’s Ugly feelings (: ), is inherently public. It
refers to a literary or cultural artefact’s organizing affect, its general disposition or
orientation towards its audience and the world. The tone of an artefact obviously
cannot be reduced to the representation of feeling within the artwork, or to the emotional response that such a representation solicits. Transferred to the hospitality
encounter, this would be to take a standard expression like ‘I am so glad to see you’ at
face value, as actually a manifestation of gladness and as evoking corresponding feelings in the addressee. Nevertheless, as Ngai argues, the fact that a feeling is ‘fake’ or
artfully produced does not mean that affect is absent, and she gives as an example a
confidence-man’s story about a stock-market panic that, contrived as it is, can generate
public repercussions identical to those of a genuine panic (: ). Tone refers to the
‘slippery zone between fake and real feelings’ (: ).
Let me explain why I think this has relevance for hospitality. Mongolian society is
surely among several where not only is hospitality an undisputed moral good but the
proper ways of treating strangers and guests are elaborated into ‘rules’ or ‘maxims’
(yos).1 Travelling in Mongolia in the s, I found it was assumed that people would
know these yos, and that anyone not observing them would be despised and stigmatized. The character of yos is in fact less that of an external ruling than that of an
internalized norm – but they are not taken for granted to the extent that lack of
knowledge, ‘mistakes’, or manipulations are inconceivable. Once my Mongolian
teacher, unsolicited, sat down and recounted to me ‘one hundred rules for the host and
guest’, which he explained were not at all his invention but belonged to the store of
shared and highly valued culture that should be handed down within families (Humphrey ). My teacher’s desire to have these maxims written down and thus stored
suggests that these yos belonged to a nomadic way of life that was already (in the s)
known to be under threat. But a central point of this paper is that, because they are yos,
these didactic norms of hospitality, almost all of which are in fact still alive and well in
rural areas, have an object quality, and their enactment becomes the performance of
that very rule-like custom, thus coming to stand like other aesthetic products that can
project feelings, be appreciated, felt, reacted to, and so forth. If tone concerns the
bearing or attitude towards the world of cultural objects, we can ask what is the tone of
this conglomeration of prescribed actions in the Mongolian countryside – what is the
general ‘feel’ to this rigmarole of actions that hosts and guests have to take up; is it
‘intimate’, ‘frigid’, ‘placid’, or quite what?
This is a question about tone that is about affect, if we agree that affect (in contrast
with emotion) concerns feelings that are not highly goal-directed, are intentionally
weak, and not contained by an individual identity (Massumi : ). All Mongolian
hosts and guests are supposed to perform the appropriate gestures, and the action of
performing them in a way that counts as correct exists ‘objectively’ as something at one
level divorced from practical, subjective, goal-direction intentions, not unlike the case
with ritualization (Humphrey & Laidlaw ). But Ngai points out that there is more
to tone than the relatively unformed, floating feeling generated by a register of actions.
She is interested in the way the concept enables the oscillation from one pole, affect, to
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the other, emotion, which is distinguished from affect by its belonging to an individual
subject, by the existence of relatively unambiguous concepts of emotions, and by its
closer link with purposive action. ‘Tone is a concept constructed around the very
problematic that the emotion/affect distinction was intended to dissolve’ (: ).
This oscillation is just where the idea of tone becomes interesting for hospitality. For, of
course, the people carrying out the prescribed actions are also subjects who can inject
their own emotion into them, or modulate them – which is all the more evident when
there is a canon of hospitality gestures. So in respect of hospitality I am suggesting that
tone has a double articulation, and that any given encounter may veer between an
expected, undifferentiated, perhaps almost unnoticed affect, and the sharper feelings
created by unexpected, personally directed inflections.
The argument I shall try to elaborate does not concern the banal fact that people do
not follow maxims to the letter, but maintains that having such norms enables the
creation of a certain kind of sociality and affect that otherwise would not exist, and that
this has a generative quality, such that anything that subsequently happens does so on
the basis of an initial ‘setting’ of feelings. This means that while the inevitable improvisations, deviations, personal emotions, and so forth, that break in cannot be known
in advance, the changeable tones that shoot through the subsequent trajectories of
hospitality encounters are modulations: that is, they are experienced in relation to what
has gone before. Now the situation is that the guest (jochin) is defined as a stranger to
the household,2 bringing the extraneous, for good or ill, into the relatively stable and
predictable realm of the host. The yos appear as if designed to corral the stranger,
controlling what he brings in or takes out, and forestalling any act that might occasion
an escalation of interactions beyond their own remit (cf. Pitt-Rivers’s ‘laying in abeyance of strangeness’, : -). Ideally, the guest is kept in a ‘holding pattern’, held at
a certain distance while he circles in, through the home, and out again, while his impact
is depersonalized till it becomes an abstract energy like a gust of wind. But things rarely
happen this way, as we shall see.

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The affect of the protocol of hospitality

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Imagine you are in a small felt yurt (ger) in the grasslands, with no other dwellings
nearby, in a great bare expanse, out of which anyone might ride up to your door. You
must be hospitable to this person without expecting a return. The Mongolian maxims
of hospitality are predicated on the idea of the household as the basic social unit (there
is no other word for host than master of the household [geriin ejen] – which can be
interpreted at different scales, from the domestic to the court of a political leader) and
on the setting of the herding camp, the necessity for nomadic movement that makes
each stopping-place ‘home’, the tendency towards dispersal away from other herders,
the need for extended networks and distance settings, and the absence of immediate
help.3 Any stranger could represent danger, but also access to vital information (news/
rumours, excitement, warnings, etc.). Simukov, the Russian geographer who spent
many years in Mongolia in the s, wrote that so necessary is the presumption of
hospitality for the ordinary business of life, such as taking refuge from storms, visiting
distant relatives, taking something to sell at a far-off market, and so forth, that a person
could travel the length of this vast country with no more than a knowledge of the
language and customs and a tobacco pouch, knowing he will be given food and shelter
the whole way (: -). This is probably true, and generalized hospitality without
expectation of an immediate return (or any return) is certainly the norm.

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S66 Caroline Humphrey
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The catch is Simukov’s ‘knowledge of customs.’ The first of these is that a person who
arrives has to make it apparent that he is a guest long before he reaches the door – this
is an essential part of the yos of the visitor. The existence of these preparatory prescriptions make it apparent that Mongolian hospitality is not universal but conditional and
relational, coming into operation along with the perception of signs from the stranger
that he is at least not an enemy or some other undesired category of person. How,
however, does the traveller make it clear that he is a guest? A brief look at the initial
stages of the yos will begin to clarify the affective quality of the hospitality of the
steppes. The word hög means ‘tone’ in the sense of ‘a note in tune’,4 and Mongol parents
will instruct their children before visiting other people, ‘Take account of their tone’
(högi-ni üjee). Although this is not quite the same idea of tone as I have been using, it
conveys the awareness of the other that is intrinsic to guest-host relations.
The person arriving, if on horseback, should call out loudly from a distance and
before dismounting, ‘Mind the dog!’ even if no dog is visible, thus making sure that the
inhabitants of the ger are not taken unawares. At this, the wife or children will come out
and hold the dog – for dogs are trained to attack strangers. The guest should avoid
stepping over any working tool, such as a lasso or tethering rope, outside the ger, so as
not to pollute it. Approaching the door, if no one has yet come out, he should stop a few
steps away and clear his throat to warn of his presence; he should not knock on the
door, which is thought rude and aggressive. He must leave his gun, whip, or other
weapons outside. As for his knife used for eating, this should be worn hanging from his
belt, and the guest should not touch it with his hand. As a sign of respect to his hosts
and his own dignity, he should button up his clothing, pull down his sleeves and cuffs,
and keep on his hat.5
Stepping into the yurt, the guest should use his right foot and avoid treading on the
threshold. He should greet his host only when inside – it is regarded as unpropitious to
greet anyone across the threshold. Meanwhile, as the guest steps in, whatever the host
is thinking, saying, or reading at that instant assumes particular importance as a sign or
omen. If a child is coming in and trips on the threshold, this is a good sign and people
say, ‘We have a gain’; but if a young person trips on the way out, that is regarded as bad
luck and the child will be required to come back inside and place a piece of dried dung
fuel on the fire.
After entering, the guest must sit according to his status in the place indicated and
not change seats or move around. He must avoid touching the fuel box and must also
never hold on to the roof-poles, because this is what a woman does when she is giving
birth. Sitting down, the guest must adopt a polite posture – all possible sitting positions
are named and categorized according to their suitability for people of different age, sex,
and rank. The guest must particularly avoid sitting cross-legged with the outer foot
pointing to the family shrine; this would be highly disrespectful, almost like a kick in
the direction of the sacred items. He must also avoid stepping over and thus polluting
any domestic object, large or small, such as scissors, a hammer, or the fire-tongs. As the
host’s wife prepares tea, the guest should offer his snuff-bottle to the host, receiving in
turn the snuff-bottle of the host. This decorous ritual is obligatory even if one does not
take snuff.
When the host offers tea, it should be circling in the bowl clockwise. The guest
should receive the bowl with his right hand placed underneath, never on top, and the
fingers of the right hand should be spaced evenly apart. After two or three sips, the guest
puts the bowl down and the host offers a plate with food. The guest should receive the
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plate with both hands, slightly raising it as a sign of thanks. If he does not wish to eat,
he touches the plate with his fingertips, both hands placed palm upwards, and bows
slightly in thanks. When taking food, the guest should first take a morsel and put it in
his mouth, chewing in an obvious way to make it look like a large chunk. No word is
uttered during this whole sequence: expressions of offering and gratitude are appropriate only when the thing received is not to be expected. The movements of the eyes
are very important, and it is a sign of respect to move the eyes very softly and avoid
direct eye contact. Talking commences with a series of standardized questions, such as
the now old-fashioned, ‘What is there that is strange and beautiful – what is the news?’
The reply to this, whatever the situation, is ‘Nothing at all – fair and peaceful’ (see
Lattimore : ). ‘How is spring pasturing going?’ Answer: ‘Spring is going well’. ‘Are
you living well?’ ‘We are living well,’ and so forth.6 The protocol of hospitality dulls
verbal communication. Indeed, the sixty-third precept of my teacher states: one should
not talk while eating or drinking, one should never gesticulate or make rapid movements of the arms or legs, and all speech should be quiet. An older person may
admonish a younger one, ‘A bad person’s noise is great; a donkey’s groin is great’.
When leaving, the guest should not retrace his steps, but circle round the ger, pausing
to pay respects to the gods on the altar, while old people in the host’s family give a turn
to their prayer-mills, the idea being that a meritorious deed before someone goes out
prevents loss.
The above precepts are translated more or less literally from some of the maxims of my
teacher (Humphrey ), but I have quoted enough to be able to begin to characterize
the affect of the exemplary host-guest encounter. In a way there might seem to be nothing
especially new about this kind of endeavour in anthropology, if we remember Bateson’s
description of ‘ethos’ in New Guinea ( []), or, closer still, Geertz’s analysis of the
‘affective tone’ of Balinese life (: -). These, however, are attempts to characterize
an entire ‘culture’, whereas what I have in mind is a limited assemblage of carefully
demonstrative actions that exists in a world of other kinds of action that are nothing like
them,being direct,unmediated,haphazard,and volitional.So what do the maxims tell us?
First, hospitality is enacted almost entirely by quiet, minute, and stately gestures, not by
words, and these add up (it seems to me) to the craft of allaying suspicion; avoidance of
giving the tiniest offence; self-control; and self-deprecation along with conscious respectfulness to the other; in sum to dampening or pausing whatever other intentions,
suspicions, narratives, or emotions that might be present, and creating a (precariously)
assembled sequence that conveys the affect of measured reassurance.
We can see this affect to be conveyed by each gesture as well as by the totality of the
sequence. How does it happen? Tomkins describes affect as an amplifier, as that which
magnifies awareness and intensifies the effect of operations associated with other
biological subsystems (motor, perceptual, cognitive, etc.) by ‘co-assembling’ with these
other vital mechanisms (: ). The point I would like to hold on to from Tomkins
is the idea that affect is what makes things matter to us (‘we are forced to be concerned’,
: ).
The work of Brian Massumi indicates why affect is particularly pertinent to performances that minimize function, language, and narrative – like the Mongolian hospitality gestures. If Tomkins emphasizes the ‘combinational flexibility’ between the
stimulus and the co-assembled affect, Massumi, using a different vocabulary, argues
that ‘the strength or duration of an image’s affect is not logically connected to the
content in any straightforward way ... The event of image reception is multi-levelled, or
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S68 Caroline Humphrey
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at least bi-level. There is an immediate bifurcation in response into two seemingly
autonomous systems’. That of signifying order and conscious emotions works in parallel to that of ‘intensity’ (affect), and the latter operates with a different connectivity to
content, being immediately embodied and most directly manifested in the skin, at the
surface of the body, at its interface with things (Massumi : -). Affect

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is outside expectation and adaptation, as disconnected from meaningful sequencing, from narration,
as it is from vital function. It is narratively de-localized, spreading over the general body surface, like
a lateral backwash from the function-meaning interloops travelling the vertical path between head
and heart.
Language, though head-strong, is not simply in opposition to intensity [affect]. It would seem to
function differently in relation to it [... and] interferes with the images’ effect. Intensity would seem
to be associated with nonlinear processes: resonation and feedback, which momentarily suspend the
linear progress of the narrative from past to future. Intensity is ... like a temporal sink, a hole in time,
as we conceive of it and narrativize it (Massumi : -).

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If this is right, the elimination of both narrative and emotional language from the
hospitality scene would serve to foreground the untrammelled qualities of affect – its
immediate and bodily nature and its suspension of action-reaction circuits and linear
temporality. I would see the maxims of hospitality, which are of course separate from
hospitality itself, as working to designate acts. Each action of the host or guest thus
becomes recognizable as a discrete image that bears in parallel its downplayed content
(e.g. offering a drink) and its amplified affect, which is the feeling of its propriety, the
mutually needed reassurance that harm, insult, bad news, and so forth, are out of the
frame. And the enjoyment of this feeling would ‘last’, even if more or less subconsciously, into the taking of a corresponding action, which would be similarly reassuring
to the guest, and so onwards through the sequence.
The maxims suggest that the guest ideally circles in and goes away again entirely
encased in the same serene formality. In practice, however, the initial restrained dispassion comes to incorporate other moods, when further stages of hospitality ensue –
drinking alcohol, making toasts, and singing songs. Each of these introduces new tones,
and furthermore they are likely to generate – unpredictably – personal emotions. Toasts
are often conventional, but can sharpen into sarcastic remarks; songs, as I mention
later, make lateral, often highly wrought links to emotions felt in everyday life, outside
the frame of hospitality. Both of these are almost invariably accompanied by drinking
alcohol. This has an etiquette all of its own, whose affect when formally performed
tends to ferment into a heavy, status-ridden, and impersonal jollity. But in the way of
things, plentiful alcohol can easily dissolve the self-control on which hospitality
depends, and uninhibited lapses reveal the constructed quality of the reassurance so
artfully fostered. As Ngai writes about tone, such ‘feelings slip in and out of subjective
boundaries, at times becoming transformed into psychic property, but at other times
eluding containment’ (: ). Before discussing this, however, it is necessary first to
look briefly at the nature of the boundaries set up to conduct hospitality itself, the
necessarily shiftable frames that accommodate diverse guests with diverse hosts.

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Adjusting the frame

The public nature of these encounters helps explain why the courteous balm of
hospitality may remain vaguely circulating without ever becoming the directly felt
emotion of a single person. The host-guest code of my teacher, like indeed some of the
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theoretical literature on hospitality, is an idealized schema that conjures up the image
of two people interacting; it is only models who meet, ‘the host’ and ‘the guest’, and
what makes this possible is the public arena that sets up these roles by constitutive rules.
It would not be inconceivable, I suppose, for two real people, a traveller and someone
sitting at home, to enact the entire hospitality scenario, but this would be a performance as if to an invisible audience. The fact is that in Mongolia guests are often
multiple, and the ger they enter almost never has just one person sitting in it, but is a
peopled space: here there will be a careworn spouse, perhaps a silent grandparent, some
curious children, a hired herder, maybe some relatives or neighbours, or a lingering
previous guest. All these people make a tiny public, and they set up a frame for the
hospitality encounter. Days may go by and no one comes near, but as soon as a rider is
espied in the far distance, say twenty minutes away, the alarm will go up, ‘Someone is
coming!’ The inhabitants will rush to tidy the ger, with people sitting in the right places.
The far-off traveller(s) may never arrive. But if they do, their every movement is
watched, and this invigilation (almost always) ensures that incomers act as ‘guests’.7
In a hierarchical, patriarchal society, the most volatile dynamic concerns who the
visitor is and how many are in his party in relation to the household that does the
hosting – for in an encampment (hot ail) there are often several gers, one of which will
be the appropriate one for the approaching party. Owen Lattimore, who travelled
extensively in Inner Mongolia in the s and s, a time of banditry, poverty,
war-lord armies, and desperate refugees from the revolution in (Outer) Mongolia,
describes how, nearing a camp, he and his companions would make sure to pause
motionless on the horizon, so that the watchers below would know that he was not
behaving furtively, not skulking or enfilading, as would be the movement of ill-doers
(: ). When approaching the great encampment of the Prince of West Sunid,
Lattimore, who was travelling with only four mangy camels and one man, was advised
by his Mongol companion-servant Arash to exercise great care:

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Arash perceived, much more acutely, that even if I were an American who wanted to travel like a
Mongol and not bother anybody, still I was an American and must in some way put myself on record,
in case there were some proprieties which the Mongols might feel they ought to observe. How to do
this was a problem. If I had driven up in a motor-car or marched up with an expedition everything
would have been simple. Either of these kinds of approach creates their own hubbub. There is no
puzzle about how to behave ... The word goes up from low to high: ‘A foreigner. Who is going to take
him on?’ Each man whom the word reaches then has to do his own guessing. Is this foreigner too
important for him to handle? Should he be passed higher up? What if he is passed on and then turns
out to be someone unimportant who should have been handled down below? And so on (: ).

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That hospitality takes place within a regional public of people highly conscious of
status and suffused with political, moral, and magical rumours also explains the
equivocal treatment of the badarchin. This is a wandering Buddhist lama seeking alms
(badar, from Sanskrit patra), though the word is now also used for all kinds of lone
‘romance of the road’ travellers. When lamas went out on badar from Mergen Monastery in Inner Mongolia (China) in the s, seeking alms to finance the construction
of a huge statue, a project generally approved by the neighbouring herders, the monks
were welcomed hospitably almost everywhere and loaded with gifts of sheep, butter,
money, and so forth. But they were officially approved alms-seekers and the first anyone
had seen for decades. Traditionally, however, that is, in Mongolian folk stories, the
badarchin is a trickster-like figure hovering between holiness and indigent nuisance,
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whose arrival often initiates a shifting of the hospitality frame. In one such story, a
badarchin is approaching a herding camp when the great black guard dog (which
happens to be sacred, setertei, having been dedicated to a god) leaps out and attacks
him. The badarchin armed with two sticks beats it off till it howls. Entering the ger, the
badarchin finds a huge and dignified lay nun (shavganch) lying on the bed. Getting up,
she yells, ‘Hey, badarchi, who allowed you to beat my black dog consecrated to
Mahakala?’ ‘It wanted to bite the yellow tonsured monk consecrated to Shagzhatüv,
who I am, that is why I beat it’. The lay nun had nothing to reply to these words, and she
had to accept the wandering lama as a guest (Gochoo : ). In this story, all three
protagonists – the dog, the lama, and the nun – are religiously consecrated, and it is
recognition of the badarchin’s superior holy status that forces the nun to extend the
frame of hospitality to him.
The badarchin could (you never know) be someone whose visit would presage a
wonderful miracle, or conversely be someone masking his possession of vindictive
curses (haraal) that might be surreptitiously passed into the household and then cause
havoc, sickness, and deaths (Bawden : -). In Mongol accounts, the badarchin is
an archetypal representation of the wandering stranger, the guest without a home,
possibly a welcome musician, or a smart talker, or a scrounger, likely somehow to be in
disguise, and dangerous to boot. The danger of the guest, as I now show from some
contemporary ethnography, is not confined to stories.

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Danger and distancing

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It will have been noticed that I have written of the visitor as ‘he’, and there is a reason
for this. In present-day rural Mongolia, and the same has been true historically (Kozlov
 []: -), with the exception of the high socialist period of the late s to
early s, women normally stay near the ger, while it is men who go out for distant
herding – and visiting.

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As men from other ails (camps) frequented our ger during the day, I began to realize what men’s
herding entailed. Animals generally know where they are going, and so do the men: in the latter case
often to a ger for the first drink. After having some homebrewed vodka, they continue a little further
before stopping at the next. As the men circulated between the gers in the valley, they allowed me a
view into these visiting practices; not by taking me with them, but rather by having me host those who
came to our ger for a drink (High : ).

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Such guests expect to be received with unremitting hospitality, while the male host may
well be absent, all of which severely taxes the women, who have to sustain the generosity
for as long as the guest chooses to stay. I was told of devices, well known to everyone in
the vicinity, such as a small side tent in which a household head may hide, pretending
to be away. But in Mette High’s ethnography, such ruses do not deter the most persistent visitors, who may well be half-drunk when they arrive. The daughter of a prosperous family said,

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Now they know they can get arhi (alcohol, especially vodka) from here. But it’s hard for mum with all
these drunken people. They make her tired, so after serving them once, she’ll leave the ger and wait
outside. If she stays inside they’ll just ask her for more arhi. Dad insists that she gives because we have
many animals and people know that ... so if we don’t give, people will get upset and talk badly about
us. We have to give (High : ).

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However, in Mongolia, being hospitable is less explicitly associated with ‘honour’ (or
its equivalent) than in Mediterranean societies; nor are there myths of extreme generosity as in Swat,such as giving away everything,children and women (Lindholm : ).
It is associated with Buddhist merit-making and acquisitions or losses of an occult, not
material, nature. While a mean, inhospitable person certainly is the butt of criticism, he
fearsmostof allsomethingunknowableanddreadthatseepsoutof theseveryaccusations.
Gossip can coagulate from idle talk (demii yarih) into actively harming (hortoi) words, or
indeed into hel am (lit. tongue mouth) that directly causes occult misfortune. Speech in
general carries the transformative potential for causing calamities; hel am is, if anything,
the sorcery of everyday life (Höjer : ). This is why the production of reassuring tone
in hospitality must exclude any direct talk and proffer instead formalized and depersonalized genres. Furthermore, it is not just that anyone in these encounters is vulnerable as
the object of the harmful language of neighbours,but also that either a host or a guest may
be construed as the generator of secret, sorcery-like talk. This suspicion, I suggest,
following Höjer (: ), is far more serious, as it designates that person as a radically
mysterious, deeply unknowable, malign other. Such a reputation may stalk a person long
before any given appearance as a host or guest, but it is also true that the hospitality
encounter is a main scenario for such thoughts to arise, as I describe later. In other words,
beneath the precarious distancing set up by the performance of formal hospitality, there
is unspoken piercing suspicion, and with it the emotion of fear.
The delicate balance of host-guest relations, when successfully performed in the tone
of reassurance, produces a certain kind of ‘positive’ distance among the actors. The
positive here is the disinterest – that is, equanimity – achieved by relegating directly
communicated excitements, oddities, raw intentions, or inauspicious occult matters to
a zone outside the hospitality frame. If the guest is welcome, there then ensues the next
phase of offering toasts and singing songs, a warmer atmosphere, when the guest can
reciprocate the host by means of the charm, the wit, the nostalgia of his benedictions or
songs, all this being a kind of affective amplification, that which is proper to the
aesthetic relation. People can seem closer, they can even feel closer – but they are always
also distanced insofar as the feeling is projected onto and produced by the beauty of the
song, which is a pre-formed ‘object’, distinct both from the listener and from the person
singing it. The necessary existence of this positive distance for the creation of the
appropriate tone is seen by the fact that the whole scenario may subside into ‘affective
deficit’ (Ngai : ) and trickle away into ugliness: the song can be half-hearted, the
singer humiliated by being unable to remember it properly, the audience not disinterested but uninterested, laughing and chatting about something else. Alternatively, as
touchingly demonstrated in the ethnography of Laurent Legrain (), the song,
which is not only performed during hospitality but also sung privately and practised as
a yearning link between oneself and a loved absent person, can catch the hearts of
people in the assembled company. Perhaps the thwarted action of the hospitality corral
must always propel the event in some direction or another, unless the guest goes away
very soon indeed. A more extended hospitality must always veer between something
that is experienced, but not felt, and its own product, its double, a real emotion.
Hospitality properly begun thus can prosper, or it can wither away. But it can also get
off to a wrong start, when the maxims are breached (ignored, exaggerated, violated,
etc.), and this immediately reveals their crafted character. Exposed, the protocols are
too shaky to blot out the underlying hostility. Then an amplification of ‘negative’
distance ensues – a process of making the guest not just a stranger but fundamentally
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alien – that is still registered as affect, such as a shared feeling of menace or dismay, but
increasingly shot through with individual counter-emotions. I have called these
‘counter’ because they come into being not as a felt double of the courtesies, but as a
sharply felt reaction to their breach.
The guest arrives already as other, in the sense of coming from outside, but the
hospitality sequence can transmute undifferentiated externality into essential difference: that is, as someone categorically not like the hosts. This can be done in various
idioms. Once in rural Urad in Inner Mongolia a guest arrived unannounced at the
dwelling of a prominent man. He suddenly drove his car right up to the host’s dwelling,
leaped out, and marched in with a loud greeting to another guest present (myself),
without acknowledging the host with duly respectful demeanour. Further, he later
invited me to go out with him to have a meal, thus ignoring the to-be-expected
hospitality of the master of the place. This transgressive behaviour could perhaps be
explained by the disturbance of the normal hospitality ‘frame’, occasioned both by the
presence of a foreigner (‘those Europeans with their casual ways’) and by the fact that
the host’s own social status was ambivalent.8 But whatever the cause, the transgression
had the following consequences. When we after all were offered a meal by the host, the
usual formal toasts with alcohol were pressed in extra-quick succession. Toasts in this
region are usually directed to someone: the flowery words mean that person has to
drink – in this case, the rash guest. Everyone present felt the menace as the usual
platitudes turned into sharply turned couplets about the guest’s ethnicity (he was an
Alasha Mongol) and soon became open, ‘drunken’ insults about the execrable essential
nature of people from Alasha. In this public, consisting of some twenty people, including Buddhist lamas, the guest could do nothing but smile and drink, grimace and drink,
finally returning the toasts with an offer to prostrate humbly before the host. Angrily,
the host declared, no, he would prostrate to the guest. ‘No, that is impossible, I must
bow to you’. ‘No, I offer to bow to you’. With fury, ‘No, I insist ...’... This schismogenetic
impasse foundered in implacable stares, and the guest stumbled out. Once outside he
was fair game. Soon we found out that the host had sent his men to beat up the guest.
Ethnic essentialism is an effective form of alienation in Mongolia too,but ethnography
suggests that the imputation of some kind of occult power is just as prevalent in turning
guests (or hosts: Höjer : –) into alien beings. High writes that drunken guests
might talk about matters that are considered highly inappropriate, suddenly mention
deceased people, wolves, hunters who have not observed taboos, and so forth. ‘They
shouldn’t talk like that, it’s bad. Maybe some bad things will happen to our ail, maybe a
wolf will come the next night, maybe someone will fall ill. A drunken man’s talk can be
dangerous (ayultai)’, said one man.People who really like to drink are seen as not like other
people; their status is not just a behavioural proclivity, and someone who has never been
seen drunk may be rumoured to be an arhichin (‘alcoholic’) carrying the potential of
revealing his true nature. This idea of hidden natures means that a family can never be
certain what kind of guest they are hosting.‘Such people have a chötgör (evil soul) inside
them’, said one person. ‘That is why they are so dangerous for us. If we don’t show them
hospitality and give them something to drink, you never know what they might do’(High
: ). A chötgör is the unsatisfied, offended soul of someone who died a ‘bad death’
(suicide, wrongly executed, died too young, etc.).

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[H]erders contemplate the peculiar intentionality behind dangerous speech. Given the risks involved
in uninhibited speech, the speaker cannot be like all other drinkers. The motivation and willingness

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to invite harm are placed beyond local sociality and identified with spiritual forces that direct the
drinker as a mere bodily vessel. The transgressive behaviour of arhichins, asserting selfish autonomy
and ignorance of other ‘existences’, is not a product of greedy humans but rather of malevolent
invisibles (High : ).

In High’s ethnography, the host couple continue to go on giving to the insatiable
drinkers. Even when the husband fell ill of advanced liver disease and could drink no
longer, his wife kept up the show: as she became increasingly intoxicated, he grew more
agitated, angrily scolding his younger sons and physically punishing his contract
labourer. As he looked on morosely, the wife, to High’s surprise, ‘seemed to enjoy these
visits that appeared to become her new grounds for asserting status. She took much
pride in her ability to provide an amicable and joyous atmosphere that was inviting to
visitors despite the condition of her husband’ (: ). This crafted ‘joyous atmosphere’ is just what I have been referring to as tone – being the affect of an intense,
idealized sociality that, as High comments, explains the presence of ghosts, for the
chötgör strongly miss it in their longing to take part in the life of living people (:
). Meanwhile, as High noted, there is also a quite common phenomenon of ‘fake
drinking’ (hudlaa sogtuu), whereby guests pretend to be uncontrollably drunk. The
herders explained this as a way guests can surreptitiously keep ears open for the bad
words the hosts might be muttering about them behind their backs, thinking they are
too far gone to pay attention. High, however, observes that in the precarious situation
of present-day Mongolia, where the steppes are roamed by alien predatory gold miners,
anyone is already a target of suspicion, and thus the fake drinking becomes a moral act:
‘[I]t is only by pretending to be drunk like a herder that fears are suppressed and the
guest emerges as anything but a stranger’ (High : -).
Conclusion

This article has suggested that analyses of hospitality should attend not only to conceptualizations and moral principles but also to the feelings generated by encounters.
I have suggested that feelings may be difficult to define, but they are not impossible to
describe, because they are quite precisely attached to objects. The objects here are the
content of the code of hospitality (respectful gestures, standardized speech, etc.) and its
ramifying various developments, such as increasing frigidity towards the guest, or
alternatively the warmth of song, or drunkenness.
Hospitality in Mongolia is inherently unstable, involving an opening of the ‘I’ to the
other, an alternating asymmetry in which either the host or the guest may become the
hostage of the other. Its occult danger parallels the spatial and material vulnerability of
the home, unmediated by anything except the protector-predator dog. Successful hospitality performance must create a holding pattern of typical acts that overrides these
conditions. Achieving measured co-ordination between such limited yet relationally
shifting elements has an effect and conveys affect. I have suggested that the initial stages
of hospitality create the tone of ‘reassurance’ – largely by eliminating all jarring intrusions of actual passion, anger, poverty, disaster, and misery, not to speak of the actual
trouble and cost to the hosts. Here I should clarify one point. The participants in
hospitality are detached in two related senses. They are dissociated from everyday ills
and joys, at least while doing nothing other than enacting the code of hospitality,
but they are also detached in the sense that the aesthetic relation to the hospitality
performance itself creates distance. Even an act as simple as a host or guest sitting down
in the ger is object-like and relational in a way that is produced by this detachment, and
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would not be true of sitting (sprawling, plumping down, etc.) at ordinary times. In
other words, we are dealing with an affective engagement (let us say with the aesthetics
of propriety) that itself prompts distancing. Ngai has a telling observation when she
observes that ‘the affective distance which the aesthetic relation requires can itself only
be reproduced affectively’ – the more usual notion is detachment from feeling; here we
have the idea of detachment by feeling (: ).
Yet although, as this argument would suggest, a type of detachment is manifested in
certain affects, that is not all there is to hospitality, nor indeed to the idea of tone.
Subjectively felt emotions may colonize these concocted feelings, pushing, for example,
serenity into shared joyousness or escalating anger. Since such personal emotions are
not always shared, they may come to be completely at odds with the affect of hospitable
drinking that provokes them, as was illustrated by the morose husband suppressing his
resentment while his wife cheerily hosted the boozy guests. As numerous writers have
emphasized, hospitality is bound to create such conjunctions of feelings. This is why
tone is such an apt concept in this context, since it addresses the murky elisions between
the semblance of feeling through the use of performed techniques and the ways in
which such craftings are actually felt, as well as the changes in mood brought about by
emotional interventions.

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NOTES
1
Yos is the term for all normative customs in many different contexts, not the name for hospitality norms
in particular.
2
Treating formally as a guest someone who feels he or she belongs to the household is experienced as a
hurtful insult. Jochirhoh, to behave as a guest, also means to stand on ceremony.
3
This set of assumptions indicates that the norms of hospitality apply throughout society and are not
predicated on an aristocratic ideal. (For comparison with hospitality norms and class/wealth in Pakistan and
Afghanistan, see Lindholm ; Marsden .)
4
Hög is also the word for a female animal coming into season, thus conveying a sense not only of rightness
but also of receptiveness.
5
The host assumes responsibility for the guest. A member of the household should lift open the felt door
for the guest and should ask the children to tether the guest’s horse in such a way that it can graze. The host
is responsible also for the guest’s horse, and if by chance a wolf attacks it during the night, the host should
offer another good horse, saying euphemistically, ‘The mountain god took your horse’.
6
The formal seasonal questions that I observed in the s and s are still standard today in rural
central Mongolia (High : ).
7
I am grateful to Grégory Delaplace for this vignette from his fieldwork in Far West Mongolia.
8
The host was at the same time a high lama and a state official, a dual persona that made it difficult to
decide how to behave towards him.

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Caroline Humphrey has worked in Russia, Mongolia, Nepal, India, and Inner Mongolia (China). She is
Director of the Mongolia and Inner Asia Studies Unit at the University of Cambridge.

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Department of Social Anthropology, University of Cambridge, Free School Lane,
Cambridge CB RF, UK. ch@hermes.cam.ac.uk

Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute (N.S.), S-S
© Royal Anthropological Institute 2012

JOBNAME: No Job Name PAGE: 14 SESS: 13 OUTPUT: Mon Mar 26 20:07:09 2012 SUM: 176EDE6E
/v2451/blackwell/journals/jrai_v18_is1/06jrai_1761

Journal Code: JRAI
Article No: 1761
Page Extent: 13

Toppan Best-set Premedia Limited
Proofreader: Elsie
Delivery date: 26 March 2012

AUTHOR QUERY FORM
Dear Author,
During the preparation of your manuscript for publication, the questions listed
below have arisen. Please attend to these matters and return this form with your
proof.
Many thanks for your assistance.

Query
References
1

Query
AUTHOR: To match the reference list, should
Shryock, 2008 be changed to Shyrock, 2008?
Please advise

Remark

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