Summer Smash Celebration

by TheDriderPony

Log Entry 76

On Cultures and Customs: An Observer’s Log of the Rituals and Ceremonies of Non-pony Peoples

Log Entry 76

Celestial Year 999, Summer 49, Evening

It is in the pursuit of my studies that I find myself in the bitterly freezing North. The ink freezes quick on my quill, forcing the use of a charcoal nib borrowed from one of my compatriots. May future readers of my log forgive some sloppiness from this less accustomed tool, but the North is cruel and unforgiving, and I must adapt lest my mission be all for naught.

Most consider these hinterland wastes to be of little value: the land too hard to cultivate, the weather too wild to corral, the ley lines too deep to draw from. Though legends speak of a great crystalline empire of ponies that once spanned these hills, if there is any truth to them then all traces of such have long since been lost to the depth of snow and time. But that does not mean that this place is as vacant or unsettled as one may assume.

I have continued my journey alone these past days. My associates and their staff have elected to stay behind and not venture beyond the village of Mark Deep on the northernmost border of what is considered settled Equestrian territory whilst I continue on unaccompanied. More the fools them, I say. Though they swear that their decision is merely borne of a desire to not miss the local Summer Sun celebration, it is my belief that they merely lack the physical and mental fortitude to face the icy tundra that exists untouched in an otherwise balmy summer. But what pleasures they find in the familiar mediocrity of an unmapped village’s celebrations I fear they shall lose in equal measure for missing the discovery of the new and undocumented.

The discovery of such is my goal and my mission, so I shall not waver even as the heather and lichenous rocks turn to hoarfrost beneath my hooves. It is the sacred duty of scholars such as myself to document the unknown, to chart the unexplored, and to pen the stories of those whose tales would otherwise be lost.

It was on the third day since departing from my companions that my exploratory efforts finally bore fruit. Coming around the bend of a river that I had been following since reaching the edge of my map, I encountered a pair of Yak engaged in a spirited bit of competitive fishing. In truth, I had initially thought them to be engaged in some manner of brawl over territory or somesuch, but as I later learned the Yak practice of fishing involves neither pole nor net, but simply bullrushing into the waters in such a way that the fish are flung onto the shore for their partner to collect.

My initial contact with them was successful, though hampered by an unexpected language barrier. Though they could speak the common tongue, they did so with a thick accent that paid only lip service to the usual rules of grammar. It was not truly an impediment, as I am something of a dab hoof at languages, though I did fear for the accuracy of my translations as we moved beyond basic introductions. As luck would have it, the pair proved friendly and agreed to guide me back to their village (though I do not doubt that negotiations were smoothed by my offering to help carry their harvest as well as the donation of several ration packs from my saddlebags. I am most glad that I overpacked).

The journey was briefer than I had expected, though I doubt I could have found their settlement through my own aimless wanderings. The Yak village—Yakyakistan, they call it. Or at least that is as close a translation I can manage since its true name is spoken in their own language which requires a sort of throaty rumble that I find myself unable to replicate (and would not be able to accurate transliterate even if I could)— lies nestled at the foot of a towering snow-clad mountain range, surrounded on all remaining sides by rolling hills tall enough to obscure it from any but the most keen-eyed pegasi. I found myself astounded by it. While it would be grossly unfair to compare it to any modern Equestrian city, it is still remarkable in its own primitive way.

Guarding the entry gates are a pair of titanic totems carved in the image of Yak warriors, each in full battledress bearing massive shields and lit torches. Neither sentinel crests short of thirty celestials tall and appears, for as much as I am able to judge such things, to be carved from a single tree each. One can scarcely imagine how enormous the original living specimens must have been and how long ago the colossi must have been created for such trees to disappear from both the land and common memory in the time since their creation. The village itself is of a scale on par with some of the smaller villages I have stopped at along the Equestrian frontier. Between one and two hundred low buildings, radially organized around a central gathering space. The centermost, and largest of them, are constructed of frozen mud compacted into thick slabs and supported by sparse yet sturdy wooden supports. Many of these seem to be communal spaces, their purpose shared by the community as a whole for storage or recreation. Further from the center, the structures diminish in size and complexity delineating a loose social hierarchy. The buildings at the very edges are constructed, most curiously, of compacted snow rather than more permanent materials. I later learned that these are temporary structures, built to house an influx of Yaks from other villages and would be reduced to ‘smashed smush’ within a week.

Though I was allowed easily through the front gate, I must confess that my first act upon meeting their leaders was to squarely place my hoof in my mouth.

Yaks are, as a whole, generally poorly understood by Equestria at large. Though they are not traditionally isolationist, their numbers are few and even upon reaching maturity few choose to leave their villages for southern lands. It does their reputation few favors that their culture and mannerisms clash so severely with Equestrian common sense. Of those that leave, they are often considered uncultured brutes by polite society (despite, as I have since learned through interviews, those individuals usually being the most mild-mannered of their people) which has painted a somewhat savage portrait of their kind as a whole. Little study has been done on their culture in any real depth, which is the only explanation I can offer for my poor showing upon attempting to open friendly relations with their leader.

My initial fright and instinctive cowering upon their greeting likely did not serve to help establish a relationship as equals, but I still believe my reaction was justified given the situation. What I took to be a cavalry charge was, as I was later informed, more akin to a greeting party. My attempts to communicate in their own dialect were likewise met with gracious refusal. Despite this, I felt as though I had made smooth progress until I was gifted a small wooden idol. Naturally, I thanked them and placed it into my bag for safekeeping. At this point, their demeanors took a noticeably cold turn and the rest of our conversation was decidedly curt and brusque. I was granted one of the smaller temporary dwellings for the time being, and quickly retired there for the evening, eager to escape the tension I had stirred up in my ignorance.

It would not be until several hours later, during the communal evening meal, that I understood the nature of missteps. I thank Faust for the innocence of children, as it was only from the mouth of a babe that I was finally able to learn what I had done wrong. The culturally appropriate thing to do, as I learned, was to crush the idol beneath my hooves upon receiving it. To do so was a sign of both strength and goodwill, and to store it away was an insult: a declaration that I did not trust them. With this new knowledge I was able to properly articulate my mistake and ask how to go about fixing it. Once again, the child and her straightforward honest earnestness was my saving grace. With her help, I was able to mollify the village’s ill sentiment and restore my social standing to more neutral ground—though doing so required me to smash not just the idol, but also both my portable telescope and a tin of canned bread before they were satisfied with my apology.

But despite my initial missteps, in the days since I have managed to establish a basic rapport with the natives as well something akin to the start of a friendship with their leader, the self-titled Prince Rutherford (though I do not know the origin or legitimacy of his claim, and such things are beyond the scope of my research besides). Unlike the common perception, I have found the Yaks to be a kind and welcoming people, though this magnanimity is veneered with a perplexing cultural fixation on destruction and aggressive displays of delight which are easily misinterpreted when one lacks proper social context.

Much to my delight, I have managed to secure an invitation to bear witness to their upcoming solstice festival: the local equivalent to our own Summer Sun Celebration. I plan to document the event as thoroughly as possible, not only so that knowledge of their fascinating culture may be more easily spread beyond the walls of their village, but also to prove to my skeptical academic colleagues that this mission is just as fruitful as I had predicted it would be. As I write, preparations for the celebrations are already underway beyond the walls of my borrowed hut. I have abstained from helping or even seeing them for the moment, such that my presence does not interfere with their ceremony and that I may record it with fresh eyes.

There are but scant hours now before the night falls and the festivities begin, and if I were to put aside academic professionalism for a moment, I must say that I am looking forward to it.

Comments

[Diamond Sparkle]

Yak Dothraki.