Naadam, the festival of festivals

Day: 352-353

Sunrise:
05:23/05:24

Sunset:
21:26/21:25

Total kilometers:
1722

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
29°C

Temperature – day (minimum):
20 °C

Temperature – Night:
10 °C

Latitude:
49°42’773”

Longitude:
100°11’497”

Maximum height:
1492 m above sea level

Time of departure:
9:30

Arrival time:
19:00

I am lucky. Rezindorj actually brings milk into town and offers me a lift. I shoulder my tripod bag, pack the video camera, photo camera, interchangeable lenses, a bottle of water and a rain jacket into my rucksack. Then I climb onto the narrow seat of the old Chinese moped behind Rezindorj. Because there is no room for the tripod between me and the driver, I somehow wedge it under my right arm. “See you tonight!” Tanja calls after me, waving. “See you today Aaaa…!” I reply as a terrible cramp hits my thigh due to the contorted sitting position, which simply robs me of my voice. Because a canister with about 20 liters of milk is tied to the luggage carrier, it pushes the heavy rucksack down my neck. But as it’s not sitting up straight, but at an angle, I’m forced to hold it up with my body. My feet rest on worn, smooth running boards. Because of the six 2.5-liter beer bottles, which are tied to the left and right of the moped’s frame like saddlebags, my legs are pushed forward. Nevertheless, this terrible cramp forces me to push my body weight upwards so that I can assume a different position. The attempt to lift myself up fails miserably. The only thing that happens is almost slipping off the running boards. I plop back down on the seat in real pain. The result: Rezindorj is only able to keep his buck in the desired direction of travel with a compensating steering movement. “It will pass”, I think to myself and try to mentally control my cramp.

The rattling, certainly overloaded vehicle bumps over the turf. The shock absorbers fail due to the uneven ground and deep hollows. The rear wheel scrapes unpleasantly loudly against the mudguard. My lower body slides forward on the smooth plastic-covered seat, so that my sex slips against Renzindorj’s butt and the stave almost slips out of my hands. “Oh man, I can’t stand it,” I mumble. “Is the milk okay?” Renzindorj’s question flutters in my ears. “But yes. Everything’s fine,” I reply, fumbling with the canister behind me. “The milk in the bottles too?” “Ah, I thought there was beer in there,” I reply, to which Renzindorj laughs heartily. “The bottles are okay too,” I reply and would love to warn him that his passenger is about to tip out of the saddle. A few minutes later, the cramp finally gives up, but lies in wait like a predator ready to pounce and attack the thigh again at any moment. The back is now completely bent. His hands cling convulsively to the pannier rack. Every now and then I dare to raise my body a little to remove the bruised sex from my driver’s butt. It is advisable not to do this because of the risk of slipping off the footboard. After just under 20 minutes, the first wooden huts of Mörön appear. Gritting my teeth, I long for the end of this ordeal.

Traditionally dressed riders and their horses have gathered on the outskirts of Mörön. “Is this where the race starts?” I ask Rezindorj, but I don’t understand his answer. We reach a wooden house via the dusty dirt roads of the city. The brakes on the two-wheeled box squeal loudly. “This is where my family lives,” says Rezindorj. I understand. The journey ends here. Stiff as a board, I try to get off the bench. Because my feet have fallen asleep, I almost fall out of the saddle. Rinzindorj laughs. “My legs have fallen asleep,” I try to explain. Then I ask where the naadam begins here. “There,” he says, pointing to the city center. “It’s best to ask a minibus driver,” I understand. “Bairlalaa. Daraa bajartaj”, (Thank you goodbye) I say thank you and goodbye. Having no idea where today’s horse race starts, I walk along the dusty track a little lost. It is now just before 10:00 am. The only thing I know is that the horse race has already started at this time. It is now too late to get to the launch site, which, according to the information, must be about 15 kilometers away from here. Perhaps it was a crazy idea to be able to watch the Naadam without the company and help of a local? I have no city map, no program booklet, nothing. How could I, having just come from the taiga. I can’t even ask Saraa because she can’t be reached by phone. A little desperate, I go into a grocery store. Although it is only a tiny supermarket, I marvel at the shelves with their wide range of products by Taiga standards. A popsicle smiles at me from the freezer. Paying at the till, the man asks the usual where from and where to. “Where do the horses arrive?” I try my Mongolian. But as dialect is spoken in the taiga, the man hardly understands me. Then he points in one direction. Thanking him, I leave the store, open the cone and take a bite of my ice cream. Half of them fall into the dust. “Even the ice is no good,” I curse, blaming the manufacturer. “Well, what now? I’d actually like to go back to our camp. But how?” Following an impulse, I walk to the edge of the village, to where the riders have gathered.

After three kilometers I reach the gathering of riders and ask if this is the finish of the Naada race. “Tijmee,” some men reply. “When do the riders cross the finish line?” I ask, hoping not to have missed the finish. “Soon.” As Mörön is one of the largest cities in Mongolia with just under 40,000 inhabitants, I am surprised to see hardly any people here. If the competitors are arriving at any moment, surely there must be hundreds of spectators here? As I look out over the wide valley, I notice a large, square tent. “That’s where it is,” I assume, setting off. A blue, white and red striped plastic tarpaulin was erected as a fence. A few Mongolians are actually standing there and seem to be waiting. “Is this where the riders arrive?” I ask again, just to be sure. “Tijmee,” is the confirmation. I climb over the fence and run to the tent. “Is this where the jury sits?” is my question to the men in the tent. “Tijmee. Do you like Airag?” a friendly, older man dressed in traditional Deel immediately offers me. As it is very rude in Mongolia to refuse what is offered, but I get diarrhea from fermented mare’s milk, I explain accompanied by noises and hand movements: “Airag tastes good. Thank you very much. But asuudal dsaahan for me.” (Bit of a problem). Those present then almost collapse with laughter. The ice is broken. “Why don’t you join us?” I am offered a seat on a colorful carpet under the shady roof of the tent.

Again I explain where we come from, about life with the Tuwa, about the stolen horse in the taiga and about the plan to ride to Erdenet. My explanation is now being passed on incessantly. More and more people join them, sit down on the carpet and ask where the foreigner comes from. My story will soon be repeated in the choir. It’s strange that everyone laughs when it comes to the stolen horse.

I use the time to set up the tripod and click the camera onto it. A drunk sits down next to me on the carpet. Suddenly his arm is on my shoulders, then he kisses me on the cheek and repeatedly shows me his thumb stretched upwards. “Leave the man alone!” scolds a policeman who is also sitting under the roof. The man immediately takes his fingers off me and apologizes obsequiously. I would like to thank the law enforcement officer.

In the meantime, thousands of people have gathered behind the blue, white and red fence. Hundreds of dust-raising cars are put in their place by a large crowd of police officers. The empty meadow on the edge of the city suddenly seems to be boiling. Without a doubt, the Naadam, the festival in which the best wrestlers, archers and horse racers compete, begins. The victory of the communists on July 11, 1921 is the historic occasion. Today, however, the Naadam is held in honor of the first Mongolian state under Genghis Khan over 800 years ago.

The spectators wait spellbound for the first riders as some policemen step under the roof of the tent. “Everyone out of here!” shouts the highest-ranking officer in his usual commanding voice. Those present immediately rise and step outside. The policemen send them behind the fence. I had just been delighted to have found such an elite place and now we are sent to join the thousands of visitors. I stand there hesitantly with my tripod and large camera as one of the organizers calls out; “Press over there!” “I don’t speak Mongolian well. What did they say?” I ask. “Press on the truck there,” he repeats and gives a young photographer the order to escort me. I can’t believe my eyes. On the other side of the target tent, a military truck is parked with a platform as its loading area. “Up there,” says the young man with a grin in poor English. “Thank you,” I reply and climb up. From here I have a perfect view of the entire event. Simply brilliant. Too ingenious to be true. When I think that not long ago I didn’t even know where the race was taking place, it’s a remarkable development.

The entire area has been transformed into a folk festival. Yurts that I hadn’t registered before are surrounded by visitors. Meat is roasted and sold on small grills. Plumes of smoke rise into the dusty sky. Some of the cars have been transformed into small stores. Balloons and thousands of other toys are on sale.

A cameraman from Mörön-Tv gets into position next to me. The two of us are now the only press photographers on a huge military truck. “Who are you working for?” asks the cameraman in English. “For me,” I reply with a grin. “I’m filming for local television,” he replies and asks if my film camera is any good. “Sure, it’s small but very good,” I reply kindly. “Here they come!” I say, pointing to a small cloud of dust, which is why we both look through the eyepiece of our cameras.

A single boy, about seven years old, gallops up, shouting loudly. He twirls a cane whip in his hand. The horse, also young, is sweating. Nevertheless, the 15-kilometer race track is barely visible to him. The young jockey is dressed in bright yellow and wears a pink helmet spotted with blue dots. As soon as he drives his dark brown mount over the finish line, the linesmen call out the number 15, which can be read on the boy’s shirt. Loudspeaker announcements announce the winner. The people cheer and jeer. A roar, as if it were the surf of the sea, rises from the surging mass. An adult thunders up on his horse and escorts the winner. People break away from the spectator line and race towards the riders. Everyone wants to be the first to touch the winner’s horse. Apparently it brings luck to have touched something from a winner. None of the spectators show much consideration, which is why one of them comes within a hair’s breadth of being hoofed.

As soon as the first-placed rider is through, his pursuers close in. They are also between five and 13 years old. None of them are sitting on a saddle. Everyone is dressed colorfully and seems to be having a lot of fun with the race despite the effort. It only takes about 15 minutes for the last participant to gallop or trot across the finish line. Meanwhile, the crowd is already dispersing again. Cars rumble and rumble away. The swirling cloud of dust seems to have been caused by a dragon gone wild. No idea why the visitors are in such a hurry. Perhaps they go to the station to watch the wrestling matches that are taking place there at the same time? I don’t know. “Phew, that was quick,” I say to my camera colleague. “Yes, you should have seen the beginning.” “Unfortunately, I was too late.” “It’s actually nicer to be there. The horses and their young riders are brought to the start by lots of cars. That alone is worth seeing. Then there are the jockeys’ sisters, brothers and parents, who also accompany their little heroes and heroines to the starting line on horseback. It is a tremendous spectacle. They sing the traditional go-go with their high-pitched voices. When the starting shot is fired, the horde suddenly breaks out into a loud roar. It’s not easy to take a good picture in the commotion. Everything happens quite quickly and the time window is small. Here at the finish line you have a little more time because the riders arrive one after the other,” he explains enthusiastically and with a beaming smile.

After the crowd of people and cars has cleared, I also make my way into the city. After a dusty walk of about three kilometers, I am lucky enough to be able to flag down a minibus. He takes me to the center. It spits out a few passengers in front of the city’s largest supermarket. I am magically drawn to the large stone building. Looking at the full shelves, my mouth is watering. However, I don’t have the money to buy anything. To be liquid again, I urgently need an ATM. I quickly leave the building, hurry to the nearest ATM, insert my card and wait for the pleasant sound of the machine counting the bills into the dispensing slot. But, oh shock, on the screen appear the almost unbelievable sentences; “This action is not possible at the moment. Please contact your bank.” “Something must have been entered incorrectly,” I ponder. Once again, the machine sucks my card into itself like a ravenous beast. But with the same sobering result. As there are nine different options for each input, I try them all. Even if my fingers only type 50,000 Tugrik into the keyboard, the uniformly annoying instruction glows. Exasperated, I make my way to the nearest ATM, only to be served the same sentences. “Stay calm. Where’s the mistake?” my brain is racing. A glance in my document pocket reveals another bank card with a longer validity period. It dawns on me that I was sent a new card to Mongolia nine months ago. I am overcome with nervousness as the machine swallows the card. “Enter your PIN”, it appears as before. “Okay,” I mumble and type. “Rrrrrrrrrrrrrttttt, chchcht”, it rattles and clatters as the bills are actually pushed into the dispensing tray. I enthusiastically raise my fist to the sky, giving a waiting woman behind me a fright. “Uutschlal,” I apologize. I happily hurry back to the supermarket to visit the little coffee shop called Shalom. Hungry, I order a Mongolian hamburger, a slice of American cake as colorful as a fairground, and a cup of milk tea. Even if this meal is not to my taste under normal conditions, I eat it with a big appetite. When the stomach still sends hunger signals, the identical dish fits in again. Satisfied, I leave the Shalom and make my way to the station.

I arrive just in time for the award ceremony for the little riders. An experienced horse breeder, dressed in a noble blue-colored Deel and pointed cap, has a microphone in his hand and sings a loud song of praise. Then he takes a sip of fermented mare’s milk and passes the bowl to the boy. After he has also enjoyed it with a proud expression on his face, the rest is poured over the horse’s head. As far as I can see, they also congratulate the second and third winners in the same way.

The horse breeder and the little jockeys ride out of the station accompanied by their proud parents and cheers. The great victory will no doubt be talked about for a long time to come in the distant yurt settlements, perhaps even over the winter.

“Hello Denis!” a voice calls me. Saraa sits in the stands and waves to me excitedly. “Did you think you were traveling with tourists to Khuvsgul Nuur?” I ask in surprise. “I was too. But we arrived in Mörön in time for Naadam today,” she explains with a laugh. “Nice to meet you here. Can I ask you a few questions about what happened at the competition?” “I’d love to. Did you see the archery this morning?” “No, I was at the young jockeys’ finish. Did I miss anything?” “Whatever you say. It’s impressive to see all the shooters standing in a row with their tense faces. There are men and women of all ages competing against each other. The first arrow is always fired by a man born in the Year of the Tiger. Those from the Year of the Rat collect the arrows again. The arrows that have hit their target are registered by those born in the Year of the Monkey, and the praise, similar to what you have just seen at the award ceremony for the young riders, is sung by a judge from the Year of the Dragon,” explains Saraa with a glowing expression. “Good to hear the explanation. I would never have understood it. And what do the participants shoot at?” “At little balls or cans wrapped in felt and lined up on the grass.” “You thought they had a real target with colored circles and stuff?” “No, our naadam is different.” “And from what distance do they shoot?” “75 meters. All participants have the same chance of being awarded the mergen.” “The mergen?” “It means the most accurate. But this competition is a matter of togetherness. Ceremonial and symbolic acts show that it’s not just about winning, but about being there.” “Sounds very honorable. But I can imagine that the personal ambition of the individual plays an important, motivating role,” I ponder. “Certainly. I, for example, would have given a lot to win the Naadam. It brings you a lot of prestige and honor,” she contradicts herself a little. “Did you take part in the naadam before?” “Me? No, I never trained for it. It’s just a dream. But we shouldn’t talk so much now. Look at the court. The wrestlers are coming.”

Perhaps 20 pairs of wrestlers come onto the sun-drenched square in swaying steps and with outstretched arms. Moving their bodies up and down, they seem to dance around a pedestal. “This is the banner of Genghis Khan,” explains Saraa. “And why are the men dancing?” “Well, it’s not a dance. The wrestlers move their bodies in this way to represent the flight of the eagle. They symbolize being as indomitable as the bird of prey.”

“Your clothes look quite traditional?” I wonder. “It’s due to the Khalkha costume.” “Khalkha costume?” I ask, not knowing what she means. “Well, the Khalka belong to the eastern branch and are the largest ethnic group of the Mongols with around 80 percent. They also include the Buryats living on Lake Baikal. The Dörbet, Torguten, Ölöten (also known as Oleten), Oiraten (also known as Dzungars) and Kalmyks belong to the western branch and make up around 7 percent of the Mongols,” she explains. “All the things you know?” “It’s part of my business. The tourists ask a lot.” “Ha, ha, I know. Then I’m sure you can explain to me why the tips of the calf-high boots are bent upwards?” “They are designed to prevent damage to the earth, which is sacred to us Mongolians.” “Hm, when I think of mining, the resulting catastrophic pollution of the groundwater and your rivers or how many of you simply throw away garbage that then pollutes the sacred earth for decades, there’s hardly any of that left,” I point out. “Yes, you’re right. Our country is going downhill.”

“Why do the men only wear small briefs and a jacket that covers their upper arms and back but leaves their chest bare?” I steer the conversation back to the action. “I don’t know why they wear the briefs. It certainly looks sexy. But the vest is based on an old legend according to which a woman once won a wrestling match in ancient times. Because women are not allowed to wrestle, the top has to be open at the front ever since.”

In the meantime, there is plenty of action on the pitch. To be honest, without Sara’s explanation I don’t understand in the slightest what it’s all about and have to ask more often. “The winner is determined in nine rounds according to the knockout system. The wrestlers are allowed to touch any part of their body during the fight,” she explains. “Okay, and if one falls to the ground, the other one wins?” “Something like that. If the opponent touches the ground with their knee, elbow or head. But look at that. That fighter there is really unfair,” she suddenly says excitedly, pointing to the edge of the court. Surprised, I see how one of the muscular men has literally overrun his opponent before the fight has been cleared by one of the four seconds, who are also the judges. The supposed winner throws up his hands and begins his strange dance without listening to the judges. According to Sara, he is a famous wrestler and is at the top of the Mongolian hierarchy, so he is about to win the fight for himself. But he hadn’t reckoned with the many spectators who suddenly roar as if from the same mouth. The roar of the people is deafening. Finally, the seconds rule this attack invalid. The man defends himself for a while, but is still booed. The judges then direct their wrestlers to the center of the court and allow the match to resume. This time, the athlete with the weak character has worse cards. The fight goes on for a long time, is interrupted several times and in the end is clearly won by the new crowd favorite. The defeated player remains stunned on the floor for minutes, while the winner runs to the stands with his fist raised in joy. The applause is infernal. The man leaps into the air and begins his eagle dance around the pedestal on which the banner of Genghis Khan is displayed, cheered on incessantly. He then jumps back to his opponent, who is now back on his feet. According to tradition, the loser now runs under the arms of the winner and the winner takes the weaker one under his wing.

“What a struggle,” says Saraa. “It was exciting. I stuck with the current winner because of the nasty attack,” I reply. “He’s the arslan now.” “Arslan?” I ask. “Sorry, that means lion. As the winner of the tournament, he bears this honorary title. Anyone who defeats five opponents is a natschin, which translates as falcon. After two more victories, the men call themselves zaan, which means elephant in your language. Then, as the winner of the competition, comes the lion. One who wins the naadam twice in a row becomes avraga, the giant. With further victories, he becomes the mighty or invincible.” “Are there any wrestlers who have won several times in a row?” “Oh yes. One of the most famous fighters of all time is Bajanmunch. He won the Naadam in Ulan Bator ten times. His official title was; “The eye-pleasing, nationally famous, mighty invincible giant.” “Wow, what a mighty title.” “True, a truly famous man in our country. But he has been surpassed again.” “What, there was a fighter who won more than ten times?” “Yes. His name is Baterdene. He won the Naadam eleven times between 1988 and 1999.” “Was there another way to increase the title?” “They call him; The Eternal Titan known by all, famous across the oceans, making people happy. His fame even got him elected to the national parliament.” “Well, he certainly wasn’t the only sportsman to make a career in politics after his active career,” I say, thinking of Arnold Schwarzenegger, the bobybuilder and world-famous actor who took over as Governor of California in October 2003.

The subsequent award ceremony for the wrestlers is accompanied by a loud military band. The men are congratulated by important personalities from the city and presented with certificates and medals. According to Saraa, the winner will receive prize money of between half a million (€333) and one million Tugrik. (666,-€) As the athletes come down the stairs from the cordoned-off area of the stands, the journalists and TV people hold out microphones to them. Then the heroes of Naadam step onto the lawn. Nothing can keep the crowd in the stands. Hundreds of them stream onto the pitch and want to touch the athletes. Everyone wants to press their hand on the wrestlers’ sweaty bodies. The situation gets completely out of hand for the many police officers. They are no longer able to hold the crowds, which means that the competitors are simply overrun. One of them suddenly flies into the air like a feather. Before it falls to the ground, countless hands catch it again. The hero is then carried like a trophy to the center of the square. Fortunately, no one is injured in this action. They are all exuberant. Some photograph the spectacle and the wrestlers with small digital cameras. Then a military parade arrives on golden horses. “Genghis Khan’s nine golden horses,” Saraa explains with pride in her voice. The parade stops in front of the podium with the Khan’s banners. Each of the nine men in uniform takes one of the spear-like staffs with the three-pronged tip from the pedestal and carries it to his horse at a goose-step. The commander gives the command to mount up, whereupon the troop display leaves the station and the festival of festivities comes to an end.

Later, I’m back at our camp. Renzindorj’s daughter took me to my home in her car. Still under the spell of the festival, I tell Tanja all about my experiences.

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