Shamanic ritual

Day: 232-238

Sunrise:
07:43/07:29

Sunset:
19:22/19:32

Total kilometers:
1281

Soil condition:
Ice, snow

Temperature – Day (maximum):
minus 5°C

Temperature – day (minimum):
minus 15°C

Temperature – Night:
minus 26°C

Latitude:
51°33’336”

Longitude:
099°15’341”

Maximum height:
1981 m above sea level

22:00. “Do dong! Do dong! Do dong!””Can you hear the drumming?” asks Tanja. “Yes. Sounds almost a little mystical.” “I wonder if Gamba is holding a shamanic ritual?” “Could be. But maybe it’s Saintsetseg?” I ponder. “I would love to go there. Do you think they would accept us?” “Hm,” I ponder. “Why not? We should give it a try. We have nothing to lose.” “And what if we disrupt the ritual by turning up?” says Tanja, somewhat agitated. “That won’t happen. If it does, they simply won’t let us into the tepee,” I reply, swinging my legs over the edge of the wall.

We quickly slip into our clothes, grab our cameras and leave the yurt. Pale moonlight filters through the trunks of the larches and falls on the hard-packed snow in front of our dwelling. A few dogs scamper through the nearby forest. “The drumming seems to come from Gamba’s baishin,” I say. Our footsteps crunch over the frozen crystals. Suddenly we hear the distant howl of a wolf. We pause, frozen, and listen. “Scary,” says Tanja. “I’ve rarely heard them this close. I hope they’re not after the reindeer,” I murmur. “They certainly won’t dare go as far as the camp,” Tanja replies quietly. We continue slowly across the cleared area between Gamba’s log cabin and our yurt. The soft drumbeats become louder and combine with the barking of the dogs and the howling of the wolves to create an unprecedented, extremely strange symbiosis of sounds.

As we stand in front of the log cabin, we are unsure whether we should enter or not. The smell of incense wafts out of the two small window openings without panes that have been carved into the rough logs to the left and right of the door. The diffuse light that penetrates from the hatches shimmers in the bright cloud of incense until it is inhaled by the blackness of the night. Muffled drumbeats and the shaman’s undefined chanting now sound louder to our ears. I give myself a push and open the rough, heavy wooden door of the baishin. We are met by a massive cloud of incense that has completely taken over the barely lit room. We are met by the surprised looks of Saintsetseg, Monkoo and Buyantogtoh. Using sign language, I ask if we can sit on the resting place next to them. The answer is a cautious nod. Relieved, we step into the dark room, dominated by the beating of drums and strange-sounding singing, and settle down silently. Due to the gloom inside the hut, photography and filming are out of the question. Too bad, but this way we can concentrate fully on the ritual, which has only just begun.

At the end of the room, in front of the corner dedicated to the spirits and gods, a figure is swaying. She is wrapped in a cloak decorated with many symbols. Small mirrors shimmer on his belt to keep out demons like a protective shield and at the same time serve as a window into another world. The figure is wearing a headdress that cannot be identified in the darkness. “Looks like a big bird of prey,” I whisper to Tanja, who is watching the extraordinary spectacle with rapt attention. In his left hand, the shaman holds a large frame drum with a diameter of about 50 centimeters directly in front of his face. According to my research, the barely recognizable decorations on the frame symbolize the pictorial representation of the cosmos. The monotonous singing and the incessant beating of the drum have obviously driven the man into ecstasy. The drum, the shaman’s most important piece of equipment, serves him on his journey to the afterlife. Saintsetseg, who is sitting next to me, explains in a whisper. “The sounds of the drum are a kind of vehicle or mount for Gamba on which he travels to the other world.” “To the other world?” I whisper. “Yes. In his intoxicated state, he has traveled to the world beyond. There he makes contact with spirits and spiritual powers,” she explains. “Interesting,” I murmur. Under the spell of the chanting and the rhythmic drumbeats, I think about Saintsetseg’s words. She obviously means the cosmological world view on which shamanism is based. Cosmology is the science of the origin of the universe. It is a science that also investigates the development of the universe. As far as I know, one of the most important core questions in cosmology is whether our universe has a temporal beginning and end. Or whether it is even infinite in time. Since Siberian-Central Asian shamanism probably originated in the Bronze Age (3rd to 1st millennium BC) and elements of shamanism were already identified on Upper Paleolithic cave paintings, i.e. 35,000 years before today, a connection to the cosmos is conceivable and credible for me through the knowledge that has been handed down and collected.

I sit there spellbound and follow the shaman’s every move. His sister Buyantogtoh stands on his left and his son Sansar on his right, directly behind him. In my view, the sister and son act as a kind of master of ceremonies. They watch every movement of the man in a trance. “Why are they standing so close behind Gamba?” I ask Saintsetseg. “When Gamba’s spirit leaves his body, i.e. this world, and enters the lower or upper world to negotiate or fight with the spirits, he may simply fall over. They make sure that he doesn’t injure himself in the process.”

“Do dong! Do dong! Do dong!”, the drum sounds incessantly. The dancing shaman writhes, his body bends forwards and backwards. His head seems to disappear into the drum. “Uhuu! Uhuu!” his cry suddenly rings out. Four or five women are sitting on the other side of the room. From time to time they speak excitedly. “Who are these women?” I ask the shaman. They are relatives of ours. They traveled all the way here yesterday for the ritual. Gamba holds this ceremony for them,” she explains. “And why do they sometimes speak so excitedly?” I ask. “They ask the spirit with whom the shaman has just come into contact.” “And they get answers?” “Of course they do. The spirit speaks through Gamba’s mouth,” I hear in amazement.

At regular intervals, Buyantogtoh and Sansar wave an incense bush around the dancing medium. The smoke in the Baishin is getting thicker and thicker. “Do dong! Do dong! Do dong!”, it sounds. Gamba begins to hop. The little bells or jingles attached to his robe jingle, jingle louder and louder. Then they fall silent. The shaman remains motionless. Whispering. Questions. Excitement. Voices resound from the women who seem to be asking the mediator between the worlds many questions. Words that are incomprehensible to us leave Gamba’s mouth.

“Do dong! Do dong! Do dong!” The clinking and rattling sounds again. Gets faster and louder. He spins wildly around his own axis. Then he goes to the blue, white and green strips of fabric hanging on the log cabin wall and leans his forehead against them. After a few moments, the shaman leaves the corner dedicated to the gods and spirits and stands frozen again. A strange grunting sound is clearly audible. “The spirit demands something to drink,” says Ultsan. His sister fills a glass of vodka which the shaman drinks. “Do dong! Do dong! Do dong!” it sounds again and the dance continues. Many shamans use various hallucinogenic intoxicants (e.g. fly agaric, but also tobacco and alcohol) to induce ecstasy. The spirit of Gambas seems to love vodka, in keeping with local custom. Over the course of the next few hours, he repeatedly asks for the clear drink. Sometimes he also sits on the floor to smoke a cigarette or a pipe that resembles a peace pipe of the North American Indians.

The man dances his idiosyncratic dance tirelessly. The inquisitive women tirelessly hurl their questions at the medium. They tirelessly receive answer after answer. “What do the women want to know?” I whisper in Saintsetseg’s ear. “It’s about health, the future, their relatives and animals,” I get an answer that I find unsatisfactory. Saintsetseg seems to sense this and explains: “Gamba is able to accompany the soul of a deceased person to the world beyond or treat physical illnesses and mental disorders. Even if we are unsuccessful in the hunt, he can influence it.” “And how does that work? Can you explain it to me somehow?” “When a person is ill, their soul has been abducted to another world by spiritual powers. Illness and failure often result from an unbalanced relationship between our world and the lower or upper world in which the spiritual powers exist. As a mediator between our world and that of the spirits and demons, Gamba must leave his body, i.e. his spirit leaves his body in order to enter the worlds beyond. If he succeeds, he has to negotiate and sometimes fight with the spirits. In this way, he can bring back the lost soul, thereby restoring the sick person to health. If he has to fight a particularly malicious spirit, it can even be dangerous for him. This is why a shaman needs several years of training and must be very strong. Gamba was trained by his old master for six years. He was ordained as a shaman only last year.”

“As far as I’ve read, trees and animals also have a spirit. Is that true?” “Oh yes. All things can have a spirit and they are connected to each other in a certain way. The spirit of a vessel, for example, absorbs, that of a knife cuts and that of a bear is powerful and hostile,” she explains. Ultsan told me a few weeks ago how dangerous a bear can be. It was a story that I will never forget. “I have one more question,” I turn to the shaman again. “Yes,” she whispers, fixing me kindly with her dark eyes. “The path to becoming a shaman is known to be very different. Some are destined to do so through physical or psychological conspicuousness. Some inherit the office. Others get it because they show certain abnormalities and some because they have survived a lightning strike or a serious accident. Most, however, are called to it by guardian spirits. Many of the selected people resist so fiercely that they fall seriously ill. This is known as shaman’s disease and in some cases ends fatally for the person affected. This illness can only be cured if the chosen one accepts his fate. When the disciple recovers, he must undergo extremely difficult initiations with many tests. This process is called mystical death and is followed by a bloody dismemberment. The disciple is then resurrected by his master. That all sounds quite cruel to me. Do you know why and how Gamba became a shaman?” “I think he was called to it by his guardian spirits. Apart from that, Gamba was lucky. He received the traditional knowledge from a very powerful teacher. This is shown by the fact that he usually licked the glowing metal with his tongue all night during his ceremonies without burning himself.” “Why did he do that?” I murmur, watching Buyantogtoh as she waves an incense bush around Gamba’s body. “I don’t know. His spiritual world apparently wanted it that way. In any case, he was a well-known man who has also helped Europeans. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” whispers Saintsetseg, barely audible, while Gamba is spinning around and making strange sounds. “Isn’t it the shaman who cured an English child of autism?” “Yes, exactly. How do you know that?” “Ultsan told me that a few weeks ago.” “You know that Gamba’s master died a few days ago at the age of 77?” “Yes, Gamba told me. It happened during the Tsagaan Sar.”

1:00 a.m. “Do dong! Do dong! Do dong!”, sound the endless, monotonous drumbeats. “Tssssssssch! Tssssssssch! Tssssssssch! Chiiiuuuuu! Chiiiuuuuu! Chiiiuuuuuu!”, hissing sounds leave Gamba’s mouth. “Ohhh Ihhaa, oh daraa, oh daraa, oh daraa, oh banaa, oh banaa, uluraa, oh daa, uluraa, oh daa, oh wandaa oh wandaa, oh jandaa, oh jandaa”, he sings in rhymes that always sound similar. Dong! Dong! Dong!”, followed by short, hard drum beats. The women ask and whisper among themselves. The singing and dancing gets faster and faster. “Uhuu! Uhuu! Uhuu! Uhuuu!” he suddenly shouts, making us flinch with fright. Gamba jumps wildly with both feet in the air. I’m worried he might hit his head on the low wooden ceiling. Then he whirls around again and falls over as if felled by an axe and without any warning. At this moment, he is caught by his attentive son Sansar and his sister Buyantogtoh and gently placed on the wooden floor of the hut. Excited talking. Incense is waved around the motionless body. The air is so impregnated with smoke that everything around us is a blur. Tanja coughs. Because of the cold in the room, I have been freezing miserably for some time.

“With the help of his animal-shaped auxiliary spirits, his free soul has gone on a journey. It has left his body. Gamba is on a soul journey in the upper or underworld,” explains Saintsetseg. I get goose bumps. I have never experienced what is happening here. It takes a while for life to return to the motionless body. The medium slowly rises. The robe decorated with mirrors and symbols rustles and the bells attached to it jingle. Gamba seems to be confused. The ceremony helpers assist him up into the air. As soon as Gamba is back on his feet, the door of the log cabin is opened wide. Cold penetrates the interior. As we understand it, a spirit present, whether good or evil we do not know, is given the opportunity to find its way into the night and leave the room. Only a few minutes pass as Buyantogtoh closes the door again.

Then the grunting sound is heard again, as if a boar were making a noise. The shaman is immediately handed a glass of vodka. “Do dong! Do dong! Do dong!”, the drum starts beating again and the dance continues. “Tssssssch! Tssssssssch! Tssssssssch! Chiiiuuuuu! Chiiiuuuuu! Chiiiuuuuuu!”, the hissing sounds leave Gamba’s mouth. “Ohhh Ihhaa, oh daraa, oh daraa, oh daraa, oh banaa, oh banaa, uluraa, oh daa, uluraa, oh daa, oh wandaa oh wandaa, oh jandaa, oh jandaa,” he sings.

1:30. I can barely sit up. The uncomfortable position makes my back ache and because the cannon stove hasn’t been fed with wood for hours, we are freezing. “Can we go?” I hear Tanja’s voice. “I have no idea. I’ll ask Saintsetseg,” I say and lean over to whisper in her ear. “How long will the ceremony last?” “Because we’re still practicing the old shamanism here, probably until 6:00 in the morning.” “Oh my God. We won’t make it. Can you ask if we can leave before then?” I ask quietly. Saintsetseg turns to Buyantogtoh, who nods her head thoughtfully. We immediately rise and leave the mystical room. “Do dong, do dong, do dong”, we hear the drumbeats getting quieter.

“Do you believe in shamanism?” Ultsan asked me a few weeks ago when we were sitting together with him and Tsaya in our yurt. “Shamanism is undoubtedly a complex religious and cultural phenomenon. If it is performed by a trained master, I trust that he can heal. In many areas of your country, most Buddhist monks and shamans were executed in the late 1930s. This has certainly left a huge gap in knowledge. However, some have survived and passed on their knowledge. From what you’ve told us, Gamba’s master is one of the survivors. This means that Gamba now carries the ancient knowledge and is a competent shaman. This is good for your people, because in today’s world there are many would-be shamans and charlatans who only want to make money from it,’ I replied. “You’re right about that. Many of today’s shamans no longer have any power. You must know that for me, ancient shamanism is not a matter of faith but a reality.

My father told me about a powerful shaman who crossed the border into Russia to steal reindeer in the Tuva region. He drove them to Mongolia with a friend to supply his tribe with meat. The shaman of the Tuwa people living there sent a black curse after the thief. The thief sensed it and ran as fast as he could into his tepee and put on his shaman’s cloak to defend himself. He immediately went into a trance and traveled to the afterlife on the beats of his drum to ward off the deadly dangerous spirit sent to him in the underworld or the upper world. He danced all night and fought with his adversary. In the end, he won and saved his life. His companion, who was not a Shmanane, died that very night.

The old shamans often fought with each other to kill each other. They transformed themselves into animals, a wolf, a bear or a dog, and fought with each other on a spiritual level. Usually one of them died,” Ultsan said. “Why were they fighting with each other,” I wondered. “It is and was about supremacy. If there were too many shamans in a region, such power struggles arose. Sometimes there isn’t enough room for two powerful men.” “Are there good and bad shamans?” I asked. “Oh yes. There was a well-known evil shaman in Tsagaan Nuur. He was called the white shaman. Everyone was afraid of him and his name is still on everyone’s lips today. He abused his power. If he wanted something, he simply pointed to it and if he didn’t get it, he sent a black curse that killed people.” “So he pointed to a horse and if you didn’t give it to him, you were dead?” I asked, feeling a shiver run down my spine. “That’s exactly how it was. If you wanted to visit him, he would turn into a dog and run away. He avoided contact with the outside world. He was a really bad person who had to pay for it.” “What do you mean?” “The spirit world wiped out his entire family. There is not a single survivor. All of them, except for an adopted daughter who was not related to him by blood, died under mysterious circumstances.

But there was also a very good shaman who lived in Tsagaan Nuur until recently. He had brought a dead man back to life.” “How did he do that?” “A young man was brought to him whose soul had already wandered into the afterlife. The shaman danced all night and fought with the demons and spirits until he was completely exhausted. Then he pulled a long worm out of the man’s navel with no visible injury or cut. The dead man opened his eyes and began to breathe while the shaman’s spirits faded and he died next to the reawakened man. It was an old man who had made a deal with the spirits. His life against that of the young man.”

Lying on our Wandan, I think about what I’ve experienced today and the sometimes scary stories from Ultsan. “What an exhausting night,” mumbles Tanja. “I’m completely exhausted. I feel like I’ve traveled a bit with Gamba to the other world,” I say. “I’m so exhausted too. That’s strange. Is that normal? Are the others so exhausted too? Or is it just us because we’re not used to such a ritual?” asks Tanja. “I don’t know,” I reply, yawning. “Do dong! Do dong! Do dong!”, the shaman’s drum sounds muffled through the felt wall of the yurt. I listen to the monotonous beating until I fall into a deep sleep.

(It is a challenge to report on the various events objectively, professionally and yet emotionally. Of course, our knowledge of Mongolian is not sufficient to have in-depth conversations about shamanism. I was able to research a lot of the information before or after the ritual.

The conversations with Ultsan and Saintsetseg were partly translated by Tsaya and also by Saraa. I also made some clarifying phone calls about shamanism. In this way, I was able to fill one or two gaps in my knowledge and incorporate them into the text).

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