Naadam, the party of the parties

I am lucky. Rezindorj really brings milk to town and offers to take me. I seize my tripod bag, pack the video camera, photo camera, change lens, as well as a bottle of water and a rain jacket into my backpack. Then I rise behind Rezindorj on the narrow seat of the old, Chinese motorbike. Because between me and the driver exists no place for the tripod I clamp it anyhow under the right arm. “Till this evening!”, calls Tanja to me waving. I answer “Till this Aaaa…!” I answer because of the dislocated seat position already an awful cramp goes in my thigh which robs of my voice. Because on the carrier a canister with approx. 20 liters of milk is tied it pushes me the heavy backpack in the neck. After 20 minutes the first wooden huts of Mörön appear. Teeth clenching I hope for the end of this torture.

At the edge of Mörön riders dressed traditionally have assembled with their horses. “Does the race begin here?”, I ask Rezindorj, I do not understand his answer. Driving over the dusty track of the town we reach a timber house. “Here lives my family”, says Rezindorj. I understand. Here ends the journey. Stiff as a poker I try to rise from the bench. Because my feet have fallen asleep I fall almost from the saddle. Rinzindorj laughs. “My legs have fallen asleep”, I try to explain. Then I ask where here the Naadam begins. “There”, he says and indicates to the city centre. “Best of all you ask a minibus driver”, I understand. “Bairlalaa. Daraa bajartaj”, (Thank you goodbye) I thank and say good bye.

No plan having where the today’s horse running begins I walk a little bit lost along the dusty path. Now it is shortly before 10:00 o’clock. The only thing what I know is that the horse race has already begun at this time. It is to late now to reach the start place which is approx. 15 kilometers from here. Maybe it was a silly idea to think I can see the Nadam without any help or company of a local person? After three kilometers I reach a crowd of rider’s and ask whether the finish of the Naadam race is here. “Tijmee”, answer some men. “When do the riders come to the finish?” I ask hoping the finish run not to have missed. “Soon”. Because Mörön is with 40,000 inhabitants one of the big towns of Mongolia I wonder not to see more people.

I use the time to put up the tripod and click the camera on it. A drunkenly sits down beside me on the carpet. Suddenly there lies his arm on my shoulders, than he kisses me on the cheek and shows me the upwards stretched thumb over and over again. “Leave the man alone!”, gets a policeman angry who also under the roof sits. Immediately the man takes his fingers of me and apologizes submissive. I thank the law guardian.

In the meantime have thousands of people gathered behind a blue, red fence. Hundreds of dust whirling cars are controlled by a big crowd of policemen. The just still deserted meadow, on the edge of the town, suddenly seems to cook. Without doubt, the Naadam, the party of the parties begins in which the best compete in wrestling, archery and the horse race. The victory of the communists on the 11th of July, 1921 is the historical occasion. Today, the Naadam is held to honour the first Mongolian state under Dschingis Khan more than 800 years ago.

The whole area has changed to a public festival. Ger which I did not register before are surrounded by visitors. On small grills meat is roasted and sold. Trails of smoke rise in the dusty sky. Some of the cars have changed to small stores. Balloons and a thousand kinds of other toys are sold

A about seven year-old boy, gallops loud shouting near. In his hand he lets a whip whirl. The also young horse sweats after the 15-kilometre-long racing distance. The young Jockey is dressed yellow and carries a helmet in pink with blue points dabbed. As he is hardly with his deep brown horse over the target line, the linesmen call the number 15 which is to be read on the shirt of the boy. Loudspeaker announcements announce the winner. The people rejoice and clap the hands. An adult is thundering on his horse near and gives escort to the winner. People free themselves from the spectator’s line and race to the winner. Everybody would like to touch the horse of the winner. Apparently it brings luck somewhat of a winner to have touched.

The first-placed is hardly over the target line, his participant dash near. They are between five and 13 years old. None of them sits on a saddle. Everybody seems to have big fun racing in spite of the strain. It lasts only about 15 minutes till also the last participant about the target line galloped or trots.

An experienced horse breeder dressed in a noble looking blue deel, and a traditional cap is singing loudly a praise song in a microphone to the honour of the small riders. Then he drinks a sip of fermented mare’s milk and hands on the bowl to the young winner. After also he has enjoyed some mare’s milk with proud expression on his face the rest is tilted over the head of his horse. As far as I recognize, one also congratulates the second and third winner in the same way. The horse breeder and the small Jockeys ride under cheering calls in company of their proud parents from the station.

Later I am back again in our camp. The daughter of Renzindorj has brought me by her car to my home. Still completely in the spell of the Nadam I tell Tanja in every detail about my experiences.