Far and Away: Reporting from the Brink of Change

We arrived in Kharkhorin on the first day of its Naadam celebration, a festivity of sport that takes place July 11 through 13 every year. The number of horsemen we saw heading across the roadless countryside and the bright colors they wore told us which way to go even before we had spotted the first of the distant pavilions. As we came closer, we picked up on the crowd’s excitement. The jockeys had set out near dawn, and more than two hundred horses galloped in the morning’s race. At least six hundred others stood in rows, and the spectators sat astride their mounts the way Western audiences sit in grandstands. Everyone was eagerly waiting for the first glimpse on the horizon of the winning stallion. The men and women mostly wore long robes, called del, often of velvet or brocade, tied at the hip with silk sashes of brilliant yellow, crimson, or green. Saddles were ornamented with silver, and many riders had silver crops and chatelaines. Colorful hats, some trimmed in fur, crested in points like steeples. A few hotshot adolescents who had drunk too much airag (Mongolia’s specialty: fermented horse milk, which is what one might call an acquired taste) were riding fast, and from time to time the crowd had to part before them. Children and the elderly were pushed to the front, while the rest of us on foot strained to see over their heads. The air rang with speculations, greetings, family arguments, and plans.

At last the first horse came through, and the cheering erupted. We parted to make way for an endless line of runners-up, all bearing jockeys ages four to seven. They cantered through the crowd and slowed only in the distance. Ribbons flew from the bridles. The winner was taken to a nearby field, where a lama in a flowing robe and a yellow, pleated hat blessed him in the name of the Buddha. Everyone was laughing, some began singing, and the joy was for old and new friends alike. We received invitations—translated by our guide—from every Mongolian we met: come into our tent, have some of our airag, have a piece of fried dough, some cheese. They struggled to communicate over the language barrier, swore brotherhood with us, gave us their hats to try on, taught us words of exuberant Mongolian.

The next morning, closer to town, we watched the wrestling. Silk tents were pitched in a great circle on a greensward. Cavalry kept the crowd more or less in order, though periodically spectators rushed forward and threatening words were exchanged. The judges sat under a blue canopy adorned with white sacred symbols. Music played loudly; people jostled one another for good views or shady spots. One by one, the wrestlers came out in long leather del, paraded past the cheering crowd, then removed their coats to reveal hand-embroidered wrestler’s garb. Each solemnly performed an eagle dance around a judge, then slapped the front and the back of his thighs (thwack! thwack! and thwack! thwack! ). Next, partners began sparring according to ancient rules, striving not to touch the earth except with their feet and the open palms of their hands, while forcing their opponents, with a hair-raising mix of weight and precision, down to the ground.

Nearby, the archers were competing, firing slender arrows over a long meadow. The men shot from a back line; the women, in white silk, stood a few feet closer to the targets. On another field was a pickup game of polo. Small stands sold cakes, carpets, or radios. The hillside that formed the backdrop for the events was a wash of color: the revelers had pitched a small village there. The smell of meat cooking on open fires mixed with scents of curdled airag and the wild thyme that the wrestlers were trampling. I could have lived five years on the hospitality the Mongolians offered. I photographed one man who looked particularly noble in his saddle, and he swept me up onto his horse. From that lofty height I watched the sport as his friends asked me questions and gave me cow’s-milk liquor.

We left the Naadam, and as we traveled deeper into Övörkhangai Province (Kharkhorin is on its northern edge), the paved roads stopped. Imagine the worst dirt road you’ve driven. Now envision the worst stretch of that road; now that worst stretch in the rain; now that worst stretch in the rain immediately after an earthquake. You see in your mind’s eye one of the better roads in Mongolia. We crossed muddy fields where it was impossible to see the road, and we forded rivers when our driver thought the bridges looked unstable. It was rough going, and more than once we had to get out to push our car—or to assist others whose cars had given up.