Naadam Festival
Trip Start
May 16, 2005
1
16
50
Trip End
Nov 01, 2006
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Moron, Mongolia
Monday, July 11, 2005
The significance of the three traditional sports can be traced back to the days of their rather colourful ancestors. Archery, horsemanship and wrestling were all seen as key strengths of your average Mongol warlord. And given that the Mongolians have just named our friend Genghis as 'Man of the Millennium' there is still clearly a lot of reverence for him and the good old days of rape and pillage. Of the three disciplines, archery is the only one with which we might be able to relate. Wrestling is similar to our own but major differences include the lack of a defined ring (any old piece of rocky ground will do), silly hats, eagle dances and the Mongolian equivalent of moon boots. Major similarities include tight underpants, dodgy bolero jackets and the odd mullet. The mini-jackets are worn around the shoulders to leave the chest of the participant bare. Legend has it that prior to the introduction of the bare-chested rule, a woman was able to compete and even win the Nadaam. Having seen some of the 'women' in remote Mongolian outposts I suspect that the legend is not far from the truth. The match is best of three rounds, some of which have produced stalemates that have lasted for hours. After the score is settled, both competitors do an eagle dance, which involves flapping your arms and pretending to fly. Sounds simple, eh? For us, the eagle dancing was one of the best things about the event. Imagine three-hundred pound nomads in boots with curled-up tips, formal hats and tight y-fronts flapping their arms imitating eagles. Surprisingly enough many of them are actually very graceful, really they are! Mid-way through the wrestling, a huge dust-storm blew in from the steppe. Some in the crowd decided to seek shelter from the incoming storm whilst others, including the wrestlers themselves carried on as if nothing was happening. Sand was being shot blasted into every orifice and we sought shelter behind the only structure that might withstand the wind. After about 20 minutes the storm cleared and attentions once again returned to the men in tight pants trying to throw each other to the ground. I swear that some of the competitors were locking in the same position that they had been in prior to the storm.
Mongolian horse racing on the other hand bears scant resemblance to the 4:20 at Ascot. For a start, the races take place over much longer distances - up to 30km! In addition, saddles are for wimps, real jockeys are replaced with barefoot children as young as four or five and expensive tack is replaced with flimsy pieces of string. It's a thrilling spectacle as the clouds of dust begin to rise on the horizon signalling the imminent arrival of the knackered nags. Horses frequently die on these gruelling races but amazingly, deaths and serious injuries to the hapless pilots of these equine rockets are pretty uncommon. Serious bragging rights are the real prize on offer for those daft enough to compete.
Once the final few stragglers have made it to the finish line, the Mongolians go out to celebrate. The whole place turned into a scene more befitting of a time when Genghis and his merry men were making a name for themselves. The streets were full of Mongolians on horseback, dressed in there finest traditional costumes all looking for their next drink. It was clearly too much for some as they slumped over neck of their trusted mount having consumed copious amount of airag and vodka. Others were galloping around town, racing past cars, hanging on for dear life. Two of these characters galloped up to our hotel and promptly both fell over when they tried to dismount. After many abortive attempts, they finally managed to tie up their horses and turned their attention to the difficult task of crawling up the front steps into the bar. I kid you not, these guys really know how to party. The eventful day finally drew to a close with a colossal thunderstorm (and obligatory power cuts) at which point our two John Wayne characters clambered back onto their steeds and rode off in the night. All I can say is I hope that those horses knew where they were going - something tells me that they did and that this wasn't the first time that they played the role of taxi for their inebriated masters.
