While we’d come to Mongolia to soak up its glorious and myriad natural splendors, our trip also coincided with Naadam, the annual festival celebrating all things Mongolian such horseback riding, archery, wrestling, and eating piles of meaty dumplings washed down with vodka and airag, the fermented mare’s milk that’s the country’s national hooch.
Though each area puts on their own festivities on different days, the celebration usually falls during the second week of July, In addition to the traditional activities, people take advantage of the time off to get out of town, set up a tent on the steppe, and soak up the scenery of in the exact same way any foreign visitor would.
After arriving back in the capital, Scraggs (who had nearly been killed in a horseback riding mishap) informed us that, while a bit hobbled, he was well enough to complete the trip. This caused our hearts to soar, and early the next morning the Fellowship of the Ger shot west in a Korean Starex van piloted by Munkhbat, who drove with the exact kind of heavy-footed malevolence that is all too often the default setting in more undeveloped parts of the world. The pot-hole strewn two-lane road was choked with vehicles leaving the city to take advantage of the Naadam break to visit family in far-flung corners or to just get out under the endless sky, set up a few tents, and savor what Mongolia delivers in spades.
We joined this convoy, and while the four of us were perfectly content to just roll along at the flow of traffic, Munkhbat gunned it at every opportunity possible, passing multiple cars while laying on the horn, often playing a game of chicken with oncoming vehicles who flashed their headlights to let him know they were very much aware of possibility of their impending doom.
Despite his homicidal driving, Munkhbat—after a pit stop at the windswept, serene grounds of Erdene Zuu Monastery in the ancient capital of Kharkhorin—delivered us to our destination: the town of Tsetserleg. Nestled beneath the imposing rise of Bulgan Uul Mountain, this settlement serves as a jump-off point for travelers wishing to explore central Mongolia, and is home to the Fairfield Guesthouse, a remarkable hotel and bakery owned and operated by an Australian expat named Murray and his wife Elizabeth.
The building was over one hundred-years-old, constructed by missionaries who came to do God’s work in the country’s rugged interior. As devout Christians, Murray and his wife were continuing that tradition. While primarily running the business—which included organizing expeditions for groups such as ourselves—the couple (who had raised four children in Tsetserleg) also performed outreach in town, working especially to reduce the harms done by alcoholism, which is surely Mongolia’s greatest social ill.
Tsetsergleg was greatly affected by the scourge of the vodka bottle, as evidenced by the bleary-eyed, hollowed out shells of older men shuffling around its rough streets. As a result, The Fairfield had a no booze policy in its rooms, though Murray did allow drinking in the courtyard out front, even joining us for a cheeky can. He was certainly no prude, and reminded me that—due to moral scolds, hypocrites, and overzealous proselytizers—Christians often get a bad name, when in fact there were many like him and his wife, quietly doing good work in the trenches.
Of course it was good business for Murray to down a beer with us, as he was our principal tour organizer during the rest of our time in the country. Both Will and I had logged countless hours online querying and talking to various companies and guides in an attempt to construct an itinerary that would meet our very specific needs of checking out birds and pulling in fish, while also seeing some of the country’s best sites. Many of them didn’t seem to quite get what we were after, but Murray was keen and responsive and offered prices that were on par or cheaper than most everything else that was quoted, so in the end he was our man.
As we’d rolled into Tsetserleg right as their Naadam was kicking off, we elected to spend some extra time in town to check it all out. While the events in Ulaanbaator are the most famous, I had read beforehand that Naadam is best experienced out in the smaller settlements, and Tsetserleg—as the capital of Arkhangai Province—was hosting the party for the region. They had even built a brand-new facility just a few kilometers out of town that was to be christened for this year’s festival, so it seemed our timing was good.
After a breakfast of bacon and egg sandwiches (Fairfield bakes its own bread) washed down with strong, freshly-ground coffee, Murray gave us a lift in his spanky new Land Cruiser to the new festival grounds, where we would spend the day soaking up the local Naadam.
On the way there he filled us in on his dream to expand The Fairfield. The region was known for its thermal hot springs, and Murray and his wife were planning to build a new complex that would include hot pools pumped directly from the earth on a nearby mountain. The whole place would be solar and geothermal powered: totally self-sufficient, with conference rooms and space for group retreats. It sounded like a very enticing project, one that would encourage the kind of tourism that benefits the local community while also providing a unique experience for the guests. He said the biggest barrier was gathering the investors, but that the plans were already drawn up and hoped to break ground within two years. I certainly hope to return to Tsetserleg in the future and see the operations up and running.
We arrived early at the Naadam site, which was made up of an arena with bleacher seating and stalls all around featuring traditional food and mainly modern drink. The complex’s PA blasted traditional Mongolian music, which is haunting and soulful, reflecting the deep, wide open country that birthed it. I couldn’t help but recognize the similarities to native American melodies in the piercing cries of the vocals, lending credence to the theory that the ancestors of American Indians originated from the great Asian steppe.
Behind the arena sat a couple of gargantuan beer tents that would get hopping later in the day, and further back were clusters of men playing shagai, the traditional game involving the ankle bones of goats and sheep. Decked out in hats and colorful del (Mongolian robes), these men played a version where they used miniature crossbows to shoot at the bones, which were set up on varnished boxes atop little carpets. They set about their task with a very intense focus, though when seeing me check them out, a few broke their stoic concentration to offer me hearty greetings.
While a group of young women shot arrows in the nearby archery range, the day’s main event was wrestling—Mongolia’s national sport. Matches had yet to kick off and the weather was ideal, so I decided to leave the complex and have a bit of a wander.
The arena and surrounding tents were situated in a wide valley. Staring down at us was yet another mountain, with herds of cows and horses grazing on its flanks. The rise looked eminently climbable, and soon I found myself improvising a route up its side, zig-zagging through the grass and protruding rocks, until the Naadam site began to resemble an ant colony. Still, the warbling music wafted up the valley, and a breeze periodically whipped around my face.
Like many mountains in Mongolia, the top was blanketed in pine trees. As I approached the summit, I noted several birds-of-prey circling on the updrafts, including the imposing forms of several Cinereous vultures. We’d seen many of these hulking raptors over the past couple of days, and it occurred to me that they get very little respect, when you could easily argue that a vulture is equally as majestic as an eagle. It is, instead, the victim of certain prejudices, due to its bald head, gawky movements, and the fact that it consumes carrion, which turns it into a trash bird in the eyes of too many.
The closer I got to the summit, the thicker and more aggressive the flies became, until I was forced to use my bandana like a horse’s tail, whipping it around my head every few seconds to keep the insects off—a trick I picked up to keep the gnats out of my eyes during summer walks in Korea. I was now deep into the mountain and the mournful songs from the arena’s faraway speakers were swallowed by the trees, rocks, and sky, replaced by the gentle rustle of the wind in the pines.
Atop the mountain was a small ovoo, complete with the horsehair banner called a tug attached to a rod sticking out of the top, which resembled a king’s crown with flowing locks of hair. While—with the exception of livestock and a curious herd dog—I’d been alone on this hike, I was soon joined by a Mongolian man carrying a small backpack. He crested the summit from the other side and ambled up to the stone pile, and after greeting me with a quiet “Sain bainoo,” he crouched down, unzipped his pack, and quickly got to work.
The man—dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and a baseball cap—took out a bag containing some bread, removed a hunk, ripped it up, and then handed the pieces to me. He did the same for himself, and then, after standing up gestured for me to join him as he circled the ovoo in a clockwise direction.
As he walked around the cairn, he began tossing pieces of bread onto the rocks as an offering, which I did as well. We circled the ovoo three times before he stopped back at his bag and produced a small bottle of araig, which he unscrewed, pouring some onto the base of the stones. He handed it to me and gestured for me to do the same.
He then crouched back down and pulled out a bundle of some kind of dried herb—most likely juniper—which he lit with his plastic lighter. He blew on the smudge stick until a bright cherry was going strong, along with a stream of sweet, sage-like smoke. Through more hand motions, he instructed me to stand still, as he waved the smoldering juniper up and down and around my body, whispering a prayer in Mongolia under his breath.
I stood there, taking it all in, gobsmacked by my good fortune. When I was down in the Naadam site, I could feel the mountain call me, and now—just an hour later, at the top—I was receiving a blessing from a random, plainclothes shaman. It was an ideal summer day, with a warm sun melting over the unspoiled terrain, interrupted only by the odd drifting cloud, and I closed my eyes and took in the barely-perceptible rhythm and tones of his incantation, I knew that my decision to come to Mongolia had been a wise one.
Back at the arena, I joined Scott for a lunch of roasted goat skewers and khuushuur—a kind of traditional pastry made with thin slices of beef—washed down with a couple ice-cold cans of Sengur, the local lager that soon became the beer of the trip. The khuushuur was a satisfying treat seemingly served up everywhere in the country, though surely a bomb of cow grease and cholesterol. It hit the spot post-hike, and after walking the festival grounds—which also featured a circus tent—we joined Will and Scraggs back in the arena, where the wrestling was now underway.
Mongolians are passionate about wrestling. It’s their national sport, and the grappling competitions are one of the most important aspects of the Naadam celebrations. While not versed in the details of the rules, it soon became obvious that Mongolian wrestling was similar to judo or Greco-Roman style: the goal of the game is to get your opponent onto the ground through leverage or even tripping him up, though this was easier said than done. The most skilled wrestlers leaned into each other like a couple of bulls, and we saw one match that went on for a good thirty minutes before one man yielded.
While we figured out the main goal of the game, its execution was highly ritualized—steeped in centuries of history and tradition. Before competing, each competitor was called out onto the field where he paid respect to the judges while also parading before the crowd. After victory, the match’s winner would assume the pose of the eagle; the loser would duck under his “wing” in an act of respect and submission, where the winner would invariably pat his vanquished foe on the ass.
Mongolian wrestlers are known for their colorful, unique uniforms, including open-chested, sleeved jackets called zodog, and tight, red or blue briefs known as shuudag. They also wear calf-high, leather boots, and despite the somewhat silly appearance of the outfits to Western eyes (Have you seen our wrestlers?), I noticed right away that some of these guys were yoked.
The Tsetserleg Naadam games drew wrestlers from all over Arkhangai Province. Some of these were chunky old men bordering on obese, while others were criminally skinny young dudes getting thrown around and just having a laugh. The serious competitors, however, stood out right away—tree-trunk thick, muscular dudes who didn’t just appear physically formidable—but also tough in the way only growing up on the steppe can do.
These were guys who spent their whole lives riding horses, wrangling livestock, and eating piles of mutton, goat, and beef, while also sparring with their brothers, fighting with their friends, and enduring the kind of winters that would drive most warm-blooded creatures into hibernation. These countrified Mongols were a tough lot and seeing them go toe-to-toe in person made me realize just how their ancestors managed to come together and kick the world’s collective ass. I was just thankful to be on their good side, and vowed to keep it that way for the rest of the trip.