Thursday 11 July | Ulaanbaatar – Khui Doloon Khudag

Finally, the big day has arrived – Mongolia is celebrating its independence. On 11 July 1921, the Mongolians drove the Chinese out of the country, with some assistance from the Russians, of course. You can't miss it on the streets; today marks the 92nd anniversary of the Mongolian People's Revolution, the 807th anniversary of the Great Mongol Empire, and the 2222nd anniversary of Mongolian sovereignty. Keeping track of these historical milestones seems to be no problem for the Mongolians.

However, all these historical considerations are futile. Today, everything revolves around Naadam. It’s a local version of the Olympic Games, complete with an opening ceremony, but exclusively for Mongolian men. The festival is formally called Eriin Gurvan Naadam or Three Manly Games. Only wrestling, archery, and horse racing are featured – not entirely coincidentally, disciplines in which every Mongol warrior was expected to excel.

From 7 am onwards, reporters on MNB – Mongolian National Broadcaster – are busy with previews of the matches. Outside on the street, loudspeakers blare.

Just before nine, we are standing at Gate 5 waiting. It’s overcast, but it’s not raining. Vendors are preparing their food and drink stalls, TV crews are hauling cameras and tripods, garbage collectors are inspecting bins, police officers are patrolling on horseback, and anonymous security agents in suits and ties are unsuccessfully trying not to stand out. The waiting crowd is steadily growing.

The Naadam Festival dates back to the time of the Chinese Han dynasty, Batmunkh, our guide, explains. It’s over two thousand years old. Originally, the festival was meant to train soldiers and push them to extreme performances. Even Genghis Khan would sometimes organise a Naadam after a major battle. Once the Great Mongol Empire had collapsed, Naadam became the stage for fierce competitions between the various tribes.

Quite recently, a fourth sport was added to Naadam – shagai shooting, a game using sheep's anklebones. A bone is placed on a small board held in one hand, and with the middle finger of the other hand, it is flicked towards a target 10 meters away. Not exactly a warlike activity – Genghis Khan would surely turn his nose up at it.

At around a quarter to ten, the gates swing open. We take our covered seats at the southeast end of the stadium and absorb the atmosphere. People pour into the stadium from all directions, dressed impeccably in vibrant traditional costumes, filling the stands to the brim with colour and energy.

On the grass, the final touches are being made to the small stages. Cameramen on large platforms are testing their equipment. The brass band is setting up. Four huge balloons – green, yellow, blue, red – mark the corners of the field.

Children in colourful traditional costumes settle on the grass in front of our stand. Soon, they will have to perform, but for now, they act as a magnet for every tourist with a camera. Dozens of photographers lie shoulder to shoulder, their cameras aimed at the vibrant group.

The stadium is packed to the brim when, right at eleven o'clock, the opening ceremony begins. One by one, the banners hanging under the four balloons are unfurled. Each time, around twenty men in white tunics spring into action as the balloons ascend into the sky. From the four corners of the field, more men dressed in orange and white tunics come running. Together, they form orange-and-white honour guards around the grass.

The roar of the crowd reaches its peak as the Tumen Khishigten appear on the track. These are the historical elite troops of Genghis Khan, dressed in blue and red uniforms with golden helmets. Proudly, the first nine riders, mounted on white horses, carry the Yöson Khölt tsagaan tug, the white horsehair banners symbolising the unity of the Mongolian state. Behind them follow two dozen riders on black horses. Tonight on TV, MNB will show how these precious banners were escorted by police from the parliament building through the city to the stadium.

Only when the banners have taken their place of honour on the grass can the games begin. With a lap of honour, the Tumen Khishigten leave the stadium. Looking the spectators straight in the eye, they ride past the audience.

The national anthem resounds, and we all stand up, with police officers giving us a nudge if we don't rise quickly enough on our own. Unfortunately, we have to keep the reader in the dark about the topics President Tsakhia Elbegdorj addresses in his opening speech.

But then the party starts. Young people come running from the four corners of the square, wearing the most diverse traditional costumes. The variety is immense; only rarely do you see two identical outfits.

The men in white tunics now spread out in large circles across the grass. Their flags display the symbols for fire, earth, and moon. In the Soyombo, of course, the alphabet created in 1686 by the Mongol Zanabazar.

Again and again, new waves of dancers, acrobats, and performers flood the square. Rhythmic music with heavy drumming and the sonorous voice of throat singers drives the swirling choreography forward. Occasionally, the audience enthusiastically claps along to the rhythm of the music. A drone with a camera circles above the spectacle, also surveying the Western audience for a moment.

Four evil spirits race like wild hooligans across the arena. As always, the crowd's scorn is their share – a ritual part of the spectacle. Riders display their skills with death-defying stunts on their galloping horses.

Gladly, a few celebrities also indulge in the favour of the audience. Like Lkhagvasuren, the lead singer of the rock band Kharanga – world-famous in Mongolia for the past twenty-five years. But when he makes his horse rear up, it almost goes wrong. He barely avoids falling off his horse – a public embarrassment that would have made him the laughingstock of the year in a country where every man knows how to ride a horse.

Finally, the wrestlers and archers take to the field. After more than an hour, the opening spectacle comes to an end. Immediately, everything is prepared for the wrestling.

There are no weight categories; everyone competes in the same group. This gives the heavier contestants a strategic advantage – just try to bring down a giant weighing 110 kg when you yourself only weigh 70 kg.

Spread across the grass, around forty wrestlers pair up two by two – each time a heavy one facing a lighter one. A controlled draw ensures that the heavy favourites aren't eliminated early in the competition. For each pair, a referee in a red or blue tunic closely monitors the proper conduct of the match. Not a single heavy wrestler is defeated in the first round, although some do struggle against their lighter opponents. Only tomorrow evening will the final reveal who the winner is.

We briefly turn our attention to the archery, the only one of the three men's games in which women are also allowed to participate. Using recurve bows made of composite materials and arrows with blunt tips, the archers aim at fifteen blocks placed in a continuous row on the sand.

Referees position themselves eerily close to the targets. Each time an archer hits the mark, they erupt in enthusiastic cheers and give a thumbs-up – naturally, in complete neutrality.

Meanwhile, the square around the stadium has transformed into a chaotic festival ground, filled with fairground attractions and skill games, teeming with a disorganised crowd – the perfect environment for pickpockets. Yet, somehow, we manage to find driver Bagi and his bus without any mishaps. Inside, Batmunkh has prepared a large lunchbox for each of us.

At half-past one, we set off for Khui Doloon Khudag, the place where the horse races are held, about forty kilometres outside the city. Roughly half of Mongolia seems to have the same idea at this moment, making it a tricky journey. But Bagi knows a shortcut. Unfazed, he navigates through potholes and craters of unparalleled size. In the meantime, we try to eat the contents of our lunchboxes without spilling too much.

That a collision occurs in this chaotic situation on the edge of the city doesn't surprise us at all. A small car has been struck on its left side by an SUV. The damage appears irreparable. The driver of the small car sits dazed on the ground, hands covering his face. Naadam 2013 is something he won't soon forget.

It takes just over an hour to reach the horse racing site. Dozens of vehicles are parked along the slope of a hill. We climb to the top and from there gaze out over an immense landscape. Below, part of the racecourse is marked by a wire fence, with a police officer stationed about every ten meters. In the distance, across the field, hundreds of gers are set up, likely belonging to the participants, their families, and their trainers. Further to the right, stands have been erected, where we assume the finish line is located. They've even built a paved boulevard to accommodate food stalls and entertainment.

When and where anything is supposed to happen is completely unclear. Then, a huge cloud of dust forms on the other side. Those are the riders just starting, Batmunkh explains. Now it's at least an hour's wait for their arrival, he adds. So, calling the horse races exciting might be a stretch – it's really about passing the time between the departure and the arrival of a dust cloud.

Soon, the riders will have completed a loop of about 26 kilometres. These riders are very young, children between 8 and 14 years old. To save weight, they ride without saddles. Helmets have recently been made mandatory after several accidents.

Unlike wrestling, this competition does have distinct categories. The race we're witnessing today is the Ikh Nas, for horses aged five years or older. Yesterday, there were races for three-year-old and four-year-old horses.

Two runaway horses briefly cause panic, at least among the Western tourists, though a Mongolian barely raises an eyebrow. The area around the stands isn’t too crowded for now. However, there is some entertainment on offer. Acrobats on horseback display their skills. They sit backwards or upside down in the saddle, leap off their galloping horses and back on again, or form a three-person pyramid on two running horses.

The traditional martial arts are also on display. From their galloping horses, the riders launch their arrows accurately, perpendicular to their direction of travel. Even for two riders galloping side by side, it's a piece of cake. One rider aims while leaning forward on his horse, and the arrow from the other rider soars over him. Almost simultaneously, both arrows land on the target. For a classical army, it must have been a nightmare when such mounted artillery approached.

They can't entice us with show jumping, even when they jump over the barriers together in groups of three. The same goes for drill riding. Such frivolities are clearly not suited for these steppe horses.

Back to the martial arts. With a keffiyeh wrapped around their heads, a few rugged Mongolians come charging loudly on horseback. You'd have to live in a cave not to realise that these are the Arabs being portrayed – apparently the bad guys. Further on, a few Mongolians on horseback bravely await them – apparently the heroes in the making. In no time, the Mongolians decisively deal with the enemy's aggression, even though they are clearly outnumbered. The Arabs, in turn, do their best to convincingly fall dead. Adorable.

Still, the riders' astounding agility is impressive. An Arab gallops toward a Mongolian standing wide-legged in the grass. Before we can blink, it’s the Arab lying on the ground while the Mongolian gallops off in the saddle.

Then begins the long wait. An hour and a half after we saw them disappear in a cloud of dust, there is still no sign of the riders. Sometimes we think we see a cloud of dust, but unfortunately, it's a false alarm.

The stands are packed to the rafters, but spectators still keep streaming in. Every five meters, a police officer stands facing the audience to keep the crowd in check. Some even have a police dog on a leash. The sun has been shining all afternoon.

Just before five o'clock, two tankers drive out to water the grass and keep the dust in check. For us, this is a sign that something is about to happen. The fact that the cameraman from MNB has gotten up and is standing behind his camera also seems like a good sign.

Then, approving murmurs rise among the Mongolian spectators. The dust cloud between the hills on the horizon must be the ultimate dust cloud, although we can't make anything out. Through the binoculars, we can only see the lights of the headlights from the accompanying jeeps.

Then, the leading jeep emerges over the last ridge, proudly displaying the Mongolian flag. Seconds later, four black dots appear against the dust cloud. Soon there are five, eight, ten... The dots become riders, galloping past us in a long line. Hoo-hoho! call the spectators, cheering on the riders.

This is not a photo finish. None of the completely exhausted riders has the strength to overtake the one in front of them, no matter how fiercely they whip their horses' flanks. The urge to excel in these children outweighs their empathy for their mounts. Even the hundredth rider will mercilessly wield the whip to improve their position.

Two riderless horses gallop enthusiastically alongside the others toward the finish line. They, too, will be included in the official standings. However, losing their rider somewhere on the steppe will result in a penalty for them. In the final standings, they will be unyieldingly moved back one place. Just imagine if the race were won by a horse without a rider. Hopefully, the accompanying jeeps were able to pick up the unfortunate riders.

Later, we will learn that 381 horses completed the race. The first to cross the finish line was Khuren Ikh Nas, a chestnut stallion from the Gobi Altaj province, trained by a certain Bat-Erdene. Khuren won the Ikh Nas last year as well, which is why that name was added. However, the identity of the jockey riding the winning horse is apparently irrelevant.

The thousands of spectators now occupying the hills have only one goal in mind – to return to Ulaanbaatar. To facilitate this, the two-lane road is opened up to four lanes heading toward Ulaanbaatar. The fact that the police reserve the right to use the fourth lane for oncoming traffic is not exactly reassuring. Puddles on the road suggest that it rained during the afternoon.

Yet we’re not done with Mongolian culture. After dinner, we stroll to the National Academic Drama Theatre. There, the Mongolian National Song & Dance Ensemble has traditional music and dance in store for us.

Immediately, we are introduced to urtiin duu, or the long song. This is one of the most important forms of Mongolian singing. It even appears on the UNESCO list of masterpieces of the oral and intangible heritage of humanity.

The misconception that the long song gets its name from simply being a long song is a common yet unfortunate misunderstanding. While it is not entirely out of the question that a long song could indeed be lengthy, the essence of the long song lies not in its duration but in the virtuosity of the technique, which involves stretching each syllable for an extended period. A handful of words can suffice to deliver a four-minute long song. This doesn't necessarily create an exciting story, nor does it provide the sound spectrum that a typical Western ear is accustomed to.

Folk dances and musical performances follow one another. Mongolian versions of a xylophone and a harp make their appearance. Beautiful costumes, for sure, but generally speaking, the performances tend to be rather slow-paced.

Then comes the cham dance, which changes the atmosphere. This dance is believed to drive away evil and bring prosperity to the local community. Gracefully, twenty-two female dancers in golden attire, each wearing a small golden pagoda on their heads, perform the ritual pantomime dance.

Contortionism is something we had never heard of before. It turns out to be an art form originally from Mongolia. A snake woman leaves us in awe, moving from one astonishment to another. She bends her body backward until her smiling face appears between her knees. She raises one leg alongside her waist until it hangs over her neck. If you lose focus for even a moment, you’ll be confused about where all her body parts are located. Even when balancing on a stick with her hands or just her mouth, she manages to showcase her incredible skills.

Relieved that the snake woman can leave the stage unharmed, we are introduced to the fascinating vocal abilities of four throat singers. This khöömii, or overtone singing, is highly developed throughout Central Asia, but especially in Mongolia. By using resonances in the oral cavity, an overtone is generated over the fundamental tone, creating the illusion of an extra voice echoing. The timbre of the sound seems reminiscent of a didgeridoo.

The Grand National Orchestra has technically existed for eight hundred years, but it was only revitalised in 1962. As a grand finale, the Mongolian National Song & Dance Ensemble wants to impress us with a performance featuring around sixty musicians.

We are introduced to the morin khuur, the typical two-stringed fiddle made from horsehair, which has become a symbol of the Mongolian nation. The thick string is supposed to contain 130 hairs from a stallion, while the thin string should have 105 hairs from a mare.

The orchestra performs several Mongolian compositions, as well as Bach and Gounod’s Ave Maria, and a mazurka by Strauss. In essence, the orchestra is making a statement to its Western audience – Don’t look down too quickly on our fiddles, our lutes, our harps, and our horns. Our music is not inferior; it’s simply different from what Westerners are accustomed to hearing.

With a sense of satisfaction, we stroll back to the hotel. Around eleven o’clock, fireworks illuminate the sky above the city, capping off a splendid day.

Top

Jaak Palmans
© 2024 | Version 2024-10-20 15:00