Ancient Mongolian Competition Ties Past To Present
Dorj Batmunkh, second-generation wrestler in Khujirt, Mongolia - Dorj Batmunkh, a second-generation champion wrestler, waits for a new opponent at the Naadam festival in Khujirt. Batmunkh did not win this match. (Ariana Lindquist for NPR)
Described as the Kentucky Derby, the Olympics and Christmas rolled into one, Mongolia's Naadam is an 8-centuries-old celebration of heroism and masculinity. The annual festival is devoted to the three "manly sports" — horse racing, wrestling and archery.
The most hotly contested event, the horse racing, hasn't changed since the 13th century and the days of Genghis Khan.
From early in the morning, a steady stream of herders — all dressed in their festival finery — come cantering into the small town of Khujirt, 260 miles southwest of Mongolia's capital, Ulan Bator. Both men and women wear embossed silken dels, or traditional robes, cinched at the waist with brightly colored sashes and leather boots on their feet.
(Ariana Lindquist for NPR)
The older men sniff from each others' snuff bottles as a greeting, while young women and men on horseback flirt as they circle the wrestling arena, cooling their animals down after the journey.
Measures Of Agility, Strategy And Brute Force
The events begin with a ceremonial dance from a youngster, and then the wrestling gets under way. Each wrestler performs the eagle dance as he enters the arena, a display of power and grace. All eyes are fixed on 37-year-old Dorj Batmunkh, who is looking forward to competing.
(Ariana Lindquist for NPR)
"You feel very light, excitement fills you as Naadam gets near," he says.
His father was a famous local wrestler, winning the lion rank after a ninth-round victory. Batmunkh himself is a falcon, or fifth-round winner, at the aimag, or provincial, level.
"Mongolians say horses inherit speed, and wrestling skill is inherited, too," he says.
(Ariana Lindquist for NPR)
This is a contest of agility, strategy and brute force. The first wrestler whose knee or elbow touches the ground loses. Several pairs of wrestlers face off inside the ring simultaneously, grappling with each other intently.
The wrestlers wear open jackets a precaution introduced, legend has it, after a woman disguised as a man won the event. On their feet are traditional Mongolian leather boots with upturned toes, similar to those worn by Genghis Khan's army.
This year, Batmunkh is unlucky, and after a lengthy contest, he is eliminated in the second round.
(Ariana Lindquist for NPR)
"I had a chance to throw my rival, but something wasn't right," he says. "It's OK. Next year I'm planning to win."
The Main Event
This year, it's too windy for archery in Khujirt. And for many in the crowd, the horse racing is the main draw.
(Ariana Lindquist for NPR)
Naadam marks the end of an intense monthlong training period for those racing horses. "For 10 to 20 days, you really don't get enough sleep," says Chuluunbart Badelgar, the mother of a 14-year-old jockey.
But she admits the pre-race nerves are the worst moment for her. "I'm scared of the injuries my son could get. But once the boys head off to the start line, I can only pray for my son," she says.
Her son is racing his final season. At 14, he is becoming too heavy to compete as a jockey.
In this town, only one girl is riding this year. Some of the smaller boy jockeys are as young as 5 years old and seem impossibly, unbearably tiny.
At 11, Ganbaatar Tserenpuntsang considers himself an old pro. His racing colors are yellow from head to foot. But like most others, he will ride the 17-mile race in his socks.
"You don't want to hurt the horse by kicking it with shoes," he explains, "And shoes are heavy. And you might lose them on the way."
Most kids ride bareback, too.
Echoes Of The Mongol Hordes
Before the race begins, the child riders pay a fee for insurance. As the jockeys set off on the two-hour ride to the starting line, their trainers often flick airag, or fermented mare's milk, over the riders for good luck. As they go, the riders sing encouragement to their mounts.
Along the way, they pass a shamanistic cairn, or sacred heap of stones, which the jockeys circle three times, their voices overlapping in song in an ethereal, slightly eerie chant. This is a prayer for a safe journey, an act of worship to the mountains and the sky.
These races are said to be the brainchild of the founder of the Mongol empire, Genghis Khan known here as Chinggis Khan. They originally doubled as military exercises and a celebration of martial might. Now, they are held each year in every town across the country.
A rope is held at the prescribed point 17 miles away from the finish line and when it's suddenly lowered, the riders surge forward. They scream and yell, wild warlike shrieks, as their horses' hooves thunder across the grasslands. It's impossible not to think of the Mongol hordes bearing down.
Trainers drive alongside in jeeps and motorbikes, weaving between the riders and veering dangerously close to yell advice to their child jockeys.
"Stop beating the horse," screams one trainer, who has levered the top half of his body out of the car window to get near to his rider. "Sing! Encourage the horse!"
Then he swears: From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of another of his riders losing control and galloping in the wrong direction.
"That boy will never ride for me again," he mutters, swearing more.
A Unifying Force
It's a half-hour gallop, full-tilt, to the finish line, where the town is lined up expectantly on horseback, gossiping as they wait.
Suddenly, a moving cloud of dust is thrown up in the far distance. The riders are approaching, ancient telescopes are lifted, and the crowd compares notes on who is gaining ground.
As the first riders approach, the crowd whoops. The finish is close, but first past the post is Ganbaatar Tserenpuntsang in yellow.
The crowd surges forward, closing in on the winner. The dust of the winning steed is thought to be lucky, as is the sweat, so supplicants race up to swipe horse sweat to dab on their foreheads.
The winning horse gets a medal, below its forelock. Its trainers embrace. Jockey Tserenpuntsang gets the honor and a money prize.
These races are a test of bravery and stamina, with tiny children riding at top speed for hours, sometimes through thunderstorms and rain. Their faces say it all: the wordless terror of the tiny 6-year-old, racing for the first time; the bloodied cheek of one who fell off and was dragged along behind his horse; and the grinning conqueror's euphoria.
The horse racing and wrestling are rites of passage for Mongolian males. But more than that, the Naadams are a unifying force for Mongolia, a distant echo of its past as the biggest contiguous land empire the world has ever seen.
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STEVE INSKEEP, host:
You know, we've been spending part of this week exploring one of the more distant and fascinating nations on earth. And this morning, we'll listen to a high point of the year in Mongolia. It's called the Naadam Festival. It's described as the Kentucky Derby, the Olympics and Christmas all rolled into one. One of its most important events, horseracing, has not changed since the days of Genghis Khan in the 13th century. NPR's Louis Lim sent an audio postcard from the Festival.
Unidentified Child #1: (Singing in foreign language)
LOUISA LIM: A single child rides in a circle, singing encouragement to his horse. Here, in the small town of Khujirt, 260 miles from the capital Ulan Bator, this marks the spot to the most hotly contested event of the Naadam: the 15 mile-long race for five-year-old horses.
This is like the trainer's paddock before the race meet. Everybody's gathered here. All the trainers are chatting. The thing about these horse races is that all the riders are kids, mostly 14 and under, some as young as four or five years old. And that's because they're incredibly light.
Mr. GANBAATAR TSERENPUNTSANG: (Foreign language spoken)
LIM: At 11, Ganbaatar Tserenpuntsang is already an old pro. He tells me most kids race in their socks. Shoes are heavy, he says, and we'd lose them on the way. And we don't want to hurt the horses by kicking them in shoes. Most kids ride bareback, too. By 14, many are too heavy to race. Not Honebag Monebeck(ph). Elfin-faced and impossibly tiny, I can't believe him when he tells me his age.
Mr. HONEBAG MONEBECK: Fourteen.
Unidentified Woman: He's 14.
Ms. CHULUUNBART BADELGAR: (Foreign language spoken)
LIM: I'm scared of the injuries my son could get, says Chuluunbart Badelgar, the mother of another young jockey. She describes three weeks of arduous pre-race training. But once the boys head off to the start line, she says I can only pray for my son.
(Soundbite of crowd chatter)
LIM: The jockeys take about two hours to ride the 15 miles to the start line, herded by men on motor bikes wielding whips.
Unidentified Child #1: (Singing in foreign language)
LIM: On the way is an ovoo, a shamanistic cairn or a sacred heap of stones which the riders circle three times, singing as they go. It's a prayer for a safe journey, an act of worship to the mountains and the sky.
Unidentified Group: (Singing in foreign language)
LIM: These horse races are said to be the brainchild of the founder of the Mongol empire, Genghis Khan, known here as Chinggis Khan. They originally a celebration of Mongolia's military might and a way of training its fearsome army. Now, they're an annual event held in every town across the country.
(Soundbite of crowd cheering)
LIM: Suddenly, a rope marking the start is lowered, and the riders are off. With blood-curdling screams and pounding hooves, they race back to town. It's impossible not to think of the fearsome Mongol hordes thundering across the grasslands.
(Soundbite of crowd cheering)
(Soundbite of hooves pounding)
LIM: The race has started. We're in a jeep, driving alongside the horses. To begin with, they were doing about 50 miles an hour. It's this unbelievable sight, these tiny kids wearing really brightly colored clothes so their trainers can pick them out, and they're absolutely galloping at full pelt, screaming to encourage their horses.
Unidentified Woman: The trainer wants to get it (unintelligible).
LIM: Oh, my goodness.
Unidentified Man #1: (Foreign language spoken)
LIM: So the trainer who's in the car with us has just leaned out of the window and has been shouting advice at his jockey. He's concerned that the little boy is beating the horse too much, and he's shouting at him to stand up on his stirrups and to sing encouragement, shout encouragement to the horse instead of beating him.
Unidentified Man #1: (Foreign language spoken)
LIM: We're now heading to the finish line.
(Soundbite of horse nickering)
(Soundbite of crowd chatter)
LIM: So now we're at the finish line of the race, and the entire town has come out to watch. Everybody is dressed in their best, their best clothes.
Unidentified Man #2: (Foreign language spoken)
LIM: And they're all shouting as the first riders come, and screaming for people to get out the way.
(Soundbite of crowd chatter)
LIM: Everybody is running to get into the dust of the winning horse, which is supposed to be lucky. So is the sweat of the winning horse, which people are wiping onto their foreheads. When I finally get up close, I realize the winning rider is none other than our friend the tiny, 14-year-old Monebeck.
Mr. MONEBECK: (Foreign language spoken)
LIM: I was at the back, he says, grinning from ear-to-ear. Then, at the 10, I realized I could win it. He says he'll earn money from racing, which he'll use to buy clothes and school supplies.
I love this, he says, face alight. These races are rites of passage for Mongolian boys. More than that, though, the Naadams serve as a unifying force for the country, a distant echo of its past as the biggest land empire the world has ever seen.
Louisa Lim, NPR News, Khujirt, Mongolia. Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright National Public Radio.
