A festival of yore

The riotous Naadam festival could hardly be more different from the Olympics. No sponsorship or politicking - and a lot more fun. Kevin Rushby joins the crowds

In Mongolia Naadam is like the Olympics and Eid, all rolled into one. It is celebrated in every town, village and nomadic encampment. Missing it is unthinkable.

"This Naadam is a special one," an old man told us, offering me a pinch of snuff from an ornate stone vial, a traditional Mongolian greeting. "We heard there are Jeeps for prizes."

We were all heading for the town of Bulgan, 300km north-west of the capital, Ulaanbaatar. Like all towns in Mongolia, Bulgan is relatively new - 70 years old this year, a fact that it was celebrating with a particularly big Naadam.

This annual championship of horse racing, wrestling and archery has changed little from the 12th century and the days of Genghis Khan: the sports are the same, as are the details - horse saddles and riding style, archers' equipment and targets.

The strange apparel of the wrestlers - tight shorts and a chestless pair of sleeves joined at the back - is not so ancient, however. The design was introduced after a muscly woman won the Naadam disguised as a man.

It was night when we pulled into Bulgan and all the hotel rooms, we discovered, had been commandeered by local officials. Tulga, my guide and translator, was outraged, but he conceded that Mongolia was changing. "We are even getting uncomfortably warm winters," he said. "Last year there were days when it hit minus 15."

Our accommodation worries were soon solved when we heard about a ger camp in the hills. These camps, which have a restaurant and shower block, can be found all over the country, catering for locals and tourists. My tent had a welcoming wood-burning stove - the nights in the mountains can be chilly even in summer.

At sunrise, looking over the steppe towards Bulgan, we saw that the emerald green of the rolling hills was already dotted with camps, each with a string of horses tied up outside. We went down to visit some of the contestants, relatives of Tulga who had set up their ger on a ridge near a shamanistic shrine.

"Have you painted your door for Naadam?" asked Tulga, going through the formalities while we drank bowls of airag, fermented horse milk, like pungent thin yoghurt. "Have you had lots of visitors?"

Talk soon turned to wrestling and horses. Mongolia may be changing in some respects, but horse culture remains the central pillar of most people's lives. The language itself is imbued with equine terminology - more than 50 words for horse whinnies, 200-plus for their colours and markings.

We went outside to watch the jockeys, boys aged between five and 10, exercise the horses and sing to them. "To cheer them up," explained Tulga.

Then they were galloping, sitting well forward, almost on the horses' shoulders. The Mongolian horse is not big, but as Tulga pointed out, these were stallions and half-wild. "See how they ride," said Tulga. "And the song - these things have never changed. If Genghis Khan were here, he would understand everything."

At 9am the next day we made our way to the start. There were at least 300 horses in the first race, all ridden by children, most bareback and barefoot. A huge melee of riders fought to get prime position while race officials checked the animals' ages by inspecting their teeth.

Standing amid this mayhem was a stocky old man with a traditional kaftan-style coat and knotted cap. A pillar of immovable calm in the chaos, I sheltered behind him. He was a trainer, he told me, keeping an eye on his horses and giving last-minute advice to the jockeys.

"Naadam is still a simple and beautiful festival," he said, apparently unaware of what seemed like the imminent possibility of being trampled to death. "But we need to take care: some of these horses are partly Arab, not pure Mongolian as in the past. They are bigger and faster and they win."

There was a crowd around the victor, everyone trying to get a hand on the sweaty flank of the animal - a mark of good luck. There was no rest for me, though. Tulga found me and dragged me to the car. "Come on - the wrestling is starting in the town stadium."

We rushed down there, along with dozens of other cars and a posse of horsemen. At the stadium the atmosphere was less intense, more of a family fair. Children were dressed up in their best clothes, as were the wrestlers, resplendent in knotted caps and scarlet and blue fighting suits.

The bouts take place on the grass, four or five at a time. Unlike in sumo and other styles, there is no ring, no limit, and the fighters frequently tumble dangerously close to the crowd. "It's very good luck if they land on you," Tulga assured me.

We went off in search of archers. Maybe I could get a bolt through the ears? "Exceptionally good luck," said Tulga, grinning.

Archery, once the kingpin of Mongolian sports, is now in recession compared with horse racing and wrestling. The composite bow that conquered Asia and struck fear into 13th-century Europe seems a little tame these days. Even the arrows are blunted and fired at wooden bricks on the ground.

There was beauty and elegance in the ritual, however, and the air was filled with the songs of the judges who traditionally inform the scorers and contestants of results by singing.

We sat down with the dudes. "Olympics?" scoffed one of them when I mentioned the world's greatest sporting occasion. "What is that? Naadam is the biggest and the best."

I had to agree, and we had not yet even seen the ankle-bone chucking competition. Marvellous entertainment, Tulga assured me, and much more fun than the discus.

Getting there: Bahrain to Beijing with BA costs from BD708 - Beijing to Ulaanbaatar with MIAT, Mongolian Airlines (miat.com), costs around BD212.