Chinggis Khan, Superstar!

(More Mongolia photos here....)

Somewhere over the north Gobi desert I snapped out of my upright slumber. Looking down I saw a vast waste of golden brown scablands, tattooed by dry riverbeds and criss-crossed by the occasional dirt road. But like the harsh lands of western China, there was scant evidence of civilization. Soon the brown turned to lush, rolling green hills, and sprouting here and there like puffball mushrooms were clusters of gers (Mongolian yurts). That's when it hit me: the mythical homeland of Chinggis Khan was just beneath my feet. And it was beneath the feet of 250 other passengers, some returning home to visit families for the Naadam holiday, most venturing there for the first time as part of the largest wave of tourists to crash on Mongolian shores.

By the time I entered the roiling chaos of the immigration processing room at the tiny Chinggis Khan International Airport outside the capitol, Ulaan Baatar (UB), I realized just how "discovered" Mongolia had become. This year, Naadam was especially momentous because 2006 is the 800th anniversary of the foundation of the Mongolian state, shrewdly trumpeted by the Mongolian tourism authorities. But, in addition to the usual collection of scraggly-looking european and american backpackers weighed down by facial hair, hiking boots and Lonely Planet books, an army of yellow-capped, sleepy-eyed, slightly dazed elderly American tourists with the famous 'Elder Hostel' tourism company came shuffling in behind me.

Then I heard a woman with a New York accent plead, "Oh Henry, please calm down, everything is going to be fine."

I spun around to see what was going on only to see the woman nearly plow Henry and his Air MIAT wheelchair right into my legs. Neither noticed the near collision with me. Henry seemed to be stewing in a fog of rage and indignity, maybe because his stupid yellow baseball cap sat askew on his head.

"No, I will not calm down!" Henry snorted in an even deeper New York accent. "No one knows where the passports are, everything is screwed up! Nobody knows what's going on!"

A brief wave of nostalgia rolled over me as I was immediately transported to Penn Station or anywhere in New York City where the ranting of crabby old men blend in with the ranting of other crabby New Yorkers, creating one big, beautiful symphony of human drama, passion and angst on every corner. Then the loathing started when I remembered I was in Mongolia and this obnoxious little slice of home on wheels was the last thing I wanted to hear right then. God bless 'em for stomping across the world at their age, but I was not ready for home. Henry's wheelchair pusher took a deep breath and rolled her eyes with a look of resignation, like it was going to be another long week with Henry. (Interesting side note on Henry. I noticed him several days later walking outside the opening ceremonies of the Naadam festival. Yes, Henry was walking! Alas, he still bore a frown, as if someone just dumped his ice cream into his lap. If even a glorious spectacle of song, dance and horsemanship like that of the Naadam opening ceremonies could not bring Henry joy, I'm not sure what can anymore...)

I parted ways from the Elder group to join the line at the visa office, only to find out that Americans don't need visas for Mongolia. I guess I owe Rummy and Bush for that one, a nice perk of bribing Mongolia into the 'Coalition of the Willing.' After an interminable wait in the immigration line, I finally passed through to claim my baggage and reunite with Tuya outside. Along with her eldest half-sister, we jumped into their SUV imported from Japan, complete with right-side steering wheel, and sped toward UB. I soon came to realize that gers were not just a form of housing for the countryside, but it seemed to serve as housing for thousands of urban dwellers as well. It was explained that as throngs of families move from the pastures and valleys of rural Mongolia to find work in UB, the ger was the only affordable housing they could find. Now UB is comprised of a central core of mainly soviet era apartment and commercial buildings, surrounded by an outer ring of dusty ger districts. While some older ger districts had more permanent houses, buildings and public services, many of the outer districts lacked access to water, electricity and sanitation.

But in the center of this ring of gers, UB seems to be several years into a long-awaited economic boom, echoing much of what is going on throughout East Asia. Crumbling streets are clogged with new SUVs from Japan, Korea and Germany, even a few Hummers mixed in, though after seeing the condition of roads outside the city, it's understandable why SUVs are so numerous here. Traffic was horrendous while I was there, but that was partly due in part to the mass movement of people to their country cottages to visit family for the holidays. Otherwise, it’s usually pretty bad. New buildings were going up everywhere. High rise condos and even smart European and American style townhouse blocks seemed to pop up here and there. And there even was a new golf driving range on the edge of town for all the new money types getting into old money sports. The city center certainly seemed to be on the up and up. The massive Grand Khaan Irish pub, complete with Dublin prices, was jammed every night with locals and foreigners alike. The main square, Sukhbaatar Square was spruced up and featured a recently unveiled statue of Chinggis Khan on the steps of the Parliament Building. Signs posted around the square alerted the public to the presence of new Wi-Fi internet hot spots, thanks to a rather progressive government sponsored technology initiative. Though corruption is still a bit of a problem here, it felt like things were moving along in the right direction, another stark contrast to the stasis of Kyrgyzstan.

After crashing at Tuya's family flat and catching up on much needed rest, we caught a ride the next day with Tuya's older brother out to their summer cottage about 40 minutes by car east of town. It soon became apparent that the ever-expanding ger district was quickly subsuming the older summer cottage districts closest to the city. But the further out we drove, the more the cottages spread out. Eventually we came upon the turnoff to their place, nestled in a broad river valley between two densely forested sets of hills. In the waning hours of the day, the sunlight cast a magical glow through the valley and across the hills. Though we were by no means in the wild and lonely outback of Mongolia, the wildflower fields with free-roaming cows and sheep added to the ambience, a most welcome respite from the chaos of UB.

Inside the cottage I was welcomed as an honored guest as Tuya's mother bequeathed me with a blue khadag, or prayer shawl, and a bowl of fresh cow's milk, per mongolian tradition. We then sat down to a fabulous meal, courtesy of Tuya's mom, featuring delicious homemade ‘buuz,’ or steamed, meat-filled dumplings. I personally love buuz, or mante as they are called in Kyrgyzstan, but Tuya's adorable grandmother pushed me to my limits when she insisted that I keep eating buuz until I started to ooze buuz out of my ears! Then, with the help of some liquid courage in the form of of whisky offered byTuya's father Altangerel, I drew forth my mandolin and rattled out a loose version of 'Whiskey in the Jar.' And thus, the family songfest began, led by Tuya's father, who was loosened up enough to sing a string of traditional mongolian hits. Singing is a proud tradition in Mongolia, and everyone seemed to get into the act, including Tuya's grandmother, Dulmaa, who in the 1930s was a fine actress in regional theatre in Hovd, a province in western Mongolia. We spent the next few hours ogling Tuya's adorable, Buddha-like nephew, Munkhtsog, who is bursting with so much baby fat you could probably drop him in the Bering Sea and he would splash around for hours, oblivious to the cold. We also took grandma down to the river for her daily walk, shooed a stray bull out of the yard and played a rousing match of badminton with energetic nephew Chimka in the twilight. But soon we had to run back into town to participate in the ultimate cultural experience: watching the World Cup Finals.

We arrived at the Grand Khaan Irish pub in the middle of the city around 10.30pm to meet her childhood friend, Orkhon, and the place was already packed. By midnight we had finagled a table, but the competition for any open seat was vicious, and by 2.30am we had to leave our table because it had been reserved for the game. Soon joined by Tuya's younger brother and his buddy, we moved to the back of the pub and hauled in some outdoor benches to accommodate our crew. By the time the game began at 3am, just about every fire safety code on the Ulaan Baatar building codebook had been violated in the pub. But as long as the servers could walk over peoples' laps to deliver an endless flow of Chinggis Beer, no one seemed to mind. All of this fervor for football here in the land of wrestling (both Sumo and Mongolian) and horse racing really amazed me. It was especially striking for a country whose football team ranks near the bottom of FIFA rankings, above Laos, which uses bamboo soccer balls, and below Somalia, which doesn't even have a government! Granted, there were a good number of Europeans filling the ranks of besotted bar patrons, but the vast majority were locals, and as tensions and blood alcohol levels peaked by penalty shootout time, these locals, split evenly between supporting Italy or France, were ready to Zidane (headbutt) each other. Though Tuya had a few moments to celebrate Italy's win with delirious glee, we got our exhausted heads and butts out of there fast, only to be greeted by the merciless rising sun.

After trying to catch up on sleep, we ventured back into town with plenty of daylight to spare (in early July darkness did not come until 10.30pm). Our first stop was the Gandan Monastery in the middle of the city, the main Buddhist monastery in town. Inside the main temple stood a massive golden statue of a standing buddha. The original gold-plated statue was kindly 'lent' to the Soviets, who swiftly melted it down for the people. Mongolia has a long rich Buddhist history with a close relationship to Tibetan Buddhism. When Mongolia fell under Soviet influence, all religions were brutally suppressed. Since the revolution in the early 90s, Buddhism has seen a resurgence here as Mongolians once again embrace the religion and the freedom to worship. Sometimes this clashes with the other religion sweeping the country: tourism. One American friend I’ve met here in Kyrgyzstan recently worked on a project funded by an American Buddhist organization to rebuild a dilapidated monastery in eastern Mongolia with the goal of restoring it as a functioning house of worship and learning. The local mayor stopped the project and declared it would only serve as a tourist site and museum citing economic necessity.
Well, despite the watchful eyes of the temple caretakers, Tuya risked damnation to eternal Samsara by illegally snapping photos within the temple so that the rest of the world can view it's beauty. What a good Buddhist she is! We then toured around peaceful grounds of the monastery, taking in the bluebird skies, then getting dive-bombed by a battalion of Buddhist pigeons, and finally ending up at the holiest section of the monastery, the gift shop. It was here I bought my first religious souvenir after it completely mesmerized me and begged me to buy it: a tasteful multi-colored kaleidoscopic Buddha nightlight. Plug it in and instant nirvana! Great for meditation, disco parties, and inducing epilepsy.
We soon marched on and our wanderings took us through the downtown shopping district, past the prison-like fortress of the Russian embassy, to Sukhbaatar Square, where throngs of locals and tourists gawked at the recently unveiled statue of none other than Chinggis Khan, sitting in Lincoln-esque repose on the veranda of the Parliament building. Our attention was soon drawn to two jokers riding bizarre mutant bicycles into the square. They dismounted and immediately a crowd of people, mostly locals, encircled the two men who prepared their mediocre juggling act, a summertime sight as ubiquitous in every public square in Europe as those annoying Andean pan flute bands. Though we never confirmed it, our theory was that they were Spaniards, or some sort of cheeky European bohemians, who had ridden across Europe and Asia to entertain the masses, where no masses had been so entertained before. The problem is, the masses out here are poor. Maybe a 50 tögrög (5 cents) donation here or there, but how could they expect to sustain themselves on such an endeavor? Yes, they had chutzpah, but after the third dropped plastic bowling pin, we decided not to stick around for their flaming swords routine.

We shuffled across the vast square to the Central Cultural Palace to buy tickets for the Way-Off-Broadway smash of the year, “Chinggis Khan: The Rock Opera.” Our anticipation was high, because not only did we expect to be titillated by a high level of camp, several reviews of the show in major western media outlets like the BBC and NPR were very positive. Though it was the last week of show's run, the place was barely a quarter full. We felt bad, but we figured people were either escaping the city to visit family on the eve of Naadam, or still recovering from their world cup hangovers. Anyway, the musical was fantastic, chock full of eye-popping costumes, impressive vocals including traditional Mongolian throat singing, and amazing choreographed dance and battle scenes, all set to a musical score that shook the foundations of the communist-era theatre. Dojpalem Ganzorig, lead guitarist of the Mongolian rock band the Black Wolves, not only wrote the score and lyrics for the show, but also provided excellent guitar work backed up by a drummer, electric bassist, and orchestra. It was quite a sight to see the shaggy-haired guitarist reeling off progressive metal solos while the conductor kept the rest of the orchestra in line as fifty dancers in heavy leather armor parried across the stage. The musical score was quite infectious, and at several moments I was barely able to contain myself from a little head banging and fist-pumping. The story itself covered the life of Chinggis from his troubled boyhood to the climactic final scene when he triumphantly united all the tribes of the region to create the Mongolian state, 800 years ago. But I really wanted the climax to feature the triumphant father of the Mongolians rise up on the dais through a bank of fog, strumming victorious windmill power chords on a leather-armored Fender "Flying V" guitar as his minions obediently moshed in a pit beneath him. I'll suggest it for the Broadway run.

Then next day was the first day of the three day Naadam celebration, and we were lucky enough to score tickets to the spectacular opening ceremonies in the national stadium. The problem was, so did everybody else in Mongolia, or so it seemed. After surviving a near death experience in the taxi cab of the Mongolian Mario Andretti, we soon found ourselves ensconced in an angry mob of ticketholders, shut out from entering the stadium because 'somebody' had oversold the event. It was 20 minutes before show time and the place was already bursting at the seams. At gate 11 it was becoming a scene right out of Saigon, circa 1975, as men, women and children jostled in line and pleaded with the police as if the last boat to leave the country was on the other side of the gate. While old ladies were being crushed in the mob, one father actually passed his young daughter over the top of the crowd, where she then climbed through a hole in the gate. Hopefully mom was on the other side!

Depressed and ready to give up on ever seeing the awe-inspiring spectacle of song, dance, parades and displays of horsemanship, we were mercifully rescued by Tuya's brother in law, Batka, a policeman on-duty that day at the stadium. He urgently led us through the disappointed crowds milling outside and let us slip through the VIP entrance, right onto the field! We couldn't believe our luck. Right as we nudged our way up to the edge of the track, the ceremonies began. Of course the field level view did not allow us to see the coordinated dances and horse tricks in the center of the field, but we were up close with the parading horsemen dressed in ancient warrior garb, and with the parading nobility, dressed in the specific formal costume of their clans. We even watched the fictional 'Chinggis' in his glorious white fur robe stride by on his steed, right in front of our noses. As the opening ceremonies wound down, we relaxed in the stands and watched as the massive wrestling tournament began to unfold on the pitch. With thousands of wrestlers from all over the country gathered for this mother of all wrestling tournaments, their countrymen would sit glued to their TV sets for the next 3 days until the next hero of country is proclaimed the victor. The wrestlemania that ensued on the field mesmerized us, like my new spinning Buddha light, with hundreds of simultaneously moving parts, head to head matches of all size and age categories. One guy thrown down there, three other pairs over there locked in unwavering grips, one wrestler doing the obligatory "flying eagle" victory dance over there.

The only thing that snapped us out of our spell was the occasional raindrop that foreshadowed the downpour on the horizon. We swiftly ran for the gates, managed to find some airag, the Mongolian national drink made of fermented horse milk, then made a run for the Irish pub for soup and ale, getting pleasantly soaked along the way. It’s a good thing we got to the Irish pub in time, airag has a way of, well, cleansing out the system so to speak, in record time. Our hope was to meet Tuya’s eldest sister at there and travel together to the Naadam horse races outside of town. Unfortunately, the heavy afternoon rains caused the cancellation of the races. The horse races are a major event here, and traditionally children are used as jockeys, presumably because there is a shortage of really small adults in Mongolia. Every child learns to ride horses here, and the fastest become jockeys, like Tuya’s grandmother when she was a child. Instead of the races, Tuya's eldest sister and husband (our hero, the cop) treated us to a nice tour of the WWII memorial, with sweeping views of the city, and then to see a new giant golden Buddha statue nearby. After a bit of shopping and a bit of sushi at UB's best japanese restaurant (hey, we're sushi deprived in Bishkek, we're allowed to splurge!) we continued our Naadam celebrations back at the main square by joining an old friend of Tuya's, her youngest brother, and 25,000 fellow Mongolians to watch the Mongolian version of the Scorpions rock the house as fireworks displays blossomed in the distance. Then a bit of clubbing at a nearby disco to cap off the night, and we scampered home thoroughly Naadam'd out.

My last full day in Mongolia was especially nice, though I was sad to leave such an enchanting land so quickly after having only touched the surface. We voyaged back out to the family cottage where Tuya's family lives essentially all summer long. We enjoyed another fine homemade meal, and then began my mission to photograph a yak, per the request of my uncle in Hawaii. No problem we thought, this area must be crawling with yaks. After taking the advice of a neighbor, we wandered the cottage district in search of this mythical yak, yet none were to be found. We pushed on, asking anyone we could where the yaks were. Some said they roamed the forest on the hill, others said they lived on a farm at the end of the road. Thinking we would need a car to get there, Tuya's sister went to fetch the family car, only to get stuck in the mud. Mud is a ubiquitous aspect of the hill country in Mongolia. As soon as the ground thaws in the late spring, it buckles and turns unpaved roads into constant mud baths. A neighbor helped extricate the car, but we decided to leave it and push on by foot; after all the weather was perfect, with the clouds retreating for the day letting the big Mongolian sky take the stage. Finally, after hours of traipsing about, we heard the moos and bleating of livestock up ahead. Lo and behold, there stood not one, but two yaks among dozens of cows and goats. Yaktastic! We found one! The yaks weren't so happy to see us though and they rebuffed our gentle efforts to pet them by snorting, moving away, then urinating in our direction, a sign of displeasure no matter what country you're in (pardon the pun). So we played with the friendlier goats and chatted up the owner, a bull of a man who worked as a park ranger in western Mongolia before moving here. He was purported by neighbors to be a shaman as well. He certainly conjured up a great business deal when he sold a small resort next to his land for $100K, not bad for a shaman. Though the adjacent forest looked tempting to hike through, the sun was sinking low and we had to get back to the family. We had one last meal and I was presented with a thoughtful gift of, what else? A bottle of Chinggis Khan vodka (very fine vodka actually)! Soon we bade our bittersweet goodbyes to Tuya's lovely family as they escorted us out to the main road to catch the mashrutka (minibus which doubles as a human sardine can) back to town. As the evening light faded, casting a warm pink glow over the horse and ger dotted grassland that stretches up the valley, I yearned to jump out of the jam-packed mashrutka, catch one of the horses and ride over the horizon and explore the country further, as if the ghost of Chinggis taunted me for only seeing a small fraction of his land. Another day Chinggis, another time.

At the Chinggis Khan airport the next day, I stood amongst a group of fellow tourists watching the final match of the Naadam wrestling championship. The great and mighty reigning champion, who for the past three years has defended the title as the greatest wrestler in the Mongolia, reluctantly threw in the towel and gave up after failing to drop his challenger in a long, grueling match. The winner turned out to be Batka’s best friend! Some locals watching with us, threw their hands up in disgust, betrayed by their hero. I think Chinggis' ghost would understand this fallen hero, he'd given his best to uphold the ancient traditions of this country. While the country is changing at a rapid pace, many of the traditions practiced 800 years ago still persist, despite the influx of tourism, satellite tv and the internet. But I daresay he'd be a little cheesed by the cult of Chinggis Khan that has swept the country since the break-up of the Soviet empire. Although having a rock opera dedicated to your life, now that's cool. Only Tommy and Jesus can make that claim. As the call to board the plane snapped me out of my reverie, I polished off my Chinggis beer and bag of Chinggis chips and got in line to go home.

[Photo of Chinggis Khan, drawn with painted rocks on the side of a hill overlooking Ulaan Baatar]