August 1999

When I first thought of the name “My Space” for this column, I was thinking of a reflective space. Recently, I have been to a place where the word “space” takes on a whole different meaning. A place where one can look in every direction and see nothing but open land. A place where the inhabitants are the wind, rain and all the life that can survive on a blade of grass.

It is Mongolia. A land a sixth size of China but with less than one percent of the population. We arrive in the capital of Ulaanbaatar direct from Shanghai without a hotel or friend. A helpful English-speaking Mongolian at the airport helps us find a hotel, no small feat during Naadeem. This annual festival draws thousands to witness the three ancient competitions: wrestling, archery and horse racing. We find a room for just one night.

In this capital of 500,000, where gers – the local, round, blanket-covered tents of the Nomads – stand next to massive Soviet-constructed buildings, and horse-riders stroll alongside BMWs, there is an internet café where we launch a desperate appeal for a friendly tour operator in the local ethernet. We find an answer next morning from Jan Wigsten of Nomadic Journeys, a Swede who has been coming to Mongolia since the 80s.

He greets us with friendly admonishing about poorly-equipped tourists who show up on his office doorstep without camp gear or even a sleeping bag. But he also saves the day by finding us an English-speaking driver and a hearty Russian Jeep. Off we go, following in the footsteps of Ghengis Khan who ruled the world from his horse in the 13th century.

Along the route, we go riding with three16-year old boys who lead our horses on sturdy ropes. My previous riding experience in Disneyland at age nine does not make me want to go it alone. An hour out, the boys decide to have a little fun. The slow amble becomes a trot and still they pick up the pace. I see in their mischievous eyes that there’s more fun to come. We’re galloping now.

They are standing in their saddles, their torsos barely moving as the horses race away. Our bodies jerk hideously with the motion of these wild mares. My fingers dig into the saddle’s metal ring as my legs grip the horse’s sides for dear life. I think the secret is in standing and so I struggle to lift up too. Still I slap the saddle at every step and staying on becomes the challenge.

I say a silent prayer to the horse running beneath me. My safety is in your hands, dependent on your every step. I owe my fragile bones to your graciousness in carrying this strange heavy burden when you would much rather run wild and free. I feel my hair lift behind me as the landscape speeds by and for a moment I too can imagine a life of running with the wind.

Another day, we happen by a town celebrating their own special Naadeem and stop to get a closer look. It is the horse racing competition.

Here I receive the biggest surprise of all. The riders are children! Boys and girls between the ages of 5 and 10 vie for the title of fastest rider. One rider must have just made the minimum for he looked more like 4 than 5. But all came bravely with anxious faces and their best riding colors.

Later, in Ulaanbaatar, Ian takes us to a hill where we can see the riders up close. He explains how hundreds of horses, each with a child at the helm, leave the starting line at a trot. After 30 km and almost two hours of riding they turn around and go for it at full gallop for another hour or more.

True to form, I see them coming now, 300 or more horses tightly packed in a trot. Not yet tired and in the spirit of the festival, the children laugh and wave to the crowd. They go by and we wait in anticipation for the return leg. Two and a half hours later and here they come, galloping at full speed and no longer in a pack. The front riders comes screaming by, their little voices yelping over the thundering hoofs as they urge their horses on. Little girls with pigtails bouncing, and little boys with bright colored capes come flying by. 70lb. children who would be playing in a sandbox anywhere else are galloping their hearts out, shouting at 400 lb. horses as they press on home.

In this land of endless space, it is the silence that is felt. The sounds of neighing horses and buzzing cicadas seem to get absorbed by the very air. Children don’t seem to cry and even the dogs seem uninterested in barking. People greet each other with warm hospitality but little conversation.

Into this vast stillness I have come with a head full of voices, my own voices. Here is my angry voice, my fearful voice; I hear my wishful voice and my expectant voice. I lose track of how many. I stand in the grassland facing a horizon that seems to stretch to the skies and I offer my multiple voices to the wind. Sweep them away, let them drift under your wings until this land and its silence absorb every chord. Let me inhale the quiet of your endless plains and find the one voice to express the beauty of this moment.

Nomadic Journeys has camel and yak treks in August and September.
See www.nomadicjourneys.com for schedule. They also can tailor tours for small groups.
Email Ian Wigten at mongolia@nomadicjourneys.com
Caption for 3 boys:
The 16-year olds who had lots of fun watching us flop around on their horses.
Little girl:
A brave Naadeem rider gearing up to take on the 3-hour race across the plains.
Racers:
Horses bred for racing speed on home with riders at Naadeem.