Dylan Claydon

Nadaam is a national holiday, celebrated throughout Mongolia. It is a festival of national identity which centres around the Three Games of Men; wrestling, archery and horse racing. This is slightly misleading however, as we saw quite as many female archers as male, the horses were ridden exclusively by children and there are four games rather than three.
Having missed pretty much everything the previous day I was determined that we should see some events. We had already resigned ourselves to the idea that we would not get into the actual stadium during Nadaam. Tickets for the opening and closing ceremonies can only be bought in person the week before, through a tour agency as part of a package or else from touts at a mark-up. Around the stadium however there is a very festive scene with hundreds of ordinary Mongolians who also did not have tickets and were there for the free events and the general atmosphere. Apart from the ceremonies which by all accounts are very good, the only sport practiced in the main arena is wrestling. Mongolian wrestling is a little like Cumberland wrestling crossed with Sumo. The competitors are enormous, the ritual elements complex and the rules utterly arcane. We watched some of it on the television and it seemed to involve three or four referees for every bout, which only occasionally resulted in any definitive conclusion. Though I am sure it is all quite fascinating to the initiate,we all felt we could quite easily give this interminable dance of fat men a miss. What I was not prepared to miss was the archery and the knuckle-bone shooting. The latter mainly because I had absolutely no idea what it was. I had done my research of course, but Wikipedia, Google, YouTube etc. had left me really none the wiser. We were fortunate to be well in time to witness the final rounds of the competition and at least improve our understanding, even if the finer points continue to elude.
We were to discover that knuckle-bones, or rather more accurately ankle bones, particularly of sheep, hold a fascination with Mongolians. We encountered four different games that can be played with them and perhaps there are more. This particular game is somewhat like skittles. A number of bones are placed in an ornate box with the open side facing a seated shooter some 5 meters distant. The shooter has a wooden runner, on which is placed a sort of counter. This counter is the projectile which must be flicked along the runner and knock down the ankle bones. The number of targets decreases as the game progresses and it seems that competitors are eliminated when they fail to hit. It appears to be a team game, though the precise mechanics of how this works escapes me. The two teams are seated, ranged between the shooters and the target, creating a shooting gallery. Once the shot has been made the projectile is returned to the shooter, being lobbed from hand to hand by his team mates, occasionally rubbed for good luck. All this is accompanied by a singing chant with ululations. As there were several matches being played concurrently the sound within the hall, or tent as it is euphemistically described, is cacophonous
Feeling that we had got as much the measure of knuckle-bone shooting as was likely without expert guidance we headed for the archery field. Our programme advertised a "display of national archery". Given that we were visiting a nation who pride themselves on having once conquered half the world by dint of their skills with bow and horse this seemed unmissable. Indeed we were not the only ones who thought so. The archery field has an open fronted stadium at one end and bleacher seating at the sides. We installed ourselves half an hour in advance in the stadium and by the time the display started there was not even standing room. In fact the standing crowd made it rather difficult to see the event unless one also stood, thus blocking the view from those behind. Much calling and shouting at those in front ensued and in the end an intermittent view of the proceedings was possible.
As this first event of the day was a display rather than a competition there were many preliminary announcements, a singing of one of the more catchy national anthems of the world and shuffling around of the crowd by the police. Proceedings commenced with a sole archer firing off a shot, whether it actually hit the target I cannot tell as the view was severely compromised by later comers standing at the railings. This was followed by riders in historical warrior garb racing onto the field in spectacular fashion and then shooting from their galloping horses at a boss. I am sorry to say that the skills of the Mongolian horse archer must rather have deteriorated in the last half millenia or so as very few shots found their target. In spite of this it was an impressive sight. The warriors returned from whence they had come and things came to a close. We returned once more to the field for some competitive archery later and once more the following day.
Standard competitive archery in Mongolia involves a recurve bow shooting at a distance of 75 meters for men and 60 for women, at a row of blocks some 30 by 10 centimeters large, placed on the ground with the central blocks being painted red. Depending on the type and stage of competition there are between 4 and as many as thirty umpires impressively close to these targets, who will indicate to the archer and score keepers how the arrows have fallen by semaphore. A good strike is signalled by raising both arms and slowly gyrating whilst singing. It is all rather jolly, particularly in the later stages of the competition where the eliminated archers have now taken position around the target and are now acting as extra umpires.
We returned to the archery field the next day for the final rounds of the competition , taking a more advantageous position in the bleachers along the side, which afforded an equally good view of both archer and target. For me this was the highlight of the Nadaam festival. All the competitors were dressed in the most beautiful individual interpretations of traditional dress and the level of skill was sometimes extraordinary, with women regularly outperforming their male colleagues. Most of all what I enjoyed was the feeling of witnessing a supportive community. Although I imagine that the caché of having won at the capital's Nadaam must be great I never felt that there was any ill-will or jealousy. Everybody seemed genuinely pleased for the more successful archers and by the time the last arrows were being fired a large crowd of those who had been eliminated had gathered around the targets gesturing towards the centre to help the arrows on their way and singing heartily when they found their mark, turning with their hands aloft.
Where there is a festival there is fast food. By far the most popular food on offer at Nadaam is khuushur, minced mutton deep-fried in batter. It is surprisingly moreish, Helix and I consumed quite a few over the few days we were there and even Lila, a part time vegetarian had to admit that they weren't too bad. Is suspect that my final one might have been a little suspect however and my digestive system informed me in no uncertain terms that enough was as good as a feast.
The first day's proceedings were rounded off with the postponed concert in Suhkbataar Square. Although I am a little ambivalent about Mongolia's obsession with its ancient history I was lead to think that their nostalgia industry was rather more impressive than their pop music. Even our own teeny-bopper was decidedly unmoved by the terribly derivative drivel. Still, we managed to have a little shimmy, much to the bewilderment of the locals who seem a very reserved bunch, almost totally resistant to exhortations by the bands to get up and boogie. Perhaps they found the music as dreadful as we did. When the band launched into the national anthem however everyone was back in their comfort zones and joined in with gusto. Similarly uninhibited was the firework display, choreographed to the theme "make everything go now".
It was not only our dancing that evening which had drawn stares. Ever since arriving in Mongolia we have been asked to pose for photographs. It is Lila who seems the most fascinating but we have all been asked, both in Mongolia and China to pose with various people for their albums. The requests come from both the young and middle-aged and what might sound quite creepy is requested with such innocent smiles that there seems no reason to refuse. I have even been asked for a photo because I was eating kurshur, so odd must it have seemed to see a Westerner eating this food.
As I mentioned, Nadaam is celebrated throughout Mongolia and many regions and communities hold competitions of the Three (Four) Games. Many people will tell you that the festival is best witnessed outside of the capital, where one can get closer to the action and there are no ticketed events. This may well be true, but with nearly half of the entire country's population living in the capital the city's Nadaam is a genuine example of how "real" Mongolians live.Read more

Having had a very late night and not having to catch the train until nearly midnight we elected to have a good lie-in followed by an easy morning. The check-out time for the hostel was midday but as is often the case, they were happy to let us leave our bags all day. A local delicatesssan provided us with lunch and after a chat with some of the young people of the hostel we headed out to do a little shopping. Both Lila and I had left our sunglasses at home and having had only a short time in any one place between journies we had not had a chance to do any laundry. I wanted to buy a fresh T-shirt as I was worried for my fellow travellers. I had noticed whilst exploring the area on Google Maps for likely places to eat that we were not far from a Decathlon. For my UK based readers who have not experienced the empire building of this French chain, it is a sports shop which sells all manner of practical goods for outdoorsy types. Mt family and many others I know are largely clothed from this establishment, as it provides decent quality at affordable prices (this blog is not sponsored, but is open to offers). I know they have been trading in the UK for some while now butwas a little surprised to see them in Moscow. We found it easily enough, a short walkfrom the hostel, in a shopping complex dedicated to French chain stores. Auchan and Leroy Merlin had oulets in the building, these being household names in France. Barring the absence of a very few items the stock was exactly the same as might be found in Auch, but many things were significantly cheaper. Much to my annoyance we found that the shirts and trousers we had bought at some significant expense especially for the journey were here at half the price.
This marked the beginning of what was to become the most hurrumphing afternoon thus far.
We headed for the metro and on to Red Square. The Moscow metro is very cheap by Western standards, being the equivalent of 50 Eurocents per trip, no matter where. This is the same for all public transort in Moscow as far as I could work out. Although I had managed to cope well with the ticket offices on the previous day, today was to be rather different. I thought I had succesfully bought a return tickets for the three of us and understood that there were three fares on each of the two tickets I had been issued, one for each direction. On reaching the gate it turned out that the first ticket had only 2 fares, on producing my receipt for the guard he waved us through, rather for an easy life than through mutual comprehension I think. We arrived at the center of Moscow in the drizzle and after several days of sight-seeing with rather aching feet. It is a magnificent area and it isimpossible not to be impressed but we had left it too late in the day to make the most of it and were feeling a little jaded. An emergency ice-cream in the rain gave us the strength to enter Red Square where the harumph-o-meter hit critical levels. Not only was the Lenin Mausoleum shut for works but FIFA had erected enormous marquees in the centre of the suare, ruining the ensemble with gaudy ephemera. My usual ambivalent tolerance of the "beautiful game" was being tried once more. We had arrived too late to enter St. Basil's and I had also to abandon my ideas of visiting the Bolshoi Theatre. We shall return to Moscow though I think the Bolshoi will be closed to visitors by then, but at least FIFA will be gone. We did manage to enter the Temple of Mammon which is GUM, where the toilets cost 200 roubles a pee and the windows display the trappings of the oligarchs. In fairness Lila and I were much taken with the dresses of Bosco which for their workmanship and beauty did not seem overpriced.
Footsore, hungry and overwhelmed by a full week of intensive tourism and travel we set off back to the hostel for dinner and a few hours of relaxation before boarding the Trans-Mongolian Express. It was upon reaching the now crowded late-afternoon metro that the earlier muddle with the tickets came back to haunt us with a vengance. I had naively hoped that our earlier problems were due to my lack of understanding and that our remaining ticket would have three fares on it. Suspecting that this might!not in fact be the case I sent the children through the gates first, with instructions that if I should not be able to pass they should wait until had bought another ticket. Having indeed been stopped I joined a queue and reaching the front foolishly tried to explain, through production of my receipts and tickets, that I had been incorrectly credited. My well-travelled and world-wise readership will recognise this immediately as an idiotic course and one doomed to failure. Having too belatedly decided to cut my losses I now tried to explain to the lady that I should like to buy a single ticket and handed over the smallest denomination I had, a 500 rouble note. By this time I had completely befuddled the poor woman and she had great difficulty in understanding my request to now be a very simple one. By the time we had established my meaning through the use of a calculator we were both starting to lose what little patience we had started out with. This is where the trouble started. The cashier duly produced my 55 rouble ticket and asked me for the money. I indicated that I had already given her a 500 rouble note. She rather tetchily demonstrated that I had not. I am sorry to say that I may have joined in with the tetchiness in my rebuttle. Things from there, as they say, escalated quckly. I have no idea of precisely what she was shouting but I definitely got the gist, as it was well emphasised by the banging onto the counter of various objects. Feeling that this had gone too far for my delicate sensibilities and aware of the children waiting patiently for me the other side of the barrier I made placatory gestures and waved more money at her, in attempt to put all this ghastliness behind us. She however would have none of it. The ticket booth was closed and the long line of tourists and commuters behind me were directed to the end of one of the only other two long lines. I believe I must have been the most actively disliked Englishman in Moscow. Boris Johnson might well have felt some unknown psychic burden lift from him at that very moment. The lady refused all entreaties and headed for a telephone, made her call and stood staring at me with arms folded and a look of outrage. It was then that to my left I noticed, at the furthest booth, written in clear and bold type, "WE SPEAK ENGLISH". "Look before you leap" is not the least of the lessons to be gleaned from the sorry incident. There was no going back now though, some authority had been summoned, the other queue was long and slow, due largely to our stand-off and it was likely that I would be refused service there anyway. And so we waited, and waited, a policeman approached and to my relief passed by without interest. Half-remembered legends of the interminabiliity of Russian burocracy insinuated themselves into my mind. I left briefly to explain the situation to my weary offspring who had been told by some official that sitting down was forbidden. I returned and still we waited. After some long while a supervisor appeared, the situation was discussed and she sat down to count the day's takings. I tried once more to pay for an individual ticket but was abruptly and loudly told off. There was nothing to do but to stand and watch the counting of thousands upon thousands of roubles in all denominations as they were tallied with the receipts. The minutes passed and self-doubt welled within me. Had she in fact handed back the cash at some point in the confused discussion? Would I be ejected from the station for having accused this poor woman of negligence? As the count drew to a close the faces of the two ladies evidenced the fact that I had not been mistaken. There was no pleasure in seeing the poor woman's face , only a faint relief. She had wronged a tourist, shouted at him, detained his chidren, during the World Cup and worse, she had called her supervisor to witness and be drawn into the affair. The look was of bewilderment and horror. Fullsome apologies were offered by the supervisor, entreaties that I should forgive them both and understand that eveyone was very tired. I was certainly very happy to let the matter drop and all move on with our lives but was still a little peeved that after all this I was still expected to pay for my onward ticket.Read more