2006 is the 800th anniversary of the Great Mongolian State. This means more to Mongolians than anyone outside that large, isolated nation can understand. Over the past eight hundred years Mongolia has gone from the largest and most powerful force on the planet to a landlocked, economically crippled country of about two and half million people. My friend Roxana and I traveled to Mongolia this July to see the famouse Nadamme, the celebration of the three sports, and ride the world renowned Mongolian horses. The fact that this year was the eight hundreth anniversary was exciting to us but we didn't understand what it meant. We'd read "Gingis Kahn and the Making of the Modern World," by Jake Weatherford and "Modern Mongolia" by whoever, but it wasn't until our first day of riding, after a planned stop at a Ger that we realized what our trip in Mongolia would really be about.
"I think he's drunk." Roxana leaned across her horse to tell me as our wranger weaved behind us.
"Really?" I asked, than turning around I watched the man, dressed in a traditional deel, smile broadly at me and tilt to the left. "Oh yeah."
"I think he's a little touched." Roxana continued. He stared at us unabashidly like we were the most difficult magic eye poster he'd ever come across.
"I can't believe they sent us out with a drunk." I said, starting to get angry.
"I think Bagi (our head guide) is drunk too. Did you see his nose when we left that ger." I remebered that as we climbed through the short door back into the sunlight Bagi had stumbled slightly and his nose and cheeks glowed pink with milk vodka. We'd told him we wanted to keep riding and he'd agreed waving over our drunk guide to lead us up into a nearby valley. It was a gorgeous spot, the place were two sloping, green hillsides ended. The sun was low to the west, casting a golden light over the valley where a herd of Yaks grazed peacefully, swishing their long tails from side to side.
"I think your right, he's drunk."
"This is unacceptable." The wrangler was now riding next to us whispering in Mongolia and pressing his horse against mine while concentrating on staring at my ass. I stared straight ahead not sure what to do.
"Chu." He called, the Mogolian word for go that all horses respond to by going. Roxana and I felt our mounts jumped into a trot, we pulled them back and said:
"No." He smiled at us.
"Chu!"
"No." They jolted again but we held them. The wrangler's red face drooped into a frown than broke into a grin as he yelled:
"Chu!" and smacked my horse's ass with his long lead line. He bolted forward and it took all my strenth to stop him.
"No, No, No!" He laughed.
"No, no, no." He imitated me.
"This is not funny." Roxana said.
"This is terrible."
"He's totally wasted." As if he understood us the man cupped his hands and imitated himself downing bowls of milk vodka, a local moonshine distilled from mare's milk. We nodded.
"Yes, we know your drunk." He giggled and tilted right. A few tense moments passed in silence and than he tried to until Roxana's lead rein from her saddle. She had to slap his hand. He smiled.
"I'm going to kill Bagi, how dare he send us out on unknown horses in an unknown landscape with a total drunken weirdo." And so our trip began. Later, that night we forgave Bagi when we realized that everyone in Mongolia was drunk. It was the 800th anniversery of the great Mongolian State. The State that had stretched furthest across the earth surface. The state that gave us the postal system, freedom of religion, the market economy. So on this auspicious day the desendents of the rulers of the world got totally blasted. Bagi made a toast to the group of nine American's he was leading through the Arhanghai province for the next seven days. "This is very special." He told us. "I love you all." Than our head wrangler, a white haired man named Teya, sang a haunting song that filled the small dining space, echoing off the walls, reveberating hundred of years of pride.
The next morning Bagi was deathly hungover. "I'm going to die." He told us while sitting on his horse, hunched into his deel, looking like he might puke. We set out late, Bagi, leading us down a dirt road parrelle to towering power lines. We had three wranglers with us, Teya, the man who had sung to us all the night before, Bolt, a twentyone year old who had stayed somewhat somber and now scanned his surrondings, making sure that everyone was safe and their horses under control, and Gana, Bolt's younger brother, no more than seventeen years old. A beautiful youth, with a large and friendly smile.
