Chapter Eight

The next few days went as you can imagine. I survived the testicle soup and found it really was not that bad…if you imagined it more like Campbell’s chicken and dumplings, and had a lobotomy to rid your brain of the meaning of the word testicle. The mind works in mysterious ways.

As my training continued, I found, as I always did, that my stamina increased. So did my stubbornness. And slowly, very, very slowly, I started to understand what I needed to do. In my opinion, fighting was eighty percent mental. Every time I was thrown, I learned something. Granted, I wasn’t as good as even the most amateur wrestler, but I was beginning to understand the physics of this form of wrestling. (Psst…it’s all leverage.)

I asked Chudruk to forget the archery and horseback competitions (partly this was because I was afraid Sartre would see the horse as a compatriot in her mocking of me). It would take everything I had to get through the wrestling. And I had my first naadam in a couple of days. Trying to concentrate on two sports didn’t make much sense. All of my faculties would be needed to stay upright and avoid as much humiliation as I could. I knew I would lose my first few competitions. But the longer I stayed on my feet, the more I would learn.

The naadam was a local competition lasting only one day. These were held throughout the country, with the crowning event being the national naadam, which was three days in mid-July. I wanted to prove myself, so I started training harder. Before Yalta made it to the stream where we worked, I was already there and had completed sixty, then seventy push-ups. I could lift larger stones over my head. I even managed to catch my zazul off guard, tripping him to where he landed on one knee. It counted. Anytime you caught your opponent off balance so that a hand, knee or back hit the ground, it counted. I didn’t even gloat when I helped him up.

Of course, this also meant that I’d had a couple more evenings of airag and various questionable boiled sheep parts. But I didn’t mind that anymore. Sansar-Huu’s and Chudruk’s families were becoming my family. And I didn’t have to kill anyone to be part of it. That was very refreshing.

Everyone but a couple of teenagers traveled with me to the naadam. The smaller children promised to feed Sartre. They were fascinated with her. She was less so with them, but I threw in some fresh grass and she was in hog heaven.

Yalta had two grandsons in the competition besides me. Apparently, they did not need him as much as I did, because it seemed to me I used up most of his time. Chudruk gave me a gift-a beautiful chocolatecolored deel made by his mother for my first competition. I was grateful and told her I would try even harder not to fall, in her honor. She thought this was very funny.

Sansar-Huu surprised me with my own peaked hat. It was black and square with a sort of steeple at the top. I thanked him, feeling a little overwhelmed by the generosity of these two families.

As we all piled into Sansar-Huu’s truck, I wondered if I would see my vic, Dekker, at this naadam. I didn’t expect to. My intel said only that he would appear at the national event. And it didn’t say what he would be doing there. Would he just be a spectator, or a participant? If he was anything like me, I’d have guessed he was planning on wrestling too. He was a man of action. It would be unlike him to just sit and watch. On the other hand, he could just be curious or passing through. There really was no way of knowing why he was there, so I gave up trying.

The truck bumped along, jostling the riders in the back. I had tried to give up my passenger seat to Odgerel’s mother, but everyone insisted I sit up front. I was their guest, they explained. If I had pressed the matter, they would’ve been insulted, so I did as I was told. If I didn’t, I suspected we would have testicle soup every day for the rest of my visit.

My friend and guide pointed out the various wild-life along the way. There was so much life here. So much stark beauty. I felt at peace in this place. As I looked out the window, I tried to picture Genghis Khan and his men riding on their horses beside me as they made their way toward China or Russia, Persia or Europe, seeking conquest.

Genghis Khan was the reason for the naadams. He believed that wrestling, archery and horseback riding were the three manly games that tested his men’s mettle for the battlefield. He was a sacred son here. And his nomadic ways were still revered by the very people in this truck.

We arrived at the site of the games two hours later. Men walked around in their wrestling uniforms or carried large bows. There were horses everywhere. A few gers formed a circle in the grass, where, I was told, the wrestling games would take place. Yalta went to arrange for my competition as I removed my deel and donned my zodag and hat. As I warmed up, my thoughts went to my training. I imagined every possible action and reaction. My brain prepared to think without me. It had to be instinctive. My concentration was focused on the possibilities.

“You will wrestle seventh,” Chudruk said to me quietly.

“Do you know who?” I asked, measuring up the other athletes. There was quite a range, from short, skinny guys to men who qualified for sumo wrestling. Yalta had explained that the matchups weren’t based on fairness but randomness. So a neophyte like me could end up fighting a seasoned champion in my first match.

“Not yet. Does it matter?” my friend answered.

It did to me. I was kind of hoping to wrestle a four-year-old who’d had some cold medicine recently, but figured that was too much to ask. As to their laissezfaire attitude on matchups? That made sense. On the battlefield, you didn’t have the opportunity to pick your opponent or the luck of having to fight someone weaker or the same size as you. Why should that tradition end now just for my comfort?

The very first match was actually between Yalta’s grandson Zerleg and a favorite who had won many competitions and even qualified at the rank of arslan, or “lion.” Zerleg was a tall, thin youth about seventeen years old. His name meant “savage,” and he was anything but. From what he had told me one night, he wanted to be a poet. Wrestling was something he was doing for his grandfather’s approval. Chudruk thought he had talent.

I watched as both young men did the devekh, or “eagle dance.” They each stood at opposite ends of the circle, walking around their coaches, flapping their arms like eagles. It was a very graceful dance, an interesting introduction to a fighting competition.

Both men slapped their thighs, indicating their willingness to begin. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. This was the first time I was seeing this tradition in person. The athletes walked slowly around each other, crouched and ready for grappling. In a split second, Zerleg’s opponent reached forward and the two men were locked, hands on each other’s shoulders, each straining against the other’s strength.

I’m always surprised when people watch matches like this, or Brazilian jujitsu, and think nothing is going on. Action has come to a standstill and the men seem to be holding still. Nothing could be further from the truth. Very small, very important movements are being made, like a chess game of the flesh. You may not be able to make it out, but the grapplers are inching their way, inflicting their will in millimeters of movement. And each flicker, each strain is a physical action that must be countered or one man will be thrown.

The men stand still for so long, sometimes I start to wonder if they’ve frozen this way.

“Sometimes the bukhs will stay this way for hours,” Sansar-Huu whispered in my ear. “Sometimes a match can last all day. It usually isn’t allowed at the national level, but sometimes here…” He shrugged.