“Gravity is a harsh mistress.”
– THE TICK
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.
I watched, transfixed, as Yalta called out to his grandson. It was obvious he was encouraging him, but I wasn’t sure how. Would I understand what he was saying to me when it was my turn? I hadn’t thought of that. I was quite familiar with the language, but if it wasn’t for Chudruk translating for his father, I would still be doing push-ups in the stream.
The old men sitting on a blanket up front never blinked, as far as I could see. These were the judges, and whatever they said would be final. Their eyes squinted against the summer sun, missing nothing. I suspected they would do better than the controversial computer at the Olympic games.
On the grass, Zerleg and his opponent continued to strain. Sweat drizzled down the side of my face. It was about sixty-five degrees here, and yet I was perspiring in nothing more than briefs and an openchested blouse. Hmmm…maybe I should wear this when I work back home. Hello, ladies!
Zerleg made an aggressive move: He slipped his right shoulder down to his opponent’s hip and made a play to sweep him off his feet. I could feel my shoulders turning rock hard with tension. For a second, Zerleg seemed to have the advantage, as both of the other man’s feet swung up off the ground. But with an amazing recovery, he managed to land flat-footed. Zerleg was so startled, he missed the fact that he was being shoved backward by the other guy’s hands. He was on the ground, stunned, as the call was made that he had lost and would not be competing any further.
The opponent threw his arms up in the air and grandstanded for a moment. Zerleg reached up for assistance and the victor scoffed and walked away. I’d seen that look on the face of many a bully over my lifetime (and, fortunately, I’d been able to kill a few of them). Yalta helped his grandson up and patted him on the back as they walked off the playing field. The boy looked miserable, but as his grandfather and coach kept whispering in his ear, he finally broke into a sad smile. This was his first match. He did very well.
I joined in congratulating him, and his spirits seemed to rise. Although I don’t think that was as much because of me and his family as because of the cluster of giggling teenage girls waving at him from across the field. Within moments he had put on his deel and was walking over to them. I had to smile. He might have lost the game, but his poetry would likely score him some points today.
The other matches were equally as tense and no less dramatic. By the time the fourth contest ended, I realized I needed to take my eyes off the field and focus on my own upcoming competition. I sat down on a blanket with Sansar-Huu’s wife, Odgerel, and closed my eyes. My thoughts were devoted exclusively to all that I had seen today and what Yalta had taught me. The sounds around me were tuned out until it was just me picturing how it would or could go down.
“Coney!” Chudruk shook me. “It is your turn.” He led me to the field to where my zazul, Yalta, stood quietly. I turned only to see who my competitor was. It was the bully who’d defeated Zerleg. As I began my eagle dance, I pictured what I had seen him do before. He was my size and weight. We would be more evenly matched than he was with the boy. But this man had experience I didn’t.
My dance ended, I crossed the field to my opponent and slapped my thighs. He grinned and did the same. Our contest had begun.
I had decided that I wouldn’t walk around him but would immediately make the first move, which I did, grabbing him by the shoulders. He gripped mine with hands that felt like steel, matching my strength. Jesus. What did they feed these guys? Was it the soup?
We strained against each other, our heads looking down at our legs for an opening…a sign of weakness. Sweat made it difficult to hold on, but I didn’t give in. My fingers and arms burned, but I knew that if I eased up the slightest bit, it would all be over. And that was when I knew that this was going to be much harder than I ever imagined.
And I had thought this was a good idea…why?