We pulled off to the side of the road and ambled up a rocky path towards the foot of the
mountains. It was mere minutes until we set eyes on the Ikh Tamir Mini Naadam. Children were running everywhere, playing makeshift carnival games, dodging their elders on horseback as if each was competing in his or her own unique obstacle course. Vendors sold everything from traditional threads to khuushuur dumplings, and old friends piled into Gers (yurts) to sip from jugs of Airag, fermented horse’s milk that serves as the national drink over the summer. There was a certain aura about this place, from the moment you sat down on the rough and well-worn grass, you immediately felt like you are part of something special.
The announcer took to the microphone. The wrestling was about to begin.
We took our seats on the border of the ring, which had been formed within a circle of spectator vehicles. The locals watching from their cars were quick to blow their horns at any spectators caught standing. We learned to stay low and out of their line of sight.
