EVERY MONGOLIAN WRESTLING
MATCH BEGINS WITH A DANCE.
IN ULA ANBA ATAR, YOU’LL SEE A
WRESTLER GRACEFULLY FLAPPING HIS
ARMS IN BROAD SWEEPS, BRINGING
FORTH THE SPIRIT OF A FALCON, OR
GARUDA, THE KING OF THE BIRDS.
..........................................
Over the border in the Chinese autonomous
region of Inner Mongolia, where Danish
photographer Ken Hermann travelled to
take a series of striking photographs, that
dance might instead depict a lion or a tiger.
Regardless, the dance is fierce, an invitation
for the spirit of the great wild beasts to
join in the struggle to follow.
Bökh is an ancient sport, older than the
history books, but one that’s still integral
to Mongol culture. Genghis Khan himself,
those books suggest, was a dab hand even
as a child, and later used the practice to
keep his soldiers ready for battle in the field.
As a martial art, it combines the grapples
and throws of judo with the ritual of sumo.
Wrestlers wear janggas, thick necklaces
emblazoned with colourful fabric swatches,
each earned for a previous victory. The
strongest and most successful wrestlers
peacock through their bouts, decked out
in a rainbow of past conquests.
Matches, played on open grass, slowly shift
from the choreographed opening dances
to one longer, slower waltz in which two
men grip each other by sleeveless leather
vests. They circle, probing for the slightest
weakness. Sometimes it gets so quiet, so
still, that things grind to a tangled deadlock,
like two musicians letting silence ring as
their loudest note. Then, imperceptibly,
one of the wrestlers gives, and the dance
resumes. The rules change from region to
region, but for the most part it’s over when
any part of a wrestler’s body other than
their feet touches the ground.
“Wrestling is like going to war,” an Inner
Mongolian known as Chileger told Hermann
in the documentary Bökh, which Hermann
shot with director Gem Fletcher. “In war,
you can encounter enemies who are taller,
shorter or stronger than you. You have to
charge straight against them. Wrestling is like
that. All you think about is how to advance
further.” Chileger learned this principle at
age 12, when he began practising wrestling
moves on livestock animals before moving
on to challenge his friends.The most famous matches, and the attaining
of rank, take place at midsummer festivals
called naadam, which simply means ‘games’.
Here, urban and rural crowds flock to celebrate
the “three manly sports” of archery, horse
riding and wrestling. At a naadam, if you win
a few matches, you are deemed a falcon. If you
win the tournament, you become a lion.Hermann’s photographs were taken far from
the famous naadams of Ulaanbaatar, in the
sparse Inner Mongolian grasslands that run
from the modern metropolis of Hohhot to
the border and beyond. He was drawn to
the Inner Mongolian wrestlers because
of the subtle dierences in the ritual, and
the more intricate nature of their clothing.
“They looked more interesting [than the
Mongolian wrestlers],” he explains. “It’s the
same kind of wrestling, but the dress they
wear is dierent. It’s a little more elaborate.”Many of the wrestlers in his photographs
had gathered in the grasslands as seasonal
workers, driving and caring for the horses
that tourists from other areas of China had
come to ride. Though Hermann had expected
the bleakness of the vast open landscapes,
he was surprised by the modern reality of
the wrestlers’ lives. “The last city before the
grassland is not a small city,” he explains.
“It’s bigger than the capital of Denmark.
People think that Inner Mongolians are
50 years behind the rest of the world, but
that’s so wrong. Still, I think they’re really
proud of taking care of the culture.”Whether in Ulaanbaatar or Hohhot, life gets
relentlessly modern. Bökh, however, is a slow,
graceful dance that remains at the heart of
what it is to be Mongolian. “When a boy is
born,” Chileger says, “Mongolians make wishes
for him to grow into a wrestler. Wrestling
is the reason Mongolia’s youth dream.” •