Nergui stood in the center of the room, swaying from side to side, chanting, “Great sky, please come here.” His eyes were closed, and he gripped a cluster of multicolored cloth strips. His voice was rough and the melody repetitive, like an ancient ballad: “Oh, great blue sky, which is my blanket, come to me.”
Nergui is a boo, as Mongolians call male shamans. He believes himself to be an intermediary between the visible world and the hidden world of spirits and gods. Mystical figures like him are reviving old traditions throughout Mongolia, Central Asia, and Siberia and finding a receptive audience for their charismatic rituals. After meditation and chants Nergui moved into a trance, the moment when the spirit from the invisible realm would be free to enter his body. “Oh, my spirit, I would ride ten Mongolian cows to see you. Please let the golden cuckoo guide me to the spirit.”
Eight of us had gathered around, sitting on stools and metal-framed beds pushed up against the walls of Nergui’s one-room wooden cabin. Outside, the temperature on this mid-November day was 10°F. It was just after midday, the “horse hour,” according to the Chinese zodiac clock. For Nergui the noon hour is the perfect time to go on an otherworldly ride.
“Sky of the wolf, please help me. A man in need, with a heart of peace, has come. Great sky, please come here.”
Nergui is a slight, unassuming man with a hangdog look that reminded me of the actor Walter Matthau. He was unshaven and dressed in a dull brown del—a traditional Mongolian robe—with a yellow belt and a blue silk sash around his neck. A pair of faded blue corduroys peeked out from under his robe. On his feet were specially made reindeer-skin shaman boots.
He’s a Darhad, one of the ethnic groups indigenous to northern Mongolia, next to the Russian border. Numbering some 20,000, the Darhad have largely preserved their traditional nomadic lifestyle: Nergui’s day job, so to speak, is taking care of his cows, goats, sheep, and horses. The Darhad also practice shamanism in one of its purest forms, as an integral part of their lives. The region’s remoteness helps explain why little has changed. Getting here involved a jolty plane ride from the Mongolian capital, Ulaanbaatar, followed by a bone-shaking 13-hour trip in a rickety Soviet-era minibus over frozen rivers, icy mountain passes, and snow-packed tundra.
Nergui’s chanting picked up speed as his swaying became more like a dance. He madegiddyap sounds and whipping motions with his strips of cloth, as if spurring on a horse.
Juniper twigs burning in a cast-iron stove gave off a fragrant scent; the smoke is believed to attract spirits. Blankets draped on the walls to keep in the heat made the room seem even smaller, and in the corner opposite the door was a collection of amulets, figurines, colored scarves, bits of cloth, and other talismans—a shrine to Nergui’s guardian spirits.
Suddenly he collapsed. Two helpers caught him, and he gave a wolflike howl. Then he cackled like the villain in a horror movie. “The spirit has entered him,” Zaya Oldov, my guide and translator, whispered.
They brought him to the back of the room, and he sat down, cross-legged, eyes still shut. One by one the members of our group approached him. The shaman—or the spirit speaking through him—described each person’s past and doled out advice.
Then it was my turn; I kneeled next to him. “You were a very quiet person when you were young.” Nergui’s voice was deeper now, more assured. “You love animals. Wherever you have gone, you have given things to people, and this put a smile on their face.” All this was true, but so general it could apply to almost anyone.
He continued, “You have a unique mark on your right side, under your armpit.” (Not true—my skin there is blemish free.) Other specific, cryptic comments followed. “A man with the sign of the dog and the sheep will soon help you.” Nergui then concluded: “By my power I will look after your family and your loved ones. Take these juniper twigs and burn them in your home.” After I took them, he reached for something and held out his hand. “Here is the anklebone of a wolf. Carry it in your right pocket—it will protect you from harm.”
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