The World Nomad Games (At a Glance)

On September 5th, I arrived in Astana bagless and approaching 30 hours without sleep. The airline left my luggage in Istanbul, but I was too excited to be consumed by the inconvenience. I ventured into the city, knowing I still had a camera, passport, and a semi-operational human body.

Kazakhstan is the birthplace of tulips and apples. It's inhabited by over 120 ethnic groups. Many scientists believe horses were first domesticated by the Botai culture 5,500 years ago in what is now North Kazakhstan.

Astana is the world's newest and coldest capital city. It's a city of two worlds: one Kazakh and one Russian. Soviet-era customs clash with a new order, blending Russian chill with Kazakh kindness.

I heard the Russian language more than Kazakh, and Soviet-era buildings dominate the landscape on the North side of the Yessil River. On the southern bank, you will find an ultra-modern city with massive structures funded by oil and built by Chinese developers. A few buildings look plucked straight from the Roman Forum or Sheikh Zayed Road in Dubai.

I was there for the 5th World Nomad Games, a sporting and cultural event based on age-old practices of nomadic peoples in Central Asia. I first learned of the games in 2018 when I stumbled across an article by travel writer Kien Lam. Never did I imagine I would be able to attend, let alone cover the event as a member of the media.

About six months ago, I decided I would do all I could to secure press access to the event. In July, I bought my plane ticket and waited impatiently for an answer from the media team. I began meditating on it daily, passing images of the games through my mind—images that would ultimately be so similar to the ones shot with my camera in Astana that, at one point, I just threw my head back and audibly yelled, "HOLY SH*T" to the sprawling sky above the steppe.

The event is the Olympics of Central Asia but with far more danger and fewer medical tents. There were 2800 competitors from 89 countries. Men grapple from horseback, prying one another from their horses. Master archers shoot arrows at targets in rapid succession and with unfathomable precision (from horseback). Men ride horses at full sprint, plucking bags of coins from the ground, hoping not to be trampled should they slip off.

The final of Kok-Boru, a fiercely competitive game similar to polo but played with a goat carcass, cascaded into an all-out brawl between the Kazakh and Kyrgyz teams as the president looked on from the stands.

The real beauty was tucked between the yerts of the "Ethno-aul" village. The real magic was women dancing in the dirt fields at golden hour. It was a man talking to his closest companion—a golden eagle. It was groups of performers laughing when I stumbled into a mud pit, only to reflect my excitement when I "got the shot." Or groups of children mounting the winning horse.

It was a ride home from strangers when I was stranded. "Taste the American freedom!" the driver yelled as he went full Tetris mode through rush hour traffic in his BMW.

On the final night of the event, after the final arrow had been shot and the last eagle had landed on a hunter's arm, I grabbed a plate of noodles and collapsed against a yurt. Soon after, a handful of Kazakhs plopped down on the ground beside me, perhaps because they simply could not let a visitor eat alone.

We began talking. One was taken back by my adoration for her country.

“You shouldn’t be surprised. This place is magic. I don’t know how else to put it.”

“Kehmet. Thank you,” she said.

“Is this horse meat, by the way?” I asked.

“No, it’s beef. Why?”

“Oh, I grew up with horses. It would be a bit strange.”

“Well, it’s not like we ride the same horses we eat. Hey, nice ride! Eat you later.”

I busted out laughing, choking on a gob of pan-fried noodles.

I thanked them and made my way for the gates, eying the sun over the fields and a congregation of mosquitos, illuminated with a golden glow. For a brief moment of enchantment, I didn't despise those blood suckers.

I walked reluctantly, weighing the tragedy of only having one life and the honor of ever having one to live at all.

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