When I think of all the places I’ve traveled, gorgeous landscapes and the people I’ve met along the way come to mind. But when I think of my time in Mongolia, it isn’t vivid imagery that I remember most. It’s a physical feeling I’ll never forget.
I can’t describe much of what Mongolia looks like, but I remember the frosty air nipping at my fingertips and my face growing hot and scratched as feathers brushed against my skin.
For three hours, I watched as men and women dressed in thick furs rode horses through mountain passes, carrying giant golden eagles on their arms. They embodied strength and would have been nothing short of intimidating if they hadn’t kept breaking into song and dance whenever they dismounted.
The Mongolian Eagle Festivals are fascinating to watch. Rooted in hundreds of years of tradition, the sight of a man and his eagle accomplishing task after task is breathtaking. But once the competition ends, the celebrations begin.
I watched as a man pulled his car around, still dressed head to toe in furs. He opened all the doors and turned on the stereo. The men and women gathered around and began to sing, turning in circles around one another. Their eagles, still perched on their arms, began to flap their wings as their handlers spun around and around.
The crowd grew, and I found myself near the center. Everyone was smiling broadly, belting out the music at the top of their lungs. I closed my eyes. By then, I’d been poked by one too many feathers. But when I opened them again, I looked up to see wings stretching across my entire field of vision.
That’s what I remember most about Mongolia: the wings of eagles brushing against my face as I danced in a crowd of strangers. I didn’t even speak their language, yet we were all friends, dancing beneath the wings of eagles.
