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They are shamans—called by spirits to heal bodies, minds, and souls—and their numbers are growing. 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. Please let the golden cuckoo guide me to the spirit. For Nergui the noon hour is the perfect time to go on an otherworldly ride. 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. The Darhad also practice shamanism in one of its purest forms, as an integral part of their lives. Getting here involved a jolty plane ride from the Mongolian capital, Ulaanbaatar, followed by a bone-shaking hour trip in a rickety Soviet-era minibus over frozen rivers, icy mountain passes, and snow-packed tundra. He made giddyap 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. Suddenly he collapsed. Two helpers caught him, and he gave a wolflike howl. Then he cackled like the villain in a horror movie. 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. Then it was my turn; I kneeled next to him. Wherever you have gone, you have given things to people, and this put a smile on their face. Other specific, cryptic comments followed. Take these juniper twigs and burn them in your home. Carry it in your right pocket—it will protect you from harm. He began to exit his trance, gyrating and flailing his arms. His eyes were full of fear or was it pain? His wife, Chimgee—a wiry woman in a gray-blue del and green kerchief—approached him and put a lit cigarette in his mouth. Still shaking, he chewed it, burning end and all, and swallowed. Eventually Nergui calmed down. A second cigarette was offered, which he smoked this time. Chimgee smiled at her husband. Shamans believe that unseen spirits permeate the world around us, act upon us, and govern our fates. By turns doctors, priests, mystics, psychologists, village elders, oracles, and poets, they are the designated negotiators with this hidden reality, and they occupy an exalted position within their societies. There is no precise definition of shamanism. Beliefs, practices, and rituals vary from person to person, she told me, because the path to becoming a shaman is above all a highly individual one. Many shamans work alone, while others join large urban organizations that act as trade unions; the Golomt Center for Shamanic Studies in Ulaanbaatar claims around 10, members. Most shamans in Central Asian countries, such as Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan, where Islam predominates, regard themselves as devout Muslims, and their rites are infused with the mystic traditions of Sufism. Swathed in virginal white smocks, they conduct their rituals at Muslim holy sites, and every ceremony includes extensive prayers from the Koran. In Ulaanbaatar I met a shaman, Zorigtbaatar Banzar—an outsize, Falstaffian man with a penetrating stare—who has created his own religious institution: the Center for Shamanism and Eternal Heavenly Sophistication, which unites shamanism with world faiths. I accepted the cup with my right hand—to receive anything with your left can be a grievous insult—and before drinking, I made an offering to the spirits in three directions. I lightly dipped my fingers in the liquid, flicked a few drops into the air and then toward the ground, and finally dabbed my forehead. The shamanic calling is usually passed down from one generation to the next. But, he added, a shamanic gift is just the beginning. All shamans must undergo an intense apprenticeship, learning the timeworn practices of their vocation. During the Soviet era, all religion, including the shamanic tradition, was suppressed. Many shamans died in labor camps. By the time Nergui started practicing, the worst of the purge was over, but shamanism was still forbidden, and shamans had to perform in secret. The first one was at home, and we would have somebody sit by the door to see if anyone was coming. The second place was hidden in the mountains. Then around , things changed, and we could practice freely. By this point Nergui was looking more hangdog than ever, and he seemed gripped by a deep melancholy. Shamanism is above all about serving the community, he told me. Clouds of gnats and the smell of boiled mutton hung in the air. The sheep had been ceremonially slaughtered and quartered and was simmering away in a massive pot. Chanting and beating on circular animal-skin drums, the shamans sat in a line facing the holy site, Bukha-Noyon, a treeless patch on the mountainside said to house holy spirits, including the male ancestor spirit of the same name. In front of them were tables bearing candles, multicolored sweets, tea, vodka, and other spirit offerings. Vendors sold buuza, succulent Buryat dumplings, from the back of SUVs, and children played in the parched grass. Above Bukha-Noyon two eagles circled—indicating, I was told, that the spirits were descending. I stood behind the shamans in a half circle of about onlookers. The crowd was mixed: ethnic Russians, members of the local Buryat community, and a number of Westerners. Oleg Dorzhiyev, one of the shamans, hunched forward in concentration as his chanting and pounding accelerated to fever pitch. All at once he stopped and stood up. The crowd fell silent. A spirit had entered him. Dorzhiyev approached one side of the group. He walked slowly, mechanically, and his breathing sounded labored. People averted their gaze. A helper brought the shaman-spirit a stool to sit on, and a crowd of about 20 people massed around him, some kneeling, others prostrating themselves on the ground. They asked him questions. Why am I unsuccessful in business? The shaman responded in a low, gravelly voice. Around us other shamans were also entering trances, stumbling around and holding court. The scene brought to mind a Siberian version of Night of the Living Dead. Near me, a shaman with horns on the top of his headdress channeled a spirit that chain-smoked and demanded copious amounts of vodka. Another spoke in a high-pitched voice, as if possessed by a woman. Helpers led him a few feet away and made him jump up and down. He removed his headdress and blinked in the summer sun. Trance over. I met with Dorzhiyev later at his spartan, dimly lit office in the Tengeri headquarters on the outskirts of Ulan-Ude, the sedate capital of Buryatiya. Outside the low wooden building stood a huge sculpture shaped like a Christmas tree and bedecked with blue banners, moose horns, and a bear skull. And when it comes even closer, you see who it is, that it is a spirit. Someone who lived long ago. And the spirit takes over your body. And you feel such a tiredness—it takes a long time for you to recover. Before he became a shaman, Dorzhiyev was a lawyer working for the Justice Ministry—and from his reasonable, unruffled manner, this was easy to imagine. The problems persist until the person finally relents and picks up the shamanic mantle. During the ritual the spirits revealed that Dorzhiyev was one of the select. He has been a practicing shaman for eight years now, and the pains have ceased. Dorzhiyev helped found Tengeri in because he wanted to feel part of a community. The organization has recently come under heavy criticism. The shamanic community, it should be said, is riven by factions and competing groups, so some of the ill will might be attributed to jealousy. While I was with him, he seemed to take his professional responsibilities very seriously, and I never saw him ask clients for money. He; his wife, Tatyana; and their two sons and a daughter live in a modest, two-room apartment in a building Tatyana manages. The very idea of a shamanic organization strikes many observers as odd—heresy even—since shamans have traditionally been a rural phenomenon, working independently in their villages and nomadic tribes. Shamanism represents more than spiritual rebirth and good business. It is also a catalyst for the post-Soviet cultural revival among the native peoples of Buryatiya. Buryats are a Mongol people who also practice Buddhism and Christianity. About years ago the Russian Empire swallowed them in its inexorable expansion across the Eurasian landmass. In Buryatiya today Buryats make up less than a third of the population. They stood to the side and, almost imperceptibly, murmured invocations, sprinkling milk and vodka into a small campfire. There were no trances, no spiritual fireworks, just the whisper of prayers offered and the sizzle of liquid meeting fire. Next to me was Petr Azhunov, a hyperkinetic sprite of a man with a ponytail and wispy beard who is both a shaman and an anthropologist. For him shamanism is as much a political statement as a religious movement—an effort to restore a Buryat sense of nationhood after Russian hegemony. Under communism, Azhunov said, rituals like this sometimes had to be held in the dead of night. Still, many local communist officials tolerated shamanism, and some even visited shamans. Azhunov is a traditionalist who believes that women should be barred from certain shamanic rites. A few hundred yards away at another sacred spot, Carolyn Drake and I encountered three female shamans conducting their own ritual. Their leader, Lyudmila Lozovna Lavrentiyeva, wearing a yellow scarf, red pants, and jangling necklaces, laughed at the idea that only men could be shamans. She gave birth to a boy who became a shaman. Leaving Baikal, I thought about something Oleg Dorzhiyev had told me. In shamanic thinking, the universe is a unified whole—a giant network in which we humans are linked to mountains and lakes, just as we are to each other and to our ancestors. And our love for them is strong. This is the love of children for their parents, and parents for their children and grandchildren. And this energy never disappears. I was moved by this idea, just as I had been stirred by other aspects of shamanism—its strong sense of individualism, deep respect for nature, and connection to the past. At its worst shamanism is quackery, and potentially dangerous, as when I saw a shaman tie a cloth strip tightly around the head of a man who may have suffered a skull fracture. Some shamans claim that they can cure cancer, which strains credulity. Adherents swear that it is genuine, recounting life transformations and miraculous cures. In author Rupert Isaacson and his wife, Kristin, took their five-year-old son, Rowan, who has autism, to a Tsaatan shaman in Mongolia named Ghoste. And when he came back, he was without those three dysfunctions. But I still have that wolf anklebone the shaman Nergui gave me—just in case. All rights reserved. A novice shaman makes an offering of milk to the spirits at her initiation outside the Mongolian capital of Ulaanbaatar. Masters of Ecstacy They are shamans—called by spirits to heal bodies, minds, and souls—and their numbers are growing. By David Stern. Photographs by Carolyn Drake. This story appears in the December issue of National Geographic magazine. You May Also Like. United States Change.

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Summary of events for the week of May , May 6: There will be a meeting of parties and groups of the State Great Khural. May 6: The first Conference of Morin Khuur a traditional Mongolian instrument Horse-Head Fiddle players, researchers, inheritors, and crafters will be held. May 9: To enhance the tourism industry's preparedness for the upcoming season , a four-day training program will be offered. Led by expert teachers from Sejong University, South Korea , the program will focus on hospitality services. May 8: The regular meeting of the Cabinet will be held at the State Palace. May 6: In cooperation with Buryatia, Russia, Selenge aimag will be selling fruit tree seedlings, fertilizers, tools, and equipment imported from Buryatia at a sales event in the central square of Sukhbaatar soum of the aimag. May Public Tree Planting will be organized in Dundgobi aimag. This Week in Mongolia Society. Follow montsame. Related news. This Week in Mongolia Summary of events for the week of October , This Week in Mongolia 20 hours. One Billion Trees: World White Cane Safety Day 6 days. International Development Finance Corporation 6 days. Total of Mongolian Basketball League Begins 8 days. This Week in Mongolia 8 days. President of Turkmenistan Welcomed President of Mongolia 9 days. Mongolia Exported 5. Access count Today 16, Politics Economy Society Photo Video. O Box , B. Jigjidjav St-8, Chingeltei dist, Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, info montsame.

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