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By Rolf Potts

Nov. 9, 1999 | ULAN BATOR, Mongolia -- The horse, which had collapsed 300 meters short of the finish line, was in its final spasms of death when a khaki-vested American stumbled up and started snapping pictures. Bearded and rotund, with gray-flecked hair and a bulky rack of photographic equipment, he struck a vivid contrast to the Mongolians crowded in around him.

Once he'd fired through an entire roll of film, the man looked back at me sheepishly. "Sorry to be so vulgar," he said, slurring his words a bit. "This just looks like something that needs to be photographed."

"It's your world," I told him.

Ten meters beyond the restraining cord, a white-frocked pair of Mongolian veterinarians jogged up to assess the scene. The horse's rider, an exhausted-looking 10-year-old with lather-slicked legs, stood by tearfully.

Beyond the dying horse, the broad, grassy plain hummed with other child riders spurring their horses toward the finish line. Thousands of Naadam Festival spectators crowded the final stretch for half a mile in both directions. Purple thunderheads rumbled above -- lending a grand, vaguely sinister air to the scene. I watched as one of the veterinarians plunged a syringe into the horse's throat.

"It's my world," the American went on, "but normally I wouldn't do this. It's all that Iraq in me that's taking the photos."

"Iraq?"

"Aaaaiiiiiraaak," he said, drunkenly drawing out his vowels. "Arak. It's the Mongolian national drink. Complete strangers have been coming up all day and pouring it down my throat. It's like Mexicans with tequila, only arak is made from fermented mare's milk, so it's like getting drunk on yogurt."

"Can't say that sounds too appealing."

"Well, Genghis Khan drank it every day, and he conquered the world."

"Right. Kind of like Michael Jordan and Gatorade."

The American smirked. "Sure," he said. "But don't say that too loud. People take Genghis Khan really seriously around here. They see him as kind of a combination between Jesus and Napoleon and Tarzan. He's father of their country."

"Sure," I said. "The Mongolian George Washington."

"Yeah, but Genghis Khan pretty much makes George Washington look like a wig-wearing sissy, doesn't he?" The bearded American paused and leaned in confidentially. "But then, George Washington isn't the one who got his balls cut off."

For a moment, I forgot about the dying horse. "What do you mean Genghis Khan had his balls cut off?"

"I mean Genghis Khan had his balls cut right off. Common knowledge."

"I've never heard that in my life. Who cut his balls off?"

"I think one of his concubines did it. Kind of a Lorena Bobbit thing. I don't know the details; I just know that it's a fact. If you don't believe me, ask around. Someone here is bound to know the whole story."

On the hoof-trampled plain in front of us, the horse had stopped its spasms. The veterinarians waved in a front-end loader, which rumbled up and unceremoniously plunked the dead horse into a big Russian garbage truck. Unable to resist, the bearded photographer loaded another roll of film and jogged off to capture the best angle.

After watching the garbage truck drive off with the stiffening horse in the back, it was several hours before I could shake the macabre image from my mind.

The mysterious question of Genghis Khan's missing testicles, on the other hand, nagged me for weeks.

Next page | Careening tour buses and drunken amateur photographers