T A B L E_T A L K Passenger goes nuts on airplane: Have you seen it happen? Join the discussion of "air rage" in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Señor Gringo By Maxine Schur An innocent encounter turns crazy for two travelers and a heartbroken, gun-toting Mexican sheriff (10/16/98) This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news (10/16/98) Herbal ecstasy By Mark Jenkins By the spoonful, a restaurant in Singapore supposedly cures everything from sexual ennui to diabetes (10/15/98) A two-wheel tour of Holland By Cynthia Gorney A vacationing family finds pleasure and peril among a nation of bicyclers (10/14/98) Waiting for Hurricane Georges By Jennifer Moses Preparing for disaster in Baton Rouge (10/13/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner S A L O N E M P O R I U M FREE! 12-ounce bag of Salon Blend with a purchase of $30 or more. While supplies last.		G O I N G   N A T I V E   I N   M O N G O L I A A horseback journey across the Mongolian steppes becomes an odyssey through time. BY JULIE VALLONE | "Chinggis! Chinggis!" The cry intrigues the Yellowheads, who shift their heads to watch the Mongolian horseman tear up the mountain on his short but scrappy steed. His arm, extended, cuts through the air with a long wooden spear. It's a Shirley MacLaine moment. "Looks like we have the warrior king himself here," I whisper to Tina, my fellow Yellowhead -- as our Mongolian guides have dubbed us Caucasian tourists. Tina concurs. It's the 13th century, and we are in Khan's army, braced at the edge of world domination. "Chinggis!" Tseye bellows once more, until his cries dissolve into raucous laughter. He slows his pony -- uh, horse -- to a feisty trot. (Mongolian horses usually stand less than 58 inches high at the withers, so they're technically ponies. Calling them ponies, however, is a dangerous breach of etiquette and may incite their proud owners to admonish -- or even beat the hell out of -- you. After all, they may be vertically challenged, but their equine ancestors did conquer the known world.) Tseye trots back toward a second wrangler, Janchiv, who sports his traditional robe, called a del, accessorized with a fedora and a perpetual cigarette butt dangling from his lips. Khan meets Sinatra. Tseye hands Janchiv the spear, which we see at closer range is not a spear at all, but the well-known uurga, a herding pole with a goatskin lasso at its end. Janchiv usually carries this pole, an observation that has inspired the Yellowheads to nickname him Uurga Man. We've grown highly attuned to his penchant for coming up behind us and tapping our horses on the rump, sending them flying forward with unsuspecting riders holding on for dear life. We're on Day 3 of our week-long horseback riding trek across the steppe, and we've already been lulled into timelessness by the khokh tenger, Mongolia's endless blue sky. Unlike Ulan Bator, Mongolia's burgeoning capital, where crossing the street is a big game of chicken, time has not had its way with the yurt-dotted landscape of the Arkhangai province. Here, a pristine, wide-open countryside and an ancient nomadic lifestyle have for the most part remained intact for millennia. Not a modem for miles. We notice a group of teenage Mongolian riders dressed in ornate dels and pointy hats descending the mountain opposite us. They're gorgeous boys with round faces, high cheekbones and stunning light brown eyes. Tseye trots over to me and points in their direction. "Moir uraldakh." Horse racing. They're headed to the county seat to partake in one of Mongolia's favorite spectator sports. I nod, thanking Tseye for the tip. He returns my appreciation with a seductive wink. "Goi." The word seems to have evaded my phrase books, but Tseye's ogle provides a hint. I review the vital stats of my pony-perched Casanova -- married with four kids, comes up to my chin, kills marmots for fun -- and reply with my most benign, perhaps-in-another-lifetime smile. Tseye snickers, clears his throat and trots off, his powerful pipes soon emitting a Mongolian folk song that echoes through the distant hills. Like many native songs honoring the landscape, this one pays tribute to Bogd Mountain, which lies just outside of Ulan Bator. The mountain is one of the country's first protected areas due to a bit of early environmental intervention by a 10th century king who forbade cutting trees or killing animals there. It's one of the marmot hunter's favorite numbers. At the conclusion of his rousing performance, Tseye twists his lips and elicits an eerie, tonal vibration, something you might expect from a large, pissed-off, mutant fly. Throat singing. We don't know what it is, how it's done or when the tentacle is going to come flying out of Tseye's mouth, but we're impressed. Tseye notes our admiration, beams and breaks his horse into a canter. "Tchoo! Tchoo!" he shouts, bidding his horse to accelerate. "Chew! Chew!" cry the Yellowheads in pitiful attempts to mimic the command. "Oh God, here we go again," says Tina, voice tinged with fear as our horses surge into a lightning-fast trot, herd mentality overtaking any concern for their riders' wishes. N E X T+P A G E | Your horse knows what you're thinking - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - PHOTO © LINDSAY GRAHAM