Mongolia -

he stands of Ulaan Baatar's National  Stadium are awash with blue, red and maroon robes. Archers snap bows, brass bands play, and the air is saturated with the pungent odour of mutton, the national dish (the older and tougher, the better). Yet all eyes are focused on the field, where scores of burly men dance in ill-fitting leather bikini briefs, flapping their arms and hooting wildly.

This is Naadam, an annual festival which brings crowds from the farthest reaches of Mongolia to its capital. It's short for Eriin Gurvan Naadam, meaning the 'Three Manly Games' – a kind of nomadic Olympics comprising archery, horse riding and wrestling. Held annually around National Day, July 11-13, Naadam brings the steppes to a standstill. True, not much braking is required as life in Mongolia is hardly fast-paced. Still, businesses close, picnic sacks are prepared, and a fair share of the population gleefully packs the ger (round felt tent) into the back of a Medieval-era wagon, hitches the family yak, and begins the long hike to the national celebrations.

So it has been for 700 years. Back then, Genghis Khan and his Mongol hordes had carved out the world's largest empire, from Europe to the Sea of Japan. Naadam celebrates the skills that won it. Though it was repressed during decades of Soviet alignment, the spirit of Nadaam never died, even if it meant little more than a few homemade games of chance with a cup of soup or satchel of instant coffee as a prize.

Now a revitalised Naadam seems a vital link to old glory. The uniting of the nine tribes of Mongolia under Genghis Khan is still remembered when wrestlers dance around the Nine Yak Tails before and after every match.

Admittedly, skydivers circle the National Stadium at the beginning of the festival, and a huge musical extravaganza follows three days later. But sandwiched between are two solid days of uniquely Mongolian sporting events, barely changed for centuries. Around the stadium, too, the festival spirit retains the simplicity of the countryside. Men drag pool tables to the grounds, and games of chance compete with the trinket stalls. Mutton kebabs roast on grills. Grandmothers in long Mongolian robes spoil children with popcorn, cotton candy and balloons.

Naadam kicks off with great pageantry at Sukhbaatar Square, like Moscow's Red Square, only twice the size. Men in Genghis-era gear prance on lavishly groomed horses. Guards march alongside in smart red, black and blue uniforms, like toy soldiers in the unique, pointy-spire Mongolian hat.

The parade moves to the outskirts of the city, where the National Stadium is already filled with raucous wrestling fans. After the playing of the national anthem, hundreds of burly Mongols strip off and strut around the field, screaming and waving their arms madly like massive birds. This is the eagle dance, and it precedes every bout.

Diehard wrestling fans can sate their appetite for the sport as 512 wrestlers square off in elimination matches running 15 hours per day until only two remain. Wrestlers are massive tree-trunks of manhood, with rolls of muscle or fat exploding over bikini trunks, either blue or pink. They wear leather boots, a kind of open-front leather vest and the traditional pointed Mongolian hat.

Long on ceremony, Mongolian wrestling is wretchedly short on action, at least to non-Mongol observers. "Supremely boring," says one Canadian. "Clearly, American football isn't the slowest sport on Earth," adds a British tourist. Wrestlers circle in slow motion, punctuated by endless breaks for conferences with coaches. Mongols claim that it's all about strategy. False moves are critical, since the first wrestler who touches the ground with any part of his body except the hand or foot is out. One semi-final match lasts two hours, with perhaps ten minutes of activity. "A great battle," enthuses one fan, adding that past matches have lasted four hours.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the capital, archers with equipment that predates Robin Hood aim at a line of 360 leather rings set between two rows of dirt mounds. Men shoot from a distance of 75 metres, women from 60 metres. They endeavour to barely clear the first mound and pierce the targets. A scattering of red rings offer bonus points. Lest armchair archers think it easy, be aware that Mongol bows have no sights. Arrows, made of willow sticks and vulture feathers, are tipped with huge hexahedral ends made of roughly-carved bone. The strings are taut bull tendons.

Perhaps most spectator-friendly of the three manly sports is the horse racing, which draws thousands to the rolling hills outside Ulaan Baatar. Many credit Genghis' cavalry for speeding the pace of civilisation, since fear of attack sent walls rising around cities, and crops became more collectively cultivated. Everywhere, that is, except here. After conquering much of the world, Mongols retreated to their nomadic roots, compact but comfortable gers, and magnificent horses.

The crowd is part of the show. Watching enormous camps rise or disappear in hours is a quick study in the nomadic sensibility. Wandering the felt-covered huts also provides instant introduction to the hospitality that is a constant across this rugged land. Mongols survive by scraping a living from unimaginably harsh conditions – the country claims the world's northernmost desert and southernmost permafrost. People typically own little other than the vital livestock that provides food, fuel and clothing, and the few possessions that fit in the wagon alongside the ger. Yet visitors to any home, even in the most destitute part of Mongolia, will instantly be offered tea, food and a cup of arag, the national tipple of fermented mare's milk. On my first visit over a decade ago, my Mongolian friend, Ariunbat told me, "There are no strangers on the steppes."

Nor are there many at the horse races. Crowds overflow temporary stands at the starting line. No problem here. Spectators simply watch from their own horse. A line of sturdy Mongolian steeds stretches over a kilometre, a spectacle in itself. Mongols keep few changes of clothes, but for Naadam everyone is decked out in finery. Food is passed around and soon, inevitably, the arag flows.

The races are breathtaking displays of skill and courage, with children as young as six participating in up to 30-kilometre dashes across the plains. Some tikes can barely straddle a saddle, but many ride bareback, smooth as salmon in a stream. In a land where horses outnumber people, it's no surprise that children learn to ride before they can walk. Among thousands of spectators lining the remote track are scores of toddlers confidently astride their small but sturdy steeds.

Horses also figure in much of the pageantry and ritual of Naadam. Winners are toasted in arag. Even city-dwellers, who otherwise scoff at superstition, will come to the races in the hope of slapping the rear of winning horses – the sweat will bring them luck all year round.