Limba writes about Naadam
13 July. Naadam is over and the city is quiet again; half of Ulaanbaatar seems to be asleep. I sit at the kitchen table and write about these three days for Oyuunaa, my teacher. She wants it in Mongolian, of course.
I try to use everything this week has given me: the wrestler who won, the horses that were going to race, the children who ride, the spectators, the judges, the waiting until the final.
Nomin reads over my shoulder and corrects only two words. I am prouder of that than of anything else this summer.