Tuva, a republic in Siberia, is a land without railways and, until recently, without cell phones. A place that seems almost mythical, it came into existence due to a geographical error.

This error occurred in 1727 during the signing of the Burinsky Treaty on Borders. Russia marked its boundary along the Sayan Mountains, while China claimed its territory up to the Tannu-Ola mountain range. As a result, a neutral zone spanning several hundred square kilometers was unintentionally created. It was only in 1921, under the auspices of Tsarist Russia, that Red Army troops entered Tuva—then known as a “no man’s land.” This led to the proclamation of a people’s republic in the heart of Asia, marking the birth of the first independent Tuvan state—the Land of the Red Shamans.

Today, this enigmatic republic is often mentioned in connection with the Minister of Emergency Situations—a distinguished native of Tuva—whose appointment is seen as a way to tame and prevent the destructive forces of nature and spirits. After all, who could be better suited for such a role than someone from a land where shamanism is still the official state religion?

Shaman Saylyk-ool, the religious adviser to the president of Tuva, constantly utters cryptic phrases as he waves burning juniper branches around my head. The pungent smell of smoldering grass mixes with the sour stench of fermented dairy, the base for arak—the local alcoholic brew used both for pleasure and religious rituals. The combination induces a sense of lightheadedness, making conversations feel almost revelatory.

The shaman’s home—his “reception” room—is an experience in itself. A massive painting by a local artist, The Shaman’s Ritual, or the Rite of Fire, dominates one wall. Next to it, a portrait of the Dalai Lama, seemingly torn from a Chinese calendar, hangs in quiet defiance. Along the walls, mounted on special brackets, is an “exhibit” of animal skulls—both familiar and unfamiliar—each with gaping mouths and unnervingly perfect teeth. At the center of the room sits a grand wooden chair covered in deerskin, its armrests fashioned from snarling wolf heads. In this imposing seat, the shaman presides, receiving visitors. He speaks in Russian.

Now it is my turn.

“The absence of faith is your faith,” Saylyk-ool begins, feeding more incense into the burner. “That is not atheism. Atheism is also faith—a faith in godlessness, a faith against God. I am talking about something different. There was a time when God was present in your churches and the spirit lived in every person. But now, you don’t believe—not just in God, but in anything. You don’t believe the plane you fly in will reach its destination safely, that the train won’t derail, that the car won’t tumble into the abyss. You don’t believe in the spirits of things. And because you don’t believe, you are afraid. Fear is the absence of faith. Disaster will come when the last of you stops believing that the Moon and the Sun will rise.”

He rolls his eyes skyward and continues to wave the smoldering incense, as if addressing not me, but a lost soul.

“The plane I flew in and the car I drove hardly inspire confidence, let alone faith,” I reply. “The mountains Roerich admired are simply beautiful—not divine. The forces of nature are, more often than not, destructive. Your words may hold truth, but only within the confines of this room, surrounded by skulls and smoke. Isn’t there something else that people believe in—something more concrete?”

“Human principles are always the same: soul, birth, and death,” he says. *”A person can lose his shadow—the ‘gray soul’ that connects him to other spirits. When that happens, the spirits take away the ‘main soul’—the essence of a person. A man who has lost his essence can go on living, but not for long. His soul has already been torn apart by spirits.

A person must live where he was born. That is where he must die. This cycle is determined by Nature. One’s homeland gives strength. Every two years, I return to the mountain of the Yellow Lion, the place of my birth. It is sacred ground. There, I speak with the spirits and ask them for strength. And then, I pass that power on to others.

Saylyk-ool was born in 1947 into the family of the hereditary shaman Sadu Pasha. Not every member of a shamanic lineage can become a shaman. One may be chosen collectively by the community, or a shaman may recognize special qualities and signs in their descendant. Saylyk-ool bore such a sign— as a child, his skull was covered with numerous lumps and ulcers, which still remain. These were said to have appeared after his grandfather, a shaman, touched his head and declared: “At 45, you will begin summoning the spirits. Until then, there will be darkness.” Soon afterward, the grandfather was arrested for his religious beliefs and died in Krasnoyarsk prison.

“A true shaman is a chosen one. From childhood, their nature can be recognized through their behavior and actions. A shaman and their abilities should not be hidden. When I was only three years old, I still couldn’t speak and could barely crawl, yet I took a copper washbowl and a stick, began drumming, rolled my eyes, and screamed. The whole village was terrified and recognized me as a shaman. But they were forced to conceal my gift—even from myself—when I grew older. I drank my mother’s milk until the age of six, and at seven, I finally began walking on two legs. At nine, I was sent to school, and that was when I began seeing spirits—or devils, as they were called at the time. I thought everyone could see them, just as I did. But when I realized this was not the case, I fell silent. Only occasionally did I give people advice: ‘Don’t go there, don’t do that.'”

We traveled together to the Yellow Lion Mountain to draw strength, and once again, I had to observe the ritual of “sacrifice.” This time, the offering was banknotes from the Bank of Russia, which I handed over—not directly, but through an intermediary and in the absence of the shaman himself. As it was explained to me, this was not out of fear of bribery but rather a ritual meant to preserve the “spiritual connection” between the shaman and the recipient. As someone from another world, I understood well that one must give and receive payment for work. However, I struggled to grasp the logic behind the ritual, the idea of a spiritual relationship—I could only see it as a form of religious extortion.

Another curious moment was when our driver, a young Tuvan man whose dream was to travel to Moscow just to watch The Lord of the Rings, was not allowed to attend the ceremony. In temperatures of -30°C (-22°F), he stood obediently on the riverbank, far from the fire, perhaps admiring the sunset.

“You may only walk where I show you. Do not cross the line. If you do, the spirits will take hold of you. If you don’t understand this now, you will later. Do not speak to me—just do as I say.”

These were the final instructions from the presidential shaman.

The Ritual

At sunset, Saylyk-ool began his mysterious yet simple preparations. First, he lit the incense burner and arranged juniper twigs for the upcoming fire.

The fragrant balm spread through the air with surprising speed. Then, he took out a wooden horse with a horn on its forehead and showed it to Yellow Lion while making a strange sound. Next, a wolf’s skull appeared in his hands; he clapped its jaws together and seemed pleased with the behavior of the former wolf. After that, he produced a bottle of Arak along with an assortment of food, ranging from sausage to candies, displaying each item to Yellow Lion.

Finally, the shaman set the wood ablaze. All of this took place in absolute silence. It was as if nature itself had been hushed—not a single sound, not even a bird. Stillness. Only the crackling of burning sticks broke the quiet, along with the occasional eerie sounds the shaman made, something between a “woo-woo-woo” and a “ho-ho-ho.” After another round of sighing and muttering, he reached into his bag and pulled out his shamanic costume. The last item he retrieved was a tambourine. He carefully unwrapped it, stroked it with his hand, and placed it near the fire, as if to warm the frozen skin so it wouldn’t crack during the ritual.

At that moment, the shaman began to “speak” with the fire. What they were discussing was impossible to tell, but Saylyk-ool’s tone left no doubt—he was either swearing or speaking in a raised voice, repeatedly gesturing toward Yellow Lion. Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, he suddenly leaped up, grabbed the tambourine, and began a frantic performance of the “shaman’s dance.”

Then, all at once, a massive flock of black birds erupted from Yellow Lion Mountain. With harsh croaks and the rustling of wings, they flashed above the shaman and disappeared into the sky. He shouted louder, pounded the tambourine with greater intensity, rolled his eyes back, and fell to his knees—his cries morphing into the howl of a wolf or a dog. To an outsider unfamiliar with shamanism, the sight was undeniably eerie.

After completing his sacred movements in accordance with ancient rules, the shaman approached me, poured some Arak into his palm, and splashed it onto my face. This did little to lift my spirits or strengthen me—perhaps that’s why he poured me half a glass of Tuvan vodka, handed it over, and said, “Your medicine.”

I had no doubts about this “medicine” and drank it immediately. The taste was anything but ordinary. It wasn’t even about the alcohol—it was a terrible mixture of sour milk and herbs, with a scent reminiscent of Russian moonshine. Only out of respect for the ritual did I suppress my natural urge to… well, react.

“Now go away,” the shaman commanded. “I must be alone.”

I had no choice but to join our driver, who still stood silently by the river, staring into the black mist. What he saw there—the shaman’s tambourine or perhaps the “rings of the lord”—I had no desire to know.

Since ancient times, the Sayan Arak drink, also known as milk vodka, has been considered a sacred beverage, consumed not only by humans but also offered to spirits as a form of alms. However, milk vodka holds little value in the spiritual realm, unlike plant-based hallucinogens, which ancient civilizations believed possessed magical properties for both spirits and humans alike. Among shamans, it is believed that drinking Arak—and sometimes hallucinogens—serves as a bridge, a way to connect the human and the sacred worlds.

Saylyk-ool returned, visibly elated. For the first time since I met him, a smile never left his face. It turned out my ritual was not yet complete.

“The spirits said: you are a good man and haven’t lost your main soul yet. It’s your shadow only, your “gray soul”, that got lost in the Kingdom of the Dead. I asked the spirits – they will find it, and we will return your shadow and leave something in return to the spirits… Now look at the moon – this is our father. The father of all the shamans in the world. Bow to him three times… Now look at the Pleiades – this is our judge. He has the right to pardon or punish. Bow to him too. The big bear protects your spirit, the spirit of man, like a guardian angel. Bow down… There is Orion, he is the king of animals, plants and our king. Bow down…”

“Who is the mother? I asked.”

“The Sun is the mother, but she is not visible now.”

Source: The article appeared in “Медведь” journal №59, 2001. Author: Олег Климов. Photos: Олег Климов. Translated into English by ©Excellence Reporter.

©Excellence Reporter 2019