The route that stretches a thousand kilometres behind me crosses a wasteland where, throughout Mongolian history, dreams have died. To the north—where the desert's wind-polished gravel yields to grassland steppes—lies Ongiin Khiid, once one of the largest religious complexes in the world. Today, the 28 temples and four monastic universities that stood there for centuries are mud-brick rubble, levelled in 1939 by the artillery of the country's ruling Communist party, which was bent on eradicating Buddhism. Not far away is what's left of Genghis Khan's fabled Karakorum, capital of the largest empire in history. All that remains of the 13th-century city, once the centre of power controlling most of the Eurasian world, is a single, armchair-sized stone turtle. Ironically, it served as a symbol of Khan's invincibility, guarding old Karakorum's northern wall. All over this Central Asian country, it would seem, is evidence of historic defeats.

But what lies directly ahead of me on the Gobi Desert's desolate Sevrei plateau contradicts this suspicion. Silhouetted against the skyline as my jeep climbs above the Khongoryn Els dunefield are a line of grey, Russian-made Furgon trucks and several hundred mounted horsemen that-on closer examination-are gathered in a circle about 70 metres in diameter, all eyes and vehicles facing inward. What's going on within the circle, I'm about to learn, unites the celebrants here with the dreams of centuries past. For, in the topsy-turvy world of modern Mongolia—where Communism succumbed in the early '90s to neoconservative capitalism, where Buddhism is yielding to evangelical Christianity, where horses are being replaced by 150-horsepower motorcycles—many are seeking comfort in the country's only reliable hero: Genghis Khan, Emperor of All Men, Scourge of God, Ruler of Heaven.

Inside the circle, multiple pairs of half-naked Mongolian wrestlers lunge in one of the three "manly games" (the others are long-distance horseracing and archery) comprising the countrywide competitions called Naadam, which pay tribute to the martial skills of Genghis Khan's army. The men's costumes, however, appear to owe more to a Vancouver Pride parade than traditional Mongolian militarism. Dressed in leather boots (gutuls); pink, polka-dotted bikini shorts (shuudag); open-fronted, off-the-shoulder vests (zodog); and plunger-shaped, gold-spiked caps (loovus), the men push and grunt, sumo-style, trying to toss each other to the dirt. Banners flap in the desert wind. Boys lounge atop horses. Vendors sell boiled mutton dumplings from the open doors of trucks. Girls, bearing bowls of the ubiquitous fermented mare's milk drink called airag, move amid the crowd, proffering free gulps to all. An announcer, using a bulbous microphone that might have had its origins in the same era as Bing Crosby, maintains a quacking play-by-play. Here in the middle of the Gobi Desert, it is all wonderfully weird.

But when the announcer reports that the riders are returning, the wrestlers are abandoned midfight. The crowd surges to a finish line out in the desert and forms a human funnel toward which the distant, incoming horsemen and horsewomen drive their pounding steeds. To my amazement, the arriving riders, who have just covered a 20-kilometre racecourse at furious speed, are children aged five to 12. There are hundreds, some grim-faced, some laughing, both boys and girls. All are moving at a full gallop. They whip their frothing horses, blasting down the funnel of bodies as their mounted, nomadic parents watch with pride.

This celebration of fearless horsemanship has lain at the heart of Mongolian identity since before Genghis Khan and his 100,000 cavalrymen stormed across Asia and Europe in the early 13th century, establishing an empire that remains unparalleled in size and geopolitical influence. Under Khan's Eternal Blue Sky banner, China, Central Asia, northern India, Russia, and much of the Middle East and Eastern Europe were conquered. And most of this was accomplished in Khan's lifetime. From Karakorum, edicts were issued establishing free trade across the realm, freedom of religion, a single system of laws, scientific and cultural exchanges, and equality of the sexes. In 1227, some say at the age of 72, Khan died, bequeathing to his successors—and to the civilizations that rose in his empire's passing—a world altered more by his efforts than by any other human being in history. Modern China, Russia, and India owe their origins to Khan. The mathematical discoveries of the Arabs, the scientific and navigational breakthroughs of the Chinese, and the military tactics of the Mongolians were, under Khan, brought to late-medieval Europe, where, in time, they helped produce the Renaissance.

Rather than taking the narrow western view of Khan as a bloodthirsty conqueror (although at times, he certainly was), Mongolians look on their nation's founder as a man of extraordinary vision. Mongolians have found that, after centuries of feudal theocracy and Soviet-style totalitarianism, Genghis Khan deserves reconsideration.

He has even become a brand. Along with Chinggis Khaan International Airport, there are Genghis Khan cigarettes, Genghis Khan vodka, candy, and beer. The capital of Mongolia, Ulan Bator, has a Chinggis Khaan university, street, bank, office building, and restaurant. His face is on Mongolian money, and his exploits are extolled in the lyrics of the country's rappers.

As I descend from Sevrei toward the Gobi dunes, following the route Khan took 800 years before on his southern campaigns, it strikes me that, in light of events in Mongolia today, this resurgent Genghis Khan-ism has a certain logic. Mongolia is rapidly moving from being a place of nomadic herders, unfettered by fences and unencumbered by material desires, to one where television reaches, via solar panels and satellite dishes, almost every yurt in the huge and desolate country. It is a place where a million nomads have, in the past decade, abandoned the itinerant, horseback life of the steppes for the doubtful security of urban slums. But wherever I go, and in conversations with Mongolia's nomads, I sense the pride that people take in their much-maligned national hero. This nostalgia for a glorious, if irretrievable, past has ancient roots; lost paradises are always sought. Ah, to once again be free, alone with the first evening stars, moving like wind across the darkening and endless grasslands, with the drumming of hoofs beneath, and the howl of wolves somewhere ahead assuring one that life is, indeed, good.

Access: Mongolia's three-day, national Naadam festival is held in Ulan Bator in mid July, and features displays of archery, wrestling, and horseback racing. It is heavily promoted by tourism officials, but—unlike the traditional, rural Naadams—the event has a crowded, showbiz quality to it. A knowledgeable driver/guide is essential for journeys beyond the country's towns and cities. The writer travelled, in part, as a guest of Nomin Tours (www.nomintours.com/ ).