Northern Mongolia: a journey into the Taiga

Table of Contents

• Day 1: The black market
• Day 2: Journey to the monastery
• Day 3: Journey to Muurun
• Day 4: To Tsagaannuur
• Day 5: Horseback to the Western Reindeer Herders
• Day 6: Shaman ritual
• Day 7: The bear strikes again
• Day 8: To the eastern reindeer herders
• Day 9: Autumnal migration
• Day 10: Making the rounds
• Day 11: Sheep dumplings
• Day 12: Farewell Lhagwa
• Day 13: Batsur
• Day 14: Coming full circle
• Day 15: Home

Day 1: The black market

The text of a nearby ad caught my eye as we waited at the baggage carousel. It was written in two scripts, and to my surprise, neither of them used the Latin alphabet. I could have at least learned the Mongolian phrase for “thank you”, I thought to myself.

We grabbed our bags and found the exit. Amongst the people waiting in arrivals, I saw someone holding a sign that said “Evan and Kourtney”. I could tell it was Anuka, our tour guide, based on the pictures from her website. Thank God she was real.

After brief introductions she led us outside to the parking lot. She introduced us to a tall skinny man named Baagii, her husband. We would get to know him very well over the next two weeks. It seemed he didn’t speak any English, but with a shy smile, he motioned for us to hand him our bags.

On our way to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia’s capital, Kourtney and I calibrated to Anuka’s accent as she shared bits of information about Mongolia and Ulaanbaatar. She talked quietly with a friendly demeanor. I could tell she loved her country and was eager to share it with us. We were in good hands.

“We are a quickly developing nation,” Anuka started. 1.8 million people lived in Ulaanbaatar. Including undocumented people, it might be over 2 million, which is well over half of Mongolia’s total population. Mongolians were contending with a blazingly fast speed of urbanization. Smartphones, 4G networks, TV, 9-5 jobs, fast food, and high-rise apartment buildings were pervading the urban lifestyle, and Ulaanbaatar was the hearthstone of this drastic cultural shift.

As we drove through the rolling hill landscape, littered with thousands of free-roaming cows, goats, and sheep, we crested over a hill and in the distance, we saw Ulaanbaatar sprawled out beneath the backdrop of the Khentii mountains. Along the outskirts of the city, white circular tents called gers (similar to yurts) sat interspersed among modern buildings and city streets.

In the not too distant past, nearly 100% of Mongolians lived in gers, and traveled nomadically with their livestock, perpetually moving their gers with the change of seasons, conditions, and resource availability. Today, many gers are equipped with satellite dishes and solar panels, showcasing the conveniences of modernity knocking on the doorstep of ancient tradition.

I was taken aback by the sheer chaos of the traffic. Faded road paint feebly demarcated lanes, traffic lights were sparse, and where they did exist, they seemed to serve more as suggestions than mandates.

As a “fix” to Ulaanbaatar’s traffic problem, the government had instated police-enforced access restrictions at critical bottlenecks in the city traffic flow. This is done by categorizing cars into two groups based on whether the first digit of your license plate number is odd or even. If you’ve got the wrong license plate for a given time, you aren’t allowed to enter the region of the city.

Eventually, we made it to our hotel, which would serve as a launch point for the trip, which started the next day. With the remainder of the day, our plan was: have a nap, buy supplies for the trip, go to a museum, and get a good night’s rest.

After our nap, it was 1 pm and we headed downstairs to meet Anuka and Baagii. To buy supplies for the trip, we headed to the black market. “You can buy anything and everything at the black market”, Anuka explained. Clothes, shoes, electronics, containers, tools, building materials, cabinetry, camping gear, school supplies, plastic, art, horse saddles, livestock, meat, fruit, dry goods—the list went on and on, and included more nefarious things like bullets and presumably drugs. Few needs couldn’t be met at the black market.

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Before long, we were in the heart of the bustling bazaar. Mongolians all around us were buying and selling, trying to score the best deals they could find. Sellers showcased how well their products worked, while buyers, hiding their interest, pointed out identifiable flaws in the product. After successful deals, everyone walked away happy. After failed deals, vendors returned to their smartphones, shaking their heads, perhaps getting in one last verbal jab, while the unsuccessful customers tried their luck with the neighboring vendor, who sold nearly identical products.

Anuka expertly dipped and dodged through the densely packed stalls. To give a sense of scale, it took two minutes of walking just to get out of the shoe section. Exchanging words with the nearest vendors for directions, we finally arrived at the camping section. Kourtney and I bought two sleeping bags, and Kourtney bought a warm fleece. Encouraged by Anuka to haggle, we weakly negotiated, but in truth, since the prices were so cheap compared to our Western standards, we decided the few dollars we could have shaved off the price were better off in the vendors’ hands anyway.

Next, we wanted to bring gifts for the reindeer herders and perhaps any nomadic families we stayed with. Relying on Anuka’s knowledge of the locals, we settled on pencil bags that we stuffed with ornate pencils, erasers, and pencil sharpeners for the kids. For the adults, we bought light bulbs powered by AC battery cables, flashlights powerable via a multitude of methods, battery-powered headlamps, miniature binoculars, and medium- and large-sized thick plastic containers for milking and berry picking. Against Anuka’s advice, we also purchased fifty .22 caliber bullets, which are particularly useful, if not illegal, in the Taiga for hunting.

Afterward, we headed back to the car. On the way, an old drunkard tossed an empty vodka bottle in the direction of a woman sitting on a concrete block. As he shouted, the bottle slid and tumbled on the dirt, coming to a stop near her feet. “Do you want to drink with me? No one can drink more than me,” Anuka translated. The woman didn’t bat an eye, indicating her battle-hardened experience in dealing with drunks. Alcoholism is a major issue in Mongolia, particularly in the city. Anuka offered to us her opinion that the solution is a more stringent allocation of welfare. It made me want to get out of the city.

We spent the rest of the day driving throughout the city, visiting the Buddhist monastery, getting some classic Mongolian fast food, and visiting the Chinggis Khaan Museum.

On the way back to the hotel. Well-fed and sleepy, we were dropped off at the hotel by Anuka and Baagii, and we agreed to reconvene the next day at 10:00 am for the start of our big journey.

Day 2: Journey to the monastery

Now might be a good time to give an overview of our planned itinerary.

Roughly speaking, the plan was to drive deep into Northern Mongolia to the small village of Tsagaannuur. This is where Anuka lives. We would then treat the village as a basecamp, setting off on two distinct horseback journeys. The first to visit the reindeer herders in the Western Taiga, and the second to visit the reindeer herders in the Eastern Taiga. Then we would make our way back to Ulaanbaatar, stopping at some touristic sites along the way.

Our plan for the day was to log some distance in our multi-day goal of reaching Tsagaannuur, and then spending the night by a historical monastery.

We drove through the morning traffic slowly but surely.

We stopped at a roadside restaurant. The kitchen was within the ger, and outside was customer seating, underneath an awning protruding from the ger’s entrance. The furniture was patchwork, best explained by Baagii’s seat being an extricated car seat.

Kourtney got Хуушуур (Khuushuur), a stack of flat, deep-fried meat pastries, and I got Цуйван (Tsuivan), a very popular meat-heavy noodle stir fry. They were both delicious, if not lacking in vegetables.

Alongside our meals, the waitress, a 14-year-old girl on summer break, brought us milk tea, a staple beverage in Mongolia. It’s black tea leaves and salt, brewed in a mix of water and most commonly cow’s milk. I didn’t realize it at the time, but milk tea is more than just a beverage to Mongolians. It’s embedded in their lifestyle, served to guests as a way of welcoming someone into their home, a way to keep warm and hydrated. It’s like their version of “breaking bread”.

In the car, Anuka gave us our second Mongolian lesson. Yesterday, we learned sembano (hi) and bayarlala (thank you). Today, we learned tawny nerr himbe? (What’s your name?) and mini nerr (my name is). We practiced on Baagii, who somehow struck a balance between laughing at us while also providing genuine encouragement.

After getting turned around once or twice in the labyrinth of dirt roads, the car got stuck during a creek crossing. After an all-hands-on-deck scenario in which Kourtney, Baagii, and I pushed in unison while Anuka manned the wheel, we finally got the car on the right side of the creek. Kourtney remarked that it was the most exciting part of the trip so far. Anuka assured her there was a lot more where that came from.

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We finally arrived at the monastery, but it was closed. While Anuka cooked a flavorful vegetable soup on a portable stovetop, Kourtney and I climbed up the hill that had a big golden Buddha statue that overlooked the Monastery.

In the twilight, the moon shone brightly, lighting up the monastery and the surrounding pastures, accentuating the calmness of the valley.

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After eating dinner, we retired to the tourist camp, where a ger was waiting for the four of us. In bed, Anuka explained a little bit about the simple, yet effective ger architecture.

Then we all quieted down and let the silence envelope us. I was enjoying this so much more than the busyness of Ulaanbaatar.

Day 3: Journey to Muurun

In the morning we woke up and headed to the car, where Baagii and Anuka were already busy at work. Baagii was doing car maintenance and Anuka was preparing a scrambled egg breakfast with watermelon.

When we finished eating, we headed to the monastery, seeing it for the first time in the morning light.

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Three monks, the oldest no more than 14, emerged from a ger residing within the monastery grounds. At the entrance of the central building they formed a small huddle, their heads almost touching. At first, I thought they were engaged in a prayer or ritual of some sort. But soon I realized they were huddled around a smartphone, watching a video that was making them laugh. The fun cut short by their responsibilities, at the turn of the hour, they opened up the monastery doors, and motioned for us to follow them in.

After turning on the lights and lighting candles and incense, the three apprentices sat in meditative poses around the center of the room and the eldest began speaking his morning recitations into a microphone. As he spoke I explored the beautifully ornate interior full of gongs, statues of gods, gorgeous drapery, and colorful symbology. His monotonous mantra echoed endlessly and unwaveringly throughout the chamber. This is not a performance because we are here, I kept reminding myself, this is their life.

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Outside, Anuka explained that many of these children are either orphans or were sent here by their parents because the monastery serves as a refuge from poverty and provides educational opportunities they couldn’t afford otherwise.

It was time to get back onto the road and continue our journey to Tsagaannuur. The plan was to spend the night in Muurun, the administrative capital of Northern Mongolia, north of which one can only find nomads and small villages. So onwards and upwards, into Northern Mongolia.

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I woke up to Baagii braking. A weather-seasoned nomadic man was herding his horses across the road with a dirt bike. Anuka and Baagii exchanged some dialogue and then Anuka explained we would go say hi to the nomad and his family.

We parked the car on the side of the road, climbed up the dirt bank, and onto the prairie. The man and his wife were corralling a herd of at least 30 horses, some young, some old. The young ones were tied to a line pegged to the ground. This was to make sure the mothers never strayed too far.

Baagii took the lead and started talking with them. Kourtney and I kept a tentative distance. Weren’t we intruding? But the conversation was going well, and it became obvious they knew each other, so we got closer and started snapping pics.

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Baagii and Anuka spoke with the nomads while they milked all the horses. The procedure was as follows: they released the foal from the rope line, it started to suck on the mare’s teat, at which point the foal was removed, the woman came in with her bucket, and milked. Meanwhile, the man steadied the mother and, if it was a feisty one, he held its leg bent, so it didn’t kick the bucket or his wife.

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Every two hours they milked the horses, Anuka told us. It was unendingly exhausting work, and you could tell that to them it was clockwork. They processed the dairy in multiple ways, ate what they could, and sold the rest at market, Anuka continued. In the traditional nomadic lifestyle, summertime was a season of preparation. To survive the upcoming winter, that meant no meat was to be eaten. With little going on agriculturally due to the intense dry climate of Mongolia, that meant a primarily dairy-based diet.

“Таны нэр хэн бэ?” I asked casually, with my barely noticeable accent. Just kidding. With my heart racing, after practicing three times in my head, I managed to squeek out the phrase: “TaWny neRr HimbE?”. She stared at me blankly, probably deciphering what the fuck I just said, then, after figuring it out, snapped back to reality and responded (in Mongolian), “[My name is] Handa”. Handa was short, stout, and had deep red cheeks. Anuka explained to me that her dark rosy cheeks were a product of being outside so many hours a day. When winter came, her skin would turn even darker due to a dramatic change. Not only would the intensely cold and dry climate suck the blood out of her face, but apparently her diet would shift to primarily meat. Anuka looked me straight in the eyes and told me with a very serious tone, “You cannot imagine how much meat we eat in winter.” Apparently, this dramatically affected their body.

After some language-transcending humor, including Kourtney being asked to milk the horses and me catching a ride on the back of the man’s dirt bike, we were invited to their home, a white ger around 100m down the hill. As we sauntered down, I inquired about how Anuka knew these nomads.

“I’ve never met them, and neither has Baagii.”

“Anyone is welcome to stay with anyone 24 hours today and they are treated like family”, Anuka explained after seeing our surprise. In our culture, you don’t just walk onto someone’s land and expect the red carpet to be rolled out. In Mongolia, no one owns the land. Perhaps this can in part explain a fundamental cultural difference. Since there is a shared conception of the land, this may have a profound influence on the interrelationships between Mongolian people and how they congregate. Kourtney also pointed out that because life is so difficult here, people need to band together in a sort of “we’re all in this together” mentality. In other words, people rely on their literal and proverbial neighbors. Fostered over millennia, this generosity and hospitality has penetrated deep into nomadic culture and persists today as overwhelming welcoming attitude to strangers. This is just a theory.

Before entering the ger, I noticed some fermenting cow milk being pressed down by two large rocks. Anuka explained that they were making a sort of hard, thin cheese. In fact, some was already fully processed and baking in the sun. Anuka and I grabbed a chunk to share. It was very dry, sour, and salty. It was an intriguing taste, far outside my realm of familiarity. I didn’t ask for seconds.

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Inside, we sat on some stools. To the right of the entrance was a bed that Handa was sitting on. At the far end of the entrance, the man, whose name I asked but could not pronounce, was sitting near a small table. They laid out some bread, surcream (a thick, creamy, and slightly tangy butter), and candies.

Near the man was a highly decorated cabinet with a telephone, some seemingly Buddhist items, and a mirror. My eyes were drawn to the left side of the ger, where a very large sack hung from a strong beam of wood. It was made of an old, large animal hide that had been stitched together in two pieces. It looked like it had a capacity of at least 100L. Handa walked over and poured her newest batch of mare milk into the sack. From the sound of the pour, I could tell the sack was nearly full, presumably with more mare’s milk.

After giving the contents a quick stir, Handa filled a plastic jug by dunking it into the sack, and then placed the jug on the table. Wasting no time, the man procured a decently sized wooden bowl that he filled to the brim, and then took a long pull. After wiping the milk from his mustache, he replaced what he had drunk by pouring more into the bowl, and then passed it to me. To me!

Remembering what Anuka had told me previously about receiving with my right hand, I tentatively took the bowl and looked inside. The sides of the bowl had small chunks of rancid dairy, and on top of the liquid was a thin film that I had watched the man gently blow to one side of the bowl before sipping (gulping).

Everyone hushed to watch what would happen next, with curiosity and anticipation. How would the foreigner react to the taste? Emulating the man as closely as possible, I blew the film off to the side and touched the bowl to my lips and started drinking. Sour and bubbly, it tasted nothing like I expected. Sort of like kefir. I think I liked it! I had several gulps and passed back the bowl, and the ritual continued. The man filled the bowl, looked at someone, and that special someone would receive the bowl and sip from it, then pass it back.

I asked Anuka what I was drinking. “This is Mongolia’s national drink, kumis,” she explained. When offered kumis, it is a sign of respect that you must not refuse, and the more you can drink in one sip, the better. But never drink the whole bowl, she continued. Perhaps it’s just a superstition, but supposedly this is a guarantee for a bad milking yield the next day.

Handa and her husband were very interested in our situation. Anuka translated everything as the questions rolled in: What is your itinerary? Why did you come to Mongolia? Do you think it’s weird we drink from one bowl? I explained that we were in Mongolia to learn about cultures that are different from ours, so we can be more mindful about which cultural practices we engage in within our own culture. It was a complex concept to translate, but I could tell that whatever Anuka said resonated with Handa, as she paused her normally talkative and smile-filled demeanor to listen and nod.

I told them they were very friendly and explained that from our countries, this level of hospitality would require years of knowing each other. How bizarre must that seem to them?

Handa’s youngest son came in and shyly sat down beside her. He loved Michael Jordan and had a Michael Jordan jersey. After learning Kourtney was from Chicago, Handa said he wanted to write a letter that we would give to Michael Jordan. All the adults laughed at the impossibility.

We needed to get back onto the road, so we said our goodbyes. Handa gifted us a big bottle of kumis, not expecting or asking for anything in return. But before leaving, we gifted them 20000 MNT as a thank you for the kumis and their hospitality. At first, she declined, so I handed it to her son. They stood outside their ger and waved to us as we drove back onto the road.

We drove for another couple of hours until we made it to just outside Murun, where Anuka had arranged for us to spend the night in a tourist camp. As we approached our ger, a very loud and drunk man stumbled out of the neighboring ger and Anuka immediately turned around. “You will have a very bad night. You will not get any sleep,” she said. Back at reception, she threw some assertive words towards the employee, and before we knew what was happening, Kourtney and I were spending the night in a small, one-room cabin in a more secluded section of the camp. One of many instances where Anuka had our back.

After a game of killing all the flies, we settled into the calm of night, far away from the ruckus of our neighbors (and flies).

Day 4: To Tsagaannuur

Today would be our biggest driving day, with our plan being to make it all the way to Tsagaannuur. This would not be as simple as following a road–the main issue being the lack thereof.

We drove on the only road out of Muurun for about 20 minutes. At a nondescript portion of the road, Baagii veered left onto a dirt road. And that would be the last asphalt we’d see for hundreds of miles.

Baagii navigated the obstacles expertly. In the rare instance that an oncoming car was sighted, the windows would invariably roll down to discuss conditions: Which ways are muddy? How high is the water level of the upcoming river? Is the bridge passable?

We started up a mountain hill and after some discussion in Mongolian between Anuka and Baagii, we turned around, deciding that the path would be too muddy given the recent rainfall. As a Tsagaannuur local, Anuka has traveled to and from Murun many times in her life. “There are many paths to Tsagaannuur”, she said before adding with a smile, “And you can of course always make your own path”.

Cut to 20 minutes later and I was clutching the overhead handlebar with unexplainable strength to avoid bouncing out of my seat as the car barged forward. The GPS sat unused while Anuka directed Baagii, pointing to distant landmarks and presumably saying things like “turn left at the three-peaked mountain,” or “follow this dry riverbed until the standing stone.” The more remotely we traveled, the more our modern tools, like GPS, seemed to become mere ornaments while ancient knowledge proved infinitely more valuable.

After around an hour on the road, the landscape was beginning to change. Away from Murun and its sought after asphalt, the true expansiveness of Mongolia was beginning to reveal itself. Ancient mountains covered in nothing but short grass and rocks. And interestingly, no matter how far away we drove from “civilization”, we saw gers scattered everywhere.

The “road” was taking a toll on the Lexus, leading Baagii to make frequent stops to cool the engine. (It goes without saying that cars don’t last long here). During one of these stops, we were approached by a man walking alongside his horse. Baagii started talking with him, and we did our ritual of asking what his name was (pretty much the only thing we know how to say), and then unsuccessfully repeating their name back to them. Before long, the gentleman’s friend pulls up on his motorcyle, in masterful style. They wanted to drink with us.

Twenty minutes later we stopped to eat lunch while Baagii fixed the car suspension yet again. Anuka prepared a pasta with fresh veggies and rehydrated beef. Rehydrated meat is amazing. It’s light, doesn’t expire, compact, easy to rehydrate, and delicious. When Mongolians kill an animal, usually in November, they often dedicate two legs just for dried meat. By cutting it into thin strips and hanging it for winter, it’s ready to eat the following April.

During lunch, Kourtney asked if Anuka and Baagii ever disagree about which way to go. Anuka said they frequently bicker about which way is best, and when the car ends up stuck in the mud there is always hell to pay for the person who was wrong. “Fighting is in every culture”, I said, which Baagii found especially funny. The friendship was growing.

Later in the day we found ourselves enjoying the scenery as we drove alongside a gorgeous mountain. We crossed a muddy river, and then ascended up a rolling mountain. We arrived at a fork in the proverbial road. The car stopped. There were two potential ridgeline crossings. To be honest, both looked exposed and steep. I looked at the left pass and imagined the Lexus barrel-rolling down the side of the slope. After some hemming and hawing, Baagii opted for the rightmost mountain pass, which my imagination was thankful for. We let the engine cool and drank some kumis. It was a hold your breath moment with slopes to our left and right. When we successfully mounted and traversed the ridgeline, everyone was relieved and smiling.

After the mountain pass, we descended into a valley, where a small village lies. It’s a common place to stop for food for passersby traveling to and from the remote north. Day or night, the restaurant will open for a bus full of travelers. An old man sat in a security booth manning a rudimentary car gate that used a defunct chainsaw as a counterweight. A few words were spoken and the conversation ends with the za from both parties. He released the drawstring and the chainsaw pulled the gatekeeping log upwards, allowing our passage.

We were in the middle of Autumn and the more north we drove, the more the grass and trees were showing a spectrum of Fall colors. “It will be even better when we return Anuka”, said.

We were slowed by a herd of about 40 horses who were blocking the road, their owners nowhere in sight. I can imagine no better life for captive animals that in Mongolia, where they live free and nearly wild. Seeing all the horses inspired us to stop for a quick kumis break. As we sipped, Anuka, as she often did, spoiled us with a little tidbit of information that Chinggis Khaan proclaimed that a proper Mongolian should drink more horse milk than water.

At the top of a mountain was a collection of 13 ovoos. An ovoo is a shrine composed of branches, rocks, and multicolored silk fabrics, each color representing a natural element (sun, sky, water, etc.). They are typically found at the top of mountains and mark border crossings, and serve as checkpoints either in the beginning or the end of a journey. I couldn’t make heads or tails as to whether this was the beginning or the end of our journey.

Following Anuka’s example, we grabbed three rocks and made our way around the central ovoo, walking three laps in a clockwise motion. While you loop around the sacred space, it’s customary to throw the rocks onto it, adding to its stature. After that, you are to send a wish out into the universe. Since this ovoo site has so many ovoos, we move to the ones linked with our respective Chinese zodiac sign and repeated the process.

After making a wish, I watched Baagii pour out 3 cups of kumis, flinging each skyward. Finishing his ritual, he looked my way and noticed I had been watching him. He smiled. Back in the car, he spoke with Anuka and she translated to us that he was sharing his kumis with nature. It gave me pause. Baagii’s spiritual connection to the land is palpable. He believes in these practices. This is how he lives.

The full journey from Murun to Tsagaannuur is around 9 hours. Understandably, improved road conditions drive much of the election cycle. Candidates visit all the villages by helicopter, and then sing about promises of road infrastructure. Famous people are ushered in and perform concerts, and free vodka is handed out to restore voter faith from the last election. But post election, the promises of roads fade like the distant hum of their departing helicopters.

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Perhaps it is for this reason that motorbikes reign supreme in Mongolia. They are cheap on gas, cheap to purchase, easy to repair, and can traverse roads and bridges that cars struggle with. With the introduction of the Chinese motorcycle in the 1990s, and its widespread proliferation throughout the country in the following decades, horseback riding has greatly diminished. Increasingly so, Mongolians are traveling, transporting goods, carrying out errands, and herding by motorcycle rather than by horseback. It’s an example like many others found in Mongolia: modern technologies threatening to overwrite a lifestyle maintained for thousands of years, and the Mongolian people and government trying to strike a balance between modernity and tradition.

Past Red Mountain Village we saw some activity outside a cluster of three gers. The men and women were saddling up horses, and someone was drinking. “They are going to race horses”, Anuka determined. “But we can’t go. If we do, we can’t leave. Evan not be able to walk, and Evan no translator”. After a moment, I understood her riddle: if we visit them, we’d be culturally obligated to drink the night away and we wouldn’t make it to Tsagaannuur. We drove on.

Thirty minutes later, after a journey that seemingly never ended, we made it to White Lake. This is the lake upon which Tsagaannuur village was formed. Anuka explained that no one swims, bathes, or washes their clothes in the lake out of respect for its purity. This respectful relationship with the lake allows Tsagaannuurians to drink its water and maintain a healthy ecosystem that teems with a famous “white fish”, known throughout Mongolia for being tasty. Though Anuka noted that high winds are often blowing roadside trash into the lake.

In the moonlight, we arrived at Anuka’s childhood home. We were greeted by her parents and Anuka’s precious little girl. Just 18 months old, she squealed with energy at the reunion. After some brief introductions, Kourtney and I retired into an offshoot of their home where Anuka’s mother used to operate a foreign guesthouse. It was during Anuka’s childhood where she interacted with foreign guests that her ideas of becoming a Mongolian tour guide started forming. Without taking our surroundings in with any great detail, Kourtney and I clambered into our beds and fell asleep nearly immediately. What a day.

Day 5: Horseback to the Western Reindeer Herders

It was September 1st, the first day of school in the village. After breakfast, we headed to the school to check out the special occasion. As we approached, we heard speeches and singing performances emanating from the center of the village through shoddy speakers. Within the school grounds, parents and children had gathered around the makeshift stage: a square of concrete embedded in the otherwise grassy school grounds. Here, songs and ceremonies were taking place. A teacher accepted a Teacher of the Year Award, a 6-year-old child sang a song about September 1st, the village leader asked for donations. Children and parents swayed to the rhythm of the music during this joyous day.

The pupils ranged from 1st to 12th grade. Independent of age, the boys wore ties and white shirts tucked into dress pants, and the girls wore pleated skirts and cardigans. About half of the students lived within the village, whereas the other half lived in nomadic families. Throughout Mongolia, villages with schools host students coming from the nomadic families who live in the surrounding mountains, plains, and valleys. However, unlike other villages, Tsagaannuur also hosts children of reindeer herding families in the Taiga.

Whether their families are classic nomads or reindeer herding nomads, the nomadic children are boarded in a partially government funded dormitory that resides on the school grounds. It is the only brick house I saw in the village. Beside it is the old dormitory, a single story wooden building. This is the dormitory many of Anuka’s classmates lived in when she was a child. The living conditions have improved greatly between old and new. There are dormitory teachers who take care of the children, a cook, who feeds them 3 times a day, and a custodian who keeps the fire stove burning from October through May.

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It was obvious that education is extremely important to the villagers, the nomads, and the reindeer herders.

“Are the nomads or herders sacrificing their culture by sending their children to school?” I asked Anuka.

“No. They stay with their family for the first 6 years of life. After this, they already know the lifestyle”. Her response illustrated to me how capable children can become when thrust into such a hard-pressing lifestyle. They are capably riding horses by 4-5 years old, and are already taking over familial responsibilities such as goat and sheep herding. Meanwhile in North America tire swings have been removed from playgrounds.

After around 40 minutes, during which time Anuka caught up with all the village folk, we stripped ourselves away from the festivities of September 1st. A big day lay ahead of us: we were heading into the Taiga to meet some of the western reindeer herders.

20km outside the town we met our horse guide, Lhagwa. He’s a nomad with hundreds of livestock, including many horses–some of which he uses for horse trekking services. After waiting a bit at the meetup spot, Lhagwa showed up on one of his horses and ushered us to meet him at an alternative location. At the alternate spot, his wife and a handful of horses were hanging out.

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As we geared up for our journey into the Taiga, there was a natural rhythm to the preparations. Anuka boiled drinking water, Lhagwa and his wife saddled the horses, and Baagii packed the saddlebags. Kourtney and I helped where we could but felt relatively useless. Soon, some of us sat down in the grass and enjoyed a snack.

Baagii helped me into his deel, showing me how the buttons and silk sash work.

When everything was ready, Anuka, Kourtney, Lhagwa, and I set off on horseback heading due North. The herders live northwest of Tsagaannuur and to get there, we needed to ascend up a mountain by horseback. After cresting the mountain, it descends into a flat, marshy bog. From there we would cross the bog, and then descend further into the valley where the reindeer herders were currently settled at their Autumn camp location.

We ascended up the gentle mountain slope and stopped for lunch while overlooking a great view of an expansive bog that lay ahead of us. From far away, the bog looked like a cake walk, but as we would soon learn, it was anything but gentle.

After lunch we saddled up. Being exceptionally tall and of generally low fortitude for Mongolian standards, I was experiencing some knee pain from the stirrups being too short, so Lhagwa lengthened them to the last notch in the leather. Still too short, but it was better. We descended down to the bog and it became clear how treacherous it really was. Extending for kilometers, the bog was a patchwork of soft moss, mud pools, and oily bog water.

As my horse heroically navigated waist deep bog water, I came to realize that we aren’t just riding horses for the hell of it. This ain’t no trail ride. This was in fact, the only way to get to the Taiga. Traversing by foot would be impossible, though technically possible in Winter when land freezes over. Cars are an obvious no, and motorcycles are no better. That leaves horses and reindeers. It was no easy task, even for the horses, who regularly “broke through” the surface layers, ending chest deep in mud.

Throughout this arduous journey for the horses, us humans were enjoying a relatively peaceful journey. The only sounds were the squelching of our horse’s legs navigating the thick bog. After an hour or two of marching, the landscape started to change. The terrain steepened, the ground firmed, and the treeline began to thicken.

We descended further and further into a large river valley. After a quick traversal along the basin of the valley, far in the distance we saw a smoke stack. As we got closer, we could see a clump of orts. After a four hour trek, we had arrived.

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As we came into view, the herders’ dogs spotted us and started barking, running over to check out the new visitors.

We dismounted our horses, and Anuka ushered us into one of the tents while Lhagwa tended to the horses.

Inside we met Sartlong, one of the herders. She kindly gave us some milk tea to drink and was otherwise very shy. After warming up by the stove, Anuka and Sartlong’s husband, Godla, peeled back the animal skin door and entered.

This camp contained three families and three orts. First there was Godla and his wife, Sartlong. Strangely, they met because of a film that was made about a reindeer herder who could catch wild reindeer. They wanted it to be authentic, and Godla could genuinely catch wild reindeer, so he was cast into the role. Sartlong was suggested as the love interest role. Fast forward, they are happily married with a kid, who just left for school. She was staying in the dormitories in Tsagaannuur and would have been at the festivities we had witnessed that morning.

Then there is Sartlong’s brother and his family, who lived in the tent next door. Tragically, their son passed away last month, just a year old. The baby was running a high fever, so they rushed him by reindeerback to the village. Unfortunately, there was no doctor there, nor was there a nurse. So the baby died, and apparently the police were investigating. During our visit they were resupplying in Tsagaannuur.

Finally, a single man lived in the third ort. Since they knew Anuka would be bringing tourists to come visit, he had rented his ort to us for two nights.

Anuka explained that we could ask some questions to Godla, and she would translate.

I inquired, “What do you love about Mongolia?”

Godla responded, “The freedom. In the village, it’s too busy. Out here, there are no rules. We can live with our animals and do whatever we want.”

Observing how the nomads live, I began to truly understand the depth of his answer. Back in our hometowns, we reside in bustling cities governed by countless regulations.

“Are you concerned about the upcoming winter?”

Before sharing his thoughts, I’d like to provide some context for this question. Every November, the women migrate south to where the weather is milder and closer to the village. This enables them to stay nearer to their children, who attend the village school if they’re of school age, purchase supplies more conveniently, and reach a hospital faster in case of emergencies. Meanwhile, the men venture deep into the Taiga, tracking the reindeer, which thrive in the harsh winter conditions. They remain here with the reindeer, either in solitude or alongside others if their reindeer herds happen to converge. Generally, reindeer are not herded; the only reliable way to manage these particularly wild livestock is to tether their young near the campsite.

Anyways, Godla confidently answered the question about his concerns for winter, stating that he wasn’t afraid at all—in fact, he was excited. He added that if he misses his wife, he’ll return after a month; otherwise, he’ll extend his stay. They exchanged knowing glances and shared a laugh.

“How has technology changed since your father was a herder?”

“So many things. We have TVs to tune into the weather station (and watch soap operas), solar panels, chainsaws, too many things to count.”

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“Do you want more technology or do you want to balance tradition with modernity?”

“We want more technology but nothing works here except solar.”

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We needed more fire for the stove, so Godla slung a chainsaw over his back and gathered two reindeer. He mounted a saddle on the first and hopped on the second. He crossed the river and disappeared into the adjacent woods, leading the first reindeer with a rope. A few minutes later we heard the chainsaw busy at work, and soon after he re-emerged from the woods with our wood for the night.

To show our gratitude, I chopped enough wood to get both ort through the night.

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Reindeer herding is a life consumed by following–and most importantly–protecting the reindeer, as they are constantly being hunted by bears. Godla and Sartlong had lost five just in the last two weeks.

Sure enough, right as twilight was turning to night, when were back in our ort with Anuka, we heard the dogs barking relentlessly. Then, a gunshot! Rushing outside, we met Godla outside his tent, rifle in hand.

He was looking across the river, where the dogs were still barking. In the tent, Anuka translated that he wasn’t aiming to kill, as it’s against shamanistic religion to kill it unless it threatens your life. He showed us his gun, a dated Russian rifle. I realized it would be a great time to gift Godla with a pair of pocket binoculars we had bought at the black market. When I gave it to him, he took it with both hands, touched it to his head out of appreciation, and inspected every feature. He looked up at me, grinned, and said, bayarlala (thank you).

Day 6: Shaman ritual

This morning it was raining so we played a card game called 13 for hours in the ort.

When the rain stopped we went and picked blueberries. Anuka paid for her university tuition by picking blueberries for 8 hours a day for 20 days of each summer. She said 500g could be sold for about 5000 MNT. Near the end Anuka asked if we were bitten by mosquitoes. She said that since we took from the forest, it’s only fair that we give back.

Our diet with the herders consisted of beef ribs that Anuka brought and hung in the ort, bread and fried bread with blueberry jam, milk tea, and noodles, all prepared fresh. Anuka is a more capable cook with limited ingredients, a pot, a wood fire stove, and a river of fresh water than I am with a grocery store and an electric appliance kitchen.

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That evening we were told that Godla was going to perform a ceremony. It was a special occasion because he only does them once or twice a month. It is an incredible burden, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. While we didn’t come for a ceremony, we felt honoured that Godla was willing to perform one.

Before the ritual, the evening started off extremely casually. We played cards. We were laughing and chatting. In the finale of one particular game, Lhagwa was coaching Sartlong on a final hand over her shoulder. Anuka, mirroring Lhagwa, was behind Godla’s shoulder, pointing at suggestions as to how he should play his hand. It was husband versus wife. Who would take the prize money? In the end, Sartlong won. Shy as she was, she couldn’t help but laugh. She said she was glad we came because she hadn’t played in months.

At the head of the ort, Godla had prepared his ceremonial stage. From it hung torn cloth pieces, white on one side, black and red on the other. Each strip represented a ceremony that he’s done. White represents people who he has helped within the first half of the moon cycle. These are sanctioned, whereas the red and black are rituals that took place in the second half of the moon cycle. These represent instances where he has performed a ceremony during the second half of the moons cycle. Such ceremonies are considered taboo, and are traditionally paid for with blood sacrifices.

There was a stark juxtaposition of the ceremonial stage being illuminated by incandescent lightbulb hanging from the top of the ort that was being powered by a clunky portable battery. Beside the ceremonial stage was his huge drum. The drum was made of a young deer’s skin, and the wood was created from special wood, for example a bough struck by lightning, or very old trees.

Turned away from us, Godla’s wife and Lhagwa started dressing him in a weighted and heavily ornate collage of animal skins which draped as individual strands, furs, and fabrics upon fabrics. He needed the help of two people to get it on. It was so big and voluminous. Even asymmetric, the right side of his back was a huge bulge, giving him a hunched back. He looked like a yak with dreadlocks. On his head he wore a vulture and eagle feather mask and something that covered his eyes. Although he was a shorter man, silhouetted by the dimly lit ort, he looked so powerful and large.

Then he started drumming. Softly at first. Each hit generated a deep, muted thud. He moved to and from the ceremonial stage as he drummed. At the altar he held the drum low and by the center of the ort he held it high. His movement was controlled. The drum beats got progressively louder. He then started speaking in Tuvan. Like the drumming, it got progressively more intense. His voice became strained, high pitched, and mantric. As the ceremony proceeded, he progressively began disengaging with reality. His movements became more erratic and animalistic. Often he would cock his head and turn it swiftly from side to side, the movement exaggerated by his mask’s feathers. The cadence of his voice distorted. Hissing through gritted teeth he chanted. Ever more stressing and ever less human. And throughout all of this, the drum beat continued relentlessly. At times he was out of control of his body, and would throw himself back, raising the drum high into the air. Lhagwa was behind him nearly the whole time, ensuring he could catch him if thrown back.

The ceremony was relentless, lasting around an hour and a half. It was an incredible feat of stamina, to do all of that in his outfit. Just watching was an emotionally exhausting experience.

I have never experienced someone have such an unrelenting and burdensome out of body experience. It was beautiful and terrible simultaneously. The whole time I was hypnotized, like I was high, on a powerful sedative. I think that because I had never experienced anything so different from my cultural expectations, I caught myself perpetually disassociating from what was happening. “This is what a shaman ceremony is like”, I would think to myself. I’d have to pinch myself and remind myself that I wasn’t watching a re-enactment, or viewing through a TV screen. I watching a shaman ritual. He was, according to his religion, convening with spirits. It was happening in front of us.

Whether you believe in shamanism or not, history has been shaped by these rituals. War decisions of humanity’s largest empire under Chinggis Khaan were decided by shamans. Although Kourtney and I to this day question the extent that our tourism exploited Godla, Mongolians seek his guidance and he delivers his message through similar ceremony.

After a crescendo I almost couldn’t bear, he stopped suddenly, and slouched as if dead. He was dragged outside by Sartlong and Lhagwa, all the while his mantra whispered autonomously from his lips.

No one said anything. I could hear the river outside and for the first time in 90 minutes the world felt bigger than our cacooning ort. I was shell shocked. I’ve never felt more speechless. In the wake of what we witnessed, Anuka softly explained that the ceremony was over, and that he was outside deliberating with the spirits. “Didn’t he seem so strong?”, she admiringly whispered.

Five minutes later he returned, not as a medium of spirits, but once more as Godla. We had sought answers to questions we had about directions to take in our currently tumultuous lives, and he divulged the answers he had learned from within the spirit world.

As he spoke, I strained to listen to the sounds of his voice. Mongolian is such a beautiful language. I felt so fragile after the ritual that even without hearing Anuka’s translation, I wanted to cry.

After the ceremony, we went straight to our ort. It was 2am and the night was bitterly cold. Anuka started a small fire to fall asleep to. What just happened? As I lay curled in my sleeping bag in the silence of night, the sounds of his rhythmically distorted voice replayed in my mind at a deafening volume, like I was on a powerful hallucinogen. I drifted off into a feverish dream. The dogs started barking far in the distance.

Day 7: The bear strikes again

In the morning Anuka came back with news from the other ort. A reindeer had been killed by the bear last night. Godla and Sartlong had already processed the body. I took the camera, kicked on my boots, and rushed outside. By the river I found what remained of the reindeer.

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Last night was the first day after the full moon, making last night’s event a “blood” ceremony. Did the ceremony cause this to happen? Is this our fault? I asked Anuka. She said it’s possible, but she tried to make light of it that the dogs are happy because they will eat well. I felt so guilty.

But Godla and Sartlong seemed to be in good spirits, unfazed by what transpired. Anuka said that a reindeer costs 1M MNT, but that well crafted reindeer boots, which require the hide of one reindeer, also sell for 1M MNT. It’s better to keep the reindeer alive, but not all is lost. Before, the loss of a reindeer was much worse but now with urbanizing economy, where reindeer boots are fashionable (as well as useful), the loss is not as bad. It is a blatant example of a globalizing world threatening the Tsaatan: their reindeer are worth as much dead as alive.

After giving them some gifts we had prepared, a multi use flashlight, a headlamp, a lightbulb, we departed. To rid myself of guilt, I told Godla I was very sorry for the loss of his reindeer. Anuka translated, “don’t worry, it became sick yesterday”. Reading between the lines, I think he was telling me he doesn’t think it was because of the ceremony.

The trip back to Tsagaannuur was peaceful.

At the meeting point where Baagii was supposed to be, he wasn’t. But a bunch of reindeer herders were. According to one of them, they were waiting for a group of Mongolian tourists, so we waited with them. A young kid, his father, and his grandpa in law.

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The grandpa was an incredibly small man with a crinkled face and few teeth. He brought over three reindeer and invited us to pose beside them.

Afterwards we gave the kid a gift packet. Kourtney exchanged the Mickey Mouse eraser for a Spider-Man eraser, since he was wearing Spider-Man sneakers. He was very rambunctious and full of energy. We asked him what he wants to be when he grows up. His answer: a reindeer herder, just like his dad. Although I already knew the answer, I asked whether or not he was old enough to ride a reindeer.

Then, a car pulled up, and out popped a bunch of people. Anuka recognized all of them. After a while Anuka started to piece it together: Gambut was just joking when he said he was waiting for tourists. He was in fact, just waiting for his family, and here they were.

Commence the chaos. Out of the car they came, pulling and carrying around various supplies and gear. A large rack of meat was transferred from a thick plastic bag into a large rice sack. Saddles, guns, axes, food, and miscellaneous bags with unknown content were all being arranged on the ground. Clearly it was a very successful trip into the village. One by one the reindeers were getting saddled with all the gear. Everyone was working hard and hardly working. Older siblings were taking turns wrestling with the young kid while saddling their reindeers. Everyone was casually chatting and laughing as they readied their gear. In the midst of the activity someone had made a small fire and brewed up milk tea that got passed around with sour chalky cheese pucks. In contrast to every road trip I went on as a kid, they had no apparent anxiety about whether they were leaving on time, whether everything was packed, or whether the front door was locked. They were booming with a confidence gained only through a lifetime of nomadic living, where both everywhere and nowhere is a place to call home.

And when they were ready, they mounted their reindeer and left as casually as they came. As I watched them disappear into the forest, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy for their carefree spirit.

Day 8: To the eastern reindeer herders

In the morning we went to the kindergarten. Unlike the jovial ceremony we witnessed a few days ago, this time there was no song and dance. This was the first real day of school.

Outside we were greeted by a happy, plump woman in a short red dress, and her makeup done. She has been the headmaster since Anuka went to the kindergarten over 20 years ago, and it was the 30th year anniversary of the kindergarten. Before that, there was no school in the village, and people sent their children to boarding school at a distant town–or didn’t educate them. Needless to say, the headmaster was in a great mood, and her pride showed in her unwipable smile as she opened the door for us.

However, upon crossing through the door’s archway, we were greeted by terrorized screams of around 30 kindergarteners who had just been stripped away from their families, dumped in a town full of strangers, and here to stay for the foreseeable future. I’m sure the first day of school is tough for most kids, but for many of these children, this was a boarding school, and they knew they wouldn’t be seeing their parents for a long time. Needless to say, they were completely inconsolable, and as horrible as it was, I couldn’t help but smile at the stark contrast between the joyful, celebratory mood of the headmaster and the sudden, overwhelming outbreak of tears and cries from the children.

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Then we went to the store. There again happened to be the kindergarten headmaster. Anuka wanted to buy her gifts, so we agreed to pay for some wine and chocolate, and Anuka gave her the equivalent in cash. She was so happy. Later in the car, Anuka reflected on how grateful the headmaster was. She had had a really tough year. Her husband passed away last Winter. He was a jack of all trades, very successful. And one day he was helping a husband and wife cross a body of water that had frozen over. Since it was some technical offroad driving, he offered to drive the car, and suggested that the wife should get out of the passenger side seat because it was too dangerous. She didn’t, the ice broke, and they both drowned.

After our morning stroll through the village, we headed out for our second adventure into the Taiga, this time to the Eastern Reindeer Herders.

After some practice rounds of 13, where Baagi demonstrated some advanced strategies by pointing out at various groupings of cards within his hand, Lhagwa finally arrived and we began the trek. I had the same temperamental horse that I was riding yesterday. When we stopped for lunch, Lhagwa explained I was riding a sheep horse, which is what Mongolian children use to herd sheep. No wonder he called me baby.

The journey was thematically similar to the first one. Through some rolling mountains, a descent into a valley, and then follow the river to the camp. There was no trail, just suggestions that probably start as animal trails and then are reinforced by mounted horse and reindeer. But the terrain is so spongy and wet that by the time a trail is formed, it’s already a mud pit.

Given this, we established our own way through the marsh, bushland, creeks, bogs, and small timber forests. Once again Lhagwa led the charge with instincts he’s been honing since he himself was a 4 year old child herding sheep.

Interestingly, there exists a cultural divide between reindeer herders depending on the region they inhabit, either the western or eastern Taiga. In the west, herders like Godla and Sartlong live in small communities, congregating in small nuclear families, or if their reindeer herding patterns happen to coincide. This was in stark contrast to the Eastern reindeer herders, which live in just one or two large nomadic communities.

I’m not sure of the exact reasons, but perhaps owing to the large community that the Eastern reindeer herders live in, they are much more commonly visited by foreign and domestic tourists than their Western counterparts. Tourists are coming all the time. And when guests arrive, they visit whoever they want to. It’s no doubt an over generalization to say that everyone wants guests, but it certainly seemed that way because there is an expectation to bring gifts, and of course to pay for their room and board.

Anyways, we opted to stay with an elderly woman. Her daughter was classmates with Anuka and just had a baby a month ago, so she was all alone, except for her grandson who just finished high school. Her name is Buyantogtokh–or just Buyan for short. She was very nice, immediately asking if we were warm enough, and if we wanted tea. She’s also incredible, being completely self sufficient at managing her reindeer and living in the harsh conditions of the taiga.

She housed Lhagwa, Anuka, Kourtney and I in her ort next door. Once we settled, she came over for dinner that Anuka made. Inevitably the cards got pulled out, along with the vodka. After several days of playing, I finally won my very first game of 13. Maybe it was those lessons Baagii gave me. Feeling pretty rich with the 5K bill Lhagwa just handed me, I was quickly reminded that Anuka had beaten me the prior round, and so the money really belonged to her. Everyone laughed at my short-lived riches. Before handing it over I decided to take a picture of the bill, serving as perhaps the only proof that I ever won a game. Everyone thought it was hilarious that I took a picture of it.

I went to bed feeling thankful for all the laughs we had shared that night. I felt amongst friends. The crackling sound of the fire was overlaid with Lhagwa’s drunken snoring. The flickering flames illuminated the animal skin walls. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was looking at a bright star through the chimney hole of the ort.

Day 9: Autumnal migration

We arrived at a very lucky time. The herders were undertaking their annual Autumnal migration to their final camp before winter. This happens because the reindeer need to move into the forest, where they can plump up before winter, where there is a lot of grass. Also in the valley where we spent the night, the reindeer travel far and can be difficult to herd, whereas in the new location they stay closer.

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From around 9 AM the community was bustling with activity.

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Each herder was deconstructing their ort and placing the entirety of their possessions into plastic, fabric, and leather bags. Solar panels, lightbulbs, mattresses, furnaces, ropes, dishes, antlers, leather, reindeer milk, chainsaws, cutting boards, axes: everything these people owned was to be transported to the their new home.

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While some were busy breaking camp, others were herding their reindeer together for the migration. Each and every reindeer had to be accounted for.

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Once the reindeer were gathered, a core set of each family’s herd would be saddled for the purpose of either riding or carrying possessions.

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They tied the saddle-backed reindeer in lines, with the biggest in front, and the smallest in the back. The majority of reindeers, who were not saddled, were herded on the fly by skilled horsemen and reindeermen.

Then the herders took off down the valley in the direction from which they had migrated from a few months prior.

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Within a few hours, the camp was mostly deserted, except for a few people who were still waiting for their reindeer to return, Buyantogtokh included.

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After hanging out with Buyantogtokh for a bit, Anuka, Lhagwa, Kourtney and I saddled up our horses and followed suit down the valley.

The journey took around 2 hours. In the final half hour, reindeer with empty saddles were being led back to the original camp to pick up what couldn’t be carried on the first trip.

We arrived at the new camp and it was chaos. Piles of belongings were piled besides orts, which were all in the process of being erected. All the while, horses, reindeer, dogs, and humans were active all throughout the sparse forest.

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From the moment we arrived at the new campsite, until well past dark, we joined the chaos and helped however we could. Primarily, we helped erect orts for newly arrived herders, since it requires the coordination of many hands to properly cover the teepee-like structure with the canvas.

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Day 10: Making the rounds

The plan for the day was to hang out with the herders and then ride our horses back to Tsagaannuur.

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After breakfast, we made our way around and gave away the rest of our gifts to families that we had met. I really liked how well Anuka knew everyone because all of our gifts ended up being quite personalized.

We met with the tribal leader and his wife, who were very interested to hear I was from Canada. They knew that reindeer were in Canada and asked if we had reindeer herders. I wasn’t sure, but I guessed yes. Turns out I wasn’t totally wrong either. In the 1930s there was an effort to introduce reindeer herding to northern communities, a programme dubbed the Canadian Reindeer Project. It wasn’t as successful as projected, but it’s still practiced today by very small number of people.

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Then we found Buyantogtokh. She got in late last night but had clearly settled well because she was out and about. We gave her some durable rubber twist ties that my sister bought me for Christmas a couple years ago. We thought it could save her arthritic hands from some of the endless rope tying necessitated by herder lifestyle. We also gave her a waterproof sack.

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One of the herders came into our ort with a branding iron and placed it in the coals of the wood fire stove. Lhagwa followed in soon after, pointing at the iron with a grin on his face, making sure we understood something exciting was going to unfold. Anuka filled us in: a horse branding was underway.

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We were planning to leave in the next couple of hours, but we had yet to give away our potentially most prized gift: the bullets we had bought in the Ulaanbaatar black market. As a gift for hosting us in his ort, we gave our host 25 bullets, and as we were deciding what to do with the remaining 25, someone entered the ort to play 13. Then another, and then another. Clearly the news was out that a tourist couple knows how to play. Typically each loser pays 5,000 MNT, but we had the idea to offer either 5,000 MNT or 2 bullets. And then it was off to the races. The energy was high. People were smoking, slamming their cards down, laughing, and most importantly, trying to win some prized bullets. After a couple games, we had to call quits and head back to Tsagaannuur. Since there wasn’t enough time for the herders to win all the bullets legitimately, we ended up divvying the remaining bullets to the players as gifts.

Before we left, our host called us over. To thank us for the bullets we gave him, he had saddled one of his reindeer and allowed us to ride it.

Then as quickly as we came, we were gone. The horse ride back was beautiful, and we went fast. We trotted for at least an hour through beautiful forest. I cantered with my horse, marking the first time during the trip that my horse and I synergized. Back in Tsagaannuur Anuka’s mom made white fish soup. Just like turkey dinner, it’s known to make you tired. It sure did because we were completely knocked out in no time.

Day 11: Sheep dumplings

In the morning Baagii went to buy a sheep because we had run out of meat. We wanted to check it out, so we went out back where Baagii had a sheep tied up by the car.

He dragged it over to the back of the house, positioned it on its back, and with a relatively small knife tried to make an incision through its underbelly. But the knife wasn’t sharp enough so he called over Anuka’s mom who brought a bigger knife. He got through all the wool and made an incision without the sheep making a fuss. Then he maneuvered his hand through the sheep, at which point the sheep started to kick, and then with a mighty force he ripped his bloody hand out. He showed us later, during the dissection, that he had plucked a main artery that runs just below the sheep’s spinal cord. Without any fight, the sheep was dead within a minute.

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We had some left over gifts to give the children, so we made a stop by the school. A group of girls were fascinated with Kourtney’s hair, and indiscreetly whispered to each other, wide-eyed and shy. We found a group of three girls and two boys who all shared a room together. Kourtney laid out the remaining pencil cases that fashioned Disney or superhero characters for the kids to select from. Without any arguing they all picked their favorites. We talked with them for a bit. They were very shy so to break the ice we had Kourtney count to 10 in Mongolian, which conjured some laughter. Then one of the girls counted to 10 in English. We asked them what they wanted to be when they grow up: basketball players, singers, and teachers.

We returned to pack up our stuff. Anuka’s mom gave us some pendants made of reindeer antlers. Anuka prepared us a plate of sheep heart, liver, intestine, and stomach.

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This was truly a delicacy amongst Mongolians. Thighs and ribs can be smoked and stored. But fresh innards last for just a few hours. We tried the heart. It was very different but palatable. Then we tried a piece of the stomach which sent me into gag territory. Embarrassed by our foreign palates, we returned the plate mostly untouched.

Inside, there was an innards boil and the energy was high. Everyone was gobbling it up like Christmas dinner. People were picking up the small intestine and knifing off pieces. Anuka explained to us that the younger generation, especially from the city, considers innards to be dog food, and that it’s uncivilized. But it is a part of Anuka’s culture, and although Kourtney and I found the taste and texture to be disgusting, the practice of making full use of the animal was admirable and beautiful. Equally, I found the experience to serve as powerful evidence that taste preference is entirely relative and dictated by cultural norms.

Afterwards Kourtney and I had a long discussion about our meat consumption habits. In our Western society, there is an increasingly perpetuated disconnection between the meat we buy at the grocery store and the animal who supplied the meat. This disconnect both protects us from questioning the morality of our meat consumption habits and turns a blind eye to increasingly unethical factory farming practices that drive our meat supply. It was eye-opening to observe a way of life where animal and meat are inextricably linked. Where animal’s are given free-roaming lives, never killed prematurely, and where no part goes unused when they are slaughtered.

During the feast, someone came over to borrow Anuka’s mom’s weigh scale. They picked a bunch of blueberries and wanted to know how much. They were invited in, and they gladly took part in the feast. Afterwards, they weighed the blueberries. 58kg at 8,000 MNT per kilo, or 464,000 MNT ($131 USD). Not too shabby. When they left, the gate was left open and three cows came onto the property, happy to have found fresh grass. Anuka shooed them away.

The plan for the night was to visit Lhagwa’s Autumn home near Tsagaannuur. It was a beautiful little one room cabin.

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Inside, his mother-in-law prepared some surcream with bread, chalky sour dairy pucks, and of course, milk tea.

Two of the four cabin walls were covered in innumerable horse racing medals mounted on the walls that Lhagwa had won. Clearly Anuka chose the right horse wrangler for us.

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We ate some surcream and bread then wandered outside to catch a view of Tsagaannuur and Lhagwa’s animals.

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Last spring was a terrible spring, with bitter winds and no grass. Mongolia had 72 million livestock. Now Anuka thinks it could be less than 60 million. When there is such profound levels of death, it’s too much meat to eat, and the quality of the meat is so poor, so herders either bury the bodies or cut open their abdomens and let the vultures and various other birds dissect the carcasses. Lhagwa, with his 400 livestock, suffered great loss during this tough year, losing about 200 goats and sheep, Anuka predicted. This uncertainty comes with the territory of being a nomad. You can’t put your money into a bank, it roams freely.

After a few hours Lhagwa called. It was getting dark and he needed some help taking down some tourist gers with his wife. So Baagii, Kourtney and I jumped in the car to help.

Lhagwa was loading up two gers into his old Russian truck.

After around thirty minutes the truck was loaded, but Lhagwa couldn’t get the truck started. As he tried, Baagii pointed to the truck and said, “danger car, big danger car” while laughing. Our path forward was a relatively steep slope on wet grass, and so after Baagii’s observation, Kourtney used her body language to convince Lhagwa’s wife to ride with us, rather than in the death-mobile. Eventually Lhagwa got the car into a chortling start, and we followed behind him.

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We followed behind as Lhagwa barrelled across the slope side, slipping several times in what I thought would be a tip, potentially rolling into the lake. His wife, safely in our car, would go “ooooooooo!” and then nervously laugh each time it happened. To cap off the adrenaline rush, Lhagwa undertook a short horse herding adventure by veering brazenly off-course in an attempt to herd a group of his horses towards the direction of his cabin.

When we got back, Anuka was in the middle of preparing sheep steamed dumplings from one of the hind legs. Before, during, and after eating dumplings, we played cards on a fold up table under a flickering hospital white light bulb. I won the first round but Lhagwa reigned supreme for the rest of the night with an impressive winning streak. Must have been home court advantage.

Day 12: Farewell Lhagwa

Our plan today was to make it to Khövsgöl lake, where Anuka had rented a small tourist cabin.

In the morning we said goodbye to Lhagwa, his wife, his mother-in-law, and their 400 goats, sheep, cows, and horses. We gifted Lhagwa and his family a flashlight setup that can be powered multiple different ways and a pair of pocket binoculars. And inadvertently, my sandals.

Although Kourtney and I shared zero linguistic overlap with Lhagwa, he had become a dear friend of ours over the last week. He guided us safely through the Taiga. We broke bread with him, assembled orts, and disassembled gers. We found the overlap in our humour. He inspired us with his selfless attitude towards hard work that benefits those around him. And what he’s no doubt most proud about, he beat us in cards many times, and laughed hard at the wins and losses.

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“How long is the drive to Khövsgöl lake?” I asked.

“250km. The time I cannot say”, Anuka answered while laughing.

A question impossible to answer, no doubt. It was a rainy day, which will affect which mountain passes we choose. We would get further information from cars passing from the other direction. Perhaps this river would be too high, this steep section too muddy. And thus from our available options, our path would emerge. Whatever would come to be, we knew it would be a long day, as even during the rarest and most ideal stretches of land, our speed wouldn’t surpass 30 mph.

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After car pushes, countless river crossings, failing power steering and subsequent calls to Baagii’s car mechanic, we stopped to let the car cool down for the 5th or 6th time.

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At 7:30, 10 hours since our departure, we made it to asphalt. Just two minutes away was the longitude-latitude coordinates 50’100’, with an architectural monument pinpointing the spot. Even more incidentally, Anuka’s father, an artist, was commissioned by the mayor of the nearby village to design the monument, and was promised some property on Khövsgöl Lake as his commission. But after the monument was built and before the keys were handed over, the election cycle brought a new mayor into office, who never acknowledged the contract. Kourtney and I hiked up to the spot begrudgingly, while Baagii cooked instant ramen. In solidarity of this grievance, I won’t share a picture, but it was a cool monument.

For the last 45km to Khövsgöl Lake, Baagii, with unwavering concentration, navigated the two-lane highway. By western standards it was shoddy, but after 8 days of roadless mountain driving, it felt like the Autobahn. As the road signs flew past us at a blistering 40mph, I daydreamt about taking Anuka and Baagii to an American amusement park. We arrived at Khövsgöl Lake in the dark and clambered into our sleeping bags.

Day 13: Batsur

Our plan for the day was to hang out at the lake, kick our feet up, and relax.

In the morning we went for a motorboat ride. The boat driver was Batsur, one of Anuka and Baagii’s university friends. He worked hard as a boat driver for 10 years until he could buy his own speed boat. Now he makes good money driving his own boat.

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Khövsgöl lake is a big deal for Mongolians. Visiting the landlocked country’s largest lake is a tourist destination for foreigners and natives alike. And for Mongolians, most who can’t swim, ripping around on a motorboat is a thrilling novelty. While foreign tourism has mostly finished for the year, there was still plenty of domestic tourism in mid September. Lining the shore were mini cottages, houses, and shacks for rent.

After breaking the ice with Batsur with a self-explanatory rock-throwing contest, we got it on our heads that the 5 of us would go to a nearby karaoke bar. To prepare, we went to the shop and bought 15 beers of various Mongolian brands. But after calling the establishment, we realized they closed early, and so we drank the night away in our cottage house. For dinner we had more sheep dumplings, this time prepared by Anuka and Kourtney.

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The night was a mix of laughter and emotional conversations. I found it very impressive how communicative Baagii was despite having a miniscule English vocabulary. We learned that Batsur and Baagii used to play Counterstrike together at university. And that Baagii once drank 6L of kumis. Jokingly, he claimed that from the center of the ger he was projectile vomiting outside the door.

On a separate note, Baagii thanked us for respecting his culture by participating in the sheep slaughter the previous day. As we drank, Baagii took the remainder of the sheep leg that Anuka used to make dumplings, grabbed a knife, and picked the bone clean. Anuka clarified to us that it wasn’t because he was necessarily still hungry, she said. Instead, it’s because it is both practical an honorable to revere the animal’s sacrifice by letting nothing go to waste. She also said if you are a guest and you similarly pick the bone clean, the owners will be “so, so appreciative” because it means you’re fully respecting their hospitality.

Day 14: Coming full circle

In the morning we drove to Murun to get the car fixed. On the way we visited some ancient deer stones. Just like stonehenge, the meaning of these ancient monuments remains a mystery to this day, although there are some pre-historic traditions in the region that remain steadfast, such as burying Murun people in mountains surrounding these deer stones. I wonder if it’s related?

Stuck behind a huge flock of sheep being herded down a road on the outskirts of Murun, Anuka, Kourtney and I jumped out of the car to visit the monastery to our right while Baagii went to fix the car. We went for a stroll through the monastery. Anuka brought us inside the building where some kind of Buddhist reading was taking place. It was jam packed with people, with no place to sit. Everyone’s staring gaze pushed us back through the doors we came. Anuka thought it was a funeral procession of some sort.

Then we walked to the supermarket where we would meet up with Baagii. Along the way we saw some statues, street art, illegally high apartment buildings, and a congregation of people attending a wedding event. Half the men were in suits, half in deels.

At the market Baagii had bought us gifts. For Kourtney, he noticed her phone screen was broken so he bought her a new screen protector. And for both of us he bought us a deck of novelty cards, where each card was a picture of a famous Mongolian wrestler in their traditional (and revealing) garb. As he placed the cards in my hands he winked and said, “Mongolian playboy”.

Then we were back on the (paved 🙏) road. We decided we would stay with Handa and her husband, the nomads we encountered a week ago, who had invited us into their ger. That doesn’t mean we arranged this with them–our plan was to just show up. Anuka wasn’t kidding when she said Mongolians have no word for “go away”. When we arrived, Handa was just finishing a horse milking session and seamlessly transitioned into hostess mode, preparing milk tea and cookies with surcream, and of course, kumis.

Their kid had left for school, living in a 50 bed dormitory in a village school around 100km away. He was the kid who wanted us to send a message to Michael Jordan. In his place, was Kourtney’s newest obsession: a small pregnant cat gnawing a sheep’s thigh bone.

It felt full circle to be spending our last rural night at the very place where we experienced the greatest culture shock of the trip. A week ago, we had no idea about nomadic life when we were invited into Handa and her husband’s life. Without context, I was handed a bowl of fermented horse milk from a large cow skin full of unrefridgerated dairy product, and eating rock-hard cheese completely unique to my palette. Just moments before that, Kourtney was milking a horse and I was hitching a ride on a stranger’s motorcycle. The experience gave me such a culture shock that I was fighting back a bit of an adrenaline rush.

But this time was different. This time we felt like seasoned veterans of this lifestyle. In the last week, we’d travelled across roadless mountain passes, traversed the treacherous Northern Mongolian landscape on horseback to visit the Tsaatan peoples. We’d had our prophecies told during a life-altering Shamanic ritual, witnessed a bear-attack that killed one of Godla’s reindeers. We’d participated in a seasonal reindeer herding migration, and lived in orts underneath the stars. We’d butchered a sheep, watched a backyard horse branding, and rode reindeers.

So in comparison to all of that, we felt comfortable with Handa and her family. I played a friendly game of 13 while sipping kumis. Kourtney helped herd the baby cows. Then we stirred the newest milk contribution into the massive cow skin bag.

Although we felt we were fitting in, that’s not to say we’re fit for this lifestyle. I cannot overstate how tremendously hard nomadic life is compared to most Western lifestyles. This is a non-controversial opinion for any “Westerner” who has spent as little time here as we have. Case in point: Handa’s daily summer routine. Every two hours she milks the horses. From 5am to 9pm. And at the end of the day, she needs to mix the new milk with the forever soup of kumis by stirring it vigorously for 90 minutes continuously. This helps incorporate the yeast and kickstarts the fermentation. Needless to say, she was visibly happy that Baagii, Kourtney, Anuka and I took shifts so she could rest her body.

Late in the night I got a bad case of the dairy trots from the kumis that I was so confidently sipping earlier in the night. A further reminder of my un-Mongolianness.

Day 15: Home

On our final day together, we visited Khustai National Park, where we witnessed herds of the only truly wild horses left on earth. We spotted around 40 of them, representing around a tenth of the entire population.

As dusk fell we began our final journey back to Ulaanbaatar.

“What would Baagii do for work if he moved to Canada?” I wondered aloud as we drove, trying to imagine this horseman, herder, and all-around handyman transplanted into our world.

“Butcher,” we all agreed after some discussion. He would excel.

“And he could live with us!” Kourtney and I suggested enthusiastically.

Anuka translated, then added with laughter, “And pick the meat off the bones to eat for free!” referencing our conversation from days earlier. Through the rearview mirror, I watched Baagii’s eyes crinkle with amusement.

The landscape gradually transformed as we approached the capital. Gers and petrol stations gave way to taller buildings and metropolitan development. Neon signs in Korean and Cyrillic punctuated the darkness, advertising restaurants and karaoke bars.

After maybe an hour navigating, we finally arrived at the hotel where our journey had begun two weeks earlier. The symmetry felt right, somehow. We had traveled in a great circle through Mongolia, and here we were, changed but returned.

For our final meal together, we spoiled ourselves to the Korean restaurant attached to the hotel. We sat around the table and shared our food family-style, without the awkwardness that had characterized our first meal together.

Back in Anuka’s apartment, surrounded once again by the trappings of modern comfort–hot showers, wifi, soft beds–I felt a strange displacement. Part of me still wished to be in the Taiga, still riding across boggy terrain, still waking to the sound of reindeer hooves outside an ort.

I thought about the word “nomad”—how it implies constant movement, no fixed home. Yet the nomads we’d met seemed more rooted, more connected to their place in the world than people with permanent addresses, myself included. What, then, did home mean to them? I couldn’t pretend to know. I’d only glimpsed fragments.

Perhaps the answer can be found somewhere within Handa’s immediate and unquestioning hospitality to strangers. Or in how Lhagwa’s family arranged their treasured medals on cabin walls they’d soon leave behind. Or in how the Eastern reindeer herders dismantled their entire camp in one morning. Maybe it was in Godla’s words when asked what he loved about Mongolia: “We can live with our animals and do whatever we want”. Whatever the case, I realized that Anuka and Baagii had given Kourtney and I a profound gift: they had made Mongolia feel, however briefly, like home to us. Not through luxury, or comfort, or chaperoning us through the “must-see” attractions of Mongolia, but through genuine human connection.

Indeed, as I reflect on this trip now, nearly two years later, it wasn’t the spectacular landscapes or exotic experiences that I regularly think of, but the simple moments centered around people: Baagii’s laughter when I mistakenly reached to shake his blood-covered hand during the sheep butchering. Or the way that Anuka looked up at admiringly at Godla and in a hushed whisper remarked to me how powerful he seemed. Or the bunch of us in Lhagwa’s cabin, huddled around a card game underneath a flickering lightbulb.

Mongolia revealed itself to us not just as a place on a map, but as a way of being—proud, generous, and profoundly connected to what matters most. And for that lesson—to Anuka, Baagii, Lhagwa, Godla, Sartlong, Handa, Buyantogtokh, Batsur, and everyone else who welcomed us into their lives—no amount of bayarlala could ever be enough.

If you want to travel to Mongolia, we would highly recommend getting in touch with Anuka. Her website is here and her Instagram is here.