She held out the steaming bowl of süütei tsai and I accepted it gratefully, wrapping my hands around the porcelain with stiff, clumsy fingers. I cradled it as if it were something precious, willing the warmth of the salted tea to seep out of the bowl and into my body, to spread across my frozen limbs and untie my quivering muscles. I’d been riding in sub zero temperatures all day and had long since lost the ability to tell where my fingertips ended and the icy air of the Taiga began. Now, sitting in a dark teepee beside a blazing potbelly stove, I was beginning to get some of the feeling back.
“Baiertla,” I said, nodding in thanks. I stumbled over the word, my numb lips struggling to form around the ‘b’ sound.’
The elderly woman smiled slightly, amused to hear Mongolian coming from the mouth of someone so – for lack of a better word – white, but she nodded back, encouraging. “Tsugarr.”
She was ancient. Just how old, I couldn’t say, but certainly old enough to have seen more winters come and go than could fill several of my lifetimes. Her hands were rough, twisted with arthritis, and years of harsh weather conditions had turned her skin to crepe paper. It hung from her bones in loose, sagging folds, puckering slightly around the eyes and lips. She had a stubborn look about her – an upward tilt of the chin that was the unfortunate side effect of having lost the majority of her teeth – and yet, the expression suited her.
I watched as she transferred the remaining süütei tsai from the pot on the stove to a plastic thermos. She screwed on the lid and sat down across from me, smoothing out the fabric of her deel as she did so. She looked at me expectantly, and then at my translator, Mona, waiting for one of us to say something.
In the silence, I was suddenly unsure of myself, painfully aware of how strange and awkward I must appear, struggling with the cold before the winter had even begun in earnest. I sniffed, bringing the back of my sleeve to my nose. It was starting to run, thawing along with the rest of my body, but tissues were a luxury that had run out several days before. There was no end to the number of things I wanted to ask this woman – what her life was like, where she grew up, how many children she’d had, and what life in the taiga meant to her – but I settled on the first and easiest question that came to mind. Wordlessly, I reached into the inner lining of my coat and pulled out a bright red, leather-bound journal.
“Mini neriig Nicola gedeg. My name is Nicola,” I said. “Tany neriig hen gedeg ve?”
The woman smiled again and pointed to her chest. “Suren.”
Suren is one of the Dukha, descended from the Turkic tribes of the Siberian Tuva. She, like so many of her ancestors before her, is a reindeer herder. She lives off the land, sustained by her herds and the natural resources provided by the Ulaan Taiga. For 200 years, the Dukha have shaped their lives around the needs of their reindeer, dwelling in felt-lined teepees called ortz, traversing the rugged landscape in search of fertile pasture. It is for this reason they are referred to as “Tsaatan,” a name which, roughly translated, means “reindeer people.”
If anyone were to have told me several months prior that my research would lead me to the frozen terrain of one of the most sparsely populated countries in the world, I’m not sure I would have believed them. I’d spent over a year studying 13th century Mongolia and the rise of Genghis Khan for a literary project, but had never put any serious consideration into visiting before I stumbled across a description of the Tsaatan. The text described them as a community living on the fringes of civilization, referencing their nomadic roots, shamanistic practices, and adherence to a traditional way of life. With less than 250 living members, they form one of the smallest ethnic minorities in the word and, because of this, take great care to preserve the ways of their ancestors.
Captivated by the Dukha culture and fascinated with the idea of a reindeer-centric society, I arranged to travel to Mongolia myself, reasoning that it would be an excellent research opportunity. So far removed from society, a visit to the Tsaatan camp would be my best shot at observing nomadic culture in its unadulterated form – or, at least, that is what I believed at the time.
It would take days to reach my destination. Multiple plane trips, long drives, and hours of riding would leave me with a sore back and teeth that ached with cold. I had expected this – wanted it, even. My journey was to the winter camp – a place accessible only with the proper guidance and more than a little willingness on the part of the Tsaatan. My presence there was made possible through the efforts of my escorts, members of a small company that had put years into developing a working relationship with the Dukha. Few people travel as far as the winter camp, and I would be the youngest by a significant span of years. What’s more, with the exception of my guides, I would be alone.
This was to be a cultural deep dive – an attempt to eliminate as much of the touristic elements as possible in order to focus on the grittier realities. But I was several decades too late. What awaited me was not a society of contented nomads, secure in the practices of their ancestors, but a people who had lost their way, trapped between an unsustainable past and an inauspicious future.
For thousands of years the Dukha roamed Eastern Asia, following animal migration patterns across an open frontier. When war broke out, the Dukha fled south and, as the Soviet Union tightened its borders, were forced to settle in Mongolia. They took up additional work as trappers and fishers, paying their dues to the socialist government as “state hunters.” All the while, they continued to care for their reindeer. According to Mongolian tradition, reindeer possess the spirits of loved ones passed. They roam the expanse of the taiga, shepherding wayward souls on their journey to the afterlife, and in return, the Tsaatan act as their guardians in the physical realm. With the reindeer’s quiet elegance and eerily intelligent gaze, it’s easy to see where such mystical beliefs come from. These days, however, the Tsaatan’s connection to the reindeer is as much practical as it is spiritual. Their herd sustains them, providing them with food and a source of income.
Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the reindeer provide the Tsaatan with their only source of income. As the socialist government began to falter, so too did the support it provided its citizens. With perestroika and the dissolution of the Soviet Union came the rise of democracy, and the rise of democracy came at the detriment of communities reliant on government subsidies. What resulted was kleptocracy on a national scale; the government’s paltry attempts to redistribute wealth left many to fend for themselves, and those with the knowledge to advance their own positions did so with unscrupulous speed and efficiency. With only the barest understanding of the free market and families to feed, the Tsaatan fell back on the only resource available to them: reindeer.
Responding to China’s black market and its insatiable demand for animal parts – goods destined to be dried, ground up, and incorporated into various medicines and salves – the Tsaatan began to sell bits of antler. Reindeer shed and regenerate their antlers regularly over the course of their lifetime, allowing for easy harvesting and a quick source of income, but hungry stomachs and empty wallets are not inclined to wait for the changing of the season. With growing desperation, the Tsaatan began to cut off the reindeer’s antlers early, leaving the creatures weak and susceptible to blood poisoning. One by one, the reindeer died of infection. Their numbers plummeted, as did those of the moose, red deer, Siberian ibex, and Argali sheep. Add to this the discovery of jade and gold deposits, unchecked hunting practices, the tendencies of opportunistic corporations, and a general unconcern for conservation, and before long, the region was well and truly decimated.
The situation grew so severe that even the government eventually felt compelled to step in. Back in 2012, the Tsaatan’s homeland was declared a national park, and with that declaration came a multitude of regulations. Since then, small strides have been made to repair the damage done to the community. The reindeer population, reduced to pitiful numbers in the early part of the century, will soon reach 2000. “It is beautiful to see,” says Sansaar, a Tsaatan and recent father. “I am glad my daughters will grow up knowing so many reindeer.”
But such gains have come at a price. There is a slight bitterness that creeps into Sansaar’s voice at the mention of future generations. His brother, Tsolmon, tsks at the sight of a scampering mink on our afternoon walk – a creature whose pelt might feed his family for a month should he be allowed to shoot it. Most prominent of all is the stiffness that creeps into the air at the slightest mention of patrolling park rangers. There is no hunting, no chopping wood, camping restrictions, limited migrations. For a people whose livelihood depends on their unrestricted movement and ability to live off the land, the conservation edicts border on unthinkable.
Today, the Tsaatan survive primarily off of tourism. There is no shortage of interest in reindeer among Mongolia’s visitors, and the Tsaatan have made their summer camp quite the lucrative attraction. Men and women come to gawk at the reindeer during the warmer months, snapping selfies to share on social media. The Tsaatan, in turn, put their culture on display, playing up shamanistic traditions for the benefit of their guests. It is only with the arrival of winter that they return to the solitude of the mountains, doing their best to stretch the summer’s income as far as it will go. Unable to hunt, there is little else to do beside take the reindeer out to graze. Their days are not defined by activity, but by lack of it. Children old enough to receive their education board at the nearest township, and in their absence, all is silent.
Tsaatan face a grim decision: to persevere in the hollow shell of their traditions, or respect the laws of the present. To adhere to conservation guidelines is to lose their livelihood and their culture, but to hunt and travel illegally is to elicit the anger of the government and further damage their struggling ecosystem. To make matters worse, the effects of climate change fall particularly hard on a land-locked, high altitude environment such as the Taiga.
Winter is defined by the brutality of nature’s indifference; temperatures plummet deep into the negatives and the world is plunged into the silence of hibernation. Coniferous trees, full to bursting with their rapidly expanding sap, crack under their own pressure, scattering frozen shards of wood to lie like pockmarks on an otherwise unblemished backdrop of white. Nights stretch on far longer than they have any right to, and the sun – when it does emerge – hangs low and heavy in the sky, shimmering with a heatless blaze. It is a difficult place to live under the best conditions, but shrouded in the mournful knowledge of what once was and what might never be again, the land feels more akin to moratorium of ice.
For some, the situation is too much. The past decade has seen a massive decline in the Tsaatan community as more and more families surrender their nomadic lifestyle, opting to move to the nation’s capital. But this is not a choice made easily.
Reindeer herders are not the only ones abandoning the old ways. With climate change and unpredictable weather patterns, more and more nomads are opting out – either by choice or necessity. Ulaanbaatar, a city defined by its sprawling soviet architecture and a constant state of development, is now home to roughly 50% of the country’s population. As the city’s infrastructure struggles to keep up with the massive influx of residents, most of the newer occupants are forced to live in ger districts – slum-like neighborhoods consisting of ramshackle abodes and half-finished construction projects. The nomad, so competent in his own domain, is relegated to the status of unskilled laborer, left without means to improve his circumstance. The region’s dependence on cheap coal has made Ulaanbaatar one of the most polluted cities in the world, further compounding the issue. In the winter, Ulaanbaatar sits in a fog of smoke and exhaust so thick it leaves an acrid taste in the mouth and makes it difficult to breathe. It is a far cry from the mountain air of the Ulaan Taiga, and yet, many feel the refuge of the city is their only option.
For those that remain, however, the decision is an easy one. “It is hard, yes, but look around you,” says Tsolmon, “There is nothing but beauty as far as the eye can see. Here, we live like kings.”
And it’s true. Scaling the snow-covered mountains of the taiga on the back of a reindeer, one feels like a character in a storybook. The silence is intoxicating. The air is so clean, one almost becomes lightheaded. But it is a kingdom caught between times, unwilling to part from its past and unwilling to embrace the future. If there is any hope to be gleaned, it comes from the fact that the land has proved remarkably resilient in its recent recovery. If the reindeer can come back at the urging of those who have taken an interest in it, so too can the culture that has grown alongside it.
The predicament faced by the Tsaatan Dukha is neither new nor surprising. In fact, the challenges faced by people like Suren, Sansar, and Tsolmon are likely to be reflected in similar cases in coming years. It would seem the rapid modernization and subsequent destruction of natural resources has left little room for the existence of smaller, nature-dependent communities. But this need not be the case. If an environment can be protected, so too can a community’s cultural heritage. It is a matter of the utmost importance that Mongolia’s climate and the quandary of the Tsaatan Dukha be an early warning sign, caught and corrected, and not one in a long line of casualties wrought by humanity’s own destructive tendencies.
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