[ad_1]
Morning fog filled the valley near Hatgal, a small village at the southern end of Lake Khovsgol in northern central Mongolia. Looking at the figures among the fragrant pines and larches, I could barely distinguish the silhouettes of the reindeer from those of the shepherds.
Darima Delger, 64, and her husband, Uwugdorj Delger, 66, packed up and dismantled a rusty stove. They threw a coat over the shoulders of their grandchildren, who were already sitting on the backs of their animals. The family herd was as still as in a Flemish painting. Everyone was waiting to leave.
The sound of tent poles colliding – mixed with the whirlpool of commanding voices – left little doubt: transhumance to the shepherds’ summer camp continued.
Darima and Uwugdorj’s family are part of a small group of semi-nomadic reindeer herders known as Dukha or Tsaatan. Only a few hundred individuals remained in northern Mongolia. Their lives revolve around domesticated reindeer that provide most of their daily needs, including milk (used in tea, yogurt, and cheese), leather, and a means of transportation. It is sold for use in medicines and nutritional supplements after the velvety horns of animals are removed. Few of the animals are killed for their meat—perhaps once or twice a year.
The decision to move the herd was not simple. Uwugdorj explained that in the past years they have been moving the reindeer roughly every month. “We were actually following them,” he said with a laugh. “Reindeer are smarter than us.”
But now the rain and snow cycles are changing, said Uwugdorj. Weather in the taiga, the subarctic forest where animals thrive, became less predictable. Lichen, which forms the basis of the reindeer’s diet, is particularly vulnerable to changes in climate. In addition, reindeer populations, which have been adversely affected by disease, past mismanagement, and hunting by wolves, have declined.
“We’re putting the whole herd in danger if we’re wrong,” said Uwugdorj, checking the straps of his saddles. Then, hopping onto the reindeer, he started the impatient procession along a thick strip of snow.
I could barely keep up with the herd on horseback. Compared to reindeer, horses move like elephants.
Despite his injured knee, Uwugdorj was thrown through the pines and disappeared. Along with Darima and her daughters, I glanced over a few reindeer that had weakened in the winter. Between efforts, I watched the family exchange glances. Their faces seemed to accept the uncertainty. “If we lose our animals,” Darima told me at one point, “we will lose everything.”
Arriving at the new pasture in the pouring rain, the tent-like tents of the group called ortz emerged with dizzying speed. About 20 families were in the migration process.
Darima went out to milk the reindeer. After tying the animals to stakes for the night, everyone gathered around a crackling fire.
Dukhas are originally from the northern Tuva region of Russia. Tuva was an independent country for many years until it was annexed by the Soviet Union in 1944. Uwugdorj and Darima were sent to boarding schools as children of communist rule and made numerous attempts to erase their identities. Uwugdorj remembered fleeing the village at night because the dorms were too hot. “We are hungry, we are cold,” he said. In winter, pieces of reindeer skin were boiled to make a broth, which he swallowed to survive. The furs went to wealthy customers in the cities.
With their savings, Uwugdorj and Darima had a house built in the village of Tsagaannuur, west of Lake Khovsgol, so that their grandchildren could receive proper education.
The next morning, walking through moss and lichen, I met a woman in her seventies who milked six reindeer. He described how dramatically life changed for the Dukhas when the border in the north was redrawn—when families were separated, seasonal migrations were blocked. Many Dukha became refugees either in the Soviet Union or in Mongolia. “We wanted to escape from people who forbade us to live in the taiga,” he said.
Every summer, a steady stream of tourists from places like China, Israel, the United States, and New Zealand cross the taiga to visit the shepherds. But not all Dukha families profit from visitors. Speaking to me with her 34-year-old husband, Galbadrakh, 28-year-old Dawasurun Mangaljav said they instead make a living by selling deer antlers and hides, collecting pine seeds and receiving small subsidies.
“Foreigners think we are free,” Dawasurun said. In fact, he said, money is a constant problem. In the summer, the children of Dawasurun and Galbadrakh live with them in the taiga. They will return to school each September – only if parents can afford it.
On my last day with Dukha, I went to study the herd with Uwugdorj.
Uwugdorj, who once worked as a government-employed hunter, knows the terrain. The climate, he said, is changing; can see it. Since the 1940s, the average temperature in the northern forests of Mongolia has been rose almost four degrees Fahrenheit, more than twice the world average.
“We are not sculptures in a museum,” said Uwugdorj. “We are like our reindeer: in motion.”
And he added that their struggle is to persevere in a world that seems determined to challenge their way of life.
[ad_2]
Source link