Tsaatan Reindeer Herders

I needed a break from Ulaanbaatar. Mongolia's capital, the coldest in the world, is plagued by coal dust in winter and construction debris year-round. It was the summer of 2016, and after a year of teaching English and freelance writing, I was ready for a change. When my colleague Anudari suggested a trip to the taiga, I eagerly joined her without hesitation. The taiga is a vast Siberian forest extending into Mongolia from Russia. The most renowned area lies beyond Lake Hövsgöl in the northernmost part of the country, home to the Tsaatan people. This remote group of nomadic reindeer herders is often romantically labeled as "mystical," "untouched," and even a "lost tribe," with the added description of being "highly photogenic."

Batzorig expertly navigated us through Ulaanbaatar’s gridlock and onto a seldom-used paved highway. As we headed west, the sky expanded, and the landscape opened up in every direction. Batzorig, a Mongolian American who often traveled to the countryside with his family, was especially excited about this trip. Visiting the Tsaatan had always been on his bucket list, and he described it as a magical, once-in-a-lifetime experience. I was more skeptical. The Tsaatan, like the Altai eagle hunters, are frequently featured in Mongolian travel stories because the idea of herding reindeer in a vast, starry wilderness is undeniably romantic. The remoteness of their habitat automatically turns any visitor into an adventurer. I was uneasy with the romanticization, paternalism, and subtle exploitation embedded in these narratives. Despite my reservations, I couldn't help but feel a thrill about the journey.

Taiga

For centuries, the Tsaatan have been herding reindeer through the taiga, initially in their native Tuva, a Russian republic, and then in Mongolia after the borders were redrawn under Soviet influence in 1944. Today, only a few hundred continue this traditional way of life. As search engines expose more of the world's hidden corners, the Tsaatan have become a tourist attraction. Adventure packages to the taiga are offered by tour companies, allowing visitors to immerse themselves in Tsaatan culture by milking reindeer, making cheese, harvesting pine nuts, and sleeping in ortz, the traditional teepee-shaped tents. However, reaching the Tsaatan is no simple task. The taiga is exceptionally remote, even by Mongolian standards. With the country largely lacking roads, overland travel is slow and arduous. The dense forest can only be traversed on horseback. This is one journey where the travel itself is a significant part of the experience—we would spend eight days with the Tsaatan, including two days of travel. After a few days of driving, we arrived in Mörön, a dusty town made of plywood, where we arranged for a driver, a guide, provisions, and horses to meet us at the forest's edge, all for $150 per person. No one asked if we knew how to ride; the primary concern was weight—both ours and that of our overpacked bags. Mongolian horses are small and can only carry about 200 pounds. These semi-wild horses, accustomed to fending for themselves on the steppe, respond to just one command: "tchoo," which means "go faster."

As we traveled north from Mörön, I had another two days to contemplate my minimal riding skills. The rain poured relentlessly, and our old van struggled through waves of mud. I huddled in the back, trying to stave off my nausea. By the time we reached the taiga, the sky had cleared to a brilliant blue. The forest appeared suddenly, a dense wall of pine and larch. Our Tsaatan host, Batbayar Davaajav, was waiting with the horses. Although the nearby mountains were dusted with snow, our path was mostly swampy. The horses stumbled through the bog, like drunks. After hours of battling mud and crossing churning rivers, we finally arrived at the camp in darkness. A lake mirrored the rising moon, and reindeer stood on spindly legs around the family's ortz. The sky was streaked with shooting stars. "Darn," I thought. "This might actually be a bit magical."

At home with the Tsaatan

“The Tsaatan are not an ‘undiscovered tribe,’” warned the herding community’s website. Indeed, they are familiar with the internet (although their site is currently down). The term Tsaatan means “people with reindeer” in Mongolian, not their native tongue. The herders refer to themselves as Dukha. “You will not be the first or last visitor they have hosted,” the website emphasized. “They are a modern people who have welcomed guests from around the globe.” During our journey to Bold’s camp, we passed a few other visitors, their nylon jackets bright against the dimming forest. Our guides exchanged warm greetings, while the foreigners offered tight nods, each viewing the others as intruders. We continued on, pretending not to notice the encounter. Upon arrival at the camp, it was clear that the only lost tribe in the taiga was us tourists. Armed with maps and GPS, we were prepared for physical remoteness but had no tools for navigating cultural dislocation. This wasn’t just embarrassing but potentially dangerous. The taiga is an unforgiving environment, with hypothermia a real threat even in August. Bold displayed bear and wolf teeth among his carved trinkets, and Russian border police occasionally stopped by searching for escaped convicts. The vast wilderness felt menacing; the only way in or out was on horseback through pathless marshes. I realized, uncomfortably, that despite all my travel experience, I brought nothing useful to the situation except a positive attitude.

Myth and memories

Storytelling is a mirror, reflecting back on us the language we use to describe others. Terms like mystical, lost, exploited, or endangered, when applied to the Tsaatan, also hint at our roles in the narrative. Are we daring explorers, self-righteous doubters, or perhaps just comic relief? After returning from the taiga, these thoughts weighed on my mind. Even years later, I find myself pondering them every time I write. Recently, my thoughts have returned to that journey for different reasons—mainly, claustrophobia. The coronavirus pandemic has shrunk life to fit within the confines of walls and screens, making me yearn for the vast expanse of the Mongolian landscape. Currently, that’s a distant dream: Mongolia has been closed to international travel since March to prevent the virus's spread. I'm relieved, considering that about a third of Mongolians, like Batbold, are nomadic herders far from medical facilities. My memories of the trip are admittedly romantic, maybe even magical. I recall the taste of reindeer-milk tea and the cold mornings where even camel-wool long johns couldn’t keep me warm. I remember the unsteady sensation of riding a saddled reindeer, the night sky glowing yellow under a full moon, and Batbold's wife laughing at my clumsy knife skills while we cooked. The children climbing on me for piggyback rides, and Batbold’s warm smile as he bid us farewell, inviting us to return someday. That toddler I remember must be nearing school age now. She won’t remember me or the other travelers who visited that summer. Yet, I wonder how she would describe us, the enigmatic visitors who didn’t even know how to use the bathroom. She might use some of the same words we used for her family before our visit. I’m fairly certain one of those words would be “lost.”