This is the first installment of a two-part series examining the hardship that nomadic herders face in a fast-changing Mongolia.
SANT, Mongolia — Davaadalai Gongor, 41, tried feeding his family exactly as his ancestors had for thousands of years, traveling these central grasslands of the Asian steppe herding sheep and goats for dairy and wool. It didn’t work.
He did everything as he was taught to do. He grazed his animals on land that his family has relied on as far back as anyone can trace. He lived humbly in a ger — the octagonal tent, sometimes called a yurt in English, in which Mongolian nomads traditionally live — with a herd well within the government’s recommended limit to avoid competing livestock devouring all the grass. He piously maintained a Buddhist shrine. The most vibrant item he owned was a handmade snuff bottle containing a fragrant, snortable tobacco.
His first mistake was being born at the wrong time. If he’d been born a little earlier, he might have gotten an education working for one of the communist collectives that managed herds in the Soviet era, when the grasslands were lush. A little later, and he might have seen where things were headed out on this dusty plain, half an hour from the nearest village, Sant, and nearly three hours from any paved roads. He might have realized that the grass wasn’t getting any greener before it was too late.
In 2009, Davaadalai had a herd of 200 animals and a 2-year-old son, his first and only child. But that winter brought death. A dzud — a perilously brutal winter that freezes the ground, makes grazing impossible, and kills with lethal cold what few animals did find enough food — wiped out all but 19 livestock. Dzuds used to be rare. Now, in a region that has seen more average temperature rise than the rest of the world, these extreme weather swings mean the tradition of relying on one’s own herd and the open range for survival is itself in danger.
The cruel twist is that the cost of…
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