Far and Away: Reporting from the Brink of Change

After about three hours of hiking we found ourselves above the tree line, and on the crest of the mountain we could just make out an ortz (one of the conical tepees the Tsaatan inhabit) and a herd of animals. Soon we were at the encampment of the reindeer people. In their dwelling we were given the usual warm welcome, reindeer-milk tea, some nasty cheese, and fried biscuits. (“Cooked in reindeer fat?” I asked the oldest woman. She reached behind a cabinet. “We prefer sunflower oil these days,” she said, showing me the bottle.) Along the side of the tepee were various practical hooks made from antlers, and a few reindeer-skin bags. We asked about a small bundle, hanging opposite the door, of feathers, ribbons, dried flowers, a duck foot, and part of an antler. We were told that it was a magical device, and they made clear that further questions about it were not welcome. The boy who had brought us said that his mother was a shaman.

Then we went outside to see the animals: three snow-white reindeer and twenty-seven brown ones. I’d always thought of reindeer as inhabiting an eternal December; these had shed their heavy winter coats and seemed happy with the afternoon sun. They came over to rub their noses and heads against us. Their antlers were furry and sensitive, and we soon discovered that they loved to have them scratched. The father in the Tsaatan family saddled one up and let me try it out. Reindeer sway as they trot, and an amateur rider’s natural impulse, upon feeling he is about to slide off, is to grab on to the thing in front of him—which is, alas, their antlers. Doing so, as I found to my chagrin and to the Tsaatan family’s immense amusement, jerks back the reindeer’s head and sends him running. Reindeer are a great deal faster than you think.

I was glad to return to Ulaanbaatar, which is a funny, mixed-up city, with grand neoclassical Russian buildings, Buddhist monasteries, and grim housing from the Communist era. Throughout the city, people have a wry, ironic view of the Cold War government, whose monuments are ubiquitous. In one museum, a Turkish restaurant has opened under the eighty-foot-high mosaic of Lenin. When I walked in, I saw two signs: one on the wall that said WORKERS OF THE WORLD, UNITE! and the other on a freshly whitewashed stand that said DRINKS HALF-PRICE BEFORE 6:00!

In 1931, a third of Mongolia’s male population lived in monasteries, and the nation’s wealth was concentrated in Buddhist holy places. Stalin’s thugs destroyed almost all of these, but a few remain. The most splendid is the Gandan Monastery in UB, the biggest monastery in Mongolia, at the center of which is a Buddha almost a hundred feet tall, enclosed in a tight-fitting pagoda. Dozens of monks in long robes offer prayers inside and outside, and the aura of peace is strong even with the crowds of noisy tourists shoving through. I ran into my friend the monk from the Beijing train, and he greeted me with warm smiles and talked excitedly about his family.

We had also visited the great monastery in Kharkhorin, named Erdene Zuu, which felt more ancient, less touristed, more hallowed. The monks there, ages six to ninety, strolled through the unkempt courtyards in long red robes; inside the temples others chanted prayers, beat drums, and lit candles in front of golden Buddhas carved by Mongolia’s great seventeenth-century king and sculptor, Zanabazar. Worshippers made offerings and pressed their foreheads to images of the divine, then turned the prayer wheels. For $2, you could get the monks to recite special prayers for you and your livestock.

The essence of Mongolia outclasses the sights; anywhere in Mongolia (outside Ulaanbaatar) you can see what you need to see, which is an innocent landscape and an immutable culture. Afterward, if you especially want to explore the Gobi or Khövsgöl or find some yaks, you can go ahead and do that, too. In China, people take a curious nationalist pride in the idea that no foreigner will ever penetrate the complexity of their society. Russians believe that their despair is a state no Westerner can attain or affect. Mongolians, however, seem gloriously clear about their place in the world and are delighted if you want to join them there. You get a feeling in Mongolia not simply of history, but of eternity.

Nomadism is declining in Mongolia; intense recent migration means that half the population now resides in Ulaanbaatar, many in vast shantytowns that ring the city. A fifth of the country lives below the poverty line. Though Mongolia remains a democracy, riots have occurred lately over election fraud, and former president Nambar Enkhbaya has been convicted of corruption and sent to prison. The environmental situation is getting sadder. Mining operations and overgrazing combined with global warming are leading to wide desertification and a significant loss of plant density. Many animals, hunted for Chinese medicine or for their pelts, are at record low numbers.