December 2024

Amidst the breathtaking topography, Mongolia is a land of contrasts: the swiftly urbanising capital of Ulaanbaatar stands in stark opposition to the vast, open countryside where pastoralism endures. This duality reflects a nation navigating the push and pull of globalisation, economic development, and modernisation. On one side, there is the celebrated nomadic heritage, and on the other, the relentless pressures of urbanisation and resource extraction. I visited Mongolia in August this year. The primary reason for my visit was to learn more about pastoralism in Mongolia’s steppe context and to broaden the scope of my own existing work in the uplands of the western Himalaya, in India. I spent a little over 3 weeks in Mongolia, spending large parts of time in the capital city of Ulaanbaatar.

When I landed in Ulaanbaatar, I expected a city in transition, but nothing quite prepares you for the collision of worlds it embodies. On one hand, you have the sprawling skyline, bristling with cranes and glass towers—a modern metropolis seemingly plucked out of an urban planner’s fever dream. On the other, you have the ger districts, where traditional felt yurts sit incongruously next to makeshift houses, hemmed in by the relentless sprawl of the city. Nearly half of Mongolia’s population now calls Ulaanbaatar home, a fact that underscores just how much the city has grown since the Soviet Union’s collapse.

The streets of Ulaanbaatar hum with a strange vitality. The traffic is chaotic, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat and coal smoke, and everywhere you look, there are signs of a city grappling with its place in the world. Mining has become the lifeblood of the Mongolian economy, pumping wealth into urban centres while drawing people away from the countryside. But this economic boom comes at a cost: disrupted grazing lands, polluted water sources, and an increasingly tenuous existence for the country’s herders. While travelling with pastoralists in their jeeps and trucks these opposing forces come alive, illustrating the delicate balance between identity and opportunity.

The first two weeks of my trip were a whirlwind of exploration and discovery, with days spent crisscrossing the towns of Emeelt and Bayannuur. My mission was simple: to understand what moves the Mongolian fibre market. Wool and cashmere traders were my primary focus, but these trips offered much more than just business insights. Each visit brought me into the homes—or rather, the gers—of herders, where I was greeted with bowls of airag and stories of a life shaped by movement and the land. Trying to piece together the rhythms of their nomadic way of life was as fascinating as it was humbling.

Back in Ulaanbaatar, my time was spent wandering its streets, where the city’s layers unfolded with every turn. Tourist spots, bustling cafes, serene monasteries, and quiet museums offered an assortment of experiences. My explorations weren’t confined to the city streets. I had the chance to attend the Cambridge Mongolia Forum, a biennial gathering of researchers and academics. The talks covered a wide range of topics—pastoralism, politics, art, and culture—all painting a vivid picture of Mongolia’s many facets. Shortly after, I found myself at the second World Nomads Festival, held at the foothills of Taij Khairkhn in Nalaikh District. Here, the spirit of nomadism came alive in vibrant displays of music, games, and traditions, offering a celebration of the heritage I’d been glimpsing during my journey.

Those two weeks offered more than just an introduction to Mongolia; they were an invitation into a world where tradition and change coexist, each shaping the other in ways that felt both familiar and entirely unique. Soon after the Forum, I left the city behind, trading its noise for the silence of the countryside. The steppe unfolds in every direction like an endless sea of grass, broken only by the occasional ger, a herder tending to their flock, or a distant mountain range shimmering in the haze. Here, the pace of life is dictated not by the clock but by the rhythm of the land. For centuries, herders have moved with the seasons, guiding their livestock—sheep, goats, camels, cattle and horses—to pastures that ebb and flow with Mongolia’s extreme climate. This mobility is their lifeline, a finely tuned strategy honed over generations.

And yet, this vast, open landscape is far from untouched by modernity. Take, for example, the humble Toyota Prius. You’d think it would be hopelessly out of place on the steppe, but no—it’s everywhere. Herder after herder zipped past me in their Priuses, ferrying supplies or moving between grazing camps. Seeing this city car bounce across dirt tracks was surreal, but it also spoke volumes about the adaptability of Mongolia’s pastoralists. The Prius, it turns out, isn’t just a car; it’s a lifeline, a tool that helps herders navigate the ever-changing challenges of their world.

Mongolia’s identity is deeply tied to its nomadic heritage. Chinggis Khan looms large here, not just as a historical figure but as a symbol of resilience and independence. Festivals celebrate the traditions of the past, and official rhetoric often romanticises the nomadic way of life. But there’s a tension between this cultural pride and the economic realities of modern Mongolia. Mining, not herding, drives the national economy now, and while the government celebrates the country’s nomadic roots, it often overlooks the needs of those still living them.

For someone like me, whose work centres on pastoralism, Mongolia offers a fascinating—and sobering—case study. The resilience of its herders, navigating the twin pressures of globalisation and environmental change, is nothing short of remarkable. Their ability to integrate modern tools and practices into their traditional ways of life is a testament to their ingenuity. And yet, as I watched the sun set over the steppe, casting long shadows across this vast, unbroken landscape, I couldn’t help but wonder: how long can this delicate balance hold?

Mongolia’s story is one of contrasts—between city and steppe, tradition and modernity, survival and progress. But it is also a story of resilience, one that has much to teach us about the complexities of balancing cultural identity with the demands of a rapidly changing world.

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This visit to Mongolia was made possible through the invaluable guidance of Dr. Ariell Ahearn and the support of the PPIA project, whose funding and resources enabled the exploration of Mongolia’s countryside.