Tradition on the Move: Life with the Nomads of Mongolia’s Gobi
After hours of driving across the empty expanse of Mongolia’s Gobi Desert, our battered Russian UAZ van lurches to an abrupt halt. Before I have time to ask why, our guide, Manal Tsedevsuren, a former camel herder, is already out of the vehicle.
With surprising urgency, he drops to his knees and studies a small patch of grass pushing through the dusty ground. Taking out his phone, he photographs it from several angles before breaking into a smile. Later, he tells me he’ll show the pictures to nearby herding families. After a long, dry winter and with the spring rains still yet to arrive, even the smallest signs of fresh grazing are worth sharing.
As Manal kneels to examine the grass, the scale of the Gobi becomes impossible to ignore. The muted desert stretches uninterrupted to every horizon, broken only by distant herds of Bactrian camels grazing on sparse vegetation. There are no roads, fences or signposts, only a vast landscape where direction seems almost impossible to judge. To an outsider, getting lost here feels inevitable.
When I ask Manal how he always knows where he is, he simply taps the side of his head. “Internal GPS,” his wife, Bolormaa, translates with a knowing smile.
Raised in a camel-herding family, Manal navigates this immense landscape as instinctively as others read a map. For most of the journey, he sings softly to himself, falling silent only when the rough ground demands his full concentration.
The small patch of grass represents far more than a welcome sight. It reflects the delicate balance on which life in the Gobi depends. For generations, nomadic families have followed the seasons in search of pasture for their livestock. Today, that balance is becoming increasingly fragile.
A few hours later, Manal guides us to an isolated ger camp nestled beneath a cluster of rocky outcrops. Established by Manal and Bolormaa, both former herders who now work as professional guides, the small camp consists of three traditional felt-covered gers built to welcome visitors to the desert. Raised on wooden platforms to keep out dust, insects and snakes, they combine centuries-old design with modern comforts. Nearby, a neatly constructed wooden outhouse even features a faux-fur toilet seat, a welcome luxury designed to stave off frosty bottoms during the bitter Gobi winter.
The following morning, we set off to visit a nearby camel-herding family. In the Gobi, however, “nearby” is a relative term. Neighbours may live many miles apart, and journeys are measured not in minutes or hours, but sometimes in days.
As we arrive at the camp of sixty-five-year-old Erdenechuluun and his wife, Tsetsegmaa, a chorus of deep, guttural grunts echoes across the desert. Camel calves are tethered to a long rope stretched across the ground while their mothers circle nearby, protesting loudly.
The couple have spent their entire lives in the Gobi, raising Bactrian camels alongside horses, sheep, goats and cattle. Their five adult children have all followed the same path, living with their own families scattered across the surrounding desert.
“If I don’t tie the baby camels from now, they roam far away to graze and become more wild,” explains Tsetsegmaa. “It’s easier to milk them if they’re more domesticated. If they’re wild, it’s hard to catch and milk them.”
To an outsider, the scene appears chaotic. For Tsetsegmaa, it is simply another morning’s work, part of a routine repeated every spring as new calves are born across the desert.
Spring is one of the busiest times of year. Their herd of around 70 Bactrian camels has begun calving, adding another demanding task to the daily rhythm of caring for their livestock.
As evening falls, the pace of life slows. Inside the warmth of their ger, illuminated by a single light bulb powered by a solar panel, Tsetsegmaa and Erdenechuluun settle down for a game of chess.
“When we were children, we only had candles,” says Tsetsegmaa. “Now we have solar panels.”
She laughs as she explains the rules of their household competition. “I like playing chess because it’s good for the brain. And whoever loses has to do more work with the animals the next day.”
Despite the hardships of life in the desert, neither of them has any desire to leave. “I can’t live in a city. It’s not for me,” says Erdenechuluun. Tsetsegmaa nods in agreement.
“It’s too crowded,” she says, smiling as she remembers her visit to Ulaanbaatar. “When I walked between the tall buildings, I was afraid they would fall on top of me.”
For families like Tsetsegmaa and Erdenechuluun, the Gobi has always demanded resilience. But in recent years, the challenges have become greater. “The weather has changed a lot in the last 20 years,” says Manal. “There is less rain, and the desert is getting bigger.”
Having grown up herding camels in the Gobi, he has witnessed those changes first-hand. Less predictable rainfall means families move more frequently in search of grazing, while longer periods of drought followed by severe winters place increasing pressure on both livestock and the people who depend on them.
Manal believes Mongolia’s rapid development has also played a role. “There is more mining now,” he says. “People are not looking after Mother Earth. It makes the mountains and the spirits angry. We have to love Mother Earth.”
Yet despite these pressures, many families are adapting rather than abandoning nomadic life.
Across the Gobi, traditional felt-covered gers increasingly stand alongside modern mobile homes on wheels. For many families, they complement rather than replace the ger, providing greater comfort while still allowing households to move with the seasons. Once, camels carried every part of a family’s home during migration. Today, four-wheel drives tow mobile homes across the desert in search of better grazing.
Motorbikes have become just as common. Faster than horses across open ground, they allow herders to check livestock spread across vast distances while reducing the time spent travelling each day.
Inside the gers, change is visible too. Solar panels power lights and charge mobile phones. Car batteries run televisions and small appliances. Modern technology has made life in the desert easier without necessarily changing its rhythms.
“These things are really useful for herders,” says Manal. “They save time and make life more comfortable.” Then he pauses. “But they also erode our cultural heritage.”
The greatest uncertainty, however, is not whether nomadic life can adapt to a changing climate, but whether enough young people will choose to continue it.
Mother of seven Odonchimeg has spent her entire life in the Gobi. Like many parents, she hopes her children will remain connected to the lifestyle that has shaped generations of her family, even if she understands why many leave.
“I want all my children to stay in the countryside and keep our culture,” she says. “But some of them don’t like it. They prefer city life. Maybe it’s more comfortable.”
She remembers feeling the opposite as a child. “When I was at school in the local village, I couldn’t wait for the weekend so I could come home. But children today don’t feel the same. They want modern things.”
Her words echo a tension felt across the desert. Modern technology has made life easier, but it has also brought the outside world closer than ever before. For many young Mongolians, opportunities for education, employment and a more predictable income lie far beyond the Gobi.
As we leave, Manal’s singing once again fills the van as we bump across the open steppe. “I describe life in the Gobi with camels,” he says. “The Gobi cannot be imagined without camels. The camel is the beauty of the Gobi.”
The Gobi is changing, but its nomadic traditions continue to evolve alongside it. Its nomadic families are not relics of the past. They continue to adapt, balancing centuries-old traditions with the realities of a rapidly changing world, and carrying their culture forward one season, one migration, and one patch of grass at a time.
