The soft snip of threads being cut and gathered lingered late into the night inside a herder’s ger, lit by the harsh glow of a single battery-powered bulb. Outside, a cluster of small outbuildings, storage containers, and animal pens punctuated the vast expanse of the Gobi Desert, their shapes barely visible in the dark. Beyond them, open land stretched to the horizon, without roads, fences, or landmarks.

Fifty-five-year-old Myagmarjav Togtokhsuren worked patiently, weaving bright strands into intricate decorations for his camel’s headcollar. By morning, he and his family would set out across the frozen desert, bringing a small group from their herd of more than 400 camels to the remote village of Mandal-Ovoo for a winter camel festival. Unlike previous festivals, this one was organised by a former herder determined to reconnect people with a way of life in transition.

Outside the felt-covered ger, warmed through the night by a dung-fuelled stove, temperatures had dropped below -25°C. At dawn, Myagmarjav and his wife, Erdenemandal Davaadorj, stepped into the cold expanse to begin milking their frost-covered camels. In a landscape with few visible reference points, orientation is instinctive as much as learned. The doors of each ger face south, away from the northern wind, offering both protection and a sense of direction in an otherwise unmarked terrain.

It is a routine repeated across generations, guided by the rhythms of animals and the demands of a landscape that allows little margin for error. It is also a way of life that fewer families now depend on.

Despite building a life in the city, Manal never let go of the world he came from. For years, he had dreamed of organising a festival of his own, not simply to return, but to honour those who continue to live this way, and to encourage younger generations to stay connected to it.

On the long journey south from Ulaanbaatar to Mandal-Ovoo in Ömnögovi Province, a distance of approximately 450 kilometres, we spent hours driving off-road across the vast desert in a sturdy UAZ van, the landscape stretching endlessly in every direction. Manal sat at the wheel, singing softly at first, then more confidently, his voice rising above the sound of the engine as the van lurched across the uneven ground.

When I asked Bolormaa, who translated for him, what he was singing, she smiled. It was the song he had written for the festival. “It’s about camels, and the land of Mandal-Ovoo, and mothers,” she explained. “In the song, a herder is going to visit his mother, and uses a camel as transportation.”

Even without understanding the words, the emotion carried through his voice.

“Camels can go anywhere,” Bolormaa continued. “It doesn’t matter what the weather is. They’re very strong animals.”

The song, written over several years and later recorded in a studio in Ulaanbaatar, had become part of the festival itself, a personal expression of a life that Manal was trying, in his own way, to bring back into focus.

The festival itself, the first of its kind in Mandal-Ovoo to be privately organised, was the realisation of that long-held vision.

Organised in collaboration with the local governor, Baigal Jambazav, and supported by herders across the region, the festival is held in midwinter, when camels are at their strongest and healthiest. It brings communities together to recognise the skill, resilience, and labour behind this way of life.

Around 500 camels took part in this year’s event, an unusually large gathering in a landscape where herds are typically spread across vast distances.

“We would really like to keep the culture alive,” says Governor Baigal. “The festival helps us remember our past lives and our heritage.

For local organisers, it also represents a way of sharing that heritage more widely. “Manal is the bridge for us to share our culture with the world,” says Adilbish, chief of staff in the governor’s office. “We always wanted to, but we didn’t know how.” She also expressed her gratitude to those who had travelled from afar to experience and document the festival.

At its centre is Manal himself. Dressed in a striking traditional deel, he moves through the crowd with a microphone, announcing events and calling out to participants. At one point, he stands high above the gathering, riding atop an enormous Bactrian camel as he acts as master of ceremonies. Beside him, his eleven-year-old son, Erdenezuut, rides a smaller camel, dressed in a matching deel.

Camel racing takes place across the frozen steppe, with distances ranging from 6 to 10 kilometres, while nearby bull camels, their muzzles flecked with froth during the mating season, are assessed by judges including Manal and other experienced herders.

Animals are decorated with layered fabrics and ornaments like those Myagmarjav prepared through the night. There are songs, storytelling, and a strong sense of shared memory, as older generations pass knowledge to younger participants.

Unlike previous festivals, Manal introduced several changes that were immediately embraced by the community. He asked that everyone attending, not just participants, wear traditional deel, reinforcing a shared sense of identity and occasion. A camel loading competition was introduced for the first time, testing balance and technique while reviving a practical skill that had once been essential to daily life but is now rarely seen. For many of the older herders, it was a welcome return to something familiar.

Alongside these changes, prize money was also increased to better support herders. “In Mandal-Ovoo, monetary awards have been given before, but they were relatively small,” says Bolormaa, who worked closely to ensure the festival ran smoothly. “Herder families travel from far away to attend and spend a lot on fuel and transport. This year, we increased the prize amounts, which was very well received. I believe it gave people more motivation to continue raising camels and to take part again next year.”

This year also marked the first time international visitors attended the festival in Mandal-Ovoo, a source of pride for both organisers and herders. With support from foreign guests and local sponsors, prizes include cash awards and traditional items, encouraging families to continue raising camels.

Across the Gobi, herders speak of warmer winters, drier conditions, and changing grazing patterns, all of which place additional pressure on already fragile livelihoods.

Still, for a few days each winter, the desert gathers people back together.

In Mandal-Ovoo, against the subdued tones of the desert, camels decorated in richly coloured textiles move slowly across the snow, their breath visible in the cold air. Elders in striking deels, many made at home and adorned with medals earned for their herding achievements, sit watching with pride. Despite the sub-zero temperatures, hundreds remain outside for hours, only briefly stepping into nearby gers for hot tea and traditional food. Children watch, elders remember, and families reconnect with practices that might otherwise fade.

For Myagmarjav, the long night spent preparing decorations is part of something larger than a single festival. It is an act of continuity, a way of carrying forward knowledge shaped over generations.

For Manal, it is something else as well, a return, not to the life he lost, but to the possibility of keeping part of it alive.

“One of my dreams is realised,” he says, reflecting on a festival he had envisioned for many years.

And in the vast, frozen silence of the Gobi, the camels keep moving.