A Reindeer Sunrise

Stumbling back to our wooden shack plastered with tarp sheets for insulation against the stinging -40 deg C winter, we are disheartened to be leaving East Taiga the next morning without spotting the reindeer herd we had travelled over two days for. Though disappointed, our spirits are lifted when we hear a small commotion near our shack.

A group of locals had just arrived and, within minutes, start unloading and chopping up carcacsses of meat while washing mountains of vegetables. We speak barely any Mongolian beyond the perfunctory greetings, but through effusive sign language and Google Translate, discover they are local teachers from a nearby town who are on a field trip. Food — we’ve found from our travels — is always a great cultural unifier, and we swiftly offer to help them prepare their feast.

As much as we travel for awe-inspiring nature and exhilarating adventures, invariably, our greatest pleasure is serendipitous encounters with locals, who — while separated from us by a cultural chasm — bond with us through a sameness that makes us distinctly human. This was one of them.

After washing and peeling what seems to be hundreds of carrots and potatoes, they invite us to join them for their feast of Jimbii, an intensely flavourful bone-in beef rib stew cooked with chunky root vegetables over a raging woodfire . In Mongolia’s bitter long winters, it is common for locals to stay warm through a meat-heavy diet, which they call “red food”, while summer is the season for dairy such as curds, cheese and milk, which they aptly name “white food”. In the winter, we saw families purchase an entire cow or sheep, divide it up and store it for consumption through the frosty months. And with Mongolia’s infamous -40 deg C winters, storage is never a problem — just an outdoor shack or balcony is needed. Nature does the rest.

Teachers on a day off like to knock back a beer too. Seems the same the world over :)

During the meal, we witness what fantastic drinkers Mongolians are. Amidst thank you speeches and sing-a-longs of Mongolian folk songs, shots of Russian vodka and beer are passed around the room for hours on end.

This chance encounter gives us a precious peek into local life and leaves at least one of us hungover the next day. It almost makes up for the long expedition we had taken to find the Tsaatan who live in East Taiga, a subarctic Siberian forest that spills over the Mongolian border into Russia. Tsaatan means “people with reindeer” in Mongolian, while the tribe refers to themselves as Dukha in their native tongue. These ancient Turkic peoples have herded reindeer in the harsh Taiga for centuries, even before modern borders were drawn between Russia and Mongolia.

To get to East Taiga, we endured an exhausting journey that involved huddling with luggage in the backseat of a sedan on a 14-hour drive from Mongolia’s capital Ulaanbaatar to the small town of Morón, then hunting down a rickety Russian military automobile (UAZ) that was ferrying people between Morón and East Taiga, the home of the Tsataan. Though largely uncomfortable, the ride was an incredibly picturesque experience in itself, taking us through dramatic landscapes that metamorphosised, within minutes, from frozen lakes and boreal forests to panoramic sunsets against an arid tundra. 

Our Russian UAZ driver takes a break during our drive across a giant frozen lake. The drive to East Taiga in winter involves travelling over the frozen Khövsgöl lake, the largest freshwater lake in Mongolia that’s larger than the country of Luxembourg and about four times the size of Singapore.

On arrival, we meet the head of the tribe and are treated to a delicious home-cooked lunch of Buuz (steamed meat dumplings), eaten all year round by Mongolians, and which families deftly make in bulk to receive guests with during Tsagaan Sar, the Mongolian New Year. He tells us that there are only about 26 Tsaatan families still living in East Taiga, and that their way of life is too harsh for the younger generation to endure. Many travel to nearby towns and cities to study, and choose city-bound lives instead of returning to herd reindeer.

Gambat Sandag, a spritely 65 year-old man,
heads the

Tsaatan living in East Taiga.

When we arrive, the only traces of reindeer we see are faint hoof marks in the snow. Sensing our disappointment, Gambat tells us the herd is still grazing in the mountains, and may return during the night or the next morning. “They generally come and go as they please”, he explains, lured back only by the promise of salt, which the reindeer crave and instinctively know will be fed to them when they return “home”.

But we have no such luck. Two days pass, and still no sign of the herd. But it is the -40 deg C nights that are especially tough as we struggle to fight off an impregnable wall of cold. Even curled up by the small fire in our shack, the chill still seeps insidiously into our Arctic-grade sleeping bags, rousing us every couple of hours. By Day 3, we are exhausted and lose hope by the hour. 

While waiting for the reindeer herd to return, we make an effort to visit the tribespeople who still live there — many are men living alone, as their wives are caring for their children studying in the nearest town. One of them had picked up a hobby carving beautiful handicrafts out of reindeer antlers. We notice how much they value their reindeer, who are very much a part of their daily lives, serving as an important mode of transport in the rough terrain of the taiga. They would milk the reindeer for food, but rarely consumed their meat. The Tsaatan’s shamanistic beliefs prevent them from slaughtering and eating reindeer for the most part, as they are considered sacred. Instead, they hunt other game like elk, moose and wild boar for sustenance.

A Tsaatan man spends his days carving beautiful decorative pieces with fallen reindeer antlers, which he sells to intrepid travelers who visit the village.

After the feasting with the teachers on our third day, we accept that we are likely to leave East Taiga without seeing the reindeer herd, comforting ourselves that the kind invitation to enter their world is consolation enough. With what must have been at least a dozen vodka shots and beers later, we stumble back to our wooden shack and prepare for another bone-chilling night. Knowing we had had way too much to drink, Gambat, the tribe’s leader, kindly comes by to check in on us and asks if we have enough blankets.

As we climb into our sleeping bags and prepare to survive our last night in the village, we hear a strange crunching sound in the snow outside our shack. What starts as faint shuffling swells within minutes to a cacophony of activity. Then we hear a frantic knock on our door. Gambat returns and gestures excitedly, telling us the reindeer herd is coming back! Fighting back the cold and our intoxication, we scramble to put on our layers, strap on our headlamps, and step out to find — to our amazement — the entire reindeer herd right outside our shack!

It was like we had entered a dream. The fogginess from our insobriety, combined with the mystique of the moonlit winter night and the magic of over 60 reindeer grazing within arms length, transports us into a different realm.  Like children in a candy store, we dart outside and take off our gloves, risking frostbite just so we can better capture photos and videos of the breathtaking sight.

As if they were aware of the pains we had taken to travel to see them, the herd remains right outside our hut all the way till sunrise, treating us to a stunning view when we step out the next morning.

Against all odds and advice, we had opted out of packaged tours — that come complete with a porter, cook, translator and a reindeer riding experience — in favour of independent travel. It was no doubt a lot tougher, but sharing the same transport, eating the same food and living in the same environment gave us a more intimate peek into the Tsaatan’s way of life.

When we finally leave the next morning, the mild-mannered reindeer are resting, as if they too had exhausted the adrenaline-high on their return to camp. Strapping on our haversacks, we board the Russian transport and wind our way past them in the heavy snow. Our last sight of the Tsaatan is that of a child — the first one we see out here in the Taiga — frolicking in the snow. As she looks back at us with curious eyes, it feels like our gamble to travel like we did had more than paid off, and with only about 180 Tsataan left, we hope hers will not be the last generation watching over these magical beasts.

• How we travelled to the East Taiga

  • From Ulaanbaatar, you can take a 12-hour bus to Morón or charter a driver. We found a carpool with locals via a Facebook group through a Mongolian friend we met through Couchsurfing.

  • Most travellers hire a driver and guide from Morón to East Taiga. We, however, started talking to locals to find out how they would travel to East Taiga, and learned about the public ride on an old Russian military vehicle. We exchanged numbers with the driver, who would inform us once he had the minimum number of passengers to make the journey.

  • The ride from Morón to East Taiga is long and usually involves an overnight stay at Tsagaan Nuur. We were hosted by a family and stayed in a ger outfitted for travellers.

  • The last leg from Tsagaan Nuur starts in the morning at about 8am and we arrive at East Taiga by noon.

  • We take down the number of the driver, and inform him when we would like to be picked up for our return to Morón.

• Pro Tips

  • The journey to East Taiga is different in summer and winter. We travelled during winter and our journey was made entirely on wheels as we could drive over the frozen Lake Khovsgol. Summer travel, however, involves a last leg of about eight hours made on horseback.

  • Pack Arctic-grade sleeping bags if you travel during winter and warm gear even if you travel in summer. The Taiga enjoys short summers with temperatures that range from about -1 to 20 deg C.