“I don’t think it’s accurate to say that tourism helps support the survival of Mongolia’s nomadism,” he tells me one evening in Ulaanbaatar. “Nomads are extremely resilient. This culture has survived thousands of years. We’re lucky enough to witness and learn from it.”
Changing times are an inarguable fact, though, especially as younger generations of nomads find themselves reluctant to commit to this harsh way of life, with many opting to pursue a university-level education. A half-hour’s drive from Nomadic Expedition’s Three Eagle Camp, over bites of dried aaruul cheese curds and sips of milk tea, I met 17-year old Myagmarsuren Batmunkh, who, when she’s not milking goats and watching sheep, plans to study forensic science in college.
Some nomads have found a middle ground through working in tourism, like Bundhorol the horse wrangler. He previously owned large herds of livestock, including hundreds of horses—short, bright-eyed creatures with coats as varied and tempers as flighty as mustangs. But with his children either headed to university or still quite young, he pivoted to working part-time with Nomadic Expeditions, which has allowed him to manage a smaller number of animals.
Along with the lifestyle itself, specific regional aspects of nomadic culture have become at risk, such as eagle hunting in the western reaches of Mongolia. The tradition is threatened by climate change, mining, and the shift to modern, more sedentary lifestyles. Wild golden eagles, meanwhile, have to navigate dangers from growing human infrastructure and shrinking habitats.
After 35 years of working in a theatre production company, Turginbek Ajken forewent a typical retirement route and instead took up traditional eagle hunting. He now works part-time at the new Eagle Hunter Cultural Center, in the western Bayan-Ölgii province.
Turginbek is a member of the Kazakh community, a traditionally nomadic ethnic group that has been, along with other nomadic peoples, hunting with golden eagles for more than 3,500 years. In his work with the center, he shares the processes and intricacies of eagle-hunting to visitors, along with its cultural—and, at times deeply personal—roots.
“When I was a little boy, I would go eagle hunting with my father—this coat and all the equipment I’m wearing right now is from him,” Turginbek told me outside the center, which is built as a rounded ger, or yurt. In the distance, the golden Altai Mountains stood more than 13,000 feet into the air, as surreally steep as CGI imaginings. As he spoke, Ajken stroked the shining brown feathers of his golden eagle, Tirnek. “It gives me such a feeling of pride that I’m keeping the old tradition. Our ancestors used to live this way—and we’re still doing it today.”
While the Golden Eagle Festival, which takes place over two weeks in the same region each fall, has garnered much coverage for its celebration of this UNESCO-recognized heritage, the new center is a year-round establishment where travelers can participate in eagle hunting workshops, learn about Mongolian horsemanship, shop for regional arts and textiles, and arrange overnight homestays in the area. In addition to hosting visitors, the center also serves as a community gathering space and the headquarters of the Kazakh Falconry Association, which supports traditional falconry in Mongolia along with healthy populations of wild eagles. One of the association’s current efforts, for example, is to create a modern database of registered, licensed eagle hunters.
