Nomadic

The Darhad people of Mongolia every year will make the arduous three day trek to warmer, winter pastures. They pack their children in baskets that are in turn strapped to yaks. The elderly ride in drag carts behind stubborn oxen. Their food, water, shelter, clothes, cooking utensils, and every other worldly belonging is taken with them across the many miles through frigid mountain passes, forests, and across sub-zero, icy rivers. Not a spoon or cup is left behind. The land is seemingly undisturbed. They leave it the way they found it.

It is a desolate landscape... a desolate life... but it is their home. They know nothing else.

Their only company out on these barren plains are the stars, that sing to them at night, and the wolves, whom they hunt. They are a migratory herding people and masters of the horse. In addition to their belongings and their families, they will also transport packs of goat and sheep... their true wealth, their food. These obedient animals follow each other single file, ears perked and eyes forward. Should one stray the horsemen will quickly catch it and expertly steer it back to the flock.

The Darhad are the living descendants of Ghengis Khan; a proud people. They are also an extremely humble people - subservient to the gods of Earth and the ancestral spirits. They love each other as they love vodka and song... both of which warm their chilled bones.

Their lives have remained the same for thousands of years. Lives that consist of continuous change, continuous hardship and continuous movement. They can claim no place as home yet at the same time claim all of it as home, thousands upon thousands of sprawling, harsh miles. They know this land, have names for every rock, tree, river, and beast. When they kill their natural adversaries, the wolves, whom mercilessly hunt their livestock, they call upon their deceased brethren for strength, courage, and wit. Upon shooting a wolf they ask the fallen animal for forgiveness. Death, more so than life, is an accepted, almost welcome event. In a land where it is always winter, death is viewed as a rebirth. Life is cyclic and in a constant state of flux between the land of the living and the land of the dead where the ancestors dwell harmoniously with the spirits of the wolves. Where the stars kiss the earth and the skyline meets the distant horizon.

It is a difficult life... yet they are grateful. If one were to ask any one of these people what they were most grateful for they would quickly answer:

“ I am grateful for the work, and doing it well.”