In the remote valleys of western Mongolia, near the snow-capped Altai mountains, I meet Khaiyr Galym, a traditional Kazakh eagle hunter.
Despite the language barrier, I am given a holistic insight into the nomadic life, influenced by nature and rhythm of the seasons, and warmly welcomed into his home that he shares with his family.
When I first meet Khaiyr, he is sitting on a low stool in his winter home, his cowboy outfit is complete with boots and wide-brimmed hat. He doesn’t understand or speak a word of English, but smiles often, making the skin on his weather-beaten cheeks crack with the effort. His wife Shynat serves us endless cups of weak milky tea, along with aaruul, a salty hard cheese.
With me is Shokhan, an English-speaking guide, who translates and helps make sense of this new, fascinating world. It’s a land where the people are few and far between, and vastly outnumbered by the grazing horses, sheep and yaks. Our driver has scaled mountain passes and forded rivers, based, it seems, on pure instinct, before pulling up at Khaiyr’s isolated home in a low valley.
It is still early in Mongolia’s short summer season, and the world outside this little two-roomed house is just beginning to turn green, with the distant hills still covered in splashes of white. On this trip to Mongolia, I have chosen to travel west towards the imposing and remote Altai mountains, located along the border with Russia, Kazakhstan and China. And here I am, in a yurt in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by strangers who have welcomed me into their homes.
Staying in a yurt – a round tent also known as ger in some parts of central Asia, which serves as the summer home of nomadic shepherd families – is part of the attraction. But the main draw is a chance to spend time with the patriarch Khaiyr, who practises the traditional Kazakh art of berkutchi, hunting with golden eagles. And while eagle hunting is a winter sport, this is a rare opportunity to get a close glimpse into this rapidly vanishing tradition.
Although berkutchi dates back several centuries and spans across the central Asian steppes, it has waned in popularity in recent times, with only about 250 eagle hunters to be found in Mongolia. Khaiyr’s forefathers migrated to Mongolia in the mid 1800s, and like many other ethnic Kazakhs, he continue to speak in their native language, and follow other Kazakh customs and rituals. Berkutchi, somewhat similar to falconry in the Middle East, is a treasured sport, one in which the eagle is trained to hunt for small prey such as red fox and marmots, with the hunters using the skin as fur to line their hats and coats.
“It is simply a way of staying in touch with my roots,” Khaiyr says, adding that he hopes his kids will take it forward after him.
The couple live with their two younger children, the older two having moved to big cities for higher education. Seruen, aged 10, is an expert horseman – he learnt to ride even before he could walk, says the proud father – and teen daughter Arujon, who captivates me with her quick smile and confident movements. Morning and evening, I see her at her mother’s side, milking the sheep, rounding up the horses, feeding the yaks and riding her father’s motorbike to fetch and carry heavy loads. She gives a shy nod when I ask if she would like to take over from her father. I am thrilled, the world could certainly use another rare eagle huntress.
Although I am completely cut off from the outside world, with no mobile phone or internet access, the days fall into an easy and pleasing rhythm. In the mornings, after a hearty breakfast, I ride out into the hills along with Khaiyr, Seruen and Shokhan. Their eagle, Tas Tulek, has gained weight in the past few weeks and rides comfortably on Khaiyr’s shoulders. The father and son are eager to show off their tricks, and soon rend the air with piercing calls that instruct the eagle to fly, hunt or return to base.
The bond between a burkitshi and his bird is deep and abiding, starting from when the bird is only a couple of months old. When I catch Khaiyr caressing Tas Tulek’s head during a quiet moment, he declares, “This eagle is like my child, so I have to love her and pet her, and keep her happy".
In the evenings, I walk down from the yurt towards the Sagsai river flowing gently nearby, to watch the family's horses drinking from the crystal-clear waters as the sun goes down behind the hills. Occasionally, Seruen tags along and provides entertainment with his eager attempts to catch fish. But for the most part, I am happy to just sit in silent introspection.
These nomadic families pack up and move three to four times a year in search of adequate fodder for their livestock, changing their lives along with the changing seasons. Once I leave, Khaiyr’s family will move into the yurt, Shokhan tells me. The yurt is decidedly warm and comforting, decorated with colourful and coarse hand-woven carpets, and the walls lined with the gleaming medals won in local horse-riding contests. This may be simple, but this is home for the family. And I am grateful for having been part of it for just a few days.
How to get there
The gateway to the Altai mountains is the regional hub of Olgii, three hours by plane from the capital city of Ulanbaatar, the country’s only international airport. You can fly into Ulanbaatar from Abu Dhabi via Istanbul with Turkish Airways, and from Dubai via Beijing with Air China. There are also routes with stopovers in Hong Kong, Tokyo and Seoul available.
