Faces of the Steppe - Encounters with the People of Mongolia

Already upon our arrival in western Mongolia, it was clear how different this world was. Livestock wandered across the roads without fences, without boundaries. Horses, cattle, sheep, yaks—all moved freely through the endless landscape, accompanied only now and then by a nomad guiding his herd. This freedom, this vastness, shapes not only the land but also the people who live here.

The Mongols struck me as a strong, proud people. Women and men worked side by side, often in heavy physical labor, and yet it seemed natural, almost effortless. Early in the morning, I saw an older woman milking her yaks. With steady hands, she guided the calves to their mothers, let them drink briefly to stimulate the milk flow, and then took them away again to milk herself. Scenes like these told so much about life here: simple, direct, with a closeness to nature that needs no explanation.

Wherever we stopped, we were welcomed with kindness. The yurts—whether of Mongolian or Kazakh nomads—were simple yet full of warmth. Brightly colored carpets covered the floor, the walls were adorned with patterns, and in some yurts stood small chests of drawers with family photos, carefully wrapped in plastic to protect them from dust. This care for detail, for the few possessions they had, made it clear that here, value and dignity were not defined by ownership.

In many villages we passed through, we met children—sometimes shy, sometimes curious, but always full of vitality. In one village, a hill rose right among the houses. From there, children ran laughing down the slope, tumbled about, and climbed back up, only to rush down again. A simple game—yet filled with contagious joy.

We often carried small gifts with us to give to them. I remember the boy who received a coloring book and pencils. He immediately ran into the yurt, spread everything out, and began to draw. Or the girl who proudly clipped the colorful barrettes I had given her into her hair. The joy that lit up their faces was unmistakable, even though at first they accepted the gifts cautiously and quietly.

These encounters showed me how little it sometimes takes to spark happiness. Happiness often needs less than we think.

One of the highlights of my journey was visiting an eagle hunter and his wife in western Mongolia. From the moment we arrived, the warmth of this family was unmistakable: we were invited into their yurt, decorated with colorful carpets—many of them crafted by the wife herself, skillfully embroidered and carefully cared for. The elderly couple did not live there alone, but together with three grandsons, whom they looked after while their own children worked in the cities. This picture—grandparents carrying the daily life of their grandchildren—was typical for the region and spoke volumes about intergenerational bonds.

They welcomed us with tea and a home-cooked meal, which also included horse meat—a normal and valuable food source in Mongolia, though a personal challenge for me. Yet it was precisely this small cultural distance that made me realize again how naturally meat is part of life here, shaped by the extreme seasons and the necessity of building reserves.

Later, the eagle hunter dressed in his traditional attire: a heavy coat and a wolf-fur hat. With calm composure, he introduced us to his two golden eagles. He explained that young eagles are taken directly from the nest and then hand-raised. For about ten years they live at the hunter’s side, hunting for him and his family—before being released back into the wild, where they usually survive without difficulty. The main prey are foxes and smaller animals, whose fur and meat remain significant even today.

What stayed with me most, however, was the woman of the house. Though she already walked with a stick, she still carried out her daily work with devotion—from milking the yaks to caring for the grandchildren. Her kindness touched me deeply. When we said goodbye, she smiled so warmly, took me in her arms, and kissed me on the cheek. It was a moment that revealed the entire warmth and hospitality of this culture—and that showed me that traveling is not only about discovering animals and landscapes, but also about encounters that remain in memory like a gift.

The people of Mongolia showed me that true strength lies in simplicity—and that genuine closeness does not depend on language or culture, but on the openness with which we encounter one another.