What I Learnt About Mongolia by Eating With its Nomadic Families

“I think you need some help,” Oyunaa Otgonbat says with a wry smile as she observes my attempt at dumpling-making. I’m sitting at a small, brightly painted table in her home, a traditional nomadic ger trying to make buuz. Like most Mongolian food, these steamed dumplings are simple and unfussy: mutton, mountain onions and salt, wrapped in dough. But making them is harder than it looks. 

Sensing my frustration, Oyunaa reassures me. “It takes practice. My mother taught me when I was young, so I could help her when there was a lot to do,” she explains, deftly stuffing and sealing the little parcels, pushing back the sleeves of her delicately laced green cardigan as she works. “Now, my children help me.” Her teenage daughter, Odonchimeg, sits on a low stool beside a portable electric cooker, steaming the buuz and laughing sympathetically at my efforts. 

I watch as the steam rises towards the circular window at the crown of the ger, filling the air with the rich, earthy scent of meat and onions. Abandoning my attempt, I gratefully accept the plate Odonchimeg hands me. The dumplings are light and juicy, and the mutton has a subtle, salty gaminess that melts into the palate.

I’m staying with Oyunaa’s family in the Orkhon Valley, part of Mongolia’s central steppe region. Outside, the landscape opens onto a vast sweep of grassland, framed by low mountain ridges. Herds of horses, yaks, goats and sheep graze, their chorus of grunts, whinnies and bleats softly rumbling across the valley. With no fences, roads or other physical boundaries, the animals roam freely, tended by nomadic families such as Oyunaa’s, who spend their summers here before moving to more sheltered ground for winter.

My guide, Jack Nyamdorj, explains how Mongolia’s geography has shaped its cultural heritage and cuisine. “With high elevation and long, harsh winters, growing food is extremely difficult, so we don’t have much arable land,” he tells me. “Instead, Mongolians have lived nomadically for centuries, moving with the seasons and relying on our livestock for meat and dairy.”

Oyunaa’s family has a demanding daily routine, from milking and food preparation to maintenance and herding. Everyone plays a part, including the children, aged four to 17, who readily abandon their playtime to help with meals or leap onto a horse and round up the animals. Dressed in either Western-style Spider-Man and Adidas tops or colourful deels — traditional Mongolian herding robes — they handle the horses with a confidence and an agility that feels instinctive.

Times are changing, however, and an increasing number of Mongolians are moving to towns and cities, driven by economic pressures, access to education and a changing climate. These days, only around a third of the population choose to follow a traditional, nomadic way of life — albeit alongside modern conveniences such as generator-powered fridges, electric hobs and mobile phones.

Preserving a Tradition

Around 250 miles east, I follow a meandering, tree-lined stream through the Baruun Bayan Valley, in the Gorkhi Terelj National Park, aboard a truck heading towards the home of Naraa Nasanbuyan and his family. We make our way between a maze of grassy hills, to arrive at five gers and a small shed. Out front, two large white-cloth bags hang from a wooden rack, slowly dripping liquid into a barrel below.

Naraa greets us, cutting a striking figure in his long navy deel, vivid orange sash and trilby hat. He explains that the bags are used to separate cow’s milk into curds and whey to make aaruul, a traditional dried curd. Before refrigeration, dairy was the main protein staple of the nomadic summer diet. Milk from cows, horses, goats and yaks was dried, pressed and fermented using methods that are still widely practised today.

Strips of yellow-tinged aaruul are drying in the sun on a nearby table, and Naraa eagerly offers me a piece. Smooth but crumbly to the touch, it tastes dry and slightly sour, reminiscent of a strong cheddar, with a tanginess that lingers on the tongue.

Stepping inside his ger, I’m greeted with a wide smile and a firm hug from his wife Bujee, who’s dressed in a white T-shirt with a sparkling Nike tick emblazoned on the front. The small space feels comfortingly homely: beds flank the walls, doubling as seats during the day, and framed family photos top two low cupboards. 

A long table is already laden with food. The family has prepared a celebratory meal of khorkhog (mutton, slow cooked over hot stones) to welcome me. The day before, a sheep from the herd was slaughtered for the occasion. It’s quite a spectacle: plates are piled high with every cut imaginable, filling the ger with the indulgent, savoury aroma of roast meat. Buuz, aaruul and gambir (a sweet, fried bread) accompany the main dish. The generous feast is a perfect symbol of Mongolian hospitality, Baila beams proudly as I take a seat at the table and fill my plate.

The table’s centrepiece is one of the country’s most distinctive traditional drinks: a large porcelain bowl of airag, fermented mare’s milk. The horses must be milked four or five times a day to gather enough to ferment, but airag’s nutritional value and central role in Mongolian hospitality, make the effort worthwhile. I take a sip from a delicate china cup. The flavour is curious, with a faint blue-cheese tang and a slight fizzle on my tongue. It’s refreshing, pairing surprisingly well with the rich mutton, though, I admit, one cup is plenty.

Sitting with Jack and Naara after our feast, we talk about the future of nomadism in light of the dwindling numbers. “We don’t know what will happen,” Jack says. “But nomadism is rooted in our souls, so I hope Mongolians continue to live this way.” I hope so, too. To experience this ancient way of life and to witness such a deep connection between land, heritage and food, feels like a privilege. Livestock are free range in the truest sense and tended to with a respect born of generations of dependence on them. And the country’s cuisine reflects this culture: simple and practical, yet full of the rich flavours of the grassland. In a world increasingly disconnected from food production, Mongolia offers a powerful reminder of what it means to eat from the land.