My Journey with the Eagle Hunters

My normal life is hectic. I am up by 5 am, and commute an hour into my job in education, through tight traffic. I'm tired and overstimulated when I return home, and often crash on the couch, too worn out to think about dinner.

I'm up at 5 am here, too. But the day could not be further from the life I have on the other side of the world. I am in far western Mongolia, living with a nomadic family for a month. The village we just left has no roads to it, other than a dirt path worn by Russian van tires through the Altai mountains from the nearest town, over an hour away. The village my host family resides in, Sagsai, is home to most of the world's remaining eagle hunters. Only approximately 250 remain in the world.

I have come to western Mongolia as part of a summer camp experience for the local children. English-speaking teachers are invited to live with local families as they provide instruction and support for the children who are learning English. Tourism is exploding in Mongolia, and Sagsai's residents realized that outside companies are encroaching, providing the “Mongolian Experience”. They decided they should be able to present their own story and benefit from the global interest in the beauty of their area, as well as the incredible eagle hunter culture. The hope is that, by speaking English, which is the language of tourism, their children will remain in the area and benefit from the increasing tourism industry. Currently, many children leave Sagsai after completing their education due to limited opportunities.

During the summer months, many of the village's families make the long journey to Dayan Lake, our current location. The families choose an area to place their ger (yurt) and graze their yaks, horses, camels, and cattle. We are several hard hours from the nearest dirt road. The nothingness around us is unsettling to my suburban sensibility. The distance from a hospital, from a grocery store, from other people is hard to grasp. It feels like floating in a deep part of the ocean, knowing that the water descends for an unfathomable distance below you. There is a word for that fear of the depths of the ocean: thalassophobia. But is there a similar word for what I am feeling now, as I look out the door of the ger, knowing that the steppes stretch out for miles and miles, with no people in any direction? It is not fear that I am experiencing. It is an expanding of my understanding of my own world. The knowledge that, to my hosts, this is normal. This is summer, the same way that popsicles, sprinklers, and swimming lessons meant summer to me back home.

Children here count the days until they can go to the lake. They build precious family memories, just as I did. They have foods that they only eat at the lake, just as I did when at the Jersey Shore with my family.

I step out of the ger into the sunshine and silence, and feel an emotional response in my throat and eyes. The people of Sagsai and my host family are some of the most generous, welcoming people I have met. I have been given the gift of being included in their lives for a little while. I have offered the same courtesy, should they wish to come to the States. They politely smile, but they have no interest in taking me up on my offer. As I stand in the cool breeze, watching the deep blue sky and the shadows that the passing clouds make on the steppes, I understand their deep love of their home and why leaving it is not a priority.

Susan Tassin is a school psychologist and author from south-central Pennsylvania.