A Day in the Life of a Kazakh Nomad

I am awake from a fitful sleep as shards of light slowly rise over the mountains, cascading across the valley. Waking up is a relief, another night over. I wipe away the soft frost that has formed on my cheeks and peer to see if Alibek, or any of the children have awoken. Alibek’s mother has normally been awake for some time, and I see her emptying the stove of yesterday’s ashes, before filling it with dried kindling and animal dung — pungent aromas to wake up to. Alibek’s father continues snoring deeply and loudly, causing tremors in the small house made of mud and wooden logs. He is roused by a fraternal but sharp smack from his wife. There is a lot to laugh about in this life.

I slip on today’s (and tomorrow’s and the day after’s etc…) clothes as quickly as possible, at least four layers to defend against the biting cold. I then sit on the table and am served tea and bowsack (dough fried in camel’s fat). The younger children are awake and singing songs in Kazakh, unwilling to crawl out their warm blankets and face a day of chores. After a few bowls of tea, I am outside rounding up cows and yaks to bring up the mountains. The night has been particularly cold, and the cows are huddled together, coated in frost. One has frozen to death whilst standing, it’s sad old face captured in frosty anguish. The animals are all very skinny. This winter has been cold and hard. Luckily there has not been too much snow, allowing the animals to reach the decrepit remains of last summer’s grass — hardly a tasty meal. I bring a shovel with me; whilst we journey up the narrow ravines and gulleys to reach better grazing, we will cross many a frozen stream, which the livestock are unable and unwilling to cross — I will shovel dirt onto the ice for them to walk across. The mornings journey takes between 4 — 6 hours.

By the time I make my way down the mountain back home, my lips, nose and cheeks are covered in frost, my eyelashes are partially glued together, the more I blink the more securely they shut. I am offered a cup of tea and some of yesterday’s meat — a few pieces of sheep face and fat. I dunk them in my tea to heat them up, and unhesitatingly eat them before gulping down the tea. Alibek is now fully awake and is outside saddling his horse. Refuelled and feeling warm, I join him, and together we make our way out to his ‘Kos’ about 20 kms away. Apparently, lambs have been born and they need to be picked up to save them from the winter chill. A Kos is a Kazakh winter tepee-like home; It is kept far away from the nomadic homes, deep in the mountains where there is more plentiful and better grazing available for animals. Alibek has 2000 sheep and goat at his Kos. We travel light on horseback, clouds gather at the craggy peaks of the behemoth mountains to the North, we race away from the biting snow through the valley along human, then animal tracks and eventually find ourselves on fresh, pristine snow. The mountains close in on eitherside of us and we enter a gully. By now, the sun has been totally obscured by swirling black clouds. Now, the snow falls lightly, but lands on the skin and stings like a piercing needle. We pass a frozen river shaded by frozen lifeless trees. Our horses snort restlessly, stomping at the ice, eyes wide and staring. Alibek looks around slowly, and points to the frozen river, a large pack of wolves had past only hours before. We carry on our way through the silent landscape.

The narrow walls of the gully suddenly give way and we face a huge flat plain. Alibek whispers that many Kazakhs used to live here, he offers no explanations why they presently do not. We gallop across the plain passing the mysterious remains of ancient corrals, enjoying the opportunity to get our blood flowing. After several more hours we our back on the mountainside. The night is deafeningly silent, until the wolves begin howling. I am cold to the bone. Then, quaintly, a faint beat can be heard, like the ticking of a clock. The sound becomes more pronounced and as we round a large boulder, nestled on the side of the mountain we are on, is the Kos. Inside two people are busily talking, listening to Kazakh disco music. We unsaddle our horses and step in the Kos.

It is made for 2 people, but our friends are glad to have our company. They have been there for 10 days, and might be spending another fornight there, alone except for 2000 sheep and goats, and a pack of hungry wolves. I check myself for any frost nip before enjoying my first and last meal of the day — boiled goat. We play cards, drink Vodka. They explain to me that only the day before 5 sheep had been killed by wolves. Unlike cats, wolves do not single out a prey, they kill as many animals as possible as they know the ferocious cold will preserve the carcasses, which they can come for later in Winter. The job of looking after animals falls to children, as young as 12.

The lambs are safe — we will see to them tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. It is Alibek’s birthday soon and he would like the honour of succesfully hunting a wolf before then.

After much chat, the last fuel is added to the fire, and the Kos slips into drunken sleep. I do not dream of home, my sleep takes me to memories I have not experienced in many years. Sometimes I feel not that I’ve travelled to another country, but that i’ve moved in time, a time traveller. I wrap sheep skins around me to keep warm, but inevitably it will be a cold night. I do not think of tomorrow — best to finish one day at a time.

Christopher Schrader spent 3 months in the winter of 2011/2012 living with Kazakh Nomads, in the far west of Mongolia