Mongolia Sketch: Ger Life

by Kate Dernocoeur, Guest Blogger

Outside when nature calls me in the night, the immense moonless bowl overhead is brightly etched with stars. The air’s sharp September bite soon drives me back to my cozy sleeping bag. As I enter and close the door, the interior is as silent as a snowy morning. Inside, a person can’t help but feel safe and secure from whatever may come: cold, wind, noise. My temporary home out here on the steppes of Mongolia is called a “ger.” In the US, most people know it as a “yurt.” These round, squat structures can withstand far worse weather in the brutal Mongolian wintertime than the frosty glimmers I am experiencing.

The design of a ger is stunning: simple and sturdy. The wooden doors are often beautifully painted or carved. By custom, the doorway always faces the east. Folding lattice extends in a circle from each side of the doorframe, and is topped with dozens of ribs. These reach up to slots in the rim of a giant wooden (sometimes metal) wheel at the top of the ceiling dome. Two pillars straddling the stove support the wheel, and it is considered rude (not to mention potentially dangerous) to walk between them. The ger’s dome is also practical, accommodating the stove’s chimney and enabling airflow and light when the outer fabric is pulled back.

Outside, the walls are wrapped in giant woven reed mats. Over and around the whole thing are layers of fabric sandwiching dense, thick felt, which is traditionally made in huge sheets right there on the steppes. The outermost layer is a heavier, weather-resistant canvas. At ground-level, a wide swatch of often-colorful fabric completes the picture.

Inside, colorful rugs cover some (often most) of the flat grassy ground. Many are handmade, blossoming with traditional designs; others are unexotic but practical vinyl. Stunning decorative tapestries line the walls. In the center, the well-used stove burns dry animal dung or coal, our helpers using a loud blowtorch to help the fuel catch sooner.

Despite the appearance of settled permanence, gers are dismantled and packed to move seasonally with their nomadic owners seeking fresh forage for their yaks, sheep, goats, cows, horses, and camels. It is fascinating to witness the dismantling of a ger. It happens in a jiffy! Later, we will see how gers can rise again in no time.

The gers on our journey are different at each new campsite. Some are traditional Mongolian (smaller), others Kazakh (larger), but all are essentially of the same construction. In our camps, each ger has a number on the door for our convenience. Another ger announces itself as the “Dinning Ger” where we meet for meals and social gathering. Not tourist gers, ours are authentic, the real deal. They belong to local families (who also earn some welcome income, surely, by loaning them to our team). We sleep two to a ger, not in the more usual all-in-the-family style of the nomad families. The result is a deep, cavernous place where my ger-mate and I could host a full-on party with our travel partners, our support team from Kazakh Tour, plus whoever else stops by in keeping with the rules of hospitality in this remote place.

In the early-morning hours, in the dark, I am grateful for the modern invention of headlamps when my body commands me to rise from my cot to take care of business outside. The ger is pitch-dark inside. But I know that when daylight comes, our stove attendant will stoke the morning fire and ease us into another exciting day here. Until then, and in the best possible way, the ger is as snug and cozy as a soft, quiet cocoon.