Arguably the ultimate symbol of nomadic life, the yurt encapsulates rituals, handicrafts, culture, community and a meaningful connection with nature. A journey through Kyrgyzstan reveals that it’s also surprisingly progressive for a concept that dates back thousands of years.
‘Adventure’ is a subjective term. For some, that translates to going off the grid, trekking or riding horseback solo into the steep and untamed mountains of Kyrgyzstan. And for others, like me, it begins with lunch in what I can only describe as the Central Asian equivalent of a mess hall.
It was a bright and sunny day when I arrived at a nomadic camp seemingly in the middle of nowhere, famished and exhausted after a bumpy six-hour drive from Bishkek. The views, admittedly, compensated for the journey; the absurdly blue Issyk-Kul Lake to the left and fantastical canyons carved by time to the right. It wasn’t long until a pudgy man by the name of Ilichbek was introduced as ‘the boss.’
“Salam, boss!” I said with a salute, eager to break the ice with the family hosting me for the next three days, despite the language barrier. Ilichbek laughed, introducing me to his wife, Nazgul, who hurriedly seated me on a low table alongside three local men in a big, colorful yurt. The spread on the table looked glorious—bread, apples, raspberries, slices of tomato, and freshly made apricot jam. Then the main dish arrived. My dining companions began to slurp with pleasure as I nervously pushed food around my plate, attempting to discreetly separate strands of noodles from chunks of dark, fatty meat. And failing. Little did I know that I had been served beshbarmak, a rather festive dish that pairs slippery flour noodles with boiled horse meat. Did I mention I’m a vegetarian?
Equally amused and unnerved by the start of my stay, I retired into my own yurt, the privacy allowing me to properly take in my surroundings. Between the beauty of its interiors and the geometry of its frame, I started to appreciate the uniqueness of this tent-like dwelling. It’s fascinating how a number of key components—all derived from nature—come together to result in a portable home that can be set up and taken down in anywhere from 30 minutes to three hours, making it ideally suited to the nomadic lifestyle. Migrating as the seasons change, nomads have long erected yurts on alpine pastures primarily in summer, thereby allowing their livestock to graze.
The typical Kyrgyz yurt entails circular, wooden latticework (kerege) that is painted red for protection and forms the walls. Attached to the door frame using straps made of animal skin (ormok), the kerege is then tied to a dome built of poles of birch or willow (uuk) and covered by straw mats (chiy) and thick felt (tuurduk) for insulation. The dome, meanwhile, is encased with weatherproof felt blankets (uzuk) for the same purpose. A closer look reveals decorative elements inside, like a brightly colored strip that adorns the bottom of the dome (jabyk bash). Splashes of color come courtesy of quilted felt rugs (shyrdak) styled with varying motifs—a ram’s horn symbolizes wealth, a heart symbolizes hospitality.
Arguably the most important component is the tunduk: the yurt’s crown. Essentially holding the entire structure together as it provides support to the roof, it’s circular in shape and consists of multiple crossbeams. And if it feels somewhat familiar, that’s because it features prominently on the flag of Kyrgyzstan, representing unity and residing in the center of a 40-rayed sun that reflects the 40 tribes of Kyrgyzstan. The tunduk also personifies Tengri, god of the sky, according to the Turko-Mongolic religion of Tengrism. It’s not just the tunduk that carries symbolism, though. More than a home, the yurt overall is seen as a microcosm of the universe, hosting weddings and other ceremonies as well as rituals pertaining to birth and death.
“The combination of the yurt’s symbolic meaning with its practical value and feasibility encouraged us to consider a new model of local community development,” says Ensi Tszien, head of experimentation at the recently established UNDP Kyrgyzstan Accelerator Lab. “We believe the development model ‘designed by people for people’ will be embraced by the grassroots communities as something inherent, understandable, and valuable for them.” Citing the mindset and lifestyles of Kyrgyz nomad tribes for over 3,000 years, the team is now tapping into nomadic values instead of traditional development processes.
“The nomad philosophy is about people living in harmony with nature and animals. Nomads clearly understand that they are only one part of an ecosystem, so they treat Mother Nature with deep respect and genuine care,” adds Viktoria Petrova, head of exploration. “This is exactly what international communities are urgently calling for: a sustainable development model to tackle climate change and loss of biodiversity.”
And while not everyone in Kyrgyzstan fully understands the meaning of concepts such as the UN’s 17 Sustainable Development Goals (here, they’re perceived as Western values or foreign concepts), the nomadic way of life seamlessly aligns with Goal 11—Sustainable Cities and Communities—that calls for making cities and human settlements inclusive, safe, resilient, and sustainable.
Additionally, studying nomadic philosophy reveals their ability to maximize the value of minimum resources. “If you consider a shepherd family, sheep is not just the main source of food—its skin is used to make cloth, wool is turned into handmade shyrdak, and sheep dung is organic manure,” Petrova explains. “Even its bones can be utilized for various household purposes. Kids love playing chuko, a traditional nomad game made of sheep’s kneecaps. In short, nothing is left unused. And when nomads migrate from one place to another, no waste is left behind.”
A full-fledged tent district famously stands in the shadows of industrialization in Ulaanbaatar due to climate change forcing herders onto urban land.
But it’s not just in Kyrgyzstan where yurts are considered special, or sacred, even. They’ve served as the traditional dwelling of nomads across Central Asian countries for several centuries; the first written description of a yurt is credited to Greek historian Herodotus and dates back to 5th century BC.
In neighboring Kazakhstan, for example, the yurt is just as fundamental to local culture. Here, the apex is known as a shanyrak (not a tunduk) and occupies pride of place in the national emblem. The yurt domes in both countries are hemispherical in shape, unlike the conical versions of Mongolia (but more on that later).
One noticeable difference, however, is that Kazakh yurts are lower than their Kyrgyz counterparts, owing to the windy conditions of most steppes. And while urbanization has led to a decline in the use of yurts in Kazakhstan today, those that remain cater mostly to tourists looking to experience this truly wholesome abode. Similarly, the idea of following the seasons with livestock in tow is becoming a thing of the past in Inner Mongolia.
“There is a small percent change of Inner Mongolians who still live in grasslands, where yurts are very popular, but the majority have moved into cities now,” explains Eliot O’Connor, owner of Yurt Specialists. “In fact, the most common use in the region from which we buy them is for tourism, which is keeping the craft going. People from all over Japan go there because they see that part of the world as where they originate. In contrast, they’re still a very popular form of living in Mongolia, and a much more suburban thing. You have the city center with all the apartment blocks, and then further out, everybody’s living in yurts. But not from a nomadic perspective; people tend to be much more grounded where they are now.”
What he’s referring to is the full-fledged tent district that famously stands in the shadows of industrialization in Ulaanbaatar due to climate change forcing herders onto urban land. Here, this wood-and-wool home is called a ‘ger’ and features two vertical support beams in the center. And while they’ve been blamed for contributing to the city’s soaring pollution levels (coal is used for both heating and cooking), their loyalty to this longstanding way of life is only natural—even Genghis Khan, the infamous founder of the Mongol Empire, ruled from inside a yurt.
Nearly 6,000 miles west, Yurt Specialists is a family-operated business based in the small residential area of Risinghurst in Oxford, England, bringing traditionally crafted yurts to the UK for the past three decades—albeit with a few updates. “The skin of yurt—the actual canvas we use—is different to what they would use in Inner Mongolia, which has a very dry environment. We use a special type of canvas called polycanvas, which is essentially much faster to dry and therefore needed for the rainy Western European climate,” reveals O’Connor.
Other adaptations include raising the height of the walls to accommodate slightly taller people, installing groundsheets to prevent dampness, and adding windows. “You won’t find windows in most yurts in the Far East, but in the UK, we need as much light as we can get. We haven’t changed the fundamental structure, of course, and we haven’t changed how that structure is made either—it’s just the canvas and a few extras that make it more adapted to the UK.”
The simple yet effective design of a yurt, he says, is key in the steadily growing demand. “The structure is designed so that the weight of it is the strength of it—it’s all held together by tension bands. They’re much stronger than tents, yet you can build them like a tent. You could take them down, you can bring them somewhere else, you can live in them in all sorts of temperatures. It’s no wonder that our customer base varies wildly.”
O’Connor’s clients span farmers, forest schools, healing practitioners, camping and glamping sites, gardening enthusiasts, and those living off the grid full-time; even musicians are catching on, owing to the soft acoustics within a yurt.
Today, it seems. there’s no such thing as a stereotypical yurt buyer. As for their intangible appeal? “In England, we would describe them as quirky,” he chuckles. “They’re a little bit exotic, a little bit different from the norm. And certainly, in Europe, we have romantic ideals of the Mongolian lifestyle, so it touches that for a lot of people.”
Samia Qaiyum is a Dubai-based editor who specializes in travel and culture. She contributes to Elle Arabia, Vice Arabia, National Geographic Traveller, and Condé Nast Traveller. A textbook third culture kid with a perpetual thirst for adventure, she has lived in five countries and traveled to 34 others, racking up all sorts of weird and wonderful experiences along the way.
