Under a Broken Sky

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I

n the meantime, foreign aid remains the country's lifeblood. Mongolia receives about $100 per capita annually, more than all but a handful of nations, partly because countries such as the U.S. and Japan like the idea of a fledgling democracy nestled between Russia and China. International aid organizations and nongovernmental organizations have delivered relief to areas hit by the dzud. They're also teaching new ways for herders to make a living—including gardening, garment making and carpentry—and are trying to make the herders think about livestock as a business. In August, the Gobi Regional Economic Growth Initiative, with funding from the U.S. Government, debuted Herder From the Future, a radio series in which the lead character is transported from 2060 back to 2001. To return and reunite with his betrothed, our herder hero must "work with the people he meets in 2001 to help them change the future." This means sharing lessons on "rural economic growth and improved competitiveness for Mongolia's animal-husbandry sector."

The ADB's Hitchcock is guardedly optimistic but also acknowledges the risk of Enkhbayar's "big-bang approach," in which so much changes at once. A Western diplomat adds that the country must overcome its habit of merely commissioning papers and gathering endless statistics on every issue: "On a macro level, the government seems to understand the principles of the free market. But it's difficult to see it being implemented on the ground." Still, he adds: "I am convinced that Mongolia can succeed."

Back in Chingeltei, Bayarsakhan crawls out of a sleeping bag on the floor of his shack one evening in late November. The cuts on his face have almost healed, and he looks younger tonight, dressed in sweatpants and a blue sweatshirt. His mood has improved, too. He's still not comfortable in the city, he says. For one thing, the coal smoke scratches his throat. But for the moment, he seems relaxed. Or perhaps just resigned.

Bayarsakhan never expected it would be so hard to find work in the city. By pooling resources, his family can pay the rent, but he worries about his kids' education. So far, he hasn't been able to afford the $50 registration fee that would make them eligible for school. Still, Bayarsakhan's children seem happy and healthier than most in Chingeltei. Tonight, they're bouncing around the ger, cheerfully impersonating Mongolian wrestlers. Tsengune, the 3-year-old, throws his younger brother to the floor, then picks up an old guitar and hands it imploringly to his father.

On his 16th birthday, Bayarsakhan was given this guitar by his own father, a renowned singer in Gobi-Altai. Now, almost 15 years later and hundreds of kilometers away from that stark idyll, Bayarsakhan starts to play one of his father's songs. The tune is rough, but the melody sweet. Words flow from memory—about Gobi-Altai and the land, about saddling up your best horse to ride across the valley. When it's over, Bayarsakhan stares at the ground. "I get sad when I play that," he says. "I wish I could take you to my home. It's so beautiful there." He looks up, smiles, then starts another tune, singing softly about a mother's beauty and the tears she shed when her son moved away. Bayarsakhan's brothers join in, then his wife and sister-in-law. The room fills with their voices. They have gone home the only way they can.