Alena ushered us into a tent fashioned from pine branches and cream-coloured canvas. Evening sunlight filtered through the fabric in soft golden shafts, illuminating the centrepiece of the dwelling — a rust-speckled iron oven, its fire flickering gently, chasing away the damp chill that clung to our jackets. We removed our muddy boots and stepped onto a carpet of fresh larch twigs — aromatic, earthy and clean. She gestured for us to sit on the reindeer pelt reserved for honoured guests behind a modest coffee table, on which she began to lay out the family’s cherished reindeer delicacies. There were fried patties, pan-seared liver, boiled stomach slices, raw kidney, a steaming bowl of bone broth that seemed to hum with nourishment, and for dessert, a simple yet exquisite blend of reindeer milk with wild berry jam.
It was a royal treatment — not in grandeur, but in spirit. A kind of hospitality rooted in the land and the quiet dignity of a people who have lived in harmony with the forest for generations. Deep in the heart of Siberia’s vast and whispering taiga, where the frost clings to pine needles and the
wind carries stories older than memory, the Evenki remain guardians of a way of life that feels both timeless and fragile. We were welcomed into a world few outsiders ever witness.
industrial pulse beats against a backdrop of climatic extremes. From there, we drove some 150km into the forested unknown — half of it on dirt roads that twisted and turned with no signage, only the subtle cues of a cluster of rocks marking a river crossing, or a shadow in the trees hinting at a bend. Leaving proved even more problematic a few days later. Overnight rains triggered a flash flood, washing away the only bridge over one of the streams. What had been a tenuous path became a reminder of the taiga’s authority — unforgiving, unbothered by human plans.
The generous spread of reindeer dishes before me stirred a fond recollection of Lapland, and of the Sami people whose lives I had documented across the northern reaches of Scandinavia. There, too, reindeer formed the backbone of sustenance and tradition, though the atmosphere was less ceremonial, more utilitarian and modernised. I had subsisted on boiled potatoes, biscuits, and the occasional spoonful of cloudberry jam — simple fare that mirrored the stark beauty of the tundra.
Here in this Evenki tent, the culinary offerings were richer, yet I found myself once again on the margins of the feast. A peculiar allergy prevents me from consuming most red meats, rendering the array of reindeer delicacies, even wild fowl, off-limits. I had come prepared to abstain, resigned to a diet of bread, fruit, and a couple of cans of sardines tucked away in my pack. In a gesture of reciprocity, I retrieved a tub of blueberries and raspberries I had purchased a couple of days ago from a green grocery in Neryungri. I offered them to Alena, hoping to contribute something to the table. She glanced at the container and shook her head with a slight disdain. “I had too many berries already,” she said, almost dismissively. “Picked fresh in the forest by ourselves.”
Her words, though curt, carried a subtle pride — a reminder that here, sustenance is not bought but gathered, hunted, and prepared with reverence. The forest provides, and the Evenki take only what is needed. My market berries, sterile and packaged, were out of place in this ecosystem of reciprocity and respect. In that moment, I understood: this was not just a meal, but a manifestation of a worldview. Where food is not merely consumed, but honoured. Where guests are welcomed not with extravagance, but with authenticity.
The next morning, other folks in this secluded settlement came to greet us, too — eleven souls bound by kinship and tradition, living in a pact with the land. At the helm was Grandma Yule, 67, a stoic matriarch whose weathered hands still orchestrated the rhythms of reindeer herding. Alongside her son and her nephew — both named Yuri —and her granddaughter Anna, they tended to a herd of nearly 400 reindeer in the taiga.
Alena, the younger granddaughter, straddled two worlds. A primary school teacher in Iyengra, a modest town 50km away, she returned in summer to her root in the forest. Her nephew Sergei, just 12 and hoping to become a policeman, brought with him two schoolmates — Alexander, affectionately called Sasha, and Lyova. Sasha spoke with quiet conviction of becoming a reindeer herder himself, while Lyova leaned toward a mechanic. Their presence added a youthful energy to the camp, a sign that tradition still flickers in the hearts of the young, even as modernity beckons.
Reindeer herding in Yule’s clan follows nature’s rhythm — intense in spring with fragile newborns, vulnerable in summer to disease, and relatively calm through autumn and winter. But unlike Scandinavian herders, they do not raise reindeer for sale or slaughter. The herd is kept for cultural continuity, a spiritual bond with the land. Traditionally nomadic, their camp once shifted with seasonal forage of lichen and moss in winter, and mushrooms and berries in summer. Now, mobility has slowed; they relocate only every few years, allowing for semi-permanent structures like a wooden kitchen and sleeping quarters, replacing birch-bark tents. Nearby, ageing cars and a satellite dish hint at modernity’s encroachment. These changes aren’t a surrender, but a negotiation — preserving tradition while adapting to a changing world.
Yet this is no untouched Eden — the forest bears scars of change. Yule’s clan, like many indigenous communities, faces a gradual drift from tradition as younger generations seek education and work beyond the taiga. Roads now slice through the landscape, built not by planners but gold miners with license to extract. Initially, herders and miners coexisted uneasily, exchanging help and supplies. But a new company ended that fragile balance. Mercury polluted rivers, and deep pits claimed reindeer lives. As the forest is carved away, so too is the culture rooted within it. The struggle persists: quiet resilience of the herders versus the machinery of extraction. For now, industry dominates. In the glow of a pine-branch fire, in the laughter of children chasing reindeer, the Evenki spirit survives — worn, but not broken.
300km southeast of the taiga where Sasha and Grandma Yule live, another Alena carries the weight of her people’s legacy in Bomnak — a remote village tucked into the folds of the vast Zeya Reservoir, dammed for hydroelectricity during the Soviet era. Her herd of 300 reindeer grazes far from the village, accessible only by a gruelling 9-hour ride on horseback over bumpy, unforgiving paths. Yet she remains a pillar of the Evenki community there, both a guardian of tradition and a witness to its unravelling.
Her story mirrors the silent heartbreak of many Evenki elders. During the Soviet era, reindeer herding — once presided by migration, instinct, and ancestral knowledge — was forcibly reorganised into agricultural collectives. The state promised structure, wages, and modernisation. What it delivered was alienation. When the Soviet Union dissolved, so did the collectives. They went bankrupt overnight. Herders, once paid for their labour, were left jobless and adrift. Alena recounted how many of her peers, stripped of purpose and income, fell into despair — alcohol and drugs became the escape when the forest could no longer provide.
Even today, the scars remain. Alena has fought hard to send six Evenki children to university over the years — a feat that required more than just money. Teachers often dismissed Evenki students, frustrated by their frequent absences to help with herding or by their spirited resistance to rigid classroom norms. “They don’t sit still,” she said with a half-smile, “because they were raised to move with the land.”
Yet Alena herself is a master of stillness and craft. In her modest home, she continues to sew traditional Evenki garments — robes, coats, boots and carpets made from the hides and furs of reindeer, fox, moose, elk, and even seal. These are not museum pieces. They are worn proudly at weddings, festivals, and ceremonies, stitched with memory and meaning. She sells them occasionally to fellow Evenki, but more than commerce, it’s preservation. “If I stop,” she said, “who will remember how to make them?” We picked from her craftwork four fine items to complement the Evenki pavilion at CERS Shangrila Campus.
In the village hall of Bomnak, six Evenki teenagers danced with fierce precision to modern music and choreography for us. Their energy lit up the stage, yet outside, life felt quieter, traditions more fragile. I thought of Sasha, dreaming of becoming a reindeer herder. Would that path still exist when he’s older, or be lost to modern pressures and urban allure? Would elders like Alena still be there to teach him how to read the land, stitch moose-hide coats, and listen to the silence between trees? Indigenous knowledge is more than skill — it’s a worldview. It’s knowing when river ice will break, navigating by clouded stars, and speaking to animals without words. This wisdom lives not in textbooks, but in stories, songs, and the hands of those who remember. For tradition to endure, it must be lived.
So I left the taiga with a heavy question in my heart: not whether the Evenki traditions will survive, but whether we will learn to see their value before it’s too late. Because in their resilience, in their knowledge, in their quiet grace, lies a blueprint for a more rooted, more respectful way of being in the world.
