Urban Sands Recede, but Sandstorms Continue to Plague Herdsmen

From 6 April, sand has been blowing almost every day in Damao Banner, Baotou, in the Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region. The worst was on the 10th, when a sandstorm lasted for nearly five hours; outside, the wind and sand blotted out the sun, leaving the indoors dim and dark.

“We had to turn the lights on in broad daylight!” said Brother Ma, who has spent decades herding livestock in Damao Banner. He has rarely encountered such conditions. “I feel this year’s sandstorms have been the most frequent and the most severe.”

Across nearly 10,000 mu of grassland, Brother Ma and his family raise over 400 sheep and 50 cattle. Ordinarily, he would drive the livestock out to graze and drink every day. However, during a sandstorm, it is difficult even for people to move around, so the animals are kept in their pens to feed on fodder, and their drinking must wait until the following day.

Damao Banner borders Mongolia’s East Gobi Province, a region of desert steppe and a major source of sand. Yet Brother Ma is not particularly concerned about the sand blowing in from his northern neighbour; what worries him more is the state of his own grassland.

“If the grasslands were healthy, the sandstorms wouldn’t be so severe; even the strongest gusts would just kick up some dust.” But last year was a year of drought; rain was scarce in the summer and autumn, and there was little snow in the winter. To this day, the grasslands have yet to turn green. One strong gust of wind and the sparse patches of grass are torn out by the roots.

Grass roots act as a barrier, anchoring the soil and holding the sand in place. Once the grass is gone, the sandy soil beneath is the next to be swept away.

I. Sand and Grass: The Great Topsoil Migration

At the end of March, when I revisited Dulan, a herder in the East Ujimqin Banner of Xilingol League, the region had just weathered its third sandstorm of the spring. On the track between his livestock pen and the settlement, a vast stretch of compacted bare earth had been exposed, hard as rock underfoot. If you drove off the wheel ruts, the car would be jolted violently from side to side.

This was a far cry from the scene I had encountered last September. How had it become a wasteland after only a single winter?

The answer was right in front of me. Beside the bare patch were the borehole and water trough; the livestock came here daily to drink, and the constant trampling had left the soil loose and fragmented, leaving almost no room for grass to grow.

This differed from the nomadic traditions partially preserved during the era of collectivisation—where both people and livestock migrated according to the seasons. After the “dual contracting of grassland and livestock” was phased in during the 1990s, mesh fences were used to demarcate the boundaries of individual family plots, and settled herding became the norm on the steppe. Although Dulan owned 6,000 *mu* of grassland and rented another 4,000 *mu* from a neighbour, the distance and routes his livestock could roam remained severely restricted.

It suddenly dawned on me: this grassland degradation around the settlement and within the fences, caused by excessive trampling, must be what the herders call “hoof disaster”. During sandstorms or periods of high wind, the fine surface sand of these pastures is scattered to the winds; over the years, the land is stripped bare.

Some of the wind-blown sand slows down upon encountering patches of grass, settling and accumulating around the roots. Walking across this barren land, you will notice that in areas with denser vegetation, each clump of grass is slightly raised where the sand has gathered. These small mounds, higher in the centre and sloping outwards, form a landscape that resembles a miniature field of dunes.

Taking advantage of this, Dulan began fencing off more than 100 mu of grassland near his home five years ago. By keeping livestock off this land, he has not only prevented further encroachment by the sand but also helped stabilise the topsoil.

Topsoil that is not trapped by grass roots becomes a new source of sand during sandstorms and gales, further altering the original vegetation and environment of the pasture. In *The Logic of the Grassland: Sequel*, Han Nianyong, a researcher at the Chinese Academy of Sciences, refers to this phenomenon as “the great surface soil migration”.

Through years of field research, Han Nianyong and his team discovered that this soil migration has caused plants that once grew only in the arid grasslands of western Inner Mongolia to appear in the semi-arid east. Annual and biennial plants have appeared in explosive, large-scale breakouts; although vegetation cover has increased, the quality of the forage and the stability of the vegetation are declining…

This aligns with Dulian’s observations. There were once more than twenty species of named grasses on his pasture; now, only about ten remain. The layer of perennial dead grass—essential for livestock to “build up reserves” after surviving the winter and before the spring regreening—is also dwindling. Without the cover of this dead grass layer, the pasture’s ability to absorb and permeate water is reduced, and the expanse of exposed soil has increased significantly, leaving the land more vulnerable when the spring winds and sands arrive.

Dulán, a herder born in the 1980s, recalls that sandstorms were rare during his childhood. The pastures were in better condition back then, though winters were harsh with heavy snowfall; herders feared “white disasters” (severe snowstorms) far more than anything else. The “white disaster” on New Year’s Day in 2001 wiped out 80% of the livestock across the entire sumu. Dulán’s family were forced to leave the grazing lands and move to the banner town, where they lived for several years.

“When did the sandstorms start?” I asked Dulán.

“They started around 2000,” he replied. Almost coinciding with the onset of the sandstorms was the disappearance of the fresh water sources on his family’s pasture.

Looking at the pastures that have yet to turn green and the patchy, bald areas of bare earth, it is hard to imagine that thirty years ago, several rivers—including the Jirengaole and Xilin—converged here, creating a lush landscape of abundant water and grass. It is said that when taking cattle to drink from the river in summer, one had to be constantly vigilant to stop the animals from sinking into the silt of the river bends. Later, the construction of reservoirs upstream caused water levels downstream to plummet. Dulán remembers clearly that by 1999, the rivers had dried up completely.

With the loss of surface water, livestock now depend on groundwater pumped from boreholes. However, as water-intensive industrial and agricultural developments on the grasslands have increased, groundwater levels have been affected.

Brother Ma from Damao Banner mentioned that copper mining in the 2000s consumed vast amounts of groundwater, leaving the shallower wells of herders dry. It was only after government intervention and the closure of the mine’s deep wells that the water table slowly recovered. Another deep well in the gacha is dedicated solely to irrigating fodder fields, which has left the surrounding pastures increasingly arid.

Dulán remembers 2015 as another drought year; the following spring, the sandstorms in East Ujimqin Banner were particularly severe. Sand filled the eyes and coated the bodies of both people and animals; the livestock even ingested sand while grazing. When the winds were at their strongest, sheep lying on the grass could be buried in sand within moments. One had to act quickly, grabbing them by the legs to haul them out of the drifts, and then spend time brushing the sand off their coats.

The chain reaction of dwindling surface water and the over-exploitation of groundwater has led to a steady decline in the condition of the pastures. This has left herders more dependent on rainfall, which is unpredictable and unevenly distributed. Consequently, whenever a drought strikes, they become far more vulnerable to the effects of sandstorms.

Having been hit hard by the drought last summer, Brother Ma and his family were hoping for early rain this year so the pastures would turn green sooner. Instead of rain, however, the sand arrived; from late March, gale-force winds and sandstorms have plagued Damao Banner for nearly a month. Last year, Dulán’s pasture was not dry, and she had baled thousands of bundles of hay for supplementary feeding. Yet, with almost not a drop of rain falling this winter and spring, the situation has become utterly distressing.

III. Conclusion

Recently, weather conditions in the cities surrounding Beijing, Tianjin, and Hebei have improved, and the dust storms that recently “crossed the Yangtze River” have retreated northwards. While city dwellers can now set aside their masks, the herders, whose livelihoods are inextricably linked to the grasslands, are far from being clear of the warnings. They continue to endure the secondary disasters triggered by the dust and gale-force winds.

How many more dust storms will the herders on the grasslands face this spring? Will there be sufficient rainfall this year? Against the backdrop of climate change, these remain open questions.

Foodthink “Livestock Industry” Feature

Foodthink has long been dedicated to exploring themes surrounding the livestock industry. Since 2018, we have published a series of articles focusing on the pastoral regions of Inner Mongolia, aiming to document the authentic lives of herders while exploring how they can build more sustainable livelihoods within an increasingly volatile environment. If these issues resonate with you, and you have first-hand local materials, stories, or your own insights to share, we welcome your contributions or get in touch.

Foodthink Author

zeen

Someone who has yet to outgrow the “base pleasure” of eating meat, with a keen interest in the livestock industry.

Unless otherwise indicated, all images are provided by the author

Editor: Wang Hao