It's funny how foreigners ask me the same questions

when they first meet me.

Questions like,

"Wow, you're from Mongolia?

So do you ride horses to go to work?"

"Do you know what Coke is?"

Or, "Do you have chocolates in Mongolia?"

And if I want to have fun with it,

I say things like,

"Oh my God,

I've never heard any of those before.

What are Coke and chocolates?

Can you tell me more about them?"

It always works,

and we have a good laugh about it too.

In reality, our capital city, Ulaanbaatar, is very urban.

We have commercial buildings,

brand-name hotels

and beautiful art spaces too.

But all too often

foreigners fixate on what Mongolia lacks.

They look at our massive, untouched landscape,

traditional nomadic lifestyles,

and see it as a sign of poverty.

And I disagree.

In fact, I think there's a lot we can learn

from ancient Mongolian nomads

that will help us survive

in the years and decades to come.

This is a picture of me playing Mongolia's most celebrated traditional instrument,

morin khuur,

or horsehead fiddle.

I started playing the instrument when I was only nine,

and by 11 I was traveling the world

representing Mongolia at international festivals,

living and studying in places like Japan, China, Finland, Germany and Sweden.

But then suddenly,

when I was 21,

I lost my loving mother,

and just two years later

I lost my father.

As an only child,

I was devastated and lonely.

At the time, the only thing I had left was my country,

so I decided to move home.

When I was lost with sorrow,

my country gave me a feeling of safety and belonging.

I imagined eternal the blue sky of Mongolia as my father

and the untouched, gorgeous landscape as my mother.

Having lived in developed countries for over a decade,

I became very distant from the nomadic lifestyles,

so I wanted to reconnect and experience it for myself.

I often journeyed away from the city toward my grandparents' provinces

in rural Mongolia

to see where my parents and I came from,

and better understand my own identity.

Growing up, I'd always heard stories about how Mongolian nomads

were the most hospitable people on earth,

and I wanted to see with my own eyes

whether they really feed and give shelter to a stranger.

So I set off to the countryside,

driving along dirt roads for hours.

What's incredible about Mongolian nomads

is that the neighbors are often 40 kilometers apart,

and there's no private land ownership of pasture land in Mongolia.

In a way,

Mongolian nomads have the complete freedom,

moving about the gorgeous landscape as they wish.

Eventually, I spotted to humble yurts

and I pulled over.

Yurts, or ger,

are a traditional Mongolian dwelling.

They're made from one hundred percent natural material,

a wooden frame and floor,

leather rope

and thick blankets made from felted sheep's wool.

And it takes about only three to four hours

to assemble or disassemble,

and keeps them warm

through the minus 50 degree Celsius winters.

Outside the yurt,

the kids were playing with sheep and goats,

and as I greeted them,

their parents welcomed me inside.

The wife poured me nice warm milk tea,

and the husband offered me food

that they had already prepared on the table.

After some casual chitchat,

the husband politely asked my purpose,

so I replied bluntly

that I was just traveling

and exploring my grandparents' roots

and that I needed a place to stay

as the sun was setting.

And guess what?

He said I could stay as long as I needed to,

on one condition.

He asked if I would play the morin khuur,

our traditional Mongolian horsehead fiddle.

In my head, I couldn't believe it was coming true.

And the horsehead fiddle was like a ticket.

When Mongolians find out that you can play morin khuur,

you're instantly respected.

They say its two strings

express all the events of the world.

I ended up staying with them for nine days,

and they didn't even ask me to leave.

I think if I tried to stay there for two months,

they would have let me.

And here's the thing:

before I met them,

I assumed that Mongolian nomads were hospitable out of kindness

like anybody else.

But then I realized it was more than that.

It was about surviving as a community.

Because nomads live in extremely remote areas,

they are completely at the mercy of nature.

Heavy snowfall,

a sudden flood

or a raging storm

can devastate a nomadic family.

Today, it's a stranger who needs help,

but tomorrow, it could be you.

That's why they look out for each other

and welcome anyone in need of help.

This really touched my heart,

because I feel like we humans are becoming more and more selfish.

Staying with a truly nomadic family awakened me.

It was nothing like I've ever seen in developed countries.

The wife of the family

showed me how they produce organic dairy products from scratch,

like white cheese, yogurt, tsegee,

and even a traditional vodka made from cow milk.

And every tool they use is made from natural material by hand.

And inside the yurt,

we burned dried cow dung to stay warm

instead of using fuel.

Everything stood in sharp contrast

to my city life filled with plastic and steel.

And this was a five-senses experience to me,

a completely different form of sophistication.

The more I traveled across remote and rural destinations in Mongolia,

the more I understood

how ancient nomadic lifestyle was powered by Mother Nature.

Nomadic life is truly zero waste.

Over the course of six years,

I visited more than 20 families,

and my experience was always the same.

They invited me in, offered me food

and gave me a place to stay if I needed it.

I was surprised by how little they owned.

At first, I thought it was because they moved about four times a year.

OK, that's a very simple logic to understand.

You only carry what you need.

But then I learned

there's a deeper philosophy behind it.

Historically, nomads believed

that we are only passing through this life,

that people come and leave naked,

so they believe that there's no point in building anything that destroys nature

or in being greedy for materialistic things

when your life expectancy is only less than 100 years.

Instead, they invest in tradition,

heritage, history,

and pass it from generation to generation.

This ancient nomadic philosophy made me realize that I should think bigger

and further than my own convenience and comfort.

In the Mongolian countryside, I felt a true form of freedom,

and every time I came back to the city,

I looked for ways to live more minimally.

I digitalized all of my company's paper procedures.

What once took 20 packs of A4 paper

now takes just one.

I downsized my apartment, reduced my carbon footprint