words by Lucy Hindmarsh
Travel has taken on new meaning for many people in our post-pandemic world—not as a break from reality but as a new way of life. As both an avid backpacker and a recovering social media junkie, it is not unusual for me to open my Instagram and watch young, western travellers documenting their experiences, evangelising certain destinations whilst warning against others.
These locations are usually predictable—a central European city with an abundance of galleries and trendy cafes, or a South American beach town ideal for surfing and wildlife spotting. I’d dutifully save these recommendations to my profile, with the romantic idea that maybe I’d one day go too.
So I was taken aback when one location started to appear again and again: Kyrgyzstan.
Every day, a diverse array of creators from young groups of guys to older solo women began promoting travel to this country, a place otherwise neglected in mainstream media. I had never seriously considered visiting myself, partly due to a lack of information but also admittedly because I was yet to understand its unique appeal. My interest was piqued, however, when I stumbled across a documentary explaining that Kyrgyzstan was, and remains, a predominantly nomadic country. Its inhabitants move seasonally, build their homes from scratch, and live off the land. The yurt, the most common kind of dwelling, is so central to the Kyrgyz identity that it holds centre stage on the country’s flag.
In contemplating this new information alongside the increased interest in this country on social media, all in the wake of a COVID-birthed rise in remote working and longer-term travel, I began to wonder if these trends were linked. Could a culture rooted in traditional nomadism attract ‘digital nomads’ in pursuit of a new way of life? What are the principles of nomadic living for those who embody it? Do the digital nomads navigating the hyper-connected, digital landscape of the modern world reflect this or are they in pursuit of something entirely new?
Whilst there are surface-level similarities between traditional and digital nomadism, their roots are fundamentally different. To understand this contrast, it’s important we first understand how traditional nomadism came to be and what it means to the people who live it.
For Kyrgyz people, nomadism is a centuries-old tradition that arose not from choice but necessity. The practice of transhumance—moving seasonally with livestock between fixed summer and winter pastures—was common across the region of Central Asia including modern-day Kyrgyzstan and was founded upon sustainability, ritual, and optimal foraging.
The practice was threatened in the later half of the 19th century following Russian colonisation, during which much of the best land was given to Russian settlers. An ensuing revolution led to the displacement of many native Kyrgyz to other countries and the development of heavy industry, a natural contradiction to this lifestyle.
Yet, despite these attempts to alter the Kyrgyz way of life, nomadism has endured, in part thanks to the ecological reality of inhabiting the rugged and mountainous landscape; the environment demands it. Cultural resistance and reclamation have also strengthened efforts to maintain these practices. They now underpin the majority of Kyrgyzstan’s Community Based Tourism (CBT) with nomadic homestays and rural guided tours becoming increasingly available.
Ironically, the resilience of Kyrgyz nomadism compounded with the tourist-centric economic opportunities it brings has provided a blueprint for those very same influencers popping up on my Instagram feed to model their own lifestyle after. But this tradition isn’t limited to a trip to Kyrgyzstan, it is mimicked all around the world, wherever these travellers may go.
While the term “Digital Nomad” was coined in the 90s by Makimoto and Manners in their book of the same name to describe someone who uses technology to live and work remotely, the use of it colloquially has only come to exist in the last few years, following the technological developments that facilitate it.
But the most recent surge in this lifestyle is an undeniable side effect of the pandemic, with working remotely becoming a necessity for many—echoing Kyrgyzstan’s original survival-driven nomadism.
The key difference being that this modern iteration’s necessity comes from its digital, not mobile, nature. That is to say that the draw for digital nomads is rarely the technology itself, but all that it can facilitate—flexible working hours, endless travel, and the removal of office confines. Yet the irony is, when you merge this intrinsically modern work with constant relocation, new limitations quickly appear.
On top of this, digital nomadism is only accessible to the privileged, only those who are not required to work manual labour, who have the savings to travel, and are free of urgent or local obligations can engage in it. In addition to that, reliable WiFi and suitable working spaces mean forking out even more for upgraded accommodation or co-working membership.
But this influx of remote workers also impacts the rural environments they chase. Local communities will choose to accommodate these needs for its economic benefit, eroding the very remoteness and authenticity that once defined them, a stark contrast to the traditional nomadic ethic of sustainability and preservation.
Still, there is something to be admired in the kinship created by digital nomads. United not by shared landscapes or rituals, but instead a love for travel and variety, a rejection of the 9-to-5 grind, and the desire to meet like-minded people from across the world.
Ultimately, digital nomadism undermines much of the traditional nomadism of Kyrgyzstan in method and motivation, but they ultimately converge in spirit—the search for a belonging that transgresses geographical boundaries, that exists in oneself and in a found community.
Rather than a return to the past, digital nomadism seeks to redefine what we mean by home, showing that by adapting technology to our needs we can still exist in a modern world all while bringing belonging with us, wherever we go.