There and Back Again: the World Travels of a Watson Fellow: Likir Village: Farming, Monasteries, and "Counter-Development"

August 26-30, 2013

Today was the first day of farm labor. We harvested peas and barley (“nas” in Ladakhi) using a sickle and stacked the barley harvested/dried barley into neat teepee shaped piles called chuks. After drying for three days or so, the barley will get threshed, winnowed, and likely milled into flour. They have grain mills (rantak) that use water and there are also power threshers in the village. I worked for about four-five hours and it was actually really hard work. It felt good to get my hands dirty and we took frequent cha (tea) breaks accompanied by roti (like pita bread), paba (various flour types turned into a dough, almost like Tanzanian Ugali), and fresh yogurt (zho). I had salt tea (cha kan te or tsaja) for the first time today and I still prefer sweet tea (cha ngarmo), which is black tea with milk and sugar. I haven’t yet had butter tea (susma), which is apparently an acquired taste that can be quite difficult to swallow (literally, you are drinking salty tea with melted chunks of butter). Someone gave me the advice of treating it like I’m drinking broth, which can make it go down easier. After hours of work and snacks, we had a delicious lunch (dzara) of dumplings (mok mok) and spicy soup, which was a welcome break from roti and other bread/wheat/barley products. I took a short nap since I didn’t get much sleep last night. The restless slumber was probably a combination of altitude, sheer over-exhaustion to the point where sleeping was difficult, and my paranoia of bed bugs (which we’ll see in a day or two if I have any itchy bites because apparently they anesthetize you when they bite so you don’t feel it at the time). After the nap, I went to the neighbors to meet up with the other two volunteers because it’s their last day in Likir. We hiked up to a nearby ridge for an incredible view of the village as the sun was setting behind the jagged peaks. And after reflecting a bit more on today, I don’t know if I could ever be a farmer. I was only helping to harvest for a few hours and the intense monotony combined with the physically demanding labor was a lot to take in. I think that the altitude definitely makes is harder because I am out of breath a lot and relatively little physical exertion leaves my heart pounding. I also think that it would be a lot more tolerable if I could communicate with the family and friends in the field. There were about 8-10 people at any given time working together, which is not uncommon here and people ranged in ages from 20 to 70. The Ladakhi system of agriculture is based heavily upon cooperation and mutual support, and in fact, intergenerational connections are crucial. The meme-le (grandfather) was singing songs in the field and people took turns with different tasks. We all ate our snacks/meals together: little children running around alongside parents and grandparents. It was really special. However, I can see how being here for an extended period of time and not having a grasp on the local language would be extremely isolating and lonely. I want to be able to communicate with these people and I’m lucky that a few speak limited English, but I’ve felt a bit alone, even when surrounded by people. Fortunately, with the fieldwork, once they showed me how to do it, we could all just go about our business and language didn’t really matter, even though it would have been nice to partake in their banter. The few words I’ve picked up include “jule,” which means hello, goodbye, and thank you (pretty useful/universal), as well as manjule (no), amale (mother), abale (father), me-mele (grandfather) and abile (grandmother). Tsapik means a little (as in food or tea) kamzang means “how are you” as well as “I’m fine.” Something else that’s interesting and at times frustrating is the customs of dzangs or insincere refusals. In Ladakhi culture, it is viewed as impolite or rude to accept something the first time it is offered, so it’s customary to reply with “dik-le” (that’s alright or no thanks, roughly) once or twice before eventually taking the tea or food. I’ve been trying to stick with the dzangs but have found that sometimes they backfire, like this morning when I was offered more cha ngarmo (sweet black tea) and said “dik-le” with a smile (even though I actually wanted more) and they took that as an actual refusal. On a positive note, did I mention that all the toilets are waterless and compostable? That’s right, a hole in the ground that drops waste down a chute (usually one floor up) and after mixing with ash and soil, the collection is emptied roughly once a year and then used as fertilizer on the fields. It is unfortunate that this practice is socially unacceptable in other cultures (that is, I asked around in Tanzania and was given strange looks for suggesting such) because it seems like an incredibly way to recycle waste and conserve water.

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I am beginning to lose track of the days. I think it has to do with living in the village where the routine of going into the fields is so constant. I also don’t have a functioning watch (I accidentally had it in my pants’ pocket when it went through the wash after just replacing the battery, grrr) and bringing my Iphone around seems pointless and inappropriate. So time has also been escaping me recently. I find myself looking up at the sun while we’re in the fields to gauge the time. We spent a very long day harvesting barley today (about 8 hours), though we had frequent tea breaks. Although the monotony is killer, there is something about seeing a tangible result that is so utterly rewarding: going from a field filled with barley laid out nearly then piles of chuks (or teepees as I like to call them). We can see what our hard work has resulted in and then enjoy the feeling of lying down at the end of a long day. I managed to learn today that they will be threshing in a week’s time using a power thresher. This surprised me – apparently, it’s about 5-7 years old (though someone else told me 3 years…I can’t seem to get my facts straight because of the language barrier). If I can, I am going to try to get a monk at the monastery to translate for me so I can properly interview my family about their rural lifestyle and farming in particular. Tomorrow is going to be another long day. I can’t imagine doing this in a place other than Ladakh, because at least the surrounding landscape is inexplicably beautiful, which takes away some of the feeling of drudgery. Unfortunately, my skin is also reacting badly to the barley (which closely resembles wheat) – the stalks are coarse and I am breaking out into a rash on my forearms, neck, and chest, even with long sleeves and gloves to guard against the roughness. Hopefully this is the type of thing I can build up some kind of tolerance towards.

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And the French have arrived. Things just got a bit more interesting at my homestay, as we returned from the fields around lunchtime (apparently my family had been up since 4:30 and working since 5 AM. I arrived around 9. Whoops) to discover a hoard of backpackers milling about the entryway. There were seven of them and it was quite funny because I could tell immediately that they thought I lived here and was part of the family (I guess that’s what happens when you look like you could pass for a Ladakhi – even the grandmother told me in the fields today, in broken English, that I have the face, skin, and hair of a Ladakhi). It was hilarious and also awkward when the little boy, probably no more than 10 or 12, bowed at me with both hands (which hello, that’s not even Ladakhi) and everyone greeted me with “Jule.” Around dinner time, I could tell that the amale (mother) was overwhelmed trying to cater to 7+ guests, compounded by the fact that her brother and his wife went to Leh for the night, so I tried to help in any way that I could. She showed me how to make tingmo (steamed dumplings) from the prepared dough, which involved rolling it flat, then rolling into a long, thin snake-like mass, cutting it into about 3-4” pieces, slicing each piece the long way, then stretching and turning it inside out before rejoining the opposite ends. The final, pre-steamed product looked like ravioli, though unstuffed. Two of the French women entered the kitchen and were intently observing and photographing me as I rolled the dough (again as if I was Ladakhi, ha). I asked if they wanted to try (speaking from experience, tourists eat that kind of thing up, literally) and after passing off the labor, I was then able to wash the dishes. And it was interesting that I felt more at home sitting in the kitchen with my host family than in the dining/living room with the French tourists. Language separated me from both groups, but at times, I felt like I could communicate better with the Ladakhis, and I preferred to. And at first, I was so excited to see tourists and hoped that I could finally have an in depth conversation in English, but my hopes were quickly shattered as I realized that they were very much into themselves (two families with teenage boys) – they had no interest in getting to know some random American who they first perceived to be indigenous. It made me feel somewhat lonely and resentful, suddenly wishing I had my family here. But then one of them cheerily remarked, “you really are part of this family. You cook, you wash the dishes.” So I guess this is preferable – if one really wants to get into the lifestyle here, it’s certainly not an insult for others to think you are part of the family (even the trekking guide thought I lived here and he was born in Ladakh! He said his wife is Tibetan and we resemble each other). When he learned I was American, he commented, “life must be so good for you in the States.” I felt like it was right out of the book I’m reading, Ancient Futures, and I suddenly felt the need to defend the flaws in Western Society (“it’s not all good. We also have unemployment and environmental degradation,” I retorted, after he explained that population in Ladakh is increasing and there aren’t enough jobs, leaving people poor).

And it’s been four days farming, and I feel like an 80 year old: after 2-3 hours of work, my body feels useless. I am so tired all the time, and my knees ache from constantly sitting Indian style so don’t offend anyone with my feet (feet are considered really repulsive and should not be pointed at anyone; you shouldn’t step over anyone or anything food related, not even dirty dishes). My upper back and neck hurt from bending in the field to pick up stray barley and my lower back as well. Although it feels good and refreshing to be doing manual labor, it’s really tough work. And to think that I have a choice, I can extract myself from this lifestyle whenever I want – it would be easy enough to hope on a bus to Leh and never come back to Likir, but this is life for these people. However, maybe it’s going to get “easier” in the future for them (e.g. using a mechanical thresher, which they said costs 600 rupees per hour, though I’m not sure if this is accurate because things often get lost in translation). I also I saw a power tiller come through the village today on the back of a truck. The meme-le (grandfather) had a shiny piece of paper in his hand, advertising the new piece of equipment, and he was grinning. I inquired to see if they wanted to purchase one and got mixed answers (yes, no, head shaking). I really need to find a translator so I can properly interview the family because I have so many questions about their farming system. And after the large group of French trekkers left, more arrived. Only this time, it was a Japanese man from Osaka (who I later learned is a Buddhist monk) and a French man from Nice, who normally repairs and teaches about computers but is currently on an 8-month backpacking adventure around the world. They were much friendlier than the last group and we even walked up to the Gonpa (monastery) together. I am glad I waited because it was really useful visiting with a monk who could explain the different imagery, symbols, etc. For instance, he explained that people are supposed to walk around prayer wheels clockwise because the right side of our bodies is holy; and if you spin the wheel, it’s equivalent to saying a quick sutra or prayer. He told me that stupas, which are the large monument-like structures, are symbolic memorials of Buddha (with the original stupas housing his ashes). He explained the eleven-headed statue with 1,000 arms because ideally, Buddha and any enlightened person will be constantly looking out in every direction and lending a helping hand. We sipped mint tea in the nearby garden restaurant and each exchanged stories about traveling alone (apparently these two met at a bus station and decided to trek together). It was much welcomed company.

And as I’ve just finished the book, I would like to share some excerpts from Ancient Futures:

From the chapter “The Development Hoax”:

“The escalating environmental problems and increasing levels of Third World debt and hunger should be seen as indications that something is wrong with the present development model…Most of the literature on sustainable development does not directly tackle the underlying causes behind social and ecological destruction. Even small, idealistic organizations tend to ignore the root problems, often pulling more and more people into dependence on the macroeconomy rather than supporting local diversification and real self-reliance…Similarly, even those groups that work with small-scale technologies based on renewable energy tend to imply that this option is for the rural poor alone and that the “real,” heavily subsidized development has to go on side by side. Most of the appropriate-technology literature, which typically shows people crouching next to some bits of rusty metal, is an indication of this attitude. Furthermore, the great majority of appropriate-technology projects promote technology in isolation, without considering the broader economic and cultural context. Under these conditions, appropriate technology is doomed to fail.”

And the chapter “Counter-Development”:

“Rather than more development, we need what I call ‘counter-development.’ The primary goal would be to provide people with the means to make fully informed choices about their own future. Using every possible form of communication, from satellite television to storytelling, we need to publicize the fact that today’s capital and energy-intensive trends are simply unsustainable. Ultimately, the aim would be to promote self-respect and self-reliance, thereby protecting life-sustaining diversity and creating the conditions for locally based, truly sustainable development. One of the most critical failings of conventional development is its reliance on a narrow, short-term perspective dominated by quantitative analysis. Counter-development would move beyond specialization and fragmented expertise to reveal the systemic underpinnings of industrial society. It would draw attention to family and community break-up; it would show up the hidden subsidies of a society based on fossil fuels; it would place environmental damage on the debit side of the economic balance sheet. It short, it would expose the escalating costs of our industrial way of life. At the same time, counter-development would promote and popularize a new, wider, and more humane definition of progress. It would highlight some of the innumerable local initiatives around the world that are exploring more sustainable alternatives.”

Further, “we need to regain a balance between the local and the global. Even though the phrase ‘think globally, act locally’ is mouthed frequently these days [book was first published in 1991], the thrust of modernization is entirely in the direction of globalization. Local cultures and economics are disappearing at an alarming rate and taking animal and plant species with them. Finding a sustainable middle path would necessarily involve active steps towards decentralization. Since extreme dependence has already been created on both national and international levels, it would be irresponsible to ‘delink’ economies and cut off assistance from one day to the next. We cannot, for example, suddenly halt our purchase of coffee or cotton from those countries in the Third World whose economies totally depend on such trade. But we can immediately begin supporting aid programs that will enable farmers to return to growing food for local consumption, rather than cash crops for export to the west.” This last bit seems to not only juxtapose globalization and localization but also challenge notions of “fair trade.” And the author further writes, “Farming provides the most basic of all human needs and is the direct source of livelihood for the majority of people in the Third World. Yet the status of the farmer has never been lower. At international economic summits, agriculture tends to be viewed as merely a ‘stumbling block’ to agreement on more important issues. In fact, if present trends continue, the small farmer may very well be extinct in another generation. It is imperative that we reverse these trends by giving agriculture the prominence it deserves and actively seeking to raise the status of farming as an occupation. A decentralized development path would offer immense benefits for small-scale agriculture. Small farmers would be better off if emphasis were placed on food production for local consumption, rather than on crops for export; if their products did not have to compete with products shipped great distances via subsidized transport networks; and if support were given to developing agricultural technologies appropriate for local conditions, rather than capital-intensive farm equipment suited to large plantations and agribusiness. They would also benefit if support were shifted away from the use of pesticides and chemical fertilizers to more ecologically sound methods.” She goes on to highlight some of the shifts that have already occurred such as the increase in farmers markets, organic etc. but claims that they aren’t enough: “We urgently need to put support for small-scale, diversified agriculture at the top of the list of national priorities.”

And finally, from the chapter “The Ladakh Project,” Helena acknowledges some of the difficulties, flaws, and paradoxes inherent to their work:

“From an ideological point of view, our work has also been difficult. In trying to forge a fundamentally different development path, we have had few models to follow. We have struggled with some thorny issues: Could our efforts be doing more harm than good? Would Ladakh be better off without any development at all? Should development only come from the Ladakhis themselves with no outside involvement? How could Ladakhis organize effectively to face the changes brought by development, without eroding the strengths of the traditional culture? In answering these questions, we have had to bear in mind the immense economic and psychological weight of the monoculture that has been bearing down on Ladakh for the last two decades. Around the world, western interests are laying siege to nonindustralized societies, making truly indigenous development a near impossibility. The real situation is extremely complex, calling for responses that appear contradictory on the surface. Thus there are many apparent paradoxes in our work. For example, we actually encourage contact between Ladakhis and Westerners, both in Ladakh and abroad, since real communication helps them gain a more balanced impression of the West. Similarly, even though the Ladakh Project actively promotes decentralization, the sociopolitical reality is that it makes sense to have a center in Leh…Although I felt that solar heating could provide a clear improvement in living standards, I would not have considered it appropriate for an outsider like myself to introduce this technology had not other less sustainable heating methods – like coal and oil – already begun to disrupt traditional practices. Since they had, I felt that people should have the information to make a choice; higher standards of living need not mean abandoning economic independence or traditional values.”

She finishes the book by writing, “Around the world, in every sphere of life, from psychology to physics, from farming to the family kitchen, there is a growing awareness of the interconnectedness of all life. New movements are springing up, committed to living on a human scale, and to more feminine and spiritual values. These numbers are growing, and the desire for change is spreading. These trends are often labeled as ‘new,’ but as I hope Ladakh has shown, in an important sense they are very old. They are, in fact, a rediscovery of values that have existed for thousands of years – values that recognize our place in the natural order, our indissoluble connection to one another and to the earth.”

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Stick me in a field of peas any day. This morning we harvested peas for a couple of hours and it was wonderful being able to work with my sleeves rolled up, gloveless. One can easily free the peas from the soft earth and they don’t scratch, itch, or poke in the same way as barley, which requires long sleeves tucked into work gloves. Plus, I can tear open a pod and munch on them; they are the sweetest, most delicious peas I’ve ever tasted. Living in Likir with this family is making me miss my own family a whole lot, more than when I was living in a homestay in Tanzania. I think that seeing the grand children run up to their grandparents with huge grins as they get swept off their feet into a big bear hug makes me miss my own family so much. Babies, parents, and grandparents all living under one roof and getting along quite well from what I can see. They really help each other take care of the house, cook, clean, and work in the fields. I suddenly am quite homesick and longing for my own grandparents, mom, dad, sister, and boyfriend. I think about how I am quickly coming up on the three-month mark of the fellowship and can’t figure out where time has gone. Yet simultaneously, time is slow. I still have more than 9 months until I will return home. And as I meet more travelers (another guest came to stay here last night, a young 20-something from Switzerland who works in construction 4-5 months a year, makes bank, and then travels the world when he’s not working), I realize more and more how vast the world is. And hearing the Swiss and Japanese men talk about their travels in Israel, Iran, and Pakistan also remind me how as an American, my ability to move freely about the world is actually much more limited than if I hailed from another country. Of course, I am not ungrateful to be an American because it certainly comes with its perks, but it also comes with figurative baggage, especially when traveling abroad. Regardless of nationality, some of the people I’ve met are living a rootless life – they pick up whenever they feel like it and jet off to another foreign place to soak up the culture and hopefully also contribute something positive in their travels. Like Kelly, the teacher in her 50s who grew up in Virginia, built a home in the southwest, now rents it out and travels the world. She was in Bolivia this past winter, then came to Ladakh for five months, and is now off to South Africa for a Buddhist meditation retreat. Because she has no partner or children, she is free to do as she pleases. On the one hand, it’s a thrilling prospect; however, it also seems that it might be a life of loneliness, of drifting in and out of places where you’ll never really belong. And as I take in more lessons about environmental sustainability, happiness, and life in general, I become eager to return home and “start life” with these new lessons in mind, though I am trying to stay grounded in the moment: “be here now” and “lean in” as Hamilton’s pre-orientation program Adirondack Adventure would say.

Threshing

It felt like snow came early in Ladakh yesterday. Fine bits of whitish material fell from the sky in a dusty cloud. But it wasn’t snow; it was shreds of barley from the diesel-powered thresher attached to the back of a tractor. I wasn’t expecting the family to use a machine for this task because I had heard/read that many Ladakhi farmers were still using animals to thresh (cows, dzo, donkeys etc.). In this traditional process, the animals walk over the barley stalks for 6-8 hours to loosen the grain, then they would winnow by hand before bringing it to a water-powered mill. Today, however, the farmers in Likir are using a large mechanical thresher. According to the Ladakh Development Group, which introduced small gasoline/kerosene-powered threshers a few years ago, “If a village is near a motorable road, a large mechanical thresher run with the power-takeoff from a tractor is available. However, this machine tends to pulverize the chaff making it difficult to use for animal feed and bedding. In a farm-culture where chaff is worth 5 times by weight what the grain is worth, this large thresher is a last resort to many.” I have to make a note to myself to ask about this when I interview my family. Threshing was an interesting process overall: loud, really chaotic with debris flying everywhere, it felt like a construction site as there were around 10-14 people in the field both yesterday and today with shouting in Ladakhi mixed with the sound of the tractor engine. The men were usually stationed at the machine, loading the barley directly onto the conveyor belt, while it was primarily women (including myself) carrying piles of barley to the thresher. It also involved a lot of raking up the loose bits and then literally crawling around on the ground to pick up any pieces that didn’t make it. It was tedious and oftentimes I felt like I was in the way or hurting rather than helping. But at least I looked the part: I was donning a sheer scarf wrapped around my head and neck to help stay cool and keep the barley out of my shirt and a surgeon-style facemask to reduce breathing in dust. Yesterday we started at 1 and didn’t finish until long after sunset around 8 PM, around which time the thresher stopped working. It was kind of a funny sight, as 4 Ladakhi men crowded around the machine with flashlights trying to troubleshoot the problem. Meanwhile, the rest of us waited around and drank tea. It seemed like it would have made much more sense to wait until morning when the light of day could assist with the repair, however, they were determined and stubborn. Eventually the immediate family I’m staying with packed up and walked home, but not before having the opportunity to do a little stargazing in the field. I take back what I said about the stars in Tanzania – they are even brighter here and about 5x closer. As soon as the sun set, any residual clouds seemed to dissipate, revealing an endless night sky blanketed with diamonds. The Milky Way is extremely pronounced here and the crisp air and cool temperatures make everything feel more acute. After eating a delicious dinner of soup and mo-mos (potato stuffed dumplings), which two Israeli backpackers who are staying here helped prepare, I headed off to bed only to recommence threshing at 8 AM again today. We spent another long day in the field (got back around 5 PM) and I decided that I hate barley. It sticks to everything: my pants, socks, and the insides of my shoes (I’m convinced I’m never going to get it out), and it’s extremely sharp. I want desperately to wash it all off, but even that is difficult (I’ve been here a week now and only bathed once, and it was the coldest wash of my life!). I think dirt is permanently lodged under my fingernails and any exposed skin has a lasting layer of grime. And in my experience and from what I’ve heard, many Ladakhis don’t wash much, especially during the 8 months of winter during which the water source is totally frozen over. So I guess this is just more of getting into the culture…