Ladakhi Tea and Tales: Unveiling the Enigmatic Stories of the High Peaks
“Tell me, mémé lé, about the tale of the wolf,” I implore the elderly man beside me, nestled in the warmth of the Ladakhi rebo—a traditional yak hair tent. My fingers cradle the comforting mug of butter tea, its rich flavor soothing the growl of my hungry stomach.
He begins, “Ah, I recall a tale of a wolf and three goats. The first goat encounters the wolf, who inquires, ‘What adorns your head?’ ‘Horns,’ the goat replies. The wolf asks, ‘What cloaks your body?’ ‘Wool,’ she answers. And, ‘What covers your feet?’ ‘Hooves,’ comes the reply. Unconvinced, the wolf devours the first goat and moves on to the second, who provides the same answers and meets the same fate.
When the wolf confronts the youngest and most cunning goat, he asks, ‘What is on your head?’ The youngest goat boldly retorts, ‘A knife to slay you.’ ‘What shields your body?’ ‘A rope to bind you.’ ‘And what protects your feet?’ ‘Hooves to kick you.’ With fierce resolve, the young goat thrusts her horns into the wolf, binds him with her wool, and kicks him mercilessly until he perishes,” the old man concludes, his voice tinged with the weight of ancient wisdom.
I sit in silence, my response swallowed by the laughter that fills the tent. My anthropologist’s curiosity wrestles with my conservationist’s instincts. I am here to capture the folklore of these mountains for my doctoral research. Some scholars suggest that folklore helps people interpret their world by attributing moral qualities to animals, or the ‘more-than-human’ realm. By anthropomorphizing—imparting human traits to animals—stories serve as a mirror reflecting societal norms and behaviors.
The tale of the wolf intrigues me. It reveals the Ladakhi view of the predator, perhaps as a metaphor for how power is perceived and challenged by the underdogs. Could this be a reflection on the fine line between justice and vengeance?
My first encounter with Ladakh’s frigid deserts in 2013 altered my perception of space, mountains, and time. Having worked in rainforests, grasslands, and urban environments, I had never before encountered a landscape so stark, as if nature itself had been stripped bare. One must truly embrace the emptiness to appreciate such a place.
High-altitude regions above 3,500 meters in the Western Himalayas possess a unique existence. Far from being isolated, they are vibrant, interconnected through intricate ecological and cultural networks that even modern technology struggles to fully grasp. Ladakh, once a crucial hub on the Silk Route, was a crossroads for trade, bridging Central Asia, Tibet, and Mongolia. Today, it remains a place where unpredictability is met with innovation, harsh conditions are countered with cooperation, and challenges are met with resilience. Though the weather, high passes, and transport can be capricious, solutions are always found, even in the direst circumstances.
During my six-year research period here, I learned to navigate by faith, rely on intuition, and adhere to a few fundamental rules, often discovered through trial and error. No vehicle? Hitch a ride. No ride? Walk. Snowstorm? Keep walking. Indoors? Drink cha (as the Ladakhis call tea). Roads closed? Drink more cha. Stuck? Engage in conversation. My research revolved around these dialogues, each one punctuated by endless cups of cha.
Our conversations ranged widely—from local innovations like agriculture at impossible altitudes and ice stupas for water conservation to communal politics, the state of education, and the spectrum of wildlife. Cha was the constant companion, evolving into glasses of chaang (fermented barley) as discussions deepened or lightened, depending on one’s perspective on inebriation. These sessions extended into hours of animated storytelling—long-forgotten folk songs, adventurous hunts, and heroic battles.
I remember a poignant moment with mémé lé during the summer of 2016, and another with an apo from Kargil, whose song spoke of life’s transience through the eyes of the snow leopard and the wolf: “You, a crafty creature, hide among the rocks to hunt, yet age renders your cunning futile. The mountain’s apex holds an arrogant wolf, but in its old age, it will not slay a single lamb.”
Through our research, we gathered numerous stories, songs, and proverbs about wild creatures, from choughs to gazelles to snow leopards. This effort involved countless conversations, library visits, and a relentless quest for translators to convert Ladakhi stories into Hindi and English. Tea breaks were frequent, serving as a pleasant interlude in our endeavors.
One might wonder about the relevance of such an undertaking for conservation. The logic is clear: one cannot conserve without understanding the values, motivations, and perceptions of local communities and wildlife. Conservation is as much about people as it is about animals.
Amid another cup of cha and more coaxing, a reserved api lé (grandmother) from Shamma sings a lovely folk song celebrating the ibex’s majestic horns and the joy they bring to carnivores. I remind myself to remain an impartial observer, but the nuanced observations are overwhelming. I envision these wild ungulates grazing peacefully as dusk settles, while a young snow leopard stalks its prey with a pounding heart.
In api lé’s summer shack, adorned with sheep wool yarns, brass ladles, and a bird of prey’s claw—considered a good luck charm—I inquire if some animals bring fortune. Api lé confirms, saying a fox sighting at the journey’s start is deemed lucky. Conversely, in Kargil villages, the descent of blue sheep and ibex from the mountains is feared to herald natural calamities. “In 2013, it happened. Have more butter tea, nomo lé.”
I recall asking ajhang lé (uncle), a local teacher, about calamities linked to the lha (deities). “Yes,” he affirmed, “angering the deities, especially the temperamental ones, can cause them to manifest as wild animals like snow leopards or wolves, attacking livestock. To rectify it, one must pray, seek forgiveness, and offer peace.” This contemplation leads me to ponder the complexities of our relationship with the ‘wild’. Are we anthropomorphizing animals or animalizing humans? Perhaps this dichotomy is illusory.
In Tibetan Buddhism, which coexists with Islam in Ladakh, Kinnara and Kinnari—half-human, half-bird deities—are believed to protect humans. Our shared worldview on wild animals and spaces affects their existence and survival. For instance, wolves are often associated with negative traits, which can fuel resentment and retaliation when they prey on livestock. How should conservation messages be framed to resonate with people while minimizing their losses?
To me, the answer lies in appreciating diverse perspectives on animals and their fates. We have countless ways to address the elusive question of what makes us human and our separation from nature. We can weave a tapestry of imagination from apparent emptiness. Our stories, like our lives, need to be heard and told.
As I sip my cha, thousands of kilometers from Ladakh, I reflect on life in the cold desert. I realize that the resilience and ingenuity of Ladakhi people are mirrored in their culture. What drew me to this seemingly barren landscape was its nothingness, which, once the initial discomfort faded, revealed itself as a vibrant realm of stories and experiences waiting to be uncovered. The journey continues, with documentation as the first step. I hope that these stories will not only contribute to conservation but also inspire the youth, who are the true custodians of this landscape.
In Bombay, I reminisce about the savory butter tea, almost tasting its essence again. I head to the kitchen to prepare a strong cup of adrak chai, a close second to the beloved solja khante (butter tea).
The Reference Article ラダッキ チャイで紡がれる高地の伝説：自然と共に生きる力と調和
