Daily life across the Tibetan highlands

• I arrived in Samad, the village by Lake Tso Kar, just after sunrise at 6:15 am. The vehicle’s heater was broken, so I was bundled in three layers of fleece. Unlike my last visit during the elections, the village felt quiet and empty. As a man approached the car, I rolled down the window and greeted him with a jullay. Holding up my phone with a picture of Tashi, I asked the driver, who was also acting as my translator, to ask the man if he knew where she was. After glancing at the photo for just a couple of seconds, he told us that she had left two days ago for her summer camp in the valley, east of the lake, off the Manali road.

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  We took the road again and fifteen minutes later, we spotted it—a blue rebo perched on the small hill, the last one in sight. Tashi stood outside, washing dishes among scattered belongings. I walked over, and we embraced, overjoyed to see each other again. This was my third visit to three different camps in just two months. She welcomed us into her tent for butter tea, the traditional tea of the Changpas made from yak butter, salt, and brewed tea leaves. We communicated as best we could, using gestures and the translator’s broken English. He mentioned, « We're welcome to stay with her and her husband ». That day, I followed her and helped her with her daily chores.

  Here in Changthang,  this remote cold desert region at 15,000 ft, people live in isolation and you have to be self-sufficient. Nothing grows due to the harsh conditions, so the people rely primarily on their animals for food, crafting everything they eat from them. Just before I arrived, she had finished milking the yaks. She then showed me the long process of how to make curd and butter out of it. For lunch she asked me to help her with the chapatis. She was as surprised as I was embarrassed to tell her that I had never learned how to make chapatis. From a western girl, who only knows grocery stores and restaurants, It was a humbling experience that made me realize how disconnected I had been from the sources of my food and the true effort that goes into sustaining oneself in such a remote and challenging environment.
  In the afternoon, we took a few chai breaks inside the tent. Jigmet, a 41-year-old neighbor and close friend of Tashi, joined us. She has four daughters, three studying in Leh and one who is a nun at the monastery. Unlike Tashi, Jigmet seems to struggled with the semi-nomadic life « I wanted to go to school, but there wasn’t one in Changthang when I was young. Now, even if I moved to the city, I wouldn’t find work without an education. So, I stay here to pay for my daughters' schooling, but I don’t want them to live a nomadic life ». Tashi responded that she would stay in Changthang until she died. Maybe it reveals the complexity of adaptation between generations : Tashi, part of the older generation, had no choice, while Jigmet, on the cusp of modernization, nearly chose a different path.

  By the end of the day, around 7:30 pm, the sun had already set behind the mountains. The goats and shepherds' dogs had returned to camp, and the only task left was securing the yaks. Four families busily herded them into their enclosure, and I watched as Tashi threw her mala into the air, startling the yaks into moving. I stood there, trying not to get trampled, amazed by her energy. She amazed me, we had been on the move since dawn, yet she showed no signs of fatigue.

  As night fell and the temperature dropped, we huddled around the central bukhan, used for heating and cooking, listening to the wind and the distant bells of grazing animals. The rice, dhal, and goat quietly simmered over the fire, and Tashi handed me a Tibetan prayer wheel to recite prayers. Thankfully, my mother, a practicing Buddhist, had taught me a few mantras when I was young, allowing me to share this moment—Om mani padme hum, Om mani padme hum... Tashi smiled warmly, and I felt a deep connection bridging our two worlds. Together, we experienced something increasingly rare in modern times—a simple yet profoundly complex humanity.

Between Two Worlds: The Changpas' Journey from Nomadic Life to Sedentarization

• After many trips to Changtang in the spring of 2024, I finally decided to visit Kharnakling. This district of the town of Choglamsar where nomads have decided to settle in aim of better living conditions. In the face of a rapidly changing world, there are very few places left where we can feel the in-between, the intersection between the modern world and ancient traditions, a bend of past and future, and it didn’t take me long to realize that this urban-settlement was one of those places.

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  As I wandered the market streets at the end of the day, the time when Changpas children who had come to study in the city returned home with their blue uniforms and backpacks, that mothers crowded into small stores to pay for the night provision and that elderly men pass on walking and praying with a mani chuskor, a Tibetan prayer wheel, I felt an obvious harmony between these two realities. It's fascinating to observe the adaptability of humans and how they can strike a balance between different ways of life. Even though the Changpas have a deep connection to their land and animals, they have embraced the opportunities provided by urban living. 
  
  I remembered a conversation last weekend with a 21-year-old woman who had come to visit her pastoralism nomadic parents in Samad « I like coming back to the village, being in nature and wide open spaces. In the city, there's a lot of noise, it's polluted and everyone's too busy looking after themselves. But I wanted to study sociology, get a government job and be with my friends so I moved at 18 years old. Here, everything is accessible and the nomadic life is really difficult. » And from my comfortable Western perspective, I can only understand her choice. In Changthang, there is little connection to the outside world, the winters are brutally cold, and self-sufficiency is a necessity – producing everything from milk and cheese to clothing and shelter in order to survive. Kharnakling, on the other hand, offers security and accessibility to essential services like education and healthcare. But as I distanced myself from the market and found myself wandering deeper into bustling streets, where the new sedentary lifestyle of over 50% of the Changpa nomads was becoming more prevalent, my perception of urban life deepened. A lady in her late fifties passed by with a plastic bag full of chips and Sprite. Two-year-olds played in the garbage with lollipops in their mouths. A group of five men were drinking chai in silence, all engrossed in their cell phones. Mothers were preparing Maggi Masala, instant noodles, for dinner, and teenagers were hydrating with Coke during their basketball game. Some might argue that I'm idealizing an old way of life,but I can't help but question whether these indigenous people are benefiting or losing out due to this shift towards urbanization. Are they abandoning unprocessed foods to relocate nearer to health centers and consume more junk food? Do children attend school solely to spend 8 hours a day in front of a screen instead of making a living outdoors? Are they losing their sense of community to be glued to screens with strangers? It is clear that while modernization can bring certain benefits, it often comes with significant trade-offs that can profoundly affect the next generation.
  
  I get the impression that individuals born into affluent socio-economic conditions in developed countries, like those in the Global North, often don't fully grasp the complexities behind their economic comfort. However, there is hope for communities that straddle the line between traditional living and modern influences to lead the way. By recognizing the strengths of their cultural heritage and selectively embracing modern conveniences, these communities can forge a hybrid lifestyle that honors their ancestral wisdom while benefiting from contemporary advancements.