Melissa: The Baby Trek
Snaking around, switchbacking up and down the Himalayas of Ladakh are trails that have been worn away into the harsh Himalayan rock.
By the designer hiking boots of Western tourists-like us-with fancy backpacks strapped to their backs.
By the often not designer boots of Ladakhi people (the old school form of footwear around these parts consists of pointy-toed elf-like shoes fashioned of colorful?mostly purplish?felt, lined with sheepskin, soled with thick leather, and delightfully decorated with traditional designs):
Nomads who meander the mountainsides with their flocks in search of patches of green in the midst of the predominantly non-plant-life-supporting surface of this high altitude desert;
Townspeople who hike long distances to neighboring villages unconnected by the sparse system of roads to visit friends, find provisions, or seek some service unavailable in their relatively more rural town;
Children who walk many kilometers-often alone and with a book-laden pack-to reach the closest school. My host sister in one of the homestays along the route of the "Baby Trek" we just completed would trek to the nearest neighboring town with an educational facility. Daily. There and back. A trek that took her roughly 2 hours. A trek that ended up taking our group over 4. Now you see why us greenhorns are suited to a trail with a name like the "Baby Trek."
But, for our purposes, the "Baby Trek" wasn't exactly meant to be something overly strenuous or with the goal of conquering high Himalayan peaks. We would refer to our 5-day more-or-less leisurely hike as a "cultural stroll." My kind of hike through the Himalayas. Incorporating some spectacular landscape scenery while giving us a glimpse into the culture connected to the landscape. Our route would take us from one Ladakhi town in the morning, up and over a mountain pass, and down?after hiking a seemingly endless upward incline to scale the somewhat puny passes we passed over, I quite appreciated the ensuing downward slope?to another valley village by the afternoon.
In each town to which the trek took us, our group would be divvied up and sent to spend the night in various homes of village families. Once situated in the homestay, I would typically try to explore the surrounding village while the daylight lasted. Or hang out with the family (most often this would happen in the family's kitchen?Ladahki kitchens, from what I've seen and read, are pretty much across the board quite impressive: a sizeable iron stove adorned with beautiful brass panels and shelves encircling the kitchen within laden with an amazing variety of cooking and serving-ware). And I'd always make use of my second favorite Ladakhi phrase (after the all-purpose and always good-natured "Juleh!"): "Jyap shi zhue?" or "Can I help?" In my attempts to help out, I've been able to aid in cooking dinner, washing dishes, whatever help was needed-and for which a Westerner like me was not deemed too incompetent.
My favorite assignment, I must say, has been helping make Ladakhi breakfast bread or "tagi," thick pita-like disks. So my Acche-leh (host sister) would by hand turn a ball of flour into a floppy dough disk. Which my Ama-leh, or host mom, would cook on a piece of scrap metal over an open flame. Then, she would stick the already-been-baked bread actually into the coals and smoldering ashes of the fire. For added flavor, a nice smoky taste, I guess. But this fire wasn't being fueled predominantly with wood. The flames were kept alive with copious amounts of dried patties of donkey and cow dung. My job, after this step in the process, was then to use a ball of dough dipped in oil to rub off any excess dung dust. I helped make roughly 50 of these, which we then ended up eating?and enjoying?for our breakfast and lunch that day.
- Melissa