Essay: The accidental volunteer
Monasteries, stony football fields, pashmina cooperatives, and great quantities of butter tea... On a Wodehousian adventure in Leh
The extraordinarily bad luck of the Woosters
In the June of 2022, I embarked upon my annual good deed of volunteering. I was off to teach communications to children at a remote school in Leh. Armed with the confidence of a young Bertie Wooster I hauled my extraordinarily heavy backpack, did my final “What hos” with the family, and toddled off towards the waiting aeroplane. Little did I know the upcoming trip would, in true Wodehousian fashion, involve twists and turns that would break a snake’s back, and be a test of the spirit as much as the intestines. How I would come to miss the shuddering cold calm of Gelusil! But I get ahead of myself.
I land in Leh with no data, no network, and no handkerchief to mop up the unexpected sweat I was drenched in. I recheck my ticket to make sure it says Leh and not hell. I look around and I see many of my tribe, uninformed city sloths struggling to get out of the anticipatory layers they have stuffed themselves into.
A short ride and syllabus in hand I arrive at the guest house raring to change lives. Pip their young minds, wisdom, and whatnot. Two cups of tea later I am told I must wait two days for the mandatory acclimatization period to pass before we can head up into the mountains. I spend them getting to know Farrukh Bhai, cleaner, cook, water-giver, and the only other person around. Two days and several novels later (I’ve had no network all this while), tragedy strikes on the day we are to head up to the mountains.
The government of Leh has announced that all schools must be shut down immediately for 15 days (due to Covid). Much like explosive diarrhoea, they give no warning of this decision. My Leh trip is on the same dates as this mini vacation. I immediately feel giddy and it has nothing to do with the altitude. Several pick-me-ups later, (Farrukh Bhai’s are nice but the man is no Jeeves) I turn to my hosts. They soothe my frazzled nerves with timeless mountain wisdom: “Give it some time, we’ll see”.
With no certain future, Farrukh Bhai and I set off to do some local sightseeing on foot. We go to see the Shey Palace and monastery. Sadly, neither Farrukh Bhai nor I have any idea what it looks like. Like Columbus we too make mistakes. We walk towards a giant building in the middle of a lake but it turns out to be a restaurant. We spot the real deal and we know we’ve arrived thanks to the throngs of city dwellers wearing Kesari Tour t-shirts and caps in bright saffron. They look like one-third versions of the national flag or maybe it’s the midday sun making me imagine things.
The climb to the top is steep but I have been training at the local gym for weeks now, treadmilling at ascent angles that would put mountaineers to shame. Much like Bertie, I have prepared for natural hardships just not man made ones. At the top, I take photos of Farrukh Bhai for him to send to his family. I, of course, refuse the many content creators and influencers who ask me to take photos of them. Sadly, there are no loose rocks on the palace walls that I can dislodge onto their heads and make it seem like an accident. The next day I do a similar trip to the Leh palace. This time there is no Farrukh Bhai to keep me company but the influencers and Kesari tour uncles follow.
I think of how am I to get through the next 15 days as I sweat in bed that night.
A plan emerges
On the 5th day of a trip that could only be slotted in the bad debts section of life’s balance sheet a new ray of hope emerges. I meet councilor Thinles Nurboo who asks me to accompany him the next day onwards they tell me I will get to see Leh like few other tourists have. The only catch is we must leave an hour before the sun. The sun for reasons unknown plonks its yellow self a full hour before in Leh than it does everywhere else. I am happier than a newt in a new pond; as whiffled as a Sunday night soiree that has dragged on till Monday afternoon.
The next day I am awake at an hour Satan would start dinner and I am still late. We down our tea and rush with burnt mouths to be on our way.
Our first stop is the Matho monastery, the monks of which are preparing to travel to Skidmang to participate in a major ceremony. As the sun begins to peep out, I sit in the kitchen of the monks’ residence quietly nursing my second cup of tea. All my introductions are made in Ladakhi and I keep my hands folded and head bowed. Once the normal tea is done my new friend the councillor and I are offered butter tea. The bally thing feels like salty liquid butter. With a plonking sound, I close my eyes and try to swallow the rest of it. Through sips, I remember I am a guest and must not offend. A second cup is offered, I am a guest and must not offend. Three cups later, the monks are finally ready to leave.
A holy convoy
I am in the second car of the holy convoy; all the cars have flags of the monastery on top of them. The councillor is in the main car with the head monks. My conversation companion for the three-hour drive is a local and I am wearing the only cap I have brought for the trip, a black one that has the word Sinner embroidered on it. Thankfully, the font is hard to read.
The journey is uneventful except my friend, the one driving, has his palm pressed to the horn throughout the way. And I soon realize why. As we begin to leave the city the horn informs the villagers the monks are passing through and they rush out to the side of the road to bow down to the passing cars. Also, it pisses off the army trucks no end and I think he enjoys that.
As we begin the ascent to Skidmang monastery, there is a line of locals on both sides of the road, ready to welcome the monks. It is like a scene out of Tintin from Tibet. Monks are playing those long horns, a holy procession readies itself to welcome the cars.
Once seated inside, the councillor tells me this is a mandala ceremony. The latest incarnation of the head monk of the monastery has been discovered early. A young boy now sits at the head of the order and all the monks must pay their respects to him. The ceremony is a ritual where devotees must symbolically offer their everything to their gurus. The monks begin their chanting, a line is formed, the smell of incense fills the air and like the proverbial bally mole in the cabbage patch, cups of butter tea appear in front of us. With a plobby sound, the semi-liquid hits the bottom of my stomach. It is a rummy thing why they seemed so attached to it.
A storm is coming
We say our goodbyes to the monks and proceed upwards. The gods of fate have decided that I, non-footballer, non-Ladakhi, and non-physical-activity-person’ is to volunteer for Changthang’s largest football tournament to be held in a few days. We drive towards the village of Chumathang, the host for the said tournament, where I shall camp with a local family and help them prepare for a sport, I know nothing about. For such is the luck of the Woosters that, while we are creatures of comfort, nothing gives the universe more sport than to throw us out of carefully cultivated conveniences and into the wild.
As we drive towards the village, the floodgates of heaven break forth and it rains like it never has before. No really, the councillor tells me they haven’t seen such a storm in years. If it continues to rain like this the tournament will be off for the river will overflow and the roads will shut down. We take refuge at a dhaba and watch as army jeeps slowly pull in behind us and soldiers run to take shelter. So much for being blessed in the morning. It seems the football tournament volunteering too shall remain a pipe dream.
Like a drowning man at a straw hat
An hour later it mercifully stops and we end up in the said village just as the inky fingers of the night begin to descend on the peaks around us. We stop at a house, the first floor of which is being constructed. The councillor takes me inside and hopes they have room for me. This is my first time in a Ladakhi home. There are no chairs only thick mattresses and rugs that cover the floor of each room. There are short tables, tiny ones upon which flower pots are kept.
I ask him if they have room for me. He tells me they are making room. Now I am as callous as any next-door neighbour in a big city but this caused an unconscious lump to rise in my throat. This poor family must be subject to my presence and must sacrifice their space for someone they’ve never seen before. This lump is joined by another as soon as ceremonial flasks are brought out and my blood chills as the yellow tea is poured for me. I quietly repeat to myself, “I am a guest; I must not offend”.
Introductions are made in Ladakhi and the councillor informes me that this is his sister and her family. I gratefully accept the second cup of butter tea. As dusk falls, the councillor leaves us. The rain has knocked out the power and the network from the village. A shy Ladakhi family and a shyer volunteer sit huddled in the kitchen under the feeble light of a lone solar-powered bulb with nothing but smiles and broken Hindi to bridge the awkwardness.
Totpa and the egg thief
I am woken up by seven cups of liquid butter churning in my stomach. I hearken in search of the loo. The hosts point me to a shed outside the house. At the risk of breaching intestinal integrity and severely rupturing my internal organs, I decided to hold it in as it is a dry loo. For those uninitiated in the ways of our ancestors, using a dry toilet is a thing of precision. Unwilling to put my aim to the test I accept defeat. Like the Israelites, once Moses parted the Red Sea I walk back slowly avoiding any sudden movements that might cause a collapse.
The site of the football is the government school of the village Chumathang. I make my way there to meet the coach of the tournament, Skalzang Kalyan. As how most things are in India, coach Kalyan is actually a cricket player. Over the next few days, it is our job to turn two fields of, not grass, not sand, but tiny sharp rocks, into football fields. Like Sisyphus for the first time, I gaze upon the boulder and the mountain and I know the gods must be crazy.
Over the next three days, coach Kalyan and I and his team of coaches, carry goalposts, handpick stones from the field, dig holes for flag poles, make markings on the field with lime, and take drives in search of mobile networks. Much like a scene from The Shawshank Redemption, we sweat in the heat of the sun and are bonded through toil. I work alongside coaches Vijay Gunda and Mr Raju. These names, as I realize much later, are improvisations by coach Kalyan and are not their real ones. Since they are mostly seen together, I tell Kalyan, “This is Gunda Raj”. Coach Kalyan, in return for this linguistic jewel, promptly christens me in their local tongue. I am henceforth known as Totpa. A reference to my prosperous girth. I call him an egg thief after realizing how my boiled eggs keep disappearing when we have lunch together. Like all famous duos, the minstrels of Chumathang still sing of Totpa and the egg thief and how they turned the wasteland into football fields so that the children could play.
The finals of the football tournament promise to be a spectacle. It is organized by Students for Village Education or SAVE. It is sponsored by Royal Enfield and is conducted by the blessings of two Rinpoches. There are over 38 matches, 80 volunteers, 200 participants, and me the only non-Ladakhi, non-football-playing spectator.
The finals are to start at 11 am. The Royal Enfield gang are to ride to Chumathang from Leh, be honoured and blessed, witness this epic battle of football, and then leave. In the evening, there are to be cultural performances by students and music by local bands. The day goes off with all the usual hiccups: the riders are late, which leads to lengthy monologues by the local English teacher, who is an ardent follower of Shakespeare. Students standing in the sun are not a great audience for poetry. The local band, in a fit of patriotic duty, keeps playing songs of service to the nation and Bollywood numbers from the 1970s that are only to be played in the wee hours of the morning after five rounds of Chaang (local hooch). They are promptly booed off the stage. But other than that, the tournament is a resounding success.
To give the reader some glimpse of the progress I have made, I am now as Ladakhi as I will ever be. I can William Tell the dry loo, tell the various kinds of Julley apart simply from the angle of the bowing, chug Chaang with the best of them, and have told my landlady I shall not abide the butter tea.
The men who stare at goats
On our return to Leh, the councillor asks me if I’m up for one more adventure. Is Icarus attracted to big, shiny, face-melting-hot, cosmic objects? The next day, we set off again at an hour too bally early even for the morning larks. On the way, I learn that the councillor is also the Secretary of the Leh Pashmina Cooperative and that we are off to make their annual purchase.
Some of the finest pashmina in the world is grown in India. It is found only in one place -- a high-altitude desert in Leh. The desert Changthang is named after the pastoralists that roam it. The councillor informs me that they are an unpredictable, incendiary lot known for their hard bargaining and harder stomach linings. I tell him they remind me of quite a few chaps at the Drones Club, especially the lot of Uncle Fred and Pongo Twistleton.
Over the course of crossing a mountain pass, he tells me that the agreement between the cooperative and the Pashmina growers has been called off many times by them. It has taken eight meetings to come to this point. They have finally agreed and we must close the deal today or forego buying pashmina this year.
We finally make it to the rendezvous point. It is a two-room block in the middle of the desert, a rather surprising location for a deal worth crores, and more to the tune of a hostage location in a Tom Cruise movie. As we walk in, he tells me, “Keep calm it might get heated in there”. I think of home and Jeeves and about sending a last message. Sadly as always, my phone has no network.
We take our place on a few mattresses in the corner facing a horde of angry locals. The sarpanch of whom looked at us as if we had been caught plotting to poison his Chaang and steal his herd. He stood up and began delivering what could only be a vociferous vocal attack against the cooperative. Waving his hands about and pointing repeatedly at the councillor. After a performance that would have put Marc Antony to shame, he sits down triumphantly. The councillor now stands up and begins his arguments. But he is often interrupted by the sarpanch and the crowd sitting in front of us. As he sits down, the sarpanch stands up and continues. It goes on this way for a while both sides locked in a carefully choreographed dance of pointing and yelling. Slowly props are brought in, carefully collected records are produced on both sides. I take a look around the room. In the corner, there is a framed picture of His Holiness the Dalai Lama below which are several empty bottles of local beer. Which is a great metaphor for something; I just can’t think of what.
As suddenly as it has begun, the yelling ends. Both parties are tired perhaps. Suddenly, someone cracks a joke and both sides start laughing. I join in lest they take it as a bad omen. Suddenly, bottles of Coca-Cola are brought out and we are offered drinks. I believe the deal is done. I look at the councillor who has a beatific smile. He turns to me and asks me if I’m hungry as they are going to offer us food. I nod my head vigorously. A plate heaped with what I can only describe as black sausages is placed in front of us. It is surprisingly good. I ask what this manna could be. He laughs and says, it is the intestines. I still take two more pieces.
Freshly heady with our good fortune we drive to see one of the nomadic camps where the Changthangis live in tents. The councillor tells me of the shocking reduction in the number of families. It is a quickly disappearing way of life. I sit in their huts and politely nod while the councillor makes a note of their issues, passing on his number and asking them to call him. Another cup of butter tea is poured and I am surprised at my own lack of refusal.
As we step outside, the evening sun has many hues, most of which I can’t name. We watch the herds of goats returning home, accompanied by dzos (Yak-local cattle hybrids) and cattle dogs. Much like all of us, they walk and halt outside specific tents impatiently waiting for their evening chow. I think of Jeeves and turn home.
Percy Bharucha is a freelance writer and illustrator with two biweekly comics, The Adult Manual and Cats Over Coffee. Instagram: @percybharucha