As the fabled Mustang Valley in Nepal gets integrated into modernity, the ancient economy of transhumance is fading

As the fabled Mustang Valley in Nepal gets integrated into modernity, the ancient economy of transhumance is fading

- Amish Raj Mulmi

Unlike their lowland cousins, yaks are a difficult lot. They can be unpredictable, their massive horns a great deterrent to anyone who wants to come close, and even the biggest cattle is dwarfed by them in size. In the high Himalaya, where there is barely any grass, they can survive on thorny caragana shrubs when winter sets in and the ground is covered in snow.

We are on the outskirts of Chumjung village in Mustang, often termed as the last village in Nepal because of its proximity to the China border. Yet there is a serene calmness with which Pasang Tsering, 40, ties the legs of a female yak—dri or nag in Tibetan—with a rope made from yak wool and gets its calf to suckle and induce the milk. A few sips later, he corrals the calf, sits on a makeshift stool, and begins to milk the mother. The animal ruminates nonchalantly; the calf bellows in desperation to return to its mother.

The milk is collected in a bucket, and will be churned into butter or made into chhurpi, hard cheese that can last for months. As soon as Tsering is done, he unties the legs of the dri and lets the calf loose from the corral. The little one runs to its mother, first nuzzling her face in a gesture of affirmation, then begins to feed. Tsering moves to another dri and repeats the process.

To the east, where the plain slopes down to a vast valley that leads down to Chumjung village, the sun rises behind three male yaks, their horns sparkling with mist. Autumn has just arrived in Mustang, north of the Annapurna range in Nepal, and it’s already cold enough for our toes to curl up inside our shoes. To the west, behind the mountains high enough to halt the last clouds in their paths, lies Tibet, beyond the modern Nepal-China border. In the silence of these towering mountains where clouds come to die, Tsering’s 60 yaks grunt in symphony, the steam from their nostrils leaving behind a vapor trail in the cold air.