Ladakh, Then and Now: In Conversation with Dr Tsewang Namgail

“I believe that change per se is not bad. It is rapid change that’s a problem, for it doesn’t give enough time for the animals or people to adapt. And that is what Ladakh has seen over the last few decades.”

I was first introduced to Dr Tsewang Namgail while on a research trip to Leh. Of the many insightful conversations I had with scholars and conservation experts there, my meeting with him stood out.

Dr Tsewang Namgail is the first person from Ladakh to have a PhD in wildlife science. He has degrees and work experience from various geographies — Punjab University (Chandigarh), University of Tromso (Norway), Wageningen University (Netherlands), and the United States Geological Survey (USGS) in San Francisco and Las Vegas.

Currently the Director of Snow Leopard Conservancy India Trust (SLC-IT) in Ladakh, he is also a Disney Conservation Hero Awardee for his pioneering efforts in guiding sustainable tourism in the high Himalayas.

Complementing his deep research, Namgail’s early experiences in Ladakh give him a great depth of understanding of its unique ecosystem and communities. My hour-long chat with him felt like merely dipping a toe in the ocean.

Growing up in Ladakh

Hailing from the small village of Skurbuchan in western Ladakh, Namgail’s childhood was “carefree and rich with nature interactions”. “In those days, most teachers came from Jammu or Srinagar; for them, Ladakh was like a punishment posting. They would always be eager to return home and sometimes disappeared for months without intimation.” The primary schooling system being ineffective, ironically, gave Namgail a chance at much richer learning experiences — from nature.

“Each season had distinct activities that we, as kids, would look forward to: collecting wild vegetables from the fringes of agricultural fields in spring; herding in summer; burning the stumps of Agrostis (a grass used for weaving baskets); collecting animal dung of the livestock feeding on barley stubble during autumn; skating on frozen streams in winter using discarded jerry cans as improvised skates. We would even rob dens of rodents that had hoarded a lot of barley and buckwheat and have a feast with that loot in winter.”

Time spent in nature was thus abundant. “Until the sixth grade, we were taught at the fringes of agricultural fields; there was no classroom.”

Recalling his first experience of herding with a friend, Namgail narrates that they were scared of losing the sheep and goats and kept them in a tight pack. “We let them wander freely only after being rebuked by a village elder, but we were certain we’d lose them.” To their amazement, hours later, when it was time to head back to the village, the sheep and goats that had long gone out of sight trotted back, satiated and happy. “That, for me, was an invaluable lesson in understanding and trusting animal instincts and their strong sense of home,” he said. 

By age 13-14, Namgail was herding livestock up in the mountains by himself. “It was a huge responsibility. In our part of Ladakh, we call our livestock “nor”, which means wealth. I was herding not just my sheep and goats but all the sheep and goats of all the households in the village.” Communal herding was the norm. “It was stressful but also special because you got to be outdoors in the pristine environment with just the mountains, crystal-clear skies, freshwater streams, and wild animals for company.”

“Experiences like these gave me both management skills and a window into the natural world from a young age,” he added.

Namgail’s childhood recollections include most of Ladakh’s major development milestones. “When the first buses rolled into the village in the 1970s, all of us kids would gather, awestruck, shouting: “Bus ihe…be” (The bus has arrived!)”.

He recalls getting up in the morning with nostrils full of soot from studying in the light of kerosene lamps. “Then, in the early 1980s, when electricity came to our village, we would excitedly call out: “Ladu bar, yang shi; yang bar” (The bulb has lit up; now it has gone!)”.

Times now

That kind of childhood has disappeared today. “Childhoods are now spent indoors with gadgets, kids weighed down with homework and exams, cramming information entirely disconnected to life here. They learn about lions and elephants instead of animals they actually share a home with,” he said.

“Most households have got rid of their livestock, so there isn’t much herding now.” Social concepts like communal farming and codependent living are also things of the past. “Earlier, after driving animals up in the mountains, if you chanced upon someone building a house, you would go across and help out while your livestock grazed, with nothing to gain in return.” Now that is unheard of.

Shift in dynamics

Few places in India have seen the kind of rapid changes that Ladakh has witnessed. “Ladakhis saw a plane before they saw a bicycle! The first airfield was built in Leh in 1948 and completed in just 28 days. The story goes that a few people went to the airfield with hay on their backs, thinking the first Dakota plane to arrive was a large animal that would need fodder! In fact, for quite some time, with no roads, Ladakhis would ride a donkey to the airfield to take a flight.”

Tourism in Ladakh has snowballed. “From about 530 tourists in 1974, we now get 450-500,000 tourists a year in a short span of 4-5 months,” says Namgail. Such developments have led to stark changes in the natural world. 

The snow caps are melting, and glaciers are receding each year. “Growing up, I remember, in the winters, we couldn’t meet our friends for days because the pathways would be buried under snow so thick, it was impossible to cut through it. Also, when outdoors in summer, unlike now, we could drink water from any water channel without the risk of infection,” he reminisces.

There were sparrows by the hundreds and red-billed choughs flitting from house to house. You always saw vultures in the sky. Now, the carcasses meant for these scavengers are being claimed by the increasing population of free-ranging dogs — an off-shoot of unregulated tourism and army camps where strays feed on unmanaged waste and proliferate. For an unyielding environment like Ladakh, where resources are limited, these changes are alarming.

Stories of challenge and success

For Namgail, in his over-a-decade-long stewardship of SLC-IT (since 2013), “the biggest challenge has been working in a constantly changing landscape”. SLC-IT collaborates with local communities, assigning them the guardianship of the ecosystem. “We don’t start a conservation program in a village until we have understood the lives of the people there — their way of working, administrative structures, needs and aspirations. Rapid changes as Ladakh has seen on all fronts — social, cultural, political — mean that we are always racing to catch up; continually trying to make the villagers understand what is beneficial for them in the long run, given the [new] present context. And before we have a hold on it, the context changes!”

That said, the SLC-IT has had several milestone successes under Namgail’s direction. “It has been the most opportune platform for me, giving me a chance to implement some of the programmes I had perceived over the years,” he said.

One such initiative is Students for Students. It is an annual learning event that educates Ladakhi students studying outside the region about the unique biodiversity of their homeland and its conservation issues, particularly the endangered snow leopard. 

"Before our programme started, these youth had no awareness of or interest in the local wildlife or culture. They returned home on holidays and, unengaged, picked up habits like taking drugs.” Students for Students attempts to fill the colossal gap in the Ladakhi education system, which is devoid of contextualised learning, especially about nature and the environment. In its 11th year now, this programme saw immediate success and has built a steady relationship between the organisation and Ladakh’s youth. “Seeing their own land with new eyes, many of them have been returning to SLC-IT the following year(s) to work as volunteers.”

Along this journey, Namgail noticed that children studying in monastic schools are a lot more creative and innovative than those from modern schooling systems. “I realised that a conducive environment is most crucial to learning,” he said. Currently, he focuses on CDE, i.e., Content (meaningful and contextualised), Delivery (innovative and effective, such as through art and craft) and Environment (a conducive environment, both physical and social, for effective learning).

Namgail has also worked closely with the Himalayan Homestays model — pioneered in 2003 by the SLC-IT co-founder, the late Richen Wangchuk. “While tourism was growing rapidly in Ladakh, the people in remote villages weren’t benefiting from it. That is what we changed with Himalayan Homestays and the promotion of snow leopard tourism.”

Previously, this charismatic, elusive animal, along with wolves, had been the bane of a herder’s life, routinely attacking livestock. Even on frigid winter nights, villagers would have to sit outside to keep a watch on their animals. Recognising their dilemma, SLC-IT began by covering livestock pens with wire mesh, moving the animals out of harm’s way. “With tears in her eyes, a woman once told me how she could now peacefully sleep indoors in the warmth and company of her loved ones,” he related.

Thereon, the organisation slowly began educating people on the essential role that snow leopards play in keeping the ecological balance intact. Preying on livestock grazing on hillsides, they control overgrazing, which, if left unchecked, will leave the soil loose for water flow, leading to flooding during heavy rains.

“Once the virtual wall between locals and the animals started to crumble, we helped them see how they could leverage snow leopard sightings to gain economic benefits from tourism — by opening their homes for hosting.” Eventually, the same people who hunted snow leopards and wolf pups in retaliation now regard them as “ri gyancha” or “ornaments of the mountains,” and have started attracting them to their villages.

“This shift, in such a short time, has been a huge win for us. Today, we have over 200 homestays in Ladakh in some 40 villages, around 60 per cent of India’s snow leopard population.”

The success of this endeavour had a ripple effect, and villagers became more receptive to awareness initiatives undertaken by SLC-IT. “Lately, our biggest achievement has been the setting up a community conserved area in a remote village called Tar.” Stringent forest laws often alienate people from their rights, and locals in Ladakh have harboured misgivings about the setting up of national parks and sanctuaries. However, with the proper counselling and awareness-building about local wildlife and biodiversity, SLC-IT is slowly shifting people’s mindsets.

“It’s high time we understood that without preserving nature, we cannot preserve communities or our culture. Nature is the mother of culture, and it is the wild animals and birds that sustain the fabric of life in Ladakh!”

“Small though it may be, no other opportunity could have given me the kind of satisfaction I’m getting working in this setup.” For Dr Tsewang Namgail, life definitely seems to have come full circle.