All by Ariel Bleth

Ladakh, India: Without Words

by Ariel Bleth

In the darkening room, as dusk drew its graying curtains, there was enough light to see the dirt smudged on the aqua walls.  The volunteer coordinator, Wongel, sat next to me and translated.  We were on rugs thrown over thin mats, with small tables in front of our crossed legs to hold the tea that could not be refused even though we were not thirsty.  My “adopted” mother, my Ama-le, seemed mostly concerned that we eat her hard biscuits and drink her sweet milk tea.  My hand trembled slightly as I held the teacup and tried to look like someone she would be pleased to have in her home for a month, someone who could do the field work that she needed to have done.  Wongel explained that she didn’t expect me to be able to do as much work as they did and that she wanted me to let her know if I had any problems at all.  Silently I questioned how this would ever happen, given my half-day Ladakhi language workshop and her apparent lack of English.  I realized that my few learned phrases, like “Jule, Kamzang-le” (hello, how are you?), wouldn’t go very far. 

I went to Ladakh, a mountainous desert region nestled high in the Indian Himalayas, to live for a month with a family and help them farm, as well as to learn what I could about their traditional Buddhist culture and the forces that shape their relationship to one another and their environment.  Our home had one main room, where we cooked, ate, and socialized.  That first night, Ama-le squatted in the corner. There were bowls of flour and water on the floor before her, and plates of shelled peas, sliced potatoes and leafy greens.  I took my same place on the mats, waiting for some indication from Ama-le as to what I should be doing.  She mixed the flour and water, lightly kneading the dough while Nono-le (Ladakhi for young brother) shuffled around the room, his arms held straight out before him like a zombie.  Three steps and he was down, crawling.  Ama-le delighted in what appeared to be her grandson’s newly acquired skill of walking.  Imitating him with a waddle and extended arms, she looked at me and laughed.

Fat and Happy

by Ariel Bleth

 

“Promise you will stay one more year.  We are so happy with how you relate to us.  And you are happy, yes?  You are getting fat.”  Looking at Mama Ami, I know she is quite serious.  How would she know that where I come from, being called fat isn’t exactly a compliment? My mind jumps full speed into a rapid analysis of how much I may have changed in the months since my arrival in Nigeria – a diet primarily of okra or bitter green soups with starchy porridges; the occasional dish with beans and crayfish but general deficiency of good protein; the dearth of fresh produce in our market, the lack of refrigeration and my waning interest in learning the labor intensive traditional methods of preparing their dishes – anything was possible. Snapping out of it, I let myself simply feel pleased that they are comfortable with my presence.   

Truthfully, I wasn’t sure how comfortable I would be here – a country of over 200 different ethnic groups, a mixture of Muslims and Christians, an international image well ensconced in corruption and scams.  But here I was, living in a small town, working for a local organization whose office was housed on the family compound.  The business’ fish tanks and hatchery edged one side of a large dirt yard otherwise surrounded by the homes of the cousins, their families, and the elder mamas.  Sitting on the porch with Mama Ami and her husband Joshua, I know she is right - I am happy.  The contentment has been unfolding so slowly I barely noticed it; made up of hundreds of tiny milestones of recognition and inclusion.