Jiwala Village: Life in India at 2700m

As the sun began to drop behind the westward Himalayan peaks beyond Jiwala Village, grand shapes of cascaded shadows grew in depth and intensity across the mountain range before me. What was moments before a landscape fully lit under the direct intensity of the Indian sun now began to reshape and restructure the valley’s perceptual forms with evolving organic magnificence. The visual spectacle unfolding before me became further enhanced with the addition of the auditory ambience of singing birds and cattle bells vibrating through the thin, high-altitude air.

After hearing about the Himalayan settlement, which was almost entirely isolated from civilisation until just a few years ago, I decided to travel to the mountainous Jiwala Village to witness, observe, and document the life of its inhabitants over three days. On my first, after a perilous journey up the mountain in a beat-up old 4×4 car and spending some time with the contrasting warmth of a campfire against the cool mountain air, star gazing at the Milky Way and passing satellites, I crept into my tent, eagerly anticipating the flowing day’s exploration where I could discover more about this alien place.

The Jiwala Village Early Risers

Time moves differently in the mountains. At 9,000 ft, there is no such thing as a 9-5. This, one of man’s only recently invented conceptions, is replaced with the old format of life that conforms to the sun’s schedule and changing seasons. This difference means the day starts with the sunrise, whatever hour that may be and ends soon after its disappearance. Eager to utilise the blue hour for my photographs, I had set my alarm for 5 a.m. I thought this would’ve meant I’d be the first to rise. However, by the time I had mustered the motivation to exit from my warm sleeping bag and venture into the chilling elevated atmosphere, the distant echoes of locals communicating with one another had already begun reverberating as they commenced their daily chores.

From my observations, the children were the first to engage in their responsibilities. I witnessed the younglings gathering water and wood, most likely for their mothers to prepare their father’s morning chai tea, and a trio carrying large hay bails on their backs secured with a piece of fabric supported by their foreheads—food for the cattle, no doubt. One of which was ploughing a field in a lot cordoned off from the valley by a stone wall.

Despite a seemingly slow start to the day, the village pulsated with matching energy once the sun passed the eastern summits and dispersed its warmly welcomed heat across the valley. Men, women and children were now actively engaged in all forms of essential labour. From dusting off rugs covered in soot from the previous night’s fire to farming their crops, all stations were go, including the Shisha station, manned by two gentlemen taking a more laid-back approach to the start of their day.

A Spicy Reception at Jiwala Village

Despite Google listing the location as a tourist attraction and with several commercial guide companies offering visits to the destination, the inhabitants of this village are not yet fully accustomed to visitors on their land. Especially camera-wielding Caucasians asking them to pose for portraits. Many had a firm aversion to my requests or seemed too bewildered to understand what was happening. So, after circling the location a few times, I sensed it was time to slow down. And although my time in the mountains was limited. I did not want to overdo it on the first outing.

However, despite this frosty welcome, one of the locals pleasantly invited me inside his home for chai tea. The small rectangular building I sat outside of while sipping the warm, spiced beverage was about as simple as a house can be. It consisted of brick walls painted white with a corrugated iron roof. It was no larger than 20 square feet, about the size of a typical western garage. Enough to accommodate the family of 6 and their essentials. The house belonged to Kishan Singh (the man who had proposed the invitation) and his wife. To whom he had married at 20 and she 16, and their four children.

A stand-out peculiarity of the home was its lack of a chimney. Despite a fire lit inside the house, which would nearly always be lit, the only means of ventilation was the front door to the home. Moreover, this was the only light source for the interior, as no windows were present in any of its walls or ceiling.

Radhe’s Arrival

Not long after my arrival, Radhe, a 37-year-old Indian national from Rishikesh who was acting as the group’s guide, silhouetted at the crest of the steep bank adjacent to the building. After a Friendly greeting and sharp descent, he began using the home’s outside tap to wash himself and his clothes. His casual use of the amenities and calm interaction with the owner made sense after discovering he was arranged to be our sherpa as we moved up the mountain. It also eluded me as to why I was there drinking chai in the first place. Because, without the status of a customer, I’m not sure I would’ve received the same hospitality.

Soon after I had finished my tea and Radhe had freshened up for the day, we arranged with Kishan for him to collect his horse and meet us at the campsite we had erected the previous night in a patch of sheltered dead ground a few hundred meters from the rest of the residencies. Once arrangements were made, we walked back through the herds of cattle and children, who were now dressed in blue and white uniforms on their way to school further down the mountain. It was time to prepare for the day’s hike, leading us further into the valley.

Too Much, Too Little at Jiwala Village

For those who have not experienced India, becoming used to its customs is as demanding as adjusting one’s cardiovascular system to a mountain’s altitude. What I mean by this is nothing, and I mean nothing, happens fast or efficiently. What would take in Western countries a few minutes of rational discussion to draw logical conclusions can take hours here. As myself, Radhe, Bhageerth (another Indian national) and Alfie, a 33-year-old British man also with us, would experience when Kishan arrived and attempted to persuade us we now needed two horses to transport our goods up the mountain.

In his defence, we had a ridiculous amount of gear for three days of camping. I firmly believe in carrying your gear and only packing what you need for any casual expedition like this. However, the group I had arrived with did not share this value, meaning at least one horse was necessary. Moreover, as I have noted in my expanded observations of India, higher castes have a strong aversion to exertion. The act of perspiration often left to those of the lower and easily exploited castes. So even with less stuff, a horse would’ve likely been required for the Indian men in the party.

This inspection perfectly illustrated itself by the actions of Radhe and Bhageerth, as both men would only willingly carry as much as a sleeping bag each. To avoid breaking a sweat, the negotiated price for an entire day of the man’s service to ferry our dead weight, including a night spent with us and the following day’s decent cost only 1500 rupees (£15) each way.

A Beautiful Water Fuel

Having waited patiently for what seemed like an eternity, Radhe finally resolved things with Kishan, and the bags were loaded onto the donkey. We were away. The walk took us along a well-worn trail on the side of the mountain, trodden over generations by the locals as they passed between their residencies we were leaving behind and their more rudimentary dwellings located further up the valley.

The first distinguishable feature passed was a small waterfall and a well-needed source of hydration. After it turned out, the freshwater I bought from Budakadah (the last town in the valley) was the only drinkable liquid anyone in the group packed for the journey into the mountain. And, after a thirsty morning without properly hydrating, our dry mouths eagerly lapped the sediment-filled H2O.

Now, fully energised with bellies full of the essential liquid, we continued up the undulating terrain. That was until one of the sleeping bags strapped to the donkey somehow managed to dislodge itself and roll down the side of the mountain. Fortunately, it was wooded, and the two small boys that had accompanied us, one of whom was Kishan’s son, raced down after it. And after half an hour or so, the kit was again in our possession. At this point, if it were not for the beauty of our surroundings to distract me, my patience with the group may have begun wearing thin.

Jiwala Village 2.0

After another hour of walking in the tranquil scenery of the outer regions of the Himalayas, I noticed something unnatural emerge through the scenery. A bright, lowly saturated yellow thatching on what appeared to be a roof was distinguishable amidst the contrasting green ruff. We had arrived at the second village.

As I eagerly quickened my pace, excited to explore this new, crude mountain suburb, many more of the same thatched roofs etched into the side of the mountain began to appear. However, much to my dismay, due to the time of year, I discovered the entire place was uninhabited. Devastating, as to have witnessed life among these crude abodes constructed from slate and hay would’ve been a spectacle to behold. However, I managed to tour Kishan’s house once we had unloaded the gear from our donkey and set up camp.

Hindu Creek Cribs

As we approached what looked like nothing more than a livestock stable, Kishan opened the property’s crude gate by pulling aside a few weakly tied-together sticks and gesturing to invite me inside. Accompanying me was Bhageerth, who acted as a translator. We then passed several piles of hardened cow dung and ducked under the building’s low roof to enter a small space on the building’s left-hand side, where Krishnan sat on top of a rock used as a fire guard.

“This is where the goats sleep”, he said, pointing to a small rectangular area at the rear left-hand side. “And here is where we keep the cattle.”, directing my attention to the larger area to the right, which took up roughly 75% of the building’s internal space. “And where do you and your family sleep?” I questioned. “just here, next to the goats and fireplace”, he responded.

As surprising as this information was, after all, to hear about a family of 6 sleeping with goats and cows is worlds apart from anything I can imagine through my Western lens. What made the fact even more difficult to digest was when I discovered that one of these houses (not accounting for the collection and labour involved in shaping the tone) takes only four days to build. So, the effort to create a separate stable for the livestock would be worth it to not sleep among the filth discredited by their animals. Well, that’s what I thought. But Kishan seemed adamantly content about the arrangement. So, I questioned it no further.

Indian Unhappy Meal: Parasite Platter

That night was a rough one. Pleasant dreams of the day’s saga were slowly distilling in my subconscious when, at one o’clock, my mind became abruptly torn from the warmth of its subliminal blanket into a body undergoing some of the worst abdominal pain experienced in India to date. And, having already endured two months of parasites, among other ailments, it was not a pleasant reality to wake to.

Writhing in agony for the following two hours, the sharp pains in my abdomen continued to increase in intensity until, at around three o’clock, my body finally gave in. And like a bolt of lightning, I was outside the tent, evacuating every ounce of body fluid. The lesson here? Eating in India is like playing Russian roulette. You can never know what or when it will get you. But eat here enough, and it’s only a matter of time before you go down with something. But if possible, stay away from the meat. A rule I had broken the night before when the group ate a chicken bought from the last town. Fortunately, no one else got sick.

Higher and Higher

With no alarm set the following morning, I allowed my body to recover as much as possible. That was until visiting the nearest bush could no longer be postponed. Fortunately, the weather was overcast, meaning there would’ve been no opportunity to exploit blue hour. So, I didn’t feel like I had lost out on much. And, after the previous night’s food poisoning, I would need my energy.

After taking care of the morning’s necessary business, I greeted the gang, already awake and preparing a breakfast of instant noodles. After discussing the plan for the day, I discovered that we would no longer continue towards the summit as planned. And that, for the rest of the day, we would remain in situ. Instead, the group would continue to get higher through other means.

What You Could’ve Won

To this point, I had been somewhat lenient with the men who had led me into the mountains with promises of documenting hash and opium producers (The original article) and the opportunity to reach a peak to absorb the awesomeness of the Himalayas: the former, a promise by Alfie, and the second from Radhe. Alfie had lost me the day before when it became apparent there would be no meeting opium farmers, and now the Indians had lost me, too.

And, while the journey was still rewarding, it was thoroughly enjoyable to have rest from country overcrowded cities. The situation was a tune to promises of a car for your birthday but instead receiving socks. The latter is still handy, yet the former would’ve been far more exciting and advantageous. Nevertheless, determined to make the most of the situation, I decided to trek back to the Jiwala village solo, not to lose the opportunity to document the location further.

Are You Local?

Considering its people had grown up, worked, and were accustomed to such isolation as is often the case in high-altitude mountain life, I was not surprised with how they responded to my visit. On my previous day’s approach, they had perhaps allowed me to get close out of confusion. However, now they understood who I was, and without the presence of the Indian guides, the attitude shifted from a hesitant cautiousness to full-fledged anxiety and disapproval. 

I first noted this energy shift when approaching an elderly couple tending to their cows. To begin, I believed things would go well. That was after giving a friendly wave to the people and receiving what I thought to be one back. However, the Western wave is not a globally understood signal, so it was most likely a mirroring response based on confusion or anxiety. 

Fortunately, I had some cigarettes and exchanged one for the man’s short, divided attention. However, the woman was entirely uninterested and, although she seemed happy to pose the previous day, vacated the area sharpish, along with her flock of grazing cattle and the storytelling content from the frame. After getting away with what seemed like a cheeky few shots, the man had enough and began gesturing me away with his hand like you would a fly. 

The villagers responded much the same way throughout the rest of the day. Because I was having such bad luck and the weather was not ideal for undirected outdoor portraiture, I decided to walk towards a different area up hill I had not yet explored.  

Looking Back in Time

Despite gaining no access to the villagers’ homes nor the inhabitant’s willing participation in my photography, it was still possible to witness, sit with and appreciate the wonder of the alien world I was experiencing. It was as if the jeep that had driven us up the meandrous mountain path had, by doing so, unlocked some temporal portal transporting me back in time to a period before touchscreens, computers and the internet and even before the secret of winged travel, steam power or even canals. In these mountains, I witnessed a world that had remained fundamentally untouched and unchanged since the agricultural revolution some 12,000 years ago.

The Look

Yes, some here had smartphones and clothes made in factories. However, at its core, it was essentially authentic to how humans lived before the advent of time stamping, the division of labour, and the absurdity of the necktie, when people’s concerns were on completing crop cycles instead of Netflix series. It was a time when teeth were free from cavities and dentists an uncommon necessity. And when family and community ties were stronger than diamonds.

And this raw, bare-boned existence was not only evident in the way the people here moved. As I came face to face with the community members, there was something within their gaze, behind each persona-piercing pupil, that stirred a palpable connection to something profound. This feeling was especially true for the older and younger members, who were either too old or too innocent to be interested in or exposed to the outside world. It was as if, within each instant of locking eyes with the others, I felt pulled back to my authentic human roots, bridging the 21st-century bullshit back to a connection with God itself.

Fresh Air and Perspectives

Having decided to explore beyond the opposite side of the village and trekking higher onto the mountain, I found myself atop a ridge, staring down a horizon filled with multiple peaks as far along the visible curvature of the earth as I could see. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. This is living, I thought to myself.

It can be easy to be drawn into believing that the lives we live under our state’s modern pretence of freedom align with our true nature. However, it is crucial to remember the notion is nothing more than an abstraction. But it is only when confronted with a scale of such things as the humbling majesty of a mountain range that one is given the perspective of such things.

It is as if, along with increasing proximity to urbanised spaces, our true nature begins to shed from us like the dying leaves from an autumn branch, lost as we compartmentalise our physical and psychological spaces into increasingly shrinking chunks of reality, often into no more than a square piece of glass in our hands. And the carefully tailored media forced on us through specially tailored algorithms whose only job is to keep us dull and consuming. The commodification of man into a corporate state unit is well underway. And with astonishing success.

The Boys & Girls of Jiwala Village

Having spent an extended time sitting and thinking on the ridge, I noticed the sun was starting to hang low in the sky. It was time to leave and head back to the camp, perhaps now ten kilometres away. Because I was also not innocent of entering the mountain unprepared. And I did not fancy navigating my way there with only my smartphone’s torch to light the way.

Upon returning to Jiwala village, I noticed a new sound echoing among the crude brick buildings nested into the mountainside. The children were out of school and were now engaging in something as uncommon to observe in England as the gigantic eagles which circled overheard in abundance, actual physical play—something the internet has successfully destroyed in the space of a generation.

It was interesting to note the difference my presence made to the boys and girls there. In the case of the former, the boys were much more self-confident and curious to engage with me. Specifically if their group consisted of more than three or four. There was still an air of caution. However, calling me or approaching to examine my camera was not uncommon for them. Still, the girls would act with utmost reservation in my presence. As would many of the women. But as the number of females going missing reaches the hundreds of thousands every year in India, It was an unsurprising reaction.

P.C Pooch of Jiwala Village

There are no public services in the mountains to protect or serve the people. The closest police station or hospital is in Budhkedar, located several kilometres away. This means the village is practically self-reliant, and disputes are settled as part of a community. For instance, for a mild misdemeanour committed by one of its members, a punishment like restricted access to specific water stations may be imposed (However, police involvement for more severe cases is used if required).

Nevertheless, the best policy is always prevention. And a popular one here, as is true for most developing nations, is using dogs. Not only acting as incredible alarm systems, the canines are often ready to attack and die for their owners. I would discover after approaching a family of 9 huddled together on top of a hill, all surrounding the father, watching the screen of his smartphone. As I approached them with camera in hand, their black shaggy mutt was between us from nowhere, barking ferociously with eyes that communicated he meant business.

Winding Down

Back at camp the following morning, the group lethargically packed the tents and gear, and we returned once more with the aid of the horse to where we had been the previous day. Alfie Rhaday and Bhageerth decided to leave to discuss other business with the villagers there, and I was left alone.

During this time, a few local children decided to take a keener interest in me than before. Starting from around 400 meters, a boy and girl began to approach gradually until, at 50 meters, I managed to persuade them to join me to roam freely in the campsite I had constructed. The girl was, of course, hesitant and shy. However, the boy was eager for the opportunity. And over some time, we grew comfortable in each other’s presence. He even convinced a group of girls circling the site to get close enough for a photograph, A fun game of cat and mouse that lasted several hours. And, of course, I let him play with my camera.

The rest of the gang soon returned, and we spent the remainder of the night huddled around a campfire, appreciating the spectacular views of the star-filled sky provided by the high altitude, tin air and low light pollution, letting the day’s sensory experiences digest in our the final moments of peace before beginning our descent and reintegrating into civilisation.

Conclusion

Despite not achieving the article I had hoped for, I had an incredible time visiting the Jiwala village. To see such a rudimentary way of life touched by the modern pressures of civilisation was so refreshing. It was indeed an eye-opener and one of those experiences that endow a more excellent perception. I recommend that anyone feeling bound by life’s perceptual shackles take some time for themselves and venture into the Himalayas. You might find doing business with the Indians a challenge, and the welcome you receive may not be the same as you experience elsewhere in the country (Indians are notoriously friendly); however, the view you will receive as your reward, both physically and metaphysically, will be worth it.

Jiwala Village, Jiwala Village, Jiwala Village, Jiwala Village