1 Introduction

Located in the far northeastern corner of Nepal, the ten-household village of Yangma, at 4200 m a.s.l., has colloquially been called ‘the last village in Nepal’. Carved from a wide glacial basin near the foothills of Mount Kanchenjunga, Yangma’s extensive rangelands connect the border of Tingkye County (Tibetan Autonomous Region) to the Indian state of Sikkim. For this reason, inhabitants of Taplejung District – where Yangma is located – have identified themselves as ‘the corner people’ (Shrestha 2022: 9), caught as the area is between Chinese, Indian and Nepali geopolitical interests. Since pastoralism has been in decline for decades in Taplejung District (Wu et al. 2016), Yangma has become the last remaining settlement in the region in which yak herding is the predominant income source. However, Covid-19 mobility restrictions, compounded by climate change, have placed intense pressure on pastoral livelihoods. Although residents are dependent on cross-border livestock trade, the main crossing into Tibet, Ghang-La (5746 m), has been sealed since 2020.

Under these conditions, I demonstrate how Yangma’s yak herders have become holders of ‘stranded assets’. This term – which usually names fossil fuel reserves doomed to remain unused in accordance with international climate agreements – describes assets that lose value long before their anticipated useful life, due to sudden shocks, market forces, or legislation changes (Bos & Gupta 2019: 1). I contend that, in the vastly different circumstances of Yangma under Covid-19 restrictions, hundreds of yaks – which formerly might sell for 120,000 NPR ($900 USD) each – could expand this definition, remaining unsold and illiquid despite their significant monetary worth. With yaks unable to reach market, stocking densities increase with every breeding season, deepening pressure on limited pasture and fodder resources. Concurrently, climate change has been associated with perceived declines in land and water quality (Tib. sa chu nyams pa), and created smaller, irregular snowfalls that severely disrupt livestock. The yaks have therefore become smaller and weaker, causing further value depreciation. Similarly, the potato crop – a cornerstone of Yangma’s food security – has failed since 2019.

Based on six months of fieldwork in Taplejung District, this paper captures a short ethnographic portrait of one of the most remote communities in Nepal, but also inventories its numerous threats. In particular, the pandemic has provoked the closure of the two ‘official’ border crossings in Taplejung: the nearer Ghang-La, and Tipta-La (5121 m), under China’s ‘Zero Covid’ policy. Because flexible mobility is central to pastoralism (Turner & Schlecht 2019), the core public health measures of lockdowns and border closures have critically impacted mobile populations, including herders (Simula et al. 2021). Based on interviews conducted in April 2022, most villagers claimed they were simply waiting for the border to open to offload their livestock, after which the area might be depopulated for good.

Pastoralist literature has long centred on omens of extinction, most explicitly coded in Hardin’s ‘The tragedy of the commons’ (1968). It is a constant struggle to transform extensive marginal rangelands into economically productive areas (Mishra et al. 2010). However, the highly mobile pastoralism practiced in Yangma is often the basis for the most efficient, wide-ranging, well-coordinated and specialised production systems (Humphrey et al. 1999: 1), Although geographically isolated and disconnected from motorable roads, Yangma is locally renowned as a highly profitable area of Taplejung, owing to its optimal conditions for yak rearing.

Raised on high-altitude, plateau-like rangelands of dry steppe vegetation (Ghimire 2007), Yangma’s yaks are well adapted to Tibetan environmental conditions, and therefore fetch higher prices in Tibet than yaks in nearby Walung or Ghunsa, which graze on ‘inferior’ forage below the treeline. These conditions also allow for higher stocking densities than at lower elevations, and lower manpower to maintain them. Whereas Walung herders usually own 40–50 animals, Yangma herds can exceed 100–150 heads of livestock. Generally, livestock numbers are managed with strategic sales. Since animals are more valuable alive, relatively few are killed for personal consumption. But with the annual birth rate reaching 40 calves/herd, rangelands are degrading without a market outlet.

Another worrying external development is stricter Chinese veterinary regimes. After Covid-19, China has sought to tighten biosecurity protocols, including stricter regulations for live animal imports (China Law Translate 2020). If new restrictions on cross-border livestock trade follow, Yangma’s main income source could be obliterated even after ‘Zero Covid’ ends. Either way, with the border closed, residents can neither live profitably, nor liquidate their assets and leave. Caught in this stalemate, Yangmalis, alongside the other strategically located Taplejung border settlements – Walung and Ghunsa – are currently subsisting on food aid of rice, flour, oil and other staples donated by Tingkye County, Shigatse (Tibet). At the time of writing, March 2023, the border had still not re-opened, and the yak trade not officially resumed.

Survival in Yangma is governed by two interrelated production systems: life is a question of potatoes and yaks. Together they typify a circular agropastoral economy, such that the productivity of one system depends upon the proceeds of another. Both systems have, however, been heavily affected by Covid-19 and climate change. Throughout the paper, I consider the looming likelihood of depopulation repeatedly raised by residents, and question the ultimate causes: will Yangmalis become climate migrants, Covid migrants – or captives? The paper provides a snapshot of a remote border community during a temporally unprecedented moment: in the suspended animation of Covid-19 border closures, and while it is uncertain whether Yangma’s main border crossing (Ghang-La) will re-open at all. Though Yangmalis have resisted the geopolitical vagaries of transboundary markets thus far, the impact of Covid-19 has been uniquely challenging. During my visit, the border had been closed for two full years – longer than any period in living memory.

Indeed, ‘Zero Covid’ closures are particularly exceptional, and impactful, for Yangmalis because this region is an uncommonly ‘porous’ borderland between Nepal and Tibet (Shrestha 2022). After the annexation of Tibet by the PRC, the grazing rights of Dolpo herders in western Nepal were eliminated (Bauer 2004), and herders within the PRC struggled with enclosure policies that accelerated grassland degradation (Cao et al. 2013; Ptáčková 2011; Yeh 2003). While yak pastoralists elsewhere struggled, political turmoil in Tibet carved new avenues to make profit in upper Taplejung (Saxer 2023). The remote and comparatively less controlled status of Tipta-La and Ghang-La spurred lucrative ‘semi-legal’ trade operations, including in wildlife parts and medicinal herbs (Saxer 2023: 69). Only briefly in 1962/3 did border trade completely pause as details of the existing border treaty, signed in January 1963, were negotiated (Saxer 2023: 64). In contrast to Dolpo, then, pastoral life in Yangma has survived, and even thrived – until recently.

Yangma now exists at the confluence of disorientating global and local-scale forces that have profoundly impacted almost every aspect of life. This has given rise to a condition that residents called ‘kawa nyampa’, a key anchoring concept implicitly woven throughout this paper. The term kawa derives from the Tibetan bskal pa, meaning ‘era, age or generation’. Combined with nyampa (Tib: nyams pa) – meaning ‘despoliation, degeneration’ – ‘kawa nyampa’ proclaims the onset of a degenerate era. Yangmalis shared a Tibetan Buddhist conviction that society had entered a period of moralized descent, fuelled by the karmic demerit of humanity’s collective sins.

The cause of kawa nyampa is spiritual, but its manifestations are decidedly material. The decline in the land’s biophysical properties (sa chu nyams pa) and ‘vital essence’ (sa bcud nyams pa), appearing later in this paper, were also understood as secondary manifestations of ‘kawa nyampa’. Furthermore, though orchestrated by external, concrete factors such as border closures and greenhouse gas emissions, both Covid-19 and climate change were considered portents of kawa nyampa. Most of the vast spectrum of social, environmental and economic reorientations in Yangma’s recent history were interpreted through this prism.

The empirical basis of this paper stems from six months of ethnographic fieldwork in Taplejung District, mostly spent in Walung village (Olangchung Gola), roughly 12 hours on foot from Yangma (Fig. 1). During my visit to Yangma in April 2022, 16 current residents were interviewed, in both Yangma village and Shawok, the major goth [seasonal shelter housing herders and livestock] for winter and spring. Existing English-language literature on Yangma is confined to its association with the Kanchenjunga Conservation Area Project (KCAP), principally comprising short-term botanical and faunal surveys (Bhandari 2011; Ghimire 2007; Khatiwada et al. 2007). Its few appearances within historical and anthropological literature tend to be colonial encounters – the English botanist Joseph Dalton Hooker visited Yangma in 1848 and produced a brief account (Hooker 1855), while, in service to the British crown, the pundit Sarat Chandra Das used the ‘Khangla chan’ pass to access Tibet covertly in 1879 (Das 1904). Thin in anthropological description, and derogatory in tone, these sources are both limited and loaded.

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Location of the study site(s) at the borders of Nepal, China and India

Citation: Inner Asia 26, 1 (2024) ; 10.1163/22105018-02601004

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2 Methods

No detailed ethnographic study of life in Yangma has been undertaken. Since my stay was brief, this paper does not purport to be that study. However, my fieldwork in Yangma was supplemented by insights gained from six months of fieldwork with herders and traders in the wider Taplejung District. Throughout late autumn, winter and spring, I lived in Walung (Olangchung Gola), the village sharing the closest linguistic and cultural connection to Yangma. Here, I was hosted by two families, including that of the incumbent village chairman (November 2021–January 2022), and a prominent Walung businessman (March–May 2022). Reflecting the frequent mobility of Yangma residents across Taplejung, I often encountered Yangmalis whilst staying in Walung, whom I would interview opportunistically.

The migrant community was also a focus of my research. I interviewed four former Yangma residents in their new homes in Walung, alongside Yangmalis living in Taplejung District Headquarters (n = 1), and Sinjema Settlement (n = 2). In total, 21 current or former Yangma residents participated in interviews of over 30 minutes’ duration: a sample nearing 40 per cent of the most recent population estimate (52). Most interviews were conducted in the local language, Walung-ge,¹ and later translated into English with the help of a field assistant, Tseten Tashi, a permanent Walung resident, and himself a former herder. One interview in Yangma was conducted in English. Key informant interviews with Walung residents regarding current border restrictions and local histories of pastoralism, particularly with the Walung chairman, are a further crucial cornerstone of this research.

3 History of Yangma

Just how, and when, mobile pastoralists began to inhabit Yangma is unknown. Current residents typically attributed a much shorter history of the village than the written record documents. Although some individuals claimed Yangma was settled by their own grandparents, and only after the annexation of Tibet, Hooker recorded an established settlement in 1848. However, despite chronological inconsistencies, the village’s origin myth was almost identical whenever residents recounted it. One resident, Yangdon, narrated:

There once was a herder from Tibet who had lost one of his yaks. He searched the surrounding area, but couldn’t find it. He believed it must have left Tibet, so he crossed Ghang-La and reached Yangma. When he arrived, he surveyed the land. He saw that this was a very good place, with good pasture, and believed the animal must be here. He stood on the stone called Pedang for a better view, but still couldn’t find it. Finally, in desperation, he threw a handful of barley as an offering, to petition the deities for help. Shortly after, he found the yak, and noticed what good condition it was in. He thought he’d better leave it here than in Tibet because the pasture was so good. So, he returned the next year, with another yak carrying food and goods. The yak that was left behind was in very good condition; it looked strong and healthy. More importantly, the barley he had thrown for the offering had sprouted into a very tall crop. He saw that the land was good for growing barley, and good in pasture, so he kept returning and bringing more animals. Slowly, his whole herd came over. Other Tibetan families followed, and Yangma became a village.

Hearing 10 separate narrations of this story, accounts only diverged on whether the lost animal was a female (dri) or male (yak). Amazingly, Sarat Chandra Das also heard this tale in 1879: ‘The village was founded by Tibetans from Tushi-rabka, one of them having discovered the valley and its comparative fertility while hunting for a lost yak calf’ (Das 1904: 32). This story and its longevity speak to the major role played by both animal husbandry and agriculture in Yangma’s economic and cultural life.

Yangma’s demographic trend parallels many Himalayan villages (Childs et al. 2014). Whereas Hooker visited ‘a miserable collection of 200–300 stone huts’ (1855: 228), Das witnessed ‘not more than a hundred houses’ (1904: 32) in 1879. While Hooker probably overestimates, Yangma has experienced a major depopulation since at least the mid twentieth century. In April 2022, 10 houses were continuously occupied; older residents remember when 35 houses were filled. According to one 65-year-old, outmigration occurred in waves after key economic and environmental triggers. The Covid-19 pandemic may serve as an additional prompt – but this time, might push the village beyond the threshold of community viability. The Walung chairman explained:

There are two powerful families that are both selling their herds and moving to Kathmandu when the border re-opens. They have already bought houses in the city, and their families are settled there – just a few members remain to watch the animals. But the rest of Yangma depends on these families because they can stock enough goods in their house to last five years. There are no shops in Yangma, so families purchase goods from those households. If those two families leave, Yangma will be in trouble.

Distance from essential services has undoubtedly driven outmigration. Like many other pastoral areas (Simula et al. 2021), Yangma is disconnected from health facilities. Accessing the nearest hospital in Taplejung District Headquarters requires four days of travel, including at least two on foot. When serious injury occurs, villagers must wait for health workers from Walung, who can provide only basic primary care. Similarly, while there is a school building, there is no teacher. Communications remain a major challenge; there is no mobile coverage within the village, although from the higher reaches of one hillside – a three-hour hike away – it is possible to make phone calls. These challenges alone have prompted several family migrations. Summarised by one migrant, who continues to practise transhumance nearby: ‘Life in Walung is simply easier.’

These concerns, though understandable, conflict with a reality of mobile pastoralism: that remoteness is often a prerequisite for profit. For instance, in Little et al.’s (2008) study of Kenyan pastoralists, geographical isolation was associated with higher pastoral welfare. Indeed, the most effective pastoral livelihoods rely on extensive grazing away from densely populated locations because it affords greater mobility. But since the border closed, remoteness increasingly preys on Yangmali minds. The extensive network of friends, relatives and trading partners Walung-ngas share in southern Tibet (Shrestha 2022) has been severed by Covid-19 restrictions. One resident anxiously voiced: ‘There are only ten households here – if four or five left, people will be scared. If some disaster happens, no-one can help.’

Fears of disasters recall a severe Glacial Lake Outburst Flood (GLOF) in 1980, when an avalanche hit nearby Nangama Pokhari (4961 m). After 800,000 cubic metres of snow cascaded into the lake, an outburst estimated at 11.2 × 106 ± 1.4 × 106 m³ occurred, nearly double that of the famous 1985 Langmoche ‘flash flood’ (Byers et al. 2020). Despite its proximity to the source (see Figure 1), Yangma was less affected than downstream communities, since the flood diverted just before reaching the village, with some attributing this to the protective influence of a sacred chörten [stupa]. The event still looms large in the village’s collective memory. Several Yangmalis used the GLOF to date the onset of kawa nyampa. In its aftermath, some residents were scared into migration, and glacial debris littered Yangma’s agrarian fields, reducing their suitability for cultivation. Downstream, the flood devastated and eventually depopulated Jongnim, where several people died.

For remaining Yangmalis, outmigrations intensify fears about future climatic disasters. Even those who preferred to stay expressed concerns about the resilience of a shrinking village. The case of Jongnim proves instructive: after the GLOF swept the land away, families gradually moved elsewhere. The few that remained felt vulnerable, and encounters with Maoist rebels during the civil conflict were the final blow. The last resident, now living in Walung, remembered, ‘Eventually, we were the only family left in Jongnim. We left because we were scared of being alone out there.’

4 Potatoes and Yaks – a Circular Agropastoral Economy

This section turns to a description of life in Yangma, with the aim to evoke people and place in such a way that the impact posed by these two crises can be contextualised. The name ‘Yangma’ means ‘broad’ (Das 1904), referencing its location at the vast, flat intersection that subdivides the Yangma Valley. At 4200 m, the village is far above the treeline, and is perched on a flat terrace overlooking a wide basin. Girdled by half a dozen peaks nearing 6000 m, the stage for daily activity is an expansive plain, which today is littered with glacial debris. This land, once the seeding ground for acres of Tibetan barley, remains criss-crossed with low stone dykes, between which yaks occasionally wander. From the terrace of the village, it is not unusual to spend an entire afternoon observing this plain without seeing a single human. Only in the early morning, or towards dusk, when calves are collected for supplementary feeding, might figures be seen in the fields below. In April, the livestock mostly grazed near Shawok, around 90 minutes’ walk down the northeast branch of the valley. Around 4 PM, a member of each household would disappear down this trail, lugging a huge metal pot of steaming fodder that might exceed 50 kg, to feed to the weaker animals.

Life in Yangma rests on potatoes and yak. Reflecting the characteristic resourcefulness often demonstrated by remote herding communities (Krätli 2015), production has a cyclical aspect, where the proceeds of one system intimately depend on, and enhance, the other. Just as yak manure is a crucial fertiliser for agrarian fields, calves are fattened on diced potato during winter (Fig. 2), when the grass is covered with snow. Dried dung is burnt on domestic hearths for fuel, then its ashes are spread onto fields to regenerate the crop anew. Yaks are used as draft labour to plough fields, and millet obtained by trading potatoes with lowlanders is mixed into the supplement consumed nightly by calves. The activities of agriculture and pastoralism have long been symbiotic and complementary. However, the contraction of manpower after emigration – alongside booming Chinese yak demand since the 1990s, which catapulted Yangma into a [volatile] transboundary market economy – have entangled these systems in an unequal tension. They are now in partial competition, with the yak economy ultimately gaining the upper hand.

To some extent, Yangma practises ‘high-altitude agropastoralism’, a widespread livelihood strategy in Himalayan Nepal. This is typified as mixed mountain farming and livestock herding with transhumance, often including trade with middle-altitude groups for grain (Stevens 1993: 65). In a brief commentary, Heiko Schrader described Yangma as ‘a mixed economy’, involving potato cultivation, animal husbandry, collection of natural resources and limited trade for lowland grains (Schrader 1987: 264). This trade is conducted each November in a temporary encampment called Chenney (2200 m), located at an intersection that aims to be equidistant for Yangma, Walung, Ghunsa and the lower Tamor Valley, and serves as a hub for intra-regional bartering. This longstanding tradition was caught by Das, who collided with ‘a party of Yangma natives driving before them a few sheep and a dozen yaks laden with blankets, yak hides, barley and salt. They were going to a village called Chaini [sic], in the Tambur [sic] Valley, to exchange their goods for rice and Indian corn’ (Das 1904: 29). Today, the principal currency in Chenney trade is Yangma potatoes, which are locally renowned for their exceptional taste and quality.

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Yangma herders dice potatoes to feed to young and weakened yaks

Citation: Inner Asia 26, 1 (2024) ; 10.1163/22105018-02601004

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Yangma is notable for adopting potato cultivation unusually early. In fact, the first Western record of potatoes in Himalayan Nepal was Hooker’s account of Yangma. Stevens (1993) suggests an introduction to Yangma from Darjeeling, a prospect Hooker rejected, since he had not found them in surrounding areas to the east. Oral accounts suggest potatoes arrived in Khumbu slightly later, after 1850 (Fürer-Haimendorf 1964: 9). Perhaps this longevity of cultivation is what has paid dividends; in the local moral economy, Yangma potatoes are undoubtedly considered superior goods. During my time in Walung, visitors from both within and beyond Taplejung would often ask ‘Yangmako alu ho? [are these Yangma potatoes?]’ when served dinner, even though Walung cultivates its own modest potato crop.

Moreover, Yangma potatoes are harvested comparatively late, in September– October, which residents levy to their advantage; when potatoes are running out in the lower regions (which typically harvest in June–July), the Yangma crop is in high demand. These characteristics have made domestic potato trading the very cornerstone of Yangma’s food security. Recalling a period of prosperity in the 1970s, one respondent remembered: ‘Due to the Chenney trade, we had plenty of grains, because of our potatoes – we had more grains than agriculture could possibly have provided’. Bartered domestically, this trade was also resistant to geopolitical turbulence. However, the Chenney barter system has become increasingly difficult to maintain on account of the difficult topography and climate. The severe summer landslides and heavy snowfalls of 2021–2022 meant that Yangmalis were unable to reach Chenney in November 2021.

Because there is only one crop and growing season, Yangmali pastoralists practise more localised transhumance than on the Tibetan Plateau. This involves migrations between the village and nearby pastures with minor altitudinal differences. In autumn, winter and spring, livestock graze around Shawok. In summer, herders split between pastures below Nangama Pokhari, the slopes near Chheche Pokhari and the abandoned settlement of Nup. Yaks thrive in cold, high-altitude environments characterised by low oxygen and intense solar radiation. With a load-bearing capacity nearing 90 kg, they are ideal for transporting goods, and are certainly the only animal that could survive the 5746 m crossing of Ghang-La. This would not even be passable by humans without 10 strong yaks first being sent to ‘open the way’.

Generally, pastoralists rely on natural rangelands to meet the nutritional requirements of their livestock (Bauer 2004). Yangma’s yaks mostly graze range forage, but younger and weaker animals require supplementary nutrition to withstand the lean months. This is usually one of three different ‘stews’ prepared on the hearth: one grass-based, one millet-based and, for the weakest, a boiled broth of animal bones and fat. The latter particularly represents a significant diversion of nutrition from human diets to animals’ (Yeh et al. 2014), so is reserved for desperate cases. Additional supplements, including tea, are added to give lethargic livestock ‘more energy’.

More so than moving pastures, securing this additional fodder demands intensive time and resources. Some is purchased as a cash expenditure, a particular anxiety during Covid-19 since cashflow is extremely limited, whereas ‘white supplements’ such as millet and potatoes are poached from herders’ own food supplies. Hay reserves are sourced from cutting and storing grass in autumn (Fig. 3) before it becomes covered by snow – a back-breaking labour that is increasingly difficult with limited manpower. Seasonal grazing bans somewhat ease this task: in summer, the entrance to Shawok is sealed with a makeshift stone wall, allowing grass to grow uninterrupted.

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Cutting and storing dried grass to sustain livestock during times of low forage availability in winter and spring

Citation: Inner Asia 26, 1 (2024) ; 10.1163/22105018-02601004

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Although yak are the principal livestock, their crossbreeding with cattle is often practised in Taplejung District (Ikeda 2005). The offspring, dzo, embody the endurance and load-bearing of yak with the higher milk production and physiological tolerance to lower altitudes of cattle (Bauer 2004). Females (momzo) are kept for dairy production, which mostly supports daily subsistence, rather than offering economic opportunities. The unavailability of hygienic processing technologies and distance from a motorable road mean that only butter and a dried cheese called churpi are sufficiently imperishable to endure the journey to market. Since Yangma is sparsely vegetated, animals also fuel domestic hearths. Dried dung is gathered in autumn, a matter of urgency before the droppings are made sodden by snow.

Each season brings challenges. Herders generally agreed that summer is the easiest season; although milking is arduous, it is only required once daily. Beyond that, the grass is lush and nutritious, and the animals’ needs are easily met by their environment. In winter, herders and animals are blighted by the cold, particularly during the coldest period in the ninth Tibetan month, known as gutang. Pastures are blanketed by snowdrifts, creating high demand for supplementary fodder. Even then, yaks regularly lose 30 per cent of their bodyweight in winter (Long et al. 2005). In spring, even after the thaw, the grass is short and largely dead. By this stage, yaks have not had access to consistent nutrition since autumn, and their weakness and malaise are compounded. Universally, yaks exhibit high mortality in spring (Yan & Ding 2016). In Yangma and Walung, it is believed that once a yak survives the division of spring – a three-week period locally called dugchen – it is out of danger, and conditions improve again.

In the goths beyond the village, herding means a personal presence with livestock. As elsewhere in highland Nepal, herding in Yangma is usually unaided by fences, and dogs are employed to guard against predators – the main force that compels herders to remain on the pastures. Although snow leopards do kill yaks in small numbers, Taplejung herders have recently reported an explosion in the population of Tibetan wolves. The cause of this incursion is unknown. In a 2008 field survey conducted in Yangma, the Tibetan wolf was not mentioned by pastoralists when asked to rank ‘problematic wild animals’ (Bhandari 2011). Yet, a decade on, its presence has transformed herding life. ‘It never used to be this hard’, remembered 31-year-old Chime, who married from Tibet 10 years ago. ‘We’d keep the baby yaks near the house, and older animals would be in faraway pastures. We would only need to see them once a week to give them salt. The Tibetan wolf has changed that’.

5 Climate Change and sachu nyampa

Although predators are of increasing concern, my interviewees named the challenging climate as their principal worry for safeguarding yaks. Bikaas (21 years old) explained:

The weather is the worst thing. If there’s bad weather, sometimes the whole herd can suffer from weakness, and we have to feed them all, without even being sure they will all survive. Some people have lost whole herds to avalanches, meaning they needed to migrate from Yangma. But we have ways to protect yaks from wild animals. Predators only kill a few yaks, and we can minimise risks by watching them.

Gyatso (49) concurred:

If you watch your herd properly, predators cannot cause much harm, they will kill two or three animals at most. But the weather can affect our whole herd. We can scare away wild animals; we can shout in the night or make scarecrows. But you cannot control bad weather. All your animals could die in an avalanche, and even without avalanches, big snowfalls still cause problems because high fodder costs affect our economic stability.

The Tibetan and Himalayan regions are experiencing some of the fastest rates of climatic change worldwide, warming faster than anywhere outside the poles. Even if average global heating is limited to 1.5°C, warming will likely be at least 0.3°C higher in the Hindu Kush Himalayas and 0.7°C higher in the northwest Himalaya and Karakoram (Krishnan et al. 2019). High-altitude regions are particularly sensitive to rising global temperatures (Kohler & Maselli 2009), and steep topographies pose additional risk (Meenawat & Sovacool 2011). Even in a Himalayan context, the Kanchenjunga landscape is amongst the steepest environments in the world – within just 40 km, the altitude leaps from 1220 m to 8568 m (ICOMOS 2016).

The future trajectory of climate change in Yangma is difficult to determine. The IPCC has declared the Himalayas a ‘white spot’ for climate science, reflecting the limited data available in this region (Chettri et al. 2009). There are no meteorological stations near Yangma, and climate projections for Taplejung District are unavailable. However, average temperatures in neighbouring, topographically similar Sikkim are projected to increase by 1.8–2.6°C by 2050, with higher altitudes experiencing more change than lower altitudes (SAPCC 2011). As the highest settlement in Taplejung District, Yangma is particularly vulnerable to the ecological impacts of climatic change. Because herding and high-altitude agriculture are already marginal (McVeigh 2004), small environmental changes can render them unviable.

Where meteorological records are limited, climate observations by locals take on increased importance (Klein et al. 2014). Regardless of age, every interviewee in Walung and Yangma (n = 57) had noticed climatic changes within their lifetimes. The most recurrent observations were changes in snowfall, the most important variable for yak pastoralism (Yeh et al. 2014). All current residents reported a decrease in annual snowfall, alongside receding snowlines on the (~6000 m) peaks visible from Yangma. Other climatic parameters were less consistently reported. Though 14 Walung-ngas reported heavier summer rainfall, only six Yangmalis responded similarly, with several reporting no change. Moreover, only five directly mentioned warming temperatures, although others’ accounts implied this. Older residents first noticed changes in the 1980s, which coincides with Nangama GLOF. Indeed, satellite imagery revealed that Nangama Pokhari’s area almost tripled between 1964 and 1975 (Byers et al. 2020), likely signalling increased snowmelt.

Herders often welcomed reduced snowfall since it lowers fodder requirements (a significant household expenditure) and watching livestock becomes more comfortable. However, this trend has been inconsistent: the 2021–22 winter brought the largest snowfall Yangmalis had witnessed for a decade. The future of winter precipitation is also uncertain. For instance, scientific evidence suggests that the Tibetan Plateau will probably experience more severe snowstorms under climate change, even in the context of regional warming (Yeh et al. 2014). Although initial impacts saw a mixed reception amongst herders, the ultimate course of climate change has not yet materialised. There was some acknowledgement of this; many embraced the practical benefits of warmer winters, but interpreted receding snowlines as a bad omen, a signal of kawa nyampa, which foretells future disruption and karmic demerit.

Even if some manifestations of climate change are appreciated, yaks are highly vulnerable to warming temperatures because they lack heat tolerance (Haynes et al. 2014). When temperatures reach 13°C, yaks experience a rising respiration rate, and at 20°C, all major functions cease – drinking, grazing and ruminating (Wiener et al. 2003). Warming temperatures also negatively affect yak survival and reproduction (Haynes et al. 2014). Moreover, climate change increases disease morbidity in yak (Sherpa & Kayastha 2009; Wangchuk et al. 2013). Noticeable upticks in yak illness were reported in Walung and Yangma, which possibly interfaces with the PRC’s veterinary biosecurity concerns.

Although some studies indicate that climate change might, in certain Himalayan habitats, lead to an increase in grass productivity (Wu et al. 2016), this did not accord with Yangmali observations. Although not directly associated with climatic change in participants’ accounts, a concept termed sachu nyampa – translated as a despoliation (nyams) of the quality and nutrition of land (sa) and water (chu) – was frequently named when discussing recent challenges of herding life. ‘Every year, the grass grows a little shorter than the past’, one herder explained. Others reported that the maximum height of grass has decreased from above the knee to the lower shin: ‘In the plains, where there are lots of livestock, I can see how more animals grazing could be responsible. But in the high hills, where even wild animals cannot reach, the grass is shorter even there!’ Sachu nyampa also implies that the restorative function of precipitation – crucial to prevent grass from drying and blowing away in strong winds – has ceased, leaving behind a dry and degraded landscape.

A different – but related – concept, sacü nyampa (sa bcud nyams pa), which names a decline in the ‘essence’ (bcud) or ‘potential energy’ of the land, was also used to explain worsening pasture. Yeh and Gaerrang (2020) translate bcud as the vital essence, potency, nutrient, or fertility of the earth, most commonly understood as minerals. It is a Buddhist concept that relates as much to supernatural conceptions of an animate landscape as the biophysical properties of the soil (Yeh & Gaerrang 2020). The moral deterioration heralded by kawa nyampa has, according to Yangmalis, accelerated the loss of this vital essence, leading to lower grassland productivity and generalised conditions of degradation.

Although yaks are hardy animals which have withstood current climatic changes, the conditions associated with sachu nyampa/sacü nyampa have severely undermined the potato crop. At the time of my visit, the harvest had failed for three consecutive years. Using a Nepali metric called muri (approx. 72 kg), Karma (aged 38) estimated that the current crop was less than 10 per cent of previous yields: ‘My household used to grow 70 muri of potato, but in recent years we’ve only yielded 4, 5, 6 muri’. In a different household, Tseten estimated that yields had declined from 60 muri to 5–6 muri per household. This has economic and nutritional consequences for Yangmalis far beyond potato availability – it creates food insecurity for the entire village, and their livestock, by precluding trade with middle-altitude groups in Chenney.

In the past, we could grow more potato and could barter in the lower regions for millet, maize, barley and rice. This was enough for the family and to feed the animals too. We would visit Chenney four or five times – with five or six yaks each time – with our potato harvest. Recently, we’ve hardly needed one journey. This year, we didn’t go at all. It’s because of sachu nyampa. We’ve taken every effort to help the potatoes grow well. If they don’t grow this year, I think people will stop cropping. All that hard work will be useless, it amounts to nothing. (Lhakpa, aged 46)

Norbu (26) concurred:

We struggle a lot to grow potatoes, and when they don’t grow well, it’s upsetting. I’ve lost heart to continue growing potatoes. In the past, the grains from bartering would last all year and feed the whole family. We could even give some to the animals. But these days, we don’t have enough for even ourselves. We need to buy [grain] from outside using cash.

From the perspective of morale, potato production could collapse due to sheer frustration, particularly since the cause of the initial 2019 harvest failure is uncertain. Most frequently, sachu nyampa was blamed, but the exact biophysical conditions this concept describes are unclear. The limited snowfalls of winters preceding 2021–22, reported by Yangmalis, likely played a significant role, since dry conditions limit seed germination. Delayed precipitation was also a concern. Precipitation has shifted from winter snowfall to summer rainfall, causing rapid weed growth, which outcompetes young potato plants. Moreover, winter snowfall fosters spring grassland regeneration, which may also apply to agrarian fields.

When there’s a big snowfall, the earth absorbs more water, so the green shoots start growing fast. More snow in winter usually results in more grass. This year, the snowfall was above the waist. I’ve never seen that here before – in the past decade, the snow was only knee-height. Last year, there was hardly any snow. (Chime)

While climatic factors were frequently blamed, the timing of the first crop failure was not lost on residents. Some linked the decline explicitly to Covid-19, believing that the virus itself might have infected the potatoes. In one respect, Covid-19 has fortuitously cushioned the immediate impact of the crop failure. Since 2020, at the request of the Walung chairman, food aid has been supplied by Tingkye County, in recognition of the severe impact of border closures the economic life of upper Taplejung. China’s profile as an aid supplier to Nepal had been growing long before Covid (Mulmi 2022), but the pandemic has deepened this in Taplejung. In 2021, the aid totalled 50 kg rice, 15 l cooking oil and 25 kg flour per resident, alongside 25 kg sugar, 12 kg milk powder, and 30 kg salt per household. Residents generally agreed that this was sufficient for five to six months, except for cooking oil, which was provided in surplus. The remainder must be purchased with cash, which is constantly in deficit after the border closure.

In all other respects, the pandemic has exacerbated the crop failures in Yangma. Intertwined with Yangmali conceptions of kawa nyampa, the key secondary impact of Covid-19 – the closure of the border – has upended even domestic agricultural production, as the next section will demonstrate. The most significant threat to Yangmali agropastoralism has been the ‘stranding’ of its primary economic asset: the illiquid and expanding yak population.

6 Covid-19 and ‘Stranded Assets’

The survival of pastoral communities rides on reliably maintaining herd sizes (Bauer 2004). This section traces how Covid-19 restrictions, alongside longer-term market dynamics and emigration, have eroded the main mechanisms for controlling herds. Since Yangma’s agricultural and pastoral systems are tightly coupled, the expanding yak economy has infringed upon the productive capacity of the land. The perceived cause exceeds simple narratives of ecological fragility, demonstrating moral despoliation (nyams pa) and social breakdown. The final manifestation of this – the creation of ‘stranded assets’ – arises from Yangma’s entrenchment in a market economy that has been upended by disease, the latter believed to be a common form of moral retribution within Tibetan Buddhist causalities.

Even before the pandemic, Yangma’s yak population had significantly increased. As elsewhere in the Himalayas (Pandey et al. 2017) in recent decades, many herding families in upper Taplejung have abandoned pastoralism to pursue alternative livelihoods, often referencing the limited educational opportunities available for children. Despite this exodus, livestock sales from Taplejung to China have increased since the early 1990s, when market prices for yaks initially began rising. The price hike accelerated around 2008 and peaked in 2016. For the Taplejung families that remain in pastoralism, its economic prospects have become more attractive – even if the lifestyle conditions are viewed detrimentally – and herd sizes have increased to accommodate rising Chinese demand. Accordingly, the annual birth rate reached 30–40 calves per household, whereas 10 surviving calves was once considered a bumper year.

Since the 1980s economic reforms, yak herding has been gradually integrated into the Chinese market economy (Kabzung 2015; 2017). As a strategy to pursue the ‘development’ of pastoral areas in ethnically Tibetan regions, the Chinese state has promoted yak meat as ‘green’, healthy and environmentally friendly, and herders have been encouraged to increase sales to urban meat markets (Kabzung 2015; 2017). Although Kabzung suggests that market-based rationales were freshly introduced to Tibetan pastoralists after the 1980s reforms, Taplejung herders have long embraced this ‘calculative view of yak herding’. Indeed, Saxer’s (2023) oral histories of the Walung diaspora reveal that the pursuit of ambitious, outwardly focused business endeavours is a defining feature of Walung-nga identity. This extends to herders as much as traders, who in my interviews, prided themselves as ‘the best businessmen – every year I would carefully calculate, this year I will sell 40 animals, I will earn this much from butter, and this much from meat. The profits are 100 per cent guaranteed’.

Border closures have laid waste to these annual equations. Distinct from popular images of pastoralism as ‘a coping strategy’, in Yangma herding is ‘geared towards value creation and maximisation, rather than mere survival’ (Krätli & Schareika 2010: 609). One Tibetan word for yak, nor, also translates as ‘wealth’, testament to their instrumentality in making ‘life possible for man in one of the world’s harshest environments’ (Miller 2000: 89), but in Yangma this takes on a more literal resonance. Before Covid-19, selling a single yak could feed a family for a year; further sales allowed them to save for their futures. Even with rising stocking densities, Yangmalis are understandably reluctant to offload yaks through unprofitable domestic channels. The sum is that, quite suddenly, ‘each man [has been] locked into a system that compels him to increase the herd without limits – in a world that is limited’ (Hardin 1968: 1244). This ‘system’ is as much Tibetan Buddhist principles that revile needless slaughter as the market rationales of sunk costs and shrinking margins. In Wakhor Village on the eastern Tibetan Plateau, 30–50 per cent of herders’ annual incomes derive from livestock sales (Kabzung 2015). In Yangma, this percentage is higher, although I did not obtain direct estimates. Given its remoteness, even milk sales are impossible.

As such, Yangma’s recent history – particularly emigration, fluctuating Chinese market dynamics, and finally Covid-19 – has engineered an unconventional ‘tragedy of the commons’. Its prompt has not been a sudden surge in economic self-interest, but the abrupt cessation of traditional mechanisms that supported a flourishing pastoral system. As Chakravarty-Kaul (1998) in her study of Gaddi shepherds in Himachal Pradesh explains, reciprocity is the underlying principle of Himalayan community living. Hardin’s original argument, which has been widely discredited (Berkes 2009; Mildenberger 2019), presumes that herders do not implement institutions to regulate access, use, and monitoring of pastoral resources.

However, this assumption has little resonance with the histories and realities of highland Nepal. In Yangma, community restrictions have traditionally worked to minimise the impact of pastoralism on agriculture. After crops were sown in April, a livestock ban near agrarian fields was implemented to prevent crop depredation, the principal conflict between yaks and agricultural life (Bauer 2004). Ikeda (2005) observed a similar system in nearby Ghunsa, where ngokya [watchers] are employed to discourage livestock from hay and crop fields. In both Taplejung villages, the owners of wandering animals in cultivated fields would be proportionally fined to compensate for crop losses. In Dolpo, Bauer (2004) witnessed a similar system: in Nangkhong Valley, each footprint found in fields costs its owner a measure of grain; in Panzang Valley, fines accord to the size of the animal.

Formerly, in Yangma, reparations were measured in a metric called bo (Tib. ’bo): if one bo of barley was eaten by a yak, its owner would be fined the monetary value of one bo of crops. However, this system has entirely disintegrated since the Nangama GLOF. Agropastoral communities depend on cooperative labour and other forms of mutual aid to maintain production (Bauer 2004). Since villagers left en masse throughout the twentieth century, community breakdown has impaired traditional resource management systems. Gyatso explained: ‘Although the village was bigger in the past, it was more united. There was one leader, and everyone obeyed him. These days, there are no rules and regulations; everyone only thinks about themselves – they let their animals graze in the village, not just the goths, and the crops get ruined’.

Shortly after the GLOF, which inundated several important barley fields with glacial debris, the Chinese yak market expanded, and sensing profit, each household increased their herds. As the human population of Yangma shrank, the yak population soared – and crop cultivation became collateral damage. Maintaining a line of sight for all livestock was difficult, and the economic importance of potatoes and barley became secondary to livestock. Finally, since barley is an ‘irresistible’ crop for yak (Bauer 2004: 24), and more easily accessible than underground tubers, its cultivation became impossible to maintain.

Laurent (2015) identifies Tibetan barley as a ‘cultural keystone species’, featuring prominently in local economies, languages, beliefs and narratives. Returning to Yangma’s origin myth, the rich cultural significance of this crop is evidenced in the barley seeds thrown as a ritual offering to the deities. More crucially, barley agriculture was the deciding factor behind Yangma’s foundation; although pastoral pursuits prompted its discovery, towering fields of barley were the reason for its settlement. Weckerle and Huber (2005), considering the Shuhi in southwest Sichuan, note that Tibetan barley acts as a culture-bearing unit, helping define an ethnic identity. Since many Yangmali object to being subsumed under dominant Walung-nga ethnic identity claims (Shrestha 2022), their origin narrative holds particular significance. The end of barley cultivation is therefore deeply symbolic to the village’s identity. Moreover, the unusual celebrity of Yangma potatoes – the earliest example of Himalayan potato cultivation on written record and held in local renown – have a similar status. They delineate their cultivators not simply as [cultural and linguistic] Tibetans, but Yangmalis.

Agricultural loss has further precedent in Yangma. In 1848, Hooker observed ‘radishes, barley, wheat, potatos[sic] and turnips’ (1855: 238), but these crops predated the memories of my respondents. Only potatoes now remain, and persistent crop failures have weakened resolves to continue cultivation. Together, these losses were interpreted as potent symbols of kawa nyampa:

In the past, barley used to grow here, but not any more – another sign of kawa nyampa. The yak population has increased, and there is no discipline here anymore. The rules and regulations about planting have been abandoned. Formerly, after the cropping period finished, the village headman would forbid animals from entering the village, but that doesn’t happen anymore. Barley cultivation has stopped, the potato crop decreases because yaks eat them. (Chime)

This irony – that, in becoming ‘stranded’, Yangma’s main asset has cannibalised all remaining value sources – is testament to the disorienting and deleterious logics of kawa nyampa. The villagers’ wealth (nor) is now accelerating a decline into poverty. As notions of a degenerating kawa (bskal pa) link to the broader prophetic concept of the Kaliyuga (Skt.), the ‘age of calamities’ (Childs et al. 2021) kawa nyampa promises the very destruction that Yangma has begun to experience. If these assets cannot be liquidated soon, they promise to consume everything, including the community as a whole.

7 Stalemate or Checkmate? From Temporarily to Permanently ‘Stranded Assets’

Like all pastoralists, Yangmalis can remain only if levels of risk and uncertainty fall within their calculated costs. The sudden closure of Ghang-La comprised an immense and largely unforeseen threat that will dominate collective memories, even on re-opening. Several herders who had already left pastoralism cited the inbuilt risks – economic and climatic – of herding in Taplejung as their main motivation to leave. With the border closures, most Yangmalis openly declared that levels of risk around the livelihood have become unbearable. As one resident summarised:

The future of Yangma depends on the Tibetan border […] with the border closed, we can’t survive here. We can’t kill all our yaks to eat. If the border remains closed, we will be forced to leave. There’s no reason to stay; we don’t have anywhere to sell our animals, no-one [in Nepal] will buy them. Only if the border opens, and there is free trade of animals, might it be possible to live here.

The oblique reference to ‘free trade of animals’ alludes to a largely unspoken, major concern: that even if Ghang-La reopens, livestock trade might be prohibited. This is currently only hearsay amongst Taplejung pastoralists, but bears worrying plausibility. Since Covid-19, evidence has emerged that China is seeking to tighten national biosecurity, especially around zoonotic diseases. On 15 April 2021, the first Biosecurity Law of the People’s Republic of China came into force, laying a foundation for further specialised laws that are likely forthcoming (Liang et al. 2021). Accordingly, new restrictions on livestock trading may be introduced after pandemic restrictions are lifted – potentially prohibiting the informal yak trade at Ghang-La.

Article 23 of the Biosecurity Law asserts that: ‘The State is to establish a national entry approval system for animals and plants, animal and plant products, and high-risk biological factors that are entering the country’ and references the need for ‘designated ports of entry’ for articles of ‘high biological security risk’ (China Law Translate 2020). The likelihood that Ghang-La will become a ‘designated port of entry’ is doubtful; even in 1879, it had a reputation as an unregulated pass, through which Tibet could be covertly accessed (Das 1904: 24). Officially, border citizens can trade across the Nepal/China border if they possess formal Nepali documents and a border identity card, but crossing Ghang-La is possible in the absence of these (Shrestha 2022). Unlike Tipta-La, it lacks border police and customs outposts, with only makeshift ladders spanning deep glacial crevasses.

This intervention would mean that the ‘stranding’ of Yangma’s assets will no longer be temporary, but permanent. Although I was aware of the rumours before visiting, I chose not to raise this topic in interviews, for fear of causing alarm. Only one herder in Yangma independently acknowledged that China might introduce animal trade restrictions; two others alluded to possibilities that the border may reopen, but that livestock trade might not. As Chinese extraterritorial influence in upper Taplejung ‘is sustained by politics of eavesdropping and rumour’ (Shrestha 2022, 9), such anxieties must have been voiced across the tiny village, but they remained unmentioned. The gravity of this situation is obvious. If their ‘stranded assets’ cannot be liquidated, most Yangmalis cannot accumulate enough cash even to leave.

8 Future Directions: All Roads Lead South?

As was the case for pastoralists in Kenya (Simula et al. 2021), Yangma’s remoteness afforded the survival of ‘normal’ life despite curfews and lockdowns elsewhere in Nepal. However, pandemic restrictions, compounded by climate change, have gradually undermined the agropastoral system. Locals interpreted this through the moralised prism of kawa nyampa, an era of spatially dislocated retribution for humanity’s spiritual sins. The most recent, and arguably most severe, manifestation of kawa nyampa has been the realisation of Yangma’s prized and lucrative yak population as ‘stranded assets’.

Life moves faster than papers can be written. Facebook conversations with Walung-ngas (who enjoy a flickering 2G signal in the village) have told me that Yangma’s 2022 potato crop grew well – perhaps an outcome of the heavier snowfall last winter – and that trade in Chenney resumed. Some trade in chiraito (Swertia chirayita) also occurred. Important lifelines are being revived in Yangma, but the border has not yet officially re-opened.

More broadly, this creation of ‘stranded assets’ demonstrates that Yangma’s principal economic resource is not yaks, but the border. Like many Himalayan villages situated on this international boundary, Yangma would probably never have been settled were it not for its location on the intersection of ‘two complementary economic zones’ (Haimendorf 1975: 268): Tibet and lowland Nepal. It is the border which has long been Yangma’s main production system, its mode of generating surplus value through which profits are derived. As pandemics, both animal and human, have characterised this region with a new, threatening form of mobility – that of disease transmission – the ‘complementarity’ between these two zones has abruptly ceased.

In April 2022, in a stone goth hut, halfway between Yangma and Shawok, Phurbu and I sat drinking tea by the light of a mobile phone torch. Outside, the day was blazing bright, but in the windowless hut, with the air darkened by the thin sheen of soot that spiralled off the yak dung smouldering on the stove, it could be evening. Phurbu describes himself as a ‘trekking Sherpa’, and has climbed Everest twice, but since tourism dried up during the pandemic, he has returned to help his brother and sister-in-law manage their herd. We chatted in English, and I asked of Yangma’s fate if the border never re-opens. He seemed unprepared for the question. ‘People will stay until the border re-opens … if not, we’ll have to open a butcher’s shop!’ he laughed uneasily. ‘That’s a joke. We can’t get the meat down to Taplejung in time, it gets rotten. But we have no other way.’

We sat another 30 minutes, talking about the GLOF, the Tibetan wolf and the tendency for iodised salt from Taplejung to give yaks diarrhoea. This is another pandemic development; before trade stopped, high-quality Tibetan salt met their sodium needs without gastro-intestinal distress. Yangma, Phurbu asserted, is the best environment to raise yaks. But the times have changed. ‘I think in the future, people will not live here. I think everyone is planning to go down. They’ll go down slowly, and then there will be no-one living here. Life here is hard.’