The Work of Gobar: Fuel, Fertility, and Pastoral Life in Spiti

"Didi, Mummy said we need to put the gobar to dry in the sun." 

Tashi called out, suddenly appearing at my door. Soon we were dragging five boris (sacks) of gobar (dung) from the cowshed. He and his father had gone to the jungle (grassland pastures) of Tashigong the day before to bring them back. Although from Kibber, Tashi explained that the Tashigong side of the jungle has more gobar at this time of year, though they go to the Kibber jungle too.

Livestock grazing in the high pastures above Kibber, Spiti Valley. Animals spend their days here before descending to the village.

We hauled the bags out and scattered the dried dung patties across the flat ground where the sun would reach them. Each was distinct from the other - some had husks, some carried seeds and thorns, and others dried grass.

By evening, the prayer flags outside the window started to flutter urgently as Tashi's phone rang.

"The weather is turning bad. Get the gobar inside."

It was didi (older sister), Tashi's mom, calling from the field. Tashi and I quickly grabbed spades from the room downstairs and headed out. For more than half an hour that followed, we scraped the scattered patties back into the four sacks. The neighbourhood schoolboys watched me in amusement - the outsider fighting with gobar. Once the sacks were full, it took both of us to drag them aside.

Nowadays, the collection of gobar is often done by individual families, who have vehicles and greater access than before. Not long ago, this was more communal, requiring the help of both people and their non-human companions - often donkeys or dzos (yak-cow crossbreed).  Although cars have entered this relationship, reducing the need for donkeys in the summer, gathering gobar whenever possible remains necessary.

At over 4,000 metres above sea level, where trees don't grow and winters last over seven months, dung is not a backup fuel, but a necessity. Dried dung burns at a lower temperature than wood but produces a slow and sustained smouldering fire that can persist for several hours, making it a highly efficient fuel for traditional use. During the summer, animals graze freely in the high pastures and their dung is gathered when time allows, later in the season. Back at the village, it is left to dry in the same harsh sun that makes Spiti's air so clear and so thin.

The next morning was chilly. The electric water heating rod wasn't working, so Dolma and I went down to the cowshed to get dried gobar. The current resident was a three-month-old calf. As Dolma scooped out the gobar, I held the startled calf from bolting.

Inside a traditional Spiti home, the fireplace — bukhari — is the hearth of the house. It is a heating unit, a cooking surface, and the place where the family huddles through the long winter months. In the evenings, didi would call me to come sit by the fire and work, while she prepared it - the box with coal, gobar, and wood by her side. Today, with packaged food more common, it is not unusual to see plastic wrappers of Wai-Wai and Maggi noodles burning in the hearth alongside the gobar.

The uses of gobar extend far beyond its role as a fuel source. Thinned with water, it is applied as plaster to the interior walls of mud structures, where it acts as an insulator and a mild pest repellent. But more importantly, in Spiti, before winter sets in, the fields are layered with gobar. If one has access to more water, then this process is done twice.

"We need to put gobar in the field before the snow covers the land so it is ready to plant once the snow melts."

Women sowing green peas in Key village in May. The fields open as soon as the snow melts, leaving a narrow window of a few months before winter returns.

The manure decomposes beneath the snow through winter and enriches the soil for the short growing season that follows. Today, with livestock numbers falling, gobar has become one of the main reasons households keep animals at all. Each animal's dung has its own value: goat dung is said to be the best for the fields.

"Now gobar is bought often from Ladakh or the plains, as we don’t have many livestock. The other gobar is not always as good. We don’t know what their goats eat."

Fewer animals mean less dung. Less dung means having to purchase it from elsewhere.  Although road connectivity has improved and gas cylinders are easier to obtain in this landscape than before, the community remains heavily reliant on gobar. Gas is expensive, and during the winter months, a gobar fire in the hearth is more reliable than a gas cylinder.

Gathering gobar at dusk outside Kibber. The patties are collected from the pastures and dried in the sun before being stored for winter. 

The high pastures where gobar is collected are shared commons governed through customary agreements. Decisions about grazing, campsites, water, and even dung have long been negotiated collectively. Yet, as livelihoods change and households become more independent, these practices are also shifting. As one grandmother observed, "Today, people don't plan when to go collect gobar. It is more about what works for each." 

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Sonam Lobzang for his support in the field and the family in Kibber who welcomed me into their home and their daily work — this piece would not exist without their generosity and patience. I am grateful to Dr. Rashmi Singh for the opportunity to be in Spiti and for her continued guidance. My thanks also to Dr. Ajay Immanuel Gonji and his thoughtful edits and feedback on this piece.

About the Author

Anjali Joy is a storyteller and researcher with a background in architecture, environment, and development. Her work explores how people, animals, materials, and landscapes shape one another across changing socio-ecological systems.