Arpita Chakrabarty

Sharmila Joshi

Editor

large_05a-DSC_3918-AC-A_fungus_is_financing_families_in_Pithoragarh.jpg

medium_05a-DSC_3918-AC-A_fungus_is_financing_families_in_Pithoragarh.jpg

small_05a-DSC_3918-AC-A_fungus_is_financing_families_in_Pithoragarh.jpg

thumbnail_05a-DSC_3918-AC-A_fungus_is_financing_families_in_Pithoragarh.jpg

05a-DSC_3918-AC-A_fungus_is_financing_families_in_Pithoragarh.jpg

The names of all persons quoted here,
except government officials, have been changed to protect their identities;
for the same reason, their villages too have not been named. This is part one
of a two-part story.

It’s around
five in the evening, and there’s still some light in the sky when 16-year old Vivek Singh Bisht
and a few others return to their camp in Satper. “We will be here for
another 10 days to find more keeda jadi. This season hasn’t been great for
us,” he says, showing me the 26 pieces of fungus he has collected that day. 

We are in the
Satper meadow, 4,500 metres above sea level, surrounded by snow-wrapped slopes, where some
35 blue tarpaulin tents flap furiously in an icy wind sweeping through the
camp. The tents shelter fungus-hunters like Vivek from  various
villages, who start gathering here from mid-May. Satper is in Dharchula block
of Pithoragarh district,  a few kilometres west of the India-Nepal border.

On good days, a
picker here can harvest up to 40 pieces; on bad days, just about 10. By the
time the monsoon starts in Uttarakhand around mid-June, the lucrative keeda jadi harvesting season is almost over. Last year, by
June, Vivek’s parents, grandparents and eight-year-old sister returned to their
village with 900 pieces. Each keeda jadi weighs
less than half a gram and the family will sell it for Rs. 150-200 per piece.

Harvesting keeda jadi or the
‘caterpillar fungus’ has turned around fortunes over the last decade (more on this in
the part two of this story) for many poor families in the villages
of the Tibetan Plateau in Nepal and India – especially in the high-altitude
border districts of Pithoragarh and Chamoli. Before the fungus-hunting
work grew, the villagers mainly depended on subsistence agriculture and daily
wage labour. Now each kilogram of the fungus sells for anything between Rs.
50,000 to as much as Rs. 12 lakhs, depending on the quality and size. Even the
low-end price covers a large portion of the village families’ income for
months. 

Indian or Nepali agents sell the bulk of the produce to buyers and
consumers in China. They use far-flung mountain routes to smuggle the keeda jadi across the border to Nepal and China to evade being
caught by the state police or by forest and revenue department officials in
Uttarakhand. 

The scientific
name of the fungus, also known as cordyceps mushroom, is ophiocordyceps
sinensis. It
is called the ‘caterpillar fungus’ because it parasitically grows in the larva of the ‘ghost moth’ caterpillar. It kills and
mummifies its host, covering it in a yellow-brown sheath. Then, just before
winter sets in and the soil freezes, a small bud forms and pushes out of the
caterpillar&#39;s head. In spring – when the snow starts to melt in May – a
mushroom-like brownish fruiting body shoots above the soil. 


















This is the keeda jadi –
roughly, ‘worm grass’ – in Uttarakhand, yarsagumba
in neighbouring Tibet and Nepal, and dong chong xia cao in China. The
Chinese as well as Tibetan-Nepali names broadly translate to ‘winter worm
summer grass’.

The high price
of the fungus comes from its supposed aphrodisiacal
properties, for which it is known as the ‘Himalayan Viagra’. It is also a
valued ingredient in traditional Chinese medicine. The demand for yarsagumba reportedly shot up in 1993 when three Chinese
athletes broke five world records at the Beijing National Games after regularly
consuming a tonic apparently made from the fungus. Around a decade
later, the fungus-picking made its way to India. “In the [early] 2000s, we saw
Tibetan khampas
searching for the fungus in pastures on the Indian side. They said it could
rarely be found in Tibetan territory any more. They searched unexplored Indian
territory and asked us to help them,” says Krishna Singh.  The market price at the time for the keeda jadi was modest. But by around 2007, the trade became
lucrative, attracting many more harvesters. “Right
now, whatever is going on – picking, buying, selling – is completely
illegal,” says Ranjan Mishra, the chief conservator of
forest, Uttarakhand. “So we never really know the price of keeda jadi even in the Indian market.” In 2002, to try and regulate the then
still-incipient illegal trade, the Uttarakhand government
authorised van
panchayats – forest councils
managed by village communities – to grant fungus-picking licenses to local
residents, but only within the range of the panchayats. It remains illegal for such license-holders to sell the fungus to anyone
other than van
panchayats. In 2005, the state government further fine-tuned this
policy – on paper. But only a few van panchayats have jurisdiction in the alpine
meadows.  And no one – neither the villagers not the panchayat members – followed the
policy. 
































Such arrests though are rare. &quot;It’s not
possible to nab the culprits because they use remote areas to smuggle the fungus,”
the former superintendent of police, Pithoragarh , Ajay Joshi, says. “In the
last one year, we have not made any arrest for keeda jadi.”

Jurisdiction is another grey area – between
the police and the forest and revenue departments. “Most of the area comes
under the revenue department, which deals with cases of illegal keeda jadi along with the forest department,&quot; Joshi
says. 

But R.K. Pandey, the sub-divisional magistrate
of Dharchula, says, &quot;It has to be a joint operation of the police, forest
and revenue department. The revenue department alone can&#39;t seize keeda jadi.
We have not made any seizures in one year.&quot; 

When
the police or other officials do seize any keeda jadi –
carefully wrapped and packed by villagers in airtight jars to preserve it –
they open it for checking. Since it is a rapidly perishable fungus, there are
two ways for the police to handle it – give it to the forest department for an auction
or to the AYUSH (indigenous medicine) department in Dehradun or at a district
centre of the department. This rarely happens, and the fungus perishes. 

In 2017, the Chamoli police gave  two kilos of keeda jadi to the Badrinath forest division. But the fungus
could not be auctioned because by then it had already perished, the office of
the Badrinath divisional forest officer told me.

Meanwhile, for the villagers,
fungus-hunting outstrips any other work in the months of May-June. “People with
government jobs take ‘medical leave’ for a month and join their families in the
hunt,” says Raju Singh. “If there are more family members, more pieces of keeda jadi can be collected. More keeda jadi means more income.” Only the old and the sick,
who can’t make the steep climb and handle the harsh weather conditions, remain
at home. 

As soon as
children turn six or seven years old, and can manage in the extreme cold and
harsh terrain of alpine meadows, they too join the fungus hunts and become the
highest harvesters. “We have better eyesight than the adults. In a day we can
locate and gather about 40 pieces, while adults spot a lot fewer; some days
they find nothing at all,” says 16-year-old Vivek, with confidence. 

Schools usually
remain closed in Uttarakhand for much of May, so children are free to trek with
their families to the Himalayan meadows. Vivek has been coming to Satper for
nine years, since he was seven, but his schooling has not been affected. He
recently passed his Class 10 exams, scoring 82 per cent. And plans to wait till
his Class 12 results before deciding his future course of action.

“Everyone in
the family joins the hunt. Even if they can’t crawl and pick, they can cook and
gather water for the rest of the family. The nine villages in the Satper area
empty out in May. Entire families move to bugyals [alpine meadows] during keeda jadi season,” says Raju, who is from the same village
as Vivek. 

Access to keeda jadi territory is strictly monitored by
the villagers living in the foothills – they keep an eye on who enters
and exits their villages and nearby areas. Outsiders are not allowed to pick
the fungus in ‘their territory’, though the villagers occasionally allow researchers
from the outside.  I am only
allowed in because I have a letter from the district magistrate of Pithoragarh – which he gave me as a reporter, directing
officials and others to allow me into their areas (often in sensitive border
zones) and provide help when needed.

I travelled
across a mule route with my guide (who too cannot be named) to reach the camp, trudging across 25 kilometres for over 12 hours through steep terrain. Villagers start preparing for the fungus hunting season by using mules on this route to carry
provisions to the meadow. “We begin dropping rations at Satper – around 25
kilos of rice, 10 kilos dal, onions, garlic and spices – on our mules in
April,” says Raju.  

This path cuts across
dense forests and swift mountain streams, in an area known for its leopards and
bears. Villagers arm themselves with rudimentary knives and sticks to ward off
animal attacks on their treks to the camp.But the journey is not the only danger they face. Collecting caterpillar fungus is  hazardous and involves labouring on narrow and steep mountain passes in the bitter cold. It requires crawling on your stomach on the grassland, combing the land in front of you, with elbows and knees dug into the snow. Joint pains, snow blindness and breathing problems are common complaints after the villagers return home.

In 2017, two people fell off the cliff and died while hunting for the fungus in another alpine meadow in Pithoragarh, around 35 kilometres from Satper. In April 2018, another person was reportedly killed after he fell off a cliffside while transporting rations for the keeda jadi season. But death and hardships don’t deter the villagers when the financial rewards of the fungus are so high.

A fungus is financing families in Pithoragarh

പിതോരഗഡിലെ കുടുംബങ്ങളെ സഹായിക്കുന്ന ഒരു ഫംഗസ്

பித்தோராகர் குடும்பங்களுக்கு வருமானம் தரும் பூஞ்சை

पिथौरागढ़ में लोगों का घर चलाने वाला कवक

پتھورا گڑھ میں لوگوں کا گھر چلانے والی پھپھوندی

পিথোরাগড়ে সংসারের হাল ধরেছে এক ছত্রাক

ପରିବାରର ଖର୍ଚ୍ଚ ତୁଲାଉଛି ଛତୁ

कीडा जडीने झाला पिथोरागढच्या कुटुंबांचा कायापालट

Satper

At present, we can only accept donations in Indian rupees by Indian citizens. All donations made to the CounterMedia Trust are eligible for exemption under Section 80G of the Income Tax Act, 1961. Here is a copy of our exemption certificate.


India is bigger than New Delhi. And people need to know more about the rest of this vast nation.


Younger, media-saturated generations are growing up knowing little about their country, but a lot about the elites of a few metros and towns. For a narrowly-owned, commercially-driven media, the dumbing down of a nation is part of standard operating procedure. The last available data of the Centre for Media Studies (CMS, Delhi) show us that reports from New Delhi account for 66 per cent of news on the front pages of major dailies. The CMS data also found that just about 0.24 per cent of front page news came out of rural India. The TV channels are not much better.PARI exists to change that.We are a non-profit organisation. We publish under creative commons, and do not charge readers a subscription fee or put-up advertisements. Nothing is behind a paywall and we are completely free-to-access by anyone. We guard our independence and receive no direct grants from governments and corporations, nor any funding that could dictate our content. So, we are dependent on volunteer labour, donations from individuals, foundations and institutions that see value in independent and free media.PARI is changing the way Indian journalism reports and documents the rural.India is more than the elite of a few metros and towns. We report on rural lives and livelihoods, languages, communities, migrants and more. We need your help to pull off this most ambitious of Indian journalistic endeavours. The scale of this effort costs money. Donate generously - and spread the word about PARI.&nbsp;

Donate FAQs


Let’s get you acquainted

Welcome to PARI

All our content is, and will forever be free to consume. If you enjoy our work, you can support us by becoming a volunteer or by donating to help fund our work.

Want to republish this article? Please write to <a href="mailto:zahra@ruralindiaonline.org" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">zahra@ruralindiaonline.org</a> with a cc to <a href="mailto:namita@ruralindiaonline.org" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">namita@ruralindiaonline.org</a>

IN TELUGU - Want to republish this article? Please write to <a href="mailto:zahra@ruralindiaonline.org" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">zahra@ruralindiaonline.org</a> with a cc to <a href="mailto:namita@ruralindiaonline.org" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">namita@ruralindiaonline.org</a>

A fungus is financing families in Pithoragarh

Travelling across a mule route and steep and risky terrain to Uttarakhand's Satper meadow, our reporter brought this story of villagers who collect the caterpillar fungus for a lucrative, illegal cross-border trade

Related stories

A rain-scented walk in Sivagangai

Living on ravaged land

Biswas and the bamboos on his bike

Recycling energy, Godda style

Bhadels of Goa

Pookadai: still throbbing with morning life

Koli Kadlas

Malnourishment high among children of migrants: study

Wheels of the rural Indian West

Living Under a Red Cloud in Bellary

Vedla – earrings of the Maher community

Dreaming of water, drowning in debt

Kali: the dancer and his dreams

Farmer's diet worse than a convict's

In Yavatmal, life goes on

Suicides are about the living, not the dead

Death of a carpenter

Hoisa Shigmo!

Women farmers: weaving a life in Anantapur

Defiant in Dhinkia

Spice and all that's nice

Kerala's Green Army

The ‘jugaad’ not-a-mobile

Health as someone else's wealth

Calibrating in a Kudumbashree assembly unit