Life in Yakville - non-fiction
Life is full of adventure. The most memorable moments in life can be the most sweet or the most bitter, depending on how we respond. Memorable moments can energize us or discourage us. I believe that I have more reasons to thank God for giving me colorful experiences and helping me to take difficult situations to encourage myself.
Whenever I remember those moments I always like to encourage myself not to lose hope even in the darkest moments of life.
One of my darkest moments was when I was nine years old. I lived in Yakville, a remote jungle area where yaks graze. My family lived six or seven hours’ walk from
Yakville and came once a week to check on the yaks and me. The only other people nearby were other yak keepers who lived three or four miles away. My family took care of the cows and sheep, and my job was to take care of the yaks.
My favorite yak was Dawa, the leader. At night I would whistle, and my yaks would come find me and sleep near me as I crept in a cave or slept on a fallen tree or a boulder. I carried a thick stick to protect the younger yaks from bears, tigers and cheetahs and wore a khukuri, a two foot long knife, sheathed in a wooden case in my belt. I never had to fight a wild animal, but I have had to yell at cheetahs or bears to scare them away from the yaks. My regular task each morning was to fill up a giant tank with water from a nearby stream. One morning I got up and took my water vessel with me and headed to the springs to bring fresh water. The sun was shining brightly. I was singing my favorite song
“Resham phiree, Rasham phiriree.” As I repeated that song four or five times, I got to the stream and began filling my water jar. It would usually take me six or seven trips to fill up the yaks’ water tank. Suddenly a giant dog appeared. It was about double my size.
That dog lunged at me. I was helpless because I did not have my stick or my khukuri, so I tried to run away. He growled and snarled