Ria a passé une semaine comme stagiaire à la Giette. Elle est d'origine jamaïcaine, mais a grandi à Londre et a travaillé avec du bétail en Australie. Sur le voyage de retour, dans l'avion, elle a vu le documentaire d'ARTE sur les bovins dans lequel mon troupeau et moi figurons aussi. Ria a été fascinée par les yaks. Elle m'a contacté pour demander si elle pouvait venir en stage. Elle a appris à faire l'écurie et nourrir les yaks, elle m'a assisté pour l'école des yaks et a fait des grandes promenades avec les chiens
Voici son récit sur le silence en montagne:
Silence is something I have come to embrace, but in the mountains, it felt different. It wasn’t just the absence of noise—it was an overwhelming quiet that demanded to be acknowledged. For a week, I barely slept. Nothing felt real; it was almost a fever dream. Every morning, I woke to bear witness to giants, and every night, I beheld a sky littered with stars. Maybe it was the altitude, the deafening stillness, or the gripping cold that refused to be ignored. But I wouldn’t say the sleepless nights were a bad thing. If anything, they felt like a prelude to something significant, a foreshadowing of change, a quiet revolution unfolding within me. And every night was different because I dreamt—something I rarely did.
My time in the mountains was the most silent week of my life.
Yet, I was no stranger to silence. I had learned to welcome it, but here, it felt foreign. I found myself waiting—anticipating a sound, a note, something to break the hush. It was as if the world had been muted, or as if I had been tuned out entirely. I looked up at the trees, half-expecting them to whisper something, but they remained still, offering no words.
And yet, when the silence finally lifted, the sounds that replaced it were not just noise but something meaningful—conversations of depth, stories of history, and shared experiences. Even in the silence, my mind was clear.
I learned about the people of the mountains and the agricultural traditions of Switzerland. More importantly, I had the privilege of sharing this space with a woman whose passion for cattle mirrored my own. Her name is Rosula, but in my mind, she is the wild woman—the one who runs with the yaks. Together, we carried not only the weight of farm work but also the richness of conversation, the kind that leaves an imprint long after the words have faded.
Working with the yaks was unlike any experience I had with other cattle. They were quiet but never absent—I could feel their presence in the way their eyes met mine, in the graceful movements that followed, in the way they spoke with their horns. I was mesmerized by them. They seemed almost otherworldly. I witnessed their power but also felt their fragility. The yak is an animal built to endure, to overcome, both mentally and physically. Perhaps that is why they call the mountains home. Because it was here, among them, that I learned an unexpected lesson: strength and humility are not opposing forces—they are the greatest of companions.
During this week, I had been closer to the clouds than I had ever been, watching the world go by below. And as I made my way down the mountain, knowing my time had come to an end, I looked back in admiration and gratitude. For that brief period, I had called the mountains home.
Ria Gayle
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