Ladakh Chronicles: Part II

Part II

It’s my first early morning in a while and as my alarm rings at 4.30am, realization dawns with a smile that today, I will embark on a long, long journey that I know nothing of as yet.

Leh is peaceful and beautiful in the early morning. As the huge white moon bids goodbye, the sun rises up too bright to look at directly. In the twilight, the tall poplars guard the wooden carved windows from the menacing barren mountains and the prayers flags, like shadows, whisper along encouragement.

Stanzin Denmo is a slight man who looks like a 15 year old teen. This trip will be interesting since I fit the teen look too; we head out and an hour into our journey, we stop at a little brook on the roadside, out of town. A small bridge adorned with bright prayer flags brings us across to a breakfast of packed sandwiches, hand rolled cigarettes and fresh water.

We are now heading toward Khardungla and I am torn between taking photographs for future keepsake and just letting the images register themselves in my mind. I go with the latter, and settle back into my seat.

Barren brown mountains are interspersed with long, grey roads and a lot of army trucks. Barring the dust, I could almost convince myself to imagine being a war journalist in a remote no man’s land.

Khardungla arrives, with my need to use the restroom. Ladakh is too barren to hide behind a tree and you just have to hold it in!

I see little boards talking about the invention of maggi noodles, this being the highest motorable road in the world at 18390 feet and a warning to not stay for longer than 30 minutes as it is injurious to health. That’s when I instinctively look at the young men selling cups of hot, black tea to all of us and wondering how it doesn’t affect them.

After the usual photo taking, I realize that I cannot stop giggling and my heart is thumping as if I’ve just run a mile. This is unusual and funny. Laughing is not an easy task at this height, with the low levels of oxygen and Denmo hurriedly gets us out of here.

On the way down from Khardung-la (La meaning mountain pass), I spot a bunch of army men at the roadside and stop to take what I call my coolest picture up here! Doing little, insignificant reckless things such as these make my heart widen with happiness that no pint of beer, award or man can do.

Today, we are driving to Turtok village, located barely 10 kms from the Indo-Pakistan border. The locals say that it only became a part of India, after the war ended in 1967. I am yet to confirm these claims. Perhaps, I won’t. I’d rather keep the charm of the place through the voices of its people than give in to concrete details; I’ve never been a fan of anything concrete.

On the way to Turtok, we cross several tourist destinations, as we descend into the famed Nubra Valley. Diskit monastery, Hundar’s sand dunes with its double humped camels and the army airport at Thoise pass by, but I resolutely refuse to stop, somehow convinced that Turtok will show me something.

Nubra valley is, in every sense of the word, surreal. The wideness of the valley stuns one; it makes me feel like a tiny grain of dust on a desktop of a wide ocean picture. The mountains can remind chocolate lovers of cookies, fudge cake and all kinds of chocolate. The Shayok river looks like wet, flowing, raging cement but in places it meets clear blue waters. The landscape is mighty and ever-changing and I can only sigh and pinch myself, as if in a trance.

Along the last few miles to Turtok, we stop for maggi noodles (the only lunch available; there are no restaurants/tourist stops in the area) at Changmar village. The dhaba owner is a strikingly good looking man who fills up a jug of water from a fresh spring to make the noodles and also to offer as a refreshing drink. Trust me, I had my qualms about it but I’ve never tasted water so delicious.

A little road brings us to a part of Turtok. The place smells of apricot and hay and has some very playful, noisy children. I see a little hotel and tented accommodation but they are the drab type you find along the rafting areas of the Ganga. This is when Denmo and I realize that the major part of Turtok has no road and can only be accessed via a steep ascent along a half-dry waterfall. We clamber up and walk to the first home stay we spot- Maha Guest House.

The owner is also a strikingly good looking man who offers me a cup of delicious butter tea which does me a load of good since after our 8 hour drive through the barrenness of the valley, I can feel dust particles literally flowing in my veins.

After freshening up, I walk all over the village. A kind lady invites me to pluck ripe apricots from her garden and I must admit, some tasted as sweet as jaggery. I find myself gaping at a goat and a donkey who are ignoring the ripe apples and apricots lying right in front of them. A local man senses my confusion and laughs; he tells me that travelers are welcome to pluck and eat as much fruit as they like since the locals and their cattle are fed up of them! I make a personal note that these people must be crazy.

Turtok’s little stone lanes run alongside a small canal of fresh, clean water. The village is populated by the Balti tribe and their women must be the most beautiful ladies one can lay eyes on. The village has a number of peculiar, awe-inspiring things like their “natural refrigerator”, “stone pressure cookers” and a little gompa that boasts of a phenomenal view of Turtok village and Mount K2 in the distance. Behind the gompa is a room made from jerry cans and my wandering soul only wishes to live here, where each can tells me an individual story, and each mountain visible ahead only adorns K2 further.

I return to Maha Guest House an hour later and am served grey pancake-like rotis, lentils and later, an apricot dessert. My sweet tooth is happy and I manage to polish off two bowlfuls. As I get into bed, I grin to myself, looking out the window, at the sky here. A panorama of a thousand twinkling lanters in the deep, clean dark sky.

Next morning, we must set out for our journey back to Leh but I delay this till noon. The home stay owner shows me the natural fridge—a hole in the rocks, standing where one feels like being put straight in front of an air-conditioning unit. The stone pressure cookers are another one I cannot figure out since even the whistle is made of stone! I am also allowed to touch a walking stick made from an Ibex horn—a beautiful contraption, with natural designs that the Ibex has on its horn. On my clear suspicion of poaching, I am hastily told that this is made from an old, naturally dead Ibex. I smile and collect bottles of pure apricot oil as presents for my family.

On the drive back to Leh, I chat with Denmo and take photographs. The army guards stationed near bridges brighten up as we wave to them. Turtok is, I can safely say, not for the tourist but the traveler. It is a place of magic that comes from simplicity; it belongs to a people whose beauty comes from fresh fruit and diligence and not from surgery or diets; I know I will come back one day. Soon.

As I arrive in Leh, I am now alone at the guest house. The tiredness sets in but I have to embark on another long journey early tomorrow morning, to Tso Moriri lake. I go to bed and dream fitfully of snow peaks, baseball and poetry.

Next morning, we set out, more comfortable now with each other and excited to see a lake at 14,000 feet. We visit Thiksey Monastery for morning prayers where I chance upon Connor (an American also on a solo trip) again and spend time with little Nawang, a monk who knows more about photography than I do. I'm not a religious person but I spend an hour in the prayer hall, letting the chants enter and reverberate inside me.

For most of the drive, I hang my legs out the window and soak in the beauty of magical Ladakh. After a number of security checks, curious questions from army guards about a petite 26 year old girl from Uttar Pradesh travelling alone and some very dusty roads later, we approach the hot springs of Chumathang.

I see a little dog running alongside the stream and a city-bred person I cannot help but wonder why Pedigree (dog food) doesn’t shoot its advertisements here.

I now spot a brilliant crystalline blue in the valley between two hills. Just how I used to colour mountain landscapes with blue in crayon drawings of my childhood. I do not know the name of this lake, but it’s my most profound memory of Ladakh.

I felt like I was in a pastel crayon drawing, a tiny little dot on a huge canvas of pastels. Grainy golden brown hills, a dark grey road and sheer, utterly blue blue waters. It was magic running in my veins right then, not different from any sense we can have of paradise but it daunted me and something inside me could not wait to be at Tso Kar village alongside Tso Moriri lake, where houses, people and human life would bring me back to normal.

At the village, we check into a homestay and make a futile attempt to find a place for tea where men are not drinking. Under a massive white canopy, I sit on empty crates covered hastily with cushions and drink tea while being eyed inquisitively by men drinking and children chattering. I like to believe my gaze on them was as intense as theirs! These people may not have regular comforts of life, but they certainly live INSIDE magic. This place has become my personal version of Marquez’s Macondo.

Walking in lanes littered with goat hooves, yak skins, firewood and some very aggressive looking dogs, I come nearer to the lake. Apart from the colours of tented accommodation, the lines and lines of Royal Enfields, bonfires and the faint smell of biking jackets, the lake stands out, almost god-like.

The clouds have set in and while parts of the enclosing hills are bathed in golden sunlight, the clouds descending have a texture to them, like thousands of grey threads bound together. I gasp, I gape, I stand in sheer rapture while my hungry eyes devour the sight before me till I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s a local woman who takes me home to play with her children. While I hug and clap with 3 beautiful little ones and a new-born calf, I spot a bright blue out of the corner of my eye. It strikes me because it’s not the river, it’s a man—another traveler, gazing out onto the lake. I sense an instant connect with this man, another traveler, despite the distance between us. We make eye contact for a minute and then wander off on our own ways and yet, it was a conversation whispered silently to us, that I will cherish for years to come.

The lake, ever since I left it next morning, has been beckoning me to return and I know I will, soon. I reach Leh in the late afternoon and after bidding goodbye to Denmo, I am greeted by an old friend in the guest house. It is the 8^th day of my trip and I feel melancholic at having to leave early morning, the day after.

I buy prayer flags, beads and trinkets for friends and family. Next morning, my friends take me to Stok Palace, home to the current living king. I’m not too impressed, to be honest, but the queen’s headdress kept in a safe glass house intrigues me. So does the tradition behind it; the queen passes it on to her daughter and more gems are added each time. As I look down the length of this beautiful piece, I wonder if silk routes, palanquins and such headdresses will ever come back to life again.

I leave Leh in the quiet of the morning. The dullness of the airport returns as I see city people, 

cheerful and happy, leaving after a vacation. To them it might be just another holiday destination but to me, Ladakh has become another definition of home, home to my soul, home to my writing and to things unknown that will reveal themselves to me in the future. 

Jennie Lives On In The Forest With Me

Cascading down a road

Divided naturally by gravel and pine needles

That have waited long to be a pathway

Of hope, of forgetting.

I wound down the drying grass of hope

I panted to keep up with the unyielding forest

I waited here with you

Making memories keep fears away

Of the future, of changing lives.

I looked upon the mountains stretched in a line

Old as time, new as me

I saw them build from small brown hills

Into snow-peaked wonders that challenge and mock

I waited, and worried about the wild boars of ambition

That dragged me to the city of lights

While the darkening silence of the forest beckoned and taunted

The price of my shades against the sunlight.

That spot just below the snow peaks, hidden ever so discreetly by tall blades of grass

That spot, where you and I sat and had a conversation carried silently

By the wind whispering words to us.

You had laughed out then

The sound ringing out, like a pleasant tune

And I looked at you wondering, how you could be so mesmerizing.

I had looked at you in admiration, in love

I had felt pride and joy creeping in.

“That’s my brother”, thought I.

The one who held my hand with his

Maneuvering the motorbike with one hand alone

Just to keep my fingers warm

Just to keep the harsh gravel of the jungle roads away from touching me.

You are gone now. But your laughter continues to ring in my heart.

You are gone now. But that spot where we sat will remain ours

You are gone now. But my words will always be for you.

You are gone now, Jennie.

And I only wish I could whisper “happy birthday”

To that face that lit up smiles like butter lamps in a monastery.

Ladakh Chronicles: Part I

When I was 5 years old, two places registered themselves very strongly in my head, from geography text books that were beginning to bore and puzzle alike. Egypt and Ladakh—I had promised my knee-scraped, short haired and dungareed self that these would be the first places I would ever visit on my own.

For the last one year, I had been meticulously (I’d like to believe) planning my trip to Ladakh, which involved annoying friends who work in Ladakh, randomly checking flight rates online when insomnia struck in city nights and also staring at any photos I could find of the place on social media.

Three things caused me pre-travel worries: Ladakh is huge and impossible to see it all in one trip so how do I taste a little of all and also not just touch the surface? Secondly, transport seemed to be a big hassle here; as a woman travelling alone, how would I manage this aspect? Thirdly, what is high altitude sickness? Judging by what the internet and doctors say, there are way too many varied opinions on its intensity and its harmlessness (nearly), alike.

After several drafted itineraries from my fellows in the travel industry, I managed to achieve nothing. Armed with just my flight tickets to and from Leh, I set out on 1^st August to the land of my dreams of the last 21 years.

The dullness of city airports is soon forgotten when the Himalayas come into view from the sky. Surrounded by excited tourists and bored Ladakhis alike, I realized that eye contact reveals more than boarding passes when doubt surpasses and connects me to a father and child sleeping blissfully on the flight—an acute sense of family, even in the skies.

Men “stereotyped” as the lecherous ones are happy to sacrifice their window seat to me, only to promptly take it back half an hour into the flight. Passengers become children, gazing awestruck at the snow peaks below them. It’s almost like watching a movie in slow motion or perhaps that is an after effect of my medication of Diamox (for the dreaded high altitude sickness) kicking in. 

Nevertheless, knowing that this is the closest we can be to space and tower over the might Himalayas is quite exhilarating. The snow peaks appear quiet while we hum and buzz noisily in the air plane.

Rinpoche airport makes one feel like you just landed on the moon. Bare mountains surround this tiny airport which amusingly enough, has a couple on chairs bang in the middle of a road for weary travelers, also serving the purpose of being hounded by cab drivers.

As I wait for my friend Stanzin to pick me up in his Mercedes (a decade old Maruti 800 that runs like a top), I am afraid to even ask for a taxi. The drivers are all so young and handsome and immaculately dressed, that you’d think they were boys hanging out for a cold beer in a backyard!

My first stop in Leh is World Garden Café where, to my delight, I discover my favourite drink—fresh water melon juice! While Stanzin warns me against any drinking or smoking for the first two days, two of my friends drop in and we share a breakfast of smiles, laughter and fresh pita pockets (yes, Lebanese food on the rooftop of the world).

My home in Leh is Hinjuma Guest House on Upper Karzo road, where my mountain guide friends lodge themselves each year, for 5 months of the tourist season.

High altitude makes you feel woozy or hungover. That’s the simplest and best way I can describe it. If you take Diamox, you’ll need to pee like an infant and also have a funny tingling/ numbing sensation in your finger tips and toes. So while I amuse myself with these nitty gritties, my friends cajole me into drinking bottles of water and hot tea while a guitar strums in the background and the Stok Kangri range appears in the horizon, from our balcony.

For two days, I do what people do in the cities, minus the alcohol—I lounge, go out for coffee and scrabble games, walk around Leh market munching on apricots and generally ponder if I should simply stay put here for the next ten days of my trip. Leh is crowded, dusty and bustling. The throttle of dozens of Royal Enfield motorbikes is a constant murmur against the gurgling canal waters on each street and the buzz of languages from all over the world. One does eye another curiously, knowing that not all would visit Ladakh for what it is; a special bond connects us all.

Interestingly, and quite democratically so, each travel agent’s office has a board outside that has posters and flyers announcing upcoming trips to nearby areas and seats up for grabs in the taxis.

On my third day, I decide to visit Stanzin’s village of Nimoo, located about 30kms from Leh. On the way, I am quite the excited tourist at Magnetic Hill where one can park their car inside painted lines, switch off the engine and wait. The car moves on its own, despite it being a plane surface! A few miles ahead, the confluence of the mighty Indus and Zanskar rivers greets us. The colour of the rivers is muddy, but different on account of their differing temperatures, I am told.

Colourful prayer flags adorn mountains, road sides and all vehicles. It’s almost as if one is trying to make up for the lack of colour on the bare mountains of Ladakh. The two most visible colours here in the summer are bright sky blue and all sort of brown.

Nimoo is a small little village, reached via an extremely noisy metal bridge. Nilza Guest House, a little haven of activity, run by Stanzin and his family is my pit-stop for tonight. I lunch at Shanti Nimoo House where a delightfully chatty Vindu, an Indo-French woman, tells me of her wedding plans in October to a local man.

If you’re a fan of apples and apricots, you must visit or maybe live in Ladakh. Apricot trees are in fruit in August and one can pluck and eat as much as one wants. I did, and had to bear the searing pain in my stomach, but who cares when there is fresh fruit for free?

We party at Nimoo tonight. A bonfire, popcorn, Godfather beer (that’s all you get here), lot’s of food and an army officer are our entertainment till Stanzin’s mother dresses me in a traditional “goncha” – an intricately woven gown, and suddenly, the men want photos with me. I’m definitely not complaining; only wondering if analay (aunty) is serious when she says she took photos of me on her phone for prospective Ladakhi grooms!

Next morning, I am supposed to go rafting but the partying at high altitude has left me tired. I regret partying and not doing the one thing I thought would be so much fun up here. Instead, I head out to see Alchi monastery, Likir monastery and Basgo fort.

My companion and driver for this trip is Tsetan, a shy man who fondly addresses me as “chochulay” (little sister) and is amused by all I say and do. Perhaps fortunately, Tsetan is not much of a guide. I discover that Alchi is the oldest monastery in Ladakh and also the only one built on flat ground. At the end of my trip, I decide it was my favourite, perhaps more so because my visit was not coloured by the monotone of a guide.

Alchi’s bright prayer flags, small doorways and huge Buddha statues leave me wide-eyes and quiet. I decide that I like Manjushree the best, the Buddha of knowledge because he wields a pen like a sword. As we head to Likir, I begin to realize, “I’ve finally made it here”.

At Likir monastery, I hold my breath for over a minute, as I watch monks working on a mandala—a coloured sand art work that I am later told, tourists have to be very lucky to see in the making. Mandalas are small, colourful works of art that require intense concentration, patience and above all, dedication. It teaches me a lesson of life—that passion is at the core of all things beautiful.

I now head to Basgo fort and although, I don’t remember much of it’s history, I do know that the sense of history and thousand-year old tales I felt here was empowering and humbling at the same time. Climbing up to its ramparts, I gaze out at the landscape—poplar trees dot the village of Saspol, long windy roads come out from nowhere, the skies shine a bright blue and the fort stands tall—old but authoritative even now, against it all.

I now realize that most of the views I saw, left me quiet. Almost as if my soul and my mind could barely fathom the meaning of it all, as if I needed to be quiet to hear the answers murmuring inside of me. You can be inside Ladakh, but you can keenly sense the distance this place keeps from tourists, below the surface.

Tonight I meet another Stanzin, the man who will drive me on an almost impossible trip. I am eager to cover Turtok village (near the Indo-Pakistan border) and Tso Moriri lake (near the Indo-China border) in the next four days. This means driving nearly 900 kms over the next four days; equivalent to 8-9 hour drives each day. He agrees to this as we dine in the lovely La Terrase café in Leh market.

Somehow, into my trip, an itinerary is emerging quite on its own. This is both liberating and confusing for me, how chaos weaves sense into our lives, each day.