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.