Now please recall that in the Zanskar valley, the Kashmiri Greater Himalayan Range was to the south, and the Zanskar mountains to the north, but here on the Kargil Leh road we found ourselves on the other side of the Zanskar Range which were now to our south or right hand side, and to the north we now saw for the first time the Ledakh range, that part of the Himalayas which separates India from the vast Tibetan plateau. Ledakh, which is literally translated as pass land, or land of passes, is also referred to as Little Tibet because of the similarity of topography, religion and the people of these two places.
Vast spaces opened up between mountains 5-6000 meters high, and before traveling far, all vegetation had disappeared, except little oases, intensely tilled where glacial melt streams came down through little valleys on the flanks of the mountains to either side, or where the little river at our feet, whose name I do not recall at the moment, had managed over the harsh eons to build up little flat places of dust which watered by the trickle produced green patches, like emeralds polished by the contrast with the grey wasteland through which we passed, irregularly strung out along our route, were dappled by clouds drifting along the valley, at this altitude, not far overhead. (#74)
This area* was first settled by nomads on the upper reaches of the Indus on their way to Mt. Kailash from India, and by the ninth century, had built up a little power, a period which witnessed the erection of forts and palaces, the remains of one such from this period still stands at Shey a little further up the road. Je Tsongkaba, an amazing Tibetan scholar, a man of extraordinary breadth of knowledge, and even higher spiritual attainments, brought Gelukpa Buddhism here in the fourteenth century, and many Gompas (monasteries) were then built, and still stand at Thiksey, Likir, and Spituk. We went to morning prayers at the former and further on you can see a photo or two of it. The kingdom of Ledakh fell to an invading army from Balti-Kashmir in the sixteenth century, was taken back from them by the Ledakhis for a time, who later had to seek help from their former enemies in Kashmir to thwart an attack of Tibetan Mongolian origin. Ledakh has thus remained a part of Kashmir ever since, its political life, to the current time, emanating from Shrinagar. The central political interest up here is focused on a decades long process in the central government at Delhi, where the struggle for autonomy plods along.
We stopped for tea at a little place where a very impressive and unusual Maitreya, (see # 73), the Buddhist deity of penetrating intelligence and insight, was carved on a rock face, the first evidence of Buddhist influence we had yet seen. Further up the road we were to pass Shergol, and later a nice little town called Mulbekh, which was on this leg of the trip, the last outpost of Islam, and the beginning of solidly Buddhist country. Between Mulbeck and Lamayuru lay Fortu-La a pass at 13,500 ft., and Namika-La at 10,300 ft., not very high but cold in our open jeep.
The road here was better than anything we had seen in Zanskar, but anything would have been better than the rocks and glacier sluiceways that made up the road on that route, and so arrived at Lamayuru mid afternoon of the first day (see #74, #75, #76, #77, #78). No Anil, no Jeet and no jeeps, yet this was no surprise, as I did not expect to see them for days, as where was one going to get a gearbox in Kargil? Look at the photos of Lamayuru and spare me the trouble of attempting to communicate to you the beauty of the place. This is the oldest monastery in Ledakh, dating back to the tenth century, and was once known as Tharpa Ling Place of Freedom because anyone could ask for and receive sanctuary here, even criminals fleeing from the law. It sits on a rocky outcrop facing a set of mountains to the north over a vast area, now mostly dry except for the trickle mentioned earlier, once an old lakebed, an area the locals say looks like the moon. That description is ok with me, because we had to save Mars to find an image to communicate what we found on the Chumatang Plateau many days hence.
We wandered and mused, a favorite pastime of mine trying to put myself here ten centuries ago, wondering how in Gods name people were even able to survive here, or going beyond that, build a kingdom able to hold its own against neighbors who enjoyed the benefit of plants and animals, articles almost completely lacking here. Were they lithotrophs, and did their soldiers excel all others in heaving rocks? Clouds overhead projected shadows hundreds of acres across down to our realm, a scale in keeping with the valley down which we again traveled (see # 79), trying to reach Alchi before it got too late. Higher passes were ahead, Prinkiti-La, then Konze-La at over 16,000 ft., but by the time we reached Sumdo, and bent our track north for the Indus, on whose south bank rests tranquil Alchi, it was too dark to see.
An excellent guesthouse awaited us, (see #s 83 and84), as did a shower, a change from dust covered clothes, and a little restaurant which sat among streams, our table under an apricot tree from which we picked and ate fruit at just the right degree of ripeness, while we waited for our food to arrive. It was beautiful and quiet at night, but in the morning the ancient and soft feel of this village with a Mediterranean feel unfolded for us (see #80, #81, # 82). Were one reasonably content, with desires largely satisfied, Alchi would be an intelligent choice for retirement, and certainly deserved more time than we gave it. It possessed the gentlest feel, and the most character of any Ledakh village we visited on this trip.
Anil and Jeet, and the two jeeps were also revealed to us in the morning, and I enjoyed trying to figure out how they had acquired a gearbox, a Mahindra gearbox of just the right vintage, in Kargil. Anil is a sophisticated character, the disaffected son of a Brahmin priest in a village behind the hills where we live in McLeod and often, as I now sensed was one such instance, does not reveal all he knows. He discretely professed himself innocent of any awareness of the replacement gearboxs origin, but was clearly satisfied with his role in catching up to us so soon.
We must have crossed the Indus, though I do not now recall it, and made our way with a certain apprehension on the part of Sharon and I, to Leh, the only real city in Ledakh, and its capital, for I told you of how we were fleeced of all save a few of our rupees, by the canny Kashmiri merchants aboard the good houseboat Shalimar on Nageen Lake, in Shrinagar. Leh was the only place with anything approaching institutions which might advance us funds, but far more important to our wish not be jailed, Leh also possessed a Foreign Registration Office and a Superintendent of Police at its head who if we could find him in time, and who if he so chose, could legally extend our visas, now due to expire in two or three days, and thus make our ongoing journey in these remote regions legal and safe. This extension, and the use made of it by our friend, B.J. Lingham, (oh he who has no penis) at the Indian Embassy in Katmandu, two weeks later, is how we there got our teat in the ringer, as we have related to you in an earlier letter.
Had it not been for Rigzin we would not have gotten this extension, but get it we did in the nick of time. We were also able to procure funds through the shop of a Kashmiri merchant in Ledakh, one Nazir, an intelligent and very sophisticated person whose acquaintance we had made in Mcleodganj, where he also has a shop. With hands crossed flat against his chest, and slightly bent forward at the waist, he exclaimed in only a half exasperated tone, in addition to your friend, am I now also your bank? Yes we replied. Thus freshly fortified with funds and a new legal lease on life we spent a very enjoyable two days in Leh. (See# 86-90).
Leh, the capital of Ledakh, was a veritable oasis to us after the harsh journey there. It is situated in a mountain valley, from which both the Zanskar and Ledakh Ranges are much in evidence, and boasts a population of about 30,000, magnitudes greater than anything else up here. It lies just North of the Indus, and until 1947 had close trading relations with Central Asia, yak trains setting off from the Leh Bazaar to complete the stages over the Karakoram to Yarkand and Kashgar (#86). Atop the hill overlooking the city is the rundown nine-story Leh Palace (#88), and above the palace lies Victory Fort, built to commemorate Ladakhs victory over the Balti-Kashmir armies in the 16th century (#87). There is the old town, a labyrinth of alleys which havent changed for centuries, which sits close to the base of the foothills upon which are perched the Palace and the Fort (#89,90). In the background of #89 you can see a mosque commissioned by the Moghal emperor Aurangzeb. There are restaurants, hotels, shops, and all services required for rehabilitation after the trip here, and for preparation for the trip onward. For us what lay ahead was the more rigorous than what we had covered on this leg of the trip, and in reference to Zanskar, which other wise had no equal, only the Chumatang Plateau ahead was more difficult.
Our last night there, after a great but very late dinner in the old town, found Sharon and I navigating a mile or two of back alleys in the dark, for in a spirit of fun we had decided to walk rather than ride back to our hotel, and Will at first a hearty companion of the adventure, becoming more apprehensive, moaned I dont know why I hang out with you two, now were going to get corn holed for sure.
From this point on, things started to get hairy fast. Under the lash of Felizitas we were up before the sun, and traveled on down the Ledakh valley, which differs from its Zanskar counter part by being broader and more fertile. We left Leh going east, and early that morning stopped at Thikse, as I told you before, for an early morning puja (prayer), (#91), breakfast, then on to Hemis Gompa (#92-95), the site of one of the most incredible stories I have ever heard. This place is famous for the Thanka, 18 meters high, which is unfurled here every 12 years, and is very ancient with a reputation for serious religious training that antedates our current era by centuries. There is a record at this monastery of a young man who came in his early teens from some western land, trained here for many years, and became a very accomplished meditator, and a highly realized spiritual being. He is referred too in these records as Saint Isa, and I would like to add here that an honorific in Tibetan for such a person is the prefixed Je, so that he might well have been referred to as Je Isa. After some time he felt a calling to return to his native land, and in the next couple of years word came back to Hemis that he had been crucified there. Jeisa, Jesus. This is one possible explanation for Jesus missing years, and for the emphasis in his religious philosophy on compassion. We had lunch outside of Hemis and departed on our way (#96-97).
At Upshi, instead of proceeding down the Leh-Manali road we went straight east onto the Chumatang Plateau, which next to the Nubra valley above Leh, is said to be one of the most incredible landscapes in all India. It is a high mountain plateau identical with much of Tibet, which borders is virtually devoid of life except near the two or three lakes that depend on runoff from surrounding mountains. It is as if the valleys between mountains 6000 meters and more high, have been filled in with sand and gravel, with only the very peaks of the mountains projecting above the plain, their peaks a mere 500 meters above. It is an eerie landscape, which bears an uncanny resemblance to the pictures sent back by the Martian Rover, absolutely silent, save the moaning of thin winds over the plains and between the peaks, with nothing growing except the rankest of twisted vegetation tortured out of shape by the enmity of the place, but in a testament to the power of the will to be, wildlife does exist here, especially around the lakes.
After turning off the road at Upshi, we had a long drive to the town of Chumatang, following a course just north of the Indus, and passing along the way the towns of Mahe and Gaik. As we approached Chumatang we noted little pools between the road and the river that began to smoke in places, evidence that, high as we were, this area was marked by many geothermal vents. We were lucky indeed to find any place to stay here, as there are so few visitors, accommodations for the weary, who do come are essentially unavailable. It took a while for us to realize that we needed no blankets that night because the hut had been built atop these vents, which sprang up all round us, and the entire structure was heated from below. I also felt a peculiar sense of being slightly winded, yet fell asleep not wishing perhaps to connect the dots.
We proceeded next day, ever up into the highest reaches of the plateau (#98), and by noon heading straight south, had reached Tso Morriri (#99-100), the second largest lake here, and had lunch on its western shore just short of Korzok, the only town on its shores. After eating we went on into town, a dirty, nasty, and mean spirited little enclave, on the vibe scale the very rectum of the trip. Poverty and want does not ennoble the human spirit, but rather destroys it, leaving only a barely perceptible gap between the animal realm, and the human. Relieved not to be breathing its air any longer we departed, and making a northeasterly slant headed for Tso Kar. On the way we passed a nomad camp (#101), and knowing them to be lonely in their remote isolation, stopped in uninvited for tea, and received not only hot tea, but also warm hospitality. Gaining a sense of their goodness, made me reassess my harsh judgment of the folk of Korzok, for they were all inhabitants of the same place and shared alike its poverty. Maybe Tibetan superstitions were not so questionable after all, and perhaps evil spirits dwelling in the village accounted for the difference. It was late when we departed, ran out of time and had to pitch the tents above Tso Kar, on rocks and boulders, without any shelter (#102). I can now give a little talk about the charming features of high altitude sickness, the sensation that the next breathe may not hold enough oxygen to sustain life, even if standing stock still, and not moving a muscle save for the diaphragm, and the accessory muscles of respiration. Sleep? Forget it, too much fear. Yet there was the useful psychological exercise, which I had an opportunity to practice all night, of trying to prevent fear from becoming panic, for after all where can one run, the nearest oxygen 100 km distant? Not possible to lie down, because then there is the sensation of no air at all, so I had to shove my backpack into a corner of the tent, prop myself upright against it, and gut it out. 16,000 feet above sea level, but given a little time one adjusts, for by the time we reached Sarchu the next night I was ok, and able to attend to the others in the party who we suffering from similar complaints. During that long night with the thin cold wind rattling the tent, I was consoled by the sound of life moving about, something small close to the tent, and perhaps a wolf somewhere not too far distant.
A cold dusty day followed, without visible roads until half over, filled with amazing sights. Tso Kar (#103) is very much smaller than Morriri, and is surrounded by salt flats, yet despite the brackish waters it was host to an incredible number of wildfowl, some of immense size. We saw Bar Headed Geese, Black Necks Cranes, The Great Crested Grebe, Brahme Ducks, but not the Tibetan Crane. As we left the Lake we saw on the horizon of the plain, hovering like mirages, seemingly in midair with feet not in touch the ground, a scattered herd of Kyang, zebra stripped wild Tibetan Asses.
Leaving Tso Kar we headed nearly straight west, finally hitting a road that took us to Pangi Nagu, and shortly thereafter we struck the main road between Leh and Manali. A road is a wonderful thing, and this one took us to Pang, and almost immediately to Lachung-La, the third highest roadable pass in the world at 16,445 feet, the other two higher also on this road, but now above us on the way to Leh. Over this pass we descended into an area of unsurpassed beauty, called the Valley of the Kings, and indeed rather than a natural series of formations they resembled more the crumbled remains of a colossal civilization, now passed (#104-105). As you can see from the photographs, we traveled along the West or left hand edge of this gorge, often far out of our way because of the difficulty, with the resources available here, in building bridges that could span these gaps, the government looking instead for a narrow places, and building at those sites. Our goal was Sarchu, beautiful, but very rough, high velocity cold winds guided by the windings of the valley, tearing at everything. Photo # 106, while not a great one, shows our host Dorje, whose tent city, glimpsed in the background, is among the only such structures that exist here, erected because those traveling through would otherwise have no where else to stay. The tents though of rugged canvas, and well staked down, were nearly town apart by the winds that night, during which no one had any problems with high altitude sickness, except for headache.
The next morning we played a game of work up soft ball, Will and I having bought a ball in Leh for this purpose, and had found a small tree limb which we had carved into the semblance of a bat. The technique was to swing at the ball or try to get to first, then halt to gasp for air, almost a pantomime of slow motion play. Will applied to the Guinness Book, to see if we qualified for entry under the category softball, and high altitude, only to be told later it was not a category of interest to them. Because of our bladders, Sharon and I were witness in the middle watches of that night to Venus rising, over the mountains behind us, so bright we thought we had spotted a new comet, or a small moon the way it illuminated the backs of the clouds.
Leaving that morning (#107), we continued on down the valley, to Keylong (#108-109), technically in the Lahaul Valley, just over the mountain range to the south of which, lies Spiti, where Sharon and Will had traveled with Felizitas earlier. We were now back in civilization, with good guesthouses and food, and continued on down the road the next day and amid much beauty (#110), visited Dorjes family for a while (#111), then crossing the Rotang pass into the first real vegetation we had seen in a long time, were startled by the greens, and the warm moist air.
Our last night on the road was spent at the Nagar Castle (#113) in Nagar, next to the beautiful Nagar temple (#114), fortuitously host to a festival the next morning, where a goat was sacrificed, a disgusting and primitive Hindu ritual, which we involuntarily witnessed from our breakfast table. Making our way on down, we passed by Manali, and on the way up to Jalori pass, which takes us out of the Kullu valley down which we had been traveling since coming over the Rotang Pass, we stopped to visit a little Hindu temple under construction (#115), and once over the pass into the Kangra in which we live, stopped by a river which had a little grist mill, functioning automatically (#116), for a swim and picnic (#117). On down the Kangra valley with its farms and terraces sculpting the sides of the mountains (#118), we were finally, after 21 days, on our way back home to McLeod (#119).
* history pirated from various sources
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