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I had sung Ladakh's praises countless times to Simon even before we had booked our trip. I had cherished memories of treks into true isolation, monasteries hanging onto cliff sides, stupas littering the hills, the sound of monks chanting and blue skies like I had never witnessed before. At over 3500m high, Leh has thin air, vibrant skies and a vista at every corner. We were headed for the Himalayas and I was heading back to a place that had left an impression.
The flight into Leh is a good introduction. The plane seems to have to negotiate peaks and valleys with some of the mountains just metres away from the wing tips. The views are expansive; mountain after mountain, some snow capped, some barren. Being above the tree line, green is lacking but an array of soft melting browns, greys and russets take its place to make for a watercolour landscape. It's magnificent, unique.
We arrived at 6am and so the light was just breaking over the rim of mountains. We hadn't booked anywhere and so took our time in exploring alleys and backstreets to find a bed for the night. We had planned to be in Leh for a couple of weeks and so when we found a guesthouse with a courtyard garden full to bursting with flowers of every colour, an apple tree and a vegetable garden, a place to sit in the shade and what smelt like a good breakfast, we were delighted!
The thin air meant we had been huffing our way around the hilly terrain of Leh and now free of our 18 kilos we could have a real look around. Leh is a crumbling town. The mud bricked houses are square and plain and many have not weathered well. Balanced between a mountain side and a valley, it is too high to naturally have vegetation. Over many many generations, trees have been planted and each house takes pride in over planting its gardens to make for a haphazard frenzy of colour. The flurry of trekking tourism over the years means construction has gone a little potty and it seems in every street there is wobbly wooden scaffolding. That aside, the back streets and alleys are thin winding walkways that follow small canals. Littered with trees, and populated by nonchalant cows and friendly dogs; where people say hello, smile and don't try to sell you anything. Simon didn't like it at first. It was a little rough around the edges. It wasn't long though until all these smaller touches started to touch him.
Our first few days were all about exploration. We climbed the 800 metres to the fort that sits protectively over Leh. We got ourselves lost in the ancient palace. We ate at German bakeries, snacked on momo's and found our most favourite place for curry. Despite loving our guesthouse, our mattresses were made of coconut husk which basically forms into the consistency of cement when stuffed in a mattress. We both (pathetically) ached. Our shoulders actually felt bruised! We did a mattress test in about 8 different guesthouses until we found 'home'. Soft mattress, smaller but colour laden garden and Sanjay, the manager, who was one of those souls you instantly had to like.
For those not in the know, a momo is a Tibetan invention. A little parcel of pleasure. Steamed or fried, they are thin dough wrappings with steamy scrumptious spiced veg or cheese and mushrooms, chicken or even chocolate! All just the right size for you to dip and cram. The food in Leh is one of its appeals. The high altitude means big appetites and extra calories and so a food tour and cafe whoring became a favourite past time of ours.
Being the trekking and action Mecca it is we were surrounded by athletic types with wonderful tans and lean bodies so after a few days of gorging on chips chilli and apple crumble we thought we should do what needs to be done when in Leh. The highest motor-able road in the world is just outside of town and at 5830 metres it's in the realms of snow, glaciers and altitude sickness. It meanders its way down the steep mountains to the spindly town of Leh stretched along the valley below. Simon's compulsion for anything with numbers, height and speed could be appropriately satiated with a bus up to the peak and a mountain bike all the way down. And so we broke our exercise 'fast' with a very speedy exercise down! Well, Simon did and if he hadn't taken a wrong turning would have been in the running for the fastest time from peak to town. The start, at the peak, was bitterly cold and with two way traffic trying trundle over and through the skinny pass it was slightly chaotic. Simon's reaction to altitude was to feel light headed and with shaking hands he forced down a hot sweet tea and a biscuit before (ridiculously) getting on his two wheeled friend and ploughing past the lorries, jeeps, buses and motorbikes to a more friendly altitude. I took the dawdle option of admiring the view and taking photos. The road started off as mud, gravel and rock giving me lots of excuses to take breathers, but once tarmac was hit I was vulnerable to the need for speed myself! I was particularly proud of overtaking a young chap on his 500cc motorbike! 'Eat my dust,' I thought as I peddled past; legs a blur! I think Simon was secretly a little proud that I had beaten the big burly American's in our group... although I still had to buy lunch for the rather smug 'champ!'
Simon and I, whilst on point with many things, always disagree on the idea of getting away from it all. Whilst Simon feels a small town in the Himalayas of Northern India is escaping, I would choose a shed on a mountain with a yak for company. The compromise was a small village, Phyang, outside of Leh where there was one guesthouse owned by an Swiss German woman, Christina, her Ladakhi husband, Tashi and their small son. Hidden North, their home and guesthouse, is surrounded by arable farming, bright flowering gardens, cows, mountains and an incredible ancient monastery. We checked in for a day of solitary confinement and had organised with Tashi to venture into the mountains for a three day trek the following day.
Life in a Ladakhi village isn't all marigolds and views. Christina, with her endless hyperactivity, would jump from potato pulling, cow feeding, dinner making, children entertaining, washing, shopping and still in the evening would make time to sit with us and regale witty stories. It was easy to feel part of the family and so on our return from the trek we had planned to stay a while longer.
The evening before our trek we packed our rucksacks in our room with wide open windows, watching big fluffy clouds drift over 6000 metre peaks. The village scattered the valley below us and was watched by a grand whitewashed monastery that perched on a hill a little to small for its stature. With crisp air, a perfect view, only the sound of silence, the smell of chai steaming, my favourite person beside me and preparing for an adventure, I couldn't have been happier! All my bliss boxes ticked! Simon was happy enough although a hot shower, the option of a movie, a soft mattress and chilli chips would have probably made his little bubble a happier place.
An evening of playing with Tashi junior, talking with the smiley and wonderful Sven and speculating whether we could indeed manage a trek to the 6300 metre peak in the distance. Good food, great company and a long sleep all in preparation for our first altitude trek.
Dorje would be our guide for the three days. Studying Tibetan medicine was a bonus considering neither of us had done any type of training for the climb up! The first day was relaxed and easy. We stopped at streams to cool off and found a shady spot at a parachute covered tea stand for lunch. We followed a track along a river to our first home stay in the tiny but perfect village of Rambok. The village bumbles it's way through village life of harvesting whilst trekkers stop by for a meal and a sleep before continuing their adventure. Here is where time stands still. Traditional dress, a central water well, donkeys living under the houses. The only sign that you have not time warped are the brightly coloured crocs at the doorstep. The kitchen was full of hand made copper-ware, the furniture was carpet and low tables, the bathroom - a bucket at the back of the house and a drop toilet with shovel. Back to basics and we didn't need anything more. A feast of momo's were freshly steamed for us, endless tea and biscuits before a silent sleep under layer upon layer of thick, heavy blankets.
The second day was to be the test. An early start was needed to give us time enough to heave ourselves and our packs up the 1200m to 4950m above sea level. I once told Simon very early in our relationship about the need for pacing which, as I recall, he had ignored. He told me he would run ahead and meet me at the top. I had met him just 15 minutes later, sweaty, purple and with pride in tatters after his attempt at impressing me with his trekking endurance had failed rather unattractively. This time, after he'd claimed he had invented the advice about pacing, we decided to go slow and in order to stop my inner mountain goat from leaving him behind, I was to follow his tracks.
The going was slow, cold, somewhat painful. It was hard to see how we could go any slower. The need for tightening shoe laces, reapplying sun cream, taking off layers, putting on layers were wonderful pride saving ways to have a breather as poor Dorje kicked stones, whistled and chewed his nails to fill in time whilst us two humpty dumpty's puffed our way to the final summit.
It was all worth it! The views over either side of the pass were breathtaking. The fact we could see how far we had managed to climb was even more extraordinary. We had a champion' s photo of all three of us, a packet of biscuits and as long a sit as the cold wind would allow us before getting the rucksack in place, wooly hats on and start the slow, knee bracing descent.
It's funny how when you're walking up it's definitely harder than walking down and that down would be a breeze! A pleasure no less! When you're walking down you'd love to have a climb instead. The sweat and lung ache were perfectly do-able. As Simon's blistering heel started to throb, his ankles put in a complaint and my knees started to feel like hot pokers, a nice steep hill would have been a welcome reprieve. We are hard customers to please!
Our second home stay was a smooth operation. Hot water for washes bubbled on the wood burner. The stream just below was perfect for my sock scrubbing duty. A large dining area with beautiful, thick rugs and ornately painted tables served us fresh curry and masala chai. We chatted to other trekkers, shared stories with Dorje before letting the mattress take the weight of our sore limbs.
The last day was again easy if it were not for Simon having to walk like a ballerina to save his blister and me having to walk like I was wearing callipers to save my swollen knees. More villages, mini-monasteries, parachute camps and enormous angry rivers, splitting a sheer rocky canyon entertained us all the way back to the jeep waiting for us.
We stopped at Chilling on the way, a small community set on a plateau a few hundred metres above the road - tucked silently away where most don't even notice. Without doubt the most stunning village. Walnut trees, small stupas, winding alleys shaded by enormous canopies of gnarled trees. We met an old man, deaf as a post with skin as gnarled as the trees, who made copper ware from the natural copper found near the village. He sat tip-taping his small hammer over copper spoons and bowls whilst sitting crossed legged over red hot embers whilst we struck a deal for his goods. It was just as it would have been centuries ago with noblemen buying gifts for the king, replaced now by red westerners wearing Berghaus and needing souvenirs for their brothers!
Our return to Phyang, to a table and a shower and chairs was wholly appreciated. Simon taped up his blisters, I lunged. A hearty reward for efforts made.
We caught the local bus back to town the next day with the usual chaos of chicken negotiations, sacks of cabbages, children gawping and Simon acting the buffoon!! When travelling you have these moments of loving it all. The sounds, sights, people, emotions. You catch yourself being a fly on the wall of your own life, an out of body experience almost, and really see how incredible these adventures are. It's at these moments when you truly count your blessings. How very very lucky we both have been to have had a glimpse into so much and to share it with someone who puts the flag on top of your proverbial mountain.
Our return to our view from our beautiful room, to Sanjay, the flowers and the chai was made all the better for bumping into Sven again. His warm smile, enthusiasm for his story as well as yours and his openness of heart, his abilities and his life was compelling. Both Simon and I struggle with meeting people you adore or admire and having to leave them behind. It's a lucky thing indeed to be able to take these people with you, metiphorically speaking, and although Sven is lost along with so many of the people we have met along the way he is someone who really touched us. A gentle man. A gentleman.
We were in no rush to leave Ladakh and so we set about arranging a trip to the furthest tip of it on the Pakistan border in an odd little village called Turtuk. It would mean a private jeep which wasn't going to be cheap but the temptation was too much. A couple of days in the rainbow garden of the hostel, a few brownies and chai and we were ready to set off. The journey was through the Nubra Valley. Along the way we had an interlude of camel riding which having endured previously, knew that a 5 minute sample would be enough. Groins battered, thighs chaffed and we were happily back in our jeep through the exquisite and vast, flat valley floor. We stopped for lunch and were accompanied by the usual crowd of woolly mountain dogs (the dog whisperer strikes again) who themselves were accompanied by hoards of large, winged ticks. A little look at local wildlife.
Turtuk is Indian although Pakistan took it for nearly 50 years before India snatched it back. This snatching and squabbling had meant considerable loss of lives over the years and now it seems this tiny community is the centre of political turmoil. Surrounded by army bases, watched by helicopters, the people there seem to be getting on with life regardless of where the boundary lies. Their unique culture is also the centre of another debate. Should tourists go and muddy this extraordinary existence? Paradoxically a film crew were there to document the culture and take back the message of not allowing tourists in. The publicity and intrigue that will go along with this film almost advertises Turtuk. The barrage of crew, camera and technology also detracts from the innocence of the population but this didn't seem to be a concern of the director.
The life in Turtuk is basic but community led. People work with each other, like one family. They seem suspicious of strangers, less welcoming than other distant villages we had seen and both Simon and I felt we had come to party uninvited.
We were fortunate to be accompanied by a group of waifs and strays at our higgledy guesthouse. All of them wonderful company in vastly different ways- the alternative meditator, the weed lover, the organised organiser and the culture seeker. A day in the middle of nowhere where walking is restricted by army outposts or turbulent river and where the local population aren't too sure if they want you there means our best option was quality garden time. I explored the hills where local women worked, found isolated canals running through long established stone waterways, picked apricots from wild trees and watched the swallows play in the breeze before heading back to our small haven in the vegetable patch for fresh mint tea and story sharing.
Beautiful though it was, as we left Turtuk we were glad to have left them to it.
The journey home was a bumpy one. The clouds rolled in, the wind upped its game. From our view from the crumbling monastery we visited on the way we could see the weather was turning. Crossing the pass back to Leh was going to hairy. The top was very cold and a thick mist was descending. Fortunately we made it though without too much trouble and managed to cozy ourselves back at the guesthouse before dark. We were meeting our Turtuk friends at 7 that evening which gave us ample time to catch up with Sanjay.
It rained. It rained for hours and hours as if the clouds were doing the ice bucket challenge. We waited under brollies at 7pm in the town square. We waited and waited. No sign of our gang. We succumbed to hunger and dampness eventually, speculating on what could have happened and reaching the conclusion that we were the only daft people to have risked the river like streets.
We had one last day in Leh. I walked to the giant Buddha on the hill, Simon caught up on admin. As I was heading home for a well earned chilli chips I saw a jeep pull up and our rather more ragged friends tumble out! They had arrived 24 hours late. Just 20 minutes later than we had been, they had reached the pass when the weather had taken it's turn. An enormous landslide had encased the final few metres of the pass with giant boulders that only dynamite could shift meaning they had to wait as car by car they had negotiate the unmade, thin, slippery road, turn around and head to safety in the valley. The sudden flood of stranded travellers on the nearest settlement meant that their only option had been a leaking room with sponges for mattresses. We had been very very lucky to get to our warm and water free abode.
Our last night was spent with our new friends having Leh gourmet.
A fabulous send off before starting our very long journey to Shimla and to a reunion with Mum and Dad. Our rainy, 5am start on a local bus started with bags being tied to the roof with wool, a seat as hard as wood (well, it was wood) shared with 3 bottoms too many and only 2 days and 15 hours to go.
That is, if the passes were open and if the passes were safe.
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