Trek Low Quality

8/8/2019 Trek Low Quality

1/32

SEVEN DAYS IN LITTLE TIBET

The straw-gold sunlight of a crisp August morning slanting down from the

turquoise blue Leh sky, alighted

on a restless figure pacing the

road... a wannabe trekker with a

bulky pack on his back. For

better or for worse, D-day was

here and there I was... filled

with apprehension. This was to

be my first solo-trek in the

majestic Himalayas and I acutely

felt my heavy pack weighing

me down. The 85 km long

Markha-valley trail stretched

out before me with steep barren

gorges, icy treacherous rivers,

uncertain camping sites and a

couple of five kilometre high passes thrown in for good measure.

A Danish tourist I met on the trail had inquired (with raised eyebrows) why I trekked

alone and that got me thinking. Ive come to the conclusion that to trek alone you

need three qualities in about equal

measure. For a start, you need

confidence in your trekking skills

and be ready to face unexpectedsituations, secondly you must

enjoy being by yourself and lastly

you must be stupid... for no matter

how much you may enjoy solitude

or have the ability to leap over

mountains with a single jump, an

innocuous twisted ankle at a

remote spot could ensure that you

never left the mountains. Having

said that however, trekking alone

does lend a sense of vulnerability

that sharpens the senses making one intensely aware of ones surroundings, a

tantalizing feeling of being alive that cant be duplicated in the safety of numbers.

LEH - ZINGCHEN - YURUTSE

So anyway, there I was awaiting my taxi, impatient to be of with the dawn. The

elderly man next-door, with whom I had had long chats the previous day, butted in

on my thoughts and was sympathetically livid at the late taxi. He hollered a passing


2/32

taxi to a halt, ushered me in, and assured me of vengeance upon the ofending cab

for not arriving on time.

I waved a goodbye to the colourful prayer-

wheels of Leh as we exited from under the

ornate archway at its entrance. My driver wasa Kashmiri Muslim settled in Leh and we

chatted animatedly about nothing in

particular as the tarred road crumbled to a

graveled path, which soon degenerated to a

bumpy trail of pebbles that was the sole road

to Zingchen. The classic Markha-Valley trek is

around 100-km long, starting at Spituk

village. However the 14 km jeep-track from there to Zingchen was through hot

barren hills... something my guide-book described as a must-do only if youre a

masochist.

Ladakh is a high-altitude snow desert

cradled in the rain-shadow formed by

the towering peaks of the Greater

Himalayan Range and the Karakoram

Range of mountains. Receiving less than

4 inches of rainfall a year, most of it as

snow, the view from the cab was

remarkable. Not a bush, not even a blade

of grass bridled the freedom of the ever-present breeze as it swept up dusty

swirls around us. Below, in the distance

like a silver snake, lay the Indus river, winding its way through a lush green and

yellow corridor of cultivated fields, the only habitable zone in that harsh barren

land. I gazed out of the window at the

hills flying past... well not really fly

per se, it was more like being in a tiny

rowboat on a choppy sea as the little

car tumbled and see-sawed over the

boulder-strewn path.

We spotted a couple of villagers

walking our way and gave them a lift.

Mohammed and his wife had left early

that morning from Phyang, taken a bus

to Spituk and were walking to Rumbak,

a village on the way to Yurutse, where I

was headed. The entire trek was for the

benefit of a goat that Mohammed had set his sight on. He assured me that he was

not going to buy it outright... he only wanted to see it and make sure it was


3/32

healthy... that his investment was secure. Once it was fattened and ready for the

butcher hed be back to close the deal.

The narrow jeep-track finally gave up its unequal struggle and petered of. The car

deposited us at the head of a brambly path that began next to the clear Zingchen

stream. We took a break for tea. Mohammeds wife fished out a blackened littlekettle from her tiny backpack and went to collect water from the stream while

Mohammed and I collected dry twigs for a fire. They pressed maggi noodles and tea

on me, while stoutly refusing a share of the food that I carried... insisting that they

would soon be home anyway. It was this kind of hospitality, to even complete

strangers, that I encountered all over Ladakh. People everywhere were quick to

smile, chat and lend a helping hand. And that perhaps, is the reason that though

these folk live in such an

inhospitable land that

remains buried under snow

and cut-of for most of theyear; I didnt see a single

starving Ladakhi or one who

begged for charity. While

remaining respectful always,

they were never servile and

exuded a self-respect that I

found admirable.

The trail ahead lay along the

valley of the Zingchen,crossing the surging stream

time and again. Initially

crossings consisted of planks of wood loosely strapped together to form a

rudimentary bridge, further on they were logs thrown across the water and still

further ahead fording the stream necessitated some acrobatic skipping over

submerged rocks.

We soon passed a derelict guard-

house that announced the entrance

to the Hemis National Park, the last

abode of the snow-leopards. There

was supposed to be an entrance fee,

but cobwebs on the windows of the

cabin told that it hadnt been

claimed for quite a while. Snow-

leopards are rarely sighted in the

summer when tourists from around

the world descend to trek this route,

but in winters, when their natural

prey becomes rare, they are frequently spotted (pun not intended). Prowling aroundvillages and stealing livestock, they were once considered a menace. This was the


4/32

primary reasons that Homestays in villages was initiated... so that villagers along

the route made money from trekkers and realised the worth of preserving their

environment and in particular,

the snow-leopards.

I still hadnt got used to thelower oxygen-content in the

rarefied air and could barely keep

up with the light, efortless pace

set by the Mohammeds. They

took another break for my sake,

and whipped out the tea-kettle

again. This time it was the salty

Tibetan butter tea that they

brewed. Mohammads wife

squealed in delight, when Ibrought out my peanuts and

handed them both a fistful. They carefully put it in their pockets and munched them

thoughtfully the rest of the way. Though we lived in diferent worlds, diferent eras

even, it was surprisingly easy chatting with Mohammed. He talked of farming, I

talked of education, we both complained of the rising inflation and understood each

other perfectly.

We soon reached the tea-tent near Rumbak and parted ways. I settled down to a

lunch of Maggie-noodle soup and mint tea while they set of for their home. In the

tent were a couple of elderly women from Germany and a Canadian with his 14-year old daughter. Soon a gaggle of school girls from the UK trooped in chirping

away happily. The tent was getting crowded so I picked up my pack and set of

again.

The path now clung to the

hem of the hills bordering

the stream, till it finally

descended to a small

meadow used as a

campsite. Then was a stif

climb up a reddish-purple

scree-filled hillside that

quite literally took my

breath away. Chortens at

the top spoke of a

settlement beyond and

sure enough, the bright

green fields of Yurutse

beckoned.


5/32

Yurutse is a one-house settlement, and there lay the ancient stone building perched

over bright-green step-fields. It housed a young woman and her aged mother who

tended the fields and stayed there all by themselves. I was welcomed in with cups of

steaming hot mint tea.

Traditional Ladakhi houses have a central hall containing an ornately decorated

wood-fired stove with a metal chimney tunneling its way through the rooms above.

Two sides of the room are thickly carpeted with narrow, shallow tables laid out

beside them. Gleaming pots and pans are proudly displayed next to family photos

on the wall behind the stove. Among the vessels were some strangely shaped

kettles with long snouts used for pouring Chaang, the local beer, at weddings and

festivals. The walls were of thick stone, built to last for generations, and keep the

biting cold of the long winters at bay.

My resting pulse was a thudding 120 per minute (where normally its below 65)... I

was not yet used to the high-altitude. The human body acclimatizes by initially

elevating the heart rate and churning out more red-blood cells till there are enough

of them to mop up sucient oxygen out of the rarefied air. Then the pulse returns

to normal.


6/32

I took a long nap and then went to sit on the terrace above. I had packed a thick

slice of delicious apple pie from the German Bakery in Leh, and I sat down now to

do justice to it. In the sun it

felt like sitting in a microwave

oven, while shifting to the

shade felt like lying in the

chiller-tray of a refrigerator. I

finally settled down in the sun

with my wide-brimmed

Shikari-Shambhu hat and

took in the Stok Kangri peak

rising loftily above the sea of

swirling green fields, in

between mouthfuls of apple

pie.

I went down for another nap

only to be awoken by a dull thudding beat... a monk was worshipping at the small

private shrine at the top of the house. It was dinner time. For dinner we had donkey

ears... well not literally, but a dish whose literal translation from Ladakhi is precisely

that. It consisted of flat wheat strips rolled into the shape of a donkeys ears and

dunked into a broth of carrots, potatoes, spinach and herbs. I remarked that most

of the ingredients seemed to be locally grown and that the family had such large

fields. The lady of the house replied that finding land for farming was not the

problem, finding people to work on them was... a statement that would have

sounded absurd in any other part of India. But Ladakh, even with the sprawlingpopulous Leh as its

capital, boasts a

population density

of just 3 people per

square kilometre!

Staying with me at

the house were the

German women I

had met earlier andan American father-

son duo Jim and

Andy. I had a

pleasant chat with

them and their

guide Tashi, a BSc

student at a college

in Leh,

moonlighting as a

guide for pocket-money. This was a common phenomenon all through the four-month long tourist season when the snow-gods of the passes relented to allow a


7/32

deluge of visitors to stream in. Farmers, students, government ocials and their

supervisors everyone dipped in to partake of the herds that descended... and I think

its good that they do so, for then there is a strong incentive to keep the place

pristine. But I fear that once the all-weather road to Leh opens up, this still-

amateur tourist industry will become a full-time occupation and a lifestyle that has

remained untouched for generations will slowly fade away.

After dinner I went out to catch the sunset. I climbed down along the steep drop to

the valley and sat for a while at the edge, but the chill breeze drove me back to my

snug, carpeted room... and soon I was out for the night.

YURUTSE - KANDA LA SHINGO

The next day began early... I freshened up at the crystal-clear stream in the fields

and went to the toilet. Lavatories in parched Ladakh are water-free. They are

usually outhouses with a hole on the floor down which cow-dung and mud is

shoveled once the job is done. The chamber below it is regularly cleared and the

manure used in the fields... its quite a

hygienic and ecient arrangement if

you think about it.

Breakfast consisted of a rotis with jam

and butter, some of which were packed

for lunch. Though the previous day had

been tiring, we were all in high spirits as

we set of for the Kanda La pass.

The vegetation soon turned to patches

of scrub clinging desperately to the hard

cold rocky soil. This was apparently

prime real-estate for marmots. Marmots

look a bit like fat mongooses with shortened tails. They scampered around

unconcerned, not having

learned to fear people. There

were also numerous Chukor

partridges that strutted along

with chests pufed up proudlydisplaying their zebra-striped

wings.

The climb up to the 4800m

pass was gradual but

exacting. The German women

decided to turn back as their

high-altitude induced

headaches were getting

worse. We halted for tea at atent pitched near the base of


8/32

the climb and then followed an exhausting, literally breath-taking climb to the high

windy pass. The scenery opened up all around us as we ascended till at the top we

had a 360-degree view of the mountain ranges, with the Stok Kangri in the east and

the distant Zanskar range to the west.

The pass at the top had a mani wall and reams of prayer flags fluttering in thebreeze.

All promontories in Ladakh are surmounted by these flags. Buddhist mantras

printed on these flags are believed to scatter with the winds, blessing and purifying

the surroundings. Mani walls are made with hundreds of rocks inscribed with

Buddhist prayers, usually the mantra Om mani padme hum. Chortens and mani

walls are always to be crossed to

the left, in a clockwise direction,

for protection and wellbeing of

the traveller... a quaint tradition,

still followed rigorously by the

locals.

A noisy ever-present breeze

rued the mane of the horses as

we settled in the lee of the mani

wall for lunch. Tashi raced up a

nearby hill to get mobile coverage

and inform his agency that all was

well with their clients. The sun


9/32

was still warm and I felt drowsy after lunch. I waved a farewell to the Americans and

lay down for a nap. That was a bad move... a nagging headache that had begun as

we neared the pass now began to

get worse. Another half-hour at

that height and I knew Id be in

serious trouble... I hastily

descended the pass and caught up

with the Americans and their

ponies.

It was still a long gravelly route

down to Shingo. We spotted

numerous marmots peeping from

behind rocks and straggly bushes,

while eagles hovered high overhead.

Tashi had found a long eleganteagle-feather and had tucked it carefully into his bag for the village archery

competition. The competitions, he said, were like a party... where, he emphasised,

girls would be watching.

Shingo was a settlement with two-three permanent houses overlooking a stream

that meandered through sparkling green and yellow fields.


10/32

I took a short nap, and all-too-soon it was time for dinner. Dinner was Thupka (a

kind of broth). The house was built along similar lines to the one at Yurutse but was

smaller and seemed less ancient. The hosts, however, was just as gracious and

hospitable. The reason this trail has become so popular with European tourists is

because the Ladakhis, though poor, are

unfailingly honest and cheerful in all

their dealings.

The route ahead went down to Skyu

and then branched of. One route went

to Chilling, where a basket-crossing of

the Markha-river deposited you at a

motorable road serviced by local

busses. This was my exit-plan and the

route taken by trekkers who didnt

want to cover the entire trail. The otherbranched of along the Markha river-

valley with steep slopes hemming you in most of the way to the Kongmaru La, a

5200 m high pass, beyond which the trail descended to Shang Sumdo where a

tarred road lead back to Leh and civilisation. As I snuggled into the warm blankets

that night, I lay seriously considering my exit-plan, but put of the decision for the

next day.

SHINGO - SKYU - SARA

And thank-god I did!

All the high-altitude uneasiness had sloughed ofwith the night and I felt alive and

raring to go. Morning was a cold, refreshing splash at the sparkling stream nearby

gleaming in the sun. The horses tethered to the fence were stamping and neighing,

eager to be of and so was I

(eager to be of that is... not

the stamping and neighing bit).

The trail down to Skyu was

along the Shingo rivulet, a

narrow gully carved out of the

imposing rocky hills by this

playful little stream. At places,

the valley was less than a

hundred meters across with the

trail zigzagging repeatedly

through the stream as it wound

its way through brambly

bushes that infrequently blossomed into bright pink explosions of tiny flowers.


11/32

Somewhere along the way, my foot slipped into the stream, and thenceforth I boldly

crossed the stream not concerning myself with keeping my feet dry. As Jim and

Andy were more careful I soon outpaced them and found myself alone. Yes my feet

were cold and wet and yes my pack still weighed 13 kgs and yes to a hundred other

inconveniences... but finally I was trekking alone! It felt great!

The shallow gully had none of the wide expanse or barrenness that makes the

casual trekker feel insignificant. This narrow space, made alive by the cool,

bubbling stream had a personality one could relate to... this valley felt like it was

mine.

Gradually, the gradient eased and an abandoned parachute tent crept into view.

These parachute tents were all

army-surplus sold or given to the

locals to set up shop for trekkers.

As there were so few settlementsalong the way, the villagers usually

worked out a system to share the

tourist inflow and man the tents.

Well... man wouldnt be a correct

word though as it was usually taken

care of by the women while the

men worked as guides and

ponymen.

This tent had a small board welcoming the visitor to Kaya. Now Kaya was more than

2 kms out of my way and I was concerned I had taken a wrong turn somewhere...

but I neednt have worried. In the mountains, when a villager says baaju mein

hai (beside it) it usually means a 5 km radius, if he says aage hi hai (just ahead) it

usually means a stif 2 kms while idhar hi hai(it is here) translates to a kilometre

away. So I ignoring the sign and soon came upon Skyu.

The path to Skyu was lined with

weather-beaten old ruins

between craggy ancient clifsrising steeply on both sides...

reminding me strongly of an

Indiana Jones movie. As the

valley opened up, a thousand

year old gompa (monastery)

founded by the llamas of the

Drukpa lineage rose into view.

Monasteries initially began as a

hall where village elders and

the kings representatives satto discuss issues, collect taxes,


12/32

pass judgements etc. Being a convenient place for hoarding food and money, it

became a target for bandits. Soon they were shifted up high blufs overlooking the

villages for easier defense and began to play a more spiritual rather than political

role.

Unfortunately, the monk of the gompa was away and I sat down at the tent pitchedbelow with the Americans who had caught up. We sat below the thousand-year old

relic discussing American foreign policy and downing cups of steaming mint tea.

Soon the Americans left for Chilling, wistfully looking forward to hot showers and

gourmet meals while I set of for Markha and a whole week on the trail.

The village of Skyu, though sparsely peopled by any reasonable scale, was one of

the largest villages in the region. The houses and fields sprawled out for a kilometre

along the river

though I spotted

very few people.The village was

soon behind me

and the trail

climbed up the clif

bordering the

surging river. My

guidebook had

correctly described

this portion of the

trail as a series ofeyes, widening to

shallow basins

filled with dense

thickets of

s e a b u c k t h o r n

bushes and then

narrowing and snaking up ridges topped by chortens and mani-walls.

The day was getting hot now and I was running out of fuel. At a particularly

picturesque rise, I sheltered from the

breeze in the lee of a mani-wall and

unpacked my lunch. The rumbling

white river was a sheer drop from the

clif, while the noon-sky above had

taken on the peculiar crystal clear blue

of Ladakhi skies. I sat at the edge of

the clif and dug into my lunch of

buttered rotis, boiled egg and a boiled

potato with salt.

I felt contented and tempted to

snooze... but Sara was still some


13/32

distance away so after an all-too-brief halt I strapped on my pack and set ofagain.

Around 4 kms away was supposed to be

another tent at Hamurja. When I got

there, the parachute tent was not

manned but a group of French tourists

had set up a campsite on the small

pasture instead. I went to the kitchen

tent and sat chatting with the Nepali

cook (hoping to cadge some tea in the

bargain). He was a professional cook

with mountain expeditions and regaled

me with stories of his trek to Kailash

parvat with groups of more than two

hundred people (and how a few hare-

brained daredevils had decided to bathe in the freezing lake there and as a result

had, quite expectedly, died).

Further ahead, the valley widened as the river, though still full of vigour, seemed to

mature and calm down as it spread over the loose gravel of the valley floor. If I had

carried a tent of my own, Id have probably pitched it right there. The view was

spectacular with river spilling over the wide open plain bordered on two sides by

scree-filled high clifs and on the other two by distant snow peaks.


14/32

Just as I was starting to tire, the welcome signboard for the one-house settlement

at Sara came into view. Julian, the Canadian I had met earlier, was in charge of the

house. The lady of the house had run (literally run) to the neighbouring village

(around 2 kilometers

away) Chalak and had left

him in charge. Julian had

been down this same trail

some 15 years back with

his wife and had returned

now with his pretty 14-

year old daughter Emma.

I dumped my pack in my

room and went to sit by

the river. The rocks there

were nicely sun-warmed

while the water was

pleasantly cold.

Sunset in Ladakh

happens in stages. First

the shadows of nearby

hills begin to creep silently over the landscape as the sun dips from view. Then the

high ridges behind them start to dim while the distant high snow peaks catch the

slanting rays and turn to gold. And finally, these too are extinguished by the night

to be replaced by a brilliant coruscating sky twinkling with stars.

Dinner was dal, rice and spinach peppered with apologies from the gracious family

at the absence of vegetable in the dinner. Grocery shopping for them was a stif 3-

day trek to Chilling and back, so their apologies seemed absurd, but they were

genuinely sincere in their

remorse.

Post-dinner, their infant

Tenzing and Emma hit it of

big time. The crazier Emma

got the more Tenzing

squealed and giggled... it

was quite entertaining.

A large contingent of Israelis

showed up with the night

and the little house was filled

to the brim. But that

bothered me not the least for

the moment I closed my

eyes, the world dropped away and I was fast asleep.


15/32

SARA MARKHA

The next morning was early. Even as I sat yawning, buried under blankets, Julian

and Emma became a bewildering whirlwind of activity, changing, packing up things

and getting ready to leave. I stood for a while on the barn roof with my water-

bottle, drinking in the new day. The river had chilled during the night and was nowicy and foaming.

Breakfast was buttered rotis and tea. The Canadians set of after breakfast as I sat

to pack up and read my guidebook for the trail ahead. Breakfast lay heavy in my

stomach, the blankets lay warmly on my shoulders and I felt comfortably lazy... so I

shut my eyes and dozed of again. I couldnt help but notice the contrast with most

of the other trekkers Id met along the trail, who took the trail as a challenge, a

pretty little obstacle course to race through as speedily as possible. I guess most

European trekkers are the kind who like to conquer peaks and set records, while I

can see myself lazily chewing the cud with cows in a meadow far below, cheeringthem on.

The valley ahead was wide, with the river now a majestic restrained force. Once past

the bright green wheat fields of Chalak, the valley basin turned to sandy gravel with

towering sandstone clifs looming on both sides. There were ominous signs of

landslides at many places and the sun was intense, so I did not halt anywhere along

the way till I climbed a short rise and the view took my breath taken away (well... to

be honest, my breath was taken away as much by the steep climb as the scenery).


16/32

Punched into the adjacent clif-side were holes that monks had once used as a

retreat for quiet contemplation. The path ahead lay through thickets of

seabuckthorn forests and a wide shingled space without any shade.

The day was hot and it was with relief that I spotted the old crumbling fort of

Markha stabbing up into the distant sky-line. There were numerous meadowsmarked for

campsites and

pasture as I

neared the fort.

Up a short stif

climb to the

ancient gompa, I

sat in the breeze

by the mani-wall

at the top. Thegompa was

locked. I asked a

rosy cheeked

school boy about

it and he replied

Monk so raha

hoga. It was past

eleven a clock on

a hot lazy morning

what else could he have been doing I asked myself.

Markha is the largest village along the route so I was confident of finding some tea-

stall to halt for lunch. The village and its terraced fields spread out like a green and

yellow checkerboard

below me. I picked my

way through the

fields, looking around

for a place to halt and

before I knew it the

village was behindme. Ladakh being

Ladakh I should not

have been surprised

that the largest village

on the trail was one

with around twenty

houses. I found

myself in a marshy

pasture with a single

bent scraggly tree. Itook shelter in its shade and had my lunch.


17/32

The trail ahead was blazing in the noon sun. I trudged on some 15 minutes and

turned back for a last look at Markha... and that did it. Ahead of me lay a hot sun-

baked valley while behind me was a comfortable home-stay beside bright green

fields. I turned back and was soon

installed at the Mentok familys home.

On hind-sight it was fortunate that

laziness had won, for the trail ahead

crossed the Markha river at least twice.

The river swollen by the snowmelt in

the afternoon sun had swelled

dangerously. Trekking groups of

Europeans were only fording it now in

the early mornings, when the river was

comparatively docile.

At the home-stay, I shared a room withHenri, a French teacher and an amateur

photographer. He has been kind enough to send me some of his snaps which I have

uploaded here. In the evening I went back up to the gompa and this time found it

open. A monk sat within beating a mued drum and in a monotonous undertone

chanting a prayer. The mediaeval monastery felt deeply still and soothing. I sat

there for a while.


18/32

In the evening, another Frenchman and his daughters arrived. They were part of an

NGO that had supplied solar lighting to the village the previous year and were now

back to set up a UV-water

filtration plant.

Back at Sara, the Israelishad assumed I was part of

the local family that ran

the homestay, over here

the French assumed the

same. At Niamling and

tea-tents all along the

way people, both

Europeans and the locals,

assumed I was a porter or

a guide. I didnt see asingle Indian tourist the

entire time. An occasional

Indian tourist does cover

the trail from Zingchen to

Skyu and out from Chilling, but it is rare to see Indian tourists in the Markha valley.

What I also did not see was plastic wrappers, bottles, cans and all the assorted

debris of city life. It is a painful truth that where the Indian tourist goes he leaves

his mark... an ugly eyesore. So in spite of being such a popular trail for so many

years, Markha Valley has retained its pristine beauty precisely because you do not

find Indians tourists there. (In contrast the azure Pangong lake that I saw later wasbordered in places by plastic rubbish as a motorable road to Leh made it a easy for

Indians to get there).

Dinner that night was spinach momos and more cups of mint tea. The others

continued an animated lively conversation in French, with much gesticulation and

laughter, while I retired for the night.

MARKHA HANGKAR

The next morning I waved a goodbye to the sweet old child-like woman at the

homestay (who grinned toothlessly back) andset of for Hangkar. I caught up with a group

of Danish tourists I had seen earlier, who

were covering the trail on horseback with

full riding gear and a complement of guides

and helpers. Horseback was a good place to

be, I thought, as the trail vanished into the

icy river. There were four river crossings in

all and the surging icy water was almost

waist-high in places. I had firmly resolved

not to fall, but as my legs got numb I almost

did stumble on the fourth crossing.


19/32

Fortunately the weather was clear, and once changed to dry clothes the sun soon

warmed me up. As there was a

short window for crossing the

stream, I found many trekkers of

many nationalities at the tea-tent

ahead at Umlaung. I chatted with

the gentle group of elderly Danish

horsemen and women, a young

family from Belgium and assorted

ponymen, guides and porters.

The way ahead was through dusty

ridges and tangled jungles of

seabuckthorn bushes. I chatted

with a Muslim porter from Kargil

who kept complaining of theweight of the pack on his back (by

contrast I never found a single Ladakhi complaining of his lot). He lighted up at

hearing that my name was Ijaaz and then cooled down when he realised it was not.

We soon came upon a meadow with a teat tent welcoming one to Hangkar. The

village was still 2 kilometers away but this was a convenient camping site. An

expedition of the Indian Army was just setting of for the Stok Kangri peak and they

all looked ridiculously fit, hefting huge oversize packs and striding past with the

ease of a walk in the park.


20/32

As the sun reached its zenith the fields of Hangkar swam into view. The only word

that can capture my impression of the place is Magical.

The village consisted of about ten houses scattered around bright green wheat and

potato fields on the banks of the swiftly swirling Markha, with flowering meadows

of soft green grass thrown in for good measure. Sheer craggy clifs steeply rose on

two sides while a small tributary of the river cut a gully down one side with houses

blending into the hill beside

it. I find it surprising that

most tourists trek on to

Thujungtse to make the

most of the day, when

such a beautiful spot lies

in between.

I enquired at a white-

washed primary school set

back from the fields (the

only other structure apart

from the huts). The young

lady teacher there said that

the house in the middle of

the field had its key

hanging by the door.

Seeing my hesitation to just walk into someones house, she told a little girl sitting

there to direct me to her home. I followed the ponytailed girl as she skipped


21/32

through the fields. A powerfully muscled white horse stood grazing in the meadows

while a black flufy donkey (the kind seen in Winnie-the-pooh) lay with its calf

nearby.

I hung out my wet clothes to dry on the

hot rocks outside as I settled down forlunch. The woman of the house came

from her fields and prepared mint tea.

Before going back to her farms she

poked her head through the door and

asked Cock chahiye?. Slightly non-

plussed I said Kya??. Cock she

repeated with more earnestness. Seeing

my blank expression, she thought a

moment and tried again Cock-aa-

colaa ?. Ah! I politely declined.

After a short nap, I went for a stroll by

the river. It was a game of hide-and-

seek with the sun. As the sun dipped

behind the crags of the hill on the

opposite bank its shadow crawled across

my side of the river. The sun was still

harshly intense while the shade quickly became chilly so it required a constant

balance of moving with the shadowline for a comfortable stroll along the river. I had

heard locals complaining that the Markha Valley trek had become over-crowded,well I disagree. You do run

into tourists at tea-tents

and you do come across

occasional groups while

trekking but there are also

long stretches of solitude

and that evening I had the

valley all to myself.

Once the sun had dipped

from view, I made my way

back through the fairytale

meadow of yellow-white

flowers. A young llama boy

was chasing a baby sheep

as it frolicked all over the

place. He caught it and

carried one of them while the other slipped away. He called out to the pony-tailed

girl for help and together they caught the second sheep. I stood there patting the

horse while it steadfastly ignored me and continued hungrily munching the grass.


22/32

The woman and her three kids were collecting dry cow-dung as I returned home. I

sat on the stones outside taking in the darkening fields chatting with the little girl

about her school. She was

glad to know that I was a

mathematics teacher. The

tiniest of the three kids, with

the longest name of Jigmet

Dachi Lama chased a plump

black tomcat and plonked it

down beside me. The cat

half-shut its eyes in pleasure

as I scratched it and crawled

into my lap for a nap.

Just then, the girl pointed to

the opposite hillside where aherd of some twenty deer

were acrobatically descending

the sheer clif. The grandmother pottering in the potato field nearby looked up and

told the kids to chase them away. All three kids whooped and raced for the deer.

Looking mildly annoyed, the deer hopped back up the vertical precipice in a

dignified manner. The scene in the gathering dusk was surreal, and I wouldnt have

been particularly surprised if Totoro, the Japanese friendly spirit of the forest,

bounced along next.

Dinner was rice, a dry daal and spinachwith ketchup. An old transistor gave the

news of riots in Srinagar, which seemed a

whole world away. Midway through the

meal, the family donkey poked its head

through the window to join in the

conversation. It probably expected an

enthusiastic welcome and seemed much

mifed when the girl pushed it out and

slammed the shutters on its face.

I went out for a leak later that night and was struck by the star-spangled twinkling

night sky. The air was cold and crystal clear and every square inch of the pitch black

sky was sparkling with diamonds. The milky-way formed a hazy band above the

sharply outlined black hills. A shooting star with a long tail traced its way through

the heavens and I could not think of anything to wish for... everything was just as it

should be.


23/32

HANGKAR NIAMLING

Hangkar was my favourite campsite of the lot and I seriously considered staying

back another day there. However, before me lay the long climb to Niamling followed

by the high Kongmaru La pass and an uncertain transport at Shang Sumdo. With a

departing flight from Leh that was inflexible. I decided to husband my two sparedays for later.

The trail began with a heart-busting stif climb straight up a gorge, with no time for

sissy things like warming up. Framed behind the chortens and prayer flags waving

in the breeze at the top were the fields of Hangkar stretching down to the river.

What had robbed me of my breath was just a daily route for the school children

staying in that village!

Once past the village, the narrow trail clung to the steep hillside and in half an hourdescended to a rickety bridge that lead to a meadow-campsite across the river.

Porters and pony-men there were packing up the tents while the sahibs had gone

on ahead. Even as I reached the bridge, the porters waved for my attention. Over

the roar of the river, we communicated in signals and I was directed not to cross

but to walk on the rocks up the stream and find the trail further ahead.

The trail ahead was through a rocky stretch over scree-filled slopes with loose

gravel and numerous signs of recent landslides. I picked up my pace till I reached a

huge boulder overhanging the trail and rested in its slight shade sipping from my

water-bottle.


24/32

Just then, loose pebbles rained down on my hat and even as I comprehended the

danger of an imminent landslide a fist-sized rock crashed down inches from my

feet with a sickening thud. I looked up to see three long faces framed in the sun,

looking down at me with great curiosity.

They were blue-sheep, locally known as bharal. I knew well that any moment the

pebbles they were dislodging could start a landslide, but it was so funny I couldnt

resist clicking a snap before hastily grabbing my stuf and getting the hell out from

under them. From a safe distance,

I observed the mountain goats at

leisure, at their remarkable sure-

footedness as they pranced

casually from one tiny invisible

outcropping to another. They

soon lost interest in me and

casually hopped up the vertical

clif.

Walking on, I reached a rock-

strewn untidy little meadow with

a tea-tent. I was surprised and a

bit disappointed that I had

reached Niamling so soon and

that it wasnt half as picturesque

as I had heard. Well... I was in for a surprise. I had just reached Thujungtse, a


25/32

campsite I thought I had passed an hour back. Niamling was still quite some

distance away.

The Danish group of horsemen reached the tent. All were in their late fifties, and

remarkably fit for their age. One of them I talked to said that when he was of my

age he had been trekking the forbidden places in Tibet!

The way ahead was a stif steep climb up a mountain. Hangkar to Niamlink is an

altitude gain of around 800m in just six and half kms. To make matters worse I had

taken a steep shortcut used by the locals and not the gradual longer way taken by

trekkers. I reached the top

exhausted but the view of the

majestic Kang Yaze massif on side

and the Stok Kangri range on the

other was well worth it. I met up

with the Danish group again and

we climbed a shallow rise to what I

consider the most sublime place

on the entire trail.


26/32

A serene wide C-shaped pool of crystal clear snowmelt water rippled gently in the

cool breeze mirroring the snowy pyramid of Kang Yaze and the brilliant blue of the

sky. I settled down for lunch at the concave end of the C-shaped bank of the pool.

A tiny stream tripped down from a rise on one side, feeding the pool. Climbing up

the stream I came across yet another ethereal pool of still sparkling water. This one

had a `skull-cap crown of dull-yellow flowers floating in the middle. I hopped all

over the place taking snaps, egging my dying camera battery on. But again, when I

look at the snaps now, they seem lifeless.

I dipped my feet in the pond but

quickly put on shoes again, thewater was freezing. I sat by the

pool for almost an hour till I was

certain I had made it mine.


27/32

It was with reluctance that I heaved on my pack again and set of for Niamling. The

long rest and the thin air made the going tough. I took no breaks in the hour and

half it took to get to the rolling

alpine meadows of Niamling. As

the evening progresses, the

mercury there plummets and it

would have been downright

dangerous to be late in reaching

this camp, as I wasnt even

carrying a tent.

Niamling is a vast pasture cut

through by the Markha, with

rudimentary stone dwellings ofnomads on one bank of the river


28/32

and a few tents of trekking groups scattered across the other. Nomadic goat and

yak herders have been using these ancient huts for generations... its a lifestyle that

I dont think will survive for much longer.

The guy in charge of the home-stay tent there was a dour fellow. There were no

families staying at that height, and I can well-imagine that the bitter cold and harshlonely life there for four months of tourist-season must not exactly be a picnic.

This was the only camp that I had actually booked in advance... not finding blankets

or tents here would have been, well... fatal.

It was nice meeting Henri, the Frenchman, again. He was to share my tent. Dinner

that evening was a bland daal-rice and an equally bland boiled cabbage sabzi.

As the sun dimmed, the

slanting rays lit upon a

large flock of sheep

and goat that filled the

meadow with bleats

and grunts as they

returned for the night.

A few yak and dzo

stragglers followed

suit, lumbering across

the freezing river over

a rickety wooden plank

of a bridge.

The night was bitterly

cold. Fortunately the

quilts provided were

massively thick and buried as I lay curled in a sleeping bag under them I was soon

fast asleep. It had been a long, eventful day.

NIAMLING - KONGMARU LA - SHANG SUMDO - LEH

The day that followed would be much longer still. The plan for the day was to crossthe 5200 m Kongmaru La pass and then drop almost a kilometre down a steep,

treacherous trail on the other side to Shang Sumdo some 16 kilometers away.

As I filled my bottle from the Niamling Chu, water splashed on my hands and within

moments they were numb. I have never felt cold of that kind before, when all you

feel is pain and dont know even know if your hand is wet without looking down to

check.

Going to the toilet in the open is an experience in Ladakh. On the one hand the vast

landscape is bereft of people, on the other it is also bereft of vegetation... so no


29/32

convenient bushes to squat behind. It was a fair 20 minute trek to some distant

boulders that blocked both the view and the breeze.

By the time I returned Henri had left. I thrust my hands in the sleeping bag and

rubbed them till feeling returned. Breakfast was the usual buttered rotis, a hot

watery gruel ofmilk and rice and

steaming cups of

tea. I set of

early, before the

other trekkers

left.

The climb for the

pass starts as

soon as the trailcrossed the

Niamling Chu. It

ascends to a wide

open plateau

which is like a flat

bowl surrounded

by ranges of

snow mountains

all around. Living

in a city all my life, its dicult to even comprehend the wide empty expanse thatspread out all around me. Occasional yaks looked up in surprise as I marched past

them, zigzagging up to the pass.

The high, snow-

lined windswept

pass was mounted

by a long mani-

wall with colourful

p r a y e r fl a g s

fluttering wildly in

the chilly breeze.

The view was,

e x p e c t e d l y ,

magnificent and I

felt on top of the

world!


30/32

I took a short halt at the top and blazed a

greeting in the snow for the trekkers whowould follow.

Once below the snowline the hills were overrun

with marmots and rabbits while the skies above

had circling eagles. You had only to stand still

for a minute to see the marmots and rabbits

come out from behind boulders and peep out

of their holes to stare at you, twitching with

curiosity.

It was a long slippery track down to the swiftly

flowing stream. Many pack-animals had slipped and died in this stretch so I took it

slowly. Once in the valley, the terrain changed dramatically. The angry snow-

strengthened stream had cut through

the rock like knife through butter.

There were large rock spires

bordering the stream... much like the

Elvish statues beside the river down

which Frodo rowed his canoe.Fantastic rock formations were lined

along the stream. Occasionally the

path rose steeply to clamber over a

jutting boulder, at times the path

crumbled to a series of loose rocks

scattered across the stream and

occasionally careful wading through

the white rapids was called for.

It was a long but exhilarating walk to

the tea-tent at Chusykurmo (which

literally means sour water after the

muddy stream beside it). I sat with a

young apprentice guide, a Ladakhi

college student studying in Delhi

(whose one complain was that the

horses farted too much), and had a maggi noodle soup garnished with local herbs.

It was pleasantly warm under the plastic of the tent and I stretched out to relax and

consider my next move. I could either halt at Chogdo a kilometre down and then go

to Shang Sumdo the next day, or try and make for Shang today itself... a further 3

km walk on an easy trail. Shang is a road head connected to Leh, but as only one


31/32

bus left in the early morning, I decided to push on to Shang and try to book a cab

with some of the other trekkers.

Once past the pretty fields of

Chogdo the path gently

undulating on the side of thehills was wide, even and with

an unchanging view of the

river valley below.

When trekking alone, it is

imperative not to let the

mind wander for a simple

slip or unwittingly taking a

wrong turn can have

disastrous consequences.But the path did get

monotonous after a while,

and I rambled through the labyrinth of memories that were crowding my mind. In

time, the fields of Shang Sumdo came into view and the trail ended at a tea tent

above a tarred road.

Netanel and Mikhail, an Israeli couple, stumbled in exhausted about an hour later

and we decided to book a cab. (Being the small world it is Netanel was, of all things,

a mathematics student at precisely the university I almost went for my postdoc).

Booking a cab was however, easier said than done.

The village had one

telephone, a BSNL

receiver belonging

to the auent

family in the village.

I went to their

house and

requested to use

their phone. Two

pretty young girlscame down dressed

in bright Tshirts

and jeans that

seemed out of

place in that rustic

hamlet. They

studied at a college

in Srinagar. They

brought down with them their BSNL receiver and a bulky looking battery. We walked

up a road to a place where they assured me we would get coverage.


32/32

Along the way, the girls noticed that their cow was tethered too close to their fields,

and one of them raced down the embankment, in her fancy clothes and sandals to

pull the cow away. The other girl and I shued all over the road waving the receiver

around to appease the telephone gods... but it was not to be. I returned to the tent,

mission not accomplished.

A bus soon came lumbering up an hour later and Netanel rushed down to book it.

After much haggling and calling in the owner from the fields, we booked a car to

take us back to Leh and creature comforts.

It is true that I longed for hot showers and tasty food but my mind was still

swimming with visions of the landscape and people I had spent the past week with.

Even now, almost three months later I can vividly recall the aquamarine hues of the

sparkling sky, the lonely windswept passes, the white untamed rivers cutting

through rolling alpine meadows, the bright green and yellow step fields swaying in

the breeze, the vast barren expanses and most of all the simplicity and warmth ofthe people there.

I would strongly urge more people to experience this trail, particularly other

Indians. Blanketed in our city-smogs most of us are not even aware of the beauty

our country has. But to all who go there, I pray that they follow the old adage of

trekkers Take back with you only memories, leave behind only footsteps.

To everyone I met in Ladakh, Julley !!.

Documents

Trek Low Quality