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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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,
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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
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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.
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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.
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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).
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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!
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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
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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.
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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 !!.