THE LAND OF FLYING LAMAS & OTHER REAL TRAVEL STORIES FROM THE INDIAN HIMALAYA

by GAURAV PUNJ

  We were soon on the other side of the Khardung La where the Nubra valley lies. It’s the northern side, so there was much more snow here and the asphalt road snaking through the snow provided for some great photo-ops. That’s the thing with Ladakh, almost everywhere you go, all you need is an instrument to click pictures and they will all be masterpieces. Honestly, unless you don’t expect to visit Ladakh ever in your life (but really, how could you not be tempted to), don’t go to an exhibition of Ladakh photos (or for that matter, the Himalaya in general) and buy them. So clear is the air, so large the scale, so sharp the colours, any photograph anyone takes is bound to be incredible.

  Nubra valley

  We descended quickly and crossed the North Pullu checkpoint. (Please don’t form any romantic notions about South and North Pullu based on their cute names, they are just small army settlements, with no other purpose but to check who is passing through, or so we thought.)

  The descent brings you down all the way to the river, and the sight invariably forces you out of the car in a bid to capture it, before you soon realize that’s impossible and you just sit by the road and look at it. It’s a wide river basin, couple of kilometres wide, dotted with squares of green cultivations, the aqua blue river snaking its way past them and small wooden bridges, appearing even smaller from the height of the road, connecting the banks to these cultivations. On both sides, you can see the river basin extending for miles, flanked by mountain ranges and the feeling of being small insignificant nothings, reappears. It’s Ladakh, so the scale is obviously beyond imagination and visualization, but Nubra, according to me, is the ultimate mind-bender when it comes to sheer size of everything around you. A photograph is on page iii in the inserts.

  A little further on we came across a big V formation, a mountain chain in the middle and riverbeds on both sides (Shyok meets Nubra river). The right side of the V goes on towards Siachen – civilians of course are not allowed all the way there. We took the left and soon were driving through the dried-up river bed itself towards Hunder, the place made famous by its sand dunes and Bactarian camels. Soon the sand dunes made their appearance, the smaller ones first eliciting a ‘What’s the big deal’ from an impatient Arzoo, before the big deals started showing up. We turned right from the road onto the sand dunes and parked the car. The scene we saw pretty much encapsulates the growth in tourism Ladakh has seen over two-three years. When we came here in 2006, we had to first look for the camel herders, who then had to look for their camels in the bushes nearby. Almost an hour passed before they could track them down and fix seats on their backs. We were told to stay off them unless called and then noiselessly climb, and while taking a ride respect the animal.

  Cut to 2010 and we were now in a parking lot with around forty cars and tourist buses. In front was a ticket counter with a long queue, the customary cold drink and snacks shop with leftovers thrown outside, another queue of people waiting their turn to ride the camels, and excited riders testing the patience of the emaciated camels. It was the classic catch-22 situation. You go to a nice place and want to tell the world about it, but then the world wants to go to that place and it can’t stay nice anymore. Anyway, I am sure everyone who travels regularly faces such dilemmas, so I‘ll leave it at this. What affected me most was the plight of the camels. The proud Bactarian camels, with a double hump (and hence so nice to ride on) brought here a hundred years ago by some caravan on the Silk Route, have somehow managed to survive all these years. Their numbers haven’t increased, there were still ten-twelve camels as in 2006, but their workload had. From letting visitors climb on their back once in a while, they are now employed full time in this business, without their consent of course, evident from their weak bodies and broken spirit. I shared my concerns with the group and we all decided not to ride. Instead, we walked for a while in the sand dunes with the snow-covered peaks in the background, took some photographs, threw some sand around, and returned.

  Packaged Ladakh

  Ah, the lure of packaged trips. We will fly you into Leh, take you to Khardung La and Pangong, where 3 Idiots was shot, show you two monasteries and fly you back. Flight, stay, food and transportation, all-inclusive. But there is one thing they miss out on – Ladakh is very high. And with height come unpredictable weather and the necessity to acclimatize. One in three people who fly into Leh directly have a horrible time adjusting for the first two days at least, and by the time they do acclimatize, it’s time for the flight back. Of course not everyone will admit to being pooped out on their great adventure and will instead focus on the photos at Pangong or the highest road in the world, etc. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t suffer. Now before this suffering becomes a ‘it is like that only’ kind of a phenomenon, know that there is a superb (and cheaper) alternative – drive from Kashmir to Leh, soak in Ladakh and arrive fully acclimatized. And by all means, fly out of Leh and save time there. Or else, drive back via Manali.

  We stayed the night at a guesthouse in Hunder. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go to a hidden lake,’ I announced, having decided to reveal my next card. Hidden lakes, flowering valleys, deadly gorges, phrases we all read in adventure stories and associate with fiction are very much real in the Himalaya and are guaranteed excitement boosters. ‘It’s a lake formed inside the mountain chain, in the middle of the river basin. Remember I showed you the V shape earlier? It’s in the middle of the V. It’s a fresh water lake and the locals consider it extremely sacred. I call it hidden because, when you’re walking towards it, you can’t see it till the very last moment.’

  ‘Walking?’

  Out of my entire monologue, Aliya had picked up just that one word.

  ‘Yes, a bit of walking as the car can’t go all the way. It’s an easy walk,’ I said reassuringly. She didn’t seem convinced though.

  The next morning we got up early and started driving towards Panamik village. Tourists used to visit this village largely to see the hot springs; these were later occupied by the army, who used them as a natural shower and washing machine. It’s pretty dirty now and best avoided. We got out of the cars and climbed for about fifteen minutes, took a turn, sensed the lake before seeing it, quickened our pace and emerged right by its shore.

  It’s a small lake by Ladakh standards, with a circumference of less than a kilometre, but it’s different. There are Buddhist prayer flags all around it, your voice echoes when you call out, the grassy shore tempts you into lying down and invariably people fall quiet and do just that.

  It was soon time to head back to Leh. We were to leave for a short two-day trek and homestay in Rumbak village the next day – the highlight of the trip, I had told everyone. So with music playing in the cars we settled in for the long drive to Leh over the Khardung La. ‘Will reach Leh by 4 p.m. latest,’ I said.

  Ha.

  We are not going anywhere today

  We reached the flat plateau just before the final climb to Khardung La by noon and immediately knew there was something wrong. More than fifty cars were parked there and there were signs of confusion everywhere. It didn’t take long for us to hear the first rumour – there’d been another snowstorm the previous night; the road was blocked, but the army was clearing it. ‘Okay, let’s go to that dhaba there and eat something,’ we decided. Some optimists decided to remain in the car and wait while the rest of us ordered a plate of momos at the dhaba.

  As I looked around, I felt like we were in some sort of a global village: there were people from at least five-six countries there – Israelis, French, Americans, Australians and some other Indian tourists too – having tea or momos. Everyone seemed to be relaxed and not terribly bothered. As of now.

  Half an hour passed and the next rumour flew in: the army had not been able to get their vehicles up from Leh, so it would take some more time. Well, too bad. ‘Let’s play cards,’ someone said and we pulled out the lazy bums from the car, got our packs of cards out and
started with badaam saat. Tea and pakoras were ordered. The couple running the dhaba were moving around purposefully; they must have sensed it was time to bring on their

  A game.

  ‘Excuse me, can you tell me what is happening,’ a French girl, a single traveller, asked us, perhaps thinking we were the smart ones there who would know. We told her both the rumours we’d heard and added that we didn’t know anything for sure. ‘But there must be a way to find out,’ she said. Hmmm, there must be, just that none of us had thought about it. ‘Don’t you think we all, as in Indians in general, are much more chilled out and patient, not that I’m saying this is a good or a bad thing,’ remarked Kunal, eyeing the French girl with a patronizing look. ‘But I can understand that she would be more concerned; it’s not her country and she is travelling alone,’ argued Pallavi. The rest of us kind of agreed with both of them.

  Time flies when you are playing a game of cards, and when we next checked our watches it was well past 2 p.m. It was time for a loo break and also to find out what was latest in the rumour mills. ‘Sir, there is an army control room over there. You please go and find out, they are not telling us anything,’ was Tashi’s suggestion. We walked towards the control room and joined a big throng outside. ‘They are trying to get in touch with the top,’ someone told us. As we jostled a bit further we heard, ‘There is a chance it will not get cleared today’, a little further and ‘4 p.m. is the deadline for today’, and finally, ‘There is a technical snag and we are trying to get the latest information’, straight from the sharp-looking captain. He also confirmed that if they didn’t get a clearance before 4 p.m., they would have to block the road for the night.

  We had a quick group discussion and decided it was best to return to Hunder and spend the night in the guesthouse. It seemed more and more unlikely that we would reach Leh tonight. And at 4.30 the message came: ‘Come back early tomorrow morning.’ As we drove back I told the group that if we managed to cross over early the next morning, there would still be time to go for our short trek to Rumbak village. The question was, what time would we be able to cross.

  The next morning we started at 6 and by 7.30 we were at the checkpoint, our hopes of an immediate crossing dashed by the sight of a few other cars waiting in front. We followed yesterday’s routine and were soon playing cards, sipping tea and eating momos at the dhaba. The couple running it had now been joined by two of their relatives in anticipation of a busy day.

  Soon the dhaba started filling up and by 9 a.m. was bustling with activity. Then came the latest rumour – a truck was stranded on the road above and army vehicles were trying to clear it out of the way. A new twist. But the overall feeling still was that, come what may, we would be able to reach Leh today, pakka.

  No one had been able to enter or leave Nubra valley for the last two days, so all faces were by now familiar, but there was a subtle difference in everyone’s behaviour, especially the foreigners. They were now huddled closer together in two or three groups instead of sitting by themselves, like they had the previous day. They were obviously getting worried, as were many of us, but they were definitely more edgy. We felt it was a matter of time before something happened. Our game of cards was more interesting at the moment though, and we turned to it.

  A game of cards is not just a game of cards; it’s a stage where people sit together and chat, joke, pull each other’s leg, order endless cups of tea and generally bond, especially when they don’t know each other well. And in this case, it was also our way of insulating ourselves from what was turning out to be a big spanner in our plans.

  ‘Why is it taking so long for one cup of tea,’ we heard someone shout in a thick American accent. There you go. The simmering tension had come to the surface. There was a hustle in the kitchen and the lady hurried out with the tea. Arzoo and Upasana, who thought the two Americans were cute till yesterday, called them ‘jerks’.

  Looking at the situation objectively now, one can argue that if it were us stranded in a remote place in a remote part of an alien country, we would have been more worried than the locals as well. Perhaps, perhaps not. But the point is that at the time, we didn’t feel their situation was any worse than ours. And we felt they had forced the words ‘they’ and ‘us’ through their behaviour.

  It was almost noon by then and following is the sequence of events for the rest of the day: Rumour 4 – the truck is stuck at an angle that makes it impossible for it to be towed without it falling down the slope. Confirmed later by the army guys in a polite and calm manner. ‘Don’t worry sir, we are trying our best to get you all to Leh asap.’

  A walk around the place. Discussions with other groups. Sharing of our plights – will miss my flight, my medicine is over, the foreigners are so fattu, etc. Back inside for more cards. News at 3 p.m. – chances are the road will not open today either. Mass depression. Meeting with my group – we will not drive all the way back to Hunder; let’s stay in the village below. News at 4 p.m. – road won’t open today.

  There wasn’t much we could do so we decided to accept the situation and try something different today. Khardung village was just thirty minutes from there. We stopped our cars on the road and Aliya, Tashi and I went and knocked on the door of the biggest home in the village. An old man opened the door and we told him our situation and requested him to let us stay in his house. Tashi also pitched in and Aliya smiled innocently. Perfect. He agreed in so little time, I almost got the feeling he was hoping someone would come and stay in his house!

  We whistled to the rest of the group and waved them in. It was a biggish house with three rooms including a living room. We moved the furniture from the living room and put gaddas on the carpet for all of us to sleep. Tashi and Sonam helped the family (the man’s wife and a young son) cook a simple but delicious meal and for the entire evening we didn’t think about the fact that we were well and truly stranded in Nubra valley.

  Later, under a full moon, with the snow shining on the peaks around us, I told the group about the ‘chakwa’ concept (in Maharashtra, a chakwa is a mischievous ghost who plays a prank on you so that you keep coming back to the same place you started from), and told them that now we have broken the jinx by staying at a different place, we would surely get out tomorrow. This amused everyone. More ghost stories followed and the host family also joined in, curious about why we were making so much of a fuss. Later they brought in a lot of blankets, it was bitterly cold don’t forget, and the combined warmth of pure yak wool blankets and the eight of us together in one room ensured we had a good sleep.

  Tashi, in his optimist avatar now, woke us at 6 a.m., and by 7 a.m., after a breakfast of Ladakhi bread and butter tea, we were off to the all too familiar dhaba. I must mention that the holding area itself was very pretty – a photograph is on page iv in the inserts; but since we were forced to stay there we weren’t able to appreciate its beauty that much.

  The D-day

  By virtue of staying the night in Khardung village, we were amongst the first ones to reach the dhaba and grabbed the best seats. It didn’t surprise us anymore that the road was still not open, no work can happen at night on the road, and we knew it would be some time before news/rumours started coming in.

  Another round of breakfast, rueful smiles exchanged with the usual suspects trickling in, cards brought out, and so began another typical day in Nubra valley. Everyone was watching out for the foreigners to see their reaction at having to wait again. But today, they came with a strategy. And the strategy was to pressurize the army guys non-stop. Every ten minutes a few of them would walk to the Army control room, where we could see them gesturing wildly, and then return with their voices louder, more confused, one step closer to completely losing it.

  ‘They are threatening the army guys and demanding a helicopter rescue,’ someone informed us. Wow. We followed the next contingent to the control room and figured that there were just a couple of them who were ultra-aggressive; the
rest were trying to be rational, but getting dragged along by the more belligerent ones. ‘Sir, we can’t get a helicopter just for your group. Most likely the road will open today, if not, the army has already planned for a helicopter rescue of everyone stranded here by tomorrow. You must understand it is very, very high and the helicopters struggle at this altitude. It’s not so straightforward.’ The captain must have said the same thing countless times in the same calm tone.

  It was disappointing to find out that there was a chance that we wouldn’t get out even today, but it was also clear that it was not for a lack of effort from the army. The conditions were just too difficult. Come to think of it, just the fact that there is a fully functional road there is a miracle in itself. Because of the altitude and the narrow road, big recovery vehicles can’t climb up and the lighter ones were having a tough time getting the truck cleared. On top of that, there was intermittent snowfall daily and temperatures would drop to below freezing.

  As we were roaming outside the dhaba, doing time pass, we heard loud shouting from inside. It had happened. We rushed in to see a bunch of Indians arguing loudly with some of the foreigners. Apparently, they had been loudly cursing the army and India in general, and a group sitting close by had had enough of it. On one side were a bunch of three, a boy and two girls from Chennai. On the other were the two Americans, the French girl and a couple. ‘The army is not doing anything.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘It can’t take two days to clear a road.’ ‘But it is not an ordinary road.’ ‘Bullshit.’ ‘Bullshit what?’ ‘Bullshit this place, this army, this country.’ ‘Who asked you to come here then? You guys come because you want to travel cheap.’

  I could see everyone was particularly angry about the comments against the army.