The wind crosses the brown land, unheard…
Wedged between the Great Himalayas on the West and the Karakoram and Ladakh ranges on the North-east lies an amorphous mass of reddish-brown mountains, that would find a place in any list of the most spectacular wildernesses on earth. The Zanskars are believed to have resulted from the collision of the super-continental tectonic plates of Gondwanaland and Laurasia, the massive impact of which, it is said, yanked up the ocean floor on either side to form the range. The landscape, no less dramatic than the region’s geological history, mocks the picture-postcard perfection of Himalayan stereotypes. There are no pine forests to be found here, no grassy grazing pastures, no perfectly shaped snow cones reflected in tranquil mountain-lakes. Instead, visitors are greeted by a vast wasteland of rock, scree and ice, almost completely shorn of vegetation except for narrow strips along the river valleys.
Wedged between the Great Himalayas on the West and the Karakoram and Ladakh ranges on the North-east lies an amorphous mass of reddish-brown mountains, that would find a place in any list of the most spectacular wildernesses on earth. The Zanskars are believed to have resulted from the collision of the super-continental tectonic plates of Gondwanaland and Laurasia, the massive impact of which, it is said, yanked up the ocean floor on either side to form the range. The landscape, no less dramatic than the region’s geological history, mocks the picture-postcard perfection of Himalayan stereotypes. There are no pine forests to be found here, no grassy grazing pastures, no perfectly shaped snow cones reflected in tranquil mountain-lakes. Instead, visitors are greeted by a vast wasteland of rock, scree and ice, almost completely shorn of vegetation except for narrow strips along the river valleys.
Zanskar’s remoteness is impressive, even by exacting Ladakhi standards. While the Indus valley, including Leh, was a major trading post on the famed Silk Route, the few remote passes providing access to Zanskar remain snow bound for all but 3-4 months a year, keeping the area almost untouched by external influence. Unfazed by their inhospitable environment, however, the ever-smiling Zanskaris make the best of the recalcitrant soil to insure themselves against the demands of an unforgiving winter. The pretty fields of wheat, barley and potatoes surrounding the villages along the rivers are temples to their tenacity and perseverance.Soon the winter snows will lock up the region leaving its inhabitants with only one exit route – the parlous traverse over the frozen Zanskar river, also called the Chadur, every step of which is fraught with the danger of deadly dunks in water so cold that it runs with the viscosity of oil…
The road winding above among the mountains
My journey begins from the picturesque village of Darcha on the Manali-Leh Highway which, until recently, used to be the trailhead for the southern access to the region through the 5000 metre high Shingo La. A dirt track now leads upto the village of Plano, about 10 KMs further and work continues beyond as the Indian administrative machinery slowly worms its way into the heart of this pristine land, carrying seeds of change to lifestyles unaltered for centuries.
A few days later, in a cozy meeting room of an NGO in Leh, I sit through a film on Helena Norberg-Hodges, an active campaigner against the direction of development in Ladakh and the authoress of the acclaimed book, “Ancient Futures”. The film berates the disruption of traditional Ladakhi culture, which is upheld as a model of harmonious co-existence with nature. While the film chooses not to point fingers, the Indian Government, as the architect of change in the region, is implicitly posited as the villain of the piece. The predominantly Western viewers gasp and sigh as the film seeks to unveil the ugly depredations of modernity on a hoary but defenseless culture. It seems unlikely that any of them have been in a situation where a road can make the difference between life and death…It is hard to argue with Norberg-Hodges’ assessment of the Ladakhi way of life or that it will be considerably altered as a result of external influences. What is debatable, however, is the wisdom of artificially insulating a culture from inevitable winds of change so that a few iconoclastic anthropologists can preserve their Shangri-Las...
Gordian sociological knots apart, it is not a very pleasant experience to hike in the company of noisy, smoke-belching bulldozers. On the other hand, there is a good reason to look forward to the completion of the road – I might well need the services of a Qualis to haul myself across the Zanskar in a few years’ time!
The rugged trail follows the Darcha River for about 3 days until it culminates in a back-breaking 40 degree ascent leading upto the Pass, beyond which lies unraveled, the majestic moonscape of the Lingti Valley – I am finally in Zanskar! The last vestiges of the monsoonal shroud, which so completely dominated the horizon at the trailhead, are arrested by the obdurate pass, leaving a clear deep-blue backdrop for jagged ochre-brown cliffs, which point arrogantly heavenwards, as if to indicate the divinity of their origin. The might of the mountains is, however, humbled by the gushing waters of the Lingti river, as it carves out a few life-sustaining oases from this forbidding desert – charming, whitewashed houses surrounded by greenish-yellow fields and rows of chortens provide a stark contrast with the uncompromising severity of the mountains and sky above.
Continuing alongside the Lingti, a side trip from the prosperous Zanskari settlement of Purney, takes me to Phugtal Gompa – an awe-inspiring monastery literally chiseled out of a sheer red cliff. I make my way through its labyrinthine alleyways, into a grotto in the cliff that serves as the main prayer hall. Phugtal, like many other Gompas in the region was set up by Padmasambhava, the itinerant Indian Buddhist sage who is credited with bringing Tantric Buddhism to Tibet. In the early 18th century, Phugtal played host to Alexander Csoma de Koros, a Hungarian scholar whose contributions towards bridging the intellectual distance between the East and the West, which include the first English-Tibetan dictionary, deservedly earn him a place among the great pioneers of Orientalism.
It is not much more than a week since I commenced my journey and a part of me is already beginning to miss the familiar comforts of home. I can’t help marveling at the scholarly fervor of Koros, Padmasambhava, and other Himlayan Masters such as Adi Shankaracharya whose quest for truth and knowledge forges routes through physical and mental barriers that would have intimidated less resolute feet. There is surely no worthier testimony to the greatness of their lives than these venerable mountains.
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
The first stage of my journey ends at Padum, where my attempt to hitch a ride onwards to Kargil and Leh results in my being unceremoniously consigned to the hold of a rickety truck alongwith a few tons of freshly sheared wool, a couple of unfriendly looking dogs and a few sheep, whose continual bonding exercises are liberally sprinkled with rituals of mutual anointment!
Gordian sociological knots apart, it is not a very pleasant experience to hike in the company of noisy, smoke-belching bulldozers. On the other hand, there is a good reason to look forward to the completion of the road – I might well need the services of a Qualis to haul myself across the Zanskar in a few years’ time!The rugged trail follows the Darcha River for about 3 days until it culminates in a back-breaking 40 degree ascent leading upto the Pass, beyond which lies unraveled, the majestic moonscape of the Lingti Valley – I am finally in Zanskar! The last vestiges of the monsoonal shroud, which so completely dominated the horizon at the trailhead, are arrested by the obdurate pass, leaving a clear deep-blue backdrop for jagged ochre-brown cliffs, which point arrogantly heavenwards, as if to indicate the divinity of their origin. The might of the mountains is, however, humbled by the gushing waters of the Lingti river, as it carves out a few life-sustaining oases from this forbidding desert – charming, whitewashed houses surrounded by greenish-yellow fields and rows of chortens provide a stark contrast with the uncompromising severity of the mountains and sky above.
Continuing alongside the Lingti, a side trip from the prosperous Zanskari settlement of Purney, takes me to Phugtal Gompa – an awe-inspiring monastery literally chiseled out of a sheer red cliff. I make my way through its labyrinthine alleyways, into a grotto in the cliff that serves as the main prayer hall. Phugtal, like many other Gompas in the region was set up by Padmasambhava, the itinerant Indian Buddhist sage who is credited with bringing Tantric Buddhism to Tibet. In the early 18th century, Phugtal played host to Alexander Csoma de Koros, a Hungarian scholar whose contributions towards bridging the intellectual distance between the East and the West, which include the first English-Tibetan dictionary, deservedly earn him a place among the great pioneers of Orientalism.
It is not much more than a week since I commenced my journey and a part of me is already beginning to miss the familiar comforts of home. I can’t help marveling at the scholarly fervor of Koros, Padmasambhava, and other Himlayan Masters such as Adi Shankaracharya whose quest for truth and knowledge forges routes through physical and mental barriers that would have intimidated less resolute feet. There is surely no worthier testimony to the greatness of their lives than these venerable mountains.
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
The first stage of my journey ends at Padum, where my attempt to hitch a ride onwards to Kargil and Leh results in my being unceremoniously consigned to the hold of a rickety truck alongwith a few tons of freshly sheared wool, a couple of unfriendly looking dogs and a few sheep, whose continual bonding exercises are liberally sprinkled with rituals of mutual anointment!
It is a dismal, bumpy and bitterly cold ride. The few thin shafts of light streaming in through the truck’s armor, only serve to spotlight suffocating clouds of dust and wool. I am eventually let out at Rangdum Gompa, 10 hours away. Located on a saucer shaped grassland, Rangdum is surrounded by soaring peaks, the highest and most majestic of which is the magnificent glacier-clad fork of the Nun-Kun massif, shooting up 4 KMs from the northern head of the cirque. Rangdum is geographically the first village of the Muslim-majority Suru Valley but culturally, a part of Buddhist Zanskar. The precarious cultural fault lines inherent in such a situation gave way a few years back when suspected Muslim extremists shot dead three monks at the Gompa, sparking off vociferous demands by the predominantly Buddhist areas of Ladakh and Zanskar, for greater autonomy, including Union Territory status, for the region. Their demands were partially granted a couple of years back with the setting up of the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council. Union Territory status, however, still appears to be a distant dream, hinging as it does, on larger political questions hanging over the future of Kashmir.
I head up to nearby Panikhar to explore the verdant Suru valley which offers even closer glimpses of the magnetic twin peaks of Nun and Kun before leaving for Leh en route to my final tryst with the Zanskar – the Stok Kangri, one of the highest points of the range and the predominant feature of Leh’s western horizon.
Fear in a handful of dust
A disturbed sleep at Stok Kangri’s base camp is finally terminated by my guide as he peeps into my tent with a brusque “Shaab Chai”! . It is summit day and I face the intimidating prospect of an 8-hour slog up and down 1300 metres. Stepping out, I am greeted by an icy, howling wind that threatens to fly away with my flimsy shelter at any moment. Mercifully, the promised cup of tea soon arrives, getting enough circulation going in my benumbed system to prepare for the climb ahead.
We walk under the inky blanket of a beautiful night sky smeared over with a generous helping of stars. The brilliant moon highlights the forbidding profile of the lofty summit that I am hoping to conquer. After an hour spent traversing a high ridge overlooking the base camp, we cross a glacier to arrive at the foot of the mountain. An accidental glance upwards reveals the disturbing sight of the serpentine trail, zigzagging its way through some 1000 metres to the top of the peak. I reach for my bottle to digest my disbelief only to find the water frozen solid!
Half-way up the slope, I notice the first friendly rays of the sun peeping up from the eastern horizon. Reinvigorated by the arrival of our heavenly escort, we rapidly gain the top of the mountain’s south-eastern flank to watch the divine charioteer wipe out the sulky remnants of darkness with the gentle reddish glow of his early morning cloak, gradually uncovering the surreal landscape of crumpled earth that lies all around us.
We forge ahead along the ridgeline. The narrow flank with exposed sections of loose scree and slippery ice call for caution at every step – the lightest tread on the wrong patch of earth could mean plummeting hundreds of metres down the vertiginous slopes on either side. My lungs are stretched to their very limits by the ever-decreasing concentration of oxygen as the ridge punishingly noses its way upwards towards the summit. Eventually, after yet another lung-bursting scramble, I gratefully soak in the vibrant colours of prayer flags, beckoning me across the gentle snow slope that separates us! Vici!
Once my respiration returns to a semblance of normalcy, I get back on my feet to inspect the land I’ve trodden on for close to 2 weeks. The 6100 meter high vantage point of Stok Kangri’s summit offers an astounding 360-degree panorama of Himalayan majesty. The inchoate Zanskars dominate the Western horizon, crowned by the now-familiar Nun and Kun, beyond which lie the Great Himalayas. To the north stretches the other great mountain system of the sub-continent – the mighty Karakorams. The gleaming profile of its supreme lord, K2, is unmistakable even though the peak is half-hidden and well over a 100 KMs away.
Cutting across the eastern section of this soaring range flows in the old silk route from Central Asia. As I descry the tortuous road making its way through the seemingly impregnable mountains, I can almost feel the relief of goods-trains at finally stepping into the welcoming arms of the Indus valley after having spent months battling the whims of the elements. These feisty tradesmen have now been replaced by merchants of death, trading their deadly wares across one of the most absurd theatres of war in the world. “Siachen” screams my guide, gesticulating wildly towards the deceptive serenity of the white blanket spread in front of us…
The sun is getting stronger now - its fierce shafts strike deep into my head, hinting perhaps, that I have overstayed my welcome at these exalted heights. We make our way back to the company of mortals after offering prayers of gratitude to our accommodating host…
Vijay
I head up to nearby Panikhar to explore the verdant Suru valley which offers even closer glimpses of the magnetic twin peaks of Nun and Kun before leaving for Leh en route to my final tryst with the Zanskar – the Stok Kangri, one of the highest points of the range and the predominant feature of Leh’s western horizon.
Fear in a handful of dust
A disturbed sleep at Stok Kangri’s base camp is finally terminated by my guide as he peeps into my tent with a brusque “Shaab Chai”! . It is summit day and I face the intimidating prospect of an 8-hour slog up and down 1300 metres. Stepping out, I am greeted by an icy, howling wind that threatens to fly away with my flimsy shelter at any moment. Mercifully, the promised cup of tea soon arrives, getting enough circulation going in my benumbed system to prepare for the climb ahead.
We walk under the inky blanket of a beautiful night sky smeared over with a generous helping of stars. The brilliant moon highlights the forbidding profile of the lofty summit that I am hoping to conquer. After an hour spent traversing a high ridge overlooking the base camp, we cross a glacier to arrive at the foot of the mountain. An accidental glance upwards reveals the disturbing sight of the serpentine trail, zigzagging its way through some 1000 metres to the top of the peak. I reach for my bottle to digest my disbelief only to find the water frozen solid!
Half-way up the slope, I notice the first friendly rays of the sun peeping up from the eastern horizon. Reinvigorated by the arrival of our heavenly escort, we rapidly gain the top of the mountain’s south-eastern flank to watch the divine charioteer wipe out the sulky remnants of darkness with the gentle reddish glow of his early morning cloak, gradually uncovering the surreal landscape of crumpled earth that lies all around us.
We forge ahead along the ridgeline. The narrow flank with exposed sections of loose scree and slippery ice call for caution at every step – the lightest tread on the wrong patch of earth could mean plummeting hundreds of metres down the vertiginous slopes on either side. My lungs are stretched to their very limits by the ever-decreasing concentration of oxygen as the ridge punishingly noses its way upwards towards the summit. Eventually, after yet another lung-bursting scramble, I gratefully soak in the vibrant colours of prayer flags, beckoning me across the gentle snow slope that separates us! Vici!
Once my respiration returns to a semblance of normalcy, I get back on my feet to inspect the land I’ve trodden on for close to 2 weeks. The 6100 meter high vantage point of Stok Kangri’s summit offers an astounding 360-degree panorama of Himalayan majesty. The inchoate Zanskars dominate the Western horizon, crowned by the now-familiar Nun and Kun, beyond which lie the Great Himalayas. To the north stretches the other great mountain system of the sub-continent – the mighty Karakorams. The gleaming profile of its supreme lord, K2, is unmistakable even though the peak is half-hidden and well over a 100 KMs away.
Cutting across the eastern section of this soaring range flows in the old silk route from Central Asia. As I descry the tortuous road making its way through the seemingly impregnable mountains, I can almost feel the relief of goods-trains at finally stepping into the welcoming arms of the Indus valley after having spent months battling the whims of the elements. These feisty tradesmen have now been replaced by merchants of death, trading their deadly wares across one of the most absurd theatres of war in the world. “Siachen” screams my guide, gesticulating wildly towards the deceptive serenity of the white blanket spread in front of us…
The sun is getting stronger now - its fierce shafts strike deep into my head, hinting perhaps, that I have overstayed my welcome at these exalted heights. We make our way back to the company of mortals after offering prayers of gratitude to our accommodating host…
Vijay
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