Desolate and breathtaking, Ladakh has a rugged magic to it

I visited Switzerland after I went to Ladakh. I sincerely wish it had been the other way around. That is because all the romantic Bollywood hype about plush, enchanting and picture-perfect Switzerland pales in comparison to the stark, naked beauty of Ladakh. It may be the lesser-loved cousin of the Jammu & Kashmir joint family and a late notation on most tourists’ calendars, but it towers unassuming, yet somehow haughtily, over the rest. Even though air tickets are quite expensive, we had decided to fly up to Leh, sacrificing a gorgeous drive in the interest of saving time. Strict departure briefings included words like ‘rest’ and ‘acclimatisation’. Wise advice you should ignore at your own peril—it is actually the difference between life and near-death. Leh—at a breathtaking height of 3,505 metres (11,500 ft) above sea level—has 35 per cent less partial pressure of oxygen than Delhi, sunshine like you would not believe and air you can actually get high on. For the vain, like me, the air is also a natural hair straightener, lighting up your blanket with static after lights out. It is so dry that you are actually ‘advised’ to eat plenty of butter—usually best with locally baked Ladakhi bread, a cross between a doughy kulcha and roti. But I would not recommend the Ladakhi butter tea to the faint of heart, which packs a pungent punch with dollops of yak butter and salt. Get the highest SPF sun block you can legally get, lay on the chapstick and do not forget to pack those sunglasses, especially if you plan to go where the snow is. If you are expecting tall trees and lush green then you are in for quite a surprise. As the plane sweeps into the Leh airport, your first impression is brown. And olive green. Leh is an Army town. From the lumbering ‘One-Tonnes’ to the CSD mark on tins of Milkmaid; from a thriving second-hand market for combat boots and frayed windcheaters to the hillside golf courses with diesel-greased putting patches; from rows of oil drums lined up like tin soldiers to the glint of the Officers’ aviator Ray-Bans—the Indian Army is omnipresent. Till you step into any of the monasteries just outside of Leh—Alchi, Shey, Thikse—where a burst of colour greets you on the outside—multicoloured prayer flags, bright gold, blue and red motifs on the walls and shy monks in their saffron and maroon robes. Most monasteries are dank and dark inside and those with serious claustrophobia would do well to avoid the sanctum sanctorum. If you have a relative in the Army posted at Ladakh, this should be reason enough for you to go right away—permissions come easy and the Army does have access to prime real estate. We went in the post-tourist season, in October, which was all very well, except we often had to survive on dry fruits and chocolates, while wearing up to four layers of clothes to ward off the biting winds. Outside of the tourist season, most eateries and shops in towns along the Indus—both toward the Pakistan and China borders—close down for the winter. Besides, the Ladakhis do like their afternoon siesta, so avoid the lunch hour for any shopping, especially after the summer when they are not even willing to entertain your lame attempts at bargaining. Taxis are the obvious way around but are quite expensive, so do settle the fares in advance. We were quite lucky with Norbu—our cheeky and daredevil driver who insisted on swinging his head back for a chat, while negotiating the curves at over 16,000 ft. Do not venture too far out of Leh if you have the slightest vertigo. Roads are dizzyingly narrow, flanked by jagged rocks and sheer 90 degree drops, though some places seem to have jumped right out of The Lord of the Rings movies. For those who do wish to venture beyond touristy Leh—and I strongly recommend that you do—there are a set of permissions that are required from the civil administration. Save those permits and do be careful of convoy timings, as the narrow roads become one-way every time a large Army convoy’s on the move.We had the opportunity to see one of these on the move. As long lines of olive green snake through the mountain ranges, along narrow serpentine tracks, the sight is as awe-inspiring as the rest. Ladakh sits between four parallel mountain ranges and plays host to a number of rivers, including the historically-evocative Indus. Each valley comes with its own colour palette and a surprise awaits you at every hairpin bend—white sand-like dunes to hard rock and warm yellow, rainbow-coloured sunsets to moonlit brown. Gompas and monasteries give way to mosques as you move from Leh toward Kargil. Combined with the abundance of sunshine, the purity of colours against vast expanses of land, it’s a photographer’s delight—I took over 400 pictures in two weeks and I can not even call myself an amateur shutterbug! There are hidden delights too, like the gazing yaks in the Nubra and Shyok river valleys, the Indus that flows quietly alongside a shrunken riverbed that serves as a road. In fact, two definitely deserve a spot on Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. One is a shrivelled hand rumoured to be Chenghis Khan’s, inside a temple in the Shyok Valley. The other is Darchik village near Batalik. Billed as the only surviving ‘pure Aryan’ village in the world, I brave the trek and a nose-bleed only to find a handful of regular-looking people, lots of empty Maggi packets and one of the most beautiful old women I have ever seen. I suppose it is all that healthy trekking and the fresh mountain air, but for a moment I seriously consider the rumours of neo-Nazis coming there to breed. But bluer than the eyes of the old lady is the regal Pangongg Tso (lake)—towards the China border, onethird of which is inside India, with the rest in China. Fluffy white clouds and brown mountain ranges provide the perfect backdrop to the blinding blue. Of course, no self-respecting adrenaline junkie can ignore Khardung La—the world’s second-highest pass and the highest motorable road at 18,380 ft. Once there, as I get out of the car to pay my compulsory respects at the famed multi-faith temple-cum-room, it is like wading through thick syrup on floating legs. Till Norbu tells me it is the sudden ascent, and I realise we have gone from 11,500 feet at Leh to over 18,000 in 40 kilometres! Ladakh is haunting not just for its beauty, but also for tales of bravery in the face of extreme adversity. The Kargil War memorial at Bhimbet, with its view of Tiger Hill and Tololing, and those who fought in the 1962 Sino-Indian War at Rezang La brings both tears and goosebumps. They are stark reminders of the soldiers still on the border, especially the treacherous Siachen Glacier and braveheart drivers and pilots who connect them to the rest of the world. Many of the nameless migrant labourers and engineers who seem to have carved roads out of sheer force of will are immortalised by incongruous-looking memorial stones after every other mile along the Indus trail. Interspersed, of course, with warnings to the living: the stark “Overtaker, beware of Undertaker” and “It’s better to be Mr Late than Late Mr.…”; a flirty “Be gentle on my curves”; the cryptic “Be weatherwise, not otherwise”; and the pithy “Do not gossip, let him drive” or “Drive. Do not fly”. All the while the mountains stand, majestically unaware of their beauty, standing guard over the deafening sounds of silence, twirling prayer wheels, sun-kissed mosques and crinkly-eyed, smiling people. Ladakh might stand witness to a bloody border, but driving along the Indus, one is struck by the sheer inconsequentiality of human life, dwarfed as man is by Nature at its forbidding best.