A trans-Himalayan Adventure...

Kargil
Kargil marks the line of control between India and Pakistan. It's not exactly a border, but divides two thirds of Indian-controlled Kashmir from one third Pakistan. Thousands of families were reunited in the nineties when the first bus from Srinagar to Lahore (?) traveled across it. Bombs and shells fly over it from Pakistan now and then, but not frequently. Most people only stop the night before moving on to Srinagar, Zanskar or Leh. Police are everywhere and the town is a strategic point for the military machine that controls it.

Dividing India and Pakistan, Kargil is dominated by Tibetans, Kashmiris and Ladakhis. They're all troubled by either Pakistan, China, India and / or Afghanistan. Many Shi'a in the area. Strolling down the street we spot a poster of an Ayatollah leader and Boaz and Ruth, being Israeli, balk at the sight of it. All the hotels are scummy, expensive, unfriendly. We find one by squatting patiently outside it.

It was a better than the other dingy dives with their flee-infested beds, stained sheets, peeling paint, horrible toilets, sleazy men. That night, however, we witnessed the premier of the Itchy and Scratchy Show – In other words, bed bugs. Nice.

In the centre of town, we tried to hustle a jeep for Panikar, a sweet village positioned at the opening of the Suru Valley. A crowd had gathered around us, mostly drivers trying to rip us off with tourist prices. David and I have been there, done that and got the tee shirt, so there was no way we were going to fall for any of their crap. Neither were we about to get all flustered in the chaos and commotion many were creating around us. We picked the quietest guy, “Doh hazaar”, he said; meaning, 2000 rupees. “Ek hazaar”, I countered. “Teek hai.” We steered him away from the crowd and sorted out the rest. We had a done deal with a stellar dude and he was taking us to Panikar for the price we wanted to pay.

Panikar
A tiny white-washed pueblito with no more than about 100 residents, Panikar is an agricultural area with few shops, most of which remain closed throughout the week. It's difficult to buy basic necessities and we found ourselves scouring the town when looking for things like butter (nope), bread (only comes in form of chapati made at home), tomatoes (it's not the season), water (short supply).

Sunny and dusty, there was hardly a soul to be seen on the one street that made the town, a kind of a town. It felt like we'd entered a place fresh off the set of a western. Pretty colours of fields lined the country road. Stretching out for acres, they were dotted by locals who worked until their backs broke to harvest crop for the winter. This is the Suru Valley, leading to Zanskar. It was the start of something beautiful, the beginning of an adventure, a trans-Himalayan adventure. I was not prepared for the way in which the landscape was to change for us over the following weeks, but Panikar eased us in to that change with love.

Send the men to the kitchen!
The men took their place in the kitchen while Ruth and I took off for town to find some ingredients. We were staying at J&K Bungalows, a government-run affair with Mohammad, an elderly local man, as its caretaker. The rooms were huge and there was a sublime view from our “chill out” lounge to the spectacular Nun and Kun glaciers. We had our own kitchen and were the only ones staying in the place at the time. Panikar, at that moment, to me, felt cut off from the rest of the world. There was no way we could contact anyone - either by phone, email, text message or whatever. It felt like a techno-detox. In a way, it brought the four of us together – Ruth, Boaz, David and I. We'd only known the guys a couple of weeks and had dragged them with us as far as Panikar when they'd had no plans to even come this far. Boaz appreciated the place, the wilderness, the countryside, the seclusion from the outside world, while Ruth, we felt, was missing her creature comforts and mod cons. She did however, appreciate Panikar and was happy for us all to chill out together in the evenings, watching the mountains Nun and Kun, shimmer like disco balls under a full moon.

We fell upon a local who was kind enough to sell us some spinach, carrots, potatoes, onions, curd, butter. It was the best curd that we'd tasted, home made of course and amazing with fruit and honey for breakfast. Our whole survival of eating and cooking together was beautiful and something that I don't think any of us will forget.

Not trekking again!
Ruth hadn't expected the “walk” to be such a tough call. She didn't want to let Boaz down either so she braved it almost to the very end. We jumped across the river, crossed the bridge, took our time walking across multicoloured fields where locals worked and waved us in the right direction. It was a gentle ascent. Bouncy green meadows swirled with green, purple, pink, violet, yellow, orange, gold. David loves ascents, anticipating the summit, wanting to get higher and higher. I on the other hand, am not the greatest fan. He tries to encourage me as it gets tougher. I swear at him. “This is all your fault! Always want to get higher, we can see everything from here, we don't need to suffer anymore! You just enjoy making me suffer, don't you? You freak!”

David, at the best of times, is a man of few words, yet he transforms into a chatterbox once up in the mountains. While everyone else is huffing and puffing, focusing on breathing, David is nattering away while his lanky legs zig-zag effortlessly up the steepest ascents. “Shut up will you!” I say. He laughs then begins to encourage me again. David reckons that the mountains reveal what people are really like because it puts them to the test. If they cannot persevere and continue the exercise, then something is lacking in them. I think that his theory is a little harsh, but then again, my experience of mountains in comparison to that of David, is limited. David has been climbing mountains since the age of about two, when his dad would take him up into the Scottish Highlands. He's never felt complete without a mountain in his vicinity since. Bless! He admitted he was surprised at my resilience and felt that I was made of stronger stuff than he thought. That for me, was quite a compliment. “You might be small, but you're stronger than most when it comes to climbing mountains!” He's good at encouraging me in the mountains is David!

Between a rock...
David is standing on a rock a few metres above me. I zig-zag across the hilly terrain and join him. We settle for a cigarette and look down to see Ruth and Boaz, slowly but surely making their way up. We finally make it to the top and can see the glacier, Nun. The altitude was getting a bit much. We'd gone up about 1200 metres, hitting about 3,800. Coming down, we see Boaz. He'd left Ruth with a local shepherd and had decided to get to the top by himself. Approaching Ruth, we decide to cheer her up. It was impressive that she'd made it so far. David, however, was not impressed! He felt that she was pulling us back, that her heart was not in it and that she was negative because had been complaining about walking anywhere before we'd even properly begun. She'd tried, in David's eyes, and failed, at deterring us from climbing up to the summit. I guess trekking is not for everyone.

People of the land – Rangdem
Panikhar was just a starter. The environment ahead of us was about to change. We were about to continue along the Suru Valley and enter Rangdem. Rangdem defines the opening of Zanskar. It is the harsh, rocky, barren climate. As we drive into the village, Ruth is the first to react, speaking exactly what I was thinking: “Is this it?”.

The place, I felt, was magnificent. It's twisted landscape has been contorted by plate tectonics, giving the mountains a warped character. You can feel the landscape and it feels alive. Rocks are distorted too, the whole place is trippy – the effects of plates colliding during earthquakes. It's a harsh, barren land with temperatures plummeting to minus 40 in the winter. We arrive during the height of summer and snuggle into our jackets sitting in the shade. The sun is bright, the sky is super blue and there is a bone-chilling wind sweeping across the valley. A cluster of about 30 houses, an amenities store and a monastery with school seven km away makes up the town of Rangdem. A river washes across a sea of rocks. Ahead of that lies the monastery.

People of the land
They are real salt of the earth people of the land. The inhabitants of Rangdem cannot be described in any other way. The fruits of their labour are savoured in the winter, when nothing grows and life appears to cease as they hibernate and survive until summertime again. You can see their weatherbeaten faces, skin like leather, cheeks marked red by the wind, features contorted by the drastic climate. Money, money, money – they don't need it. Perhaps to pay the 200 rupees per month for each child's schooling and books. They don't even know the colour of it. Papa Ji, the head of the family we were staying with, had asked us to give him whatever we felt was right. His eyes lit up at the amount we had calculated.


No medicine, no mercy
The people of Rangdem had more of an effect on me than those of any other place that I have been to. They work hard, live simple, have few expectations and their ideals about life are worlds apart from the materialistic bullshit and consumer-driven chaos that I have seen dull the souls of people in the west. They're faces are lined by worry, illness, hardwork, but their eyes are soft and moist, and filled with kindness. No one is making it easy for them. No pharmacy, no doctor, no hospital, so no access to medicines. Papa Ji had an abscess and the pain was proving too much for him. His granddaughter, Dolma, a six year-old, painfully shy, whispering sunflower of a child, was sick with fever. She walks 14 kilometres to school and back in fierce weather conditions. We did that trek too, partly to see what it was like, so you could say we know what she does everyday. Boaz, thankfully, had some painkillers and paracetamol. The following day, we were greeted with gratitude. Boaz was meant to hand out more medicines to the family as his father, a physician, had stocked him with plenty. In the commotion to get packed and leave however, we had forgotten to do so. That thought remains with me until today. I hope to return to Rangdem one day.


School trip
We took a trip to the monastery, seven kilometres away and in the pouring rain, ended up killing time visiting the school. Dolma sat quietly in the corner, barely speaking as we tried our best to make her look cool by calling out her name. She speaks in whispers but smiles like a sunflower. She's a whispering sunflower, blown about by a harsh climate and living conditions. The teachers at least make it all worthwhile. There are seven of them, all young, funky and fluent in English. They teach Ladakhi, Hindi, English, Maths, Geography, History and Social Sciences. As David says, my sense of social responsibility kind of flew out the window when I asked them to repeat the names of birds, each bird representing a letter of the alphabet. Arriving at the letter “C”... The teacher was splitting his sides laughing. Thankfully the kids didn't clock the joke.

We'd noticed members of the Indian military guarding the monastery. One of the teachers admitted that two monks had been shot dead right here, in this isolated village, about 10 years ago. My first reaction: “do you think it had something to do with the Chinese or the Pakistani Mujahaddin?” David gave me one of his funny looks and I realised the teacher did not want to answer the question. Granddad filled us in later, admitting that it was to do with Pakistan.

Panikar and Rangdem form the Suru Valley. It's another world that has given me a new perspective into the lives of people who have different values in life. It opened my eyes as once again, I imagined a parallel world of busy highstreets, christmas shoppers that run like sheep to big department stores – intriscally, babylon at its best. It made me appreciate that truth will always prevail over the shit that we are constantly bombarded with in the samsara that engulfs the west. How ashamed people would feel of the lives they lead had they ever discovered the opportunity to see the world through the eyes of the people who live here. They are pure people and they reflect the clean, pure, beauty of the environment in which they live. They are people with heart and soul who are privileged enough not to be contaminated by the so-called civilized world. I will miss the Suru Valley and I will miss its people.