Finally I’m holding my passport again, with Indian visa stamped inside. I got only 3 months, although I asked for more time. And I’m already 2 weeks late! I’m rolling over green hills of Islamabad by bicycle. Since my first days in the city months ago it has turned surprisingly hot. In National Art Gallery I’m caught in the cobwebs on the paintings of Syed Sadequain (1930-1987), one of the finest painters and calligraphers of Pakistan. His Cobweb Series, with brush-strokes thin and delicate as work of spider, is among exhibited works. Sadequian brought calligraphy to next level of contemporary art, can you recognise its elements on his paintings?
In the shortest time I leave from capital to Lahore, by bus. The temperatures reach 47 °C during the day, the highest I have ever encountered. Traffic in the city is chaotic and dense. Sun is setting while I’m riding my bicycle in one of the most polluted cities in the world. In the warm red light, coming through curtains of dust and mist, loud honking of rickshaws and motorbikes, I’m touched by unexpected image of beauty.
In Lahore’s Backpackers’ Hostel I don’t hesitate to take a room with AC for the first time. To my surprise I find a familiar magazine beside my bed – a recent number of Ona (‘Her’) – that Slovenian traveller left there. It’s hilarious, I haven’t met anybody from my home-country for months, and now I recognise a portrait of a woman on the cover! She is an actress and my street-theatre mentor. I read the interview. Fan is spinning on the ceiling.
Lahore is huge modern city in Punjab province. On the corner I find proper pizza – I don’t remember eating the last one. Local students invite me to their historical university, we exchange phone numbers. In the morning I wander around famous architectural wonders from 17th century, Mughal-era Lahore Fort with colourful Picture Wall, Elephant Stairs and quiet marble pavilions, and near-by imposing Badshahi Mosque. The path towards the mosque is made of wet textile, red stones are too hot to walk over barefoot.
In the labyrinth of the Walled City of Lahore, bazaars are crowded although it is getting crazily hot. Everything imaginable is for sale there. Small movable stalls with refreshing drinks and fruits decorate every corner. My shalwar kameez dress, full of sweat, is sticking to my body.
Finally I find the exit through the New Delhi Gate, towards my future destination and Lahore’s historical twin city. Punjab plains get summer heatwave in April and May, the air masses don’t move much under the foothills of Himalayas until the arrival of monsoon in June. With all the industry, traffic and burning plastic-waste in the enormly populated region the result is not a surprise: two of the most polluted megacities on the planet.
I spend my last evening in Pakistan in the old company. I met Ahmed for the first time in Istanbul about 9 months before. He brought me keys of the apartment where Katarina, my sister’s friend, was living. Soon after our meeting he left back home to Lahore, first time after 6 years of studying in Turkey. You can find more about our meeting in my blogpost on reaching Istanbul.
It is unbelievable to see him in white shalwar kameez coming to fetch me with his shiny car now. His black hair is cut short. Again we don’t make a proper photo, just a selfie for our friend. I’m his first visitor from Europe! He wants to make an impression and takes me in the quiet and cozy bar & restaurant area, where only members of soldier families are allowed to enter. He brings a white shirt with collar for me, I need to follow the dress code. At the first military check post we have to turn back – foreigners are not allowed – and our car starts to make strange noises, but we manage to find the way around and reach our destination with finely cut grass and AC. Another world. Ahmed must call his father, an army officer, to talk with the waiter as his membership card is out of date. I trust him to order amazing barbecue and kebabs I haven’t tried before. The idea of Pakistan as an army state (with the last coup d’etat in 1999 when General Musharraf took over the leadership) crystalises in my mind. We move out to the table on the grassland, for cigarette and tea in the heat of the night. Ahmed wishes to move and work in another country.
Around 6 a.m. I’m leaving Lahore riding my bicycle again. Even if it’s early morning, the hot air punches me into sleepy face at the doorway. Luckily I can ride for kilometres in the shadow of the road structure above my head. After a glimpse at Shalimar Gardens, green-terraced royal park from Mughal era (UNESCO protected), I reach the only border-crossing between Pakistan and India. Famous Wagah border (also Wagha and Wahga), only 30 km from Lahore. I eat juicy and sticky mangos beside the dirty road, last hydration before cycling into the border-crossing procedure.
A soldier on the bicycle is following and navigating me through the empty border corridors. Locals can cross it only if they obtain difficult-to-get and very expensive visa, mostly for family and religious purposes. Customs officer invites me to jump the only line, where a big family prepares to show their documents. Everybody is fully sweating. Suddenly I’m in the cold air-conditioned hall. I’m pushing my bicycle into India!
Wagah border ceremony happens every day before sunset. I have plenty of time. In the first Indian village I try to get a new sim card (unsuccessfully) and have a cheap lunch in the dark canteen full of flies and curiosity. Punjabis here are staring at me in the same manner as they were on Pakistani side. ‘One selfie please?’
In the afternoon I return to Wagah border. I’m shocked: thousands of Indians, waving their flags or with flags drawn on their cheeks, are approaching amphitheatre situated directly at the border line along metal fence. They are dropping from buses and rickshaws in all directions, I’m flooded by people! Struggling in the crowds I finally find baggage room upstairs, old woman there doesn’t want to bargain and I have to pay a fortune for the storage of my bike. River of people is stuck on the hot sun. I sit down in the shadow besides and drink, more than 8 litres of liquid in a day! Slowly I move with the current of orange dots on the foreheads into the colourful amphitheatre.
A loud Bollywood music shakes the huge speakers, crowds are dancing, singing and screaming! Women run with flags in the corridor bellow, then they dance wildly – a scene I’m not use to at all, after spending months in Muslim countries. Soldiers walk trained dogs up and down, groups in their tall decorative hats make synchronised moves. Occasionally everybody is raising fists and shouting at once, Hindu nationalism par excellence makes me feel awkward. I’m adopted by big family sitting around me, asking me for selfies and encouraging me to shout slogans with them. We must stand up to see over sweaty heads and shoulders of people in front. Sun is slowly setting behind two flags marking the borderline.
To my surprise Pakistani side is not crowded and much quieter, with only few hundred spectators. A soldier with green Pakistani flag is spinning like dervish. Indian soldiers walk pompously towards their flag above the border fence. I get the idea I’m watching a parody, a strange clown show. Do you know Monty Python‘s comic sketch Ministry of silly walks? I don’t know who is mimicking who … Finally, the soldiers from both sides make fearful postures to scare the other side, leading into the last act – the symbolical lowering of the two flags. Brotherhood. Peace. Once one nation, Pakistan and India were separated on religion basis in 1947 while breaking from the British rule. Now their borders are highly protected by both armies, with Siachen Glacier being the highest and coldest battlefield in the world as both nations claim it their territory.
In the dusk I wind through the crowds, back in the saddle. I’m only halfway to Amritsar, the first big city on the Indian side. Road is very busy, all the spectators are going back now. When I pass an old man on his bicycle, he speeds up and follows me, with a friendly smile, until I stop for a break. I need to drink more water, all available water, even if it got totally warm. The heat doesn’t want to end.
When I’m entering the urban landscape of Amritsar, the air suddenly becomes brown. The wind blows tremendously, dust fills my eyes and I can’t see anything, tears are running over my cheeks. I stop beside the road to wash my eyes. Big pieces of plastic and paper waste are flying in the air, hitting my bicycle. Visibility is just few meters – rickshaws, motorbikes and holy cows appear in front like ghostly monsters. The sandstorm has arrived! I’m confused, washing my eyes again. Where can I hide? Electricity is cut and the street gets dark. I could run into a small shop. Or ask a rickshaw driver to put my bike on the roof and drive me. No. People in the traffic act as it was totally normal, I realise. I continue, stubbornly. I must wash my eyes again. I ride around another dark cow. Finally I make it to the narrow lanes with the hostel.
I realise there is only hot water for shower, stored in the tanks on the roof. I’ve never thought absence of cold water can be a problem, after months in the mountains where only ice-cold water was available. Luckily it starts to rain on the roof-terrace, instead of entering the bathroom I enjoy a bit fresher dripping from the clouds. A black kite is caught in the web of cables there and a rat runs back to its hole when rickshaw is approaching on the street. So, this is India, I learnt today.
Consequences of slight heat-strike don’t leave my body for next few days. Outside my room it’s unbearably hot, temperatures in New Delhi reach unimaginable 53 °C! But only refreshing 46 °C in Amritsar. From early morning crowds are strolling through the mighty Golden Temple complex, the most important religious site for Sikhs. Everybody has to cover their heads and put off shoes to enter the area besides Amrit Sarovar, Pool of Nectar, where huge golden fish are swimming around Harmandir Sahib, Temple of God.
At daybreak the holy book is carried out of golden dome, where line of pilgrims never ends. Men with turbans do their purifying washing in the holy water, with swords hanging at their sides. Temple echoes with the music of ragis, musicians singing holy verses, while sitting on the carpets.
The most intriguing I find the visit to Guru ka Langar, a free kitchen. Feeding more than 10000 people daily it is considered the biggest in the world! I get aluminium bowls and cutlery in my hands while waiting in the crowd. Suddenly we are all let into the big hall. We sit down on the floor in many lines. Volunteers serve food walking in-between with big buckets of rice, dal, sabzi and kheer (lentil-curry, veggies, pudding) or carrying roti in their laps. Water sprinkles from the picturesque tank on the wheels somebody is pushing along the lines of sitting people. I don’t see any foreigners. Food is simple and delicious, with Kara Prasad, a ghee-laden delicacy, on the top! The rhythm of the volunteers passing the dirty cutlery to be washed is astonishing.
I continue my food tour out of the temple area. Nevertheless, Amritsar in considered the food capital of India! I have amazing kulcha, served with chana masala, sliced onions and tamarind chutney on the street. Later I taste crispy chole, paneer paratha, thali with palak paneer … There seems no end to new and delicious foods. I cycle through the heat from one famous food-place to another, finally reaching Gian di Lassi, a small shop besides the road out of the centre. I’m a bit worried as I’m afraid to get food poisoned. No ice-cubs please, I tell the young man stirring the yogurt with wooden stick. I’m waiting in the corner under the spinning fan, while families around enjoy their lassis. In tall cup I get thick and creamy pedha lassi, wow, the best ever!
My favourite place in the city is under giant sacred tree in the narrow lanes behind the temple. Branches and roots are overgrowing neighbouring houses, coming out from the doorways and windows. Kids are playing around the red trolley of ice cream seller under the wide canopy. I have a cup of tea in the smallest teashop. Streets are full of surprises. I run into colourful procession with shinily decorated carriages, driven by horses, where god-like couples are sitting on their thrones. Orchestra is walking behind playing loud music. I cannot pass on my bicycle, as the crowds are blocking the road.
To escape the heat, I decide to take bus to Kashmir. First I reach the city of Jammu, with my bike knotted to the rooftop. I leave bicycle at the bus stand, where I buy a night-bus connection to Srinagar. In the Airtel shop I finally get sim card that will work in the mountain areas of Northern India and also in the rest of the country. Young seller is amazed by my blue eyes (Are they real?) and she buys me kulfi, milk ice cream, from the stand in front of the shop. For 40 years a man is selling kulfi at the same spot – it brings him luck, she tells me.
After visiting Hindu temple and making ritual with herbs beside orange image of Hanuman, the monkey god, I meet Lorenzo on the street. He is the first foreigner I meet in India, from Italy. Funny, we realise we are going to travel with the same bus. An image of leopard god, with fan spinning above, is still in front of my eyes, when I find out my little Persian globe (a gift from a blue-haired Iranian friend) will never spin again as it was stolen from my bicycle! Ah, it must be some curious kids …
There is no AC on the bus, we are sweating. I share the bed with a polite Indian student. Windows are open, soon we arrive in the hills and air becomes fresher. Srinagar, Kashmir’s capital, is sleepy, everything is closed in the early morning. We have paratha for breakfast with Lorenzo at the beginning of Dal Lake. An old grey-haired man insists inviting me to his home. He agrees I can camp in his garden. I’m suspicious. 8 km later on my way around the lake he shouts from the crowd in front of the Mughal-era Nishat Gardens. He invites me for tea. The grass around his house is wild and tall. He shows me big attic, where I could sleep. I feel very tired because of the night-bus ride, I agree. He takes me on the boat trip in the afternoon. Colourful shikaras, wooden boats, are sliding on the water surface, loaded with local tourists in rich dresses, between the shore and famous house boats, where you can overnight. My host takes me to souvenir store on the water, owned by his relative, to dry-fruit store and finally to big pashmina shop with famous Kashmiri shawls exhibited all around the shelves. Everybody tries to convince me to buy their extremely expensive goods. I can’t afford to carry them on my bicycle, I answer. Their pushy attitude drives me mad, kind words turn into serious and angry no, I can feel lightning in my eyes.
My host’s wife prepares simple food for us. After the short night I leave with bitter taste and 500 rupees less in my pocket. I follow the small empty road into the middle of the lake, away from the busy tourist areas filling me with untrust and disappointment.
Soon strange green water gardens surround me. In the village I ask men on the street, where I could overnight. One of them, young and bearded Ishfaq, invites me to his home. I push my bicycle over the narrow wooden bridge into the nest of simple houses, standing at the water.
Ishfaq comes from Muslim family. His younger sister Waheeda and mother serve me noon chai, salty tea, on the floor of their dark kitchen. Only his sister speaks good English. To my surprise the two of us are suddenly alone in the room, leaning on the cozy pillows, talking about book I’m reading, based on Rumi‘s life. She tells me a legend about the famous Sufi poet, explains about her spiritual teacher giving lessons at their house and the boy she is secretly in love with. Teacher says they are like-minded and could marry and live together happily. Her hair is covered and she is smiling. It was impossible to have such an intimate conversation in Muslim homes at the countryside of Pakistan or Iran, I realise. I keep on asking questions.
In the morning Ishfaq takes me with his boat on the bright green water towards the island Char Chinari (Four Planetrees), established by royal family in the Mughal past. He jumps in the lake, but I don’t trust water to swim. When we are rowing, he talks on the phone with his girlfriend. A longer silence follows. He starts to sing to her. She replies singing. I’m stunned while witnessing something truly sincere and beautiful, yet so simple. Of course, they have to hide their love.
Water lanes are narrow and grassy, I’m amazed to see villagers at their farming and gardening work. They are collecting lotus leaves to feed animals. In winter they cook roots, there is not much other food. How do they taste?
Waters are divided in the same manner as land. They build floating gardens with soil on the beds of flora, with wooden structures, where pumpkins, collard greens, carrots, radishes, turnips and other vegetables grow. In the season they sell goods on water markets. Farmers bring their products by boats in the early daylight.
In the evening, after I pick up mulberries with village kids, Ishfaq’s cousin invites me to the wedding at the neighbour’s house. Family members are kindly greeting me, and I drink tea sitting with them on the carpet. A young man is holding my hand leading me through the wooden corridors of the house. Towards bride’s room! I’m nervous. It’s Muslim family and they will let me in into girls’ room?
Bride is dressed in richly decorated attire, with golden necklaces and jewellery on her forehead, sitting at the edge of the bed. Girls around her are laughing. Tonight the groom is coming by boat to take her to his house as the part of the wedding ceremony. She will leave her home and parents forever, returning just occasionally for visits. I wish her good fortune. We sit a bit and talk, with girls around and my guard next to me. It’s weird and funny.
In the morning I sit in the saddle again. Fresh temperatures are inviting for cycling. I’m leaving ‘Indian Venice’ along the dense traffic. Ishfaq doesn’t except my money. You are part of our family, he says. I’m touched and thankful. Waheeda waves goodbye through the window, expecting a lesson by her spiritual teacher. Blue mountain shapes rise from the horizon. I encounter first rice fields. Shepherds are moving their countless herds towards the high summer pastures and roads get constantly blocked.
I’m trying to get used to loud honking from the numerous cars, but every new turn I’m stressed again. If driving in Pakistan was all the time close to contact, driving in India is in contact, I figure out, pushing the bus away with my hand.
In the evening I cross from the main road over the bridge to the other side of green river valley. Villagers of Sumbal village are curiously approaching me. We shake hands with men. Where can I sleep? I show with gestures. A bunch of men walk with me for 2 km to established but empty camping site. After owner asks for the price two-times bigger I usually pay for a room with meal and doesn’t want to bargain, I leave. I have idea for better place, wild camping. A bit later a woman on the street invites me to her house. I drink salty tea with her teenage children and we play chess sitting on the red carpets. I have usual cold shower with water from the buckets. The eldest boy takes me with motorbike to buy Kashmiri seekh kebabs. Having a guest seems like a holiday!
We are eating with hands, the skill I’m still improving. You have to push food with the thumb in your mouth. I’m always the last one to finish the meal. We share watermelon and try to communicate with very limited English skills. They are very interested in my first-hand information about travelling in Pakistan. How is life there? Are people friendly? What about food? (Thank you, Google translate). Indian propaganda shows distorted view on Pakistanis, often considered as terrorists, not brothers. At midnight I fall asleep on the carpet next to young brothers, rolled in the warm blankets.
Only in the morning I realise my host family are bakers. The tin door is rolled up and they hang round thin pieces of daw on the walls of hot tandoori. All family members work there, except daughter who goes to school. We have simple breakfast together, salty tea and fresh bread, sitting next to the burning oven. In front of the door, bunch of nomads is moving with loaded horses and endless herd of sheep towards the mountains. Tears fill my eyes as I stand on the road observing pristine and ancient image of Kashmir. I follow them.
Traffic is dense again on the main road. But only to Sonamarg, the main tourist town, a starting point for horse riding and hiking. Literally, there are thousands of horses beside the road. Above green pine and deodar forests sharp snow peaks rise.
In the afternoon I set my tent on the green pastures just above the river. The road continues steeply up to the first pass, 3528 m high Zoji La. The valley attracts Hindu pilgrims later in the summer, thousands come to visit big lingam formed by ice in the mountain cave.
I finally enjoy some privacy and have peaceful time away from people, resting in my tent with the book, as it is cold and windy outside. The view of the sheep grazing soon turns into breathtaking night sky.
Sharp serpentines with long gravel patches and melting water lead high up in the mountains. Early in the morning road is quiet, but after 10 a.m. taxis with tourists speed up insanely. Where are they going? I pass huge walls of snow built into remainings of avalanches.
On the top of Zoji La I encounter unexpected scenery: snowmobiles racing around, people screaming and rolling over dirty snow in colourful skiing-costumes, tons of cars parked beside narrow road. Many Indians see snow for the first time in their life here!
I have no wish to stop on the pass, although I’m exhausted and hungry. I just slowly continue cycling, past the men asking me if I want to rent a snowmobile … I’m entering mysterious Ladakh, the land of passes. I know it from magic travelogues of the first travellers, after Indian government finally opened the area to foreigners in 1974. It’s still inaccessible by the road in the winter half of the year, due to snow conditions. I feel chills. I’m entering my old dream.
Landscape is turning into brown and dry slopes, with snow peaks touching the sky. Highway, the main road towards Leh, becomes quieter. From time to time I pass nomad tents set in the green valley.
I’m surprised to see long army settlements, with fence all around. At one point soldiers walk along the road and climb the steep rocks for training. Kashmir and Ladakh border areas are a big open wound of history, I’m constantly reminded. Some call it paradise.
In Drass I see first Buddhist prayer flags flattering in the wind. We chat with boys coming from school at the sacred rocks site.
After another wild camping night at the peaceful riverbank, I finally reach Kargil. Muslim prayer calls echo in the evening light. Features of people become more Asiatic, revealing Tibetans and Ladakhis. At small food place in the bazaar I discover delicious thukpa (Tibetan noodle soup) and momos (steamed dumplings). My appetite is endless, I try all the street food possibilities locals are preparing on improvised stalls at the main square.
Meanwhile I’m collecting information about the road from Padum to Leh, over Singe La (4960 m). Spanish travellers, who did it by car, don’t recommend it on bicycle. Too difficult and remote. I decide to send unnecessary luggage by taxi to hostel in Leh. Two big pannier bags! If I travel light, I could manage that crazy road … couldn’t I?
Instead of continuing on Leh highway I turn towards Padum in Zanskar valley, to make a 300 km detour over high mountain passes. I prefer remote roads, welcoming and sincere villagers and wild nature away from the tourist verve.
Green patterns of fields under white mountains fill me with joy. Road goes up and down besides the Suru River. In small village, nested in green oasis, I’m hosted by Muslim family for the last time on this journey. Light rain is pouring outside, while we’re playing cricket in the carpeted room with a teenager and a toddler. It’s going wild! I almost fall in the square hole of a ground toilet in the night. Villagers walk cows and goats on the streets early in the morning. My host brings me omelette for breakfast and runs for the bus towards Kargil, he is visiting doctor. I move the curtain and get stunned by the view of sharp snowy Nun Kun massif (7135 m) in the first sunrays. I can’t move from the window. Distances and heights are impressive, the air is perfectly clear. Isn’t all this just my imagination?
The road leads up towards Rangdum plateau at 4000 m. Road workers, men and women, struggle to work on the rocky surface in extreme conditions. Sometimes their children play in the piles of sand. Often they are Untouchables from the southern Indian provinces, living in simple tents. Behind the corner huge icefall is coming down the steep slope, like a metaphor.
It starts to snow. A blessing in deserted northern range of Himalayas! I’m happy to meet a cycling couple from France and Spain shortly. They are coming from opposite direction, Manali, and skipped Singe La pass, as they were afraid it could get too muddy. We chat beside the road and exchange information. Next kilometres are demanding. Suddenly the road turns into mud, often I need to push my bicycle. It’s cold and snowflakes fly in the wind hitting my tired face. I put on gloves woven by my grandmother, my fingers are freezing. After I warm up, I start to enjoy deep meditative silence and peace. And tarmac.
I reach white stupa and prayer wheel at the entrance of the first Buddhist village. Brown buildings on Rangdum plateau have small windows and straight rooftops loaded with hay and wood. I turn the big wheel and break the silence with the sound of bell.
Luckily there is a food-place open in the village. After a huge portion of rice and lentils, I read a book on the sunny terrace. Weather can change fast. A bunch of young travellers in shorts stop for meal. If you reached here from Slovenia, you will make it over Singe La too, one of them says confidently after his first surprise. They run into their rented car, it is very cold outside.
On the small hill red walls of Rangdum Lamasery guard over the plateau at 4031 m. Yellow flags flatter around the windows. Scenic yard looks empty. In the next yard, in front of the main hall of Tibetan Buddhist monastery, old monks in red robes are sitting on the stairs facing the sun. They invite me for tea and teach me first Ladakhi words. Jullay.
One takes me in the temple. Barefoot I walk in the dusk, where old thangkas, Tibetan religious paintings, hang on the walls. Portrait of His Holiness Dalai Lama the 14th sits on the wooden throne, behind him many deities stand, loaded with gifts, banknotes, incenses and candles. Monk allows me to open the wrap with ancient book. It has long shape and is bound in a strange way. I leaf through its pages with prayers. Om Mani Padme Hum is everywhere: on the flat stones around chortens, in the wind.
Monks agree I can overnight in the monastery and show me the door to my room. Under big windows with curtains there are few low tables and mattresses. While I’m reading book on the sunny stairs, three donkeys gather in front of me around the bucket with food. They fight for every bite, kicking with back legs! We laugh with the monk pushing them away. They use them to carry water. Although there is a nice pick-up car parked in front of the building too.
In small dinning place I sit at the low table with my bowl. From big pot they serve thukpa. I eat portion after portion of delicious soup with vegetables and homemade pasta. Nobody is talking, just sounds of sipping are heard. The oldest two monks are over 80 years old, without teeth. They’ve spent their whole lives in monastery. What happens to them when they are not able to care for themselves anymore? I recognise sparks in their eyes. Lamasery must be much more than Western mind can imagine: it is a school and a community through which thousand years old knowledge of most profound Eastern thinkers and saints is preserved.
After dinner they turn on old television in the corner. It’s cricket world cup and India is playing tonight! Another cup of tea? Salty or sweet? I’m excited as I’ve never watched the game before. After half an hour Indian team is winning so much it gets boring, everybody goes to sleep early.
In the early morning I join lone monk in the temple hall. He is chanting daily prayers with deep voice, making rhythm with drums and blowing into the big white shell. My soul vibrates with unearthly energy. After simple breakfast, vegetables, chapati and tea with barley flour, I’m back in the saddle leaving friendly monk company towards the highest point I’ve ever cycled, 4494 m high Pensi La, the gate to Zanskar.
Road is totally empty, with wind-created snow sculptures at the edges. I follow long serpentines like a giant grey snake winding over the white desert of mountain landscape. Light headache hides under my helmet. I need to stay hydrated.
My only company are numerous marmots crossing the road. They freeze up or run in the hole when they see me. Suddenly a marmot gets surprised by my bicycle silently approaching and runs parallel next to me in fear. I laugh and slow down to let him cross.
The top of the pass is decorated in colourful prayer flags. Clouds are constantly changing. 50 years ago access to Zanskar was possible only by horses, I remember from outstanding adventure novel The Sorcerer’s Apprentice (Čarovnikov vajenec) by Slovenian writer Evald Flisar. He was searching for his peculiar guru, who am I looking for in this remote places?
On the way down I’m awestruck by the sudden view over the glacier valley. It feels extraordinary to roll in silence and stare towards the giant tongue of ice far below.
Hurray! Past blue glacier lake I reach first village. More small villages lie beside the road in the rocky land. The only shelter, with big handwriting presenting menu on the wall, is closed. In Phey village I feel unbearably hungry. If I don’t find food-place, I’ll cook instant noodles, I decide. I follow homestay sign into the side street. An old woman with braids of grey hair waves to me through the window. When I reach the door, I realise she is locked in. A man comes from the other side and invites me in the house. He proposes to cook rice and dal for me. Uh, I’m too hungry to wait for one hour. Can you cook my maggie? I ask and hand him two packages of instant noodles. Later he unlocks his wrinkled mother and she sits on the pillow in front of me, friendly smiling.
Many people in warm clothes and hats walk around monastery and turn rows of prayer wheels at Sani Lamasery. I find vivid-red wooden phallus above the entrance door. For last four days monks have been celebrating annual Buddhist festival. In the dark hall I sit among them. Older monks with high orange ceremonial hats are leaning over the books and chanting prayers rhythmically. Children in red robes cannot concentrate, they are playing in the dim light, splashing water from plastic pistols. A tall and strict-looking monk pulls one’s ear to calm them down.
Across the road in the swamp area there is another temple. A woman is collecting cow dung in the basket on her back, essential material to keep homes warm. Piles of dung are drying on the rooftops and rocks.
In the evening, after 95 km of high-elevation cycling, I finally reach widely open valley with Padum, Zanskar’s capital. Big colourful houses are spread over the green lands, among narrow streams. My first and only thought is thukpa.
The days of rest and recovery follow. I stay in the lovely homestay. Unexpectedly I meet few other travellers there. We eat together, sitting on the floor behind traditional low Tibetan tables. We share our stories, bond in new friendships and make common plans. Hosts’ longhaired son reveals his identity struggle and difficulties of being Tibetan in India. He writes songs and sings, his rebellion reminds me of my friends in Kurdistan, of nonsense of all artificial lines we call borders.
At the bazaar I find tiny prayer flags to decorate my bike. While doing maintenance work on it in the guesthouse yard, a bearded Irishman gives me white scarf and blesses me. With dirty black hands I carefully continue repair.
From the old royal palace above Padum I observe the verve of everyday life. Women bring cows from the pastures back to the narrow lanes. Street dogs play under rainbows of flags. Buddhas sit still on the mandala paintings of stupas’ ceilings.
Sun is setting above Little Tibet, snow and glaciers of the high mountains glitter in the distance. I breath in. Zanskar river hums in the valley. I breath out. Humming of the river must be just an illusion – the time stopped here thousands of years ago.
I imagine the frozen river in the winter. With 6 days of walk on the blue ice through rocky canyons to reach Leh, it turns into only connection towards outside world. Time here cannot be measured in hours or minutes, only in rhythms of nature – in cycles of sun and moon, in ever lasting drops of melting snow.