At dinner in the homestay in Padum, sitting around low Tibetan tables on the kitchen floor, I meet Amelie, social worker and yoga teacher from France. She has big eyes and her body is extremely thin, almost like a skeleton. I find out she spent three weeks in the hospital, in untrustworthy hygiene conditions, due to severe food poisoning. She lost quite a bit of weight. We decide to visit together the remote Phugtal Monastery, which has always been accessible only by foot and by donkey. But we will hitchhike first.
As we walk out of the town in the morning, farmers on a tractor pick us up. But after just a few kilometers of bouncing in the trailer, we have to get off – they are turning from the main road, crossing the bridge into a nearby village. Fifty meters of walking, and a man standing next to a jeep calls out to us. A military delegation is heading to the campus near the village of Chah, exactly where we want to reach. We hop in. It couldn’t be easier, the road is empty, mostly dirt, carved into sharp rock cliffs above the Zanskar River. Then, out of nowhere, we stop in front of a pile of boulders blocking the way. A landslide?
As we jump out of the car and walk closer, we realize the excavator perched on the rock ledge is widening the road. The village is just half an hour’s walk away. With our backpacks on, Amelie and I continue on foot.
The houses in the village are made of stone and have whitewashed walls, cow dung and hay dry on the flat roofs. Buddhist prayer flags flutter, sending prayers into the air beneath a deep blue sky. A young man on the doorstep of a house, where a yak is tied, invites us into the shadowy hallways and offers us to sit on cushions in the bright kitchen. We’re hungry. We chat over tea, press a few rupees into the hand of boy’s smiling mother for lunch, and continue up the sandy slope.
We enter a canyon, the beginning of remote Lungnak Valley, and the landscape becomes otherworldly, one of the wildest I’ve encountered on my entire journey. Shades of red, brown and yellow in all their variations stretch out in the vivid rock formations that extend as far as the eye can see. The high-altitude desert embraces the thin blue thread of the Tsarap River far below our steps.
After two hours, just above the wooden bridge, we finally catch sight of the miraculous monastery. Like a stone wave it leans out from the cliff above the valley, a mighty honeycomb of white houses and square windows. A monk in a red robe climbs past the tower-like white stupas, heading toward the stairs above us.
Phugtal Monastery is a small village, intertwined with a labyrinth of alleys, underpasses and mysterious stairways. On the terrace with wide views we speak with a monk wearing an orange woolen hat. In the vast cave above us stands a Buddhist temple; Phugtal in endangered Zangskari dialect means ‘cave of leisure’ or ‘cave of liberation.’ Another monk appears at the edge of the balcony and blows into a large white conch. The sound echoes across the valley. Soon other monks gather on the terrace for dinner. Tsampa and tea. Children in monk’s robes, their backpacks slung over their shoulders, crowd toward the kitchen. They spend months here, studying and meditating in solitude.
We spend the night in the only guesthouse beneath the monastery. Over a simple dinner we meet another Frenchwoman, also from dull Toulouse (as she and Amelie put it). She’s an architect, who designed and opened her own guesthouse in Goa a year ago. An interesting, gentle, dreamy woman. Now she’s returning home to visit her parents, anxious.
Early the next morning we climb up to the temple within the monastery complex. Scheduled puja, the morning prayer, doesn’t happen. The monks are having breakfast on the terrace. In the dim kitchen I ask if they can unlock the temple. In the half-light we examine the ancient thangkas on the walls and the statues of Buddhist iconography. I circle the stupa in the cave behind the temple. With Amelie we sit for a long time in the branches of the only tree far around, a big juniper right above the cliff’s edge over the monastery, and talk.
Around the bend an incredible landscape unfolds: an emerald river winding through the desert. I’m struck by the otherworldly beauty once more. We lie there on the rocks, while the sun is beating down, as we are over 4000 m above sea level. We walk a different route back, on the opposite bank of the river. Loaded donkeys with their handlers kick up dust. I can recognize countless shapes in the kaleidoscope of rocky sculptures.
In the village of Purne, a few hairpin turns lower down the road from the village of Chah, we have a basic lunch. Then we wait by the bridge, hitchhiking. No one shows up. The road here is rough, abandoned by gods. On the other side of the river, inaccessible and far, there’s an asphalt link from Padum to Manali, with a bit of traffic. After an hour of waiting, we spot an orange truck slowly approaching down the hilly slope. Slowly. Amelie runs toward it. We leap into the cabin, where five of us squeeze onto the soft platform in front of a large windshield. The men are from Punjab, it’s their first time here, they’ve missed the right turn for Padum, and they’re hauling barrels of chemicals – ten tons. We feel lucky. But the adventure is really just to begin!
I admit, I’m frightened. The breaknecking drive takes us along a narrow road above a sheer river valley. On the pass just above the village of Chah we’re forced to stop on a sharp bend, the cabin teeters over the edge into the abyss. It lasts like this for minutes! We look at eachother with Amelie – should we run out? The trucker jumps out and pokes around with a wooden stick, finally there is a hissing sound – the hydraulics, they say – and with a jolt we edge back from the cliff and execute a tight turn. Huh. Several times we scrape against the rocky wall. In my mind, I replay the scene from the Karakoram Highway, an overturned truck lying on the road.
Sweat is pouring down the driver’s forehead. We drive in silence, with occasional joke. Suddenly we have to stop because a barrel at the back has toppled over. We maneuver for ages before we manage to cross a tiny wooden bridge. A yak runs away on the road in front of the truck. Three and a half hours later the two of us finally jump out from the orange cabin at the bazaar in Padum, adrenaline still pulsing. We head straight for the momos, exhausted.
In the homestay I meet Charlotte at dinner, a climber and traveler from Germany. With tearful eyes she listens to my stories of cycling. My journey embodies her dream, she says, and I’m moved too. She gives me some tips about climbing 6000 m peaks in the region, as she reached two. The next day no one leaves; we all extend our stay spontaneously for another night. My mission: to buy a plane ticket to return home after a year on the road. Is it the right decision? I’m confused. The sun is shining from every direction into my room, the ice peaks glistening in the distance.
In the darkness we search for Amelie’s lost phone by the stream, but it’s nowhere to be found. It probably fell in the water. We hug for goodbye after dinner, she is leaving with early-morning shared taxi. Over breakfast, after a long chat, I say farewell to Charlotte as well. I don’t know what I’m getting myself into as I pedal toward the Singe La pass, beyond which lies Leh, the capital of Ladakh. ATM in Padum doesn’t work for me, I’ll have to manage with little money. How many days will I need for the remote 300 km ahead? At the checkpost in Zangla village the asphalt ends. Under the watchful eye of a policeman I sign my name into a large book.
The gravel road leads me into a narrow gorge. At a lonely tea stall I eat alu paratha and omelette for lunch. Then there’s nothing for a long time. A muddy river flows beneath the towering brown cliffs. In places the road is carved into the steep rock like a tunnel. I admire the strange shapes and faces that seem to follow me in the roadside sculptures. Suddenly the road becomes impassable, covered in piled-up boulders. Three excavators are shifting the rocks in the cliffside. I wait. When nothing happens for a while, I approach. I wave to a worker who has appeared by the machine. I’ll cross the rocks on foot, I gesture with my hands. I grab my bike without the bags and carry it over the obstacle. Then the panniers. I’m thankful I sent half of my luggage ahead from Kargil to Leh. Another excavator is spinning in the middle of the dusty road just a bit further on. The driver offers me a scoop to load my bike onto. Stubbornly I push it through the piled rocks and finally I can cycle again! The Zanskar canyon is home to the famous Chandar Trek, a 70 km winter journey following the frozen river, the only contact Zanskar’s inhabitants have with the outside world during the harsh winter months.
Late in the afternoon I reach a junction, a blue sign directs me toward the village of Niraq. The other branch of the road is steeper, leading through the picturesque village of Lingshed. As I look for a place to pitch my tent by the road below the village, a pick-up pulls up beside me. The driver invites me to his home, 5 km up a steep hill. We load the bike onto the car, alongside two massive barrels of water. I stand beside holding my bicycle and with every hairpin bend, a splash of icy water drenches me, a preliminary shower.
I step out in front of a traditional house. A girl is herding cows back from pasture as I unload my bike beside the barn. She leads me through a low door into the sheltered courtyard and shows me to a small room. The toilet is in a separate space beside the courtyard, a square hole carved into the clay ground. Stanzin, a student wearing oval glasses, has come from burning Punjab back home to her village for the holidays.
She invites me to visit her aunt, a teacher. We climb higher into the village through terraced fields, she is carrying a bunch of vegetables for her aunt, with her young cousin walking beside us. Her aunt lives in a renovated schoolhouse, where we drink salty tea and chat. We search for the keys to the locked gompa and stop under a sacred juniper tree, whose lush branches embrace a small shrine. I gaze towards the distant Singe La pass. It looks wild.
I join Stanzin in the kitchen as she prepares dinner, rice and green vegetables. On the TV a Hindu soap opera flickers, full of strange plot twists and spirits. Her mother takes a book from the shelf and, with the hum of the TV in the background, recites Buddhist prayers. There’s something beautiful and mysterious in how this everyday act becomes sacred in its own way. Later in the evening the father joins us too.
After chapati and vegetables for breakfast I head out early in the morning, racing around the bends back to the main road and across the little bridge, where the steep ascent begins. The road leaves the main river valley. In the cloud of dust workers are building a new road to Leh, following the river. It’s not officially open yet, but it’s already passable. The narrow steep asphalt forces me into a rhythmic routine: ride, push, ride, push, ride, push … I haven’t pushed my bike this much anywhere on the journey! One switchback after another, after 8 km, I reach the first small pass above 4000 m, just above the sleepy village.
I continue onto the next steep section, the asphalt disappears, climbing toward the junction with the road from Lingshed. I fall into a slow but steady rhythm in the lowest gear, somehow it works. My mind gets empty, but focused. The views widen looking back toward green oasis of Niraq, with white mountains floating above the brown, rugged slopes. There is almost no traffic, just a rare truck, pick-up or shared taxi.
For a brief moment the gradient eases. The road workers invite me to join them for lunch in their tent, but it turns out their huge pot is already empty. Around the next bend, I cook myself maggie, instant noodle soup, on my camping stove. The workers, carrying water jugs, stop and watch as I eat. I can’t escape selfies.
In the final stretch of the climb toward the 4960 m pass (some say 5057 m, hm?) a snowstorm hits. The wind is crazily strong. With each turn in the hairpin bends I feel the wind is changing direction, from headwind to tailwind. Snowflakes are striking my face sharply. I have to push on. The workers, huddling in the stone shelters by the side of the road, wave at me in surprise: Julley! The storm suddenly ends, and after 7 hours in the saddle I finally reach the pass, covered in prayer flags, where patches of snow dot the landscape. I’m exhausted, but elated.
In the perfect silence, possible only in the high mountains, I rest and gaze into the distance. On the other side a new valley opens up: new bends, new mountains. Majestic. Passing prayer flags and a towering snow wall, I descend over paved switchbacks, picking up speed. It’s exhilarating! A glance back reveals a stunning mountain cathedral rising above the snowy slopes and a wide stretch of ice. The world in the valley below begins to soften, patches of greenery and babbling streams appear.
Then, unexpectedly, the road starts to climb again (just 100 m higher, as Kamoot reveals). I collapse onto my sleeping mat by the roadside. I’ve had enough of climbing for today, I’m utterly destroyed!
After a half an hour’s nap, snack of biscuits and sip of water, I notice the sky quickly darkening with thick black clouds and curtains of rain. I grit my teeth and push on. It’s just 10 km to Photoksar village, where I plan to spend the night. I cross beautiful grassy slopes beneath the ever-snowcapped mountains. In the valley below, I spot houses clinging to a steep ridge, oval patches of fields, a transmitter. As I enter the village, I gulp rice with lentils in a small dark canteen. I find a homestay, eat another portion of rice and lentils, wrap myself in a bundle of warm blankets and immediatelly fall asleep. What will tomorrow bring?
Surprisingly, I wake up well-rested and refreshed, with no major aches. After an omelette for breakfast, I say goodbye to the family. A curious boy is constantly watching me, even through the window into my room. The new bends of the gravel road climb up towards the sky …
… to Sri Sri La pass, 4850 m. This time I manage to ride steadily without having to push. Motorcyclists with selfie sticks flood the pass. I move down to a quieter spot, where the views are just as endless. I race through the cracked red landscape into the valley, heading for the village of Wanla. The magical rock formations above the river mesmerize me with their colors and shapes. Do you see my bicycle on the photo below?
In Wanla everything is closed. Through the window of a house a man invites me in for lunch. They’ve just finished eating, but his wife will cook some rice for me. Grandmother is prepping vegetables in the corner, while a little girl tumbles off her tricycle. We chat pleasantly over tea.
I visit gompa at the top of the hill, my host shows me shortcut. In the beautiful Avalokiteshwara temple I admire the three tall wooden statues with numerous heads and deities endowed with a thousand arms showing various attributes and gestures. Mesmerizing ancient dark murals cover the walls. Until the electricity suddenly goes out and only a beam of sunlight through the door illuminates a portion of the stunning wall. The caretaker locks the door, I put on my shoes. I pass the new golden statue of Wanla Lonpo, worrior on the horse with all kinds of offerings around, toward my bicycle.
When I reach the highway to Leh, I stop in the crossroad. To the left is one of the most iconic monasteries, Lamayuru, to the right, Leh. Which way is the wind blowing? I’m tired, so I turn with the wind at my back toward Leh. Once again, after months in Pakistan, I follow the Indus River higher upstream. Among the dogs and trucks I grab a plate of momos. Night falls. I catch a glimpse of a campsite sign in the flash of my light. From a small shop nextdoor two girls guide me through the jungle surrounding a bunch of forgotten white tents. The ground is partly flooded. I decide not to pitch my own tent, but rather fall into the comfort of a large yurt bed. Indus is humming in the distance.
In the morning I stop at the petroglyph site above the muddy river, ancient images were carved into the rocks by hunters and later by Buddhist pilgrims. Sometimes an ancient vandalism is evident in the overlapping figures from different eras.
I climb up to one of the oldest monasteries in the region, Alchi Monastery, famous for its incredible and well-preserved wall paintings in the Indo-Himalayan style. In the first temple, three massive Bodhisattva statues stand beneath a wooden roof, their robes adorned with scenes of daily life from a millennium ago. Heads with multiple faces, many eyes, countless arms, the green skin of the goddess Tara, thousands of tiny Buddhas seated in lotus position … these are the source of tantric meditation. For hours, barefoot, I stare at the enormous mandalas, symmetrical and full of intricate detail. I hold my breath. It is simply wonderful and touching.
In front of the monastery, surrounded by prayer wheels that I spin one by one, stand stalls selling souvenirs and restaurants. I treat myself to a bowl of thukpa (Tibetan noodle soup), and as the crowd of tourists grows, I continue cycling again. I pass the crowded Magnetic Hill and Likir Monastery, finally reaching Leh in the last daylight. My phone is dead. I ask a policeman amidst the thick traffic for help with navigation. I make it to the hostel and spot the two panniers I had sent ahead, neatly piled in the corner by the wall.
The hostel’s location, away from the city center, and the bustling presence of Indian guests, push me toward the peaceful Gomang Guesthouse that my fellow travelers in Padum had recommended. I settle in a room beside white stupas, a worship place, where I will soon start my juggling trainings.
I visit the famous nine-story royal palace from 17th-century with its brown curved walls, perched above the old part of the town. Stray dogs sprawl across the backstreets. The call to prayer echoes from the mosque. I’m shocked to see crowds at the main bazaar, decorated with endless prayer flags. A real promenade, something I haven’t experienced since Istanbul!
Women on the sidewalks sell vegetables while knitting hats and headbands. I stop by a tailor, my sleeping bag, pants and shalwar kameez need some repairs. I sip tea while the sewing machine hums steadily. And I’m searching for a new book in the local bookstores. Autobiography of a Jogi, written by P. Yogananda in 1946, will do, it’s full of miracles! In 11 months of cycling I started to trust in something bigger taking care of me. I learned to follow insticts and to accept obstacles, instead with frustration and anger, as something making my experience of life richer. But my intelectually raised being wants to understand more.
Next day the Buddhist festival at the nearby Hemis Monastery will start, with rituals performed in masks. I managed to reach Leh just in time! The image of the town, as I had imagined it from the writings of early foreign travelers, feels quite distorted. The streets are lined with hotels, restaurants and tourist agencies, sprouting up like mushrooms, despite the fact that it rarely rains here. They say a successful Bollywood movie caused a big change as it made the region popular among Indian visitors.
After a day of rest I get back on my bike, heading towards the high-altitude theatre celebration.
To be continued …