God's own Country

Sun, Jul 6 12:30 AM

Landing in Leh can be as much a pleasure as a headache. The craggy, discoloured mountains - some of them snow topped - are awesome and the mighty Indus river meanders across valleys littered with vast boulders in fine sand that seem to have been brought up from sea shores.

It's a cold desert, hit by strong winds that have carved fascinating shapes on the hillsides. But in a region where military troops far outnumber civilians, dusty valleys and rocks often change colours, Buddhist temples guard far away hilltops, and where old timers say you can suffer from a heat stroke and frostbite simultaneously, breathing can be difficult.

"There is an old saying in Ladakh - don't be a gama in the land of the lama," a retired general in crisp jeans and Ray Ban sunglasses tells me after a trying climb at the famed Patthar Sahib gurudwara on the road to Kargil one morning. The general, who was once posted in the area, was referring to the need to take things easy in a region short on oxygen due to the thin air at heady heights.

Around us stood barren mountains. High winds barked and roared through the valley.

The highway snaked along, hugging the hillsides, and suddenly disappeared. "Isn't this an amazing place?" I asked the general.

He nodded in agreement before clicking some pictures and walking down the steps - slowly. Breathless, I followed.

Where's the oxygen? "You will travel to some of the highest points in the world, but don't worry, sir. We'll have the oxygen cylinders ready," a voice at the other end of the phone had told me a few days ago.

I had gasped. Oxygen? Where was I going, I wondered, as I pulled out warm jackets, pullovers, scarves and mittens from the basement.

Ladakh, several friends told me, was a good place for a family vacation. A quick search on the Internet had yielded a travel plan and cheap air tickets (this was before the fuel prices went up and burnt a hole in everybody's pocket), but I wasn't prepared for oxygen cylinders.

"It's like this, sir," said the voice, "oxygen here is 30 percent less than in the plains." Those words rang in my head as I took an early morning flight to a sleepy Leh where Buddhist chants mingle with prayers from the local mosque.

Ladakh is 80 percent Buddhist and 20 percent Muslim - a windswept peaceful region where there is no commercial power supply and where locals curse nature for most of the year when temperatures hover around -30 degrees Celsius. In the line of fire Few knew Leh until 1948 when it became the nerve centre of efforts to defend the Ladakh valley from invading Pakistani forces.

There were no roads to the area and no airport, but a Dakota did manage to land on a sandy strip next to the Indus, launching what the Indian Air Force calls "a saga of air operations over the world's most inhospitable region." In 1948, Air Force documents show, the transport squadrons airlifted 50,000 tons of supplies and 9,000 troops.

Ten thousand casualties were also airlifted in almost 25,000 hours of flying. Flying in and out of one of the highest airfields in the world is now easy - even in winter when most of the place is buried under several feet of snow.

Leh is now the main supply point for all troops in Ladakh, including Siachen where soldiers brave sub-zero temperatures all through the year. Air Force transport planes land at Leh from where helicopters - some of them landing precariously on helipads made of cans and chocolate boxes in far flung areas - ferry supplies.

Air Commodore KS Gill, the commanding officer of the air base at Leh, has been to Antarctica twice. He tells us of the perils on snow-clad glaciers where troops defend the borders in extreme weather conditions.

Gill's day begins early and ends late as he keeps a close eye on the movement of planes and helicopters. Go slow Other military officers, who know the place, tell us that it's best to start slow.

Spend the first two days resting. Short walks and no climbing.

More importantly, drink lots of water, eat more of starchy and sweet foods, eat less and keep a close watch on your bowel movements! If you survive the first day without your head bursting due to lack of oxygen and your blood pressure shooting up, you are ready for a magical ride. Leh is where the journey begins with roads taking you across mountain passes such as Khardung La at more than 18,000 feet and Chang La at some 17,500 feet to the breathtaking Pangong lake, a large chunk of which lies in China.

On the highway to Srinagar, which is about 450 km from Leh, lies the small hamlet of Nimu. Not far from there the Indus merges with the Zanksar river - a muddy confluence of strong currents that is sometimes used as training spot for rafters.

Khardung La is almost the top of the world, silent, menacing and very cold. The drive - about 40 km from Leh - took just over 2 hours through some of the highest and loneliest roads overlooking deep gorges.

Snow covered peaks and icicles hanging along mountainsides greeted us as we stepped out of the car and nearly keeled over in the thin air. I quickly looked at the now-ubiquitous oxygen cylinder that lay neatly wrapped under the back seat.

Mercifully, the drive had helped us acclimatize and we didn't need it. Some hot kahawa at a tea stall helped, and a hot bowl of Maggi - that wondrous wormy pile of noodles - never tasted as good.

And then it snowed - woolly white flakes floated down suddenly, surprising the tourists. It's not always that there is an opportunity to build a snowman in the month of June! Out of this world But it is the long drive - 150 km - to Pangong that is absolutely recommended, if only to dip your hands into the chilling waters that run more than 200 metres deep and a walk on the nearby Garnet Hill in search of semi-precious stones.

The road to the lake is steep, sometimes narrow and rocks and valleys change colours like a chameleon - from green to gray to golden to orange - and vegetation gives way to huge sand dunes. The famed pashmina sheep, the yaks and the hairy mules lazily graze around.

There is also the beaver-like Himalayan marmot - a fat fellow that sometimes decides to show off to tourists. "The mules here make more money than cars because they can be used all through the year," our driver Dorji tells us, adding that the army books the animals much in advance for the winter trail when many roads are closed.

On the way lies Chang La, the third highest pass in the world. Surrounded by snowy peaks, it sits there alone - littered with tin-roofed structures where soldiers dish out hot tea to cold travelers who stand there blinking, many wondering why they ever got up there.

"That snow peak you see there, that's China," our boatman tells us as we zip through the blue waters of the Panong lake surrounded by bland mountains. It's 4 pm and the clouds have just lifted, the cold, dry wind blew hard as we go across the nearly 135-km-long lake, only a quarter of which lies in India.

It's unreal. China is so close.

The next day after spending a night at Tangse (a flat valley in the midst of barren hills) we begin the drive back to Leh - stopping at various gumpas or fort-like Buddhist temples. Giant Buddha statues adorn these monasteries that are a seat of learning for the young and old.

"How do you like Ladakh?" asks a shopkeeper near where we sit down to enjoy momos and thupka - the traditional Tibetan noodle soup. It's like paradise, I say.

"Only if you are a tourist. For those who live here it's hell," the man retorts.

I understand.

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