Motorcycle Madness
A palace in the Indus valley
That night, when returning the bikes, I was wondering what to do next. I could afford to stay six more days in Ladakh, and I wanted to do some trekking, but I had no idea with whom or where to. But I was sure that, as always, the answer would come somehow. I used to have dinner at the same place every night. Before going to the Nubra valley, I stayed at a family guest house, where the hostess cooks a delicious Ladakhi dinner. It's at a very reasonable price; the deal is that everybody helps a bit with cutting vegetables and serving plates. It was a delight to do some cooking after so many months. The hostess (commonly called 'didi', or 'older sister') is an adorably lady, who insists that you eat "littil bit more" until you practically explode. The common cooking and happy atmosphere make dinner at that guest house a great occasion to meet people. That's where, on the night of the motorbike trip, some people told me about their trek in the Markha valley. It was beautiful, you didn't need a tent, it took four days, it was not too hard, you could easily go on your own and meet plenty of people on the trail, and the bus left two days later; it was perfect.
That's how, on a sunny Sunday morning, I left for what would turn out to be a bit of an adventure. Taking the bus was, as always, an interesting experience. The bus stand had no booking office or information booth, so I had gone around asking people at what time the bus would leave. In India, when you need some information, you always at least double- or triple-check. To be perfectly sure, I had asked roughly ten people. Out of these ten, seven said the bus was at 7 a.m., two assured me it was at at 8, and one told me it was at "7...err...8...no wait...9, yeah, at 9". Majority rules, I thought, so I got up early and got to the bus stand at 6.30, just to make sure. This was the start of a long day. The bus didn't show up until 9.20. People literally ran to the arriving bus, 'booking' seats by throwing their bags on them through the windows. As a result, even though I had been by far the first to be there, I got the worst spot: standing, and completely at the back. As always, it took quite some time before the bus left, but after 20 minutes, we were finally on our way. At some point, we stopped for 15 minutes because they were busy constructing the road. But the main obstacle came after the bus ride. To start the trek, we had to cross a river with a pulley bridge. Only, some idiots - according to the locals, certainly tourists - had fastened the car at the other side of the river. There was nothing to do but to wait for someone to come from the other side. But who was there going to be? Trekkers normally go in the direction we were going, and villagers going to the city would have come earlier in the day. I had met some other trekkers on the bus: a French couple, two French guys, and four Israeli men. We walked further down the road to see if we could spot someone on the other side, but in vain. We started, half-seriously, to make wild plans: couldn't we swim across, or build a raft? The river looked pretty wild. Or couldn't someone climb the rope? But what if he would run out of strength somewhere in the middle? Luckily, it never had to come to that. After four hours, miraculously, a couple of trekkers appeared. Fortunately, the first day of the trek is a short one, so we got to the village around sunset. Actually, since I wanted to do a five-day trek in four days, I had planned to do two stages that day; the delay ruined my plans. I was going to be in a bit of a hurry for the rest of the trek.
Crossing with the pulley bridge
Surprisingly few people go for the option sleeping in so-called homestays, like I did. People accommodate you in their houses and give you three meals (a pack for lunch) for a fixed price. It's a nice way to come into contact with the local population, and it avoids the burden of a heavy tent and sleeping mat. As I had learned during my trek in Sikkim, early morning is the best part of the day. The others seemed to attach more importance to a good night of sleep, so the next morning, I left on my own. Well-prepared as always, my only guidance was a copy of the more or less detailed description of the itinerary in the Lonely Planet. But the trail was easy to follow, that morning, so I had no trouble finding my way. I was very glad I had made the choice to leave early; nothing compares to the feeling of being all alone, surrounded by nature. The landscape was similar to the other valleys, but for a small yet significant difference: no roads! No cars! I realized more than ever that that's probably the best thing about trekking: being somewhere really, truly remote. Walking also allows one to appreciate better the small religious monuments that dot the valley: not only monasteries, but also numerous small stupas, mani walls (made out of stones with religious carvings) and prayer wheels. The hike was pretty long, that day, so I didn't have the courage to go further. I was still on schedule for the five-day trek, that is, behind schedule for the four-day trek. At least this time we had arrived early enough to enjoy the majestic sunset.
Markha valley
The next morning again, I left early, and on my own. The description said I had to walk 2 km in the valley before crossing the river (that is, without a bridge), then walk for a while and cross it again. It warned that crossing could be dangerous in the afternoon, when melting snow increases the flow. But since it was early in the morning, and I had crossed the river elsewhere the day before without any problems, I didn't feel like I had any reason to worry. What I didn't realize, was that unusual rain- and snowfall up in the mountains had caused the level of the water to rise higher that usual.
Walking alongside the river, at some point, I had to choose between going up a ledge or staying on the riverbank; I went for the easy option. Before long, I reached a place where I had no option but to cross the river. I didn't feel like I had been walking for 2 km, but the Lonely Planet description had deceived me before; so I slowly started crossing the river. It wasn't so broad - I estimate between five and ten meters - so I would reach the other side quickly. The water was extremely cold, making my feet and legs go a bit numb, but with the help of the walking stick I had found that morning, I managed to get halfway, where a small sandbank allowed me to rest for a few seconds. I started to realize it wasn't going to be as easy as I had thought; the second half looked deeper, and more violent. Wanting to get it over with, I moved on. The water came higher and higher, reaching my knees, and rising still further...I started talking to myself: "go on, go on, don't stop, go on". And then, in a couple of seconds, it happened. All of a sudden, for some reason, I had to let go of my walking stick. I remember watching it being carried away by the stream, and next thing I know, I had lost my balance and fallen on my side. I was being dragged helplessly over the rocky bottom, gasping for breath because of the cold water; I was really scared. That feeling of being completely at the mercy of the unforgiving nature is something I will never forget. I was just about to throw off my backpack to save myself, when I somehow manged to get up and reach the riverside.
I was soaked from tip to toe, including my backpack, my camera and my cellphone. I was shivering with cold, feeling lonely and miserable. While I took some time to regain my senses, I saw the first guided group appearing on the other side of the river. Instead of staying on the riverbank, as I had done, they were following the ledge. I then understood that not only had the river been swollen because of the rains, but I had also crossed it much too soon. I was now determined to stay on that side of the river until I reached the actual crossing, much too afraid to risk the same misadventure again. That proved to be harder than I thought. Though where I had crossed, the riverside was pretty broad, the strip of land I was walking on was narrowing more and more. I struggled my way through some trees and bushes, went up and down a couple of times, but then the riverbank stopped. There was nothing left between the water and the steep rocks. My dread for crossing the river again was so big that I started climbing the wall, slowly making my way sideways. It was fairly easy to find good grips, but at some point, I got stuck. I was trying not to loose my grip on the rocks, feeling the weight of my wet backpack, and saw the fast-flowing current below. In the meantime, on the opposite side, other trekkers were walking high above, on the ledge I had failed to follow. No-one seemed to notice me; I felt lonely and, once again, scared. I was struggling to stay positive and not to let myself be driven into despair. "Okay, Julien, you're going to climb back, cross the river again, and this will all be over", I told myself out loud; I had no other option. As always, climbing back was harder than getting there, but somehow I managed. I looked for a place where the river looked a bit broader and calmer. I gave myself a pep talk, out loud, counted to three, and started crossing, shouting "come on, keep going, come on!". Interestingly, all this shouting and talking to myself was in French; I don't know if it was my mother tongue coming to the surface on such an acute moment, or the fact that I had spent two days in French company. When I reached the other side, without falling this time, I burst out, not in joy but in anger - anger with the situation and with myself, for having been so stupid.
Relieved to be on the right side of the river again, I walked on and I reached the place where I had been supposed to cross.The valley at that point is broader, allowing the river to split into several calmer streams. So I crossed the river for the third time, this time without too much trouble. As I was making my way through the water, bare-chested and soaked to the bone, I was being eyed curiously by a group of trekkers at the other side. When I reached the riverbank, I found out they were...Belgians. In five months I had met only a handful of compatriots, but just then, in my weakest moment, I had to meet a whole bunch of them. I gratefully told them my story; they must have taken me for some kind of idiot or madman, trekking there on my own and without a guide. I crossed the river with them, for the fourth and last time - some of them, middle-aged, were really struggling -, put on my dry clothes and carried on.
Not to appear as a weakling, I feel the urge to add the following. Further on the trail, I met a German girl, who was trekking with a guide. She had apparently told him she liked crossing rivers, so to challenge her, he had taken him to the same place where I had crossed. She too had fallen; she told me she had been very scared, and was very grateful that her guide had been there to help her, because she didn't know what would have happened otherwise. Maybe even more than a weakling, you may think I was an idiot, trekking on my own like that. I agree to some extent; it was not dangerous to leave on the trek on my own, because I had been told I would meet people, which I did, but it was stupid and dangerous to walk alone, and certainly to cross a river on my own.
That night I slept at 4000 m, in a tent that serves as restaurant during the day. Even though it was raining, I was struck by the beauty of the camping site: barren rocks, grazing yaks and the fast-flowing river. The clouds only occasionally allowed for a glimpse of the huge, snow-topped Kang Yatze (elevation 6400 m) that dominates the valley.
The next day, I had a heavy program. I needed to get to the last village of the trek, where I had to take a bus to Leh the day after, because I had booked the bus back to Manali for that night. I had to walk two stages in one day. The first stage leads up to 4700 m, at the foot of the Kungmaru La pass, and the second stage crosses the pass (at 5150 m) before going all the way down to the village, at an elevation of around 3000 m. To make sure I would make it to the end of the trek I left early and again, on my own
The first part of the trail was exhilarating. I was all alone again, enjoying it more than ever; I even had a pretty close encounter with a marmot. Amazingly, at more than 4000 m altitude, I saw many bright yellow and red flowers. At some point, I got to a viewing point. The vista was awesome: the rocky valley with the river down below; the rugged mountains in the east, with distant white peaks illuminated by the sun; the huge, snow-capped Kang Yatze, partially covered by clouds, in the south; and pitch-black, ominous mountains in the north.
And then, I got lost. Because of my fall in the river, my itinerary had been reduced to shreds. I had the beginning of a description, and what I thought was the end, with a couple of sentences missing in between. As I realized afterwards, the second part was probably the end of a description of a side trip. At some point it said "head south", when the first stage was actually going straight to the east. I tried to follow the traces of hooves of yaks and horses, but then I realized the whole area was covered with traces. To make things worse, and as always in this type of situations, it started raining. I was supposed to reach the camp at 4700 m in 2-3 hours. The water had ruined my faithful waterproof "COSIO" watch, and I had lost all concept of time. All I could to was going from hilltop to hilltop, hoping to see something or someone. The hope I had while climbing to a high point turned into deception time after time when all I saw was more hilltops, and more nothingness. I was just about to go all the way back in the hope to find other trekkers, when I saw them: people! They were walking in an opposite direction, so I started running towards them, whistling and shouting as loud as I could, "stop!wait!help!". But the mountains are treacherous in many ways, and it wasn't until I was at less than 100 m that they finally heard me. When I reached them, exhausted, they told me I had to go back north, and I would find the camp easily. I still had some trouble finding it, so it took much longer than I had hoped for, but in the end, I reached the camp. I was worried. I new the second stage would take at least six hours, and I had no idea what time it was. If it was after 12, it would be too late to try and finish the trek the same day. I found out it was 11 a.m.; it had taken me 5-6 hours to get there, instead of 2-3 hours. I could still try to do the next stage, but I had lost a lot of energy already, and I was through with trekking alone, especially when having to cross a pass at 5150 m. I was slowly starting to accept my defeat; I would miss the bus to Manali. But then arrived the two French guys I had met on the bus. They were even more crazy than me, and they too wanted to end the trek that same day. So, after checking with experienced guides if we could actually make it before sunset ("yes, if you are fit"), we were on our way.
The Kungmaru pass is right above the camping site. The ascend, especially the last bit, is extremely steep. The air above 5000 m gets very thin, and we weren't acclimatized, coming from 4000m that morning. We had to stop every couple of steps to catch our breath. It was the second time I ascended a high pass (the first time was in Sikkim), and I realized how much I like it, in a strange, masochist way. The altitude created a strange pressure in my head, and the lack of oxygen made my heart race. I felt that I was not far from being delirious; it felt like being trapped in some kind of nightmare. It took us one and a half hours to reach the top. The weather gods, who definitely seem to have decided to do their best to spoil my trip (in vain), denied us the superb view my guidebook had promised. We quickly started the steep, muddy, slippery descent, as rain started falling again. The way down was difficult and annoying, but once we reached the bottom of the valley, the weather got better, and the trail led us alongside a beautiful river. The description warned me that we had to cross the river "several times". Call me a whiner, but to me, an estimated 20 to 30 times (no exaggeration!) deserves the appellation 'many times'. Not wanting to wet our feet, we balanced on rocks with increasing difficulty as we went downstream; the fact that all three of us managed to do so so many times without falling once can be considered a miracle. Or fine skill, of course.
We walked at a brisk pace - or rather, they did, and I struggled to follow - and reached the last village after a bit more than six hours, just before sunset. I had walked for about eleven hours that day; I was still sore three days later.
The next morning, we had to take the bus to Leh. Of course there was a problem - or what did you expect. The bus was there, but it had a flat tire. Because it was on a slope, transversally, they were worried that lifting one side with the car jack would cause the bus to tilt and fall over. We ended up all hanging at the other side of the bus to ensure the balance - us foreigners with particular enthusiasm. And so I managed to get back to Leh. The rainfall had caused the Road to Manali to be closed in the previous days, but luckily for me, it was open by then. So I took the bus back to Manali that night, for the final chapter of my stay in India...
About two weeks after I left Ladakh, a massive cloudburst caused flash floods in the region, killing dozens of people. Entire villages were swept away. I told you about my experiences with the wonderful people of Ladakh; I was very affected when I heard the news. This, along with other recent catastrophes, like the floods in Pakistan and China, is yet another testimony of the disastrous consequences of our changing climate. If this change is caused at least partially by us humans, as many people believe, this tragically shows how we are destroying our own paradises.
