Jamshedpur to Delhi-Feb 2000

“into the sunset we ride
the road long and wide
the dark sky beckons on, the dust is our destiny…” - - Rahul.

These lines are older than this ride, but make more sense now, as I look back to 11 years ago.

There is something about the road. Much has been written about it. It has been glorified, romanticised in poem, film, song, philosophy and legend. About how it symbolises life, primarily. About how we must walk (or ride!) the long road, how we can not stay, how we must traverse every stony stretch, negotiate every tricky turn and precipice. And, well, besides all that soft headed jazz, its also bloody good fun.

It was February 2000. The four of us, Rahul, Ranjeev, Raman and Sidhu set out for what was perhaps considered the dumbest idea ever that a graduating batch of XLRI Jamshedpur had thought up. Riding back all the way from XL to New Delhi, a total of about 1300 kms on motorcycles. Raman and Ranjeev on Raman’s Hero Honda splendour, Rahul and Sidhu on Sidhu’s Enfield 350 Machismo, a.k.a. Dhanno.

But that's exactly what we did. The final term was over, we all now had jobs, bright future prospects and no where to look, but ahead. So, one fateful morning, after having stayed up all night, we saddled up and rode out of XLRI. Our first day target was to clear Bihar (this was before Jharkhand). We had very little clue about what was in store.

This included around 450 kms through some of the most notorious areas of Bihar, like Hazaribagh district, where one could get robbed on the highway, in broad daylight, apparently. Well, about the toughest part was trying to keep from crying out loud, every time we ran over one of the million potholes dotting the entire length of a lame excuse for a National Highway (the G.T.) that Bihar has to offer. There were times when we actually rode through the fields in search of the elusive road...

The first night at Dehri on Sone saw four dusty, weary, yet pleased as punch riders check into a seedy hotel. The bathing water was ice cold but the food was hot and the bedding adequate. On the road, you don’t choose your luxuries; you count your blessings. The rest was easy. Benares, with a halt at the ghats and the singing Hare Rama, Hare Krishna crowd, Allahabad and a halt at Fatehpur town. Not to be mistaken with Fatehpur Sikri. Again, a well-deserved rest at 100 bucks-a-night joint, which had multi coloured windows.

The next morning was perhaps the highlight. Instead of going through the NH we took a detour and what followed was a breathtaking stretch of country road through rural Kanpur. Fields of mustard in full bloom for miles, horse carts, ancient looking wells and small villages. The smell of a winter morning and a sense of eternal bliss in the cold, crisp air. The saddlebags strapped tight, the weathered leather jacket braving the morning dew and the 4-stroke bike engine chugging away tirelessly. This was God’s own country and God’s own time and everything worked perfectly.

The third night at Agra saw us pulling into a bright, well-lit city, decorated for some sort of tourist fest. This time, we had more time on our hands and hot water. Even a TV that sort of worked. We were up very early again. The only time to see the Taj Mahal in all its marble glory is at the break of dawn. Later, back at the hotel after tea and a quick shave we did the final stretch.

Agra to Delhi is perhaps one of the best roads in India. Black, smooth tarmac, multiple lanes, the works. We were on full throttle here, doing about 95 to just below 100 and we couldn’t get any faster. 3 hours later, we hit Delhi with its stream of traffic and a sea of humanity in our faces. We had reached our destination.

We didn’t know whether our journey heralded a new beginning in our lives or an end to the ones we had left behind at XL. We didn’t know if it encouraged future riders in its wake or was a swan song of the Bl@x. Either way, it was time to give the old riding gloves a rest.

Raman
Ranjeev
Rahul
Sidhu
XLRI 2000

The Last Leg...Mama, I'm comin' home...

Despite all intentions, we end up leaving Pathankot late and by 9 am when we depart, the sun is already blazing something fierce. An all too obvious reminder, that it is still the height of summer in the North India plain. The only comforts now are the great roads and my discovery that the sleeping bag makes for an incredible backrest.

Not much left to describe, except that we chug along listlessly in the oppressive heat. No amount of water, that we drink or pour over ourselves, helps. We stop often to rest, sapped by the scorching sun. We’re a heartbeat away from heat stroke. The blinding sunlight transforms the countryside into the surface of Crematoria, from the Riddick movies. Everything looks like it’s going to be incinerated any minute now. This is not summer. It’s an annual nuclear holocaust.

We pull into the driveway of my parents’ house, who are away to Gurgaon to be with my eldest sister and her kids visiting from the US. We are back here after less than two weeks, but it seems longer. I feel transformed. The excitement and trepidation I left with has been replaced with some emptiness, perhaps, but also a stronger sense of self. It’s bloody paradoxical, come to think of it.

Tonight, it’s beer and pizza at home as a token celebration. We were too bushed to step out and go to a bar. The next morning, Nitin and I bid farewell to Darius who carries on along to Delhi. We have to take a small detour, so decide to pack off Nitin’s bike onto a truck bound for Hyderabad, while I park mine at home and take the car to Delhi instead. Back to the humdrum and the mundane. In time, this ride will transform into pure nostalgia. It will have been, a worthwhile investment of experience.



“Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.”
– Pat Conroy

Srinagar to Pathankot: Ride through the Valley of Death…well almost

The Srinagar-Jammu highway is closed for traffic every night when the army sweeps every inch of it for any concealed improvised explosive devices. This is hostile territory, make no mistake. But in the day, it proves to be as much a killer. Owing to the Amarnath Yatra, the traffic is the heaviest I’ve ever seen on any highway. It’s slow progress as we snake up to the famed Jawahar Tunnel and then down again.

We are overtaken by a foreigner, smiling and waving, on a low, powerful KTM sports touring bike. A few miles later, he crashes into the drain next to the road and understandably loses his good humour. Our spirits are no better, battered by diesel fumes, honking horns and the endless stream of vehicles being driven by lunatics. Makes me miss the tranquility of Ladakh already.

After Patni top, we stop for an epic lunch which goes on longer than intended. The view from this dhaba is lovely and just right to stop at, and watch the traffic go by from. And then, the ride toward Udhampur. We ditch Jammu in favour of the relatively unused state highway toward Samba. The terrain here is reminiscent of the muddy ravines of Chambal. As darkness descends, a chai stop at a dhaba in the middle of nowhere, a few moments to soak in the wilderness, the isolation, the realization that I may not be back here again and then we head out.

The road from Samba to Pathankot was under repair and being four-laned. In the dark, with oncoming traffic and headlights, the last part of the ride is rather tiresome. Once again, the realization that night riding is never a great idea. The fun part of the ride has given way to the tedium of commute. As we pull into Pathankot late in the night, the town seems dead. It’s pretty warm now and the dust and grime of travel is suddenly all too apparent. We manage to get a large room on a budget in a seedy hotel close to the bus stand. The narrow stairway and the dingy green corridors with dim red bulbs is something right out of a Ram Gopal Varma film.

However, later, after a shower, sitting in an air conditioned room with enough rum, butter chicken and tandoori rotis, this place seems like a haven. Not so much for Darius who seems visibly upset on getting the news that Michael Jackson has died today. It’s the 25th of June 2009. End of an era for sure. But I am a bit more upset about the fact that the epic journey has come to an end. And I’ll wager, so is Nitin.

I’m pretty sure, many years hence, I’ll look at my bike and think, the way you make me feel, is totally off the wall and I can’t stop loving you and I will remember the time, I did this thriller of a ride and I will wanna be startin’ something again…heh heh. Ok tribute to Whacko Jacko…check. Done.

The Journey Home - Kargil to Srinagar

Perfect sunny day to ride. A God-like feeling to roar out of Kargil on the way to Drass. A feeling of calm. And immortality.

Then we see the sign.

Apparently we should exercise caution, since we are under enemy observation. A mental picture of a handheld rocket making its way rapidly toward our trio, from the mountaintops, emerges. Yup, good idea to skip the photo-op at this sign and chug along. Yeah, and scratch the plan of showing Paki border troops, the finger, too. Not good for international diplomacy and that sort of thing. Wouldn’t be kosher. Or Halal, in this case.

A board proclaiming that this is 2nd coldest inhabited place on the planet welcomes us to Dras. It’s so cold that apparently hens lay smaller eggs here. We got this on good authority from the waiter at the dhaba when we enquired why our 4 scrambled eggs look like two. Then he shows us the egg. It was about the size of a pigeon’s egg.

We stop at the Kargil War Memorial, which is just outside Dras. With the Tololing ranges & Tiger Hill in the backdrop, where some of the fiercest fighting that took place, it makes quiet a spectacular view. It’s a grand and solemn tribute to the Kargil war heroes. Being here makes the stories of Capt Vikram Batra and Lieutenant Vijayant Thapar seem more real. And yet, it’s difficult to imagine how in an environment where even walking is strenuous, these guys accomplished what they did in probably the most hostile and stressful of situations. Being here, does a lot for one’s perspective.

Onward to Zoji La pass, the last of the Himalayan gateways on this journey. We ride across some of the most surreal landscape here. The gray-green, snow-capped mountains on either side of a black top road snaking across the wide valley floor, and an azure sky above is a sight which is probably going to stay with us till we die. This is biking Valhalla.

The road to Zoji La however, is complete crap. This is probably the second toughest climb we’ve had, but now riding through water, rocks and rubble has become second nature. It’s an awfully long climb, closeted by rock on all sides. At the top, the mountain is just black rock and dust. I get the same ‘route to Shangrila’ feeling.

We cross the bracket of black rock, that is Zoji La, ride around the shoulder of the mountain and are greeted with a spectacular view. That of the wide open and extremely green Sonmarg valley, a few thousand feet below. It’s almost a sheer drop and it’s a very steep and narrow road descending into the valley. This should be fun.

We are stopped by a group of soldiers atop a boulder by the side of the road for some random checking. They’re really courteous, offering us water and chai while making small talk to check if there’s anything suspicious about us. Though I doubt potential trouble makers in the valley would pick as conspicuous a mode of travel as Enfield motorcycles.

The descent into Sonmarg is incredible…as the altitude drops, the oxygen levels rapidly rise. It’s dramatic, what happens to bike and biker alike here. While our lungs fill up, after almost two weeks, the engine also gets a fresh, clean burst of oxygen rich air. Suddenly, power that you had forgotten, surges forth on twisting the accelerator grip and the bike lunges like a caged cougar set free. Fuckin’ Brilliant…is all I can say.

This reintroduction to BHP, is all it takes to make short work of the otherwise tedious journey to Srinagar from this point onward. The road is good, but there is huge traffic so we zip past, weaving in and out of the endless rows of cars. After what we have ridden through, this seems like a cakewalk.

Srinagar is still a lovely city, but there are some sort of police or paramilitary personnel every 40 yards or so. There is some nervousness, especially around the only place we buy alcohol from. The Govt. hotel with the only licensed liquor shop. Tourism has revived a bit here but nothing compared to the past glory. We stay at lovely, relatively plush hotel, called the Akbar International which looks like an old converted mansion. We get our own valet and room service etc at rates, even fleabag motel owners in Delhi would scoff at.

As we unload our bikes in the hotel driveway, an old car with an old Sikh couple pulls up beside us. As the lady makes her way indoors, the old gent guesses I’m a Punjabi as well since he asks me, in Punjabi, where we’re coming from and where we’re headed. I give him the 3 minute download of our journey.

He looks at me, eyes sparkling, yet wistful and tells me…”changa hai beta..khoob aishaan karo. Ae bada rangeen time hunda ae zindagi da..” (this is great son, have a blast…youth is a really colourful time of one’s life). Not something we haven’t all heard before, but something about the way he said it, really made an impression.

As we settle down and start the daily drinking ritual, I feel lucky to be able to do this now and know it won’t seem terribly long, before I’ll be the old man, reliving this trip, telling some guy to really make the most of his youth before family, mortgages, medical bills, grocery shopping and incessant and frequently trite social compulsions rob him of it.

Tomorrow, we would be heading to Pathankot and this was our last night in the Himalayas. This ride was almost done.

The Journey Home: Leh to Kargil

After 4 days of rest, we’re all loaded up and on the road again. It’s a nice, cold, crisp morning as we speed away from Leh. The road stretches and twists and turns like a black ribbon through the dusty plain. We’d go faster but the rarified air is still asphyxiating the engines.

We cross Pathar Sahib, the Gurdwara built in 1517 to commemorate the visit of Guru Nanak Dev to Leh. I would kick myself later for not knowing this basic fact and assuming this was an army Gurudwara and just riding past. I should’ve stopped. Idiot.

The road through to Nimmu is breathtaking. It’s pretty much hard top all the way and this part of Ladakh offers a completely different experience. Nice smooth ride and gentle twisties all along. You can dip and waltz with the tarmac here. Today, it feels closer to heaven than before. It’s good to be alive and astride the Enfield in these parts. All you really need, is nicely packed and lashed down and on the go, with you.

A nice hot chai halt at a little dhaba made of planks of wood and gray stone in a green little hamlet somewhere feels brilliant and well earned. Soon, the road forks off to Alchi, the 10th century, and presumably well preserved village which is quite strongly recommended. This has evidence of the Kashmiri influence on Buddhist art and culture apparently. Also has favorable climate for agriculture so an interesting place. Ah well, not this trip. We’ll visit next time.

We’re on a schedule and eager to get to Lamayuru Monastry. The approach to Lamayuru, literally “moon land” is as dry and desolate as can be. Outlandish. These could well be the highlands of Tatooine. Incredible. As we approach the main structure we nod at two hippie bikers taking a rest here. They’re riding Enfields that look as old and caked with history as the monastery itself. The junk they’re carrying, utensils, tools, a stove, seems rusted, twisted and picked off a Mad Max movie set clearance sale.

The monastery, about 1000 years old and counting, is the oldest in this region. There is a tremendous sense of age in the snake-hole like dwellings that seem like they’ve been carved into the mountain from which the monastery emerges. In fact there is a legend of serpentine demons (Nagras) that infested the place, until the Buddhist ascetic Arahat Madhyantaka drove them away. Well, as per one website I read after the trip, anyway.

Another striking feature is that the monks have created an oasis in the middle of nowhere. There is terraced farming and very out of place looking green patches. The thin and clear air in Ladakh brings out colours, contrasts and a certain sharpness in everything around you. It’s like walking into a postcard.

Food here is once again, brilliant. You have a choice of Italian, oriental and continental on the menu. All vegetarian and well made. A good rest, lot of photo ops, and we head off. I am again struck by what an insanely huge photo shoot set, this whole country is. You aim in any direction and click, and you get incredible results.

Out of the cloisters and onto the asphalt. The climb to Fotu La, the highest pass on this side of Leh. Relatively, easy climb and descent. The next one, Namika La, not so much. It is breathtakingly beautiful and deserves a short stop to soak in the view. The silent, craggy mountain tops here have a surreal quality about them. Even for someone like me, who has grown up in the hills, this place has undeniable mystique.

All this is great, but my fellow riders have taken off in a cloud of dust and I can no longer see them. I snap out of my reverie and ride down. The entire road downhill is being redone. The ruddy, all pervasive dust again. And oh, the bone rattling ride. Traversing these Himalayan passes is a like a night out on the town. The ‘getting high with your mates’ bit is capital and you feel top of the world. The aftermath is a right royal shit storm of consequences.

I ride down to the base at Mulbek. Should’ve been called Mule-back. Sure feels like that’s how I got here. This place is famous for a statue of Maitreya, the future Buddha. It is believed that the 9 meter high statue carved out of solid rock was built in 7th or 8th century. I don’t see it. I just want to catch up with Nitin and Darius and take a shower. Ok, that came out wrong. I mean, not with them. Oh fuggit, it just gets worse.

The part of Kashmir that looks like Switzerland starts now. Actually that’s an insult to this land. It’s unique and shouldn’t be considered a lesser version of anything. It’s getting greener and flatter and the valley is getting wider. I catch up with the dynamic duo and feel a bit relieved. I hadn’t missed them on the side of the road and no one had, mercifully gone down a mountain. Praise the Lord.

It’s evening as we approach Kargil and we stop by a petrol station on the outskirts to refuel. We chance upon some riders heading away from Kargil. On enquiring, they inform us with a bored and ‘been there’ look that they’ve had enough of Leh after many annual trips and are headed out to Zanskar instead. These guys are from the Delhi Enfield Bullet club, the ‘Royal Beasts’, aka the ‘Beasters’. One of them has a license plate sticker that reads Lucifer. Hmmm…beastly all right.

Kargil is a small town, much like any obscure hill station. There are many open shops, but hardly any customers. The people you see in the street could be from either side of the border, considering that Pakistan controlled Baltistan is a grenade’s throw away. This is an unmistakably Muslim town. No rum tonight, boyo.

We check into ‘Hotel Siachen’ and tourists here must be a welcome sight for anyone in the hospitality business. About 6 members of the Siachen staff descend on us and our bikes with cloth and feather dusters. Oh yeah, the remains of Namika La are all too apparent.

The service here is brilliant, the staff extremely courteous and the rooms….well hideous in their boudoir like styling. But comfy. And the food is awesome. I wonder if the wary looks we get from the other guests are real or imagined. Well, it matters not at this point.

Here we were. At Kargil. Epicentre of the Indo-Pak war in 1999. A place suddenly brought into the limelight, exactly 10 years ago by Geo-politics, treachery, tragedy but also heroism.…an obscure little place hidden through history but now one that inspired curiosity, fear, intrigue and sorrow for the many families it touched across the country. Families that lost their boys here. And what of the families from here that probably live with a constant unease. Kargil. This is a name I first heard just 10 years ago. I can’t imagine what it must have been like then. And 10 years ago, wouldn’t have imagined I’d be riding Dhanno to get here.

Right now, as I sit outside my room in the open hallway, sipping a chai after dinner and gazing at the stars, there is a certain sense of discovery and awe. The past ten days have given me a sense of what pilgrimage means to the devout.

Khardung-La, in and around Leh

We spend the first day, puttering around, looking for a place to wash our bikes and a place to eat. The breakfast at the nice little lodge we are at, is simple and filling, but only just. Finally, we get to the Maruti service station and spend the next few hours, watching car after car being washed thoroughly of the white crud that the road to Leh generously deposits everywhere.

Nitin and I swap fairly elaborate cuss words which Darius doesn’t find amusing. It cracks us up even more. Nitin condescends to explain how important swear words are, to understanding the etymology of any language. He quotes the name of a researcher/author and sounds authoritative enough for Darius to go back to day dreaming.

So while at Leh, these things we did, which I will remember, are perhaps a little more prosaic than most people would like. Yes, we did the customary Monastery tours and the Leh Palace tour and pottered around in the old quarter. But you don’t really need to go anywhere when in Leh. It’s always all there in the backdrop.

So what I will remember most from the town of Leh, is drinking beer out of a tea kettle, on a terrace since the Leh View Restaurant does not have a liquor license. Or going back to La Terrasse restaurant 3 nights in a row because we got splendid service and malai koftas. Or having a particularly skilled 10 year old stitch my supposed ‘all-terrain’ army boots when the adhesive on the sole started giving way (I do not promote child labour-this was an emergency).

Khardung-la is about 45 kms from Leh and pretty much a day trip. We start out after breakfast. In about ten minutes, we’ve left civilization behind and the familiar lunar landscape takes over. Just short of a half way point called ‘South Pullu’, I stop to let Nitin and Darius catch up when something, well, weird happens. Darius decides not to go on ahead as apparently his bike’s losing power. Knowing the sort of bike hypochondriac he is, we offer to take a look, but it looks like he’s had it for now and heads back – taking our spares, tools and medical kit with him.

To have come this far through all that we did, it seems rather a travesty to miss this opportunity. This is the Everest of road trips. You don’t turn your back to the summit when it’s within grasp. Anyway, after a quick chai at South Pullu, we head up.

The familiar nip in the air, the silence and the barren, craggy, mountainscape are waiting as we climb. Only, it feels high. Higher than before. I am reminded of every Chinese movie I’ve seen about monks and/or kung-fu masters making their way through perilous mountain paths to reach some shelter from the elements on their journey to some Shangrila-esque dig. However, this ascent is easier than Rohtang or Tang-lang-la.

Just as the road gets narrower and more deeply rutted, we see the bend ahead at the summit. K-Top!

It looks like any other tourist spot. It could well be the slushy road outside the Kufri zoo…families, taxis, cameras everywhere, while the security personnel, who manage affairs at Khardungla, look on. If you blindfolded someone and brought them here, they wouldn’t see anything spectacular, except the view to some extent. What makes it special, is the knowledge that you got here, to this Mecca of road-trippers, the hard way, albeit the fun way. A good, old fashioned motorcycle adventure astride a machine that has basically been unchanged for 60 years, in the time of new-fangled SUVs.

Some proud posing for the camera, next to the signboard announcing that we are here, at 18380 feet. We didn’t have flags, so we bring out, the T-shirts of the only two ‘Clubs’ we care being a part of, for the pictures. The BL@X (Bike Lovers at XLRI – corny, yes) and the Chaustbuoyes (biking buddies from my days in Hyderabad). This one’s for you guys back home.

There were others on bikes here. A honeymoon couple on a rented Enfield Thunderbird, which looked barely held together. Another was riding solo, whose bike refused to start. However, he looked chipper enough and said he’d manage.

I’d forgotten to bring the cigars that were to be smoked at K-Top in celebration, which was just as well, given the thin air here and the time it would have taken. We’re keen to head back now. So, after some souvenir shopping, photos and chai. We head back. We’d accomplished the prime objective now. This called for a break at South Pullu with chai and an omelette.

Here, Nitin helped the now stranded honeymoon couple by cleaning their disgraceful bike’s blackened spark plug so they could get on their way. We also bump into three guys travelling together from Madhya Pradesh. They seemed to think we were downright grand for having biked it all the way here. They were all too happy to let Nitin have some of their Rajnigandha...a hard to get commodity in these parts. They also entertained us with an account of meeting the stars of the movie “Three Idiots” being shot at Pangong Lake. In their own words, Aamir was “bahut sahi” while Saif Khan, accompanying girlfriend Kareena Kapoor, was a “neehayati madarchod kism ka aadmi”.

We were unlikely to bump into either since all our plans to visit the lakes, Nubra Valley etc had been scrapped. We had reached two days behind schedule and intended to head back day earlier in case we got stranded again. In other change in plan, was to head back from the Kargil-Srinagar route which we wanted to avoid initially given the sensitive security climate there. But, we opted for that, instead of the daunting idea of heading back the way we came.

Back at Leh, we finally smoked that cigar at La Terrasse, got drunk and sang in decidedly unmelodious, rather odious tenor all the way back to the guest house in the middle of the night.

Leh-ed, at Last!!! Day 7

Day 7. We wake up to a cold and frosty morning (…and here we go round the mulberry bush..). The temperature had been below freezing at night and the water in the bucket, inside the tent, has frozen. Whatever little grass is there on the camp ground seems to crunch as we walk on it. It takes more than the usual amount of stretching and bending to get the blood flowing.

A nice hot porridge breakfast later, we start saddling up. This last stretch is about 250 kms through breathtaking highland. We have three pass to cross to day. The twin passes of Lachung La and NakeeLa and the daunting Tanglang La at 17500 feet. This is the world’s second highest motorable pass, after Khardongla. But first, I need engine oil.

All hopes are on getting some oil at the neighboring GREF camp. There are a few truckers taking a break here and so we approach them. We start talking. A couple of them are from Punjab and another couple from Srinagar who do this circuit every year in the season. They curse the road and Baralacha and assure us the road from Leh to Srinagar is much better and we’d be well advised to take that route on the way back. Despite the distinct ethnic backgrounds, these men seem united by the road, a common trade, fate and vocabulary of expletives.

They give me a litre and a half of the oil that Dhanno so badly needs, from their reserve and just charge me cost price. No inflation or extortion. I had heard how truckers here exploit stranded tourists for money in exchange for any help. I guess these guys were a decent bunch after all and just helping out. Something not quite so rare in these parts, we had realized. It’s the big cities where even average folk were dodgy.

The mountains around us are mostly granite and mud. No vegetation whatsoever. It’s like a fantasy landscape out of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series. You can almost imagine the Gunslinger chasing after the man in black here. This is high altitude desert at its best. I reminisce about iconic westerns like Mackenna’s Gold and can almost imagine Eduardo Ciannelli in the whole Prairie Dog get up, watching us from a crag above as we ride along the valley floor. Of course, in these parts, he probably would be a Himalayan Marmut instead of a Prairie Dog, but you get the picture, I’m sure.

So far, the bikes have held up and there’s a steady thump that’s reassuring. The heavy load means, the shockers feel springier than usual. The bullet does have a stiffer suspension than other bikes. These rickety little bridges over dry streams are the most fun. They’re called ‘Bas’ in the local dialect I guess. So one bridge is called the Whiskey Ba, another Rum Ba and so on. Soon, dear liver, soon.

The BRO (Border Roads Organisation) engineers are known for their sense of humour, especially the project Himank lads. One can almost imagine these guys working with their teams of men in this arid, unforgiving , remote yet beautiful land, with maybe only alcohol and card games for entertainment after a hard day’s work. I guess it helps to develop perspective. It’s not just laying or maintaining any old road. This is one of the world’s toughest environments to build in. And these guys do an invaluable job and liven up the journey with their witticisms.

“Don’t gossip, let him drive” says one sign. “Drive like Hell and you will be there” says another. Then there’s “Feel the curves, don’t test them”, “Drive on Horse power, not rum power”, Make love not war, nothing while driving” etc. Heh heh…right.

As we ride round a bend, we come to a broken down truck that’s parked sideways and almost blocking the road. On the raised ground, nearby, the driver is sitting on his haunches. Completely blank and still. Maybe cursing his fate, maybe shocked, maybe lonely or resigned to the fact that he can do nothing, but wait till someone else who can help him, comes along. There is no way to even send out a distress signal. Fortunately, every few hours, one does come across a blue BRO recovery truck, patrolling the road. I think of the guys back at Sarchu who gave me the oil. In this part of the world, the terrain prevails. It dwarfs everyone and everything. And people help each other out. Out of plain empathy. It has to be the way. Makes you respect the land and each other a bit more.

Soon enough, we’re at the famous Gata Loops. 21 hairpin bends in quick succession as the road climbs toward NakeeLa. The view from the top inspires awe. By now the signs of approaching a mountain pass are all too obvious. The perceptible drop in temperature, the thinning out of air that drains our bikes and us, of energy, the deteriorating road and the patches of snow. And yet, after Baralacha La, this doesn’t seem as daunting any more. It’s almost a fun feeling…like this is the gateway to something exotic. Which it is. We want to see what’s on the other side.

NakeeLa and Lachung La are fairly close to each other and soon we’re done with both. There is a fair descent after Lachung La towards Pang. After the wide red valley we’ve left behind us, we seem to have entered a steep, narrow, yellowish and rocky gorge. The rough, dirt track of a road runs along a clear stream called the Kangla Jal. At one point, we have to wade across this stream. This is one of the more difficult water crossings. The water’s about a foot and a half deep and the bed is made up of fairly large rocks. A jeep seems to be stranded and while some men are pushing another to the other side. Darius is weighed down with his carriers and needs some assistance to get through. The next stop is at Pang and for the next hour and a half or so, there seems to be no one in sight. Maybe it was the time of the day, but this by far seems the remotest stretch we’ve done so far.

By now, we have gotten used to the bad roads and start ripping through the ravine. For what seems like the longest time, we just go on riding. In my early riding days, sometimes on the highway, if I got to a particularly good stretch of smooth tarmac with little traffic, I would get to a ‘zone’ (for lack of a better word), which made the riding experience seem, almost meditative. In a strange way, despite the rough road and all the dust, this part of the ride is where I experience the zone. My guess is, so do Darius and Nitin, because neither of them slows down or stops. I do, at one point, to click a picture. Nitin, in fact, seems possessed. He has disappeared and the only signs that he’s on up ahead is the plume of dust his tyres have left behind. Pretty soon, even that is hard to see.

We get to Pang and decide on a quick lunch. Nitin is pleased at having ‘Paris-Dakar-ed it’ till here. It would be unsettling that he seems to enjoy riding rough at breakneck speeds, except he is not doing this like a kid trying to earn street cred. He is doing this with the quietude of a zen monk. Sitting silently (in the saddle), doing nothing, the road turns…and the handlebars turn by themselves. Totally chaust!

This place is known for another world altitude record. The highest army transit camp at 15640 feet. It’s really in the middle of nowhere and there are some tents where I get some really oily, spicy chow mein and it feels real good. The sun is really harsh and you can feel it burn its way through your skin. Despite the caking of the high SPF sun block and the dust.

We start climbing from Pang. The road’s pretty steep and winding. And then, all of a sudden, it levels up; all at once you’re hit with a spectacular view. It feels like the road has been some sort of spiral stairway that has led to a large flat terrace. A wide rolling plain stretches out ahead of you. These are the famed Moore Plains. There really is no way to quite describe the feeling. It’s the table top of a plateau with a clean edge that seems to have been carved by a gigantic knife.

The plain seems to go on as far as the eye can see. The ground seems to be made of corrugated cardboard and there’s a whole lotta shake, rattle and roll going on. This is probably the most surreal afternoon I’ve ever had. On other holidays I would have kicked back with a nice cold beer in a pub, listening to U2. Today, I am riding a motorcycle at 16000 feet, on a plateau, with only two other guys for company, surrounded by the snow-capped Himalayas. There is no frame of reference for this. This is wholly a new experience. Except, ‘where the streets have no name’ is playing in my head….has been playing in my head. This is exactly the place where I would want to hear this song….“show you a place, high on a desert plain…where the streets have no name…” And that’s why this line is on our trip t-shirt. Bono must have dreamt of this place when he wrote that.

The road starts sloping up again. Tanglang La ahead It zig-zags across the massive sides of pyramid shaped mountains. The climb is more gradual than the other passes, but seems to go on forever. We can also see a couple of Bajaj Pulsars in the distance. This is a group of 4 young Gujarati guys riding pillion who have been ahead or behind us all the way from Keylong. They seem to be traveling on a much tighter budget than us and don’t seem to be carrying anything more than rucksacks and sleeping bags. I can swear they have ingested nothing more nutritional in value than cigarette smoke in the last 65 hours. Darius, who knows Gujarati, apparently had overheard them discussing how they were on the run from the law, at Zingzingbar. This is probably as far from the law and overweight, corrupt cops as anyone can get I’m sure. Though, you’d think they’d have picked a less conspicuous mode of travel.

Finally, we reach the top of Tanglang La. The view is once again mesmerizing. There’s gale force winds at the summit. The air is really thin here. Just parking the bike on the centre stand is enough to get one panting. The descent turns out to be rather a drag. The mountain seems to be made of flour and the road crew seems to be struggling to paste tar over it to create a semblance of road and failing. After an eternity of battling diesel fumes from trucks and the dust we reach the base, covered in the muck. Michelin man meets the Pillsbury dough boy.

As our friend Yeti had informed us, the sudden descent from 17500 feet to about 14000 feet into a comparatively oxygen rich environment infuses life into traveler and machine alike. From here on, the road is largely good. We cross Upshi and halt at Rumste, a small Buddhist village, to have a quick wash and a drink of water.

The rest of the way seems much easier. Soon, we reach the Sindhu darshan, the point where you get a view of the Indus river for the first time. It looks like any other mountain stream, happily gurgling its way down the valley…but the historical significance of the Indus is what makes it so remarkable. A few ceremonial photographs later, we’re on our way. We’re back in civilization now. There are telephones and petrol stations in this world.

It’s a feeling of elation as we enter Leh at about 5:30 in the evening. The town seems inviting and for the first time, a tourism dept sign welcoming tourists like us, seems meaningful. It had taken us 7 days of riding from 700 feet to 17500 ft and then down again, from 43 degrees Celsius of scorching sun to a sub-zero snowstorm and about 1100 kms to reach from Delhi to Leh.

While we still had to get back to Delhi next week, and not before touching Khardongla, it seemed the baptism was now complete. We’d earned our place among the hard ass motorcycling fraternity in this glorious, glorious multifaceted and diverse country. For me, a 12 year old dream had been realized. What remained for today, was a hot shower and the most well deserved drink in a long, long time.