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.

Getting Leh-ed: Day 6 – Sarchu

Woke up feeling sick. The rum and the overpowering kerosene fumes in the tent, probably to blame. Takes some time and chai to set things right. Darius, however, has it worse. Could be food poisoning from the mutton we had last night or could be just the altitude. Either way, it calls for an expectant mother’s morning dash to jettison the contents of his stomach from the last meal. Nitin seems to be fresh as a lark. He’s been up early, clicking pictures of the frosty morning and raring to go.

The South Africans need to head back to Keylong. They had been carrying very little fuel to begin with and the three unsuccessful attempts to get to Sarchu have depleted their stock. We request James to call our folks once he’s back in Keylong. A group pic and handshakes later, we’re on our way.

The familiar feeling of heading into something sinister is back. There are walls of snow at certain sections of the road and sheet ice on others. Sheet ice on the road is the worst thing. Ever. I mean, gravel on the road is a bitch, but sheet ice is a whole new experience with a fully laden bike. We start skidding and sliding even standing still. At one point, Darius seems to be struggling to stay vertical and behind him, for no apparent reason, Dhanno decides to skedaddle to the side of the road and topple over into a ditch. Engine oil spills over onto the white snow forming a puddle that looks like blood. With some help from Darius, I manage to get her upright again. There are no oil and lubricant shops around here. Now I am running the risk of seizing my engine as well. Perfect.

Nitin seems to be doing fine with his semi fat bastard MRF Meteor tyre and maybe because he had the sense to travel a bit lighter than Darius and me. But mostly because he’s an accomplished rider, leaning in, pulling back, dipping and ripping like a pro. I would push my bike up the rest of the way if I had to but the ice and thin air won’t allow me to do that either. And I have packed in extra clothes. Clothes. Like I would need them on this dusty, rough, cold road. My next bath was going to be in Leh.

As we go higher, we can see a line of trucks and cars snaking its way to the top. One or two vehicles have gone off the road, there’s traffic waiting on the other side of the pass, the road is narrow and snowed in. Nothing to do but switch the engines off and wait. Everyone’s waiting for the JCB snow cutter to clear the way. It’s a clear day with a brilliant blue sky. The sun’s bright enough to start burning skin and we can see our faces turn a nice beetroot.

We spend the next 5 hours waiting and inching our way up the road. There’s a poor truck driver who asks us for some water because he’s been stuck here all night with no food. He needs regular water to boil some rice on his stove, because he can’t get the water from the melted snow to boil. This is the first time, the plight of truck drivers on this arduous road is so apparent.

I have a nap on the road surrounded by trucks with my jacket to protect me from the glaring sun. Darius is still struggling with his sickness and is not napping as much as passed out on the asphalt. Soon we see a bunch of bikers headed down from the other side. These are college guys from Delhi returning from Leh. At some point they decided to take matters into their own hands. Literally. They’ve been lifting their bikes at places where there isn’t enough road to ride on in a straight line. We follow their lead and have some dodgy episodes squeezing past with a truck on one side and a sheer fall on the other. Soon, we’re at the top and voila, the JCB has done its magic and we get through to the other side.

The situation on the other side is even more bleak. There are possibly a couple hundred trucks backed up all the way down the pass and beyond, on the plain. There is quite a bit of waiting and dodging and maneuvering required, getting through the melee but we’re upbeat now. It is a strange feeling of relief and accomplishment that one feels riding down the other side of the mountain. After the last two days of being almost at the same place, it’s nice to be heading further away from civilization.

The landscape’s gotten more interesting. The land’s flatter, the mountain tops seem much closer and more gently sloping. The road is a narrow ribbon meandering across the arid plain. It’s fucking beautiful.

Soon, we’re at the camp. Sarchu is basically a bunch of 3-4 camps by the side of a stretch of road a couple of kilometers long. Antrak camp, run by the Tourism dept, is a set of Swiss tents with functioning, flushable toilets. Of course, in a separate, partitioned section, not in the main tent, like it’s a prison cell. Which is probably good since there’s two people to a tent…hmmm.

It’s awesome to be here. There's a feeling of openness here. The landscape is unreal and the sky is clear and black. The food is simple and warm and tasty. The staff is courteous. We have hot water bottles, the bed is comfy, well for a cot in a tent, and we’re tired as hell. Which is probably a good thing since it helps me to sleep, else I would be too excited to. Tomorrow, if there were no surprises, we’d be at Leh.

Getting Leh-ed: Day 5 – Baralacha-ed!

So, we were a day behind schedule now, but we were well rested and so far no signs of altitude sickness. It’s a beautiful, clear day. The air is cool and crisp, the sun is warm and its perfect day to head out and do some distance before breakfast. So we do.

It would have been a waste to have headed out the day before and miss the scenery in all the rain. This is seriously beautiful country. The mountains in the distance look like they’re painted gray-green. We’re above the tree line now….looks like we pretty much left it back on the other side of Rohtang La. Also, from here on, there are no telephones till Leh, 350 hard kilometers away. No landlines, no cell phones, nothing.

The only way for civilians to get any news about the weather and the road is when traffic starts moving and someone from the other side of the range gets through the pass. We’ll just have to keep going to figure out if we can get through Baralacha La today. Looks like the beemer and the Himalayan Odyssey riders just about made it yesterday before it started snowing.

We cross over from Jispa to Darcha on the bridge across the Bhaga. Darcha is a bunch of chai dhabas catering to truckers and other travelers. There’s a police post operating out of a 4 X 4 tent where you need to register yourself before going on further. Darius, as always, has gone on ahead. Nitin and I, have breakfast. The options are eggs and for vegetarians, there’s hot thupka.

From here on, it’s a steady climb. There’s a surreal quality about the mountains, devoid of vegetation except for some moss and the occasional hardy shrub. There’s hardly any civilization. No telephone or electricity poles, no shops, no huts, no retaining walls…just the road and the odd army camp at periodic intervals. There is a barren, rugged beauty in the craggy landscape. We’re finally, really getting away from it all, as it were. The O2 levels start dropping and the bike engines start missing if throttled beyond a point. It’s difficult to engage the 3rd and impossible to engage the 4th gear.

We cross Zinzingbar and reach the base before the climb to Baralacha. There are about 4 to 5 tents here. The Zingzingbar equivalent of bed and breakfast joints here. Large circular tents which serve as dhabas in the day and sleeping quarters at night for the 6 months that the Manali-Leh road is open. The Nepalese folks who run these are hardy and enterprising.

There’s quite a few cars and bikes parked here. Baralacha top has been snowed over for the last 30 hours or so and no one has made it through from the other side yet. Everyone here is waiting patiently, either spending time snapping pictures or getting a bite to eat. Business is brisk for the tent-wallahs.

After much waiting, some cars and vans start coming through around early evening. Everyone is eager for the news and we hail the drivers to stop and give us some information. While some drivers are obliging, many seem to be making out of here like bats outta hell. This is an indication of what things are like up there. One driver assures us that it’s all fine and dandy now and we can head up. Another, doesn’t stop and merely slows down to tell us, we can go up there to die if we want to. This is all very confusing. And kind of, well….uncomfortable.

Finally, we see two enfield bullet riders heading down. Perfect. Bikers, like us, who can give us the down low we need, so we flag them down. No good news here. These guys look like they’ve been to hell and back; bewilderment that you can see, and fatigue that you can almost smell. They were stranded up there, in the snow, for pretty much the whole night. “Don’t ask…only we know how we got through that”, is all they say and take off.

Here, we were faced with the same dilemma. To carry on, or stay. That’s when three South African tourists, also on Enfields decided, they would make a break for it. They had made two aborted attempts already and were keen to get going. After some debate, we decide to follow them. The climb starts.

While we had been waiting for the road to clear up, the weather seemed to have been holding up and was clear. As we started ascending, the snow starts to fall. And not just a nice Christmas eve sort of snow fall, with flakes caressing the tips of your nose and cheeks. More of a raging blizzard determined to kick our asses. So far, the only good news is, the road seems to be much better than Rohtang La. It’s a winding little black top number.

But the going is not getting any easier. Visibility is at an all time low, helmet visor up or down. I can’t feel my nose anymore and have icicles in my beard. Literally. This is getting hairier and hairier. After about 8 kms, I can see the South Africans heading back, faster than when they were heading up. At times like this, in a group, someone has to finally bite the bullet and take a decision for everyone. Nitin is riding lead and thankfully, he decides to turn back as well, right behind the firangs. Heigh ho, then! Back down we go.

Darius had seemed keen to press on. But by now we had established that enthusiasm had to be curbed a bit in these parts. The Border Roads Organization had put up signs all through urging us all “Not to be a Gama, in the Land of the Lama”. Gama, presumably, refers to ‘The Great Gama’, a Punjabi wrestler who gained fame in the early 1900s. Being a tough guy, a ‘Gama’ didn’t do much for you, except get you killed or at least very seriously injured. And hence, Darius or The Darius had proved himself as a bit of a Gama, and keeping the faith any longer at this point was, well, suicidal.

We reach the base again, park the bikes, un-lash the baggage and rush into the tent, that we’d patronized all day. Possibly the quickest time we’ve done so far, going downhill. Nitin dashes inside the tent, and the first thing he does is to grab a cooker on a kerosene stove, with both hands. “Can’t feel my fingers”, he says. Well, at least he can grab the cooker. My nose seems ready to fall off and I can’t stick it anywhere warm. Well, not in this joint anyway.

Our friends from South Africa are James, about forty, Derek/Derrick and his girlfriend Nikki, both in their twenties. They’re a nice sort. James seems to be a patient sort, who would rather get on with the journey but understands that there will be delays. Derek and Nikki, on the other hand, are young and simply excited about travelling together. The whole thing’s an adventure, which it should be. That probably helps the three of us also to relax, knowing that we’re now two days behind schedule.

It continues to snow as it gets colder and darker. Chitin, the kindly, energetic young lady running this establishment, keeps us supplied with enough chai and food to get us through the evening. James and gang are interesting conversationalists and Darius pulls out the remaining rum from yesterday. Before long, the evening starts looking pretty good, actually. This wasn't an evening at the pub. This was better. Sure, some music would've helped (which, in all fairness, thanks to Nikki we had), but we were here. On our bikes, doing a really tough gig here.

We’d already booked the sort of, well, annexe to the main tent, where Chitin has mattresses and quilts for travelers like us. Yes, we were keen to reach Leh…but at least the journey hadn’t been an uneventful blip so far.

Getting Leh-ed: Day 4 – Keeping the Faith at Keylong

Morning at the Keylong circuit house. It’s cold and gray and we have work to do. A quick call to Lanky and we find out about Yogesh, aka Yogi, the lone motorcycle mechanic in town. Keylong, the capital of Lahaul & Spiti district, with a population of about 14000, remains cut off from the rest of the world for a good six months, blocked off by the Pir Panjal range at one side and Zanskar on the other. We’d be lucky to get Dhanno up and running in this little place.

Time to haul ass. And the heavy bike, all the way to the little bus station below which Yogi has his establishment, a photograph booth sized shop at the side of a small slope.

While pushing my bike down the road, as I brood over the fate of my ride, I am envious of a group of Malaysian tourists riding BMWs who are starting off for Sarchu, the next logical stop on the road to Leh. The beemers look comfortable and capable. More importantly, these guys are headed out, and we aren’t.

Thankfully, Yogi seems to know what he’s doing. He’s a young guy, but has the seasoned, quiet demeanor of an experienced mechanic. And we have Darius repeatedly asking us to ‘keep the faith’. Something he had been telling us last night as well during our predicament. Right now, we want to keep the bloody faith. We just don't want to be bloody told to. At 10000+ ft, Keylong is high enough for the thin air to make us irritable. Not like we didn’t have a reason anyway.

While he gets to work and we sip chai, the Himalayan Odyssey riders cross us one by one, roaring up the hill on their way to Sarchu. The lucky bastards. I seem to resent our situation even more, because we now have been struck with a double whammy. The busted bike and the fact that we didn’t fuel up. The next petrol station is in Leh. The last one, is all the way back at Tandi, and not in friggin’ Keylong.

The good news is that after a couple of hours, Yogi brings Dhanno back to life. I am always amazed at how competent small town and village mechanics are. They have to make do with limited spares and tools and have to know how to fix all kinds of vehicles. Specialisation is a luxury they can’t afford or need, actually. And the fact is, this is the reason the bullet is still the most trusted on long, hard tours. It is sturdy and can be repaired by almost any mech, anywhere.

Anyway, we have to head back all that way on that sorry road to Tandi, refuel, and return. This 14 km trip takes us more than an hour. And it’s raining again. While crossing the bridge at night, we missed the petrol station which anyway was shut down at that time, as also, a small liquor vend. A bottle of Old Monk is bought.

It’s lunch time, the weather has turned and rain in Keylong means snow at Baralacha La. We want to press on, but doesn’t look like a great idea. No way. We’re not risking being stranded in the rain and dark today as well. And something about having a bottle of rum so close seals the deal. That’s it, we’re staying back today. Heck, we’d earned it after yesterday. This was a holiday.

A late noon rum drinking session, comfortably ensconced in the circuit house ensues. This is followed by an early evening dinner of freshly cooked mutton curry and veggies. It continues to rain and the bad weather shows no signs of abating. It had made sense to stay back. Tomorrow, we’d have our first run in with Baralacha La. And what a badass it turned out to be.

For now, after last night, the hot food, the warm quilts and the sweet, sweet, everlovin’ rum, feel like heaven.

Getting Leh-ed: The longest day - Mandi to Keylong Part 3

Our spirits bolstered by the meal and the dhaba owner’s affirmation that the rest of the road till Keylong is fine and dandy, we head off. Sure enough, the road is wide and metalled. For about 5 kilometers. And then, it disappears like a mysterious rash. It’s back to bumpyville and as if on cue, it starts to rain. Hard. And cold. The going is very slow and we are still not near Keylong. Distance takes on a new meaning on the untamed Himalayan roads and the words of the Antrak official at Manali come back to haunt me. It seems like that was ages ago. We could have been kicking back with a whiskey and chilly chicken at the guest house in Manali right now.

So much for avoiding riding in the dark just a day ago. I feel like a city slicker up shit creek without a paddle. It feels like I am going to do something stupid and really hurt myself out here in the middle of nowhere. Nitin had neglected to put on his rain pants so is wet and cold. As I pull up to him, he tells me he’s in his private world of misery right now. Doesn’t help my spirits and I feel like a damp sock right now.

We chug along and the ride is unending as is the rain and the bumpy road. There are points where we have to stop to figure out what part of the roughly hewn mountainside is road and what will lead us to what would most definitely be a rather unpleasant dip in the stream below. The gravely dirt track is making me sick and impatient.

Mid night and we’re finally getting almost at Keylong. We cross the Tandi bridge. Tandi is 8 kms short of Keylong, situated at the confluence of Chandra & Bhaga Rivers. Who, as per legend, (http://himachaltourism.gov.in/post/Tandi.aspx) were lovers and after a fairly loopy, insane story, much like road trips in this area, had their happy-ending celestial marriage right here. No such happy endings for us yet. Well, not for me in any case. Somewhere along the way, my reflexes finally buckle as the front tyre hits a stone on the stupid road. The jerk makes my thick gloved right hand twist the accelerator grip as I try to pull on the brakes.

Like it is always the case in such circumstances, it all happened very fast and yet it seemed like so much happened in that instant. Dhanno, almost out of rage at the punishment meted out so far on this road, roars out of control and goes careening on to what could be described as the berm. A rightward careening would have meant me plunging into eternal union with Chandra and Bhaga, disrupting their love life with an unwelcome ménage; the unhappy, bummed out third vertex in a love triangle.

Nitin, riding behind me sees all this happen and the stunned look on his face is pretty apparent when he comes to help me. Darius, riding ahead hasn’t heard or seen this commotion because of the helmet, the sound of the rain and the Enfield engine.

The adrenaline helps me to hoist the fully laden bike to an upright position, but I’m pretty shaken up. A fall like that is never pretty. I am unhurt, but all is not well. The electricals seem messed up. The CB points for sure. You can count on these bitches to abandon you at moments like this. The impact has also pulled some wires and even though I get the bike started, I know it’s not gonna last.

Nitin slowly leads the way since I am running blind now. Some distance later, the bike dies. Nitin cannot hear this and goes on. I’m left behind. I shout and wail but the sound doesn’t carry. It’s still raining.

Now I know that rationally, Nitin would go some distance and realize I am not behind him and turn back. But a there are multiple emotions running through my head and I feel them even now, as I type this, exactly a year later. And by exact, I mean, almost to the minute, today. Everything I had been afraid of, before this trip, had happened today. Was happening. Right now.

I’m wet and tired and upset. There’s no way to tell how badly the bike’s damaged. This could be the end of my much awaited vacation. Before it really started. And, I’m standing in pitch dark, in the rain, in the middle of a remote, desolate place I haven’t even seen in daylight, with no civilization and no hope of seeing a warm bed tonight. The mountains around me are dark and unforgiving. The sky above me is dark and unforgiving. Just bleedin' gorgeous.

I wonder if I was stupid to consider myself a true biker all these years. Maybe, I’ve been a bloody poseur all this while. I know now that I’m no longer meant to do this. That’s it. My biking days are over. I am now worthy only of a daily local commute in a sensible car, working in a mind-numbing job and spending my weekends shopping for groceries. Not cut out for this butch, badass adventure stuff anymore. This is the sad and painful demise of my youth. I look around, with my hands on my sides, unsure of what to do with myself or my bike as I stand in the middle of the road to nowhere. After some debate, I decide, I should maybe, cry for a bit. I definitely friggin’ feel like it.

And then two headlights come bobbing toward me. Nitin and the Darius have come back looking for me. They seem relieved that I haven’t gone into the river yet. I’m relieved that I hadn’t turned on the waterworks yet. And just like that, things start looking a bit better and fall into place. A Tata Sumo cab shows up from somewhere and after 20 minutes of debating on the best way to tow a bike, I realize most websites post crap on the subject. And even though it seemed impossible, we manage to tow my bike. Granted, it’s no walk in the park trying to control a bike that’s being towed, but we did it. The cabbie gets me to the circuit house at Keylong. We were just about 3 kms short of the place when I took my dive. Close but no cigar.

Today, all the planning had gone for a toss and still, despite an unexpected turn of events, we got where we had wanted to. I’d never been happier to see a plain old circuit house building before. Finally, a roof, dry ground, a room heater and a bed. I used to say, on the road you don’t choose your luxuries, you count your blessings. We had been on the road all day. The last 130 kms had taken us 9 hours to cover, half of it in the rain and dark. And man, I felt blessed.

Nitin shakes his head, looks at me and says, “kya bola tha….raat main nahin chalaane ka”.

No shit, Sherlock.

Getting Leh-ed: The longest day - Mandi to Keylong Part 2

Rohtang Pass, in Lahaul & Spiti district, is quite popular among tourists and a trip to this gateway on the Pir Panjal range is considered almost de rigueur, if visiting Manali. Doesn’t matter, whether you’re here as a pensioner-patriarch with your kids and grandkids, a honeymooner with your bright eyed bride/groom, a Bengali or Malayali family guy who finally has a good reason to slip on a balaclava bought by mom in the 6^th grade, or an Israeli 20 something, here to score cheap and smooth ganja post the conscription back home.

Tourists flock to it in the thousands every day. A longish climb which takes a few hours, followed by exclamations on spotting snow in June, then a spirited session of hurling snowballs at each other for about 6 minutes post which you get frostbitten on your extremities and your fingers fall off and you can’t press the click button on your camera anymore to record this event for posterity or ever play a flute in your life again and it all becomes a wasted trip really. Still, it remains a popular spot as evidenced by 20 odd tented shops that sell beverages, biscuits and Maggie noodles at Rohtang.

Well, this seemed to have been another of those days. The narrow road from Manali to Rohtang is busy as hell. However, at this time of day, it’s mostly traffic headed back from the pass. We seem to be among the few intrepid souls actually heading up.

As the air turns colder and we climb, a sense of steadily heading away from the safety and warmth of civilization starts to set in. But the view is getting bloody better with every hundred feet. The climb gets steeper as we see the Beas-kund spewing water from the massive side of a mountain, as if from a giant busted faucet which makes for so much levity and fun down in the valley when rafting in it or sipping a beer sitting beside it. Here, it just looks bloody cold. Soon, Darius falls on a steep hairpin bend. I stop to get off and help, and fall myself. Some foreign tourists in a taxi look aghast. Aha…the game is afoot.

Marhi, described as a "shanty town of roadside restaurants" midway between Manali and Rohtang is where we halt. The snowy mountain tops seem much closer and somewhat formidable. Some hot chai and slipping into woolen long johns are much needed. Now is when we get to test out our newly acquired gear. Forty minutes later, with the snow gloves, inners, thick socks, rain suits and balaclavas, we are ready to continue the ascent. I know now what the Michelin man feels like finally. Poor sod. But we’re warm as fresh, sweet, thick porridge served by mum.

The road gets really dodgy now. All broken and rutted and slushy. Patches of slippery sheet ice here and some rivulets of murky water running into evil looking ditches there. The riding gets very rough and serious. There is no turning back now, of course, even if we wanted to. It’s been 4 years since I rode seriously and I can sense some nervousness working its way up my spine. I’ve had a nasty experience with sheet ice and snow on the road as a kid and this isn’t helping. And it’s dark.

8 pm. We’re at Rohtang top. Cold and dark. And we’re alone. Miles of mountain in all directions. The snow makes everything look a bit eerie. And hostile. So, the appropriate response is to try and pee your name into it by the side of the road.

The descent is a right royal bitch. Pitch dark except the trusty headlights, a slippery, precarious slope, deep and dangerous potholes of icy water and an unseen, unexplored terrain for the three of us. If something were to happen or if the weather turned now, we’d be completely and irrevocably screwed. This would be scary as hell on any other day, but no option except press on. It takes an hour and a half of this to get us to the other side of the range to the miniscule village of Coaxar.

We’re tired and a bit overwhelmed but pleased as punch. We had crossed our first pass. A tricky one, like Rohtang. In the dead of night. And survived. The only celebration we can afford here is hot soupy Maggie noodles, glucose biscuits and hot chai at a wee little dhaba, far, far away from the office in Gurgaon, stupid escalation emails, follow-ups, meeting requests, reviews and presentations. I wonder what part of my life feels more unreal right now...

Getting Leh-ed: The longest day - Mandi to Keylong Part 1

Woke up feeling like the holiday was upon us and there wasn’t much running away from it. Not that we’d want to. Now ideally, we should have packed and left….we were planning on making up for the premature halt at Mandi so we could cover more ground and hit Keylong by the evening.

Instead, we dawdled…heck this was a holiday, right. So I spent (I’d hate to say wasted) a good part of the morning trying to shave my own head with a safety razor. No reason…just something I did before a long journey once and it seemed fitting to do it again. Well, it secretly made me feel like Richard Peter John friggin’ Fairbrass singing “I’m too sexy”.

Of course, about 40 minutes into the job, it required Nitin’s intervention, because a) I looked nothing like Fairbrass; I now looked like a chubbier Tenali Rama with a strip of hair at the back of my otherwise bald head b) safety razors are a bitch to tonsure yourself with and c) we were getting late and it was silly to waste (yes, waste) any more time.

Well that got done, and I walked out of the guest house, the brilliant sun bouncing of my happy, naked head, only to realize the damned rear tyre on Dhanno was flat, once again. Well, out came the spiffy, new foot pump, once again and I could re-inflate the tyre to acceptable….tumescence. Because it’s nice to say that, instead of plain old ‘firmness’. Obviously I should have changed my tubes before the trip. This is not a puncture, merely an old tube that’s gone brittle and started cracking and leaking air. It’s become a flatulent old bastard, is what it is. It needs to be replaced in Kullu. Pronto, tonto.

Mandi to Kullu and from there to Manali, was a brilliant ride. Nice bright day, but not hot. Smooth, black asphalt on a winding road, and a sparkling, cold river Beas gushing below. And we’re riding light because Lanky is carrying our baggage in the boot of his car. Days like this, are what makes biking what it is. Despite the perils, and occasional discomfort of braving the less forgiving elements astride two wheels, a biker never wants to give it up riding. At this point, I am very happy with myself, my trusty bike, me mates and my bald head.

We get to Kullu and head off to Lanky’s house for lunch. While a definitely stoned mechanic, known to Lanky (but of course) fixes my tube, we gorge on eggs, buttered toast , paranthas, juice and finally sweet chai. Man, I love being on the road and the appetite it gives me. Lanky’s mum is like all our moms. Warm, caring and with a maternal instinct that drives them to feed us to bursting point. Kinda like the petrol station attendants who find ways to fill in another 5 litres even after the auto-cut mechanism of the hose shuts of further dispensation of petrol. But I digress....this meal is going to be the best part of our day.

This is really turning out to be a fine day. I’ve always liked this valley. Ever since I was a kid and came here on almost annual excursions with my family. Coming to Kullu and Manali in the white government ambassador was always a grand holiday. I’ve always associated this valley with happy memories of unbridled fun when life was uncomplicated and the only decisions one had to make involved whether or not to eat another slice of cake.

We vegetate while my tyre and Nitin’s brakes get fixed and The Darius wanders off to click photographs of a rabbit farm. More so because the owner happens to be an attractive single woman, as we find out and definitely because he’s wearing his tight camouflage t-shirt. Oh, and the new SLR slung about his person.

So by the time we get our act together and head off to Manali to collect our passes for the camp at Sarchu, it’s getting late. Manali is crowded as hell. I am beginning to get a feeling that this is not such a bright idea after all, but we must press on. Hell, we’re young and strong and full of beans, aren’t we?

The nice fella handing out the passes for the Sarchu Camp at the Antrak office in Manali advises me against carrying on to Keylong tonight. Says it’s at least 6 to 8 hours even though the distance is a mere 130 kms given the condition of the roads. Not a good idea to cross Rohtang after dark. It seemed like a sensible suggestion. Lanky doesn’t seem comfortable about letting us go. He looks worried so we decide to have quick pow wow. After an intense 3 minute discussion, we kick off. Lanky wishes us luck, and tells us to get going.

It’s already 4:30 pm, the air is starting to get chilly. We start the ascent to Rohtang La.