LADAKH, 1979

AAMIR ALI

JUST BEFORE I left Geneva to join Gurdial Singh for a two-week trek in Ladakh, I ran into Ernest Hofstetter, who was with the Swiss Everest Expedition in 1952. 'I hear that the trail to Everest is now a trail of garbage', he said, 'and there are fancy hotels and the mountains are overrun by tourists. We used to joke amongst ourselves in those days, saying I suppose one day there will be hotels and trippers up here. We never believed that it could happen. Thank God I went there before the rot started.'

Only one Himalaya to lose, said our President.¹ Are we losing Ladakh to the tourists too? It was opened to tourists only a few years ago; an air service began in April 1979, I believe. We went there about three months later and the plane was full of tourists, of the ruck- sack-and-jeans variety. For the next couple of days we saw them again and again, going up and down the half-mile bazaar of Leh. What happens to a culture like that of Ladakh when it is suddenly subjected to a massive assault from the outside world? Is it the 'fatal impact* that Alan Moorehead called the coming of the Europeans to the South Pacific? And for Ladakh, this is the second wave. The first was when, after the Chinese foray, Indian military presence was reinforced. Now it is the tourists.

 

The old dilemma: protect Ladakh completely from outside influences as if it was a museum? Unacceptable. Allow free access to every tripper and carpet-bagger? Surely not. Where is the golden mean?

We started our trek at Sasoma, about 9000 ft in the Nubra valley, having taken two days by jeep to get there from Leh. We went to Umlung, about 12,500 ft, on to Skiangpoche, about 14,200 ft and up to the Saser-la, about 17,500 ft. Heights are approximate; we had no map. We climbed no peaks, braved no blizzards, explored no blanks on the map. We were free from even the normal fear that haunts most climbers going to the Himalaya, that they will be asked to write something for the Journal, for who could be interested in our unadventurous trip?

Its, only special feature was that we went to an area not open to the casual visitor and we were the only people there for the fun of it. Nothing would have been possible but for the generous support and lift hospitality of the army. They took charge of all our transport, food and accommodation. If they defend our borders as efficiently as they looked after us, we are in safe hands. Our heartfelt thanks.

To get into the Shyok-Nubra valleys, you need a permit from the Government of Jammu and Kashmir. We applied in good time, advised by knowledgeable friends in New Delhi. For months the only response was a thundering silence. I had visions of arriving from Geneva all prepared for a fortnight in the mountains and being turned back at some Ladakhi frontier. We used all the influence we could muster (quite a lot). I do not know how much this helped or hindered our efforts. In the event, when we got to Srinagar, the Inspector- General of Police had everything ready, and we were issued the permits within half an hour. And very fine permits they were too, with photographs, rubber stamps and illegible signatures. Alas, no one ever asked to see them, though the military authorities knew only too well what they said. They interpreted the area allowed to us very strictly and stuck to this even when we tried to show them the error of their ways.

All good trips start with mishaps. In that sense, ours was a very good trip. First of all, Nalni Dhar Jayal who was to accompany us, had to drop out at the last minute. Next, the medical kit that I had carefully put together in Geneva was stolen out of the side pocket of my rucksack at some airport or hotel en route. Serves me right for keeping it there, you will say, and I suppose you'll be right. Next, my flight to Srinagar which was due to leave Delhi at 9.15 a.m. did not leave till 1 p.m. The delays were announced in bits and pieces (salami tactics) about half an hour or so at a time, just to keep us on the alert. Two later flights to Srinagar, took off as scheduled while we sat and waited. Why weren't we put on them? we demanded. Because your luggage is already on the plane which is being repaired. Verily, the first shall be last. When finally I got to Srinagar, I found a wilted Gurdial who had been waiting at that airport for over four hours, also being fed false information in half-hour doses.

However, this was partly made up by the rapidity and ease with which we obtained our permits from the police, leaving us time to visit the Dachigam wildlife reserve. There, thanks to the Deputy Forest Ranger, Mir Kasim, we saw about 15 hangul in three separate groups, and a family of three black bears: father, mother and child, just like the Goldilocks books say they should be. The hangul were watching the bears as avidly as we were. Wildlife was not restricted to Dachigam; Nedou's hotel had its share, especially cockroaches.

Part of the road to Dachigam was under water after heavy rain. This was ominous. Seven years ago, after several of our plans had been frustrated by unprecedented rains, Gurdial, Nalni and I had started a trip to Kargil (on the road to Leh) by road. A bare half- hour from Sonamarg, we had been blocked by a serious landslide and that was the end of that expedition. Gurdial, being a geographere assured me that it never rained in Ladakh. Actually, it did once while we were there.

To continue the tale of mishaps. There was the affair of the camera that wasn't. Gurdial had asked me to bring some films from Geneva. If I take films, I thought to myself, it follows that he'll bring his camera. In the meantime, Gurdial had thought to himself, if he brings films, it follows that he will bring his camera. Result, lots of films but no camera. We made abortive attempts to borrow one. Finally, when the trip was over, we were most grateful to Lt. Col. S. S. Grewal, Commandant, Ladakh Scouts, who agreed to take some photographs for us of the region we had visited — -post facto, as it were. What a relief it was, though, being without cameras and not having to worry all the time about taking photographs.

Then there was the case of the reluctant jonga (jeep). We arrived in Leh on 22 July 1979, and should have left for Partapur, across the 18,000 ft Khar dung-la the next day. Alas, the jonga had broken down. Such a thing had never happened before. It would be repaired just as soon as possible. All the resources of the army were being diverted to this end. It wasn't quite ready for an early-morning start the next day, but would be during the day. After all, it was Sunday. Alas, it was more serious than one had thought. No possibility of an early start the following day either. Perhaps 10 a.m. Or at 11. Shades of Delhi airport? Sorry, no luck and one couldn't start later than noon as, being a 7-8 hour journey, night would fall before we got there and it was not a road to be negotiated in the dark. (We agreed when we saw it.) Resigned to another day's delay, we went off to improve the shining hour by exploring the bird life of a verdant side valley. A Ladakhi Scout came running up to say that, believe it or not, an alternative jonga was ready and we should leave immediately, but immediately. We galloped back, packed and piled in, all in record time. To make sure that heaven treated us right, we picked up Lama Lob- sang, who was also going to Partapur. The Ladakhi Scouts provide Hindu, Buddhist and Muslim religious services for their men. Lama Lobsang, who had obviously taken no vow of silence, was on his way to provide these. He regaled us with many merry tales of his experiences.

Next mishap. Gurdial's brother, Gol. Jagjit Singh, had been stationed in Partapur and our trip had naturally been planned with one eye cocked in his helpful direction. When we got to Leh, we learnt that he had been transferred to Lucknow and would leave on the 24th. Which he did. Which was also the day that we finally got off from Leh for Partapur. So we passed each other like ships in the night, just below the Khardung-la, we on our way to Partapur, he on his way out to Lucknow. No luck now, for us anyway/However, his successor and all his colleagues did a magnificent job for us, with less cause. Jagjit, having just returned from Saser Kangri, was shortly off to Trisul with a ladies' expedition. Hard life, these army types lead.

Partapur is in the Shyok valley, just below its confluence with the Nubra. Our bad luck with jongas persisted and it wasn't till noon the next day that we left for Sasoma. We had to retrace our road for over an hour in order to cross the Shyok by the recently made bridge - Gurdial remembered crossing it a few years ago on horseback and I wondered how any horse could have got across. Just after Panamik — we were now bumping merrily along the Nubra valley along a road calculated to expedite any jeep's journey to the junk-heap -—- which we reached after 5 p.m., there was a small stream to cross. Small is relative. Compared to the Shyok and the Nubra it was nothing; for the Jonga to drive through, swollen as it was because it was late in the day, it was too high. Stuck again. I am not quite sure what happened but after animated discussions with several people who had appeared the jonga went back to Panamik while we waited and some forty minutes later a one-ton truck appeared in its stead. This forded the swollen stream in great style and got us to Sasoma by 8 p.m.

Here we had the first experience of sleeping in bunkers, on beds made of jerrycans. These crackled merrily every time you turned and dug you playfully in your back, sides and hips and other bony places. They were a good reminder that oil is paramount in all our lives today. The bunkers themselves were also made of jerrycans and sandbags and were as much underground as above, merging brownly into the dusty landscape. This was the typical accommodation for army units in this area and we gradually got used to it — partly, anyway.

What a relief it was next morning to set off on foot at last. This was now 26 July; we had reached Leh on the 22nd. The walk from Sasoma to Umlung, about 12,500 ft, should normally take three to four hours. I took almost five; after the first couple of hours, I was hit by mountain sickness. I have never been to the Himalaya without this happening and yet I have never started off without naively hoping that this time it would be different.

The path leaves the Nubra valley and climbs straight in a series of zigzags up the barren face of the mountain. In the early morning, this was pleasant — some eight or nine days later, on the return, when we came down it in mid-afternoon, it was a good foretaste of hell. The heat reflected off the rocks was certainly hot enough for solar cooking and all sorts of other energy-saving devices.

The path then followed a side stream. Unfortunately, it first went all the way down to have a look at its brown rushing waters before going up again to Umlung. The landscape was extraordinary, and for one who has only seen the mountains of more southern and eastern ranges, it is a new world altogether. Bare and barren in browns of all shades, dull reds and purples, and all built to a gigantic scale. High snow-mountains dominated both ends of the valley. Greenery appeared only where a side valley came down and spread itself before merging with the main river. The valleys were mostly steep and rugged and the path often seemed to be clinging desperately to the mountainside.

Umlung was a cluster of bunkers dug into the side of the mountain about two hundred feet above the river, and built of the now familiar jerrycans and sandbags. Subedar Hundup maintained it with efficient cleanliness, not easy with the ubiquitous dust and the small area available for men and mules. Incidentally, what a pleasure to see mules again. They seem practically to have vanished, taking a whole era with them. How interesting it would be to make a study of the contribution of mules to mountain travel.

I owe Subedar Hundup a particular debt because I remained for two days in Umlung, nursing my mountain sickness, and he looked after me with patience and aspirins. He never made me feel that I was an imposition, which of course I was.

We were now in the region of Turkestan rock pigeons, crag martins and choughs. There was also a small brown bird, behaving like a house sparrow, scavenging around the camp. We later identified this as Brandt's Mountain Finch. We saw the Brown and the Robin Accentors, the latter with his cheerful reddish chest. Other birds seen were the Tibetan Raven — occasionally very tame — the rosefinch and redstarts. It was only above Skiangpoche that we saw the most colourful bird of the whole trip, Guldenstadt's Redstart. Gurdial remembered having seen this in Tibet in 1954, when Lavkumar, now a well-known ornithologist, had identified it for him. It has a white crown and neck and its wings and back are black. It has a large white wing-patch; its underparts and tail are chestnut. It is evidently primarily a bird of the northern Himalayan slopes, and is usually found near rivers.

I had taken from Dr Salim Ali, India's best-known ornithologist, 1 list of the birds he had seen in Ladakh some three years ago. This listed 113 species; our score was a meagre 25.

The next day, after a bad night of nausea and headache, I decided that I was in no shape to go on. So Gurdial went off solo to Skiangpoche intending to go up to the Saser-la the next day, while I spent the day feeling sorry for myself and swallowing Subedar Hundup's aspirins.

I spent another day at Umlung and it was only on the third day — this was Sunday 29 July now — that I moved on. It was cloudy and .ilmost looked as if it might rain. I left at 5.30 a.m. and Hundup iicompanied me for the first half-hour to make sure that I got off. There were four side rivers to cross to Skiangpoche with the water level in each rising with the advance of day. However, it was only the lirst that offered a problem, aggravated by the corpse of a mule stuck unong the rocks as a reminder of vwhat happened if you weren't careful.

I got to Skiangpoche, about 14,500 ft, about 1.30 p.m. just a few minutes after Gurdial had got back there from Saser-la, delighted with his trip. Skiangpoche offered much more greenery and level ground than Umlung. It was also down on the river bank so we were able to wash both clothes and selves. Another cheerful aspect: instead of bunkers, we had tents, including a small arctic tent which I promptly appropriated. The larger tents had beds of jerrycans and I was quite willing to forgo the pleasures of those for the time being.

The next day was just good fun, concentrating on going nowhere. No packing and unpacking, no departure and arrival. It was while loafing along the valley that we saw edelweiss and the Pap aver naudicaule. This was a most attractive orange poppy, about the size of a normal pansy, and seemed to like growing in the shade of a rock. Even Gurdial didn't know what it was, but later had it identified in Dehra Dun. Some three months later, there was great excitement when Gurdial was visiting us in Geneva. He saw it in the Botanical Garden and recognized it even though it was not in flower. Sure enough, the little tag indicated that it was indeed a Papaver n. I was immediately in lifted to keep a strict eye on it and report to him from time to time on how it was doing. Alas, by next summer, it had disappeared.

Our old friend Lama Lobsang turned up in the evening — he still hadn't taken any vow of silence — on his way to the Saser-la and to army units on the other side of the pass.

The next day it was about five hours of pleasant walking to what Gurdial called the Lake Camp, below the Saser-la, At first, the path was along the valley, with frequent green patches and flowers. In the early morning, boulder-hopping across streams was a bit of a problem as the boulders were coated with ice. The unwary could have their feet shoot out from under them and end up with a cold bath; and the unwary did. We passed the camp site of an Indo-Tibetan Border patrol. We envied them the luxury of their transport and food arrangements; they complained about their hardships and lack of adequate pay. No doubt the files at their headquarters contain nasty accounts of two unsympathetic characters acting in a suspicious manner.

The walk was enhanced by more birds than we had seen so far, several lakes and of course the Papavern. The lake of Lake Camp was a lovely green colour, with the glacier from the Saser-la coming down to it in a spectacular ice-cliff of about 250 ft. When you are coming down from the pass, warned Gurdial, take care to get off on to the moraine in time, otherwise you'll take a spectacular header into the lake.

For the first time we camped in a grassy meadow. We overlooked the lake and the ice-cliff, with high mountains on both sides and the Saser-la in front. This was without doubt the pieasantest camp site we had and it was a pity that we could spend only one night there.

After lunch, I decided to go up to the Saser-la right away rather than the next morning. Gurdial, having already been up there just two days ago, had better things to do. Namyang, the Ladakhi Scout assigned to accompany us and look, after the mule and the food, came with me. It was just over two hours of walking on the moraine and the- glacier — the afternoon heat was melting the snow and rivulets were running noisily under the softened ice — to the top of the pass, about 17,500 ft. This pass is quite frequently used by army and supply people yet it presented an empty, desolate air of rock and snow and nothingness. According to the strict interpretation of our permits imposed on us, we were not supposed to go beyond the pass at all. Saser-la meant Saser-la, full stop. If we had gone beyond, we would have descended to the Shyok river again, before it curves around to come down to Partapur.

It is not just in recent years that the pass has been frequently used; it has always been a highway for people and traders from the north coming down through the Karakorams to gentler and more fertile climes. The Yarkandis used this route for trade and for going on haj to Mecca. We had been told by just about everyone that the route would be strewn with the bones of animals — perhaps men — who had perished in the cold. But it was quite astonishing to see the quantities of these bones; there were piles every few hundred yards. There must have been the remains of hundreds of animals. Surely the Yarkandis, hardy mountain people, couldn't have been so careless as to get caught all the time by winter snows? It does remain a bit of a mystery and though the bones were bleached white and antiseptic, as it were, there was a macabre quality about them. If they were hajis returning from Mecca and got a bit too late to make it over the pass before winter, I am sure their entrance to heaven was assured.

From the pass, Namyang and I thought it would be quicker to come straight down the glacier — the ice was soft enough to permit this - rather than get on to the moraine. However, when Gurdial saw us approaching the end of the glacier, he thought we had forgotten his stern warning about the dive into the lake and spent much energy in shouting and waving his arms fiercely. I suppose he was worried about having to fish us out of the freezing water.

We were back at the camp by 6, cold and tired, but after a really satisfying day. If I hadn't wasted two days in being sick at Umlung, we could have spent those extra days here, with plenty of reasonably sized mountains around to keep us occupied. That could have been and should have been -— the right climax to the trip. To Gurdial's credit, he made no reproaches to me about this.

It was cold that night but in spite of our best efforts to get Namyang into the tent with us, he insisted on sleeping out. To look after the mule, he said, otherwise it will either run away or be eaten by animals. Nonsense, of course.

A lazy morning and a comfortable three hours brought us back to Skiangpoche for lunch. The way was enlivened by numbers of Guldenstadt's Redstarts; we saw none below Skiangpoche.

The next morning — this was now 2 August — we made an early start as we wanted to get back to Sasoma in one day (It was not loth to avoid spending a night at Umlung). The four rivers presented different problems. For the first, it was still early and the rocks were coated with ice. The water in the last and largest one, which we reached after 10 a.m., was high and finally we had to wade across. The only comfort was that the corpse of the drowned mule had somehow disappeared by now. Lunch at Umlung at about 11.30 and the hottest roastingest, bakingest walk imaginable, down to Sasoma which we reached about 4 o'clock, desiccated, dry, dusty and dehydrated.

Another night on — guess what? — yes, jerrycans, and next morning a one-ton truck ready to take us down to the bridge across the Shyok. On the way we were stopped at a village by Sherpa Norbu who, in 1962, had been with Gurdial on the South Col on Everest. So, a feast and celebration before we could go on. At the bridge, a jonga met us to take us back to Leh.

Just below the Khardung-la, there was a truck unable to get up the last couple of hundred yards to the pass and blocking all traffic. We were held up for over an hour before a truck from the other side came along and pulled the reluctant monster up the last lap.

So back to Leh that evening, to the fleshpots of the Ladakh Scouts Mess, to meet some of the returning members of the successful Saser- Kangri expedition, and to prepare for the return to Chandigarh and Geneva.

 

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