The internet is much cheaper here than in Leh, not that 75 cents an hour is really such a big savings- it's all relative when you travel. I reached here by bus, and was not sorry to miss many of those 230 kilometers of mostly monotonous sand and rock. OK, there were a few green villages we passed through, reminiscent of Morocco with mud brick structures and leafy willows, apricots dropping everywhere. And there was Lamayuru Monastery- famous and mysterious in its moonscape setting. But there were also dozens of tour buses and jeeps winding there way up and down the switchbacked road. I was happy sitting by the window in the back row of the bus. I repeatedly had to remove the elbow of the young man sitting next to me from my upper arm, and occassionally had to pull the curtain down to block the searing sun, but it was a pleasant enough ride with an excellent driver and I was able to recover from the 3:50 am wake up alarm.
Riding the 2 km in the dark to reach the bus reminded me of leaving Gilgit for the bus back to Tashkurgan. Only here, the packs of dogs in the road would only lift an eyelid or possibly roust themselves to vacate the roadway as they heard my cycle rolling near. On the final approach up the hill to where the bus was parked however, out of the darkness came the dreaded , vicious, barking of multiple dogs. I used my "scary voice" and growled and barked and roared back at them, swaying my head side to side to scan for their numbers. Eye pairs of phosphorescent blue eyes gleamed back at me. Then people came from the bus yard to see who was screaming. Only me. Only dogs. Harmless, gentle, more-scared-than-me, Indian dogs.
I'm glad to be here in Kargil. I'd heard and read that it was an awful place, just a place to change buses and be goen from. But that was from people who've never been to Gilgit or Chitral in Pakistan. In fact, I am not many kilometers from the LOC (Line of Control) as this part of the Pakistan-Indian border is known. And quite close to those city-towns I've been in before. It is familiar and better in many way, here. For one thing, there ARE women on the street. The Hindi and Buddhist influences temper the Muslim social norms. It feels pretty relaxed.
And so am I. In the morning I plan to set out for my last 5 days of cycling, heading on the Kargil-Padum road through the heart of Zanskar. The main pass is only 4450 meters, so while the road is "rough" (unpaved,) I don't expect it to be too difficult. I will pass by Nun and Kun- two peaks over 7000 meters. There is also a region of women nomads up near the pass, and I hope to be able to pass one night with them.
The stories to tell about my first solo trip to Pangong Lake at the Tibetan border- well, those stories have been started and I hope to post them here before too long. But before long I need to get to sleep to start this final phase in Ladakh.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Friday, August 1, 2008
to the Tibet border at Pangmong Lake
Setting out on my own. In confidence. I had left Leh with Ivan, a Spaniard continuing his solo cycling after a one-month rest in Leh. Our first 30 kms. were in the same general direction, so we enjoyed a leisurely morning together as I retraced yesterday's "training ride" from Leh to Karu. But this day, we found the bridge that eluded me the day before, and were able to take the west side road- higher and hillier and quieter. When we reached Karu, I was disheartened to see a mass of cycles. I quickly recognized Bavo's tidy black Ortliebs, and Amy's bulging red ones. I wasn't prepared to meet them, and I wanted to hide. It was awkward. The four of them looked dusty, tired and calm, having just ridden a week from where we parted ways in Keylong. I had no regrets for not joining the group, even though had I stayed with them, I would probably have been able to ride, as Walter carried a spare tire. There were I few stretches of the route that I'd really wished I could've cycled, but overall, that road seemed to suck- in terms of traffic and road surface. But I never want to travel with more than three. And having missed the chance to ride those kilometers, I was motivated to seek another destination, and that's why I was where I was at the moment- on the way to Pangmong Lake, forming a 130 kilometer border with Tibet.
Amy and crew, Ivan and I all headed in three different directions, late in the afternoon. 10 kilometers and a 500 meter climb brought me to my first halt. A 12 year old school boy escorted me to the village fields, telling me about his success at the day's exams in between chasing the donkeys he was escorting home. He brought me to a family and acted as a translator as I sought permission to put up my tent in their grazed field. A woman combed out a 10-year old girl's hair as I staked out the Hilleberg perfectly in a dry corner of the grass. Irrigation channels are opened and closed with mud, stones and rags throughout the day, allowing the channelized snowmelt to flow through orchards and crop rows. You have to be careful where you pitch your tent. The young man having gone, I held my empty water bottle up to the groomers and they had me follow them to their house to fill it. After filling my bottle, they took me upstairs to the colorfully upholstered living room, pointed to a carpeted cushion-couch, and basically said, "You sleep here." So we all went back out to the field to take down my perfectly erected tent. I helped the girl with her generous amount of homework, impressed at the complexity and cultural relevance of her fifth-grade reading text. This selection was about the legend of a famous Muslim woman who was a gifted poet at a young age, at a time when females were not generally educated, who caught the ear of a prince and became his bride and princess and a nationally famous singer. As a student at the Army Good Will School, she received a quality education which included her choice of religion class: Hindu, Sikh, Muslim or Buddhist, as well as a track suit and two school uniforms (grey trousers, blue sweater, black shoes, two pigtails) which she clearly enjoyed.
I set out early the next morning, riding just 22 kilometers, but climbing 1000 meters. I stopped early since there were few settlements at all, and this was the last one before the summit. If you can call the Army post at Zingral a settlement. The only food was "Maggi," the Indian version of instant noodles, but which require at least 2 minutes of cooking. The commander made it clear that my tent had to be at least 500 meters from the post, "For your own protection." I found it hard to fathom that any of the soldiers would try to take liberties with me or my possessions, but I toted my tent and panniers down into the river valley which separated the post from the road workers' domicile on the other side of the valley. I was suffering from a headache, having moved up to 4800 meters after a relatively low five days at Leh (3550 m). I also think the milk I'd had for dinner and breakfast didn't agree with me, as I felt unable to eat without causing stomach pain. But more debilitating was a painful lung condition that was developing into a dry, unproductive cough. So as a parade of first one, then two, then four of the road workers routed themselves right past my open tent door with long, staring gazes at me in my privacy, my patience turned into shouts. "Get away!" I cried, to no avail. I was ashamed to resorting to picking up stones- every dog knows that motion- and as the four-legged sort responds, so did they, running off down valley. I hated to treat them like like. But I wanted it to stop. So I trudged my breathless self back up to the army post to complain.
"You are supposed to protect people," I explained, "but you sent me down to sleep where these men are bothering me." No sooner had I said this than some orders were given and three men set off down valley to round up the suspects. It was explained that the road workers were low-class (caste?) people with no culture or proper sense.Meanwhile, they told me I couldn't camp there and that I had to return to the previous village- the place I'd slept the night before. Not wanting to backtrack, nor interrupt my program, I explained that I had to sleep at increased altitude in order to cross the pass the next day. Finally they said I could sleep in a building on base. They went down to the valley with me to help me pack up my tent and belongings. Just then, the three returned with a dozen road workers, placed in a sort of line-up. I was asked to identify the offenders. In truth, I could only recognized one man's large coat but I was being pushed to point out the other three. I refused but the soldiers said that these four (including the big-coat guy) had "confessed." And then they started slapping them. I protested at this and then screamed at the officers as they marched the four offenders up to the base for who knows what kind of private punishment. "Who is low class?" I demanded. "Them, who only looked, or you, who are beating them!" Panting in the altitude, I tried to keep up as the four were moving up hill, shouting "Stop it!" with what little breath I had. Finally, the commander ordered the march to halt and called them all back down. In turn, each of the four said sorry but I felt sorriest of all. I only hope there was no retribution after I left. For the night however, I was packed up and resettled in the medical observation tent. They couldn't get permission for me to sleep in the guest house, but they didn't need permission to set me up in the medical building. They brought juice, hot water, a dinner cooked to order and a bottle of oxygen. I was given specific directions not to touch the meds (a full box with a cheat sheet as to their indications and dosage, and to be sure to lock the door, "for your own protection." I slept warm under the wool blankets and had an early start accompanied by no breakfast and a hacking cough.
Riding the 12 kilometers to the top of Chang La was the hardest thing I have ever done. I started out strong, but by the time I summited, I was gasping and coughing. I didn't stay too long at the top, and was so glad to finally reach a tent stop where I could get some food. I sat on the carpeted cushion, next to the low table on the earthen floor and ordered. Maggi, and Lay's (potato chips) and Limca (lemon-lime soda.) I asked the young man who served me if that's what he ate. No. Of course not. So I asked if I could get some real food, like he ate. Yogurt and bread and nuts. Now that was a meal. After I ate, I laid down behind the table and took a refreshing nap. I know many of us feel like sleeping after a good meal. It's so nice to be in a country where the chair is a bed anyway. I awoke and continued down the beautifully paved, delightfully untrafficked and glacially scenic road to the sleepy town of Tangste where I checked into a clean hotel for the night.
I had an early breakfast, and ordered some chapatis to go. I put them on the table to cool before packing them, and it was about 10 kms. down the road when I thought about them again, still sitting on the piece of foil on the lobby furniture. Oh well. Not enough to disturb the absolute serenity of my morning ride downhill, crisscrossing a flowing stream.
A delightful morning ride. The river continually altered its tempo, sometimes slipping stuporously, dutifully reversing its course, this way, that way, in the snakey "S" channels. Other times envigored, one channel chasing another in bubbly jubilance. All the while, green-brown in its churned up liquidity, flowing down while I slid up over the hilly banks, pushed along by a strong tailwind.
The silence was only occasionally cut by a passing jeep, but of an insignificance that forgot itself when the hum and fume passed. Except for one. It beeped and honked, even though I was well off to the side of the road. I dismounted and waited for it to pass when through the open window, the driver called out, "You forgot your lunch box!" Puzzled I looked again as he handed me a plastic bag. Inside were my cooled, foil-wrapped chapatis.
Horses silhoueted against sparkling grass tips that protruded though the overflowed plain. Such a relief- glint on water, and no longer off slopes of shale, stone and sand. It's amazing what a sliver of green does. It is life itself, supporting life and enlivening my spirit which had been ultimately numbed by cosmic-colored slopes: tawny and magenta, amber and puce. Initially engaing, there's a limit to how long these mountain colors can be entertaining. Once the point of saturation is reached, it's all just rocks and sand, sand and rocks. But the narrow land of life in the morning light... it was potent enough to animate all the gorge engulfing me... renewing my fascination with these desert mountainscapes.
A fat marmot hoisted itself up to safety when it heard me roll towards, its long tail dragging behind. Curious horses stopped grazing to sniff and stare. "What steed is that?" they wondered. Shaggy yaks lolling in the distance. Then three horses alone, each gingerly stepping through the muddy bottom, tentatively moving across the floodplain. All this beauty then heralded and sealed with the longest trumpeting donkey bray, not followed by the usual short notes. Just a long bellow, testing the lungs and greeting the day.
The ride was an Edenic treat. Nearly finished. Just a bit more to reach the lake. But of course, an obstacle first. The river crossing. I'd been alerted to the necessity of reaching it in the morning, as it is impassable in the afternoon. I didn't realize it was to be found at the bottom of a detour, off the road, a result of a lack of bridge spanning the side gorge. I was a bit disheartened in my weakend state, to have to descend for a time, and lose my needed altitude. A kind Nepali road worker let me wear his sandals as he helped me push my bike uphill through the knee-deep water flowing down the road. Nobody to help me push the bike back up to the main route though, and with my worsening cough, it was a physical challenge that began to attack my spirit. Once I regained the road, I was feeling confident, especially when I espied a snippet of the turquoise goal: Pangmong Lake
Chris and I had passed this lake from the other side in 2006, albeit in a Tibetan truck. I remember distinctly as the driver explained that this was the Indian border. my curiosity and fascination had been kindled and it was a joyful moment when I made the final descent which brought the northern end of this lake into full view. Reaching here was the hardest physical challenge I have ever met. The initial sight was no disappointment. I combed my NYT crossword-trained mind for words to describe the color: light and dark, electric, midnight, aquamarine, turquoise, violet, multi-hued blues. The mountains, likewise, begged for ever more photos. Puffy clouds, wispy clouds, lenticular domes, expressive starbursts. Against the sky of blue found only at such heights.
I followed the shore for another hour or two. The road rapidly eroded and required crossing slushy gravel and turbid waters caused by several side streams draining the snowy peaks rimming this side of the lake. At last the village of Spamik came into view, of course uphill and in the distance. I walked and pushed and hacked and gasped and nearly collapsed when I finally reached the village. A young Russian woman traveling with her pharmacist boyfriend brought needed help and a linguistic respite- I can think in Russian but have a hard time counting in Hindi. Those Russians showed me a good place to camp, in the territory of Thondup, a childless Tibetan refugee who reached India in his pre-teen years, married a Ladakhi who lost both sons in childbirth, and says, "Never mind about that" when queried about his family history. The man fed me and treated my cough with an herbal steam, and insisted that I overpaid him when I left the next morning. The once-weekly bus was passing through, and in my weakened state, I decided to leave the windy blue-green waters after just one day, and take a ride back up the Chang La. You know I coasted down. Wouldn't you? Back to Leh, into the shower then into bed, I was convinced that I had met with enough success and that it would now be okay to pack up my bike.
I cried on this ride. Once at the accomplishment when I reached the top of Chang La. And again when I reached the lake shore. And again, when I reached the final village of Spagmik (that no foreigners are allowed beyond). But the third time was not of joy. It was tears of being spent. I am spent. I gratefully accepted the 20-something year old Russians' compliment regarding my fitness at 51 to be able to make the pass and reach this place. At the same time, I acknowledge that I am not a super athlete. I pushed my limits on this trip and while pleased, I am also now ready for rest. Maybe my next trip will be in the Netherlands.
Amy and crew, Ivan and I all headed in three different directions, late in the afternoon. 10 kilometers and a 500 meter climb brought me to my first halt. A 12 year old school boy escorted me to the village fields, telling me about his success at the day's exams in between chasing the donkeys he was escorting home. He brought me to a family and acted as a translator as I sought permission to put up my tent in their grazed field. A woman combed out a 10-year old girl's hair as I staked out the Hilleberg perfectly in a dry corner of the grass. Irrigation channels are opened and closed with mud, stones and rags throughout the day, allowing the channelized snowmelt to flow through orchards and crop rows. You have to be careful where you pitch your tent. The young man having gone, I held my empty water bottle up to the groomers and they had me follow them to their house to fill it. After filling my bottle, they took me upstairs to the colorfully upholstered living room, pointed to a carpeted cushion-couch, and basically said, "You sleep here." So we all went back out to the field to take down my perfectly erected tent. I helped the girl with her generous amount of homework, impressed at the complexity and cultural relevance of her fifth-grade reading text. This selection was about the legend of a famous Muslim woman who was a gifted poet at a young age, at a time when females were not generally educated, who caught the ear of a prince and became his bride and princess and a nationally famous singer. As a student at the Army Good Will School, she received a quality education which included her choice of religion class: Hindu, Sikh, Muslim or Buddhist, as well as a track suit and two school uniforms (grey trousers, blue sweater, black shoes, two pigtails) which she clearly enjoyed.
I set out early the next morning, riding just 22 kilometers, but climbing 1000 meters. I stopped early since there were few settlements at all, and this was the last one before the summit. If you can call the Army post at Zingral a settlement. The only food was "Maggi," the Indian version of instant noodles, but which require at least 2 minutes of cooking. The commander made it clear that my tent had to be at least 500 meters from the post, "For your own protection." I found it hard to fathom that any of the soldiers would try to take liberties with me or my possessions, but I toted my tent and panniers down into the river valley which separated the post from the road workers' domicile on the other side of the valley. I was suffering from a headache, having moved up to 4800 meters after a relatively low five days at Leh (3550 m). I also think the milk I'd had for dinner and breakfast didn't agree with me, as I felt unable to eat without causing stomach pain. But more debilitating was a painful lung condition that was developing into a dry, unproductive cough. So as a parade of first one, then two, then four of the road workers routed themselves right past my open tent door with long, staring gazes at me in my privacy, my patience turned into shouts. "Get away!" I cried, to no avail. I was ashamed to resorting to picking up stones- every dog knows that motion- and as the four-legged sort responds, so did they, running off down valley. I hated to treat them like like. But I wanted it to stop. So I trudged my breathless self back up to the army post to complain.
"You are supposed to protect people," I explained, "but you sent me down to sleep where these men are bothering me." No sooner had I said this than some orders were given and three men set off down valley to round up the suspects. It was explained that the road workers were low-class (caste?) people with no culture or proper sense.Meanwhile, they told me I couldn't camp there and that I had to return to the previous village- the place I'd slept the night before. Not wanting to backtrack, nor interrupt my program, I explained that I had to sleep at increased altitude in order to cross the pass the next day. Finally they said I could sleep in a building on base. They went down to the valley with me to help me pack up my tent and belongings. Just then, the three returned with a dozen road workers, placed in a sort of line-up. I was asked to identify the offenders. In truth, I could only recognized one man's large coat but I was being pushed to point out the other three. I refused but the soldiers said that these four (including the big-coat guy) had "confessed." And then they started slapping them. I protested at this and then screamed at the officers as they marched the four offenders up to the base for who knows what kind of private punishment. "Who is low class?" I demanded. "Them, who only looked, or you, who are beating them!" Panting in the altitude, I tried to keep up as the four were moving up hill, shouting "Stop it!" with what little breath I had. Finally, the commander ordered the march to halt and called them all back down. In turn, each of the four said sorry but I felt sorriest of all. I only hope there was no retribution after I left. For the night however, I was packed up and resettled in the medical observation tent. They couldn't get permission for me to sleep in the guest house, but they didn't need permission to set me up in the medical building. They brought juice, hot water, a dinner cooked to order and a bottle of oxygen. I was given specific directions not to touch the meds (a full box with a cheat sheet as to their indications and dosage, and to be sure to lock the door, "for your own protection." I slept warm under the wool blankets and had an early start accompanied by no breakfast and a hacking cough.
Riding the 12 kilometers to the top of Chang La was the hardest thing I have ever done. I started out strong, but by the time I summited, I was gasping and coughing. I didn't stay too long at the top, and was so glad to finally reach a tent stop where I could get some food. I sat on the carpeted cushion, next to the low table on the earthen floor and ordered. Maggi, and Lay's (potato chips) and Limca (lemon-lime soda.) I asked the young man who served me if that's what he ate. No. Of course not. So I asked if I could get some real food, like he ate. Yogurt and bread and nuts. Now that was a meal. After I ate, I laid down behind the table and took a refreshing nap. I know many of us feel like sleeping after a good meal. It's so nice to be in a country where the chair is a bed anyway. I awoke and continued down the beautifully paved, delightfully untrafficked and glacially scenic road to the sleepy town of Tangste where I checked into a clean hotel for the night.
I had an early breakfast, and ordered some chapatis to go. I put them on the table to cool before packing them, and it was about 10 kms. down the road when I thought about them again, still sitting on the piece of foil on the lobby furniture. Oh well. Not enough to disturb the absolute serenity of my morning ride downhill, crisscrossing a flowing stream.
A delightful morning ride. The river continually altered its tempo, sometimes slipping stuporously, dutifully reversing its course, this way, that way, in the snakey "S" channels. Other times envigored, one channel chasing another in bubbly jubilance. All the while, green-brown in its churned up liquidity, flowing down while I slid up over the hilly banks, pushed along by a strong tailwind.
The silence was only occasionally cut by a passing jeep, but of an insignificance that forgot itself when the hum and fume passed. Except for one. It beeped and honked, even though I was well off to the side of the road. I dismounted and waited for it to pass when through the open window, the driver called out, "You forgot your lunch box!" Puzzled I looked again as he handed me a plastic bag. Inside were my cooled, foil-wrapped chapatis.
Horses silhoueted against sparkling grass tips that protruded though the overflowed plain. Such a relief- glint on water, and no longer off slopes of shale, stone and sand. It's amazing what a sliver of green does. It is life itself, supporting life and enlivening my spirit which had been ultimately numbed by cosmic-colored slopes: tawny and magenta, amber and puce. Initially engaing, there's a limit to how long these mountain colors can be entertaining. Once the point of saturation is reached, it's all just rocks and sand, sand and rocks. But the narrow land of life in the morning light... it was potent enough to animate all the gorge engulfing me... renewing my fascination with these desert mountainscapes.
A fat marmot hoisted itself up to safety when it heard me roll towards, its long tail dragging behind. Curious horses stopped grazing to sniff and stare. "What steed is that?" they wondered. Shaggy yaks lolling in the distance. Then three horses alone, each gingerly stepping through the muddy bottom, tentatively moving across the floodplain. All this beauty then heralded and sealed with the longest trumpeting donkey bray, not followed by the usual short notes. Just a long bellow, testing the lungs and greeting the day. The ride was an Edenic treat. Nearly finished. Just a bit more to reach the lake. But of course, an obstacle first. The river crossing. I'd been alerted to the necessity of reaching it in the morning, as it is impassable in the afternoon. I didn't realize it was to be found at the bottom of a detour, off the road, a result of a lack of bridge spanning the side gorge. I was a bit disheartened in my weakend state, to have to descend for a time, and lose my needed altitude. A kind Nepali road worker let me wear his sandals as he helped me push my bike uphill through the knee-deep water flowing down the road. Nobody to help me push the bike back up to the main route though, and with my worsening cough, it was a physical challenge that began to attack my spirit. Once I regained the road, I was feeling confident, especially when I espied a snippet of the turquoise goal: Pangmong Lake
Chris and I had passed this lake from the other side in 2006, albeit in a Tibetan truck. I remember distinctly as the driver explained that this was the Indian border. my curiosity and fascination had been kindled and it was a joyful moment when I made the final descent which brought the northern end of this lake into full view. Reaching here was the hardest physical challenge I have ever met. The initial sight was no disappointment. I combed my NYT crossword-trained mind for words to describe the color: light and dark, electric, midnight, aquamarine, turquoise, violet, multi-hued blues. The mountains, likewise, begged for ever more photos. Puffy clouds, wispy clouds, lenticular domes, expressive starbursts. Against the sky of blue found only at such heights.
I followed the shore for another hour or two. The road rapidly eroded and required crossing slushy gravel and turbid waters caused by several side streams draining the snowy peaks rimming this side of the lake. At last the village of Spamik came into view, of course uphill and in the distance. I walked and pushed and hacked and gasped and nearly collapsed when I finally reached the village. A young Russian woman traveling with her pharmacist boyfriend brought needed help and a linguistic respite- I can think in Russian but have a hard time counting in Hindi. Those Russians showed me a good place to camp, in the territory of Thondup, a childless Tibetan refugee who reached India in his pre-teen years, married a Ladakhi who lost both sons in childbirth, and says, "Never mind about that" when queried about his family history. The man fed me and treated my cough with an herbal steam, and insisted that I overpaid him when I left the next morning. The once-weekly bus was passing through, and in my weakened state, I decided to leave the windy blue-green waters after just one day, and take a ride back up the Chang La. You know I coasted down. Wouldn't you? Back to Leh, into the shower then into bed, I was convinced that I had met with enough success and that it would now be okay to pack up my bike.
I cried on this ride. Once at the accomplishment when I reached the top of Chang La. And again when I reached the lake shore. And again, when I reached the final village of Spagmik (that no foreigners are allowed beyond). But the third time was not of joy. It was tears of being spent. I am spent. I gratefully accepted the 20-something year old Russians' compliment regarding my fitness at 51 to be able to make the pass and reach this place. At the same time, I acknowledge that I am not a super athlete. I pushed my limits on this trip and while pleased, I am also now ready for rest. Maybe my next trip will be in the Netherlands.
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