“As I sat drinking chai and observing the 6am surroundings in Manali, everything started to sink in.
I had only arrived in India 5 days before – out of which 2 were spent getting from A to B, and the other 3 soaked by the fresh air of pine trees and waterfalls – and even though my body said it still wasn’t time to move my mind and heart disagreed. Ladakh was calling, and I couldn’t stop but listen. But it was only when sipping that early morning chai that I accepted the call, and with an uncontrollable excitement came a silly yet honest smile, and a wish to be nowhere else but right there.
•
Surprisingly on time, the bus clambered out of Manali and headed out of the valley towards higher altitudes and less populated areas. It went up along a half paved road – which some call a highway –, slowly waving goodbye to electricity-driven elements and diving deep into a more nature-driven environment. Asphalt soon broke into dirt, and from there onwards a traffic jam consisted of a herd of sheep. Around us were temperate mountains and valleys; waterfalls and gorges. That first leg of the journey until the village of Keylong (where we’d spend the night) wasn’t a long one, and if it wasn’t for the constant “tea breaks” and/or police checks would’ve gone almost unnoticed.
Once in Keylong we took a rest and prepared to leave the following morning at 5am, in order to reach Leh by nightfall.
•
Back on the road, Northbound, the change of scenery happened more abruptly than I’d imagined; soon the green of trees and humid air were left behind, giving space to an arid and lifeless landscape. My eyes shone with the beautiful ugliness of those shapes, where different hues of yellow contrasted with the bright blue sky. One could sense a mutation in the surroundings even with eyes closed; the change was in the air and enveloped you softly like a veil, as the bus swerved from side to side trying to negotiate with the pot holes. The taste of cinnamon and ginger from the chai still lingered in my mouth when I thought about how little distance we’d covered in the first hour, and realized how much more patient I’d have to be with that badly padded bus seat.
Everything felt and looked dryer the further and higher we went, introducing unsaturated but vivid tones of green, grey and yellow, almost always being looked down by the indifferent white of snow-capped peaks. Clouds danced high above the mountains, shifting huge shadows along the valleys and making you dizzy from looking at it. We went up and down, through a series of passes and bridges, on what seemed like a never ending orbital drive; a road on the moon.
Never had my eyes witnessed – or my mind imagined – such vastness, and being there helped to put into perspective just how immense this planet is, and yet how closely connected we all are. Such thought also made me realize how frequently the balance of nature is at play – almost in a merciful way – creating lush green valleys where life flourished, amidst barren mountains where life wasn’t present at all. These arid giants were scarred by erosion, often creating glacial waterfalls than ran down to join rivers, provoking a colourful fusion between deep blue waters and a sediment-filled greyish body that flowed from further than the eyes could see, dragging everything in its way.
Like with many long journeys the idea of time tends to vanish, or at least lose meaning. I guided myself by the sun, so when it started to disappear on the horizon it’d mean we were reaching our destination and my body would find stillness again. As a ‘last hurrah` we descended deep into a colourful valley that carried an intriguing air with it. Buddhist temples and prayer flags were scattered at unimaginable places: on top of hills and cliff edges. Like under a magic spell – or a simple geological occurrence – the rocks turned into pinkish-red colour, which contrasted even more with the pale white of the centenary clay constructions and the overwhelming yellow of mustard fields. The bus seemed to have entered a different realm, and the road followed a wide and peaceful river that connected many small villages and gave life to everything that possessed the slightest spark within.
•
After the saddest turn of the journey the bus left that mysterious valley, but my eyes clung to the last of its presence, wondering what had just happened. Moving forward – at its own friendly pace – the old vehicle suddenly stopped shaking frantically and seemed to have touched a flat surface after spending half a day under the mercy of crater-filled grounds. That, together with the change in the sky’s tonality, meant we weren’t too far away from Leh.
More and more stone-pilled houses appeared alongside the badly lit road, and soon artificial lights started shining in the distance, in a harsh and uninviting manner. Noise and movement stole the charm of a previously quiet and still environment outside those bus windows, awakening my senses and making my eyes squint as if I’d just woken up from a long, deep sleep.
Leh was there, like a base camp on the moon. I couldn’t (and didn’t want to) see or understand anything that was going on around me since my entire organism was still numbed by such mesmerizing journey. All my body asked for was a shower to rinse off the accumulated dust; all my mind desired was a noiseless and colourless environment, so to make sense of what it had just witnessed.”
…
TUNDRA 