September 11, 2023 to September 20, 2023
Sketchy Hitchhikes and Steaming Springs
A journey from the hidden village of Tar to Tsomoriri
Tar Village
Months fore, in a hostel in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, we were talking with Nouf, an Israeli girl, over some watermelon and listening to her many recommendations about India. She highly recommended the Zanskar Valley, which turned out to be the greatest place of the trip so far. The next place on her list was a short journey back on the Srinagar-Leh highway: a small village called Tar.
Tar is only accessible by foot—not even a bike can get there. It sounded like a welcome break after the past ten long days with little rest. A resort owner along the highway agreed to store our bikes and bags, allowing us to hike in with just a small backpack each. We left late in the afternoon, deciding to take it easy and arrive the following day, having little idea of what awaited us there. It felt safe and peaceful in the narrow valley forest, so we decided to make camp and enjoy the silence. Feeling hungry, we were excited to cook, only to realize that Seb had forgotten to pack gas for the stove. Fortunately, there was ample wood around, and getting a fire going for our noodles and soy chunk staple was easy enough thanks to my "fashion lighter"—a Chinese-made lighter with the most spelling mistakes possible in a single sentence. The night was the perfect temperature at this altitude, giving us plenty of time to enjoy the fire and the stars we were growing accustomed to.
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The next day, we continued the hike up to Tar. It felt incredibly quiet, especially for India. We wandered for a while until we saw an old woman approaching in the distance. She invited us in for tea and biscuits, and despite our lack of Ladakhi, she enjoyed showing us pictures around her traditional house. We gathered that there was an American couple living in the village—something we had heard from Nouf. As is often the case, she refused any money for the hospitality and instead gifted us some dried apricots before pointing us toward the rest of the village to find this mysterious couple.
Luckily, we soon bumped into Caitlin along a footpath. She was just as surprised to see us wandering around and was excited to introduce us to her partner, Jason, and the three interns from the University of Maine who were in the village for research and to help on the farm.
Caitlin and Jason had moved here a few years ago to join the community and live in this haven in the mountains. Years later, they were fluent in Ladakhi and seemed to be valuable members of this small village. Their story was inspiring, and we were grateful when they invited us to stay with a local family in exchange for some help on the farm. Apparently, we had picked the perfect day to arrive—it was the day for threshing the wheat. Until very recently, most of the farmwork here was done using traditional techniques, with Dzos (a crossbreed between a yak and a cow) providing power. Now, however, the village had a motorized thresher, all thanks to a group of men who had carried it up the valley. The same had been done for a cell tower, bringing connectivity to the outside world—though, of course, our SIM cards never seemed to work in this region.
After a delicious lunch prepared by our new host family, Jason and Caitlin taught us and the interns some Ladakhi through a very dramatic act. It was great fun, and with the help of a fantastic book, we managed to learn a few words. Our new favorite was "Chi she!"—which means "I have no idea! How should I know?!" Another frequently used word was "Juley," a versatile term that meant hello, goodbye, goodnight, good morning, please, thank you, and more. We had already been merrily shouting it at passersby on our bikes, but now, with our improved understanding, we had an even greater excuse to use it at every opportunity.
The harvest was a special time for the village. It brought everyone together, not only to help with the laborious tasks but also to celebrate the fruit of their hard work throughout the year—food that would sustain them through the long, harsh winter ahead. Even the old woman we had met earlier in the day came out to help clean away the chaff. After a hard afternoon's work, everyone gathered in the early evening sun to drink sweet tea together. There was a lovely bond among the people here, and I could easily see why Jason and Caitlin had chosen to move to this remote village.
Read more about the harvest on Jason and Caitlin's blog: https://ladakhfarm.blog/harvest/
Leh
From Tar, we took a short but nerve-racking journey to Leh along the highway, with trucks frequently grazing past us. We knew Madeline and Nabil were already there and had also heard that another British cyclist, Sam, was staying in the same guesthouse. Sam had been in contact with Seb through a WhatsApp group since Central Asia, giving advice along the way, so we were excited to finally meet him and add a new member to the group.
The guesthouse we stayed in was humble but beautiful in its own way, with a friendly owner. On the first night, we stayed in the upstairs of the owner's house—a large room with a solid mattress. Just before going to bed, we noticed bedbugs in the mattress lining. We searched thoroughly but couldn’t find any more, though we pitched our tents inside the room just to be safe. One of the first priorities after many nights of camping was doing laundry—this time, it had been two full weeks since our last proper clothes wash in Delhi. My white shirt, which I had worn every day since buying it in Kashmir, had turned a horrible brown. The guesthouse owner proudly returned it the next day, impressively sparkling white after hand-scrubbing it herself. She told me it was the dirtiest shirt she had ever seen and tried to charge me triple for the effort. She was in for a shock when she saw Madeline’s oil-covered cycling trousers.
Nabil was worryingly ill after cycling up and down the brutal Khardung Pass (5,359m) in a single day without properly acclimatizing. I hadn’t known him long at this point, but after traveling with him later on, this feat seemed entirely in character. Madeline was nursing him back to health over a couple of days, and before long, he could stomach some heavy Indian food again—which we eagerly gorged on in the many local restaurants.
After a few days, Nabil was back to his chirpy self, and we set off as a team of five with high spirits, heading south past the Dalai Lama’s residence towards the Spiti Valley. It felt great riding in a larger group for once, and even though we had different paces, Nabil would always wait for us with a paratha and a sweet chai at the next dabbah.
Not far from Leh, we reached Thiksey Monastery, an impressive holy site reminiscent of the ancient city of Lhasa in Tibet. Climbing the many steps past the monks’ residences and up to the temple at the top felt magical. There, we saw Buddhist children learning, just as we were, about the many religious symbols and statues around.
As we continued our ride south, Madeline decided to part ways and take a different route while we set our sights on Tsomoriri Lake, one of the highest we would encounter on our journey but a considerable detour on a bicycle. Now down to four, it wasn’t long before darkness set in, and I was the one holding up the group with a puncture from a large nail through my tire. It was already getting dark, but I quickly repaired it, and we looked for a place to sleep. Our options were limited as we were in a canyon. We considered sleeping under a bridge for a while but decided to risk it and push our bikes up a steep hill in search of flat ground. We got lucky when we met some men who invited us to sleep outside their house. It was a beautiful spot, as most places here are, and the night sky didn’t fail to impress us once again as we ate our sad meal of starchy noodles, soy chunks, and tomato paste with a trusty packet of rajma masala spice mix.
The next day, we continued through the canyon, passing many more "BRO" signs that always gave me a chuckle. We got lucky with food too, as we passed a "wet canteen." These canteens are set up for the military but are often open to anyone, including hungry cyclists. The prices were ridiculously cheap, with good-quality, filling food, and it was a nice place to rest. At the army base, there was also a dry canteen where we bought some warmer clothes for very cheap, preparing for the mountains in Nepal and Sikkim over the next few months. Less than an hour after leaving the canteen, we passed yet another one, this time with chaat masala and samosas. Knowing that these opportunities don’t come often, Sam, Nabil, and I stopped for a small snack of one of everything on the menu. Seb took surprisingly long to join us; he was suffering from altitude sickness and developing flu-like symptoms.
Chumatang Hot Spring Resort
Nevertheless, Seb picked a good place to be ill, as we conveniently stopped at the Chumatang hot spring resort, where we found a naturally heated room for just £5 between us, and not a bedbug in sight! In addition to the heated room, this luxury resort offered an outdoor heated pool and a restaurant.
The heated pool did require some effort, however, as there were only two options: boiling hot bubbling water or the freezing cold River Indus. We managed to find a shallow spot where the two merged, but it still required constant agitation to avoid scalding ourselves on the hot water.
Feeling cleansed and relaxed after the luxurious bath, we were hungry and curious to try boiling eggs in the spring, so we bought a big bag from the least efficient shop we had ever seen and tried it out. It worked a treat and made a great addition to the healing soup we prepared for Seb in an effort to help him recover.
The next day, Seb was still ill, but we were in no rush and happy to take time to rest. We tried out the heated bucket shower in the middle of town. I tried late in the evening but had to wait behind a queue of old ladies who were enjoying their time bucket-washing themselves with pleasantly hot, sulfur-smelling water. I loved it too, and although squatting in a dark concrete room pouring water on yourself doesn’t sound like the most appealing pastime, there always seemed to be a queue waiting outside.
The Journey to Tsomoriri lake
With Seb feeling slightly better, we set off up the gradual but ongoing hill to a small town, where the rest of us waited for hours for him to finally arrive. He looked terrible and had no energy left. The problem with high altitude is that your body struggles to recover, and it’s easy to pick up infections with a weakened immune system. As this was a dead-end detour, Seb decided to hitchhike with some French tourists who had stopped at a roadside café. The rest of us began the climb up to the 4,860m pass before quickly changing our minds and deciding to hitchhike too. It took some time, but we found a lift in two different trucks, which effortlessly wizzed us up the pass and down onto the scrubland dirt track, where the truck drivers raced against each other like a strange remake of Mad Max. The drivers were heading in a different direction to the town of Karzok, so they dropped us off at a crossroads, where we hoped to find another lift. We started walking to pass the time and made it to the lake, but it was still an 8km walk from there, and no vehicle was in sight. We sat and ate the last few boiled eggs from Chumatang and continued walking the gravel track, hoping someone would pass by and slightly regretting not bringing our bikes. It was almost dark by the time a truck passed, so we jumped in the back and got a bumpy lift for the final kilometer into Karzok, where we were reunited with Seb once again.
Karzok was a quiet town with few people around. We were here at the most pleasant time of year, but it was evident from the faces of the locals that they endure harsh weather come winter. Nonetheless, people were very joyful and calm as they went about their day. We stayed two nights in a small room at a guesthouse, where we were invited to join the host family for a dinner of rice and dhal around the cozy Tibetan eating area. The host fed us until we couldn’t eat anymore, and we had to refuse her offer to serve us more ladles of dhal. I loved the floor seating arrangement; it was a nice change from camping life, where we typically sit outside our tents eating the same thing. At the guesthouse, we watched a Bollywood movie called The Three Idiots, as parts of it were filmed near this location. It was surprisingly funny and a great introduction to the weird and wonderful world of Bollywood.
We were lucky to meet a group of motorbikers in the morning who offered to give Sam and me a lift back to our bikes, while Nabil and Seb went in the back of a pickup truck. The bikers were local tourists who had driven up from Delhi, and they made us feel pretty anxious as they sped along dirt roads with us, helmetless, clinging to the back.
We were happy to be reunited with our bikes, which were locked up beside the café, and pedaled downhill onto the main road. We soon stopped off at a dabbah for a big carby meal of noodles, then felt terrible for the remainder of the day in the headwind, despite the stunning landscapes. Deciding to call it a day early, we found a small shelter from the strong winds in the open and crashed for the night.
To be continued…
Today's ride: 250 km (155 miles)
Total: 250 km (155 miles)
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