The Roof of India

Susannah: Travelling to Ladakh, a region in northern India bordered by Kashmir on one side and Tibet on the other, entailed yet another harrowing journey. We embarked on this one in a rickety public bus that took us on endless switchbacks over the second highest drivable pass in the world (the highest is just a couple hundred kilometers away). The landscape is stark high-altitude desert reminiscent at times of the American West, and it’s utterly empty except for the odd tent camp set up to feed weary travelers.

After fifteen hours we arrived in Ladakh’s capitol, Leh. Considering what it took to get there, it was shocking to find that the city is no backwater, but a backpacker’s paradise full of espresso and pizza. It didn’t take long before we’d had enough caffeine and set off to find “real” Ladakh.

We found it just an hour away at Tikset Gompa, one of dozens of monasteries around Ladakh that are home to monks from the “Yellow Hat” sect (of which the Dalai Lama is the leader). Ironically, just as we were climbing up the steep hillside to take a look, the monks began pouring out in full ceremonial regalia. They were headed to Leh for the opening festivities of the Ladakh festival, which we’d completely forgotten about. At their insistence we tossed our packs in the back of their tricked-out truck and headed with them back to the city. Everyone we passed pressed their hands together in prayer. We arrived at the head of the parade in style, just in time to watch dancers, musicians and horsemen from every corner of Ladakh pass by.

The next day we headed back to the monastery to watch the young monks perform some of Tibetan Buddhism’s famous masked dances. The dances were fascinating and the costumes stunning, but the best part was watching the delight on the faces of the other young initiates. On the way home we found it impossible to squeeze onto the buses crammed with other tourists, so we hitched a ride—and who should pick us up but two Catholic nuns from Kerala driving an army truck!

Before we headed south, we had just enough time to enter the festival’s archery competition. My arrow hit the ground several meters before the target (in my defense, it had no feathers!), but Michael was a good shot. He was no match for one of the local guys, though, who put his arrow right through the middle of the CD serving as the target.

Back in Manali, en route to Dharamsala, the Dalai Lama’s home in exile, we ran into our old friend Sonny the shoeshine boy. (Michael adds: “Sonny initially caught my attention with an impassioned impromptu defense of the reality of professional wrestling.”) He invited us to back to his home in the tent camp, where his mother cooked us a fiery meal on a dung-fired clay stove and the whole extended family crowded in to peer at us. Sonny’s sister thought my au naturale style wasn’t cutting it, and made up my face with kohl and lipstick to make me look like a native. An hour later, we were old friends.