A Day Trip to Ladakh by Morag McIntryre Hadley
The images of, and my impression of New Delhi, which I left behind just after dawn, shift in my mind to make room for the spread of snow covered mountains beneath our toy-like plane. The Himalayas, a frozen sea of gargantuan proportions, expand in every direction. The small aircraft buzzes with Indian response to their magnificence. The atmosphere is effervescent with our joint delight, as the hiccupping air pockets jokey us along.
I am a guest of the Indian Army, accompanying Field Marshall Manek-Shaw, the Company Commander of the Battalion, to Ladakh. I call him Sam. Sam is a business colleague of my husband and a close friend of us both.
Far below our bouncy plane, lies the Sindh river valley and I am reminded of Kipling’s Kim, and his adventures. Before the small airport was built at Leh, where we are about to land, it took two days to reach Ladakh, from Srinigar, in Kashmir. Each year, the tortuous, snow-bound road is closed from November until May. Each year, the ghostly debris of lorries, which fail to negotiate the snake-like bends, increases littering the mountain side and leaving a warning to other careless drivers.
Our plane descends and lands at Leh which lies on a plain devoid of vegetation; a desert of mountain sand, encased within rocky pinnacles. The circle of high mountains pierces the brilliant blue sky. The Indus river snakes its way through the glittering white sand. It is bitterly cold in the brightest of suns and I descend form the aircraft into what looks like a moonscape. The old summer palace and Gompa (monastery) perched on the towers of rock, dominate the town, giving it the look of a set from a 1930s horror film.
Ten minutes after we arrive, we are whisked off in jeeps thirty kilometres up the valley, into a restricted zone, for a Battalion lunch. An Officers’ mess has been constructed in two days for the Field Marshal’s arrival, and looks just like a very large tin hut! Inside, the regimental silver is displayed in incongruous splendour. Outside, the Regimental band, dressed in scarlet, plays garden type party tunes, including some Scottish airs, the music rising and dissolving into the pure air.
We dine outside, under a camouflage canopy. We stand on brightly coloured and rather old fashioned floral carpet. There are upholstered sofas and armchairs strewn about should we care to sit. Nearby, tanks are concealed under nets of fawn and green. Lunch is delicious spit-roasted lamb. Sikh officers sport wonderful coloured turbans; other officers wear splendid fan-tailed caps. Their wives, dressed in beautiful saris are fluttering flowers in this barren landscape. They are wearing little fur capes and jackets – the sort that used to be worn to dinner parties and weddings pre-1960 – and crocheted white gloves. Sam, the Field Marshal, teases them to put them at their ease and their laughter drifts into the nothingness beyond eighteen thousand feet of mountain tops that rise above us. From May until October these delicate creatures, with their babies and young children, live under canvas with their husbands.
Some are very young. One beauty I meet tells me she is studying for the Indian equivalent of the GCSE’s. Another is taking a type of Open University course. A Major’s wife is a botanist and compiling a book of the area, and her husband’s expertise in photography will illustrate it. We eat and talk. The wind whips cheeks, saris and skirts to a frenzy.
After lunch, we cross the great Indus river by jeep and rise a few thousand feet up the mountain to Hemis Gompa, the largest Buddhist temple in Ladakh. Nearby, is one of the highest roads in the world which crosses a pass at eighteen thousand feet. Over the mountains, not too far away, lies Tibet.
We are welcomed by senior monks on ancient steps cut from the rock face. A white prayer shawl is placed, ceremoniously around my shoulders. In return, I lay a similar shawl on the shoulders of an elderly monk. He is dressed in crushed mulberry coloured robes. His winged orange coloured hat has ear flaps, making him look rather like an ancient Biggles character. In the monastery courtyard young, unsmiling monks, with shaven heads, lounge against doorways. They look like healthy convicts, or prosperous thugs. On reflection, perhaps they were just cold.
The temples are gaudy and filthy, a fairground of bizarre colours and ornamentation. This tawdriness is relieved by the solidity and beauty of the prayer wheels, their burnished brass a statement of faith. A gargantuan golden Buddha dominates the area, and the serenity of this almond-eyed figure places everything else in shadow. Outside, an awning shields us from the glitter of sun on show. Ancient prayer flags snap in the cutting wind. Stone steps lead up to high, protective battlements, and we could be in a medieval keep. Seated on an ancient sofa in the courtyard, we are served tea and sweet, garish coloured cakes which match the prayers flags.
On our way back to the air strip we visit the town of Leh. Market stalls scatter across rocky, stone streets. The stall keepers seem surly, their weather-beaten grimy faces screwed up against the cold. The houses are hewn out of rock and have grass covered roofs. Here and there a stray goat nibbles the precious crop. We buy some metal bracelets and scurry back to the jeep.
The head Lama, from Hemis Gompa temple, is on my flight back to Delhi. He is tall, handsome and charming. He speaks perfect English. Accompanying him is his newly chosen successor, a bonny, but serious two year old, who sits on his mother’s knee. From now on, he will accompany the Lama wherever he goes. The Lama tells me about his beliefs, the philosophy of his religion, and the importance of family and friends. And about India. His serenity stills the impressions and images whirling around in my mind. The Himalayas fade into could and, all too soon, we are back in Delhi.
When I arrived at my husband’s Company guest house, en route for the airport, there is a sad message telling me that my old Mum, Matilda, has died. Later, when I worked out the time difference between Scotland and India, I realise that the time of her death coincided with the Regimental band’s rendering of Scottish airs. It was a comforting feeling, and in a strange sort of way, I felt that we had shared all that space, light and ethereal beauty.
