Trekking in Spiti

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We arrived in the Spiti Valley area in the hopes of doing some trekking. On the bus on the way here we were lucky to meet Ralf, an amiable and eccentric German trekking guide who spends 6 months of the year in the Himalayas. He told us every detail we needed to do a five day trek from Dhangkar to Kaza, which required no guide or tent as we would walk to a different village each day.
Day1: Kaza - Dhangkar
The 9am bus, which sometimes leaves by 10am dropped us at the start of a path to our first day's destination of Dhangkar. The path is steep but cuts several kilometers off the winding road route. The uphill hike is short and only takes between 30 minutes and 2 hours. Being new to the altitude and not very fit it took us 2 hours. The gompa at Dhangkar is 1100 years old and is situated stunningly on a mountain rocky outcrop. The village is small, and has an advertised homestay, but we decided to stay at the "new" monastery. Green terraced fields of wheat, barley and peas fill the space below the village, which is situated between the old gompa and fort and the new monastery.
Jagged snow-peaked mountains surrounded us, the colours changing each moment as clouds drifted. The vividness of colours in this thin air and high altitude bedazzled us as we made our way up to the old gompa and museum. Dhangkar means "palace on a cliff", and the ancient gompa is in a state of decay, and a preservation effort is underway, funded by donation. Dhangkar was the ancient capital of Spiti, and was the first monastery built here. Inside, a narrow stair brought us to several prayer rooms, which were unlocked by the friendly resident monk. Inside are beautiful frescoes and thankas. Downstairs is an excellent little museum with detailed cultural and historical information on the Spiti region. There was a "World Challenge" group there when we arrived, a volunteer/tourism program that brings high school kids from Europe and North America to the Himalayas to do some trekking and a spot of volunteer work. We were to run into world challenge groups almost daily throughout this trek. There arrival on the trail is announced by a long trail of ponies laden down with heavy backpacks and equipment, there are usually 2 ponies per trekker. It seemed that the ponies were the ones being challenged but I fear receiving none of the acclaim. After they left the cheerful monk gave us tea and answered questions.
The "new" monastery is partly a building site but there are a couple of brightly painted green and yellow buildings that include guest rooms for travellers. They are working on a large concrete temple in preparation for the Dalai Lama's visit next summer. It is odd to see it unpainted and grey, with decorative carvings in the concrete. There were many labourers from Bihar (India's poorest state) and Nepal, as there were along the roads, working on the construction. They sleep in tents or in the buildings they are constructing and seemed to stare more avidly than the Spitians. One local man told us that Spitians are too busy with their homesteads to take on these jobs, preparing for the long, harsh winter. The migrant labour is also a lot cheaper he added. One Bihari migrant we spoke to said that his home area was totally flooded, as often happens at this time of year, so he had to travel to find work. But he told us he was not working with the building crew, that he is a singer who translates folk songs. He then burst into song, singing for us a couple of beautiful sounding melodies. We were never sure what his story was.
We stayed in the monastery dormitory, a huge room with windows floor to ceiling looking out to the mountains, for R100 each ($2.50). Dinner in Spiti is late, we were starving by 9:30 when we were finally called. We were joined by 2 other tourists and were served up heaping plates of rice, dahl and veg curry. It was delicious and 2nd and 3rd helpings were offered aggressively. The meal set us back a little over $1.
Earlier we'd walked up to Dhangkar Lake, a steep one hour climb, where we found the world challenge campground. The lake is really a small pond right now due to inadequate snowfall this winter, but has a dramatic setting nonetheless. We spent an hour or two drinking tea and chatting with the northern Irish world challenge group leaders, a funny bunch of guys. We had all stayed in the same hotel in Delhi, Hotel Namaskar, and shared opinions about what a craphole it was.
Day2: Dhangkar (3890m) - Lahlung (3758m)
A 4-5 hour easy walk along the jeep road took us to Lahlung (Land of the Gods). There was apparently a short cut which we couldn't find but as it happened, not a single vehicle passed along the road all day. The hardest part was the searing heat of the sun, the rays like radioactive lasers at this altitude. The plant life on this desert landscape is small and scrubby and not at all helpful as a sunshield. The wild pink roses have a strong, lovely scent and are prolific here as are many other wildflowers of varied colours. Close to Dhangkar we passed by several crews of migrant roadworkers, some of whom stared at us unnervingly.
The immense mountains, so severe and silent, make you feel totally insignificant. This can be a relief coming from such an individualistic, self-centred culture. Ideas about who you are, where you are from, and how important your little life is disintegrate into nothing against such a coldly belittling backdrop. It would be a frightening place to get lost, even the heaviness of the silence can seem menacing to ears used to continuous noise and jabber. Soon you realise how polluted your brain is.
The 8km walk seemed longer, and we were relieved to round a bend and see the green fields of Lahlung. The sharp contrast of these lush fields amid the dry mountains cannot be overstated. The village was attractive and the people welcomed us warmly with cries of "julay!" as we walked through looking for the homestay we'd arranged in Kaza.
Tashi's house wasn't hard to find, and he and his wife Dolma proved to be excellent hosts. They have a nice, clean, two-storey traditional house in the middle of the village. Traditionally houses are built out of mud bricks, then whitewashed, with borders of red, black, blue and yellow. As in much of the developing world, concrete is becoming an increasingly popular choice of building material, due to convenience and resistance to floods, which have made a surprise appearance in Spite recently, a symptom of climate change. Concrete buildings are built in the same style, but the mud houses still prevail.
Tashi was a good source of information and we spent hours talking about Spiti culture and lifestyle. He encouraged us to visit the gompa where a special gathering of the village's women and children was occurring. We felt awkward as we approached, beiong a source of discussion in our odd clothes and bewildered expressions. But we were welcomed with cups of tea and given a stack of thick Tibetan bread to munch on. We were watched curiously but not stared at as we sat and admired the activities. Eveyone was having a good time, chatting, drinking tea and knitting. The scene was soothing and the kids were adorable. They were both intrigued and terrified by us. A few of the more heroic ones mustered up the courage to approach us, egged on by their snickering peers, safe beind their mothers. They managed to hold their resolve for a few seconds before darting for cover, laughing. Soon the Lama appeared and unlocked the gompa for us. This ancient gompa has a legendary genesis, going back 1000 years. The willow tree in the courtyard around which the women were gathered is also said to be 1000 years old.
Inside it was dark, but slowly hundreds of statues of Buddha in varying positions became visible. Old and dusty, the exquisite statues covered the walls, row upon row. Frescoes of Buddhist images were painted on the walls free of statues. Some images were frightful, hideous faces and distorted bodies contrasted with scenes of sublime beauty and calm, reflecting the dark and light sides of existence.
Back at the house, Tashi cooked up a delicious meal of momos (Tibetan dumplings) and soup, the best I've ever had. His cute little twins ran around. We noticed no toys and remarked upon the respectful independence allowed the twins, even at the age of 2. They were neither coddled, entertained or punished, but treated with a respectful affection that was clearly reciprocated. We went up on the roof to watch the rush hours activities. Rush hour in Spiti begins about an hour before dusk. The first indication of its arrival is the distant sound of bleating and the rumble of hoof on earth. Looking to the brink of the hill you see a dust cloud forming, and as the bleating and rumbling grow louder the first signs of rush hour traffic come into view. Soon there are hundreds of sheep, goats, donkeys, cows and dzos descending upon the village at full speed and you wonder if we will survive the impact. As they reach the village periphery they spread out and engulf the entire settlement. Most families own half a dozen or so animals which are housed either on the ground floor of the house or in a small enclosure adjacent to the house. Many of the animals dutifully return to their homes, and if the door is closed, patiently await being granted entry. By now the village, which has been sleepy and tranquil all afternoon, is a hive of activity. Animals are running amock, being herded this way and that, being chased out of vegetable gardens. Everyone chips in, it doesn't matter whose goat it is or whose barley is being eaten, the collective objective is to get the animals housed. Within about 45 minutes the last stragglers and the herdsmen, who have been rambling all over the mountains with these rambunctious animals all day, have returned to their homes and the tranquility returns to the village.
We passed the rest of the evening talking and relaxing with Tashi and family, playing with the kids and watching overly dramatic Hindi soap operas on the satelitte TV.
Day3: Lahlung (3758m) - Demul (4357m) 12km
A tough, steep uphill hike awaited us that morning. Tashi sent us off full of porridge and chapati and with a packed lunch in our satchels. We were accompanied by a friendly party of children who showed us the right path through the fields below the village. We had to walk down to the Padang river and cross over to the other side of the valley. Then a further one hours hiking around the side of a big mountain brought us to the start of our steep ascent, following a narrow canyon upstream. This was the toughest part of the trek, but the gorge was beautiful and this made the slow upward slog bearable. It did go on and on, many richly coloured butterflies fluttered by and we saw a great variety of birds. A long stream of ponies weighted down with cumbersome loads heralded the arrival of another "world challenge"group. This one hailed from Scotland and were pleased to encounter a fellow countryman in such a seemingly remote patch of the Earth.
Soon after our rendezvous, Demul came into view, its green terraced fields spilling below it. We could barely stagger through the steep lanes of the village, past houses and a scattering of people who seemed more alarmed and suspicious of our arrival than those in Lahlung. We had been given the name of a homestay by our hotelier in Kaza, and assumed that any individual would be easy to find in such a tiny community. But this wasn't the case, our queries were met with blank stares and confused mutterings. A kind old lady pushed us into her home and presented us with large cups of milky tea and ignored our protests when we saw her opening a packet of biscuits. Three young men filed in, watching us curiously. One spoke a little english and asked us repeatedly where we had come from and where we were going. He told us that our next days hike to Komik was several days away, information contrary to everything else we'd been told. He also said that staying in Demul was "not possible", filling us with uncertainty as we weren't feeling overly energetic.
Fearing we were causing confusion to no purpose, we thanked the lady and took our leave. We noticed a small girl following us and, to our cheer, beckoned us to a house with the words "welcome homestay" painted crudely above the door. A gentle lady answered the door and led us to a lovely, large traditional room, complete with floor dining area. Her name was Padme, and bore no connection to the elusive lead we'd been given. We couldn't understand how her neighbours only a few doors away were unable to point us in her direction.
Padme was a quiet and graceful hostess who left us to our own devices up on the roof. She brought us tea and boiled water to drink, then we lay down to rest for a while, listening to the village sounds; tinkering, children, slow talking, spitting. Nice to be in a place with no phones ringing and no music blaring. Padme showed us to a washroom and gave us a bucket of water. There was no running water in any of the villages we visited, but springs and pumps at various locations throughout the village. Water is carried into the homes in as large a container as can be carried.
Later we walked around the village, trying to befriend the poor, scraggly cats of the village, who obviously led an umpampered life of scavenging. We soon grew tired of being followed by an ever-growing group of children crying out "one photo!" "one chocolate!" Who teaches them to say these things? What seemed cute at first became tiresome and then a little unsettling when we reached Padme's and closed the door, and a dozen screaming children burst in behind us. Padme's grandfather was there and shooed them out, leaning against the door as they beat upon it, crying out more appeals for chocolate. They somehow burst through again and the old man picked up a stick and chased them up the lane, shouting. That put an end to it. The old man then went into his room and proceeded to meditate for a full 3 hours, sitting cross-legged on the floor, rocking back and forth, chanting and chiming a bell softly with each forward motion. He wasn't even disturbed by the tremor and roar of the animals returning home.
Later Padme brought us huge plates of rice, dahl and chutney, reappearing shortly afterwards to top up our plates. Dinner is late in Spiti, and we could do little but go straight to bed afterwards, something we'd been waiting for the opportunity to do for some hours. A breakfast of fried flat bread and curd seemed to immediately follow dinner.
Day 4 - Dhemul(4357m) - Komik(4513)
The 4th day started with a little excitement. The path heading from Dhemul to the pass was not easy to find. When we'd asked Padme about the route, she'd just waved her hand casually up the hill, saying "little up, little down". But when we reached the top of the village, a series of green hills and terraced fields revealed no distinct path to our untrained eyes. There seemed to be three possible routes, all leading in different directions. After some debate and some completely indiscernable gesturing from passers by, Scott descended back to Padme's, where a scene developed over the situation. It was hard to communicate that we just needed to be shown to the path, Padme again waved here hand vaguely, "little up, little down". Eventually he was able to communicate that we wanted a guide to the pass by saying, "little up one guide, little down no guide". But no one wanted to provide this service. All of the village's men refused, next the women. Finally a young meek girl elected herself and we set off again.
The path began in a gulley to the left of the village. That was all we needed to know, but we'd agreed on terms and a price, so didn't want to create more confusion by sending the girl back. She walked slowly, gazing around languidly and constantly readjusting her scarf. Occaisionally she shyly glanced back at us huffing and puffing with our backpacks.
The "little up" turned out to be a little more than that. We ascended up through the green fields to one of the highest passes in Spiti, a little short of 4800m. Once at the pass we sent our guide home. She refused even to take a drink of water. The view was spectacular, terrifying mountain ranges on all sides. Trying to describe it with words only belittles the experience of the panorama.
Glad to have reached the "little down" we set off for Komik passed shepherds shelters and herds of grazing cows and dzos. The plant life was beautiful and varied, colourful wildflowers, comfrey and other medicinal plants. After a brief interlude with the American World Challenge group we reached the jeep road that would lead us to Komik. As usual we met no traffic and the views stunned us into submission.
The monastery in Komik is ancient and one of the highest in the world. A cluster of striking red buildings sit on top of a hill overlooking the tiny village. There is a gompa, monks' living quarters, school, kitchen and guesthouse. About 35 monks, many of them young boys, live there and the atmosphere is spirited and rambunctious. They played an intense game of volleyball for many hours running, Scott joined them for a short while.
We met some young American college students who were just leaving after spending 5 weeks at the monastery doing volunteer English teaching. The monks apparently spent 12 hours a day in some kind of schooling, but it didn't look too intense, children coming and going, eating, playing volleyball etc during class time. We'd been planning on doing some volunteer teaching ourselves at some point during our trip and asked the Americans some casual questions about their experiences there. They kindly offered to introduce us to the Swiss lady who organised their positions there. She apparently runs an NGO in Spiti but turned out to be a beastly witch. First she "apologised" for wearing sunglasses, then removed them to proudly display the black and ghastly skin around her eyes, which matched perfectly her darkly discoloured teeth. It seemed she'd declined to take advantage of the free dentistry offered by the Swiss government. She immediately began a tirade in which she made it clear that we were imbecile fools who would have nothing to offer Spiti. She highlighted her case by pointing out subtle facts such as we would not be able to teach if we were travelling. She was one of those arrogant, self agrandizing Europeans who accredit themselves with "discovering" a certain area or culture, and so resent the presence of any other foreign visitors as being a source of pollution. We have met her kind from Mexico to remote parts of SW China and they are always a bore. We could do little else but allow her self-congratulatory posturing to wear itself out, then parted company without being given the opportunity to ask a single question.
The guesthouse at Komik was the dirtiest and crudest of the trek, but cheap. It was cold up there and a bitter wind drove me to my sleeping bag in the mid afternoon. A quiet and kindly middle aged Englishman had the room next to ours. The "toilet" was the foulest we'd seen in India and the memory of it caused nausea for the proceeding several days. We were called to dinner at 8:30 and served heaping plated of rice and beans that were forcefully and repeatedly refilled. I went to bed feeling sickeningly stuffed again, waking up just in time for the breakfast call. I had to refuse the tsampa as I was still full. This seemed to cause some concern amongst the monks but I really had to draw the line. Tsampa is a hearty, heavy meal of barley flour mixed with butter tea, rolled into little doughy balls and eaten by hand. It is eaten all over the Tibetan cultural region and is not unpleasant, but on a full stomach it could cause a physical breakdown.
One monk spoke good English and chatted to us about how difficult the winter is. There are no phones in rural Spiti, and snow puts severe limitations on travel for over 6 months. If there is a medical emergency they have to attempt to travel to Kaza by Yak, or else climb up the nearest mountain to make a smoke signal. Not an easy feat I'm sure. He was an interesting man whose facial expressions changed dramatically from extemely pained to uproariously delighted from one sentence to the next. He enjoyed feeding a baby mouse bits of egg on the kitchen floor as he spoke to us.
We took our leave, heading for Langza, where we had arranged a homestay with Lara, our hotelier in Kaza.
Day 5 - Komik - Langza- Kaza
The walk to Langza was about 12km along a jeep road. The walk was easy but hot, and I was suffering from a little altitude sickness. The road seemed to get longer after Langza came into view, circling above and around it but never reaching it. Langza is in a particularly dramatic setting below the Chocho Khang Hilda (6303m) (Sun-facing Princess Mountain) and faced by a beautiful snow covered range. Its green fields are especially charming and the village appears to have a perfect design. Despite having only 130 inhabitants, we thought that Lara's homestay would be well signposted, as he is quite the wheeler-dealer businessman in Kaza. He knew we were coming so we anticipated a cosy house like Tashi's, with cups of chai awaiting our arrival. We met with a different reality as we wandered through the village; no signs on any houses and not a soul to be seen or heard. We soon found a man who pointed us to Lara's house and encouraged us to walk in through the unlocked door, shaking his head at our feeble knock. Timidly we walked through the animal understorey of the house to a narrow mud stairway leading up to the living rooms. These were padlocked and the roof was also empty. We went back outside and waited. Occaisionally people came and watched, no one knew where Lara was.
After a few hours wait the group of child spectators had grown a little. We realized that we set off for Kaza if we were to secure shelter for the night and get there before dark. We'd been expecting the chance to rehydrate at Lara's, so filled our bottles with spring water and dropped in iodine pills, cheering ourselves up with the prospect of drinking them in 4 hours. We trudged off for the unexpected additional 12km descent to Kaza. The hike was mostly along the road but there were many shortcuts which cut out the long switchbacks.
After a vertigo attack on a particularly narrow "shortcut" path, with a view of Kaza far below us, I became queasy and announced in no uncertain terms that I would walk no further. A minute later we heard the sound of an engine and we scrambled frantically to the roadside. A jeep came cruising down the mountain, and responded to our protruding thumbs. Scott got in the pickup bed with the bags and I got in the back seat alongside a cheerful, humourous group of Hindu government engineers stationed in Kaza. They asked about the landscapes in the US and before long we were all complaining about the wretched Bush administration, praying aloud that Obama would win the election. Thus we ended our trek being dropped off back in Kaza, with only our weather beaten faces, peeling noses and chapped lips to indicate the ground we had covered, the heights we had nimbly scaled and the trials we had endured.

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Comments

[Jess]

I miss you!
Hello my dear friends! I am so glad you have made this blog. It is awesome to be able to travel along with you on your journeys. I miss you lots and can't wait to see you again. ((((hugs)))) Love, jess