But when the vehicle hiccuped to a halt in Leh's lively main square after staggering through numerous barren peaks and rolling sand dunes, the discomfort was almost worth it.

In addition to occupying the western corner of the Tibetan Plateau, Ladakh - also an erstwhile independent kingdom - shares a common language and culture with its large neighbour.

Ladakhis are believed to be descendants of a blend of the Mons of northern India, the Dards of Gilgit, and Mongolian nomads from Tibet. Although there are substantial pockets of Sunni and Shi'a Muslims in peripheral areas of Ladakh, Tibetan Mahayana Buddhism is the predominant religion and the Dalai Lama is the spiritual leader.

The topographical transformation from Srinagar to Leh is as dramatic as the change from one's Islam to the other's Buddhism.

The softness of the desert plateau, in all its ruggedness, soothes after the imposing granite peaks in and around Zoji La, the first pass we crossed on our way from Srinagar.

Leh itself is very urban, but it does not bustle as an Indian town, perhaps because of the coolness of the air; it suggests a certain conservation of misdirected energy.

If you move slowly and carefully, you get more mileage. But there is activity - a methodical activity in which each individual has a particular role and fulfills it - among the vegetable sellers, between parent and child waiting for the local bus, in the cluster of red-robed monks visiting town, around the Indian Army soldiers who stand guard in front of the ramshackle Bank of India Building.

The handfuls of tourists jar the ebb and flow. Some are dressed in their collared shirts and neatly-pressed shorts and insist on pointing a telephoto lens immediately in front of a lama's expressionless face, others in scruffy denim and scanty t-shirts that quietly affront Ladakhi sensibilities.

Others stand out differently. They come during summer days, the entrepreneurs and other hopeful traders from Kashmir who flock to Leh to prey upon tourists - both Indian and Western.

The Kashmiris loll about in front of their stores with windows boasting ''Kashmiri, Tibetan and Ladakh'' trinkets, colourful machine-produced shawls and elaborate, chunky silver jewellery.

As your eye lingers over the crammed display, caught by a vivid turquoise or deep purple, the shopkeeper with a sly smile nearly bellows, ''Yes, come and look, my friend! Come, come. You like shawl? Yes? Have a good look, madam, please! You are my friend, you are welcome!'' All day he accosts foreigners wandering up and down Leh's main street. At dusk, he sits with a dusty wool poncho over his shoulders, a blank stare on his weary face. He will go home and begin again tomorrow.

Trade does not come as a new enterprise to the relatively isolated geography of Ladakh. Once an important feeder route off the Silk Road ran between Yarkand and Leh, bringing caravans led by Mongols, Chinese, Kashmiris, and Uighurs laden with fine goods for exchange.

SEVERAL hundred years later, Leh was discovered by Europeans during the height of the ''Great Game'' race between British and Russians in Central Asia.

During the early 1800s, East India Company officials and Russian intelligence officers alike explored Leh as a possible starting point for reaching Bokhara (in modern-day Uzbekistan) while opening up the markets of Chinese Turkestan (now Xinjiang) to British or Russian goods.

Later in the 19th century, Leh became one of many towns - that included Srinigar, Gilgit, Chitral, and Kashgar - where political agents working for the Government of India were alerted to look out for and to acquire suitable items which were to be forwarded to Augustus Rudolf Hoernle, an Anglo-German orientalist.

Hoernle has been accredited with prompting what one Central Asian historian has called the ''modern movement of the archaeological exploration of Eastern Turkestan.'' Among the cosmopolitan residences set up in Leh was a Moravian church, in which the missionaries were the first to translate the Bible into Ladakhi.

Their fame extends beyond religious matters; one of them named Weber was known to have helped attain precious antique manuscripts for Hoernle and another was a doctor who amputated the toes of explorer Sir Aurel Stein's foot following his rigorous travelthrough the Kun Lun mountains from Chinese Turkestan.

The church still stands at a main thoroughfare in Leh, tucked away behind stone walls and a wrought-iron gate with a lamb and halo, and services have continued to take place each Sunday morning.

Following a period of renewed isolation reinforced by China's occupation of Tibet in 1959, which nearly cut off contact between Ladakh and Tibet, Leh re-emerged in the international limelight only a few years later when a border conflict between India and China broke out.

The road between Srinagar and Leh was built in 1962, as a direct result of China's invasion of Aksai Chin, once part of Ladakh.

Since the incident, the Indian Government has stationed Indian Army infantrymen and Indo-Tibetan Border Police all along the country's northern and eastern borders.

Uniformed soldiers wander the streets of Leh while off-duty officers throng the local restaurants, huddled over mugs of hot tea, initiating conversations with curious tourists.

The military's domain in Ladakh is expansive. Army camps circle the outer edge of Leh, encompassing an airfield which sits at the bottom of a hill that houses Spitok Monastery and overlooks the Indus River.

Camera-happy tourists are repeatedly warned not to shoot photographs that include the airfield or any other military installation. Military convoys regularly congest the road from Srinagar to Ladakh.

But when we climbed up to Spitok and watched schoolchildren run in and out of the small prayer rooms, pausing now and then to stare back at us, any concern at the heavy military presence quickly faded.

Their round faces, cheeks ruddy from the high winds, radiated curiosity and cheer. Mothers moved at a slower gait, their perak hats tilted at an angle and their dusty woollen robes sweeping the wood floors of the monastery.

Monks appeared with heavy rings of keys to open chapel doors, later to collect entrance fees.

A lama wearing thick glasses sat in the corner, fingering his rosary beads and murmuring ''Om mani padme hum'' over and over, a rhythmic phrase full of deep meaning for him and mysteries for me.

Spitok was the first of many nearby monasteries we visited from Leh. Thikse, on the road to the monolithic Hemis Gompa - whose monks are renowned among travellers for their surprising business acumen, and where a large summer festival is held to generatetourist revenue to maintain the monastery, was a quiet surprise.

Its temples have been beautifully restored, the wood beams a dark brown, new frescoes revitalised with brushes of fresh paint, and strings of colourful but plaintive-looking prayer flags.

In the opposite direction, back towards Srinagar, we stopped at Alchi Gompa, whose thousand-year old frescoes with Byzantine-looking figures rival those in the Mogao Caves in Dunhuang, China.

Farther on was Lamayuru. The monastery sits away from the main road, facing a valley of trees and Tibetan-style homes.

The town is sparsely populated until July, during the Dalai Lama's birthday, when crowds of Ladakhis gather around the monastery to watch monks dancing.

Hand-made cardboard signs indicating ''Guesthouse'' hang in windows previously private, now brightly-lit by a single bare bulb, and tents are put up, protecting vast pots of sticky rice and lentil dal.

With little time to spare, we rushed back to Leh, spending the last few days scouting around the tortuous back alleys leading up to the brick-red Leh Gompa and Leh Palace, the latter a miniature version of the Potala Palace in Lhasa.

On the other side of town, we finally climbed up to the perfectly white Shanti Stupa, which glitters throughout the day like a lotus at dawn.

The stupa was built with financial assistance from Japanese Buddhist devotees, under the supervision of a Japanese monk who has constructed similar structures across the world.

The night before our morning departure, we enjoyed the last of our noodle soups and vegetable momos (Tibetan dumplings).

We would not return on that same, arduous route, but over it, the Airbus climbing steeply from the too-short runway.