The ancient lamasery was deserted, and I wandered a little guiltily, uninvited, up worn wooden steps, along narrow passages, and through a maze of tiny, bare, interconnected rooms whose rafters were so low I had to stoop to avoid banging my head. Parts of the Lamayuru monastery are nearly 1,000 years old, and the Buddhist monks have few visitors; its isolation 4,000 metres above sea level among the Himalayas guarantees them solitude. Kargil, the nearest town to the west, lies 110 kilometres away; Leh, the nearest east, 120km. Connecting them is a bumpy ribbon of road that dips and climbs through some of the driest and most barren terrain in the world, empty but for a handful of tiny villages. It cowers at times uncertainly in the narrow valleys between two immense mountain ranges, their jagged peaks like the teeth of an upturned saw. The silence at Lamayuru was broken by peals of laughter outside and I wove a way back to the dusty path where a group of children were jumping in the thin air, competing to swipe red and yellow balloons, volleyball in slow motion. A simple pursuit repeated the world over, but these six- and seven-year-olds have embarked upon a spartan life that allows little time for fun. Many will never see their parents again. Monks are now their guardians, guiding them along the road to nirvana. The children, heads shaven and wearing simple robes, will study here until, at the age of 13, they must make an important choice: to continue the quest for enlightenment, remaining here the rest of their lives, or return home. For this is Ladakh, known as the Land of the Lamas, which, though part of India, is more closely affiliated in culture to its next door neighbour, Tibet. It has dozens of ancient and remote lamaseries, many frozen in time. Holy books, some of them 700 years old, are among the treasures behind the walls of Lamayuru, preserved in the dry air. Monasteries here were beyond the reach of the Red Guards. Indeed, thousands of Tibetan refugees still live in camps around Leh. I meet a young monk who tells me he came to Lamayuru 13 years ago, and says he will not leave this, Ladakh's most revered monastery, until he dies. Some 200 monks attached to Lamayuru are teaching in the scattered villages. A further 20 are in meditation at the monastery, and will remain indoors for three years. We were travelling from Srinagar to Leh. The road was built in the early 1960s after the Indo-Chinese conflict, more than 430 kilometres through mostly desolate terrain high in the Himalayas. It had taken five hours to reach Lamayuru from Kargil, where we had made an overnight stop. The whole journey takes two days. Kargil, though in Ladakh, is mainly Muslim, and lies within only a few kilometres of the ceasefire line that separates Indian and Pakistani troops. As we climbed away from that gloomy town, blackened fields where oil drums had been set ablaze during shelling earlier this year, reminded of the dangers. Other fields just outside town had been left fallow as farmers feared to sow them because they were within artillery range. As soon as we left Kargil we were winding away from the ceasefire line, and the journey would be through terrain free of conflict. Soon the heavy influence of Buddhism was evident. Ancient stupas dotted the landscape, misshapen by centuries of dust storms, like rows of ice cream cones beginning to melt in the sun. Buddhism reached China via India and remote Ladakh was heavily influenced. The Srinagar to Leh military road may be relatively new, but an arm of the old Silk Road once made its tortuous way between the two and then up to Yarkand. The lack of rain here allows only a few hamlets huddled beneath and between the towering, bare Ladakh and Zanskar mountain ranges. Their occupants eke out a precarious living irrigating the dusty earth with the waters of glacier-fed rivers. Just beyond Mulbekh, 40 kilometres into our journey from Kargil, the Chamba statue, a seven-metre high rock carving of the future Buddha, or Maitriya, has been wonderfully preserved in this dry climate. It is believed to be around 2,000 years old. My Ladakhi guide, Mehboob Ali, a Muslim, pointed it out. He was beginning to recover his strength. He had spent the night in hospital in Kargil suffering from mild food poisoning, after eating curried mutton yesterday lunchtime in the nearby Suru valley. I had eaten only vegetables and escaped unharmed. I teased him, saying he should have chosen Buddhism, for then he would not have been a meat-eater. But he would get the last laugh eventually. As we made our way towards the Fatu La pass, the highest on the Srinagar-Leh road at 4,092 metres, we spied scattered, tiny monasteries built atop soaring monoliths of rock or into the sides of cliffs, and crumbling ancient fortresses, reminders that brigands roamed these parts in past centuries. The road up Fatu La was a string of long loops, fairly easy going, and the Lamayuru monastery lies just beyond the summit. I was unprepared for the nightmare that followed our visit to Lamayuru, though. The descent on the other side of this pass entails slowly negotiating seemingly endless narrow, tight switchbacks that cling and zig-zag precariously to the mountain's almost sheer sides for 25 kilometres. Eventually we reached the valley floor and were approaching Khalsi, which in spite of appearing big and bold on my map, was just one run-down street. But we were pleased to be in this dusty place, a rest-stop of flat-roofed, mud-brick restaurants where we ate a simple vegetarian meal, offered with limitless glasses of steaming tea. Our nerves were jangling. Twice we had rounded blind corners and nearly crashed head-on into army trucks. On the second occasion, a truck full of soldiers braked and veered, coming to a halt on the very lip of the drop. Here and there, small memorial stones mark the spot where drivers have plunged to their deaths or workers were killed by rock falls during the road's construction. We didn't stop in Khalsi long. The journey was far from over and we didn't want to drive this challenging road in darkness if we could help it. We were four, and the bill came to around 120 rupees (HK$25). It was dusk when we arrived in Leh, the small town that boasts to being the capital of Ladakh. It is set on a plain of jumbled rocks, so bleak that even the locals give it the nickname Moonland. Tomorrow I would explore the area's famous old fortress-like lamaseries, seemingly impossible feats of manual labour, rising proudly above rocky outcrops overlooking the Indus River. But first my guide Mehboob would have that last laugh. I checked into a simple, but cosy hotel, and woke around midnight gasping for breath, stricken by altitude sickness. I was the only guest and the generator had been switched off. I staggered along the dark passage, banging on doors until I was blinded by the young cook's flashlight. It was my turn to spend a night in hospital, wearing an oxygen mask. In the morning I woke early to the sound of chanting. Across the ward a monk was repeating mantras, praying for a patient's return to health. He looked over and nodded, smiling. Sunrise in the Land of the Lamas. The Srinagar to Leh road is only open six months each year, as the first section in Kashmir is blocked by snow in the winter months. Snowfall is light in Ladakh, though. It is possible to fly from New Delhi to Leh via Srinagar with Indian Airlines, and direct from Leh to New Delhi. Vehicles and drivers can be hired at low cost to explore the monasteries in the Indus Valley. Altitude sickness can be a hazard if you fly in from New Delhi without first acclimatising. Tourism officials advise travellers who fly in to rest completely for 36 hours to adjust to the thin air. Leh is around 3,500 metres above sea level. Mike Currie stayed at the Caravan Centre Hotel which offers full board. There are no international hotels operating yet in Leh. Expect to pay the equivalent of HK$400 for a decent hotel with full board. There is also a thriving backpackers' area in the centre of Leh, where accommodation is very cheap. The town has a government tourism office which can help organise trekking and whitewater rafting in glacial rivers. Write to J&K Government Tourist Reception Centre, Leh, Ladakh, India, or fax (91) 1982 2497
