Asiatic Travels #12: Through the valley of Zanskar to Kargyak village

This story continues where the other left off, in the Valley of Zanskar after passing Shingo-la. It then continues here, where I recap the journey to this point and reach the village of Kargyak. There are a lot of photos to go along with this story in the previous posts, so be sure to check them out. What follows is the transcribed version of my journal entry from July 27th, 2014. I'm getting a kick out of reliving these life-changing moments and sharing them with you all. 

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July 27, 2014

Sergey stays behind to rest and dry his shoes. I think his diet of honey and cigarettes is taking a toll on his health. "I'll see you in Padum," he says. I’ll miss his psychological and philosophical insights. I have a very strong feeling that I’ll meet him again.

    We leave our smoky base camp at the head of Zanskar valley at about six in the morning, determined to reach the next village in time for breakfast. Philip’s talked with some travelers and they tell us that Kargyak is about three hours away.

    My shoes are still soaked from the river crossing the other day, and I’m also weak from the altitude sickness, nevertheless I join Philip and move on. The cliffs are tall in this part of the valley, blocking the sun. We must cross another river before Kargyak and within a couple of hours the sun will melt the snow uphill, raising the water level of the river. We want to cross that river before the snow melts.

    It is a fresh morning and clouds modestly cover the sky. We walk for maybe an hour before reaching the first bend in the valley, in our view is a landscape of crumbling red rock with huge mineral fissures shining beneath the rubble. The landscape is painted with sweeping hues of green, red and violet. Endemic shrubs and flowering ground cover enliven this desert-like valley. The roar of the ever-present river blends with the constant song of the wind that sweeps over the flats and slopes around us. 

    The air is crisp but oxygen content is low at 4000 meters. Philip is also tired, but he’s always at least one hundred meters ahead of me. The hours seem abnormally long, multiplied by the incredible distance that we cover. I’m steadily gaining a sense for the expansiveness of the world around me. This is a land of titans and shepherds.

    We break for lunch at what looks like an empty campground, which is nothing more than a wide area of flat land, marked by a great boulder and a humble shepherd’s hut. The dwelling is out of use, like most of the human structures we’ve encountered.

    I can stomach food again but it’s still difficult to eat. Philip shares a ration of yak cheese and I return with peanut butter. Then we move on, crossing the river before noon but the water has already begun to rise. It’s nothing like the three rivers that I’ve crossed earlier in the trek; it’s mostly wide and shallow. Beyond the river the valley continues for kilometers as flatland, peppered with boulders like a graveyard. The sun is bright, but storm clouds are beginning to spill over the red teeth of the range that surrounds us. 

    We come into view of Gumburanjum — a towering fissure of stone and rubble that seems to stand alone between two diverging valleys. A shadow is over our side of the fissure, but overhead rests a perfectly placed rainbow. In local Buddhist lore, this rock formation is said to be a huge natural stupa (place of religious significance), where the spirit of next Buddha incarnate resides within. We are blessed to see this rainbow at the beginning of our trek. I stand at the foot of the fissure and see so many prayer flags, I hear the sound of them fluttering and imagine it to be the prayers of all of the people who left them there.

    We move on, over the red mountains there are black clouds billowing into the valley like the smoke of a dragon’s breath. Thunder rolls from both sides of the valley. Occasionally I look behind us and see Gumburanjum, as if it’s watching over us. 

    Rain begins to fall lightly, blowing in from as high as the snowdrifts to the left of the valley. We wait at the stone wall of another abandoned shepherd’s dwelling for the sky to open, then make a weighted decision to move on, following the footsteps of an elderly local that passes us briskly on his way to Lakong.  

    The air pressure falls sharply and two storm fronts collide above, the grey sky gives way to a steady rain shower. Philip pushes ahead and I take many short breaks. When I look behind, Gumburanjum always seems to be near, despite becoming smaller in the distance. Down the valley and over the rivers and bends, beyond the field of boulders and extremophile vegetation, Gumburanjum is no longer decorated with a blue sky or a rainbow. Now it resembles a dark tower, an omen and a trial. If the mountain spirit is challenging us, I accept the challenge.

    I catch up with Philip just over a wide hill that swells up over the river to our left, separating us from the violet-green slopes on the other side. A road stretches along the entire length of the slope, carving through kilometers of cultivated land and stone dwellings, all uninhabited. 

    We take a rest over some boulders on the top of the hill. The clouds have receded into the distance toward our previous campsite. 

    “It cannot be far,” Philip says. “We have already walked for hours”. I agree, but every person we’ve met along the path has told us “three hours to Kargyak”, no matter how far we go. The distance hasn’t changed in five hours. It crosses my mind that maybe time is different for the people of the valley, perhaps its slower and wider, like the frontier that surrounds us. I’ve begun to measure time by the passing of massive structures, seconds as the thud of footsteps, and in general by the fluctuating subjects of my inner dialogue. 

    In the distance, down in the valley that we have risen from is Gumburanjum, a bright beacon in a valley heavy with shadows. 

    Philip goes on, I rest for maybe five minutes and follow. Not one hundred meters later, we pass the cusp of a hill. Philip waves, signaling that the village is finally within eyeshot. I smile with relief and with a kind of somber acceptance that the challenge is complete. Behind me Gumburanjum glows above the shadows, and even those are receding. The rain is gone. My hands tingle and I think of the dragon at Shingo-la.

    The view of Kargyak village from the hilltop is like stepping into another time from centuries ago. We are now at the edge of the Tibetan Plateau. The village is a small cluster of mud dwellings that overlook an expansive slope of cultivated land. Wheat and barley blow gently in the sun-scented wind. The buildings are painted white, like the ancient stupas that mark the outskirts of the village. The roofs are fitted with large wooden beams, dry meadow grass and deep layers of cow dung. Village women work meditatively in the fields with conical baskets strewn by thatch and rope over their shoulders. Some of the village men are in conversation with a group of trekkers that are passing through, en route to Shingo-la. A wide creek flows over a shallow pass of rock that spills from the valleys above, weakening the powerful river there and regaining strength just under the bridge facing he village, pouring into the mighty river in the valley to the left. 

    I find Philip and he’s already secured us a homestay. I’m incredibly tired and hungry, all I want is dal and vegetables with rice. It’s two in the evening and practically all of my energy is spent. Strangely, we’ve only covered about twenty kilometers in just over five hours. 

    We sprawl out in front of a murky guesthouse and rest for a long time. I meditate to the soft rustling of the wheat just outside and the twinkling of the spring nearby, the hypnotic buzz of a single horsefly that circles above. The host family serves us a thermos of tea, another for coffee, and a freshly made thali (set of Indian curries with rice and pickled vegetables). Our spirits lift and our energy rises. We shower in turn under a cold spring on the outskirt of the village. The host family boiled us some water to reduce the cold sting. A donkey stares blankly at me as I wash and sing a North Carolina folk song, while the evening sun sweeps over the valley, creating a warm palette of living colors against the earthen canvas. 

To the left stands an enormous mountain with a pinnacle too distant to see. There are many faces in the mountain. The father of the host family tells me the mountain has no name, but I sense an incredible power within it. Faces like that of Vishnu stare back at me -- prismatic faces that endlessly transform as soon as you become familiar with them. Faces with stony and wise features. The mountain watches me, it watches the village as if meditating on profound truths, as if seeing me, these people, this land as it truly is.  

    We rest in the family guest room, hardly moving until dinner and sleep like the dead.

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Thank you all for following the story. My goal is to give you as much of my experiences as possible in a format that you can glean wisdom and insight from. I hope that this inspires others to go after what they really want in life as well.

This story continues here, where I tell about how I nearly died on the steep slopes of the mountains in Zanskar (spoiler: I survived). 

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People often ask me how I manage to fund all of these adventures. I use three vehicles to keep this thing rolling. One is cryptocurrency donations or upvotes on Steemit (remember that only upvotes on recent articles affect the payout. Correct me if I'm wrong in saying that). 

( 1 ) Find @sariun and me talking about magic internet money here. 

( 2 ) During my travels, I witnessed so much injustice. Upon returning home, I found a way to fund my travels while at the same time protect other people. Find out more here and here.

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Here's to the new economy!

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