Chciałoby się napisać, że wpadł mi dziś w ręce ciekawy film dokumentalny, ale to nie do końca prawda, bo obejrzałem go na Google Video, a nie na DVD z wypożyczalni. Ale nie o języku miało być.
Rzecz nazywa się "Why we fight?" i opowiada o kulisach amerykańskiej polityki zagranicznej na przestrzeni ostatnich sześćdziesięciu lat. Reżyser koncentruje się głównie na prowadzonych przez "Nowy Rzym" wojnach, sposobach ich uzasadniania oraz rzeczywistych powodach jakie prawdopodobnie skłaniały Stany do najeżdżania i okupowania kolejnych krajów. W sumie nic wielce odkrywczego, ale kilka rzeczy wyjaśnia.
W wizji przedstawionej przez Jareckiego (nie jest to jedyny polskawy, a może nawet polski, akcent w tym obrazie) za tak agresywną politykę najpotężniejszego na Ziemi imperium odpowiada połączenie interesów przemysłu wojskowego, Pentagonu, członków Kongresu oraz think tanków. A także konkretne przekonania - początkowo o tym, że trzeba wszelkimi metodami zwalczać komuchów, bo inaczej lada chwilą będą w Nowym Jorku, a po upadku ZSSR równie wspaniała idea, że oto nastały czasy hegemonii USA, które jest teraz dużym chłopcem na podwórku i może (a nawet powinno) wpierdolić każdemu, kto nie gra jak mu się zatańczy, zadaje za dużo pytań albo podnosi jakiekolwiek głosy sprzeciwu.
Ale to oczywiście nie wszystko, bo czymś te kikuty trzeba przetrącać. Tu na scenę wchodzi przemysł zbrojeniowy, dający w 2004 roku zatrudnienie jakimś 3.5 miliona Amerykanów oraz Pentagon z jego wiecznie rosnącym budżetem (każde dziecko wie, że USA wydają na wojsko więcej niż wszystkie kraje NATO, Rosja i Chiny razem wzięte). Jest więc okazja zrobić niezły interes. Podatnicy zapłacą kupę kasy, właściciele firm napchają sobie kieszenie, a żołnierze dostaną nowe zabawki. Potrzeba tylko jakiegoś placu zabaw oraz uzasadnienia dlaczego tam, a nie gdzie indziej, ale to też nie problem, bo zadbają o to chłopaki z think tanków, którzy są w stanie wymyśleć rozmaite powody i ładnie je obywatelom sprzedać (i na dodatek nie poniosą za to żadnej odpowiedzialności, bo nie są jak politycy wybierani przez wyborców). Wygląda to na zwyczajne towarzystwo wzajemnej adoracji, którego cel jest jasny - bawić się coraz lepiej, póki giną ludzie.
Jeśli rzeczywiście jest tak, jak twierdzi Jarecki (a dla mnie jego obraz jest dosyć sugestywny; zresztą zgadzałoby się z informacjami ze strony Al Jazeery sugerującymi, że think tanki w bardzo dużej mierze kształtują politykę USA) to "sytuacja jest normalna, wszystko spierdolone". Przerwanie tego zaklętego kręgu wyglądałoby podobnie do wyrywania kawałka narośli na własnym ciele. Co prawda rakotwórczej i na dłuższą metę szkodliwej, ale dającej krótkotrwałe korzyści. No i niestety silnie z resztą ciała zrośniętego. Polałoby się dużo krwi i trzeba by czymś otrzeć łzy pozbawionym pracy przy bombach ludzi, udobruchać posiadaczy akcji, wyrzuconych na bruk zawodowych kłamców i morderców, zgnieść te czy inne grupy nacisku, itp. Wiem, wiem... Myślę naiwnie i nierealnie: co z tego, że USA spauzują, skoro ich wrogowie tego nie zrobią? Lepiej już żeby to USA dyktowało warunki niż żółtki z Chin albo nie daj Boże fanatycy z jakiegoś tam Iranu. Jeszcze będą chcieli żebyśmy nosili burki i nie łoili wódy, albo uczyli się mandaryńskiego i chwalili przewodniczącego Mao, a Amerykańcy tylko chcą "demokracji" i wydawania kasy w galeriach handlowych. W sumie niewiele, co? Prawda jednak taka, że to Stany w dużej mierze nakręcają całą tę spiralę agresji po to, żeby chronić swoje interesy, tak jak to robiły wszystkie istniejące przed nimi imperia i jak pewnie będą robić wszystkie, które po nich zaistnieją. Nie oni, to kto inny. Taka już ludzka natura i bez rewolucji duchowej się nie obejdzie, bo ewolucja, bo zasoby, bo silniejszy zjada słabszego i takie jest prawo natury, i tak dalej. No, ale odjechałem w zupełnie poboczne tematy, bo w "Why we fight?" Jareckiego chłopcem do bicia jest USA (i słusznie!), które akutalnie najbardziej na świecie mieszają, a nie natura ludzka i zło jako takie.
Film wydano w 2004, ale to nie przeszkadza. Temat jest dalej aktualny. Jaszczur, który dostał pokojową nagrodę Nobla za dobre chęci, polityki swego imperium jakoś na inne tory nie wprowadził. W najnowszej odsłonie wyścigu po fotel prezydenta Żmijogrodu startują tylko podobne mu kreatury, słychać nawoływania do nowej wojny, tym razem z Iranem (wzięli sobie to do serca twórcy gry Battlefield 3, gdzie walczy się na ulicach Teheranu i próbuje powstrzymać sponsorowanych przez ajatollahów terrorystów wyposażonych w, o jakież to zaskakujące!, bomby atomowe). Więc na zmiany nie ma co liczyć. Rzucone przez Busha hasło "let's roll" jest wciąż aktualne.
Pozwoliłem sobie tu oczywiście cały wywód reżysera spłaszczyć i wtrącić swoje trzy grosze, więc najlepiej będzie jak obejrzycie film i samodzielnie wyrobicie sobie opinię. Jeśli nie zależy wam na jakości obrazu (a w tym filmie nie gra ona właściwie żadnej roli) polecam obejrzenie go w Google Video. Cały i niepocięty, nie to, co na YouTube.
The way westwards, towards Zanskar was full of surprises. We saw some of the best preserved Buddhist wall paintings in Ladakh, rode into a golden valley full of wild-growing marihuana and added one more member to our biking team. But before we went to see Alchi, Lamayuru, Kargil and confronted the decision whether to visit Zanskar or not, we had to devour three big breakfasts and visit must-see monasteries scattered around Leh.
The first task was only seemingly easy – I might be small, but my stomach is a bottomless monster. Fortunately Leh was abundant with great value restaurants. The best deal we were able to find was a classic breakfast in Lamayuru Restaurant (big enough to fill us till late afternoon) followed by a great value-for-money dinner in Happy World Restaurant.
This idyll lasted for three days, but since we had a bit more than two weeks before going back to Delhi, we had to start moving onwards. This one was not only seemingly, but also actually, easy and… a bit disappointing as well. A short ride around the monasteries nearby Leh convinced us that the truth about them was simple: the more dramatic the setting or the exterior of a monastery, the poorer the insides. The reason for that was also simple: all Muslim invaders, who across centuries tried to convert the region into following their religion, destroyed all those nicely located, well designed places, as they were usually easier to spot. Only low-key ones or those hidden in mountain valleys were able to survive.
Nice and empty road to Kargil just beyond Leh.
...and a bit worse one, a little bit further ahead. The whole road from Leh to Kargil was dotted with points like that.
Before we left Leh we had Juma quick-check our bikes. Everything seemed to be working all right, but as usual, it wasn’t long before we things started to go bad.
- Darling, there is something terribly wrong with my bike – Justina explained sweetly after a nice downhill.
I didn’t believe her. I was sure that she was just imagining things to cover up for being tired.
Then I saw her riding.
When she reached the magical barrier of 30km/h her bike started to shake like a furious horse, trying to shake her off.
- Why didn’t you tell me earlier that you had problems with the machine? For example when we were at Juma’s garage! – I shouted and demanded explanation – Why? Why!? Now we have to go back to Leh, it is already afternoon, and we won’t get anywhere today! We’re fucked!
And fucked we were. Four days ago, when we returned from Nubra Justina’s bike was working perfectly well and during our three days stay in Leh we didn’t ride at all. Today we went for a short trip around nearby monasteries and everything worked fine. And then, out of the blue, something incomprehensible happened and her bike stopped to cooperate.
Does it sound like a likely story? No? I didn’t think so either.
After a short “investigation” I found out that Justina experienced some problems with the bike already in Leh, but she thought they were temporary and would disappear with time. She didn’t want to bother me and make me anxious. Cute, huh?
Anyways, after a short attack of frustration I managed to calm down. An argument would get us nowhere. We had to stop quarreling and start acting. But what could be wrong with the bike this time?
We didn’t have any clues, as Juma checked the bikes before trip to Nubra, which wasn’t specially hard. We didn’t have any accidents or serious crashes.
A huge (ca. 20 meters long) pool of water on a side road between Leh and Hemis.
Stakna Monastery before a violent storm.
Then I saw a dozen or so drops of water flowing out of the vent. My thoughts instantly returned to that huge pool of water, which we had crossed on our way to Hemis Monastery. What if, by some strange act of evil will, water got inside the wheel, then got stuck between the tire and the tube, and now at higher speeds oscillates and interrupts the work of front wheel?Could it be the reason for wobbling?
What was even more important: how should we verify it without taking the tire off? I didn’t feel like doing it for the first time in a middle of nowhere, just because that was the only thing I could think of. No, that had to wait for somebody more competent.
Going back to Leh seemed the simplest and most reasonable solution. But it would also mean losing another day. Thus we decided to ride as fast as possible (i.e. 25 km/h) and try to fix the problem or at least discover its roots in the first mechanic workshop we encountered. Fortunately we didn’t have to drive far.
- Buahahahaha! A mechanic! Here! You must be kidding! – a Hindu puncture-wallah and his two friends were having a time of their life.
Their tiny puncture repair point was one of those place, where warm welcome or politeness were things still to be invented, but I thought: hey, not everybody has to own a brain, right? Calm down and pity the bastards. It was harder for Justina as in situations like that she turns into a warrior and wants to smash the fools, whatever the costs.
Here she proved right, as the guys were no mechanics and knew only how to pump a tube. And that didn’t help. But at least we learned that too low an air pressure wasn’t a source of Justina’s wobbling problems.
We also found out that the closest mechanical workshop was probably in Kargil, if not further away in Srinagar, Kashmir. Justina had to grit her teeth and ride the apparently damaged bike for some hundreds, maybe even a thousand, kilometers more (if we decided to visit Zanskar).
And though she performed great, that day we managed to get only as far as Alchi, 60 km away from Leh.
After Tabo (Spiti Valley) the Alchi Monastery proved to be the most spectacular heritage place we visited during the whole trip. Extraordinary wall paintings dated back to 11th or 12th century and were the only Kashmiri-style ones, which managed to survive till our times.
Wall paintings in Alchi Monastery. Painted in Indian (Kashmiri) style around 11-12th century.
From Alchi we speeded to Lamayuru. A place famous for another monastery located in a midst of a dry, ” moonlike” – as it is often described – landscape.
Upon arriving we were greeted by terrible weather, which made sight-seeing pointless. We decided to rode on, only to turn back after six or seven kilometers. It was too wet and cold to continue all the way up to the Fotu La pass (4108 m AMSL) in heavy rain and howling wind.
View of Lamayuru Monastery and surrounding "moonlike" landscape on a sunny morning.
Next day, when the sky cleared, we managed to reach the long awaited Kargil.
It proved to be dark, dusty and ugly city with heaps of filthy, cramped restaurants and a heavy military presence. There was also one motorbike service station, where to our infinite surprise we learned that… there was nothing wrong with Justina’s bike. At least nothing that could be detected. Or repaired. At least not here. Maybe in Srinagar, Kashmir, 200 km away.
Unable to fix anything we had to fast forward to the next point on our “wanna see” list: the visit to Zanskar. We had been dreaming about reaching that isolated piece of land since we left Delhi. We skipped the trips to Sangla Valley (Himachal Pradesh), Pin Valley (Spiti Valley), Panamik (Nubra Valley), Pangong Tso and Tso Moriri lakes (Ladakh) to have enough time to get to Zanskar and go for a week-long trek in more remote areas of the region.
And there we were: at the crossroads, trying to make the best choice possible.
As far as we knew the road to Padum was probably the shittiest one in Ladakh. There were absolutely no mechanics anywhere in whole Zanskar. No regular public transport reached Padum, as the tourist season was already over. Renting a jeep would cost us around $300 one way. There were also around 20 rivers to cross with unknown number of bridges. The weather was fast transforming from bad to worse and with only 14 days till Delhi, we didn’t feel like taking the risks of getting stuck in the middle of nowhere, abandoning the bikes, hiring an extremely expensive jeep and still missing our flight back to Poland… But, hey! somebody might say, that’s what an adventure is, right? Not knowing what will happen tomorrow! Risking it all for sake of pure enjoyment! Yeap. That’s right. But this time we lacked the balls. Suddenly we felt tired with desert-like mountains, endless moonscapes and constant struggle with motorcycles, which broke down faster than cells split. We needed change. We needed a green Kashmir.
A little bit further, a painting on a military checkpost read: "drill + skill + will = kill".
At the foothills of Zoji La (3528 m AMSL), which separated Ladakh from our craved for destination, we met Sebastian. A Germany-born Kiwi, whom we befriended in Lamayuru. It didn’t take us much time to agree that from now on we would travel together.
The pass itself was easy, but quite spectacular, especially the downwards part. Being full of serpentines, mud and stones it offered a thrilling ride. It was also there in a traffic jam caused by overzealous truck drivers, where Justina’s soul of a warrior once again exposed itself.
She was pushed from the road by one of the lorries, and full of wrath she dragged the driver out from the cabin and ordered him to put the machine back on wheels. No mercy, no regret. The weakling, unable to finish the task himself, had to ask another one of his kind for help.
Sebastian and the road leading from Zoji La to the Vale of Kashmir.
Craggy serpentines leading from Zoji La Pass to Srinagar, Kashmir.
In Kashimir lush forests, rich with pine trees were all over the place. Villages, full of houses with solid ridge roof gathered along straight roads, like scared children. Here and there we saw round-edged yellow busses waiting for delayed passengers. It all looked familiar, but it took me some time to realize, where I had seen it. Suddenly it became clear. Ah, yes… Ukraine! Romania! The Carpathians! Somehow, after crossing Zoji La, we entered Eastern Europe, not Kashmir, and it felt like being back home.
The very Vale of Kashmir, surrounded by purple mountains, with extensive golden fields, heaps of orchards and an intensive smell of wild-growing marihuana, was a real paradise to our starved senses. We entered it after three weeks spent among barren wastelands and we were overwhelmed. Now imagine how miraculous it must had been for all those all those pleasure-hungry traders, dead-tired after the trying crossing of the Himalayas? It seemed to me so natural, that they didn’t restrain themselves from using all the luxuries they could afford and squandering most of their hard-earned money in that dream-like valley and its magnetic pleasures. I perfectly understood their reaction of ultimate exhilaration upon seeing all those green trees, fertile fields, real architecture and alluring women shrouded in seductive perfumes.
Anyways… Upon reaching Kashmir an important part of our trip ended. After three weeks of trying travel across desert valleys and plateaus of the Indian Himalayas we finally returned to a lush, green zone. Most of the “highlights” were already behind us and we were starting to feel that our journey was slowly coming to an end. But we didn’t want it to transform into a dull and prolonged return to Delhi. We still had almost two weeks of riding left and we wanted to put them into the best use possible. And nearby there was another disputed region, which I wanted to visit since a long time. Sure it involved a chance of getting shot at or kidnapped, but those holidays were supposed to be an adventure and not a dinner at aunt’s place, right? Thus, after resting for two days in Srinagar and filling our bellies with local specialties we decided to head South-East towards the lair of the so called “Kashmiri terrorists”, where virgin peaks and treacherous jungles awaited us.
…but to hear that very special story you will have to wait a bit longer than usual, as from now on I will concentrate on writing a Polish version of the blog.
At the beginning there was pain. Then the Great Old Ones created naïve hope that the pain could go away. They created a world of illusion full of beautiful objects, which all promised to end the suffering. In blind madness They shaped Nubra Valley, Pangong Tso and Tso Moriri Lakes. And in our naivety we thought we’d had time to see them all. How wrong we were, we learned only upon reaching Leh. Free time was nowhere to be seen and we could visit only one destination. That was all we could afford. After years of solitary meditation we decided to go to Nubra Valley. A piece of land sandwiched between the Himalaya and the Karakoram ranges, where an ancient Pakistani-Indian war was still smouldering in the upper reaches of the Siachen Glacier.
Before we could leave Leh, which for us was only about eating, sleeping and Internet-surfing, some traditional rituals had to be observed. Cruel motorbike gods demanded a sacrifice. We had to visit their temple – a local service station.
Naked Bajaj Pulsar 150 cc in Leh's most famous motorbike temple.
The place was as dirty, chaotic and unscrupulous looking as every other in the country. It felt reassuring. We expected that local priests would please the gods by fixing one thing and damaging other one, so that the sacrifice was made. How naïve we were!
By the time we learned that filthy appearance was only a clever deception, it was already too late. Juma, the local archbishop, proved to be a partisan, unhealthily interested in making our bikes clean, shiny and smooth-working. Unlike his fellow brethren he worshiped neither slackness nor shoddiness. He was a man of other gods. Strange, alien gods of reason and precision. He was a man, we had always feared we’d meet one day. That day was today. Unable to change our destiny we awaited the wrath of the Unseen.
But, what was even more frightening, Juma addressed some of our most secret desires, as our bikes really needed close and tender attention as they both whispered in strange, terrifying languages and experienced losses of power on higher altitudes. The condition of my machine was especially worrying, as it had its engine stalled at least a few times. And now, when we were heading for the highest pass so far, we judged full power would be more then welcome. But would the Gods also appreciate a good working bike? Or would they punish us for fixing it? We feared the Great Old Ones and weren’t sure what would be better – having something else broken in exchange for the engine or expose ourselves to punishment?
To our relief Juma recognized our inner struggle and helped us out.
Juma, Leh's high priest, pouring water out of Justina's bike fuel tank.
First he fixed Justina’s bike in no time – adjusted the carburetor and got remaining water out of the fuel tank (how it got there, was a mystery for all of us, as last raindrops fell on us more than two weeks ago ; it wasn’t added to fuel on gas stations as we both tanked in the same places and the other bike didn’t experience any similar problems; this was either a direct intervention of the Gods or mischief of their hidden agents).
When Juma realized how horrified by the course of his successful actions we were, he took to my bike. The screw in the carburetor, which controlled fuel to air ratio, was luckily jammed. Hopelessly and unrepairable. Therefore nothing could be done about stalling of the engine on higher altitudes. The gods should be happy, they got their bloody sacrifice – I hoped.
When the high priest was through with all of his strange rituals we felt safe again: no additional horse power was coming to help me with the upward struggle. I was forced to count solely on my luck and poor abilities, while trying to cross Khardung La (according to Indian authorities ca. 5600 m AMSL; according to “others” something between 5200 and 5300 m AMSL). But at least I knew that the Great Old Ones, who loved human misery, shouldn’t hold a grudge against me.
That heart-lifting sign reminded me of another one, popular on Indian roads: "this is a highway (...) drive slow". Really?
Our humble body at the top of Khardung La (ca. 5300 m AMSL). Be sure to check the guy in blue on the left. I'm sure he was agent of the Great Old Ones.
Ascent was rather easy. Even too easy. The only obstacles we encountered was some fine snow and freezing wind, both of which started just two or three hundred meters before top of the pass. The descent was a bit more demanding, with big, jagged rocks jutting here and there from the surface, but it was all far from being a real challenge. Were the Gods with us or were they just waiting for a better occasion to reveal their devilish cunnings? Already being a bridge too far we had only one option left open – to go and see for ourselves.
The road leading deeper into the valley was mostly asphalted and in good condition, therefore four hours after reaching top of the pass we entered Diskit – the biggest settlement in Nubra. There, just because we didn’t know where to go next, we approached the nearby Buddhist monastery, the main attraction of the whole valley.
Wakhan Corridor like bed of Shyok River. Mountains on the left belong to Karakoram Range, those on the right are "still" Himalayas.
Village of Diskit and a tall (ca. 13 meters high) statue of Buddha near the new monastery.
That was a hit in a bull’s eye.
– Forget the Indus Valley, THIS is the most beautiful place I had ever seen! – I shouted when we finished climbing the hill and run straight between numerous chortens erected on the slope. Even the dread of the Great Old Ones vanished. Tired, dirty and happy I emerged 40 minutes later, when the sun was already too low, to continue shooting.
The valley, which lay under my feet was eerily beautiful and picturesque. It felt like a maliciousness of fate that we couldn’t go any further than the village of Hunder, which was only some 6 km away. Nubra Valley was a disputed, border region, which saw a small war only 12 years ago and in some regions fighting was still going on from time to time. Our Inner Line Permits didn’t allow us to go any further than the damned Hunder. But the further reaches of the valley with its imagined and forbidden beauty were too magnetic to simply leave them unseen.
Patchwork of fields belonging to the village of Diskit.
A wooden mask depicting cruel demons lurking in the premordial darkness. It was probably one of these creatures that added water to Justina's fuel tank.
- If I were you I’d just go straight and see what happens – advised us a Hindu programmer from Bangalore, whom we’d met near the monastery – after all you’re just tourists, so how could you know where you’re allowed to go, and which areas are out of limits? Just drive straight until somebody stops you and when they do behave like a child lost in a fog.
The guy was right. Eventually how often does one encounter something even remotely close to the captivating beauty of Nubra Valley? How often can one hope to escape the pain for more than five kilometers?
It was in a nearby hotel, where we learned, that our illegal trip was more than possible. - Just since last year you can go even as far as Turtuk, which is located some 90 kilometers deeper into the valley. But don’t try to reach the very Line of Control or somebody might try to shoot you – explained the manager.
Before we went to Turtuk I had to take some shots of the monastery during the sunrise.
Nubra Valley saw much fighting even before 1999 Pakistani failed invasion. One of the reasons why their last major offensive succeed, at least at the very beginning, was the fact, that the Hindu had little knowledge of what was actually going on in the further reaches of the valley. Communication was poor, the roads had more bumps than asphalt and as strange as it may sound no Indian units were located near the Line of Control. The Pakistanis took them by surprise.
When the attack was finally repelled, the Hindu did their homework. Even the furthest areas under their control were quickly connected with Ladakh via a network of asphalted and open all year round roads, the village of Thoise saw a big military airfield (with the runaway ca. 3.3 km long) being built. It allowed a quick inflow of man and heavy weaponry (one hour flight from Delhi), it was and still is of crucial importance as a transit facility for units heading for Siachen Glacier – world’s highest battlefield, regularly witnessing fighting since 1984.
Some 30 kilometers North-West from Hunder. It was only at home that I learned that we should have tried to take the turn left (though it was forbidden), as some 17 kilometers later there was supposed to be a 6000+ meter high virgin peak just by the road.
A bridge of strategic importance (photography strictly prohibited) on Shyok River. Some 30 kilometers before Turtuk.
Not much too say. Hindu army units love strange nicknames.
Turtuk, a small, green village inhabited by the Balti people, was four hours away from Hunder. It was the last point where a foreigner could go without being fired at. Or at least that was what we thought, as there we learned that in reality we could go a bit further, to the last checkpoint in the village of Tyakhsi, some three kilometers away. From there it was only seven kilometers more to a highway to afterlife: the positions held by the Pakistani Army.
From this points it was seven kilometers to positions held by Pakistani army.
- Sir, I am afraid we can not let you pass - the guards were very firm, but polite – our orders are clear on that. It is all for your safety. Those peaks there – one of them pointed the nearby mountains – are already in Pakistan. If you went there, somebody might drill a small hole in your heads and our government wouldn’t like that. You can not cross. But you can take a photo of our checkpost, if you like.
For us, it didn’t matter. We got as close to Pakistan as it was possible. Fully satisfied we started to slowly walk back towards the bikes. But then, out of nowhere, the Great Old Ones were again upon us. They were having their revenge with the help of some local people, who were hanging around our bikes, touching, smelling and licking them. Immediately I got as angry as hell that those filthy bastards were near our machines without our permission. I was already more than two months in India and local ideas about property and privacy (or rather lack of them) were starting to frustrate me more and more. I craved for blood. Thus, ready to give them hell I approached the bikes only to see that the Gods, were even more cruel than I had ever imagined.
- You have a fuel leakage – explained one of the would-be dead bodies with a grin – But wait a sec, I will try to fix it for you.
After 10 seconds everything was all right again, but I lost ca. 60 percent of gasoline. A small rubber pipe delivering the fuel from the tank to the carburetor wasn’t fixed as firmly as it should be, probably since my last crash, just outside of Turtuk. The fuel was slowly, but steady leaking. If it wasn’t for those trespasser I would had lost it all. Thanks to their curiosity and intrusiveness I had just enough to get back to Hunder, were the closest gas station was located. But that wasn’t the worst thing. Shit can always happen, right? That’s just the way the world works: situation normal, all fucked up. But why did the Great Old Ones deprive me of my revenge? Why did they make local villagers help me out, so that I couldn’t verbally and physically abuse them for touching my machine? Why did I had to be grateful to them instead of showing them how much I scorned them? Instead of crushing their skulls and dancing on their graves?
I guess that was the price for trying to fix our bikes, to make them work as they should, for even speaking to Juma, who was in fact a partisan, a false priest, who only pretended to worship the Gods of slackness and shoddiness, but in reality paid homage to reason and precise work. A traitor.
Anyways…
Ashamed, disheartened and puzzled we left the village. There was nothing more to see or do in Turtuk, and we rushed towards Diskit to leave the cursed place as soon as possible.
That night we spend under the stars, in the open desert. Dancing and howling under the full moon.
One of our most memorable bivouac on an semi-desert close to Thoise.
Morning.
Sumru Monastery.
Next day, with our heads cleared, we rode a bit in the direction of Panamik: the last civilian-open settlement in Nubra Valley (both Diskit, Hunder, Turtuk and Tyakhsi were really located along the Shyok River, which together with Nubra River form the valley), but as Siachen Glacier Base Camp was totally out of reach for non-military we decided to head back to Leh sooner.
The road close to South Pullu, where the ascent to Khardung La top starts. Mountains in the background belong to Karakoram Range.
Bikes we wished we had - Yamaha Ténéré XT660Z (ca. 600 cm3 engine and maximum fuel consumtion of 4L/100 km, what could be better than that?).
At the top we came across a pair of Swiss guys on beautiful Yamaha Ténéré XT660Z bikes, who came all the way from Switzerland. They were already on the road for three months and were planning to ride for one year more. But what was even more frustrating they had covered ca. fourteen thousand kilometers without even one visit in a service station. Their bikes didn’t break down even once. Why did the gods favor them and hated us so much? Since we left Delhi four weeks ago, we’d scored every bloody workshop we could spot. Was it because we paid $800 for our bikes and they paid $8000. Were the Gods also about money?
Descend towards North Pullu and Indus Valley from Khardung La top.
Justina and the sunset.
Descent to Leh was tiring and hair-rising as it was already dark when we went down. Sharp curves, which are more than abundant, were poorly marked and a dozen times I almost drove straight off the cliff. But our hungry bellies howled for food and thus we were unable to go slower. With the moon shining bright above our heads and strange cries all around us, we raced towards the city.
Finally after one and a half hour we reached our asylum, the Happy World Restaurant, where we ordered the only true Hindu meals – pizzas. We had to gather strength as next day we wanted to pay a blitzkrieg visit to the Hemis Monastery and then head North, to Lamayuru and Kargil. There we were to start the probably most challenging part of our trip – a 240 kilometers long ride to Padum in Zanskar, which according to many, would lead along the worst roads in the whole Indian Himalayas. And who knew what dreadful traps the Great Old Ones prepared for us there?
And what do you think? Which place is more picturesque? Indus Valley or Nubra Valley?
With Kunzum La, the first difficult pass on our route, behind us the time has to come to face probably the most famous road in the Indian Himalayas: the Leh – Manali Highway. In order to enter Ladakh we had to negotiate our way over three passes above 4800 meters (15 700 ft) and unknown lengths of bad roads. But first our bikes had be fixed, as crossing Kunzum La impaired their condition.
Covering roughly 77 km long stretch of road between Losar, Kunzum La Pass and Grampoo, where we joined Leh – Manali Highway, took us around eleven hours. After daylong bone-shaking it was like a dream come true. No stones, no potholes, no stream crossings. Well, almost no. Just black, flat and fully sealed road. Being able to ride smoothly as fast as 50 or 60 km/h was almost orgasmic. But before we could get fully satisfied the night was already upon us and we had to find a place to sleep.
That proved to be more than demanding than in Spiti, as all flat places near the road were occupied either by houses or fields. I guess that is what fertility and development really means... Anyway, after a dozen or so kilometers I was ready to pitch the tent virtually anywhere, even on the verge of the road, but Justina strongly opposed that idea. She feared, not without a reason (Hindustanis drive like maniacs), that a truck could run us over during the night.
Eventually, as I became too tired and therefore too angry to continue the search or sensibly talk to anyone, so Justina decided to ask herself for a place to camp in a dhaba we were just passing. To our great surprise the owner turned out to be an… outdoor instructor, as he readily described himself, who invited us to stay at his house’s courtyard.
Our tent pitched in the courtyard. Unfortunately we've forgotten to write down the name of our benefactor.
But here you have him and his son.
We should consider ourselves lucky. A couple of landslides like this one near Tandi was all that we had to face on Leh - Manali Highway. Every year some less fortunate souls have to wait even for a week before the road is passable.
The "last" gas station before Leh was in Tandi. Beyond that point one could buy fuel only from dhabas, where it cost $1 per liter more than on filling stations.
Next day we went to Keylong, the main settlement of Lahul Valley. The road was mostly very good: asphalted and two lanes wide. There we had to make a short stop in order to visit Chunni, who was considered to be one of the best mechanics on Leh – Manali Highway. Our machines needed some adjustments: the chains were definitely too loose, as sometimes the gears switched spontaneously and Justina’s bike started to give a worrying sound from the rear wheel. Fortunately the fixes were only minor, and we were informed that both bikes should make it to Leh, where they would probably require another visit in a service center. With moods thus elevated we were ready to continue. But before that happened we met a bunch of local bikers coming from opposite direction. They were all members of a club from Delhi called India Bull Riders. So, bro, what’s the condition of the road up there? I asked one of them. The guy took a longer look at our protective equipment, then examined our worn out bikes, finally scratched his chin and slowly said: Up to Sarchi it is more than okay. Then it becomes a nightmare – mud and water everywhere, hidden potholes and no asphalt. It goes like this for 80 or so kilometers. But you say you came from where? Spiti? Hmmm… then you’ll probably be fine.. Just take it easy. So we should make it? Really? Somehow I found that dubious. These guys were planning to leave Keylong at 14 pm and reach Kaza (the “capital” of Spiti Valley, some 185 km away) before midnight. A journey which took us whole two days of hard riding. If for them that section between Sarchu and Pong was a nightmare, how difficult would it be for us?
That day we didn’t get too far away from Keylong. For most of the time the road was good, flat, asphalted and wide, but there were some section where construction was still in progress. Anyway, somewhere near Patseo I felt too tired to go on, exhausted by the previous day’s crossing of Kunzum La Pass, and I had to stop. Fortunately nearby we found a couple of tents pitched near a small like. There was also a basic dhaba, so after making the price 60% lower than initially offered (and making the owner to throw in free food), we decided to stay there for the night. Baralacha La (4890 m AMSL), the first pass on our way, had to wait till next day.
At 10 in the morning, we were already there. The road was fully asphalted and in good condition. In comparison with Kunzum La it even felt boring. Undisturbed and relaxed we continued up to Sarchu, which we reached around midday. Flat, green plains, surrounded by mountains reminded me of Afghanistan’s Wakhan Corridor and its Eastern plateaus inhabited by Kirghiz nomads.
Usually the road beyond Keylong was good. But on some parts the work was still going on.
The road from Patseo to the top of Baralacha La Pass was all asphalted. We had no fun there.
Me and Justina on the top of Baralacha La Pass.
Sarchu. Here the good road was to end.
Anyway, from there, according to India Bull Riders member’s words the road should start to rapidly transform into a living nightmare. Having that in mind, tensed and awaiting treacherous potholes or unexpected road ends behind each curve, we drove unnecessarily cautiously, but bad roads were nowhere to be seen. So before we knew we negotiated our way through the famous Gata Loops, Nakee La (4738 m AMSL) and Lachung La (5060 m AMSL) passes. Then, while descending the latter one, my bike suddenly lost all power.
Closing on to Gata Loops we expected the good road to finish virtually anywhere.
The beginning of Gata Loops - 21 loops climbing ca. 600 meters up.
Part of the loops seen from the top of the climb. There was almost no traffic. The rough road seen next to asphalted ones are shortcuts most light vehicles take while descending.
Jesus fuckin’ Christ! What now?! Why isn’t this piece of shit working as it should? Why the hell do we have to fix those God damn bikes every fuckin’ day?! Why can’t we just ride them?! Those and similar mutterings and thoughts occupied my consciousness, when the breakdown became too serious to ride. The problem seemed to have came out of the blue. All day long the engine was working almost perfectly, then we had a short stop, and when I turned it on again, it lost ¾ of its power. When I added more than a little throttle the engine stalled, instead of accelerating. It was annoying, but at least the device worked. Then, suddenly, it stalled once and for all and it wouldn’t ignite anymore. We were in the middle of nowhere, the sun slowly sank behind surrounding mountains and the nearest mechanic was to be found in Leh, some 190 km away. I could either wait for a passing car or try to fix the problem myself.
When the engine stall for good a damaged truck lying on its side was our only companion.
I was nowhere close to being a mechanic. I had never even changed a punctured tire in a bicycle. I had just made my car’s driving license in June and learnt to ride and superficially maintain a motorbike in India. Now, somehow, I had to fix it. Fortunately, we had so many problems with the machines already, that I had some general ideas about what could be wrong, but because of either complexity of the root causes or lack of proper tools/knowledge I was able to resolve only one cause of breakdown: the presence of water in carburetor. And as far as I knew the real cause was totally different.
But guess what? It worked!
The treatment was easy. I had to close the fuel inlet and unscrew a valve, which through a small pipe emptied the carburetor. In the beginning there was no effect, but after a few repetitions I managed to get the engine going again. In order to prevent it from choking on more demanding sections, where I had to go slow, I increased the idle RPM level. The only drawback of this solution was the fact that while on null gear or with the clutch fully engaged the bike was going faster than I desired. But I didn’t knew any other options. Luckily Pang, a collection of provisional tents and dhabas, was only 10 kilometers away.
The last ten kilometers before Pang. Our minds were tired of monotonous landscape and the knowledge that it would continue unchanged for 190 km more didn't help.
But what we saw after another curve was amazing. In a second our mindes leapt from dullness into total exhilaration.
Behind our back, the canion we just crossed, also started to look more and more amaizng.
Then we saw sun playing with sand sculptures.
And just a few hounderds meters later we encountered a whole set of them.
Though it was only 5 km more to Pang, we still managed simultaneously crash the bikes on a soft surface.
Pang. A place where every dhaba has the same menu and sleeping conditions, so everyone tries different trick to lure clients. The most popular one seemed to be a magical sentence "hey, mister! come here!".
As could be expected the night didn’t wonderfully cure my machine. So, when the final morning came I wasn’t that much sure whether I would reach Leh at all. I managed to start the engine, and though it lacked power and choked when I added more throttle, I somehow climbed up to Moore Plains. There something unexpected, but typical for India happened. Out of nowhere the engine started to work again as it should and as the asphalt was very good and we rode as fast as we could.
The Moore Plains. Some 5000 meters AMSL.
The good section of the road continues for about 20 km.Then it turned into an off road. But almost everywhere new road construction was in progress.
Eventually speeding proved to be a rather bad idea, as the seemingly inviting quality of the road was only a clever deception. From time to time, a short, maybe 10 or 12 meters long, section made of concrete slabs intersected the main road. It was slightly arc-bended to allow water to flow through the middle. Unfortunately the crossings weren’t constructed too precisely and in the first two or three such places we hit an invisible step between the asphalt and the slabs with both rims. After such a long trip, I had established a personal relationship with my bike, and when it received those hits I felt almost a physical pain.
The main attraction of our last day on Leh – Manali road day was definitely Tanglang La Pass, the highest one on the highway (5360 m AMSL). Climbing up was very pleasant, though the condition of the road was rather bad. Because of all the potholes, bumps and ruts, I felt as on a motocross track. Riding fast, jumping from one small hill to another to avoid a sudden hole by a narrow turn was only possible, because my mind was relaxed and my body was working automatically. I was exhilarated. Surprisingly the engine worked perfectly almost to the very top of the pass, when again it started to choke a bit.
Climb up to Tanglang La Pass (visible in the upper-left side of the photo). Looks close, but from here it was still ca. 13 km to go.
Look back, towards the Moore Plains.
The top of Tangland La pass.
Justina on her way down Tanglang La.
Finally, after two or three more hours of riding, we arrived at Upshi, where Leh – Manali Highway entered the Indus Valley, in which the capital of Ladakh was located. But it was in Karu, some 35 km before Leh, that we encountered some of the most peculiar examples of India's goverment megalomania. Karu was a military base, with the road cutting it in half. Next to it were located various billboards with slogans invented to both rise the spirits of soldiers and convince passersby of army's great prowess. Thus one of them stated: "Lhasa... Beijing... We will be there!". That of course wasn't all. According to oficial propaganda India, was not only a military, but also an economic superpower. A friend of mine, with Ph. D. in econimics, who's been working in his field in India for 1,5 year now, and deals a lot with both Hidustani high ranking officials and businessmen, once told me: they all believe that within 15 or 20 years, Indian economy will surpass that of China. How could they hold such opinions? Did they never leave Delhi or Bombay? Didn't they see that most of the country wasn't even close to early industrial era? It was rather medieval in its looks, social and economic structure. How the hell were they going to fast forward to post-industrial era within 20 years? I hadn't got a slightest idea. And I doubt that officials had or have, as statistics and "the invisible hand of the market" are their only creed. But my friend, dealt with my uncertainties quickly: Do you know why they believe it? They have never seen China.
Anyway, in Ladakh all of this was seemed rather funny than scarry. And on the stretch between Upshi and Leh the road was perfect, so with the sun violently setting against the jagged Himalayas and dark storm clouds we felt like young gods. The change of surroundings and the quality of light in comparison with previous days was so shocking that I was pretty sure this was the most beautiful place I have ever seen. But… this was before I we went to the Nubra Valley.
The dog resting in the shadow had an open wound in place of his leg. Nobody did anything. Neither did we. The road was perfect.
One of the few car wrecks we enountered on Leh - Manali Highway.
