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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

- 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.

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.

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.

- 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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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