The sound chanting fills the air as tens of thousands of locals crowd around crowd loudspeakers to listen to the prayers and teachings of the Dalai Lama. After rolling the 7 km downhill to the venue, it was as if I was back in Delhi, soldiers with whistles guided traffic as car loads of colourful and enthusiastic locals arrive in droves to the event. Buses and trucks carry people from far and wide, many having travelled through the night in order to get a glimpse of their hero.
White waters cascade over huge boulders in a tremendous torrent towards the sea some thousands of kilometers away. The national highway which runs alongside resembles a river as water rushes across it leaving the road covered in sharp or round boulders and many small river crossings. The bigger rivers are bridged by many temporary Baily bridges which have seen better days, large gaps often have formed as heavily laden trucks noisily lumber over the creaking and bending structure. Great glaciers reach for the river like giant longs longing for a sip of fresh water. Boulders litter the surrounds as if pebbles in a giants sandcastle, and we, the minute cyclists roll steadily towards the next highway. The infamous Manali - Leh Highway where the high mountain passes quickly sort the men from the boys and entertain only those tough (or crazy) enough to negotiate the spectacular terrain and monumental passes. This gateway to Ladakh has earned a reputation as one of the most spectacular rides in the world and thus attracts an equally spectacular range of enthusiastic cyclists to it's windy way during the 3 month snow free season.
During the 6 nights on the road there was no shortage of characters to keep us in good company.
"Well f*#! Me, is this really it, f%&!, f#*!, f#%*!" were her only thoughts as she cascaded over the cliff in Bolivia while mountain biking on the worlds most dangerous road. Sipping chi outside a makeshift village made from stones and plastic sheeting we are entertained by a pair of Irish cyclists full of hair raising stories from the road. As a strong tailwind pushes me towards the next tent village, I come across a bike on the side of the road, it's owner struggles over another bike on the bank above. A scruffy looking guy in a sweatshirt explains that his tire is flat and he has spent the day trying to fix it with little success. 19,000 km after leaving Switzerland, the other cyclist tries to lend a hand. Finally we manage to get him back up and running with a new tube. We all cycle together to the next village to camp the night. The young English guy has managed to make it this far on a poorly adjusted bike which he hired in Manali while carrying a 25 kg backpack on his back. Stories quickly come out about a Japanese guy cycling the highway on a single speed Indian bike he purchased for just $24. Then there is 'dogman' who takes photos of dogs for a living. He is now several days behind because he doesn't like the rain so was waiting out a storm down the valley.
As we progress it becomes a game of tag has me travel towards Leh, the two English lads who turned up in the village pass us on a truck after discovering there is nothing in one of the valleys where they had planned to stay while the Japanese fellow labours endlessly to push his bike up the huge passes. There is no sign of the young fellow until well after dark when he turns up looking very dirty after pushing the bike up more than 30 km of hills before riding along cliff edges in the dark without a torch for the remaining kilometers.
And so it continues, three burly Czech guys in shiny Lycra arrive at the final pass the same time as we do, they have cycled the 10 day trip in just 5 as if they are going for some sort of record in a whirlwind tour of northern India.
The mountains continue to amaze with there diverse colours and photogenic landscapes. Soon the valley widens and we arrive, after a final 5 km uphill, in Leh to an official welcome from the Dalai Lhama who waves to us from his vehicle as we pass through the entrance to the city. A perfect welcome!
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Sometimes it is hard to believe that we are in India, most everything around appears like in Tibet. The villages look like Tibet with white, flat roofed mud brick houses decorated with bright colours interspersed with Tibetan monasteries and ever rotating prayer wheels. There is a much calmer feeling in the air as people go about their business growing barley, sweet pees and potatoes in terraced fields on any land that can be provided with water from the many pristine creeks and rivers which run from the remaining snowy areas high in the mountains. Picturesque monasteries attract many western Buddhists to spend extended periods of time here, experiencing a simple life of chanting, eating, sleeping and, well, playing cricket or volleyball. The monks lifestyle is incredibly simple and easy for them as they have no duties beyond the occasional ceremony for the local villagers to cleans them of any demons. In one such ceremony all the villagers crowd into a low, dirt floored room light only by two intense beams of light from small holes in the ceiling. The thin high altitude air combined with the smoke of sage being burnt by the lhama makes my very dizzy. Children cause mischief amongst themselves as the next stage of the ceremony is prepared. The lhama then cleanses each person by spitting into an ornate silver teapot of milk with a haunting sound and heavy breathing before pouring a steady white stream onto the face of each man, women and child. The milk is quickly rubbed over the face and taken into the mouth before being spat out onto the floor in front. This process takes quite some time, once complete each person receives is touched on the head by the lhama using peacock feathers with the sick being given extra attention. Finally (for the kids especially) the ceremony is over and everyone flocks out into the extreme high altitude sunlight to continue their daily lives.
We cycle on to the next monastery where I spend the night overlooking another quaint village which interrupts the dry landscape with vivid green fields and colourful white houses. The stars seem close enough to touch as shooting stars cruise through the night on a silent journey to nowhere.
Gravel turns to asphalt and asphalt to stones creating a patchwork of roads as unpredictable as the Indians themselves. The road crosses plateaus of peas, potatoes and barley as it weaves its' way towards the pass, many steel bridges straddle the rivers and the mountains continue ever higher towards the sky. Glaciers hang precariously from the high valleys, just threatening to disappear as the temperature increases year by year. The road climbs ever higher, the air thins and my breathing becomes laboured and fast, my pedals turn slowly and the wheels bump and grind over sharp rocks, as I pass the last stream and reach the top of the pass I feel somewhat elated as the speedometer clicks over to 5000 km exactly at that point and my notes tell me I have been on the road for 3 months that day. Where will the next 3 months and 5000 km take me?
