Cycling the Himalayas - Part Two

I pass the shimmering Dal Lake and its houseboats, the Mughal gardens, and the lush and busy plains of the Kashmir Valley. At Ganderbal, 20 kilometres out of Srinagar, the road turns east towards the Himalayas - from time immemorial the symbol of human aspiration to the divine.

The road climbs, the river beside it grows in intensity, cultivated fields disappear, and the deciduous trees give way to the conifers. The first of the majestic glaciers, the Thajiwas, appears. I stop at Baltal, a vast, tented camp below the road. Thousands of pilgrims are preparing for the great pilgrimage to the holy cave of the Hindu God Shiva, the Amarnath Yatra.

I leave my bicycle and follow the crowd of chanting pilgrims on the narrow path up the mountain to a valley at 4,000 meters where Shiva - the lone wanderer, the yogi, the Great God - did his cosmic dances with all the gods gathered around him.

The road climbs steeper after Baltal, up hairpin curves, negotiating a deep canyon lined with ice walls. The goal is to traverse the Zoji La Pass, at 3,500 meters, to get over the Great Himalayas. The tarmac gives way to a rough and unstable terrain full of stones, with sheer slopes on the side that fall into the void.

I stay on the mountain side of the road. When the road narrows, I cycle in the middle of the road, making it impossible for vehicles to overtake me. I raise my arm, acknowledging the truck presence behind me, asking for consideration. They patiently wait; there is always respect in the backwaters of the world towards cyclists in their epic voyages. When it is safe, I let them pass, and they inevitably slow down when they are next to me and show me their thumbs up.

Once over the pass, the valley opens up; the lush green of Kashmir is gone, giving way to the barren aridity of Ladakh. There is no human settlement — absolutely nothing in either direction for many kilometres, save for an army checkpost. Instead of inspecting my panniers, they enthusiastically offer me the great Indian food that everywhere, even in this remote outpost, thanks to its magical combination of spices, tastes great. A group of entrepreneurial Kashmiri offer the unknown thrill of skidding on sledges, down a steep but short snowfield, to the few motorists passing by for the equivalent of 1 AUD.

Forty kilometres of descent in the wilderness with the wind in my hair. Engaging a desolate yet majestic landscape, taking in view after view, each depositing a layer of emotions in my spirit. At night, in my simple homestay in Draas (the small village that has the ubiquitous fame of being the second coldest place in winter across the world), the thick deposit of the world’s presence accumulated throughout a day results in a sense of fulfilment and happiness.

“The enemy is watching you,” warns a sign where the road is the closest to the Line of Control. The next sign has a painting of the face of Ayatollah Khomeini, for this place is Muslim Shiite. I leave the main road and turn into the tranquility of the Suru Valley, with poplars and willows fringing the road and cultivated fields along the river that runs slowly. Slowly is how time passes here, amongst the rugged barren hills. Slowly as my speed, which reflects the peacefulness and simplicity of this place and allows me to notice its small meaningful details.

The simple agrarian village is dominated by mosques with tin cupolas; a group of female students leisurely walks down the empty road with a white hijab veiling the head; an old man with a long beard and a sheepskin robe sits by the door of his house.

There are no gels nor energy drinks here. There are no shops. There is just a small café with a table outside where I can get a masala tea and a plumcake. Children surround my bicycle full of admiration. The sorrowful recitation of an elegiac poem comes from the loudspeakers on the minaret. I enter the mosque and sit amongst the row of believers who are crying, hitting their foreheads, commemorating the martyrdom and valour of Hussain Ali.

The humanity that is in the act of cycling lowers cultural barriers. Local people see the cyclist’s efforts and his vulnerability. He is offered support, hospitality and acceptance.

The road turns into gravel, winding through a deep valley that narrows into a canyon and then widens again, opening the view onto snow clad peaks. Suddenly I am in front of the sharp inclines of the Nun and the jagged edges of the Kun, the two beautiful and highest peaks of Ladakh. The village ahead, Parkachik, is the last Muslim settlement, with the last mosque and the last minarets, and then it will be stupas, prayer flags and monasteries.

There are no borders, but the religious ethos changes abruptly, just as the flora, geology, vernacular settlements, ethnicity, and culture have done every day since I left Srinagar. The valley becomes austere. No more lush fields, just boulders strewn all around and a vista over high peaks and glaciers. I do not meet any cyclists or foreigners. The few jeeps with tourists pass by so fast that I don’t even notice them. Why is it that no-one comes to see this incredible beauty? Is it only appreciable to those who look at it slowly?

Hours on the bicycle alone are a treasure of available time. I wanted to put them to good use by meditating, leveraging on the spirituality of these lands. Sitting still and focusing on the breath is a classical form of meditating, but other, more active forms of meditation are possible.

I concentrate totally on every pedal stroke I make, mindful of which muscle I activate, the progress between pushing and pulling, the balance in my body. I am aiming to clear the mind from clutter. I wonder at what is within and around me, without adding preconceptions.

I try to understand the nature of my perception and discern between beneficial and harmful states of mind. To paraphrase Vietnamese Zen Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, I am cycling just for the pleasure of cycling, freely and firmly, without hurrying. I am present at every step. I look around and I see how wonderful life is. Let us cycle as free people and feel our steps growing lighter as we walk. Let us appreciate every pedal stroke.

Cyclists understand their environment exceptionally well. We take notice of every slight inclination of the terrain, we feel how the winds blow, we look for obstacles. The speed we travel allows us time to observe nature and people. Cyclists understand their body exceptionally well. We pay attention to our efforts, listen to what the different muscles tell us, and understand the different senses of fatigue.

In the middle of the bleak, wide basin of Rangdum, a 250-year-old fortified monastery stands on a small hill with the majestic encircling mountains, guarding the passage of the five valleys that converge here. From the monastery, the road ascends towards the Pensi La Pass, a climb that I engage with the trepidation of an epic adventure. The valley narrows, streams flow fast into the river down the valley, draining the grand glaciers, creating geometric deltas whose waters glare in the sun. Those are good pastures for the hundreds of yaks that graze undisturbed, for no one but the seasonal nomads lives here.

My earphones are playing Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The road inclines steeply and turns to reveal a new landscape as the orchestra engages the fourth movement. I surge on my pedals following the surge in the tempo, increasing the pace, living — not thinking — what the neuroscientist António R. Damásio taught: that the brain treats great music as if it comes from the heart, not the ear. Today the music is complemented with the view, which my brain perceives to come not from the eyes but from the heart.

I reach the pass at 4,400 meters, seeing the thousands of prayer flags that inspire the traveler to spiritual practice. The road descends through a series of steep hairpins, with a breathtaking vista over the spectacular Drang-Drung Glacier that twists as it gently glides down the valley from the snowy plateau in the distance.

I reach Padum, the heart of the Zangskar Valley. I can only continue towards Leh on foot. I find a jeep driver who will drive to Kargil tomorrow morning. He is willing to put my bicycle on his rooftop. At Kargil, he will give my bicycle to a bus driver, who will deliver it to a contact person in Leh. As improbable as it may sound, I am totally confident that I will find my bicycle when I arrive in Leh a week from now. Padum is far, very far from the disaffection of the cities we live in.

To be continued …