Prologue: My friend and fellow Royal Enfield rider, Arindam Barman and I completed a ride across the high Himalayas, starting our journey from Delhi on the 5th of September and returning back on the 18th of September. En-route our ride we crossed the scenic towns of Chandigarh, Kullu, Manali, Keylang, Leh, Kargil, Srinagar, Jammu, Pathankot, Dharamshala, McLeodganj and Amritsar. Below is a description of our experiences, learning's and interactions with people on the way.
It had all started reading a book by the effervescent Mr. Ajit Harisinghani, ''One life to ride''. After following his tips to do a ride to Goa on two wheels in March, we decided it was time to ''Step up the league'' as they say in the biker world. I put in a word with my friend who works in the navy and he got interested to join in almost instantly. Arindam was already in the folds to accompany me. However, mortal work and lack of leaves forced us to keep waiting till September when realized it was now or never to make the trip before the snow settled in on India's high peaks. My friend from the navy dropped out and set anchor in his base.
We got the royal enfields - Thunderbird and Electra ready for the sojourn, spent a weekend with our mechanic, Ramesh, learning the in and out of the machines. A stock of spares, clothes, maps and first-aid medicines and we thought we were ready to hit the road. A quick tip pilgrimage to Mr. Harisinghani 's abode and he doled out numerous experiences of people with High Altitude sickness with a warning tone, but we were determined . ''Best of luck ,'' he had said , ''and keep calling me in between. I want to relive the journey.''
After taking a train journey to Delhi, with the bikes in tow in the luggage carriage, we were to ride to Manali where the high Himalayas awaited us. The road from Delhi to Manali crosses through the Haryana Jat land, where we crossed the historical towns of Panipat, Sonepat and Kurukshetra. After crossing through Chandigarh, the lush green fields of Ropar, Punjab and the oversized glass of thick lassi welcomed us. At Kiratpur, where there is a picturesque Gurudwara, plains of Punjab give into the precipitous snaking roads of wondrous Himachal Pradesh. The ride around the Shivaliks is itself worth the ride to this part of our country and being the mere mortals that we are, we stopped over frequently to capture this beauty with our camera lenses. As the road moved alongside the effervescent Beas river, the Royal Enfields rode royally into the evening where we halted for the night at Bilaspur, alongside the magnificent Gobind Sagar Lake.
The next day's ride was again through lively green conifers with arrays of laden trucks on the road and hopeful monkeys alongside the road to give us company. Passing through Sundernagar ( which is actually very ''Sundar'' ) and Mandi we reached the holy town Kullu, with numerous temples and even more pilgrims. The bypass road took us to a junction where we took a steep road wriggling between apple orchards uphill to Manikaran, a magnificent Gurudwara built in spotless white marble. A quick dip at the hot spring here is believed to make one relieved of earthly sins and noxious ailments, spirituality in reality resides here. En-route Manikaran is the village of Kasol, where believe it or not, Israeli to Indian ratio is 20:1. If you've been amazed to see the Bajaj ad of ''Little Africa'' in Jamnagar, Gujarat - do visit Kasol, HP to winess ''Little Israel'' in India. Riding back to Kullu and taking the road through Naggar, we were left mesmerized with the beauty of the place and the people in Dev Bhumi, Himachal. As evening set in, shepherds walk the cuddly looking Pashmina goats (you are so tempted to cuddle them till the pungent smell from their fur makes you think otherwise) back home, while the kids get a comfy ride on the shoulders. At Manali we halt for the night and the sight of the snow peaked Rohtang, from the hotel window lets you know what awaits ahead.
Next morning, a warning message from the hotel manager, that we were late in the year for making a motorcycle ride but loud cheers from a phalanx of Sikh pilgrims set in mixed feelings in both of us. We topped up the petrol in the tanks and took reserves in two canisters we had bought in Delhi and set forth. Border Roads Organization ( BRO ), handles road maintenance in this treacherous terrain, taste of which we started to get as we road uphill to RohtangLa ( ''La'' in the local lingo refers to a pass, the saddle like areas between two mountain ranges, supposedly the least altitude for a road to pass thorough ). Tar roads give into a path of stones and cobbles somehow cut out from the snow capped rocky faces of the sturdy Himalayan peaks. Riding skills here are tested to the limit and a even a few adventurous tourists taking a SUV ride from Manali shriek out at witnessing rockfalls meters ahead. This is where you just pat on to your trusted machine gnarring below you and pray she takes in your command. The Royal Enfield is a pro at this. Breathless as you finish this sojourn of 60 kms, the thinning air does not better things but as you look around Rohtang, witness to the source of the river Beas and dip into some Maggie noodles ( this is all you get at the tents put up by the locals here for a breather ) you feel divinity within you. Riding on towards Keylong, the Chandra river (meets with Bhaga at Tandi forming the Chandra-Bhaga , called the Chenab as it flows into Pakistan ) flowed alongside replacing the Beas; we halt soon to find a long queue of trucks stuck on the single lane road. A big sized boulder had toppled off onto the middle of the road and BRO men were making futile efforts to move it around with their tank sized JCB bull-dozers. It was mid-afternoon now and as perplexity crossed our faces as what was coming next, the BRO men declared that they would have to blow the boulder into pieces. This was an experience of a lifetime as gelatin sticks were wrapped around the massive stone and then sparked. On the BRO's command, we had ducked under one of the Army's stallion 4x4 trucks and giving us company in that hunched position was this cute looking octogenarian Buddhist Lama who had already expressed his astonishment that we were making this journey on two wheels. The silence of the eerie gravity of the Himalayas was broken with a huge thud and frequent rattling sound of stone splinters hitting the steel body of the trucks. With the road cleared and seeking divine blessings from the Lama, we started on our way to ride till dusk and sought refuge for the night at a small guesthouse at Keylong, a town with a population of 3500. The high altitude sickness was slowly but surely having its effects on us and we decided to sleep early into the night popping in a pill of Diamox each, which ought to thin our blood which by now had started coagulating from the effects of lower oxygen levels.
Next morning was nice and bright, sparkling the snow capped peaks which engulfed us 360 degrees. Having strapped on our luggage, we started to ride towards Darcha, supposedly the gateway to Ladakh. Green cover on the mountain faces had made a metamorphosis into dry brown and there was no doubt in our minds that the famous Karakaram range had begun. The road here did not get any better and the bridges over the river, all but a steel ramp with steel plates bound with wires did not make riding comfort any better. From Darcha we rode to Sarchu, crossing the snow covered BaralachaLa pass at a steering 4892 meters above sea level. It was an experience riding through three feet snow, with the narrow tar lane cleared off the snow to allow traffic. Sarchu is the border between HP and J&K where we had lunch of basic dal-roti-sabzi in small tent-motels run by locals, while snowflakes started to fall from the suddenly darkening skies. Shaken but undeterred, we started on our way again as we needed to reach Pang before darkness. The BRO, being in the business of maintaining these roads for all these years are conversant with the tiredness that these wriggly and tricky roads bestow on the lonely rider. And as if to cheer up the mood they have put up road-signs such as ''Darling, be slow on my curves. '', ''Dear, I love you, but not so fast''. But the one that stole the show and one which I am sure will not auger well with the ladies was this one ''Don't gossip, let him drive.'' LachalangLa at 5065 meters was the next peak we crossed, needless to mention filled with snow again. As we started to descend on our approach to Pang, we were lucky and astonished to find an entire herd of ibex , endangered mountain goat grazing along. We wasted no time to capture their presence through our lenses before they ran away noticing us. The only refuge at Pang was similar tent-motels which offered two quilts and a pillow in a canvas covered strewn area which was to be a mass bedroom catering to half a dozen truck drivers, a bunch of hippies from Canada and us both. Pang , at a height of 4630 meters above sea level is the highest ''transit point'' in the world and as the BRO jawan who was having dinner with us at the tent showed us his thermometer which read -16 degrees, all doubts about Pang being labeled ''highest transit point'' were left squashed. The night was cold, well the word ''cold'' now seems to be an understatement.
The next morning did not show any signs of an improvement in the weather and it took the bullet a shower of two bucket loads of hot water to get rid of the sleet that covered it and to get the engine roaring back into life. The stretch of road ahead rode uphill steeply till we were now riding through the bitter cold of the More plains, a 25 km stretch that epitomizes the harshness of the terrain. Earlier only descriptions of a ''Cold Desert'' had haunted our minds and now with the chilly air biting through the double layered riding gloves which set numb every square inch of the fingers, all we prayed for was some sunlight and warmth. A local Ladakhi had set up a small tent just at the foothill rising to TanglangLa top, an oasis in the desert, albeit man-made. As he hurried to light up a stove for us to warm our fingers and set up the kettle of tea on the other stove, we could make out that the guy had not bathed for ages. Nature's harshness takes a dig at daily life, let alone vanity. TanglangLa top, at a staggering height of 5360 meters is the second highest motorable road in the world and save a few Israeli bike riders and the BRO men; no one was to be found on its snow covered road. The descent from TanglangLa was gradual and after about an hour we were riding through the smooth roads of Leh valley. The dull and dry parches had now been morphed to a green valley, with the Indus river drenching the otherwise dry region. ''It is a highway, not a runway '', the BRO sign post warned us as we were tempted to push the bullets to high speeds, something that they had forgotten to do over the last couple of days. A quick lunch at Upshi and a ride of 50 more kilometers through Shey (where we saw the castle of the erstwhile Ladakhi king) and historical monasteries of Hemis we were now at Leh, the seat of Ladakhi culture and business. The distinct but fascinating existence of Muslim and Buddhist culture in this region was indeed a delight to watch.
The next two days we spent at Leh, wondering about the handicraft stalls, meditating long hours at the picturesque Shanti Stupa, hogging on some lovely food, getting our bikes together and making the ride to KhardungLa, arguably the highest motororable road in the world at 5602 meters above sea level. The Nubra valley in Ladakh presents to tourists a close glimpse of the Siachen glacier, wrapped in snow, guarding our frontiers. The army has heavy presence in this region. Considering the challenges enforced not only by nature but hostile neighbors and having experienced it first hand; my reverence for these brave men has quadrupled. The Nubra valley beyond KhardungLa allowed us a glimpse of the double-humped Bactrian camel.
Bidding Leh adieu was difficult, but Kargil and Srinagar beckoned and we hit the roads again. The road from Leh to Srinagar is good in patches, specially the 25 km stretch till Nimmu, a sleepy but beautiful village at the foothills, one which could easily pass on as an Italian or Irish hamlet. The full face helmet provided a private studio where I could sing to myself as the 350 cc engine thumped in at a pace twice my heartbeat, not slower not faster. The road winded into a small off-road town called Lamayuru, a Buddhist settlement with magnificent architecture of mud-clad stone huts. The roads swirled upwards toward Fotula, the highest point in the Leh-Srinagar highway and onto Haniskot. The chill in the air was settling soon but we needed a tea break and pulled over to a tea stall. Here, we met another rider, an American software professional, who has been travelling all around India over the last 8 months, learning Indian music and culture. Somehow, I feel the best of places in India are explored by foreign travelers. The road downhill from Haniskot has breathtaking view of huge Himalayan peaks stacked alongside to form a picturesque brown wall; some parts of the roads are narrowly carved into them giving us the drop dead view of the treacherous fall below. Children here waved us good luck as we rode on and their smiles set on their Mongolian features just were a beautiful sight. By the time, we reached Kargil, dusk had set in and we had to quickly settle into one of the only two hotels in the town.
Tainted by the horrific war in 1999, this small little town has heavy presence of the Army. Next morning when we rode towards Drass, we passed through the patch of NH1-D directly running parallel to the LOC. ''Caution - You are now under enemy observation. '', the army's yellow colored sign-board read. If nothing more was reassuring, the combat attire clad jawans smiling back at us from their perched positions in their bunkers, certainly was. 60 kms ahead of Kargil, lay Drass, witness to the lethal shelling battles during Operation Vijay, 1999. The army has now raised a memorial here, commemorating a decade of the success of the operation and Hawaldar Veer Bahadur Thapa was kind enough to point us to Tiger Hill, Rhino horn, Point 4875 ( now called Batra top in honor of Capt. Vikram Batra ) and Tololing ; names that have become synonymous with Operation Vijay. He also showed us around the gallery where recovered arms from Pakistanis were on display as were pictures of the battle fought on these hills. Drass, claims to be the second coldest inhabited place on the earth with lowest temperatures of -60 degrees recorded in 2002, second only to Siberia. An hour's ride from Drass got us riding through the highly, treacherous and ill-famed ZojiLa pass, a narrow sandy high altitude pass which opens into the Kashmir valley. The first motorized vehicles to traverse this area were army jeeps in 1950. Army personnel in combat gear and automated weapon in hand kept guard at every 100 meter distance as we dragged along this pass to be welcomed in to the green conifers of Sonamarg, Kashmir was in sight and we had to agree to what the famous poet had to say about it, ''If there is paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here''. A lunch of typical Kashmiri cuisine set in a perfect tone and we kept riding towards Srinagar, 100 kms away. Mules and horses grazed on open green fields, men worked on paddy fields and women carried baskets on their back while the army kept vigil in intermittent check-posts, posing a complete irony to what the poet had written. Militancy surely has had effects on this paradise. A puncture in the rear wheel of the Electra just before Kundan, made sure by the time we reached Srinagar via Ganderbal, dusk had set in. We asked our way to the famous Dal lake and instantly got mesmerized by its beauty. Dumping our things in the hotel, we were quickly on a Shikara, the famous couch boats of Kashmir, while Baba - the friendly shikarawala paddled softly and guided us around the Dal. He pointed to the two distinct religious monuments in Srinagar, the Shankaracharya temple and the Hazratbal mosque prominently placed diagonally across the Dal lake. 40,000 people live on the Dal lake, many of them owners of houseboats - floating hotels and floating shops - selling everything from medicine to grocery to Kashmiri textile and handicrafts. Baba also pointed us to the district jail in the distance, where a bomb blast had taken place the day before, claiming 3 innocent lives and which explained the heightened CRPF and army presence around Dal ( the road aligning Dal lake is called Boulevard road ). After a refreshing boat ride and dinner we headed for our rooms, we had a 270 km ride to Jammu the next day.
The road out of Srinagar towards Jammu was under heavy CRPF and army vigil, soldiers in combat gear ready for any unexpected attack. The road runs through the town of Anantnag the approach to which is flanked by Kashmiri willow cricket bat manufacturers. I, for a moment was tempted to buy and carry one back home, but sense prevailed and I rejected the idea. The BRO's ''Project Beacon'' kept the road in super condition, one which we and surely the two machines enjoyed gliding through. At Qazigund, the ride got steeper around the alpine covered mountains setting a mindboggling view to the valley behind, till we hit a road sign - ''Stop by and enjoy the last view of the valley''. Sadly enough we did that as we rode carefully behind a army convoy of trucks to reach Jawahar tunnel, a 2.5 km tunnel piercing through the Pir-Panjal range providing an important gateway to Kashmir. The guard at the ''Foreigners stop for verification'' stall beckoned me to pull by and as I raised my wiser to reveal my face, he realized his mistake. Nevertheless, he asked ''Kaha ke ho?'' as if to make amends. A disciplined and careful ride through the tunnel got us out into the slopes of Banihal. Set beautifully in the slopes, it also has many dhabas -motels to serve to truckers after they make the drive through the grueling tunnel. We stopped over at one such dhaba and ordered some rajma-chawal while a couple of army JCOs, automated AK-56 in hand stood guard on the roof, apparently to ward of any attack on the culinary bastion. Riding much ahead of Banihal we hit a patch of alpine cover again, Patnitop , 100 kms before Jammu is the perfect weekend getaway for people in Jammu and we were not to miss the fun either with the extended weekend that we were devouring. Taking the by-pass off Udhampur, the electra had her second puncture, thanks to a piercing road marker. It was not before dark that we finished the job of fixing the wheel back in its place and we managed to sneak in through the army convoy of buses and trucks into brightly lit but crowded Jammu. The heat of the plains surely was felt and we took refuge in a cozy air-conditioned room of a roadside hotel.
Jammu probably has more mini-buses than residents and next day it was a hard time sniggling past them onto the national highway. Our next destination for the day was Dharamshala, in Himachal Pradesh. The highway ride on the plains after more than a week was boring to be honest and I was more than glad to cross the Lakanpur-Madhaopur J&K - Punjab border on our way to Pathankot, the junction from where we were to take the road to Dharamshala. A little ahead of Pathankot, was Nurpur, bringing us to familiar ground of hilly terrain and snaky roads around green Shivaliks. We Indians have a habit of literal conversion of Hindi to English and numerous wine stores with signboards - ''Wicky available here'' (spare the spelling mistake) - ''Indian and English'' just augmented my belief. The English will really be happy to know that the entire range of ''Foreign liquor'' has been attributed to them and we can only hope they don't demand a royalty charge on each bottle. The ride was very comforting and save for a under construction bridge near the Kangra airport where traffic was slow, the bullet soared in beautifully to Dharamshala, a town at about 1500 meters above sea level. We had decided to ride even higher, onto a place called McLeodganj, the seat of the Dalai Lama and the entire Tibetan government in exile. Dharamkot, a tad above McLeodganj is where we got a place to stay.
McLeodganj was so magical, we docked there for the next two days, giving ourselves and the machines the much deserved rest needed. The next morning we paid a visit to Bhagsunag, almost a century old temple dedicated to the Lord Shiva near which a magical waterfall falls onto long stretches of laden rocks. Later in the day, we visited the Dalai lama's temple, the Tibetan museum and the Vipasana meditation centre at Dharamkot. The Vipasana course requires one to relinquish all earthly pleasures for ten days, keep to oneself meditating all day and not to speak or make eye contact with anyone for the entire span of time. ''Surely, not a course for me,'' I had commented glancing over a signboard in their campus which had on it written, what else ''Silence Please''.
Bidding McLeodganj goodbye was even more difficult than bidding Leh adieu, but more territories had to be conquered and the Royal Enfield engines roared in agreement. The halt for the night was to be Amritsar, in Punjab and all we needed to reach there was to ride back to Pathankot and then ride 100 kms south to Amritsar. Riding through the same road which had got us to Dharamshala from Pathankot, was, unlike popular belief, not a tad boring - riding thorough the hills never is. However, as Pathankot approached, the roads became more straight and plain. The greenery of Punjab although poured in a breath of fresh air and Sikh farmers drove proudly behind the wheel of a tractor, while Ms.Pooja's naughty Bhangra numbers played loudly on oddly adjusted loud-speakers; loud enough to disturb the practicing Carnatic vocalist in Kanyakumari. We stopped over for lunch, 50 kms before Amritsar, at a roadside dhaba, where we met a septuagenarian truck driver - these folks really are strong. He was extremely critical of the fact that we taken this ''dangerous'' ride and that our parents ought to be worried. An ex-serviceman himself, he had heard about Pune and he enlightened us about General Vaidya's assassination in Pune, post the tainted 1984 Operation Blue Star. Wishing us good luck, he and his associate (who had till then only nodded his head in conformity to every word his Ustad spoke) climbed effortlessly onto their trucks and drove off.
A little before Amritsar we took a right-turn onto the road marked -''Wagah border, 40 kms ahead'' , where we were on schedule to witness the ''Retreating'' ceremony at 5:30 p.m. Numerous tourists had arrived to watch the ceremony. The Indian and Pakistani sides of the border are separated by a barbed wired fence, and a lone gate obstructed the road to Lahore, guarded by the BSF on the Indian side and the Rangers on the other. Patriotic songs played in the background as we watched in complete amazement as the soldiers from both sides marched smartly, each trying to outdo the opponent in raising the leg skywards or screaming aloud commands. After witnessing a twenty-five minute display of extreme discipline and pride, we pick up our bikes from the stand and head straight for the ''Golden Temple'' in Amritsar. The Gurudwara has many in-house guesthouses, one of them being an ''NRI'' guest-house, rented for the night at unbelievable cheap rates. Their availability is not guaranteed though. The folks at the guesthouses booking centre thankfully mistook us for ''NRIs'', our backpacks and biking gear surely doing the trick here. The gold plate enclosed sanctorum stood gallantly right in the middle of the holy lake. An hour long walk through a huge queue got us there; the entire atmosphere was lightened with a divine aura, one that has to be felt to be believed. After the darshan we headed for the langar - meal meant to be served to one and all. The Times of India had published an article on Guru Nanak's jayanti a few years back, I remembered a couple of lines from there - ''Maybe this is why Sikhs have huge bodies, to accommodate the huge hearts that they have. They feed to beggars, food meant for kings.'' The langar was served in a huge hall where around a 1000 people ate the same food, simple but rich with pure ghee. Devotees wait patiently to take the used plates and spoons from your hand, pour water for you to wash your hands and with a smiling face offer towels to wipe your hands. Serving humans is their way of reaching spiritual peace, a practice which left me humbled.
The next day, we had to ride 450 kms to Delhi. The road was straight and well maintained, so the bullets rode beautifully. As we crossed through Jalandhar, Phagwara and Ludhiyana, I felt as if riding through geography lessons in school - industrial towns famous for textiles and hosiery. I learnt a few new things about Punjab though. Punjabis sure have a contribution to innovation in automobile design, a ''Jugaad'' is one of it - A front wheel driven 3 wheeler having a diesel pump set as an engine and a religious symbol in place of the number plate. Another innovation is the ''Maruta'' - a wooden chassis with an open genset as the engine and an ingenious axel set to move the rear wheels. The scorching sun gave no respite to our tired bodies as we again rode back by-passing Chandigarh onto familiar roads through Kurukshetra, Panipat, Sonepat onto Delhi through the Karnal by-pass. Friends with whom we were to stay in Delhi greeted us with a hero's welcome. An sumptuous dinner is all it took us to get high and crash onto the bed.
All that was left to do for the next couple of days was to pack off our machines to Pune and meet up with some friends in Delhi. We then take the morning flight on the 21st back home, lazing on the push-back seat romancing the last 16 days of fun, enjoyment and enlightenment. I presume a similar feeling must have passed through the Mughals when they had conquered North India.