05
Nubra Valley + Turtuk
2 days
We leave for Nubra Valley in the morning. After only a couple of minutes we start ascending the mountains. Soon the dry landscape shows traces of the snowfall from the previous days. The packs of snow on the side of the road sparkle like holographic glitter.
Our first stop is mighty Khardung La. At 5359 metres altitude, it is one of the world’s highest motorable roads. Between October and May, the heavy snowfall on Khardung La pass prohibits the passage to the valley. We are some of the last tourists to visit Nubra this year.
There is a military base at the top. These soldiers maintain the roads and ensure safe travels. We step out to enjoy the view and climb the stupa that is covered in snow and colourful buddhist flags against the bright blue sky. We can clearly feel the lack of oxygen. Climbing the stairs to the stupa makes me dizzy. Our toes are frozen when we step back into the car. After getting this breath of very fresh air, we resume our way to the valley. We are overtaken by a big military truck that dumps dirt on the roads. The hands of two soldiers in the cargo bed are wiping away the dirt that keeps the roads from getting slippery.
Along the way down we see farmers with domesticated yaks and more military bases. After a couple of hours, a view of the wide Nubra Valley unfolds before us, pierced by the mintblue Shyok river that comes from China and leaves India for Pakistan. Wine red trees spill out of the cracks of the mountains into the valley. Before completely descending into the valley, we stop for lunch in a little eatery where we choose momos and Szechuan noodles. A clear Chinese influence. A pack of little street puppies keeps us company.
The big Buddha at the Diskit Monastery is visible even from Hunder. When the shadows of the mountain range cover the valley in darkness, the golden buddha on its hill still reflects the afternoon sun.
Husain takes us to a homestay in Hunder. This was by far our favourite place in India. We spend our nights talking to the cousins of our hostess and dancing with the kids. It does not take long before Rumi, the host’s daughter, starts combing my hair and admiring my earrings. Once she is confident she wants to show us her dancing skills, she pulls out the speaker box. As she and her brother start dancing, the other guests and family gather around. One of the host’s cousins shows us Ladakhi dance moves. Of course Rumi forces us to join at one point and we now have to live with the idea that there is footage of us dancing to Indian songs in a Ladakhi living room.
I have been wanting to visit Hunza for some time and as I have little patience, visiting Turtuk seemed like a lovely introduction to the Karakoram mountain range. Pictures from the village are similar to what I imagine the Hunza valley to look like and as Turtuk has only been part of India since the war in 71, the culture is still the same as it is in the Pakistani region of Gilgit Baltistan. Sadly enough, since their change of citizenship, the locals are not allowed to cross the border to meet their family. Turtuk is one of five Balti-populated villages in India. The Balti-language they speak does not exist in writing. As opposed to what you will often hear and read, Turtuk is not the last village to the Indian-Pakistani border, but it is the last village that you can visit as a foreigner. Turtuk has only been open for tourism since 2010. Since then, some guest houses and eco campsites have opened that allow the locals to make an income.
The road to Turtuk follows the mint blue river Shyok again. As the road winds through the valley it is not hard to imagine how bactrian camels carried goods to Central Asia during the days of the old Silk Road. The bustle of the village is refreshing after hours in the empty valley. It is an oasis in a high altitude desert.
The upper part of Turtuk could have easily been a location from a fantasy film. The stone houses are accessible only by narrow meandering paths with adjacent water streams.
We cross paths with goats and chickens. Women are separating the chaff from the wheat and washing clothes in the streams. We often hear a donkey beaming. Apparently it is mating season and we are treated more than once to a demonstration of how it’s done. Followed by an attack with a stone by an angry local.
When we arrive back at the guesthouse, we are in for another night of playing with the kids and reading a book. Our host goes to the market and makes a delicious thali for us. We have a wonderful evening talking to the other guests from Gujarat. They offer us a bag of spicy Gujarati cookies and a bottle of perfume oil. We kindly try to refuse this too generous offer, but they do not take no for an answer. Rumi runs around with bindis on her earlobes and face. Before the wife goes to bed I am happily forced to accept a whole booklet of bindis.