It’s not road safety they’re worried about up here, it’s invasion.
The scenery has a spare and minimal beauty and the buildings along the way, though few and far between, are very dramatic. Some ten miles along the highway to Manali, the walls of the old palace of the kings of Leh rear up along a prominent ridge to the north of the road. A king hasn’t lived there for 400 years, but the evidence of power and wealth still clings to the place, both in the scale of the ruins and, on a nearby hillside, row upon row of crumbling white monuments. From a distance they resemble lines of half-melted snowmen, with the outlines of once square bases, conical middles and pointed tops now soft and imprecise. These stupas, or chortens, as they’re called in Tibetan, contain the remains of lamas and monks from the monastery attached to the palace as well as members of the royal family and their possessions.
They vary in size, the highest being almost 20 feet tall. Usually situated in favourable geomantic locations, their design represents steps to enlightenment. They are constructed on five levels, with the square base symbolizing the earth and the tapering tops the sky and stars. As I wander among them I can see that few are intact. Most are leaning or cracked down the sides and all look as if they may have been opened up at some time. Intriguingly, many seem to have been freshly whitewashed, suggesting someone is still looking after them.
I have the feeling, as I stand in the middle of this field of whited sepulchres with little more than a stand of poplars growing in the valley below, that there was a time when these bare hills on the banks of the Indus must have supported a small empire. What was so different then? More water perhaps, a wider flood plain or perhaps just the power and influence that came from living on the Silk Route.
As we head east more stunning monasteries and temples appear out of nowhere. Thikse straddles an outcrop of rock with the smaller outbuildings that are the monks’ quarters wrapped around the steep sides below it. This has been a working monastery (or gompa, in Tibetan) for nearly 1000 years and 60 lamas still live here.
The richest and most striking of the great Indus valley gompas is Hemis, another half-hour’s drive along the main road and then by a side track up into a narrow gorge squeezed between walls of striped granite, folded and thrust upwards at 45 degrees to the plain below.
The last part of the climb to the monastery is up a long stone staircase. By the time I reach the top my breathing is shallow and my legs feel like lead, but the dramatic entrance makes me glad I persevered.
Despite the narrow site, the courtyard that opens out beyond the main gateway gives a heady sense of space. High stone walls rise on three sides while the fourth is open to the bare rock slopes beyond. The walls are covered in paintings and a line of prayer wheels runs along one side. Another mighty flight of steps leads to the prayer hall, whose entrance is flanked by wooden pillars with carved figure-heads and richly coloured paintings of dragons and gods. A wooden gallery runs around the walls and an arcade below has what look like very ancient wall paintings of the Buddha. Among the treasures of Hemis is a thangka so precious and huge that it is only displayed in public every 12 years. 2004 is the next time it will be exhibited. We’ve missed it by a matter of months.
We drive on as far as Chemrey Gompa, another monastery topping a carefully selected crag. Can’t help but marvel at the careful painting of these monastery walls and the way the white, brown and maroon, and the timber and stone construction, harmonize so elegantly with the dry and tawny landscape around.
By now, all of us are feeling the press of altitude and by the time we’ve returned to Leh and eaten momos (Tibetan stuffed dumplings) and noodles, none of us has much energy left. There only remains one thing to do before bed and that’s to raise a glass of beer to Roger and Nigel, who were both with me exactly 15 years ago today, filming my departure from the Reform Club and the start of Around the World in Eighty Days.
Nepal
Day Forty Four : Kathmandu
We arrived here last night from Delhi on the penultimate night of Dasain, a big Nepali festival, and though badly in need of some rest and recuperation after our Indian adventure, the final day’s celebrations cannot be missed.
To start the day we’ve been asked by Pratima Pande, a formidable, energetic, Gordonstoun-educated Nepali, to watch a puja, a ritual act of worship, at the home of one of her in-laws. This being the first time I’ve ever been to Nepal, I’m craning my head out of the car window as we drive there. I have a sense of streets that are less hectic and a city much easier on the eye than those we’ve seen these past few weeks. Buildings look like buildings rather than structures for supporting billboards.
The house is comfortable but not opulent. As we arrive a group of musicians are parading around the garden before taking up a position on the far side of a small swimming pool. It’s a bit of a squeeze, as two of them are wielding large, curved horns.
I’m told that this is Bijaya Dasami, the ‘victorious tenth day’ of the Dasain festival and Pratima and her husband, mother-in-law, brothers-in-law, nephews, nieces and cousins are here to celebrate King Rama’s victory over the demon Ravana, helped by Shiva’s consort, Durga.
I’m desperately trying to get all this down in my notebook when the music starts and the family priest, an unassuming, modestly dressed figure, who looks as if he might have come to fix the plumbing, steps forward. The exact timing of the puja is very auspicious and it cannot be delayed for foreign film crews. He sets the ball rolling by applying a dab of yellow to the forehead of the oldest member of the family, Pratima’s 82-year-old mother-in-law. Today, Pratima tells me, everyone in Nepal, from the King downwards, will wear this mark, the tika.
After some light family argument over the exact order of things, the ceremony continues, in strictly hierarchical fashion, with the five brothers, and then the children, kissing the feet of their elders and giving each other the male tika, made from a preparation of curd, rice and vermilion powder. Jamara, shoots of barley, are placed on the head or in a garland around the neck as a symbol of fertility and longevity.
As an outsider I’m struck by how seriously all this is taken. Pratima’s brothers-in-law are hard-nosed, professional people, one a doctor, one a banker, two others in the army. They’re dressed in the labada salwar, a knee-length tunic, with tight leggings and black leather shoes, but over it they wear a Western-style sports jacket.
Many of them have been educated in Britain or America, their children speak fluent English and go to private schools. Yet here they are taking part in an ancient and rural ritual with a thoroughness that one can’t imagine among their counterparts in the West.
The first thing to remember, says Pratima, is that not only is Hinduism the religion of 90 per cent of Nepal, the Nepalis take pride in being more scrupulous in their observance of festivals. The Indians, she says, have shortened their ceremonies.
‘We take three days to get married. They do it in a day!’
She herself is off to a private audience at which she will be given tika and blessed by the King, who is some sort of relative (they’re both from the Rana family). This afternoon, he will be doing the same for the public in the grounds of the palace. Would I like to come along?
The prospect of meeting the king of a country I’ve only been in for 12 hours appeals in a surreal sort of way, and I scurry back to the Yak and Yeti Hotel to find a tie and get my only jacket pressed.