We woke up in a dhaba an hour or so before the crack of dawn. We weren’t shivering, thanks to the heavy fake-fur coats we had rented from a shop down the road—more suitable for Siberia than our current location. These coats are a common sight on tourists making their first encounter with snow in these parts. However, we were stiff, as dhaba benches, even when assembled lengthwise, are not exactly comfortable. As we stirred awake, a group of young tourists walked in to grab a morning cup of tea. They had spent the night in their bus.
We were all in Marhi, 17 km short of Rohtang Pass, the last place to stock up on parathas and fur coats before reaching the top of the pass. At the top, there are more shops selling parathas and renting fur coats amidst the glaciers and snow. But the top of the pass had proven to be deceptively far.
Rohtang, for the past few days, had been a massive traffic jam, just shy of 4,000 meters—possibly the highest traffic jam in the world. A dubious distinction to be stuck in the middle of. Unusually heavy rain, resultant landslides, and increased traffic on the road to Leh because of recent agitations barricading the Srinagar route meant that Rohtang was a complete cluster. Army convoys and oil tankers, hippies, and honeymooning couples were all stalled by the hundreds in the cold, rutted slush that passes for a road up there.
It wasn’t all miserable, of course. People usually manage to find bonhomie in strange situations, and there were bhuttas to be had at only four times the normal price. The road had been intermittently open, giving everyone false hopes, but the rocks kept falling, including two massive boulders just as evening fell—too big for the bulldozer to move. The road was closed for the night as explosives were rigged, so we headed back to Marhi, walking down steep mule paths and then hitching a ride in an army truck to spend the night warm and try again in the morning. Our driver elected to stay up and sleep in the taxi so he wouldn’t lose his place in the queue.
But Marhi is just a string of dhabas stretched out along the road. There are no hotels and virtually no rooms to be had for love or money. Hence, the night at the dhaba and the morning desire to get across Rohtang as quickly as possible.
We hauled ourselves up a nearly vertical shortcut for over an hour to get back up to our taxi, optimistic that the road would open soon. But there had been more landslides during the night; the road ahead was blocked by hundreds of tons of rock and mud, and boulders kept tumbling from on high. We were done with the waiting. Following local precedent, we suicidally walked ourselves and our luggage across the landslide, found a taxi returning to Kaza, and got in. In retrospect, that was a bit of luck. Kaza has all of four taxis. Maybe five.
The other side of Rohtang was blissfully quiet and empty, a welcome and complete contrast to the traffic, cacophony, and junk on the other side. While there had been fog and cloud on one side, the other side was brilliantly clear, and we could finally see the dazzling snow-clad peaks that surrounded us on all sides as we began our descent.
But then, Rohtang is a watershed in more than merely a literal sense. On one side lies Kullu, the valley of the Beas, which originates from Rohtang. On the other side is Lahaul, the valley of the Chandra, which is a source for the Chenab. Kullu is fairly densely populated by mountain standards and is mostly Hindu. Lahaul and Spiti are sparsely populated and heavily Buddhist.
The most striking contrast, however, is in the landscape. Kullu is picturesque in a conventionally alpine way, with pine forests and rolling meadows. Lahaul and Spiti occasionally feel like they belong to another planet.
As we eased out of the hairpin bends descending the pass into the straight road heading to Kaza, we found ourselves in a steep, lush valley, falling away to the Chandra River. Above us, the snow peaks gave way to glaciers, and the glaciers gave way to meadows and the occasional stream rushing across the stony road bed. The grass was a deep, rich green, covered with the blue haze of wildflowers growing thick.
An occasional car would pass us, an event rare enough that Angdui (our driver) would stop and exchange greetings and news with the other driver. The only traffic jam-like situation we faced was passing a herd of a thousand sheep and goats on their way to summer pastures around Chandratal.
It was amazing to be within touching distance of so many glaciers. As we got closer and closer to Spiti, the work of the glaciers upon the land became increasingly obvious. Soon, we were driving through glaciers that came down as far as the river, with bulldozers cutting a path through them. All around us was the evidence of glaciers past: the hierarchical arrangement of boulders descending to the river (boulders at the bottom of the slope, pebbles at the top), and the grey slopes of moraine symmetrically falling from near-vertical cliffs. Just gazing upon the majestic landscape made me want to become a geologist. Once we crossed the Kunzum La into Spiti, that feeling grew even stronger.
The landscape of Spiti was starker and drier than that of Lahaul, and it was sublime. The mountains were all around us, bare except for the snow high up. The shifting colors as they caught the sun at different angles were breathtaking, as was the play of light and shade upon them as the clouds scudded across a vast turquoise sky. There were virtually no trees; yaks and horses grazed on the narrow strip of green along the Spiti River at the bottom of the valley. Hardly any people were in sight.
It was more than a hundred kilometers from Rohtang before we reached Losar, the first village in Spiti. And that was a village of only a few hundred. In some ways, it felt like being in the mythic West, in empty big-sky country. Except that the landscape was a little too strange for that. Towering anteater castles rose in symmetrical ranks from the slopes by the river. In the mountains above, you could clearly see the twisted, folded layers of multi-colored sedimentary rocks—a stark illustration that the Himalayas were, not so long ago, under the sea. This was the Wild West at its most primal, a geologist's dream, Wyoming meets the moon.
Outside the Ki Monastery, eight kilometers from Kaza, an old woman was selling souvenirs. Most of them were the usual Buddhist trinkets easily found at Janpath, but she also had something unusual: highly polished and varnished chunks of rock with marine fossils in them. When I asked her where these came from, she replied, "From the hills above." This confirmed something our friend Sunil had told us in Kaza—that Spiti is a geological paradise, with coral reefs from the Tethys Sea now resting at 5,000 meters above sea level.
Sunil also mentioned that this fossil heritage is in considerable danger due to commercial exploitation, like the old lady selling fossils outside the monastery. The local panchayats recognize this issue and have passed a resolution against excavating these fossils, but the trade continues, as we observed. (If you see someone selling fossils, don’t buy them.)
Sunil had also told us something that was depressingly true—Kaza is rapidly becoming a slum. It hadn’t seemed so when we arrived in the evening, as it appeared to be a picturesque town in the gathering gloom, with red roofs and a river rushing by. But as we explored it in the morning light, the truth of what he said became appallingly clear.
Kaza has been discovered, and not necessarily for the better. There are ugly concrete buildings springing up everywhere, completely out of sync with the local vernacular of construction, most of them intended as guesthouses for backpackers. This means cheap accommodation, certainly, but also a visibly soulless sameness: the generic kitsch of tie-dye clothes, signs in Hebrew, and the inevitable German Bakery—hallmarks of a new kind of nomadic ghetto stretching from Pune to Rishikesh. Kaza is rapidly on its way to becoming Paharganj exported to paradise.
But all is not yet lost. And this is where Sunil comes in. Sunil is one of the partners who run an organization called Ecosphere, which focuses on what they term responsible tourism and other ventures that aim to integrate environmentally friendly practices with people’s livelihoods.
One of their initiatives is promoting home-stays in the villages around Kaza. The idea is that visitors hike into the spectacular mountain scenery surrounding Kaza and, after a half-day’s hike, find food and shelter with a family in the village they reach. This way, people can trek from village to village, stay comfortably with local families, and avoid the need to carry cumbersome camping gear. Guests are well looked after and exposed to local culture, while hosts earn some income. It’s a win-win situation for everyone.
A hiking trail ran from just outside our hotel, past the Sakya Monastery, up to the village of Hikim. Since we didn’t have the time to hike up to the village, we hitched a ride with Sunil, who was heading to Komic, a village with a population of fewer than a hundred. Komic is the highest village in Spiti, perched at 4,600 meters. Up there, we were barely below the snowline, even in July. Mountain tops always seem close enough to touch, but here they really were.
There was a monastery up there and a dozen British volunteers (the responsible tourists that Sunil is proud of) who were building an insulated greenhouse for the monastery, allowing them to grow vegetables even in winter (which drops to minus 30°C, and colder). Sunil was carrying supplies for them. As they wrapped up for the evening, people began drifting towards the nearby volleyball court. What started with two people soon became a five-a-side game. I ended up on a team with one of the young lamas from the monastery playing in center court. He was incredibly energetic and enthusiastic, leaping and finding the ball, creating chances out of nowhere, and exulting every time we scored. We won, and I had whimsical headlines in my head: "Lama Leads International Team to Victory in Highest Volleyball Game in the World." Or, just another day in Spiti.
At sunset, we reached the village of Langza—a picture-perfect village with an exceptionally beautiful snow-clad mountain overlooking it. A golden statue of the Medicine Buddha sat high on a knoll above the village, warding off illnesses coming from below.
Our rooms (the family guest rooms) were large and comfortable, with mattresses and cushions all around the walls, all ready for a mehfil, as Abhinandita said. When we sat with the family, they insisted on giving us the seat of honor, at the head of the living room/kitchen/dining room, closest to the stove that both cooks and heats. There were endless cups of tea and conversation, and as the night drew on, local alcohol made from barley was served. It tasted wonderful, and then it all made sense. Short of maturing in oak casks, what we were drinking was essentially fine single-malt whisky.
We were sitting in a mehfil in the highlands, drinking fine Spiti whisky in the homes of kind, gracious, and hospitable people. The mountains and the Buddha watched over us. Who could ask for more?
The travails of Rohtang seemed totally worth it for this.
The best time to visit Rohtang La and Spiti Valley is June and September. The weather is relatively mild during these months, and the roads are accessible. The snow has melted away, revealing stunning landscapes. Daytime temperatures are pleasant, ranging from 15°C to 20°C (59°F to 68°F), making it ideal for sightseeing and adventure activities. However, be prepared for cold nights, especially in Spiti Valley. From November to April, the winter months bring heavy snowfall, rendering the roads impassable and extremely low temperatures, making travel challenging.