We are back in Leh after a tour of the monasteries. As we walk down Upper Changspa to the main market, the notes are still there. We had cello-taped little notes asking for partners to share a jeep for a two-day trip to Pangong Tso at the travel agent&rsquos. Trouble is, nobody really wants to do a night stay at the lake. &ldquoYou must spend at least two days there, you know. To get a feel of the place,&rdquo Javed of Dreamland Tours had told us. We had started hanging on to his tips like punters do to market pundits. It&rsquos a long journey&mdashfive hours up, an hour at the lake, and six hours down. Javed says maybe we should just go it alone. It&rsquos a bit steep but what the hell.
The jeep tries not to make too much of the climb. But deep down, it&rsquos gasping, which gives away to general self-doubt through Angchuk. &ldquoThis is the last tough stretch. Another half-hour, and we&rsquoll be done,&rdquo he says pointing towards Changla Pass. We are at one end of a giant, concave Black Forest cake. The road zigzags like slashes from a careless knife. Sturdy icicles hang from a bend, the sun breaking their resolve slowly, the drooling fangs of a grinning monster. Finally, the jeep comes to an abrupt halt at Changla Top, a little sheepish at its sissyness. It&rsquos hot, even in just a T-shirt. Lungs struggle to pluck oxygen from nothingness. Army jawans look at us with solemn eyes. We&rsquoll be gone. They will be here in the night. At 17,000-plus feet.
Long stretches of brown. Crevices on a mountain ahead like stitch-marks on skin, the upper lip of a wizened woman. We pass the campsite at Mukleb where we have to stay the night. Spending the night at Pangong, the queen&rsquos chamber, is forbidden. You could be a security risk. A spy. Or have weak lungs. A seizure. Suddenly, a turquoise bead on the mud, fallen off a larger ornament. &ldquoThat&rsquos Pangong Tso,&rdquo says Angchuk. Just the tip. The bead vanishes as quickly. The landscape is moving towards a climax. Featureless, prickly mounds get smoothened out to hand-patted chunks of clay.
The creators had called for an urgent board meeting. The blueprint had to be finalised. The top-god will be there. There had been frenetic brainstorming among the lesser gods. Let&rsquos think out-of-the-box, the brash younger ones said. Rubbish, said the old guard. &ldquoTraditions have to be kept up.&rdquo In the end, the status-quoists won. The model that lay before the top-god was like any other terrain in his kingdom, arid, stark, lifeless. He went around it, deep in thought. Everyone waited. &ldquoWe&rsquoll give it some more time. Let&rsquos sleep on it,&rdquo the top-god said.
In the evening, a brat-god found the office door ajar. She tiptoed into the boardroom and was instantly struck by the model that lay in the centre. She went closer to look. Her elbow grazed the huge inkpot that stood at one end of the table. The brat-god panicked and ran out. The thick ink oozed out onto the model. Next morning, the meeting was in for a shock. The model, made painstakingly, was ruined. The mountain depths were ink-logged, changing colours with the sun. The top-god was pensive. Then, a spur-of-the-moment decision. &ldquoThis is how it&rsquoll be. I&rsquoll give it life,&rdquo he said, waving a wand over the model. Pangong Tso was born.
Well, there is no legend like this about Pangong. But there could easily be. The lake is nearly 130km long, at over 15,000ft, beginning&mdashor ending&mdashin our country, winding its way into China. Emerald green, aquamarine, deep purple. We are at the café at Lakong, at the lake&rsquos edge, where most day-trippers spend an hour or two. The lake curves to our right to vanish between the mountains. &ldquoLet&rsquos go a little further up,&rdquo we tell Angchuk. About three kilometres along the lake, he stops the jeep. &ldquoWe can&rsquot go any further. The army doesn&rsquot allow it.&rdquo Up ahead is a green patch. &ldquoThat&rsquos Spangmik village. We can&rsquot go there.&rdquo There are three gleaming white dots on the green. &ldquoWe&rsquoll just stop for 10 minutes and come back.&rdquo He has the look parents give greedy kids. But he drives.
Padma is an effervescent 20-something. She and five friends have taken a loan from an NGO to set up these tents, the white spots we saw, under an eco-tourism scheme. Right on the banks. Now they are waiting for tourists. When Angchuk is out of earshot, she says the taxi operators dissuade them from coming to Spangmik. When they can make a quick day-trip to Pangong from Leh, why would they recommend a night here (Later in Leh, the taxi operators&rsquo representative puts the blame on the army.) Just behind Padma&rsquos tents, there&rsquos a white elephant&mdasha sprawling resort by Ladakh tourism. From the look of it, only a few ghosts have ventured near. Padma and her husband make us noodle soup. Angchuk has mellowed, he&rsquos helping them peel the potatoes for dinner. &ldquoWe&rsquoll tackle the army tomorrow at the checkpost,&rdquo he says resignedly.
Spangmik is one of the last three villages on the Indian side. It has seven houses. Maan and Merak to the north are bigger. All three live on the edge. Frozen for eight months. Nothing grows here, just some potatoes and barley. That too in the blink-and-you-miss summer months. The lake water is brackish. A few pashmina sheep give the villagers some succour. But their numbers are dwindling.
It&rsquos dusk. We are on a hillock, gazing. Pangong Tso is drained off all colour. The mask drops. Under the glittering charade is a mean heart. Was it an inkpot the brat-god tipped over or a poison vat There is an icy wind blowing. We walk back to our tents.
On our way back, we have a run-in with the army at Lakong. Angchuk has that smug I-told-you-so look. But he saves the day. Out story is the jeep broke down at Spangmik and we were forced to stay. After an hour of inane Q&A (is this Chinesemade, to a bottle of whisky) we are on our way. A final glance at Pangong Tso&mdashit&rsquos back to playing to the gallery.
The information
Pangong Tso is 160km from Leh. The roads are good, but the Changla Pass closes in bad weather. Till such time as night stay at Spangmik is allowed, it&rsquos better to stay at the Leh Eco Group camp at Mukleb (01982-253588), about 15 km from Lakong.