Zanskar: Magic Mountains

I’LL TAKE YOU TO the land where the snow leopard hunts the bharal blue sheep, the Himalayan wolves chase the yak, where the ibex, the marmot and the grey goral run under the unyielding gaze of the lammergeier bearded vulture. We’ll go high up in the mountains, where the splendour and majesty of the valleys are nestled in a silence sustained over millennia, guarded by snow and rocks and water, where all movements and sounds are contained by isolation.

I’ll take you to the valley of Zanskar, the last original Tibetan Buddhist society with a continuous, untainted lineage dating back thousands of years, because in Tibet, Sikkim, Bhutan, and Nepal this traditional culture has been either suf­focated by the Chinese Cultural Revolution or watered down by modernisation.

Landscape can change you. This is why many travel. Sudden initiations into the quiet joy of a cool, thin-aired Himalayan breeze blowing over one of the five thousand glacial lakes, the reverberation of azure light on the face of the candid mountain, the sound of the muscular, turquoise Tsarap river gushing in the embrace of dark brown valleys— all this morphs into a renewed biography of the spirit, washing away personal history, old private tales, or the memory of violence. Here you can take stock and think about how to start anew.

In A Journey in Ladakh, undertaken by the India-born British author almost 50 years ago, Andrew Harvey mused, describing the bus ride carrying him into what felt like the background of a classical painting, on travelling “away from the ruined classical temple, the Oxford walks and Italian trees, all the complex civilised ironies and melancholies of Europe, towards the silence of the lake, the white light of the mountain, the happiness of those solitary sails opening so completely to the wind bodying them that they seem only slightly heavier that the wind itself.”

This is the common reaction of a European, a Westerner, in what appears like an exotic remoteness where the Buddhist mantra “praising the jewel at the heart of the lotus,” the Om mani padme hum, seems to intertwine with the whispers of the glaciers, running down meadows of edelweiss, through the barley and lentil fields.

Reality, up here, more than 3,000 metres above the sea, can be exhilarating once you get over the high-level queasiness. But it’s a lot more complex than just the mystical relief it can gift to an outside trekker.

Here is a story of a heavenly valley, and its welcoming villagers who live in a high-altitude semi-desert, shielded from the monsoon by the northern flank of the Himalayas in one of the coldest continually inhabited places in the world. And of what threats this world could face from both nature and humans.

It’s a land where in the past the tradition of fraternal polyandrous marriage (several brothers married to the same wife) and the celibacy of monks, along with a high infant mortality rate, have worked as efficient birth control. Where cattle in summer, just like in the Alps, climb to higher pas­tures in the transhumance. Where people in winter are cut off from the world for six months of the year, when the passes are snowed under, and where you must know how to foresee the future by stocking food that will last you from autumn into spring. It might not be a coincidence that the Buddha of the Future, Maitreya, is one of the most revered here, as I discover visiting the magnificent Karsha monastery with a breathless (not just because of the altitude) view of the Padum valley.

After crossing the Zojila Pass coming from Kargil, which controls this valley from 250km away as its sub-district, among the protests of the majority of locals who demand indepen­dence, the first signs that you are leaving the Islamic-majority Suru Valley are the Buddhist stupas.

“Every object in the light of Ladakh seems to have some­thing infinite behind it,” wrote Harvey, “every object, even the most humble, seems to abide in its real place.” The shape of the stupas is a constant reminder of the different stages of Buddhist illumination leading to liberation. “The stupas echo the mountains and mountains are stupas also. Everything in this world is linked.”

Everything is linked. Even those rainbows appearing beyond the high peaks which, according to the Zanskaris, mean the mountains are dancing: “Rainbows are the scarves that mountains wind around their wrists in their dance.” The light in this valley can induce such visions—absolute, intense, pure. The believers feel that the light here is like the Eye of the Buddha that penetrates all masks and reveals the true nature of things.

The true nature of things in the light of Ladakh, through the Eye of the Buddha of the Future, tells us that there’s trouble ahead, in this corner of the world. It’s not just in the demands for a craved independence from Kargil. The challenges come from nature, the changing climate, and from development, as the three roads that lead to this high corner of the world are im­proving and soon will give easier access to the world, bearing its welcomed wealth, but also the threat of the long-term damages of unsustainability.

Water and roads, these are the two themes that seem to shake up this valley constellated by intriguing monasteries, like the most remote Phuktal that I reach after a long trek, a gompa joined to the world by a newly built, wide Tibetan bridge festooned with colourful prayer flags.

It is one of the last few Buddhist monasteries in Ladakh that can still be reached only by foot. Supplies arrive by donkey, horses, mules, or through the frozen river in winter. The word Phuktal means the “cave of liberation”, a grotto visited by so many sages, monks, and scholars in the last 2,500 years. It is believed the 16 legendary first followers of Buddha, the Arhats, lived and meditated here. Lotsawa Phagpa Sherab, the Tibetan translator, and the brothers Dangsong, Pun and Sum, believed to have had the supernatural power of flight, meditated here. The legend says Zangpo caused a water spring to appear in the cave. But it must have run out because up until recently the monks had to climb down 80m of rock to get water.

Water surrounds the valleys of Zanskar, which, according to differing interpretations means “copper valley”, “the food palace”, or “beautiful white”. Glaciers up top, snow falling down even as late as May, rivers running free. And yet, water scarcity is the real threat up here, and until meditators regain the magic powers of making springs appear from nowhere, only technology can help.

There are solar panels now, up here, fuelling a water pump that brings water up from the river. A monk leads me to a medi­tation chamber filled with Buddhas and drums. He rhythmi­cally hits one of them: “This is made with human skin. And this box is made with a human skull.” “Whose?” I joke, “A tourist who asked too many questions?” He laughs and explains that some believers donate their bodies to the monastery after their death. The ultimate Buddhist compassion.

I hike back down, the Tsarap roaring in my ears. How can it be that we are surrounded by water, and yet there’s a problem of water scarcity? I’m now driving back through Cha village, along the river, on a smoky dirt road dangerously close to the precipice. I’m headed to meet someone who has dedicated the last few years to this problem.

The masked and bundled up workers from Bihar and Jharkhand I observe on the Manali-Padum road, built by the Border and Roads Organisation (BRO), are hammering rocks to smithereens, shovelling dirt out of the intestines of the mountains, widening the passageway, working hard to make it easier to reach Padum. Yet, at the moment, it’s still an experience that resonates with the Buddhist teaching that life is suffering, as I feel every single pothole hit the L4 and L5 in my spine to pinch my sciatic nerve.

THE THREAT FROM GLACIERS

A recent study published in Nature Geoscience proves that the loss of mass in glaciers terminating into lakes in the greater Himalayan region has been significantly underestimated, perhaps by more than 10 per cent for a total of 2.7 gigatonnes unaccounted for. Zanskar Valley feels it, too. The Himalayas, known as the Third Pole, nurture 5,000 glacial lakes and are the source of 10 major Asian rivers providing water to two billion people.

And yet those who live near the sources are struggling in a semi-desert. Rising temperatures, changes in precipitation patterns, lower snowfall and other environmental factors are leaving the fields dry. On top of this, in 2007 the valley suffered its third year of desert locust infestation, destroying many villages’ crops. Many prayers and some insecticides were applied and in 2008 the locusts disappeared, leaving only the danger of dwindling water, trickling more and more avari­ciously from the glaciers.

“We lack sufficient understanding of glaciers and of the Himalayan Hindu Kush water system. We’ve not been able to come up with sustainable policies in the Himalaya,” says Lobzang Wangtuk, co-founder of the Navikarna (Renewal) Trust that has been working on water solutions for the valley since 2016.

I meet him at his outdoor restaurant, ‘Zapizza’ in Padum, which dishes out a rather delicious margherita in a setting worthy of a Mongolian encampment. “Zanskar would like to become the example to be followed. But because we lack knowledge, we lack respect for water resources. We see the glaciers receding, the rivers drying up, but we are exploiting the groundwater without a proper sewage system, nor sound planning. This context leads to the catastrophic events that are happening in the high-altitude ecosystem. Sure, we can change our lifestyle, but we need a change in policy.”

The fear is that with development will come the exhaustion of resources. There’s hardly enough water as is, how can this valley sustain the tourism it would like to attract in order to bring some wealth?

“We want to localise the economy through homestays and community involvement,” says the charismatic and eloquent Wangtuk, who seems to have the right stuff to politically lead this area in the near future. “Travel can support medical, educa­tional, and environmental projects through our collaboration with other organisations. One adventure at a time.”

Here are the two key words: sustainability and contain­ment. The idea is to limit hotels to no more than 20 rooms. Perhaps, once the calculations of the available water supply per population (including tourists) are done, there will be an understanding on possible limits on the number of outside visitors who should be allowed here every season. The exam­ple of Bhutan springs to mind. Quality, well-paying tourism that salvages the happiness factor of the locals, preserves the landscape, and provides a better experience for visitors. At the moment, there’s no other sensible alternative.

FACES OF CLIMATE CHANGE

I stroll through the valley, on my way to visit a large boulder in Padum sculpted with several images of Buddha, across the river from the Indian Army base. I walk next to the young engineer Lobzang Tashi, who’s just taken the exam to be hired by BRO. He points to a line half away up the mountain touching the 6,000m mark above sea level.

“Ten years ago, in this season,” he tells me, “the snow reached half a way up. Now it covers only the top third of the mount. In dry regions like these you can actually see climate change very clearly. The mountains are like a giant graph. Every year we see how much less water we’ll get. Over there, towards the Karsha gompa, this year the crops have suffered in three villages because of the poor snowfall.”

After visiting Karsha, I drive through the village of Pishu, towards the Zangla nunnery. Pishu has regularly been im­poverished by the drought. “We used to have 10-15 cattle on average,” says one farmer, “now we have five-six maximum, and some have two-three animals.” No hope for water, even the canal has failed. In 2021, the Navikarna Trust gathered enough funds to help develop a solar water lifting technology raising the water from the Zanskar river to irrigate the village up to 50 per cent of cultivable land.

Crossing the water course, I drive up to the nunnery, which is building a new statue of Buddha, like in most monasteries I’ve visited in the valley. The abbess Stanzin Tsepal is like a shock of energy from the moment you say “Julley” until you say goodbye. When you cross her gaze you read determination, devotion, and love for the young nuns who start a new life here. Today, a seven-year-old joins the convent, wide-eyed, ready to take in every bit of information about her new home. Nunneries can count on less funds than monasteries. People summon monks for wed­dings and ceremonies, not nuns, who must report to monaster­ies, hierarchically. Buddhism, like most religions, thrives in a patriarchal structure, so for women it’s always tougher. But this develops doubly the grit in the energetic nuns.

Tsepal brings me to the meditation chamber of the nunnery, in front of a statue of Buddha. “With the roads which will join Leh in four hours, half the time it takes now, and will take you to Manali or Kargil in a few more hours, development is inevitably upon us. And with it will come the big hotels, car traffic, business, money. What will we gain, us people of Zanskar? Bigger homes, more rooms, more beds, more living rooms? What are they for? All you need in life, for me, is a carpet on which to sleep,” she points to a rug where people sit in prayer. “Why sell the land for development when there’s not enough water for everyone?”

The young chomos here, after chanting prayers for an hour at dawn, learn to read, write, study the sacred texts, English, maths, history, and practice yoga and much more. The young­est one is two years old; the eldest that I observe inching along but still sturdy, is 93.

A volunteer from Delhi teaches how to recycle and how to turn waste into ornamental art. In their garden, there’s a small cement wall built with empty plastic bottles filled with wrappers. Once in a while, the nuns leave for the valley where they teach the locals how to recycle waste and how to face water scarcity.

EYES, MOUTHS, PRAYING HANDS

The road from Zangla leads to Leh on one of the most amazing drives I’ve ever taken in my 57 years. I found myself rolling down the window, mouth agape, breathing in the freshness of the mountains, lost in admiration of the weird contours of the geological formations that look like winking eyes, mouths, cheeks, praying hands, waves of rocks, an inebriating tech­nicolour show I could not get enough of. This is the famous river that, when frozen in winter, joins the valley to the outside world like a slippery pedestrian highway.

The high passes trek to Leh used to take guide Lopzang Kunga, who sits next to me on this drive, 21 days of journey, camping and carrying supplies on small Zanskari horses. It now takes less than eight hours, driving through the 5,000m high pass of Singe La, thanks to a new road. From the turquoise of the Zanskar flowing in the valley, we move up to the desert mountains and the snowy peaks.

Kunga used to lead German, French and other European tourists in these well-paying long treks. No one wants to do it any longer, he tells me. “The magic of the trek has gone, with this new wide road. It’s full of trucks and road workers.”

So, I ask, is the joy of the coming development bigger than the sorrow of an old way of life vanishing?

“Development has a cost. I’m working on opening my own small hotel, with my mother; we’re renovating our property. I’m preparing for a future which I feel is coming soon.”

Maitreya, Buddha of the Future, here he comes again. In A Journey in Ladakh there’s a German traveller pointing to a monastery on top of a hill and at the purple and orange last blaze of sunset, just like the one on my last evening in Ladakh. Hans asks: “It will all be there in fifty years, but what will it mean?”

Fifty years after this question was posed, yes, the moun­tains, the sunset, even the monastery as a symbol of faith, they are all still here, but what they all mean, and will mean, as usual, is up to us.

developmentLadakhPhuktal monasterysustainableThiksey monasterytourismwealthyogaZangla nunneryZanskar Valley