We traveled back from Lamayuru along possibly the most beautiful road I've seen (although we're told that there are even more impressive ones in the region). The mountain views seemed to change every few minutes, not least thanks to the different kinds and colors of rock strata that exist next to each other. Erosion has rendered these formations all kinds of curious shapes, like dragon teeth or dinosaur bones sticking out helter-skelter. Then, there's the basic fact that they're massive, 4000-5000 meter tall mountains that dwarf you and make you feel tiny and in awe of the forces of nature, especially when the bright sun shines and illuminates it all. Pictures don't do justice to these scenes.
The monasteries are usually hidden in mountain valleys and most often lie in the heart of tiny, self-sufficient villages with some kind of a stream running through it. In this mountain desert terrain, we would come upon slush green oases in the midst of pile of rocks, there only because a river or stream ran through that place. And in the oasis would typically be several houses, cows, a small village. Human life truly clings to any opportunity.
One such place we went to was called Likir, hidden in a vast mountain valley with bright yellow mustard fields and purple Alpine flowers, offering views of snow peaks in the distance.
Misha very much wanted an authentic homestay experience--and the village didn't offer anything in way of regular hotels that was appealing. So we bunked down with a family that charged $10 for a night's stay with meals. The houses of the locals are actually surprisingly sturdy and big, and the two that we've been to displayed exactly the same thing--the lady of the house's dowry composed of myriads of metal cups and jugs and an inexpensive Chinese tea service.
Despite Misha's best attempts at friendliness and conversation, the family, jaded from tourism like so many here (Ladakh has been opened to tourists since the mid-1970s), did not live up to that part of the homestay. After a day of work in the fields behind their house they felt more like huddling together on the carpets (no chairs exist here) in the big living room, watching the local Ladakhi television--an amateurish version of Bollywood--and treated us as a source of income that will move off soon.
A woman wearing layers of clothing--like everyone here, perhaps due to the usually cold weather--served us rice with a non-spicy cauliflower curry (happily for me, the Ladakhis don't like spicy food). This was the same as what the rest of the family was having. And it wasn't much! Still hungry, we asked for seconds and, to wash it down, some yak butter tea, a chemically made tea that everybody drinks here, with a chunk of butter floating inside, tasting and looking like dishwater.
A woman wearing layers of clothing--like everyone here, perhaps due to the usually cold weather--served us rice with a non-spicy cauliflower curry (happily for me, the Ladakhis don't like spicy food). This was the same as what the rest of the family was having. And it wasn't much! Still hungry, we asked for seconds and, to wash it down, some yak butter tea, a chemically made tea that everybody drinks here, with a chunk of butter floating inside, tasting and looking like dishwater.
So, an experience of communing with the locals it was not--and we began to realize that you need much more than a week to really get to know this area.
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