The remote region of Spiti in the Indian Himalaya
Originally published in the Khaleej Times, 29/04/11
The
bus lurched around another hairpin bend, and a terrifying void opened to the
left. Hundreds of feet below I could see the river, a streak of turquoise in a
landscape the colour of wild horses. Crumbling ridges rose on either side, and
the pale mountain sun burnt coldly in a hollow sky. This was the Old Tibet
Road, one of the most spectacular – not to mention terrifying – highways on
earth. I gritted my teeth, ignored the chasm below, and focused on the stark
mountains beyond. I was on the very brink – quite literally – of my
destination: the remote upland fastness of Spiti.
***
Hard
on the Tibetan border in the Indian mountain state of Himachal Pradesh, Spiti
is a world apart. A long valley, walled in by sky-scraping ridges, its
language, landscape and culture are more Tibetan than Indian. But while its
better known northern neighbour, Ladakh, has long had a prime place on the
travel map with direct flights from Delhi ferrying in thousands of visitors
each summer, Spiti has slipped beneath the radar.
As
a sensitive border region it was only opened to outsiders in 1993; there is no
airport, and the rough roads (it is a two day trip from the Himachal capital
Shimla, or a 16-hour jeep ride from the tourist hub of Manali) has kept all but
the most adventurous at bay.
It
was the promise of epic mountain scenery and authentic Tibetan Buddhist culture
that had led me to brave that bus ride. News of an expanding network of locally
run village home-stays, meanwhile, left me confident of finding somewhere to
stay.
***
The
next day, with my nerves scarcely settled from the jolting journey, I met the
key mover behind those home-stays and wider efforts to develop sustainable
community-based tourism in Spiti.
Sonam
Tsering is a pint-sized force of nature, a sometime trekking guide,
restaurateur and all-out enthusiast for his own Spitian culture. Over a
steaming bowl of phakste, Spiti-style dumpling soup, in his Kunzum Top Cafe in
the village of Tabo, he shared his views.
According
to Sonam the slow development of tourism in Spiti has been a blessing in
disguise. Tabo is the hub of what passes for a tourist industry here, but it is
home to nothing more than a dozen guesthouses and a clutch of cafes.
“The
most important thing is sustainability,” he said, citing the ugly plethora of
concrete hotels that swamp Manali and the Ladakhi capital Leh. “And it is also
important that the first benefit should be for local people. This is the
thinking behind the home-stays; it spreads the benefit so it’s not just here in
Tabo. There are home-stays now in even the most remote villages.”
While
not running his restaurant or helping home-stay owners Sonam’s other cause is
the preservation of Spitian culture. Concerned that traditional music was
vanishing from village festivals, he and a group of friends have set about
learning to play – and to record – Spitian folk songs. As night fell over Tabo
he reached for a khokpo, a long-necked Spitian guitar, hanging on the wall, and
smiling modestly – “I’m not very good yet!” – he began to pluck a wiry rhythm.
***
The
monk settled himself cross-legged on a pile of dusty blankets, turned the first
strip of elaborate Tibetan script, and with a gentle clearing of the throat
began to chant in a low rumbling voice. I was the only other person in the little
chamber of the protector deity in the ancient Buddhist monastery of Dhankar, 20
kilometres west of Tabo. The monk’s name was Chumpa, and a few minutes earlier
he had found me wandering alone in the courtyard and invited me to watch his
lonely morning puja ceremony.
When
he was finished I stepped outside into the sharp sunlight. This tiny monastery
village was perched in the very teeth of the mountains 3894 metres above sea
level. The air here was thin and the light was sharper than glass. Alpine
choughs with glossy black wings twisted in the cold thermals, and far below the
blue-grey river was braided into a mesh of channels on the valley floor.
Spiti’s
name means “The Middle Land”, reflecting its past as a place between more
powerful neighbours: Tibet, Ladakh, Kullu, and Kashmir – and these days India
and China. Buddhism probably arrived here in the 7th Century, amalgamating with
the ancient Bon religion of the mountains. Today most of Spiti’s 10,000 people
belong to the Gelugpa order of Tibetan Buddhism, the Yellow Hat sect of the
Dalai Lama.
***
From
Dhankar I travelled onwards into the Middle Land, sometimes staying in village
home-stays recommended by Sonam, sometimes bedding down in the simple
guesthouses attached to Buddhist monasteries. In the stony side valley of the
Pin National Park, the snow leopards said to haunt the upper slopes eluded me,
but the snow-streaked mountain scenery was worth the detour. Spiti is prime
trekking country, and the Pin Valley is the starting point for the week-long hike
into the neighbouring Kullu Valley.
Further
west I passed through Kaza, the administrative capital of Spiti, and the only
place in the valley where concrete and tin predominate over packed earth and
poplar wood. From here a strip of winding tarmac led north past another ancient
hilltop monastery at Ki to Kibber, claimed to be one of the highest villages on
earth. It was a cold place where ibex horns decorated the doorways and prayer
flags snapped in the running breeze. In the evening herdsmen brought yaks down
from the hillsides and there was a smell of wood-smoke and livestock. This was
the edge of a wild world that runs east for many hundreds of kilometres – the
world of the Tibetan Plateau.
***
My
escape from Spiti would take me across the 4551-metre Kunzum Pass to Manali.
But first I doubled back east to seek out one of the remotest of all the
village home-stays, 20 kilometres up a side valley in the hamlet of Lalung.
For
my final days in Spiti I was the guest of Tashi Bodh Khabrik and his wife
Dolma. They have been taking in travellers for the past two years, and they
were the best of hosts. I was given a room with a roof of poplar branches in a
corner of a whitewashed village home.
Over
a dinner of momos – Tibetan dumplings – in the cosy kitchen-cum-living room
that is the heart of every Spitian home, Tashi told me how the villagers club
together to take care of their combined flocks of goats and yaks. Each family
has only a few animals so people take it in turns to take the entire
four-legged population of the village out to graze before returning each beast
to its individual owner at nightfall. In winter, Tashi said, the dirt track
down to the main valley was often blocked by snow for months on end; beyond the
village there is nothing until the Tibetan border.
Here
in Lalung, amongst the narrow lanes, the poplar-lined irrigation ditches, the
endless cups of tea and the cheerful calls of “Joolay!” – the standard Spitian
greeting – the journey into the Middle Land along bone-shaking mountain roads
seemed more than worthwhile.
© Tim Hannigan 2011
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