Ladakh

They say, that while in Ladakh, if your body were in the sun and your feet were in the shade, you could get sunburned and frostbite at the same time – I can vouch for that.

Sitting in a valley at 3500 meters, Leh is famous for that. It’s very hot during the day, when the sun shines (and only while being in the sunshine) and incredibly cold at night, with temperatures dropping below zero even in September. Not only that, but the lunar landscape overloads the mesmerized, wide-eyed looks of all visitors that get here; and they’re not many, mind you, more foreigners than Indians and even those are scarce this time of year.

All roads tend to be longer than usual around here – I can vouch for that.

The longest road: from the post office, where my special bus dropped me off, to the old bus stand, through the main bazaar and way up to the guesthouse; not more than 1 km but literally breathtaking. Who knew that walking through a town as ‘high’ as this would make me look like a snail with low blood sugar!? And the headache! The constant throbbing that just won’t stop unless you’re perfectly still and that miraculously, savagely appears when your breathing is a little deeper than usual (which it has to be, so that your body can pump the necessary blood).

One’s head is one’s worst enemy – I can vouch for that.

Although I’m sick and there’s nothing more I want in this world than just lie in bed and drift into a restless sleep, I cannot shake the Russian with too many stories, who’s happy to hear himself speak (mainly because he’s been ‘meditating’ in colorless silence for about two weeks). When I finally escape and lie down, crushed under too many blankets but still surprisingly cold, I find that I cannot not hear my head pumping away to eternity – yes, my head, which, throughout the night will only thrust harder and harder and will steal away my chances of blissful rest. This is the normal state, to which I have to get used to, at least for the first 24 hours and from which not even the miraculous Tibetan candy offered by the same goofy Russian, a special candy with great healing powers (and no, this is no code name for hashish), can lift me out of.

Autumn in Leh is beautifully soothing – I can vouch for that.

Trying to ignore the headache, the shortness of breath and the sudden rushes of blood to said head, I wander through the sunny, winding streets of Leh, now mostly abandoned by tourists and locals alike, who flee from the vicious cold. The grey brick houses, the white-washed gompas and the sacred little stupas, the green and yellow poplars all come together to create an astounding foreground against the more impressive, completely unbelievable blue sky and guarding, serious mountains.

The sun shines 300 hundred days per year, but it was only partly sunny when I was roaming through the streets of Leh. Basically, I mostly got the other 65 days – I can vouch for that.

Clear, unbelievably deep blue skies are Ladakh’s trademark. It’s almost unimaginable that such blue skies exist anywhere but in children’s paintings. Yet the purest skies are as common as stepping into cow dung (or donkey dung). And the fluffy white cumulus clouds make a nice contrast and can only enhance the fairytale blue. That is, until the heavy, grey, snow filled clouds invade the whole sky and threaten to ruin your stay.

The lack of sun means the inevitable presence of low temperatures – I can vouch for that.

Although, as I've said, the percentage of sunny days was to be in my favor, somehow, there were some sun-less days. And that can only mean cold days. Nevermind the fact that, after sunset, temperatures abruptly drop and no amount of blankets would get you to go outside in your underwear. Or completely clothed, for that matter. This is reason enough for all Ladakhis to spend their winters indoors, sleeping, drinking chai and occasionally visiting each other. Also, they have the belief that a good home is a windy one, and my room was especially good, since they gracefully omitted the glass to some of my windows.

The best friend of Ladakhis in particular and Indians in general is the radio. But not any radio; a radio at high volumes that also buzzes and screeches – I can vouch for that.

Even though a lot of guesthouses have closed down for winter, out of the remaining homes you can usually hear shouts (the normal way they talk to each other) and radio shows turned high, so as not to miss a word. And, even when people want to have a conversation, the radio will still be on, at no lower decibels than it was before.

Ladakhi people are no ordinary Indians – I can vouch for that.

First of all, Ladakh is not India. Ladakh is simply Ladakh, a state which happens to be part of the Indian country. There are a lot of Tibetan refugees and the population is mostly Buddhist. Not only that, but Ladakhi people are honest, simple and somewhat deaf, this, possibly, being the reason they like shouting at one another. Weird, though, their hearing problems disappear when speaking to foreigners, with which they are able to have a moderately loud conversation. The 'whereyoufrom?'-s and 'yourgoodname?'-s are not as fashionable as in other Indian states, which is comforting and startling at the same time. My efforts in trying to explain where this Romania thing is situated were less needed and, thus, heavily avoided. Much like their mountains, they are rough but pleasant, which only makes me want to get to know them more. The peculiar combination between open-mindedness and shyness, with a pinch of religious zeal sets them apart from any other type of Indians, their uniqueness being dully noted among travelers and well-known to relapsing visitors.

Ladakh is worth seeing. Again. And I can vouch for that!