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National Geographic : 1951 May
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The National Geographic Magazine colored stones. Little villages nestled deep into the mountain slopes, their roofs barely visible. The hard-working, tough inhabitants are marooned by snow for six months of the year. In summer they cultivate wheat and barley and rent their ponies to travelers. Again the night was windy and cold. The next morning we were greeted with depressing gray rain. We met a party of Americans who were returning from Leh on the same route. It was pleasant just to listen to them talk after hearing the Balti language, which re sembles a strange mixture of Russian and Chinese. We moved on to Kargil, the halfway point. Even in good weather this particular stage of the journey is cold and rough. The rain only made matters worse, causing a number of landslides and cutting deep rifts into the trail, making the going slow and treacherous. Our hands grew so cold that we could not hold the reins, and had to dismount and walk from about 2 in the afternoon until 9. Our boots were caked with mud, our gloves sodden, coats cold and clammy. But we had to take off our wet hats to the servants. They worked wonderfully and never complained, pitching our tents, unpacking and serving our meals. Most praiseworthy was our personal house boy, a South Indian who had lived all his life on the scorching plains. He was always the first up in the morning, notwithstanding the terrible cold and the fact that he stuck to his strict vegetarian diet throughout the whole trip. Washday in Ladakh When we finally reached Kargil, the rain stopped. Houses were packed in rows within groves of apricot trees, with a long bazaar wedged in between (page 605). People greeted us from their housetops and windows as we passed. We decided a day of rest was in order. My woman friend and I welcomed the change. At last we could wash our clothes. In the heart of the Himalayas washday is unknown. And I must admit our camp looked somewhat comic with a line of wash flapping in the breeze. The greatest excitement in Kargil came when we called at the midget post office and picked up several letters, newspapers, and telegrams. That afternoon my friend and I changed from breeches and shirts into saris and san dals and entertained two English-speaking local officials at tea. For the first time since we had left Gandarbal our faces were free from the generous coating of cold cream we used to avoid sunburn. We picked up our trail again. The trip to Mulbekh was uneventful. But beyond Mulbekh a whole new world opened up to us, for here began the pure Tibetan coun try (pages 630-631). We spotted our first lamasery, built high on a hill overlooking a panorama of river and field, with ranges of the Himalayas all around. The Tibetans in their flowing woolen coats and embroidered boots fascinated us. The World of Lost Horizon Villages appeared from time to time be tween long barren stretches. We passed splendid whitewashed houses whose architec ture reminded us of Lost Horizon. We were introduced to the peculiar Tibetan food of powdered barley mixed with hot tea, rancid butter, and salt. The route to Leh is nothing more than a pony track. Under British control it was turned into Treaty Road and became a notable trade route. It continues on from Leh south east to Demchok, Tibet (map, page 607), and then on to Lhasa. The Kashmir Government kept only a small garrison at the frontier. Ladakh has an area of some 46,000 square miles, about the size of Pennsylvania. It holds a scattered population of about 195,000. It has been said of Baluchistan (now a part of Pakistan) that, after the world had been made, that country was then constructed from the debris. The same might well be said of Ladakh. The entire province is studded with gigantic barren mountain ranges and riven with deep narrow gorges. The whole region lies very high. The average height of surrounding ranges is 19,000 feet. There are infrequent blotches of irrigated land; these are the habitable oases. But it is a fascinating country, inhabited by a most charming people who, despite their barren land, laugh their way through life. The farther we advanced, the more unreal the scene became. Days passed without sight of grass. We climbed to 12,200-foot Namika La, overlooking range after range of moun tains and a vast space of indistinguishable landscape. Cold wind pushed through the valley. The temperature at the height of summer dropped to 22°, when just a few hundred miles away the plains of India sweltered in 122° heat. We came to know the typical Tibetan horse man who traveled with us (page 621). He carried as his only luggage a chakmak (flint 610
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