Peak practise pays off in a Himalayan pass

JENNT and TONY ENDERBY find city traffic is nothing compared with "jeeps" travelling through the Himalayas.

Our yellow, purple and red tents complemented the surrounding green mountainsides. Distant mountain peaks climbed to more than 6000m. Our camp site below the Jalori Pass in the foothills of the Indian Himalayas, didn't portray the India we knew. The bustle, heat, noise and people gave way to trees, mountains, birds and silence.

Behind us were our vehicles, a Mahindra Commander, two Mahindra Armadas and a Maruti Gipsy, collectively known as jeeps by our guides.

The Commander was nearest and, as I leaned back, the underneath came into view. Something vital for a four-wheel-drive was missing - the front diff.

"Yoga, are you sure these are four-wheel-drive?" I called to our guide.

"Some are, but not all - two-wheel-drive cheaper to run!"

His answer restored our confidence. "We have been up there many times - never a problem with the jeeps." Yoga had climbed K2, the world's second-highest mountain, several times and small problems like no front diff were easily overcome.

The jeeps were to take us over 2000km of mountain roads from Manali to Leh, via the Spiti Valley. On the sealed roads in the valleys, convoys of locally built Tata trucks were easily overtaken.

On the single-lane mountain roads our drivers had a standard passing manoeuvre. They tooted, the truck pulled over, and we overtook.

Easy, until we looked over the valley side - in places our wheels were on the edge of the road 1000m above the river, flowing grey through the valley.

The road to the mountain village of Chitkul was cut into the rock face. Hindu shrines at the side of the road were for drivers to leave offerings for a safe journey. Our drivers tooted as they passed each one - we hoped that this would be enough to appease the gods.

The houses in Chitkul were built from stone and timber, with the extremes of heat and cold and the occasional earthquake testing the skills of the builders.

Twenty kilometres across the mountains was the Tibetan border. In geographical terms this was as close as we would get to Tibet, but in the Spiti Valley we came much closer to Tibetan culture.

At Dankar, 3800m above sea level, we heard the sound of cymbals and the mournful tone of horns. Monks, resplendent in reds and yellows, played a variety of instruments, while others in flowing robes danced to the music, the colour contrasting with the drab grey and brown of the buildings and hillsides.

Kibber, our next stop, was more than 4205m above sea level and reputed to be the highest permanently occupied village in the world.

On the winding, mountain road there were no trucks to slow us, but the clouds of black smoke from our jeeps' diesel engines showed that they, like us, struggled to get enough oxygen.

We bounced over rough, hand-made roads towards Kunzum La, the highest road pass in the Spiti area, at 4500m. Above us dark clouds gathered around the high peaks while thunder and lightning announced the arrival of the monsoon.

At a swollen ford the Commander hit the water, bounced and stopped just short of the other side. Yoga and several others waded in and pushed. A few more revs, a cloud of black smoke and the jeep bounced forward and splashed across. Who needs four-wheel-drive anyway?

The other jeeps followed, accompanied by, "Chalo, chalo - let's go, let's go," from the drivers. We were in the smallest vehicle, the Maruti, which also stalled halfway across. Yoga pointed to us, "Stay in the back, help keep the wheels down!" We bounced and lurched sideways but made it across only slightly damp.

On Kunzum La, snow was falling, obliterating the view and we headed down. A bright patch of blue canvas appeared and the soggy figure of Yoga waved. "Chai stop!"

Inside the shop was a roaring gas stove and our bedraggled group warmed up with chai and spicy, hot noodle soup.

Once warmed, we continued, until we stopped behind a group of trucks, their drivers nowhere to be seen. In the middle of the road was a table-sized boulder. Several drivers pushed and strained as smaller rocks rolled down around them, until the boulder was moved over the edge.

We sprinted back to the jeeps, slowing 100m later, remembering the altitude. A further small rock fall goaded us back to sprint mode and we reached the vehicles, gasping.

Our road-clearing efforts continued until Chhota Drara, where the road vanished. This wasn't the sort of place the cavalry would arrive on a bulldozer with any haste.

"We can walk - leave the jeeps behind, we can get more, no problem." Yoga always oozed confidence.

The problem of carrying the camping gear and backpacks was solved several days later when the tinkling of bells early one morning dragged us from our tents. The welcome sight of a team of packhorses and a smiling Yoga made a great start to the day.

The camping gear and backpacks were loaded and Chhota Drara was soon behind us. After we had walked 10km, an ancient tractor and trailer bounced towards us. Yoga spoke to the driver, a few rupees changed hands, and we had a bumpy ride to the next town.

We left the packhorses behind, loaded the replacement jeeps and joined the main road to Leh. We had just a few more high mountain passes to cross. The first was Baralacha La, at 5000m on a Himalayan plateau where peaks towered around us.

Our last was Taglang La, the second-highest road pass in the world, at 5300m above sea level. The sign at the top said it all "Unbelievable is not it." In more ways than one this was the high point of our trip. Below was the Indus Valley and our destination, the city of Leh.

After three weeks sleeping in tents and washing in cold mountain streams, real beds and showers sounded great. But the Indian Himalayas and the memories of the places we visited in almost-four-wheel-drive jeeps would stay with us for a long time to come.