I was in northern India, in the mainly Buddhist Himalayan province of Ladakh, a name which means “mountain pass” in the local dialect. The region is home to a large community of Tibetan refugees, many of whom sell Gurkha-style kukhuri knives and prayer flags from the bazaars in state capital Leh; their stories of suffering under Chinese imperialism come for free.
Thrill-seekers are driven up to the pass, which towers above the town, by tour companies. After a brief look around at the top, backpackers are handed mountain bikes to freewheel the 40km back to Leh. Ready to part ways with the black tea and lack of oxygen that brings so many visitors to the pass, I hopped onto the saddle and began to pedal.
The road, little more than a dirt track at the higher reaches, winds around the arid hillsides, conveying trucks, buses, and taxis making the 14-hour journey up from Manali in the south. Far beyond, on the other side of the green valley below, the Karakoram range is visible, its snow-capped mass gleaming through a light blue sky.
The moon, still visible at midday, hung above the peaks as I hurtled downhill, a white ball suspended in thin air. Boulders by the roadsides warned drivers of the perilous route, with messages painted onto their surfaces in yellow and black paint. “Got Brakes, Got Licence!” proclaimed one, “Slow Drive, Long Life” another.
The road improves to a paved surface after an hour of teeth-rattling pothole negotiation, the increase in speed allowing riders to cruise smoothly and quickly around the route’s bends. A group of road workers were breaking for lunch as I rode past. Stopping to talk to them, they offered to share their meal with me.
Having cupped two chapatis (palm-sized flatbreads) in my left hand to form a bowl, they filled the bread with curry and I consumed it with the other hand. When the curry is gone, the edible bowl follows. Offering in exchange a packet of cookies and answers to questions about my native country, I took their photographs and departed, waving goodbye as I sped away downhill.
Yaks were visible from the roadside, the enormous beasts scouring the lower reaches, where small lush plots of agricultural land form the northern slopes of Leh. With the rounding of each bend the view of each individual valley was more spectacular than the last. Along one straight downhill stretch I found myself racing with a truck driver transporting an open coop of chickens into the town. The sound of the clucking in my ears was the best indicator of how far I was ahead of him.
Riding back into Leh, the last few hours of peace are broken as India – albeit a far more relaxed version in this primarily-Buddhist province – reintroduces itself with blaring horns and the shouts of street food vendors. Dropping the bike off at the tour company and wandering away down the road, the rickshaw drivers descended to offer their services. Waving them away with a practiced sweep of the arm I continue walking, preferring to go at my own pace for a while.