No rolling green hills, no thriving apple orchards, no tall, fragrant groves of cannabis sativa. Unlike the lush, productive Lower Kinnaur Valley, the Upper Kinnaur lies within the Himalayan rain shadow. Here the climate is as dry as the Thar, a desert landscape above the clouds.
As we ride east from Reckong Peo, we’re finally making a significant advance in altitude. We soon leave the ugly roadworks and construction of the Lower Kinnaur hydro project behind. The number of vehicles thins out too, and after awhile, we find ourselves feeling very, very alone in a remote and inhospitable land. There are few human settlements in this part of India, just a scattering of villages separated by long distances. With little to no rain to nurture crops and animals, and a harsh climate that sees villagers snowed in by freezing temperatures for almost half of the year, there’s no room for population growth around here. Each little hamlet we pass is a miniature oasis of green, with hardy crops like buckwheat, peas and potatoes nourished by water collected from mountain springs and snow melt lakes.
We ride in a phenomenally desolate landscape. For miles and miles there is nothing, just stark brown mountains, the silver sliver of the river below us, and the road – precariously winding its way through the wilderness at the edge of a drop of two hundred metres or more! It’s alarming, thrilling, breathtaking. Sometimes between the bare mountains (robbed of their snow caps by the summer sun which is surprisingly harsh) we can see massive snow peaks of 5000 or 6000 metres or more. At other times our view is dominated by barren peaks and steep hillsides strewn with boulders. There’s fresh evidence of landslides everywhere. The deep gorges give the scenery an appearance somewhere in between the Grand Canyon and an alien planet. At one point we spot a Himalayan vulture which sails down towards us in a graceful sweep, eager for a look. In a land where nutrition is incredibly scarce, any possible food source is worth investigating!
Most of all, everything here feels so big. The mountains, the gorges, the sky, the strange craggy rock formations. The vastness is relentless. In a way, it’s almost frightening.
The road itself is, surprisingly, not so bad. Much better in fact than the awful conditions we faced between Sarahan and Reckong Peo. At one point we were delayed by around 45 minutes by the clean-up of a small landslide, and of course by “not so bad” I mean “not neck breakingly agonising”, but overall this is one of the most enjoyable stretches on the Hindustan Tibet road.
We make it to Nako at 3200 metres well before the one public bus from Reckong Peo arrives, so we’re able to take our pick of the handful of guesthouses in the little village. Even the Lonely Planet specifically mentions Reckong Peo to Nako as probably the most terrifying bus ride in all of India (and that’s really saying something) because of the narrow serpetine roads, sheer drops and maniacal drivers – so we were both extremely grateful to have the Enfield with us!
Nako is enchanting. Our room overlooks the communal field, where the villagers work tirelessly planting and weeding from sunup to sundown. There’s also a lake here. It’s green and small and not as spectacular as I’d imagined, but around it are walls of stone and on each stone Buddhist prayers have been carved in an ancient Tibetan script.
Upper Kinnaur and Spiti are sometimes regarded as the true last bastions of Tibetan religion. These regions were once part of the Tibetan kingdom, and unlike Tibet they have been spared aggressive Chinese intervention. As well as being devout Buddhists, the people here incorporate elements of Tibetan animistic tradition which are older than Buddhism itself.
In the morning we visit the Nako Gompa (monastery) which is 1000 years old. There are a group of Israeli backpackers here, and one of their particularly spiritually inclined members stops us on the way to tell us about the “really good sensation” he’d just experienced inside the monastery. He’s glowing. We go inside the monastery complex where there’s a large courtyard and several small buildings for accommodating the monks and for awhile we’re not sure where the entrance to the gompa is. I sit and listen to the children in the neighbouring school singing in Kinnauri, and Ben goes to explore the back of the complex. After awhile he comes back and says, “come and see this, it’s amazing.”
One of the resident monks lets us in to the gompa’s sacred “treasure room”. Its dark, lit by just a few candle offerings, and I am immediately struck by just how ancient this place really is. One thousand years of prayer and devotion spiritual yearning. Nako Gompa houses some of India’s oldest, most sacred Buddhist artworks and relics. The colourful mural paintings have faded and worn with age, and there are grotesque and fascinating sculptures of mountain deities who would have been worshipped even before Buddhism came to Nako. When we’re ready to leave, we thank the monk and walk out into the sunlight, and we both remain in silent awe for some time.
