Noshtalgia
We set off for Zanskar in the dark. Along with my husband Tanzin and our two-year-old daughter, we have with us my mother-in-law Abe le, nephew Kalsang, a cook, and a driver. The dawn when it comes is pink as rose quartz. We bump up rough track for what feels like eternity until we are stopped short of the pass by a flood so deep even the 4x4 baulks. Tanzin, Kalsang and the cook get out, unload all the food we have brought for the three-day trek ahead, and wade precariously through the icy torrent, with trays of egg and bundles of sabjibalanced in their arms.
Abe le throws sacred red barley grains wildly about the vehicle and practically shouts her mantras above the crash of water. We rev to roaring, face the flood, and cross without mishap. At the top of Shinku la pass, the track peters out completely. Kalsang’s father meets us with four sturdy mountain ponies. We begin the long walk home to Testa, through snow, mud, water, over single-plank bridges, fording flooded rivers on horseback, and scrabbling across rocks when there is no path. Abe le suffers nose bleeds. The wind sings sharply, coldly, in our ears. We arrive at Testa after three days and nights on the trot.
