We are looking for something very specific. Many are faded, the patina of age and use while attractive, suggest worn engines, axles and tires. It’s a long journey lasting two days across arid miles of nothingness. New and shiny is what we want but finding a driver willing to negotiate isn’t easy.
We aren’t entirely sure what a fair price is but like everything his price “must” be too high, we negotiate, counter and settle on the fare. Our two non-negotiables are food and riding above his cab.
Like many things the euphoria wears off quickly and reality settles in. The vantage point is great, we could even discount the stupidity of constant sunlight on our hatless heads but the dust is grinding us down. It’s everywhere. We’ve retreated under a tarp but our cameras and my face look more like a hippo long dried after a wallow in a muddy watering hole.
Nevertheless optimism reigns and we snap away, marveling at the near-lunar landscape we are traversing thinking nothing of what would happen if he brakes suddenly and we are ejected from the roof, airborne and destined for a unhappy landing.
Pulling to the roadside about an hour outside of Leh offers a chance to photograph something different. The truck is stationary, passengers milling around and tea crates scattered across the sandy verge. It’s interesting. Our truck owner, distinguishable anywhere by his bright pink turban, strides out to direct the chaos as tea crates are hauled down and stacked ready to be swapped.
It’s a surreal interlude in the middle of nowhere. With no real schedule to keep and no reason to protest, we peer over the edge of the cab, capturing local men in thick wool coats and children shading their eyes against the glare. We take a breath, let the dust settle, and watch order emerge from the roadside halt before rolling onward.
The road is rutted, well-traveled and we find the back of the truck claustrophobic and akin to riding a mini pogo stick hours on end.
It’s boring.
We stop often.
For some reason he didn’t like me. Maybe the blonde kid in jeans irked him. All I remember was a constant stream of verbal harassment. He was simply a pain and I asked Rico if I could eject him but of course that was a rhetorical question as that isn’t quite the way to handle grumpy travelers.
The food was bland but very welcome. Dal, spicy with some kind of bread didn’t really fill the void and I did my best Oliver Twist, “please sir, can I have some more”.
Mid afternoon on the second day we descend into Srinagar and look across the beauty of Dal Lake.
We’re back.
It’s 1978, we’ve travelled into Ladakh and back into the vale of Kashmir. It’s a treat, it’s an adventure and we congratulate ourselves on our good fortune to have entered a post-war zone only opened to tourists four years earlier.
Trekking to India in the 70s was very much the domain of a minority. Some lucky enough to journey to Leh. Riding the Tata truck wasn’t the most common transport but certainly unique, maybe even stupid at the time and possibly reckless by today’s standards.
The world was a different place then, my parents had been through the horrors of a very different Europe, they passed on an optimism and confidence that adventure was sometimes worth the risk and some of it could be the stuff of legends.
Enjoyable read