Butter Tea in Buddhist Temples

We flee up north to escape the dreaded monsoon that floods India in the summer months. Ladakh, the northernmost state of the Republic of India and its capital Leh prove to be the perfect destination. Nestled high in the Himalayan rain shadow, rainfall is close to zero in the summer months and for the other 9 months of the year access is limited, with closed roads and heavy snowfall.
At the crack of dawn, my boyfriend and I board a bus, heading for the ancient capital of Leh across the world’s second highest road, along with 8 Tibetan monks, a dozen seasonal workers, two extended families and a couple of other backpackers. Across the Routang pass, a perilous mud track that could delay us indefinitely, we enter the roof of the world, the land of high passes: Ladakh. A high altitude desert of empty and barren valleys, covered in shale and scree and rimmed with immense mountains that disappear into the clouds, occasionally revealing snow-caped peaks. Its vast and still, its landscape strangely lunar at times. Government buses (suspension gone), garishly coloured trucks, army vehicles making their way to the Line of Control and leather-clad bikers wend their way up the Manali-Leh Road. Its narrow roads, vertiginous cliffs, and no help, hospital or mechanic for hundreds of miles leave lots to be desired for. Signs, wittily devised and painted on the rock faces by the Border Roads Organization remind drivers to “Divorce Speed”, that “After drinking wisky, driving is risky” and that “Speed thrills but kills”. After miles and miles of inhospitable landscape, chai stalls, set up under old army parachutes, mushroom by the roadside like little multicoloured mirages, offering a cup of warm spicy tea, some filling momos (Tibetan dumplings) and a chance to stretch our legs. The scenery takes my breath away, but so does the altitude and half of the bus gets violently ill as we cross the highest pass.
Three days later, after a stomach-churning journey and the most mesmerizing scenery I have ever seen, we arrive at Leh. A green plateau resting at 3, 500 metres, Leh is tucked in between two of the highest mountain ranges in the world, the Himalaya and the Karakoram and spans the upper Indus river valley. The town is still dominated by the now ruined Leh palace and is undeniably influenced by Tibetan culture. Its quiet lanes, dusty underfoot, sprawling up into the mountains from the main road, reveal traditional Ladakhi houses, stores selling incense and reams of prayer flags, white stupas above doorways, ‘people’ cafes, women’s rights co-operatives and eco-friendly enterprises. Tibetan kitchens greet you from every corner, offering staple veggie cuisine and the local market is dominated by the sale of in-season apricots. Children, faces open and smooth, cheeks rosy from exposure run gleefully to school and old women, their years marked by the length of their plaits sit and chatter in little courtyards. Coffee is served in Lala’s art café, with paintings by local artists decking the walls.
The villages around Leh are a scattering of houses, parceled green fields of barley and wheat, yaks tethered to apricot trees and the friendliest people alive. A system of homestays has encouraged trekking and gives a rare glimpse of village life and a chance to visit some of the oldest monasteries in the world.
Religion thrives in the thin air around Ladakh. Only Tibet has a larger cluster of Buddhist temples and monasteries. The monasteries, intrepidly perched on the edge of cliffs, cascade down the hill-side in a flurry of white and red. Cotton prayer flags are pinned between the temple roofs like the clouds pinned to the surrounding peaks. During the daily prayer of puja, the smallest monks – boys of six – scurry around with jugs of butter tea, whilst their elders in plum-coloured robes chant their mantras or beat the two large drums at the entrance. Tea served, the sleepy young monks smuggle chocolate digestive biscuits out from under their robes and hesitantly, so as not to be seen, dip them into their tea.