Ladakh – A Horizon in a Dream (Part 3)

Text and photos:The Victory

Final part: The watercolor painting by Tso Moriri

We arrived at Lake Tso Moriri in the late afternoon while the sun was still shining, setting behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the vast lake. It's hard to describe in words; I was speechless, except for my mind and senses. Partly because the sun had set, reducing the oxygen, and partly because my eyes were following the last golden rays of the day, stretching across the lake and reflecting on the mountainside on the other side, far away on the horizon. And when it touched the mountainside, the magic happened. This will forever be the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen in my life. The wind blew strongly, scattering the clouds, the sun sinking quickly; that surreal moment of light only lasted a few minutes before returning to the sky, and the scene returned to normal, as if it had never been so magnificent during my time here.

I stood there, the air growing colder. I was more realistic now, though it still felt like I had just woken from a dream, what I had just seen seemed unreal. I returned to the small hotel in the mountain village, where I would be staying tonight, longing for tomorrow's dawn and for the sun-drenched hillsides and the nomadic goat herds. There was no electricity, so I went to buy candles while others prepared to cook.

Have you ever heard of altitude sickness? We're at an altitude of 4,800 meters above sea level; the air is very thin, making it difficult to adapt for people from coastal areas. Tonight is long, the low oxygen levels are making it hard to sleep, and my head aches terribly. At times, I feel myself slowing down, both in my thinking and in my actions. I long for the dawn, for the comfort it brings to my body, and for the experiences I'm so looking forward to.

The night on the lake was beautiful. I arrived in Ladakh during the full moon, and in Tso Moriri when the moon was almost full. The sky was covered in a strange bluish light, dotted with a few very bright stars. If only I felt healthy, I wished. If it weren't for this altitude, if it weren't for my body losing control, I might be sitting somewhere out there, gazing at the night sky and taking some photos of the stars streaking across the clear sky. I even fell asleep, I remember, until I woke up to the first glimmer of dawn on the other side of the lake.

The sunrise at Tso Moriri was so beautiful, I thought, slowly and dreamily. I didn't have the energy to wander aimlessly across the fields. Camera in hand, I took short steps along the road beginning to be bathed in golden sunlight, joining the Ladakh people in the village as they began their day. I sat down, leaning against the earthen wall of a house adorned with colorful Ladakh flags, watching the crimson clouds dissipate as the sun rose and took over. The sun here seemed bigger and more radiant. The sunlight shone on my face, dazzling, stretching across the fields and then covering the lake, contrasting with the previous afternoon, along with the clouds, leaving patches of sunlight on the lake and the mountain slopes.

I left in the car. We were on our way to find the nomads. Our friend, who was also our guide, knew where they were, and that was a special experience for us, unlike that of typical tourists. I saw them, very close, but the car kept going and going without reaching them. The sky was so clear, everything looked much closer, but in reality, it wasn't. After climbing a few kilometers to an altitude of nearly 5,000 meters, I met them, people I thought were extraordinary.

The nomads live on the mountain slopes, near streams formed from melting snow. I came here during the dry season, before the snow had fallen and the streams were drying up. The nomads' skin was reddish from the sun, and their clothes were covered in dust and sand. Some families lived in canvas tents, their "homes" carved deep into the ground. I saw beautiful herds of goats, their horns painted blue and red; the nomads tied them together, heads close to each other, a picturesque sight. They did this to milk them, and after milking them, they released them to search for the scarce clumps of grass in this area.

We were preparing to leave, having to say goodbye to the nomads even though we wished we could stay with them longer. The sun was getting hotter, my heart was racing, and my lips were cracking. While the local children ran around, herding the goats for grass, we walked slowly, got into the car, and hurried back to Leh. The journey was still very long.

That night in Leh, we went to bed earlier than usual, partly because we were exhausted and partly because we had descended more than 1,000 meters. I had never slept so soundly, and when I opened my eyes, sunlight streamed through the window, filling the room. This was our last day in Ladakh. The plan for today was simple and concise: to conquer the Khardung La Pass, the highest pass in Ladakh, at an altitude of approximately 5,800 meters.

I once watched a documentary about the Khardung La Pass, and a little fear was present. The winding red dirt roads seemed endless, barely wide enough for two small cars to pass each other, alongside ravines hundreds or thousands of meters deep. We had to go to Khardung La because it was autumn, and only at that altitude could there be snow. After half a day of slow travel, we reached the summit of the pass, partly because of some landslides on the road, and partly because we needed to gradually adapt to the altitude. The summit of Khardung La Pass was incredibly beautiful and majestic; from there, we could see the snow-covered Himalayas at eye level. Some of my friends had never seen snow before. We played like children, exhausted but filled with indescribable joy. Snow began to fall from the high clouds, and we only had 15 minutes there, as per safety regulations. Even so, we managed to stay for 30 minutes, double the allotted time.

I was still at the same level as the Himalayas, then ascended higher. It wasn't that we were crossing some mountain pass higher than Khardung La; it was just that I was on a flight leaving Leh. I consider myself lucky to have been given a window seat by a Ladakh man, allowing me to admire and photograph another wonder: the Himalayas.

The snow-capped peaks stretched endlessly into the horizon, shrouded in swirling clouds, and streams melting from the snow merged into winding rivers. And most miraculously, far away on the horizon, I saw Mount Everest rising from the vast sea of ​​white clouds. I watched until Mount Everest and the Himalayas gradually disappeared into the ethereal mist. Closing the window blinds, I drifted off to sleep, perhaps dreaming a truly long dream about Ladakh.

The Thanh