When China invaded Tibet in 1950 and crippled religious life, Ladakh remained a centre of traditional Tibetan Buddhism. It’s a harsh land, but everywhere are small marks of human love and prayer.
At 3600 metres, Leh takes its toll on your stamina. It was hard just walking up the road. Now I know what an asthmatic suffers. My first impression of the town was the strangely purple-blue sky (we were quite close to outer space up there). My second was the size of the surrounding mountains. Leh is on a desert plain cupped by massive, jagged edifices tipped with snow.
On each house, bridge or hilltop ragged flags blow their prayers into the wind. Chorten shrines, looking like oversized white chess pawns and containing holy relics, bless the countryside. Everywhere there are prayer wheels, a few huge, many small and embedded in walls for passers-by to spin. High, wide mani walls, some a kilometre or more long, some short – all enclosing nothing – are everywhere. They were constructed over centuries and consist of polished mantra stones, each painstakingly carved with prayers or Om Mani Padme Hum (Praise to the jewel at the heart of the lotus).
On a hill above the town is a huge, ruined, 17th century palace towering over a warren of red-mud houses and markets selling finely crafted Tibetan and Kashmiri jewellery, clothing, carvings and food.
As I strolled around the town, people seemed peaceful and happy. They’re tolerant towards their old people, their children and each other. There’s almost no cruelty or theft and a bag or cellphone forgotten in a shop would undoubtedly be there the next day. They’re taught by their priests that every living thing has been their mother in a previous incarnation and must be respected as their mother. It’s hard to imagine a better belief for our environmentally aching planet.
