Himalayas Daring to drive the world’s highest roads… in a standard SJ410

A PEAKY BLINDER

A wilderness without end, majestic in its scale and awe-inspiring in its rugged beauty. highest peaks is a network of high-level passes including the self-proclaimed highest

Words and pictures: Vivek Sharma

Many places around the world claim to be the toughest, roughest and remotest places you can go in search of adventure. But once you’ve been exploring in the Himalayas, nowhere else will ever seem the same again.

That’s why people travel to India from around the world to seek their thrills in the world’s highest mountain range. And it’s not just traditional mountaineers, either. The world’s highest drivable roads are up here – and whether you get your adrenaline rush on two wheels or four, how could that not appeal?

What vehicle would you choose for an assault on the soaring Khardung La Pass, which sits at an altitude of 18,380 feet? A chunky Defender 110, possibly, or the rock-solid certainty of a Land Cruiser? Maybe, but if you’re from India you know all about Maruti, in particular its legendary Gypsy off-roader.

This is, to all intents and purposes, a Suzuki Samurai. The 1.0-litre

The Himalayas are best known as a mountaineer’s paradise, but set among the world’s road in the world. It’s a landscape from a dream – and a blinding place to go driving

MG410 was made between 1986 and 1999, laterally in wide-bodied form only, and the MG413, with a 1.3-litre unit, from 1996-2018. The 1.3 was known as the Gypsy King, so apologies if you’re now got Bamboleo stuck in your head; it came first with as a carbed unit with a 8-valve head then, from 2000 onwards, as a 16-valve MPI.

Even this might not sound like it would have the heft to carry you into the skies, even in a vehicle tipping the scales at barely over a tonne. But like the Samurai, the Gypsy is famous for its willingness to keep going, and going, and going, even when all the odds are against it.

Not that I was in the Samurai-based model for my expedition to conquer the Khardung La. Fellow off-roader Micky Singh and I set out aboard an early one, recognisable by its vertically slatted grille, giving us just 970cc and 45bhp to get us to the top.

Here in the extreme north of India, the mountains are huge and the

As if the threat of altitude sickness wasn’t enough, travelling by car means you get into the mountains way too quickly for your body to be able to acclimatise. Carrying an oxygen bottle is therefore critical – though when it empies itself while bouncing around in the back of your truck, that’s a whole different kind of critical. A second spare wheel is another very good thing to carry, as the author’s vehicle very ably demonstrated when a mighty one on a rock totalled one of its rims. So too is enough jerry cans to get you to wherever the next filling station is located – no small matter when you’re talking about the distance from London to Brussels, in an environment that sends fuel consumption through the roof. As a rule of thumb, a petrol engine can be expected to lose 3bhp of output per 1000 feet above sea level: the Gypsy’s 970cc unit is rated to 45bhp, and Khardung La Top stands above 18,000 feet, so you can do the maths…

roads narrow. There are two ways to reach the area: via the ancient spice route, which is now called the Manali-Leh road, or from Kashmir.

The former is treacherous, while the Kashmir-Leh road is more scenic – though it’s likely you’ll run across armed guards along the way. And sign after sign warns: ‘You are being closely observed by Pakistani soldiers.’ I prefer to be hit by an avalanche than a mortar, so there were no second thoughts about taking the Manali-Leh approach.

July to September is monsoon season in the lower Himalayas, a time when the landscape is awash with thousands of small waterfalls and moss-encrusted rocks. As we started our climb (you don’t drive here, you climb, gaining height with every turn of the tyres), we crossed Jalori pass at 12,100ft. It’s one of the steepest passes, taking you up 450m in just seven kilometres.

Soon we touched the banks of the river Beas, a waterway beloved of rafters. That same day, we surmounted the tricky Rohtang Pass, at 4000m, a popular point for tourists who seldom go beyond. It’s the last destination for the monsoons, too, as the clouds can’t cross over its lofty heights.

After Rohtang, it’s like going into a phantom zone. Up to here the roads are good, the weather fine and the mountains lush green. But now greenery started to vanish, sterile peaks rose before us and roads began to disappear, replaced by rutted dirt tracks.

This phantom zone is accessible only for six months; the rest of the year, a thick, white carpet of snow stops any visitors. When winter’s over, the Border Road Organisation repairs the road – not for the tourists and off-roaders, but for the strategic needs of the Indian army.

India’s northern borders are the world’s highest altitude war zone and there is no approach road in winter. Fuel, rations, groceries and weapons must be stockpiled during the six-month window of summer.

This was our first day and we were still fresh, relaxed and full of enthusiasm, despite hours of dodging bad drivers on the Indian roads. After crossing the pass, we stopped at the only petrol station for the next 500km to fill our two jerry cans and top up the 40-litre tank. By now, the sun was sinking in the sky; time to find an overnight stop.

Pitching our tents wasn’t the most attractive option, especially after we saw the brand new hotel at Keylong. This would be our last chance of a bit of luxury for the next 300 kilometres.

An early start seemed best as we had a long, tough drive ahead that would take us into the thin air zone. Here, everything happens in slow-motion because of the high altitude – even the valleys are at 9800ft. The body starts, literally, to shrink, a phenomenon technically known as muscle mass reduction. The first you know of it is when the watch on your wrist beings sliding up and down and your jeans fall to hip level.

In response, the heart actually expands marginally to increase production of red blood cells. Until you’re fully acclimatised, it makes for scary times.

It’s not just people who suffer, either. Oxygen levels dropped to 50%, making even the Gypsy gasp for air. It stalled in the middle of water crossings – and we’re not talking about the simple sort of foot-deep ford you see on a Sunday afternoon in Kent. No, we were driving through

Right: There can be few more evocative sights than that of massed prayer flags fluttering in the wind on a Himalayan mountainside. The flags are used to bless the surrounding countryside; their colours represent the five elements and five pure lights in Tibetan religion – the sky (blue), air (white), fire (red), water (green) and earth (yellow)

Pic: Prayer flags (lots of them) at the Khardung La, by Fulvio Spada @ flickr.com, CC BY-SA 2.0

Below: The Himalayan landscape is like nothing else. There are other mountain ranges, but nothing matches its sheer scale

Pic: Leh, India by shankii @ flickr.com, CC BY-ND 2.0

water gushing from underneath glaciers… and there was a 1600ft drop on the other side.

With the Gypsy working at about 50% capacity, and our bodies at roughly 75%, the challenge was immense both physically and mentally and there was no margin for error. Climbing at an average speed of little more than 10mph, you can count each stone and rock you pass, let me tell you.

Two hours later, we reached 16,500ft and the third pass of our journey, Baralacha La. Nobody’s around to welcome you at that height: only prayer fl ags fl uttering in the wind and one solitary signboard hint of human habitation.

It’s hard to admire the majestic scenery when your lungs feel like they’re collapsing. Up here, the fear of altitude sickness, which can be fatal if unchecked, is always at the back of your mind.

A few quick puffs on our oxygen cylinder (one of the must-haves on the kit list) gave us enough strength to stick around awhile and admire the snow-covered landscapes and mountains, striped like zebras where dark, rocky outcrops broke through the white blanket.

After Baralacha La, the phantom zone really began to live up to its name. Like a ghost land, there wasn’t a soul for miles and nothing to show anyone had ever been here. But suddenly, out of nowhere, a shepherd appeared with a bucket asking for water. You can’t help but wonder how nomads manage to live in these harsh conditions – what do they eat?

Plugging on, we reached the cold desert, where a single straight road leads to infi nity. You can fl y this road if you want – you don’t even have to take any lessons, but then the consequences of any errors of judgement are pretty obvious. Four-wheelers won’t fi nd any speed limits, either. Despite the Border Roads Organisation signs extolling the virtues of safe driving, it seems that no-one minds how fast you go here.

Driving the endless miles and miles of the Morey Plains, which stretch fl at as far as the eye can see, eventually we spotted the winding road once more. It climbs up to Tanglang La, the longest and supposedly the second highest (17,500ft) motorable pass in the world. It’s a strength-sapping journey but nothing equals the feeling of achievement.

After the sunset, bone-chilling cold was the norm as the sky fi lled up with millions of stars. The Milky Way and distant galaxies seemed just an arm’s length away. A serious stargazer could be tempted to spend his whole life watching the sky here.

We weren’t in any mood for hanging about, though, not in these sorts of temperatures. Besides, we still had to find a place to sleep for the night. So we headed for Leh, an army area.

Thanks to a recommendation from one of our rallying mates, we became guests of one of the army officers there. It was nice to have a solid roof over our heads for a change – never mind that the accommodation was basic, to us it was like luxury.

We had already crossed six passes in our journey, but still we needed to acclimatise before Khardung La – which, though it’s disputed, claims to be the highest motorable pass on the planet. The area is guarded well by the army, and only citizens of Ladakh are allowed to travel here without what’s called an Inner Line Permit.

While ours was being approved, we took the day off from driving to watch the famous Hemis festival. It’s an event that only takes place every 12 years, so we felt pretty lucky to witness it. Thousands gathered at the monastery, people who had travelled from faraway places in their traditional attire just for this celebration. The place was a photographer’s paradise.

The following morning, we were ready to drive the Khardung La pass which, at 18,350ft, was at the top of the world.

We had official permission, were fully acclimatised and the Gypsy was behaving for a change. Oxygen would be in short supply once more, and we’d need to refuel every 200 kilometres as our MPG would drop almost off the scale.

At the top, it was windy and snowy, with clouds the only thing above us. Mountains we’d already climbed seemed so much smaller in a view that can only be described as breathtaking. And up here, the air’s so fresh it almost hurts to breathe it.

Perhaps we ignored the dangers of such high altitudes, but only for a moment. Long enough for Micky to get sick, though. Our oxygen cylinder was empty because we stupidly didn’t tighten it enough to prevent the gas escaping as the canister got knocked about during our climb up Khardung La.

Luckily for Micky, there was an army camp nearby, and here he was able to receive the necessary medication as we rested in their warm snow huts. After some chocolate and juice, he began to feel better.

Now we just wanted to get lower as soon as possible, so we picked up some speed, only to hit a rock. Hard. The reward for our recklessness with a fully loaded Gypsy was a flat tyre and bent rim. Thankfully, a quick tyre change was all that was needed to send us on our way again.

Returning to Leh, we followed the road south which would ultimately lead us home. First, though, after the small matter of a dozen or so hours behind the wheel, we fetched up in Manali. Here, the Chandertal Hotel is a traditional finishing point for expeditions – a place where climbers, mountaineers and adventurers of all sorts can relax and recharge their batteries after their exertions in the wild mountains of the Himalayas.

And that’s exactly what we did, indulging ourselves after the hardships of life in this most extreme of environments. Our Gypsy looked almost anonymous in the car park, and no-one looking at it could possibly have known what it had just been through. But its efforts had been little short of heroic – our little Maruti had proved that the smallest 4x4s can still have the right stuff to take on the mightiest of mountains!

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