To reach the Desert Rain Café in the heart of Leh, you must veer off the bustling main street that leads to the mosque and navigate a narrow passageway that runs parallel to the back alleys. These alleys are barely paved and so narrow that more than three people passing through at the same time is nearly impossible. The ruins of the Leh Palace loom over from the hilltop above. Entering through the back door of a building and climbing a steep staircase in traditional Himalayan style, you arrive at a small second-floor space overlooking Bazaar Street. As you step inside and remove your shoes, you’re greeted by a miraculous space of sunlight and tranquility, dotted with small tables where you can savor a cappuccino and pick up a book from the surrounding shelves.
On a recent Saturday evening, in the heat of a midsummer afternoon, I climbed those stairs. The place felt like a “Kyoto Connection” in the Indian Himalayas. Desert Rain occasionally hosts open mic nights, offering a chance to share songs and dreams. That night, most of the room, except for me, was filled with young women from Ladakh. They were mostly high school students, attending private schools in Delhi or the Indian plains on the back of tourist dollars. They knew of Nike, Britney, and the wonders of the world, laughing like ordinary valley girls, asking me what I was doing there and why I had come to their land. At the front of the room, a serious young Ladakhi man with glasses was earnestly performing “The Times They Are A-Changin’,” an old Eagles hit. While his singing lacked the power of “Hotel California” or “Californication” that you might hear in a Dharamsala café, the girls joyfully sang along to every word.
Breath of the Silk Road
We sat in a small space surrounded by snow-covered mountains, under the pulsating moon, at an altitude of 10,000 feet. Far removed from what the Eagles might consider “civilization,” we attempted to joyfully sing their songs about tough women from Los Angeles and the dangers of cocaine. The hostess of the Desert Rain, who had come from Colorado, entered through the back door, doubling the number of foreigners in the room (just a few days ago, I had seen her enjoying pie and coffee with British soldiers on peacekeeping duties in Kashmir). The name of this clean, fresh space might evoke the desert rain of familiar Rumi poetry to the cap-wearing worshippers at the mosque across the street or simply playfully express the meaning of music in this parched Himalayan wilderness. In reality, a closer look at the surrounding books revealed that the space spoke of a vision of Christian grace. In Leh, much like in the South Pacific or among the Native Americans of South America, Mennonites had come to bring their songs of salvation to people who had long been denied contact with the West.
In my ignorance, I had thought of Ladakh as a pure land where Himalayan traditions would remain untouched until the end (Bhutan is even more pristine, but this is due to a policy of cultural homogeneity, which is seen as fascism by Nepalese and Tibetans). I knew that Ladakh had magnificent Buddhist gompas on hilltops, and its people still lived in whitewashed two-story houses amidst barley fields, starkly different from what can now be seen in contemporary Tibet. However, upon arriving in this remote mountain kingdom, I discovered that not far from the Line of Control separating Indian and Pakistani forces, officially, about half of Ladakh’s population was Muslim. Hence, there was a large mosque across the street, and for years, Leh had been a major trading center on the Silk Road. To a Westerner, Ladakh signified the zenith of Buddhist seclusion, being closed to tourists by the Indian government until 1974 and lacking streetlights until the end of the Clinton administration. Yet, along Bazaar Street, the faces of women selling vegetables on the sidewalks told stories of generations of traders from Herat, Kashgar, Samarkand, and other distant neighbors who had offered silk, indigo, gold, and opium.
Therefore, the Silk Road lives on in Leh, symbolizing a natural crossroads where Tibetans, Nepalese, and Indians gather, exchange goods, temporarily run hotels, and contribute to a medley of cultures. But just a short walk from the mosque, there’s a rooftop Pizza De Hut restaurant serving tacos and French fries under red and white umbrellas, with prominent cell phone advertisements. At the nearest intersection, 150 small travel agencies line up, marketing themselves to foreign visitors with names like “Ecological Footprint Travels” and “Tibet Expeditions.” In this small Himalayan town, one can now learn traditional Thai massage, watch “Pirates of the Caribbean” within days of its Los Angeles release, and stop at a German bakery on the way to a full moon party. Upon landing at the small airport, a sign in English greets you, urging not to buy products from multinational companies that undermine cultural diversity.
The New Silk Road
The new Silk Road, once dubbed the “Denim Route” twenty years ago, weaves through places like Prague and Lhasa, Cusco and Sumatra. Its most vibrant and growing life can perhaps be found in the virtual global village of cyberspace. And when you step into Leh, Lhasa, Kathmandu, or any of the major trading posts of the Himalayas, what you encounter are new markets, different audiences, and various ways of adapting to today’s more global needs. The road still traverses Central Asia, but now you find young Danes with tales of trekking across the Andes and peacekeepers from Montana gathering for apple pie. Japanese boys with ponytails send aid to underprivileged countries, while Himalayan children sing “Tequila Sunrise” in Christian-run cafes, imagining Indians from Britain living in Japan.
Foreigners, myself included, who come to Ladakh often seek an “authentic” experience, and feel a mix of anxiety and resentment at finding other foreigners there for the same reason. Indeed, it’s common to hear cries about Ladakh being “contaminated,” sounding much like a compulsive criminal hoping to be locked up before causing more harm. In Leh, over the past thirty years, many of the foreigners who arrived have heroically strived to encourage Ladakh’s traditions and preserve old customs before they vanish. The Ladakhis I have met seem to crave being “contaminated,” just as people like me yearn to travel the world and learn from different cultures. Tourism, in reality, is the latest industry allowing them to pitch their tents far and wide, offering their children better jobs and lives.
For centuries, their ancestors sat on these dusty streets, watching caravans depart for Srinagar and Yarkand, bringing unimaginable wealth and treasures to this isolated land. The routes were never about right or wrong, but about supply and demand. What they mean to say is that “need” is universal to all of us, and as part of a fruitful friendship, you give me what I need, and I do the same for you. Teach me the lyrics to “Life in the Fast Lane” (and explain the meaning of “blow”), and I’ll share the tale my great-grandmother told about Padmasambhava and his journey to the cave.
On this warm summer evening, I sit in Desert Rain, savoring the tranquil space where the airport is named after a lama and the only hotel newspaper is eight years old. In the fields on the outskirts of town, men in elegant robes engage in traditional archery, while just a few days ago, I watched marmots and wild kiang at a pass 18,350 feet above sea level. Climbing to the rooftop of my hotel, countless stars and grand Buddhist structures on surrounding hillsides watch over me. I feel grateful to Jet Airways and Singapore Airlines for bringing me here, and to the mighty dollar and the fact of immigration that allowed me to be born in Britain rather than Bombay, giving me broader opportunities than my parents ever had.
Among the Girls
The girls around me giggled and asked for my business card. “May I write to you?” one of them said. Of course. To her, I might have been a bridge to a romantic and thrilling world, just as she was for me. She could sense the beginning of a journey into a magical realm, one she had only heard about in Eagles songs. Neither of us had come here for trade. We were here to engage with the ancient customs of Ladakh, in a small, candle-lit space inspired by foreign faiths. She might have glanced at the passport peeking from my pocket and thought, “You might have money, but I have tea, incense, and stories.”
Silk, now so exotic to us, was once a commonplace commodity traded like any other. Perhaps one day, “The Last Resort” or “The End of Innocence” will also seem like distant, glowing relics. As we sat in the warm, bright room, the lights around town gradually went out, but we, as usual, were heading in the opposite direction—like travelers journeying across the snow-covered passes and dusty trails of the Silk Road.
