Turtuk Tourism: The Village Split by a Border
In a place where social media and mobile phones are absent, family members who live apart send each other recorded video messages on flash drives via postal mail.
When the first tourist stepped foot into Turtuk, a small farming village cradled between snow-capped peaks in India’s remote Ladakh region, he was welcomed with baskets brimming with ripe apricots, shimmering silk scarves, and a choreographed folk dance. The year was 2010.
“Everyone was so happy then,” recalled Ismail Khan, 35, owner of Ismail’s Homestay, one of the now approximately 20 accommodations in the once-secluded village. “It was the first time we had seen a foreigner.”
Initially claimed by Pakistan following the end of British rule in 1947, Turtuk became part of India in 1971 during the Indo-Pakistani war when Baltistan was divided between the two nations. As a military frontier, the area remained off-limits to outsiders – including other Indians – until the locals, exhausted by their prolonged isolation, campaigned to open the picturesque, remote valley.
As curious visitors began to trickle into Turtuk, attracted by its unique geopolitical history, they discovered one of India’s last pastoral havens.
The terrain is rugged, with rocky roads, jagged mountains, and desert landscapes that are challenging to navigate.
For years, Turtuk’s seclusion was not just a result of government policy but also due to its formidable geography: nestled within the Karakoram mountains, it requires a grueling, sun-baked trek from neighboring villages. However, Baltistan, a predominantly Muslim province amidst the largely Buddhist region of Ladakh, once played a crucial role as a gateway to the Silk Road, the ancient trade route connecting India with China, Persia, and Rome. The mixed heritage of Turtuk’s inhabitants, who are of Tibetan and Indo-Aryan descent, reflects Baltistan’s historical significance as a hub of commerce, culture, and connection.
Today, with no wifi, limited electricity, few businesses, and a distinct local language (Balti), the largely self-sustained border village retains an ambiance from a bygone era.
Determined to witness Turtuk firsthand, I embarked on the arduous journey from Leh, Ladakh’s principal city, which involved a dizzying ascent over Khardung La, the world’s highest motorable pass at 18,379 feet.
The Descent into Turtuk
Our shared jeep bounced down rock-strewn roads, as glaciers gave way to a flat, white desert. Craggy mountains, streaked with purples and greens, jutted from the vast dunes. The narrow passes were so tight that we lost a side mirror to a passing vehicle.
The final stretch of the journey clung to the roiling Shyok River—aptly named “Death River” in Uyghur from the days of the Silk Road—all the way to Turtuk. Just a few miles further lay the border with Pakistan. Overcome with carsickness and thirst, I arrived in Turtuk with a sense of profound relief.
Although now part of India, the Pakistani border is just down the road from this picturesque village. The Karakoram mountain range, home to K2, the world’s second-highest peak, loomed over Turtuk’s roughly 300 stone houses, as surreal as a painted backdrop. Mustard-yellow barley fields glowed in the late afternoon sun.
At Ismail’s restaurant, a short walk from his homestay through a maze of narrow paths, I refreshed myself with chapattis and ginger tea. A little girl in a charcoal hijab called me over, offering me fruit from the folds of her kurta. I bit into a succulent, sweet apricot, and couldn’t help but smile. It was deliriously delicious.
“Have more!” she exclaimed, seeing my grin. I asked where she had found them. “Come,” an older girl replied. “We’ll show you.”
Following them outside, I panted up an old stone staircase, flooded with water from the glacial runoff that irrigates the village. Tall, spiky trees shaded the path. Soon, the steps opened onto a flat, verdant field. At this height, we seemed almost level with the neighboring mountain range.
The girls, balancing on a crumbling stone wall, reached into the treetops with both hands. “Here!” they cried, clutching armfuls of pale yellow fruit. “Take more! Take more!” I asked if I could help gather apricots, but they waved me aside. “It’s too dangerous for you,” the little one chided.
Balti hospitality is renowned, and I experienced it firsthand when altitude sickness struck on my second day—a lingering effect of Khardung La, no doubt. Ismail and his nephew smuggled me into an army hospital in a military buffer zone closer to the border, usually off-limits to tourists. For 10 hours, they stayed with me, smiling, while the doctor, clad in olive fatigues, administered three IVs.
Once I recovered over yak butter tea, I spoke with Abdul Kareem Hashamt, 65, one of the village elders. He recounted how Turtuk first came under Indian control. Hashamt had become a math teacher at Turtuk’s first primary school in the 1970s, after India introduced roads and education.
“At first, people were a little bit scared of India,” he told me. But Colonel Rinchen, the Indian Army officer leading the campaign, who hailed from a nearby village in Ladakh, reassured them, “Don’t be afraid. We are with you. We’re all human beings.”
Women and children sought refuge in Turtuk’s mosque, while the men whispered negotiations.
A Delicate Conquest
“After the colonel spoke to them, they were very happy,” Hashamt recounted. “They put on dance shows for the soldiers, welcoming them with crates of fresh apricots.” It was likely one of the gentlest conquests in history.
Yet, for villagers studying or working in Pakistan before 1971, the annexation of Turtuk to India was bittersweet. While their families became Indians, they remained Pakistanis. Though the Indian government now allows visits from Pakistan, it requires significant expense and cumbersome paperwork.
Without the internet, estranged family members rely on recorded video messages exchanged on flash drives, sent by post.
Hashamt’s college-aged son, Ishmael, played one such message for me on his laptop—a video he had recorded for a local family. The screen flickered to life, bridging the miles and years with simple words and familiar faces.
Echoes of a Fragmented Past
“I’m fine. A little bit sick,” said an old man onscreen, his long white beard and beige woolen cap giving him an air of timelessness. “We remember you in our dreams. In every moment.”
Last year, Ishmael’s own uncle visited Turtuk for the first time in 43 years. I watched the footage of the reunion with his mother, who was bent over her cane, tears streaming down her face. They embraced fiercely, a testament to the years of separation.
Ishmael reflected, “It’s not good, having a lot of relatives who live on the other side. I can’t explain to you what it feels like.”
Before modern borders, Baltistan was a separate kingdom. Until the 16th century, monarchs from Turkistan ruled over the united province under the Yagbo dynasty, a Central Asian empire whose reign, lasting from 800 to 1800 AD, saw a flourishing of poetry and arts. Their former summer home now serves as Turtuk’s only museum, showcasing eclectic relics like an antique snow leopard trap and a lapis lazuli-encrusted sword.
The Opening of Turtuk
Turtuk was once a hidden enclave, closed to the world until locals petitioned for its opening.
Many descendants of the royal clan still reside in Turtuk. On my final afternoon, I was shown the museum grounds by Shahnavaz Hassan Khan, the 17-year-old heir to the dynasty. Flanked by artifacts, dressed in a muscle tee and denim cargo shorts, Khan was a strikingly modern figure amidst ancient relics.
Like many young villagers, he is thrilled that, 45 years after becoming part of India, Turtuk has grown more connected to the world. “People are coming from all different countries,” Khan remarked. Before, villagers “didn’t travel. They weren’t seeing any new things.”
The arrival of tourists has undoubtedly impacted local culture. Yet, Turtuk’s identity has always been a tapestry of influences—a Muslim village in a Buddhist region within a predominantly Hindu country, its mixed ancestry transcending borders.
The Reference Article トゥルトゥク：インドとパキスタンの国境で体験する伝説のホスピタリティと歴史的な魅力
