The wrong desert

At age 24, I hit the road with two of my closest friends to travel and explore India. Naive, overly confident, wide-eyed and on a fresh-graduate/backpackers budget: we were the perfect cliche. 

I have always struggled with travelling purely for sightseeing and ‘witnessing’ cultures – I wanted to find a bit more purpose for this trip. I did some research and was recommended to visit Ladakh, from a close friend who also studied ecology and cared about climate issues. Online, I found an incredible school not far from Leh, called SECOML (The Students’ Educational and Cultural Movement of Ladakh). They were interested in me sharing my  filmmaking and storytelling skills with their students. My goal was to give them the tools to tell their own stories and it ended up being the ultimate highlight for my trip to India. Eventually.

We arrived in Leh at the very end of winter and learnt very quickly that arriving by plane to such a high altitude is the best recipe for suffering sudden altitude sickness. My two friends were instantly bedridden for several days and I was on food- and water-retrieval duty. 

I was eager to visit the school where I’d be running my workshops as soon as possible, to get a lay of the land and prepare for our next three weeks at the campus. So I prepared a survival stash of food for the incarcerated and headed off to the central bus station.

Google Maps were not yet a thing, neither was easy Internet access and all I knew about the school was that it was called SECMOL and was near a village called Phey. Armed with my Ladahki/English language translation book, I stuttered my way around the bus station asking which bus was for Phey.

The noise and organised chaos of the station was mind-blowing: thick, black diesel smoke, shuddering engines of repurposed US school-buses, calammering conductors trying to coax passengers onto their bus, all at full volume like the world was ending. I felt I heard someone shout ‘Phey’, and I jumped onboard, pretending I was ready for whatever could happen next. 

Time moves slowly when you are on full alert. Thirty minutes felt like hours. Bouncing along at breakneck speeds, dusty desert roads through moonscape terrain, regional pop music blaring with crackling volume. The bus screeched to a halt and the conductor started yelling at me, pointing up into the hills toward a tiny, distant village. So, naturally, I jumped off and watched the bus vanish into a dusty cloud on the horizon, the pop music fading just as fast, dozens of pairs of eyes staring at me with mouths agape. I was completely alone, nothing but a faint road pointing up towards the mountain range in front of me. It seemed the next step was obvious, so I started walking up the road still trying to gauge a measure of distance, where everything looked clear and sharp and nothing moved.

This was not the time to reflect on this being one of the few occasions I had been completely alone and completely lost. Those haunting echoes of warnings in the recesses of my mind stood no match for the overwhelming vast landscape that lay before me. The task at hand was so clear. Just keep moving. 

I heard a faint voice yelling, and spotted a woman leaning on the fence by her cottage at the start of the road calling out to me. She beckoned me over and warned me with urgency of the wild dogs in the region, using words I for sure would understand: “Dogs bite! Dogs bite!”

 She was looking out for me, still I looked all around, saw no sign of dogs and, more importantly, no sign of a return trip. So my pick-a-path seemed pretty obvious. 

I started heading up the desert road with an understandably urgent pace, trying to mute those words of warning in my head. I was soon to learn one of the greatest lessons of my life that I still carry with me to this day. 

Water. Always take water. 

The temperature was cool, the skies were clear, the altitude was very high and the air, so perfectly dry. I’ve never experienced a place quite like this before. In my mind, the logic was that as soon as I reached SECMOL, I’d have water and all would be fine. Easy. Simple. Right?

It was hard to gauge how far the village was and it seemed to not be getting any closer, no matter how fast I walked. I could see some way along the road what looked like a herd of animals and their shepards. That was it – my first goal. Reach them and be safe from the dogs. At the same time, my mind ran rampant with the ingrained fear of male strangers, passed on by cautious parents.  I now understand it is also a common mental-muttering for many other people, women in particular. I contemplated my options for safety over the half hour, as I power-walked my way up that parched desert road.

As I approached them, I expected they would take interest in this bazaar, lonesome, foreign girl and want to have a conversation, so I prepared my phrase book.  They had settled down for some tea and a rest but they completely ignored my existence. So, I awkwardly walked past in silence, offering a smile and a wave to their downturned eyes. Part of me was relieved at not having to stutter through small talk.

Ahead of me, there was nothing for miles. No people, no trees, no houses and luckily, no dogs. After another hour of marching along that slowly climbing road with only my thoughts and thirst for company, the village finally started to get bigger up on the horizon. Soon enough, I passed a small cottage with a sign out front that looked similar to the SECMOL acronym… but it wasn’t. I felt delirious, lightheaded, I was pretty certain that I was now also lost. 

I walked up into the seemingly deserted village made up of roughly 20 small traditional cottages, all with very high fences and broken glass on the top of them. I saw the face of a teenage girl and a gateway and I pulled out my phrasebook to earnestly ask for water. She vanished inside the cottage and returned with a glistening silver platter and one small, clear, absolutely spectacular glass of life. I drank that glass without a second thought and waited for my brain to slowly return to near normal so I could express deepest yet bumbling gratitude using my phrasebook. I could only assume that places like this rarely encounter foreigners like me. Her eyes were wide, her smile somewhat shocked, yet I felt she was very welcoming and excited to meet me, as I was her. All my fears and anguish of dogs and being lost and alone in a foreign place subsided just by being in the presence of this kind young woman. 

I didn’t realise it at the time, but I would reflect on it many times more throughout the rest of my life: the value of fresh water and how precious that glass of water was that she offered me. I later learnt that their family would have a very strict and limited supply due to the desert climate and traditional infrastructure. Offering me that one glass of water meant one less for her and her family. I have never taken water for granted since that moment and often see that silver platter and single glass in my mind’s eye as one of the most beautiful and generous offerings.

I can’t remember if we actually had a conversation, but I remember her concerned and confused expression when I asked if SECMOL was nearby, pointing at the photo on the back of my phrasebook of the campus. She pointed me down to the small cottage near the start of the village. There, I re-read the sign and worked out that it was a community health centre. This was not the village I was aiming for. This was not Phey. 

Inside the clinic, I met an older woman who I guessed to be a nurse or doctor. She was dressed in a heavy, dark, voluminous, woollen dress, fairly typical in that region, and was all alone in the small, bare clinic. She must’ve picked up on how ridiculously unusual my situation was, reacting calmly to my state of dehydration. She welcomed me in and offered me a sweet tea.

She only spoke Ladakhi and I could only speak English, but many things translate well when you keep an open mind. I understood she would help me get a ride back to Leh with her. I had no idea how long we would have to wait so I got comfortable with my language book and played the game of ‘what’s that called’, pointing at random objects, birds and trees. I slowly felt my energy returning. 

After half an hour of enjoying this peaceful retreat, she swiftly gathered her things and beckoned me to the door. She locked it behind us and we passed through the gate to be confronted by one of the largest army trucks I have ever seen. I had forgotten that this part of India was a major military training region. We climbed up the enormous stepladder to be greeted by two perplexed and stunned army soldiers. We squeezed into the back of the cab and we bounced down that long road I knew much too well. They spent most of the ride trying to take photos of me. I spent most of my time subtly trying to dodge those photos.

At the main road, the two of us jumped out of the truck and into a local bus that was heading towards Leh. Even though I couldn’t understand most of what my new best friend was saying, I could tell that she explained to the conductor that I was to go all the way back to Leh city and argued that I only pay the same price as her. She got off the bus within a few stops, and talked to all the other women around me on the bus, explained her version of my story and asked that they look out for me. They all sent warm and comforting smiles my way. I could feel a sense of confidence and trust growing in me, something I have continued to nurture ever since.

The rest of the journey is a bit of a blur, but I do remember heading straight back to our small refuge in Leh, and collapsing in bed beside two very unwell friends. It was my turn to join them for several days of altitude sickness. 

Eventually I could summarise my two greatest learnings: 

1. Dive into the unknown even if I am scared. When in doubt, I know there is a sisterhood – I can trust in other women when I’m feeling lost and alone. I’ve tested this theory throughout the next 12-years of travel and it has always served me well. 

2. No matter where I go… Always. Bring. Water.

by Lu Davidson

Featured photo by Bruna Miguel.
Supportive comments are welcomed.