India’s Most Dangerous Highway

Taking the High Road: India’s Most Dangerous Highway

A public bus on India’s treacherous Manali-Leh Highway. (Photo: Angela de Klerk)

It’s 2:30 a.m. and the village is dead empty and absolutely still; creepy, India is never this quiet. My sister, and I have been awake since morning and fatigue is now sneaking up on us as we sit patiently on our backpacks in a vacant parking lot. Finally, headlamps break the dark night and our 4x4 minivan arrives. Deepak, our driver, look like he’s been driving all night; I am praying he overdosed on his mother-in-law’s potent chai. 

I say a silent, tearful goodbye to my backpack as Deepak ties it to the roof. I take a seat — the only broken chair, go figure. For the next two hours we are in and out of an uncomfortable sleep as the vehicle gradually climbs up the bumpy mountain road, throwing us around like rag dolls. I wake up to the sound of, well, nothing: we have stopped and are in a major traffic jam at 6,561 feet above sea level in the middle of the Himalaya Mountains. 

As I step outside to find a secluded spot (which is difficult, owing to the lack of trees or any kind of bushes), I am hit in the face with frosty air, chilling me to my bones. There’s heavy mist blocking the view, but the intense emptiness and isolation that surrounds me is awe-inspiring and I know we are in for one hell of a journey.

The quality of the roads throughout the entire journey. (Photo: Angela de Klerk)

The 300-mile Manali-Leh Highway is located in Northern India and connects Manali, in the state of Himachal Pradesh, with Leh in Ladakh, in Jammu, and Kashmir State. This route has only been open to foreigners for the past 25 years. Before this, the popular route was to start in Srinagar (in Kashmir) and make your way east to Leh. Due to the harsh weather conditions the road is only officially open in summer, from about May to September, depending on the amount of snowfall and how safe the roads are. This is determined by the BRO (Border Roads Organization) of the Indian Army.

After some tea and biscuits, we are back in the car and on the move, ascending steadily along with the other vehicles, all taking advantage of the ‘good’ (meaning there’s a decrease in snowfall allowing for safer roads) July weather. 

The writer’s hard-core transport van. (Photo: Angela de Klerk)

We pass cars stuck in icy mud sludge and people on motorbikes with faces that seem frozen in time. I feel the penetrating iciness as we approach the notorious Rohtang Pass, which lies at an altitude of 13,060 feet. 

At this moment, the fog clears and I experience a mind-blowing attack on my senses. First of all, I recall a paragraph from my guidebook that states: rohtang in the Bhoti language literally means “pile of corpses,” owing to the weather- related deaths of people trying to cross the pass. I try not to think of this as we travel scarily fast around dangerous blind corners on a single lane gravel road with hanging glaciers on one side, and a long descent (or fall) on the other.

Deepak’s method of “safety” is hooting like crazy as we approach a corner and then take the curve incredibly sharp and fast, sometimes even overtaking bends. I am a little scared, but I trust his instincts and it adds to the excitement of the journey.

Icy blue mountain lakes. (Photo: Angela de Klerk)

As we progress, we glimpse turquoise rivers snaking through valleys and terminating in tranquil icy blue lakes. The landscape turns from green to brown to white. Soaring snow-capped peaks fill the sky and intimidate us with potential avalanches. I almost feel the need to bow down before Mother Nature and ask her for a safe passage. The road is rough and bumpy; many portions are so damaged even a small amount of rain can trigger a landslide. 

I have deep respect for cyclists who make the crazy decision to bike the 300 miles in this very high, harsh, and desolate environment, with its heavy mist, fast-flowing streams, and extreme bitter cold. Military vehicles pass by in large trucks, with a dozen eyes and the metal pointy ends of guns peering out.

Pang, a high-altitude encampment. (Photo: Angela de Klerk)

We stop a few times to get food. The high altitude is bearing on me and I’ve developed a headache, nausea, and lightheadedness. We were supposed to do the 300 miles in one go, but Deepak decides to stop for the night in Pang, a tiny tent camp settlement that only exists in the summer months to provide warmth and food for travelers. Pang is set at 14,763 feet, surrounded by looming mountains and complete bleakness, enveloped in a clear, night sky bursting from top to bottom with stars. 

I can’t imagine the amount of stamina the ladakhis need to live in these merciless conditions, and I admire the hospitality and kindness of this family whose language we don’t speak. They make our stay in this remote place feel like home. 

We huddle together in the makeshift tent; eating the most delicious vegetable thukpa (Tibetan noodles) and drinking hot masala chai. A pile of cushions becomes our bed; it’s covered with heavy blankets to keep out the bitter cold. We sleep soundly until morning.

Arriving at Taglang La, the second highest pass in the world. (Photo: Angela de Klerk)

We get up early the next day. The sun is shining and the sky a brilliant clear blue. We brave the cold — laughing at how our pee almost freezes as it touches the ground — and take to the road again. We crawl up the mountain behind slow trucks and soon we reach Taglang La, the second highest pass in the world, and stop for a break. Taglang La lies at 17,480 feet, and it’s quite an incredible feeling to be this high, especially since we didn’t have to hike it. 

Prayer flags line to journey. (Photo: Angela de Klerk)

The air is thin, so I quickly eat chocolate and drink chai to help with my altitude sickness, whilst admiring the bright colors of the Tibetan prayer flags that are in deep contrast with the stark, lunar semi-arid desert, which receives the prayers every time the flag flutters in the wind. 

From here, it’s all downhill to Leh. After a few bouncy hours, we arrive in the dusty ancient city. I am exhausted, but glad to be on solid ground again.

Even though we were stuck in a car for more than 20 hours, the landscape was utterly flabbergasting and the glorious power of Mother Nature helped us forget how uncomfortable our seats were. I recommend this trip to any thrill-seeker who lives life literally on the edge, loves exchanging stories whilst clutching a hot mug of chai, adores staring out into a starry cold night, and who can place their life into the hands of complete, yet remarkable, strangers.