Incredible 150 meters.
This is the difference in altitude you have to climb onto the hill to the Royal Palace and the old castle ruins. So an incredible 150 meter difference in altitude. The dark-skinned receptionist in the hotel, probably a South Indian, rounds his eyes when he explains the matter to me.
If you believe him, this is more and less a daredevil alpinistic masterpiece, comparable to the conquest of the Kilimandjaro. Of course I don't believe a word he says, but I am warned and feel a bit like Sherpa Tensing on the climb to Mount Everest.
trip to the past
The adventure starts behind the mosque (in Ladakh, several thousand Muslims live in peaceful coexistence with the majority Buddhist population) with the search for the path through winding alleyways, but at least occasionally a "Way to Palace" indicates the direction.
This path is a journey into the past. Sometimes it's appropriate to duck your head. The Ladakhis are a short breed, the low passages are no problem for them, while the tall Westerners have trouble.
Occasionally you catch a glimpse into the houses, almost feeling like an intruder, but the friendly looks show that the strangers are welcome. Tourism is one of the few industries in the remote area that brings some wealth (though only to a few).
One should enjoy the walk, even if disgusting smells come up from time to time. There is no orderly sewage system, the wastewater finds its way downhill towards the Indus.
You make quick progress, but the view of the backyards, the hidden entrances, the broken windows keep me stopping.
Our rational thinking is challenged. Why aren't the broken windows patched? Winters in Ladakh are extremely cold, and although people are used to many things, the question remains: why aren't the windows repaired? Is it lack of money? Can't we just imagine that there is misery beyond our imagination?
Aren't we better than Marie Antoinette with her (mis)attributed quote: "If they don't have bread, they should eat cake."
It's tough.
The Royal Palace (or what's left of it)
In any case, after three quarters of an hour I'm standing in front of the entrance and pay the bored gate-keeper a small fee of 200 rupees. From this point of view I don't have the impression to stand in front of an abandoned ruin. The wooden windows seem to be intact, some are open, as if the ruling family is just about to enjoy lunch in fresh air. The masonry is old, but in good condition, a few flags blow in the gentle afternoon wind.
There is nothing to indicate that only long-forgotten artifacts await visitors.
After crossing dark corridors and low gates, the view opens unexpectedly up to the palace towering above the city. Along a tube leading down (up?) the slope, it quickly becomes strenuous. The walls of the palace reminiscent of the Potala Palace in Lhasa approach much faster than expected. Of course one is gasping a little more than at home, but all in all the comparison to Kilimandjaro seems exaggerated. Everything is relative.
However, the Royal Palace is not the highest point, but the ruins of the old royal castle. This ascent is also less strenuous than expected; a perfectly laid out path leads in serpentines up to the ruins, where - oh wonder! - you have to pay entrance fee once more.
A monk in a red robe grins all over his face when I ask him what there is to see up there. Monastery, he claims. All right. But I'm looking in vain for a monastery, unless I'm referring to the two by two meter prayer room.
Good God, even the monks can't be trusted any more. But the prayer flags flapping wonderfully in the wind and attached to long strings, compensate for everything else. It is said that here, at this highest point, the prayers are carried particularly quickly to the gods. Well then, let's send one along (after all, I'll soon be a grandfather).
Cinnamon Rolls
Slowly I get used to the city, know the hotspots, know where to get the best food and which German Bakery offers the best Cinnamon Rolls.
The evenings are pitch dark, which is connected not only to the night itself, but rather to the blackouts, which occur with malicious regularity. This is also the case this evening. Eventually after sunset, it slowly gets too dark to read and reaching for the light switch does not work. So again a power cut.
"More light" were Goethe's last words, and I would like to associate myself with that. After an hour in full darkness it becomes too much and I decide to ask at the reception, but how strange, light is working in the hallway, and everything else seems to be in the best bright order. The man at the reception starts laughing as I explain my problem to him. The switch in front of the hotel room doesn't serve as usual to switch off the light in the hallway, but to completely switch off the power in the corresponding room. Damn it, I am such an idiot! Enough for today. Sleep well, Folks!
P.S. Matching Song: Katzenjammer - Tea with Cinnamon
And here the journey continues ...
