During a visit to the remote Zanskar Valley of far north India, I hitched a ride with a local truck driver called Hussein.

There were few alternatives. The region is a high altitude desert connected to the outside world by a single, poorly maintained road.

A ring of Himalayan peaks forms a natural barrier to the area and the winters are so harsh and the road so treacherous, that it is closed to the outside world for up to eight months of the year.

Hussein frequently stopped to pick up hitchhikers, make chai, and chat about his life.

Travelling in the truck on such a terrible road was exhausting - even as a passenger. A flourish of violins burst forth every time we moved, we had to shout over the enormous sounds of the engine, the bends in the road were nauseating and at each hairpin turn we had to stop and pivot multiple times to shift direction. By nightfall, my whole body would still be jittering from the constant motion.

But the views were sublime and I would capture my first glimpse of Zanskar through a window framed with tassels that jiggled with every bump of the road.

The cabin was huge. There was room enough for eight people and the interior was so densely decorated that sitting inside was like being immersed in a strange green fairytale.

There were idyllic boating scenes, pressed tin decorations and dozens of tiny inlaid cupboards containing a curious collection of tools and objects. There was a fringe of tassels over each window, heart shaped stickers smack bang in the centre of the mirrors and white lacy curtains that served little purpose except to obscure the view of the precarious road.

There were too many flourishes to count or take in at once, and the entire aesthetic was completely overwhelming. But my eyes did rest on a battered cupboard marked with a hand painted Red Cross symbol that I really hoped would remain a mystery.

This part of the Suru Valley was practically uninhabited, though we came across some nomadic shepherds with long beards and large herds of animals.

Hussein had an entire switchboard of florid horns to blare as he fancied and as we skirted around the mountains, he gleefully employed the complete obnoxious range to scatter their yaks, sheep and endless protesting goats.

When I attempted to ascertain a pattern to his usage of the horn, he simply smiled and playfully flicked all the horns on and off at whim.
Sometimes, Hussein took the risk of picking up Buddhist hitchhikers.

Buddhists and Muslims have been intermarrying in this area peacefully for hundreds of years, but things have changed since the introduction of this road.

Truck drivers can now be being fined for picking up passengers outside their own faith. But Hussein refuses to discriminate. Although he is Muslim, half the women in his family are Buddhists and he believes everyone should be treated equally.

Later, we would pick up five schoolgirls who might otherwise have spent three hours walking home from school.
For lunch, we stopped in a remote valley filled with stone boulders. I was nervous about travelling this way on my own and searched Hussein’s face for malicious intent as he set about making tea.

But this was a good natured man who enjoyed simple pleasures, and he looked totally harmless as he produced each ingredient from a different little cupboard with an expression of delight and a private smile.

First he pulled at a tiny little handle decorated with pink hearts - chai leaves appeared. Then he popped open a tiny cupboard to reveal nutmeg and cinnamon. Finally he procured little glasses and condensed milk from a side cabinet, folded up the seat to expose a gas burner and started boiling what would become the most delicious chai in the world.

He had two pressure cookers hidden beneath the seat. Later I would witness him leaving the pressure cooker bubbling on the gas stove while driving over mountain passes. Some of the hitchhikers helped him cook.

That day he made a spicy meal with the fresh vegetables from local farmers. As usual, water was sourced from a little stream running with clean melted glacier water.
I reached my destination safely that night and arranged another ride with him back to town.

The next time we travelled together, we got caught in a snow storm. The weather was so bad that we had to spend the night in Ranghdum, one of the coldest continuously inhabited places in the world.

In the morning, the temperature plunged to fifteen degrees below zero. Everything was eerily still and the fuel tank was frozen solid.

Hussein cracked long icicles off a water pump and made chai. Then he filled a battered old tin can with dried chunks of yak dung, collected sticks and built a fire.

We warmed our hands by the fire as it slowly enveloped the fuel tank. Eventually, the engine started and we were on our way again.
On the last day, we stopped at a clear mountain stream. The air was warmer so we squatted and soaped our hands and faces and he cleaned his truck.

Hussein was happy because he had earned five thousand rupees on this trip by transporting a politician’s broken down car to Kargil.

He said that travelling on this road was rougher than in other parts of India, what with frequent icefalls, landslides and poor weather closing the road down, but the road is a lifeline for this community and he liked helping people out.
Zanskar is Hussein's favourite route because it’s one of the most peaceful places he has visited.

Most nights in Zanskar, he parks his truck in an isolated spot to sleep and enjoy the scenery.

He feels comfortable sleeping in his cabin because the seat can be folded out to make a space as large as a king sized bed. But he never ventures far from the vehicle after dusk because brown bears sometimes try to break into his truck and eat the food.

Once, he came upon a snow leopard while going out to pee. He says the snow leopard was beautiful - like a large white cat.
I have gone on to travel with Hussein in various seasons.

Follows is a selection of pictures from various visits.

This is an ongoing project.

During a visit to the remote Zanskar Valley of far north India, I hitched a ride with a local truck driver called Hussein.

There were few alternatives. The region is a high altitude desert connected to the outside world by a single, poorly maintained road.

A ring of Himalayan peaks forms a natural barrier to the area and the winters are so harsh and the road so treacherous, that it is closed to the outside world for up to eight months of the year.

Hussein frequently stopped to pick up hitchhikers, make chai, and chat about his life.

April Fonti

Documentary Photography, Indian documentary photography, female photojournalist, female photographer
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