Compassion and forgiveness top the list. It made me question: If compassion is integral to Buddhism, then how is it possible to attain detachment? When love is an emotion, how can we detach from it when it is the very food of our souls?
David and I had met a couple of cheeky 12 year olds who had the key to one of the temples at the top of the monastery. They were boys. Snotty noses, dirty feet, cheeky smiles. Training for monks can begin at an early stage in life, in some cases, they are as young as four, and for a number of reasons: they are sent to the monasteries by impoverished Buddhist families; if there is more than one son in the family, they often feel it is the duty of at least one of them to dedicate his life to Buddhism; or most commonly, it is because the fate of the boy has been written in the “Janam Kundali” - a birth chart that reveals not just the details of the child's previous life, but current and future lives too. I had met Tenzin (they all seem to have this name) in Disksit, just across the Nubra Valley, the world's highest motorable pass. He told me that he had been a monk in his previous life, and because he was an only son in this life, his fate was to take care of his parents, get married and bear children.
I have tried to understand the stoic nature of Buddhism. I appreciate even, the path that can lead to true enlightenment. However, I could not help but question: Isn't it better for a monk to be a monk because he arrived at that conclusion for himself? Shouldn't an individual be entitled to discover the world and life for themselves before making a decision like this? Does it mean that all those who are not monks, are living sinful lives? Is it really wrong to love, be loved, indulge in sex, drugs and rock n' roll? As human beings, do we not have needs? If we deny ourselves of those needs, does this not create unsavoury situations? Isn't repression a dangerous thing for our society? Priests and small boys? Buddhist monks and pregnant nuns?
Square table discussion with David
Padum is cold by night, so following dinner at our local dhaba, a tipple is just the tonic you need to warm you up. David and I went for a drink at our local watering hole and ended up having a square table discussion, on paper.
Me: The world we live in feeds our ego. Loving with our egos gets in the way of our relationships. Unselfish, unconditional love, letting someone go if you love them – whether they are friend, foe, brother, sister or lover. This is Buddhism. So does this mean Buddhism is a supporter of “free love”? Should we not learn to live and love the pleasures of life without ego when the pleasures of life are food for the soul?
David: You are a bad influence on people. Alcohol and narcotics should be consumed with... MODERATION. Fleeing life's problems doesn't work. Meditation, compassion and moderation does. So NEEEUGHHH! You have a sinful devil inside, exorcism is required!
Me: Pleasures in life are food for the soul!
David: Excess pleasures are the food for destroyers of the soul.
Me: Denying yourself of pleasure makes your life a living sin. So enjoy yourself and be free!
David: Crap. The greatest pleasures require dedication, commitment, self-discipline and dedication. Only the “blind” seek solace in simple pleasures, that in fact, deny us true, lasting and genuine pleasure.
Me: Who says we can't have the best of both worlds? Divine, spiritual and “simple” - when everything is nothing anyway; and nothing is everything in the petty lives that we try to make the most of?
David: Always seeking the easy answer, the easy path, using nothingness as a reason to self-destruct. If nothing has any meaning or value, then one should value and strive for the few things in life that allow us to transcend nothingness. Don't be so mediocre!
Me: What is mediocre about living? About living in the moment, about being in the present, about the power of NOW, about living in the NOW?! About taking the best of all philosophies, religions, schools of thought, teachings and substances of thought? What's wrong with life and taking the best from it? As long as you are AWARE and conscious enough to progress and are doing whatever it takes in the process?
David: Because simple pleasures are for simple people. You are not simple. Stop denying the fact and seeking diluted philosophies to your contradictions in things that do not apply to you. You are capable of more complexity, of embarking on a deeper, spiritual and more personal path in life. Why be so normal?
Me: Who says “simple” is “normal”? To be “simple” is a bias of the mind, it is a subjective view. As individuals we have our own minds and perspectives on reality. What is reality? It is a creation of your mind. It is a very personal thing. So there is nothing wrong with living by your own rules – as long as those rules do not harm anyone or anything. And as long as you are aware of your own conscious mind. I am my own Buddhist.
David: Buddhist! If you accept to harm yourself, you have no compassion for yourself. Without being compassionate to oneself, we cannot be compassionate to others. Have you harmed yourself, ever?
Me: I have been extremely self-destructive in my life – however, looking back, I know the reasons why. Recognising these reasons is more than half the battle. Learning to love yourself, forgive the Self while maintaining an awareness of your actions - is one of the main keys to achieving higher consciousness. I can and have established this, even while enjoying the “simple” fruits of life. So why have any rules? (When the rules are dictated by the life you have lived and your willingness and ability to learn from it)?
David: Rules are nothing more than wisdom acquired through experience. When they are self-imposed, they are not rules but the application of that wisdom, the ability to learn through one's mistakes and not constantly repeat the same errors that lead to an unsatisfied life. Why rebel against one's own wisdom?
Me: (bit tipsy now)
No one is rebelling against one's own wisdom. Depending on the phase of your life (a stage that you have arrived at as a result of your own actions) – you are not rebelling against yourself, but vibing with the progression of your own individual life. We arrive on this earth alone (from what we have gathered). We die and disintegrate and spread into a million different DNA, molecules, amoeba. As a result, we are ONE and the same – yet the same special quality arises in our one and individual method in dealing with life. Making it special. Making it enjoyable. Which is why we make our own rules. In a state of awareness of course.
David: Rebel without a cause!
Me: A cause. A course.
David: No cause, a rebel for rebellion's sake!
Me: WHAT IS REBELLION?
David: Doing what you know is not good for you.
Me: Who says and what dictates what is good for you or not? People worship shit in this world. They worship animal excrement as a statement that there is life in everything. Is that good or bad? And by doing from what you learn, you transcend and reach the unknown! How do you know what is good and what is bad?
David: The unknown is inside, in your DNA, everywhere.
Me (a little slurred): THAT IS WHY WE ARE ONE!
David: So no need to destroy oneself in order to discover it!
Me (always have to try and have the last word): Without destruction, there is no creation!
I love my friend David. He's one of my most favourite people in this world. I'm really going to miss him when we go our separate ways on this journey. I guess everything comes to an end at some point or other. Nothing lasts forever. Detachment from people and things is a tool that protects us. Perhaps the Buddhists have got it right after all? Still, I am not so sure about Buddhist philosophy. I believe in love and in enjoying the fruits of life. I guess it's something that I need to investigate further.
Full power Buddhist prayer
David and I entered the prayer hall and sat on the floor. The monks were in full power action, chanting and reciting their prayers, dressed in traditional robes and towering hats, the head Gheshe La perched above the rest in a colourful gown. He looked like a larger than life laughing Buddha. It was only later that we realised that he was a lot thinner than we had initially thought, the weight of his costume giving the illusion of a larger man.
Climbing the steps of the monastery, we discovered a medley of different rooms, each one distinctly different. Climbing to the top, we discovered restoration work had been going on and climbed through the half-dilapidated building to the very top of the monastery to see the view across the whole valley. We could see green pastures that stretched out from Karsha to Padum and to other villages such as Zangla. The unforgiving, harsh and dry terrain is difficult to farm and we marvelled at the strength of the villagers who work the land.
An audience with the Gheshe La
We met Lauren on the way down, accepting immediately her invitation for a cup of tea. Entering a warm, cosy, bright room, we sat on the floor for a private audience with the head monk, otherwise known as the Gheshe La. It was the same Laughing Buddha that we had seen in the prayer hall some hours earlier. His face was warm and friendly, his eyes kind and features soft and round. He took off his hat and almost re-appeared, magically, as a different man. A Spanish woman, Imani, who I had met in Goa some eight months back, had joined us with her French photographer partner. She was all sweetness and light. It was nice to see her again, yet she was spilling with challenges for the Gheshe La, arguing that Buddhism does not allow us as individuals to enjoy the fruits of life. That denying ourselves of simple pleasures is like denying ourselves of life. Lauren translated, sometimes hesitating at the translation of questions posed by Imani.
Gheshe La's hand had been savaged by the monastery dog when he had accidentally stepped on the angry animal's tail. He'd covered the vicious wound with a bit of plaster. David, Lauren and I insisted he allow us to clean it, apply medicine and wrap a bandage around it. He refused and was surprisingly stubborn, which made us laugh. Lauren translated that de didn't want to conduct puja with a bandage on his hand the next day. “Vanity or what!” I retorted cheekily. We all laughed uncontrollably, until he finally allowed David to put his nursing skills to the test.
We attended puja the following day and saw the bandage on his hand, David noticing with pride, the details of his handiwork adorned by the revered holy man.
Monks versus Nuns
Monks, we noticed, have a slight lack of hygiene, especially in comparison to nuns. We'd been to the DorjeZon Nunnery and noticed the difference then. David took photographs of snotty young monks, with their dirty finger nails and soiled feet. There were some hot monks too in their early twenties, while some as young as seven ran riot around the place. It was amusing to see. A teenage monk prepared butter candles, another two stood on the roof, blowing horns to call the rest for lunch, while another monk took care of preparations within the prayer hall. In the meantime, an insane old monk walked round in circles at the entrance hall, muttering away to himself, eyes darting in every which direction. It was an interesting experience.
To be or not to be a monk?
A number of questions came to mind:
In accordance to living up to Buddhist philosophy, shouldn't a monk have a chance to “defeat” all other so-called “freedoms” of life before he dedicates his life to the monastery?
How can an individual make the commitment if he hasn't experienced other things in life?
Isn't it better for a person to decide for themselves as opposed to carrying out monk duties simply out of obligation?
Apart from the economic relief that sending a son to a monastery brings, the future of a child is dependent upon the “Janam Kundalini” - a birth chart that tells of the child's past life, present and even future life. So what factors of the Janam Kundalini determine the future of a child? How is this decided?
What if a child monk grows up to change his mind? Maybe he wants to explore the world before deciding on the path that he feels is right for him?
Wouldn't someone who has reached a state of consciousness for himself/herself have more substance as a monk/nun in comparison to one who is simply fulfilling his duties out of obligation?
Buddhist philosophy – comprises detachment from humans and material things. However, it means denying ourselves of our most basic human needs – sex included. Isn't this in itself a form of repression? How can this contribute to a positive society?
A person who smokes, drinks, takes drugs – a bad person? What about people who worship shit?
Do we all need to become monks to reach enlightenment?
Is it possible to love, be loved and be successful in life without being egotistical?
Why is detachment so fundamental?
These and many more questions came to mind as David and I roamed through the Buddhist monasteries of Zanskar and admired the remnants of an ancient tradition that still stood tall and proud, if not a little dilapidated.
Zanskar is a special place with a unique energy. It's like stepping into a medieval world with potent ties to the past. It's a place that embraces the future, yet continues to live by the traditions of its past. On a social level, its people are one of a kind. They are beautiful people with a kind, calm aura; people of the land that exist to maintain their way of life. It's another world is Zanskar, and effectively like stepping into another country. The wonders of India. They just never cease.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Zanskar – A Magical Kingdom in the clouds
Jumping down from the truck, David and I felt as if we'd arrived home. Home had been waiting for us patiently the entire time! This is the wild, soul tearing landscape that we had both been waiting for, yet neither of us had predicted the magnificence of its beauty. Zanskar may be known as the Hidden Kingdom, but for us, it was like discovering a magical kingdom in the clouds. A majestic, snow-capped range of voluptuous, psychedelic mountains could be seen at 360 degrees. I've never seen anything like it. It was an immense vista of flat, sand-coloured terrain that stretched out for miles and miles until – bang! Mountain! The panorama was an intense image filled with valleys that garbled at us, the warped language of the mountains.
So when they say the “hills are alive”, they're not joking. In this case, we could feel the life pulsating through the mountains, see the language they spoke as they changed shape every hour of the day: the pale orange glow of sunrise unveiling the mysticism of the night before; mid-day revealing their bold nudity as glittering white peaks nearly touched the sky; clouds, as they began to cast their shadows by early evening, forming voluptuous shapes across the range, obscuring the view and transforming them once again, into mystical creatures of the night. Beige, green, bright electric blue; yellow, orange, gold and dusky purple. These are the colours of Zanskar and they penetrated my soul.
Zanskar – The Hidden Kingdom
Zanskar is rugged and isolated. Gompas, stupas, monasteries and nunneries abound in the ancient Buddhist valley. The reverberations of its melancholy soul have continued to resonate into the 21st century; maybe due to the fact that for centuries, it had been bypassed by traders and merchants traveling the Silk Road. No one even knew it was there.
It's not easy to access Zanskar, which is why you don't see so many travelers. Yet the ones who do make it, are serious either about Buddhist philosophy, or trekking. I fall into neither of these categories, prefering instead to simply take things in my stride. Things will change though, especially once the new road is built between Padum and Leh. The “fast track” to Leh these days is by foot over eight to ten days from Padum to Lamayuru. Weather conditions have meant that work can only be carried out three months of the year, so to the delight of trekking fanatics, the building of the road has been a slow and gradual progress. Once built, it should bring the town economic prosperity, but at the same time, risk watering down the substance of its culture as more traffic begins to enter and new hotels spring up, transforming it into a commercial hub and yet another plot on the stoner-circuit map.
Tenzin the Magic Monk
Tenzin, with his smiling eyes, is the jolly gatekeeper of the local monastery in Padum. He welcomed David and I as we explored a ruined part of the town. He invited us for tea, and as we stood on the rooftop of the monastery building, listened to the Call to Prayer resonating from the nearby mosque. We were drinking tea in a Buddhist monastery, looking out across a beautiful landscape and hearing the crystal-clear sound of the Muezzin's voice from a mosque just metres away. We were both mesmerised into silence.
Tenzin wanted to show us something that many people do not get to see. First, however, he wanted to guide us to the Buddhist temple that was built into the monastery. It's a centuries-old building, with a frail yet sturdy wooden interior - a small space that the Muslims had converted into a kitchen during the invasion as the war took place between India and Pakistan. Many monasteries had been destroyed by the Pakistani army, however, this particular monastery had been preserved. There is still a predominantly strong Muslim population in Padum, however, Buddhism too continues to prevail and the two combined give the place a unique aura of spirituality. Tenzin had lit a number of butter divas in the temple, soaking the statues of Buddhas and ancient voodoo-like ceremonial masks, in a modest, golden spiritual light.
An ancient civilization
Leading us through challenging terrain, we followed Tenzin as he clambered easily over boulders and rocks until we reached the magical place he'd wanted to show us. Huge rock formations loomed high up above us engraved with images of ancient Buddhas – both male and female. The markings revealed the existence of civilizations that survived here, perhaps two, maybe three millennia ago. These people had lived here for centuries without any hassles from the outside world. The existence of Zanskar was not even acknowledged until recently, confirming why today, it is known as the “Hidden Kingdom”.
Lauren
Lauren, otherwise known in Ladakhi as Konehog Choskit, is someone I had met for the very first time in Delhi some months back. We were in Majnu Ka Tila, the Tibetan quarter of Delhi. For me, it's the best place to stay whenever I happen to be in the city as it beats the lunacy of Paharganj, the formidable backpacker district. I happened to be checking into a hotel just as Lauren, accompanied by two Buddhist nuns, was checking out. I heard her speak Ladakhi and immediately struck up a conversation. We had swapped details, however, in the whirlwind of my travels, had forgotten our exchange.
Lauren is American, 25, a Harvard graduate, fluent in Ladakhi and has lived with nuns in Zanskar for three years. Well versed in Buddhist philosophy, she is considering a number of options in life, including the possibility of becoming a nun, although she does admit to being privy to the odd tipple – something that respectable nuns do not indulge in!
The mountain air can go straight to your head sometimes and Lauren happened to catch David, Alan and I indulging in a silly moment as we held hands and skipped down Padum's so-called “high street” - a village street lined by a handful of shops. Alan already knew Lauren from the repair work he had carried out with her at the crumbling Karsha Monastery. As she stopped to speak to him, she recognised me almost immediately.
It took me a few moments to realise that it was the same girl I had met back in Delhi all those months ago. This time, I had the opportunity to have a proper chat with her. The woman's sense of humour never fails her and she handles our cheek, wit and interrogation of her choices in life (not unlike the Spanish Inquisition) with good-nature. She's as clued up as you can get on the depths of Buddhist philosophy and spends her spare time reading complicated Buddhist texts. Far from brainwashed, Lauren, as we discovered, recognises the substance of a number of controversial opinions surrounding religion, in particular, Buddhism. What a woman! She's heading for Nepal soon to complete a Ladakhi-English translation course. I'll be posting an interview with Lauren on Buddhist philosophy, detachment and the choices that she has made in her life to date. Watch this space.
Karsha Monastery
The rare aesthetic of a wonder-world...
We had trekked the seven kilometres from Padum to reach the Karsha Monastery. A white washed village clung to the bosom of the mountain, the Karsha Monastery winding up to its summit. Villagers carrying stacks of grass that they were collecting for the winter season passed us by, each one bent forward by the strain of the weight, yet every single one of them still with the heart to greet us with a wide, friendly smile. “Julley”, in Ladakhi, means “Hello”.
A huge prayer bell stood tall in its temple-like shelter and Buddhist flags woven between its four columns fluttered in the wind against the dramatic backdrop. The sky is a brilliant, bright blue with tufts of cloud forming shapes over the expansive range of the Zanskari Himalaya just ahead. There are green fields that are being harvested by locals and the contrast against the barrenness is incredible. It is evident that the people of this village work very hard to bring fertility to this land. Golden fields of wheat and lush green acres of land against brilliant-white snow-covered summits piercing the azure give this environment a rare aesthetic.
Monks strolled down the hill in their burgundy robes and pirate-shaped, yellow-trim hats. They belong to the Gelukspa sect of Buddhism, led by big boss himself, the Dalai Lama. We took on the ascent to the monastery, climbing a steep incline until we reached the prayer hall. A special puja was taking place in honour of the sand mandala and it was going on over seven days with monks praying continuously from 7am until 3pm. They had created by hand, a colourful sand mandala - an amazing, intricate work of art that was to be washed away into the Suru River at the end of the puja. The stunning creation is a symbol of detachment – mental and physical - hence its fate for destruction. I gathered that the philosophy was about freedom, attained by letting go. It was there to remind us of the cycle of birth, life, death and reincarnation. True enlightenment is gained when we are truly free and true freedom can only be achieved by detachment and unconditional love.
So when they say the “hills are alive”, they're not joking. In this case, we could feel the life pulsating through the mountains, see the language they spoke as they changed shape every hour of the day: the pale orange glow of sunrise unveiling the mysticism of the night before; mid-day revealing their bold nudity as glittering white peaks nearly touched the sky; clouds, as they began to cast their shadows by early evening, forming voluptuous shapes across the range, obscuring the view and transforming them once again, into mystical creatures of the night. Beige, green, bright electric blue; yellow, orange, gold and dusky purple. These are the colours of Zanskar and they penetrated my soul.
Zanskar – The Hidden Kingdom
Zanskar is rugged and isolated. Gompas, stupas, monasteries and nunneries abound in the ancient Buddhist valley. The reverberations of its melancholy soul have continued to resonate into the 21st century; maybe due to the fact that for centuries, it had been bypassed by traders and merchants traveling the Silk Road. No one even knew it was there.
It's not easy to access Zanskar, which is why you don't see so many travelers. Yet the ones who do make it, are serious either about Buddhist philosophy, or trekking. I fall into neither of these categories, prefering instead to simply take things in my stride. Things will change though, especially once the new road is built between Padum and Leh. The “fast track” to Leh these days is by foot over eight to ten days from Padum to Lamayuru. Weather conditions have meant that work can only be carried out three months of the year, so to the delight of trekking fanatics, the building of the road has been a slow and gradual progress. Once built, it should bring the town economic prosperity, but at the same time, risk watering down the substance of its culture as more traffic begins to enter and new hotels spring up, transforming it into a commercial hub and yet another plot on the stoner-circuit map.
Tenzin the Magic Monk
Tenzin, with his smiling eyes, is the jolly gatekeeper of the local monastery in Padum. He welcomed David and I as we explored a ruined part of the town. He invited us for tea, and as we stood on the rooftop of the monastery building, listened to the Call to Prayer resonating from the nearby mosque. We were drinking tea in a Buddhist monastery, looking out across a beautiful landscape and hearing the crystal-clear sound of the Muezzin's voice from a mosque just metres away. We were both mesmerised into silence.
Tenzin wanted to show us something that many people do not get to see. First, however, he wanted to guide us to the Buddhist temple that was built into the monastery. It's a centuries-old building, with a frail yet sturdy wooden interior - a small space that the Muslims had converted into a kitchen during the invasion as the war took place between India and Pakistan. Many monasteries had been destroyed by the Pakistani army, however, this particular monastery had been preserved. There is still a predominantly strong Muslim population in Padum, however, Buddhism too continues to prevail and the two combined give the place a unique aura of spirituality. Tenzin had lit a number of butter divas in the temple, soaking the statues of Buddhas and ancient voodoo-like ceremonial masks, in a modest, golden spiritual light.
An ancient civilization
Leading us through challenging terrain, we followed Tenzin as he clambered easily over boulders and rocks until we reached the magical place he'd wanted to show us. Huge rock formations loomed high up above us engraved with images of ancient Buddhas – both male and female. The markings revealed the existence of civilizations that survived here, perhaps two, maybe three millennia ago. These people had lived here for centuries without any hassles from the outside world. The existence of Zanskar was not even acknowledged until recently, confirming why today, it is known as the “Hidden Kingdom”.
Lauren
Lauren, otherwise known in Ladakhi as Konehog Choskit, is someone I had met for the very first time in Delhi some months back. We were in Majnu Ka Tila, the Tibetan quarter of Delhi. For me, it's the best place to stay whenever I happen to be in the city as it beats the lunacy of Paharganj, the formidable backpacker district. I happened to be checking into a hotel just as Lauren, accompanied by two Buddhist nuns, was checking out. I heard her speak Ladakhi and immediately struck up a conversation. We had swapped details, however, in the whirlwind of my travels, had forgotten our exchange.
Lauren is American, 25, a Harvard graduate, fluent in Ladakhi and has lived with nuns in Zanskar for three years. Well versed in Buddhist philosophy, she is considering a number of options in life, including the possibility of becoming a nun, although she does admit to being privy to the odd tipple – something that respectable nuns do not indulge in!
The mountain air can go straight to your head sometimes and Lauren happened to catch David, Alan and I indulging in a silly moment as we held hands and skipped down Padum's so-called “high street” - a village street lined by a handful of shops. Alan already knew Lauren from the repair work he had carried out with her at the crumbling Karsha Monastery. As she stopped to speak to him, she recognised me almost immediately.
It took me a few moments to realise that it was the same girl I had met back in Delhi all those months ago. This time, I had the opportunity to have a proper chat with her. The woman's sense of humour never fails her and she handles our cheek, wit and interrogation of her choices in life (not unlike the Spanish Inquisition) with good-nature. She's as clued up as you can get on the depths of Buddhist philosophy and spends her spare time reading complicated Buddhist texts. Far from brainwashed, Lauren, as we discovered, recognises the substance of a number of controversial opinions surrounding religion, in particular, Buddhism. What a woman! She's heading for Nepal soon to complete a Ladakhi-English translation course. I'll be posting an interview with Lauren on Buddhist philosophy, detachment and the choices that she has made in her life to date. Watch this space.
Karsha Monastery
The rare aesthetic of a wonder-world...
We had trekked the seven kilometres from Padum to reach the Karsha Monastery. A white washed village clung to the bosom of the mountain, the Karsha Monastery winding up to its summit. Villagers carrying stacks of grass that they were collecting for the winter season passed us by, each one bent forward by the strain of the weight, yet every single one of them still with the heart to greet us with a wide, friendly smile. “Julley”, in Ladakhi, means “Hello”.
A huge prayer bell stood tall in its temple-like shelter and Buddhist flags woven between its four columns fluttered in the wind against the dramatic backdrop. The sky is a brilliant, bright blue with tufts of cloud forming shapes over the expansive range of the Zanskari Himalaya just ahead. There are green fields that are being harvested by locals and the contrast against the barrenness is incredible. It is evident that the people of this village work very hard to bring fertility to this land. Golden fields of wheat and lush green acres of land against brilliant-white snow-covered summits piercing the azure give this environment a rare aesthetic.
Monks strolled down the hill in their burgundy robes and pirate-shaped, yellow-trim hats. They belong to the Gelukspa sect of Buddhism, led by big boss himself, the Dalai Lama. We took on the ascent to the monastery, climbing a steep incline until we reached the prayer hall. A special puja was taking place in honour of the sand mandala and it was going on over seven days with monks praying continuously from 7am until 3pm. They had created by hand, a colourful sand mandala - an amazing, intricate work of art that was to be washed away into the Suru River at the end of the puja. The stunning creation is a symbol of detachment – mental and physical - hence its fate for destruction. I gathered that the philosophy was about freedom, attained by letting go. It was there to remind us of the cycle of birth, life, death and reincarnation. True enlightenment is gained when we are truly free and true freedom can only be achieved by detachment and unconditional love.
Ridin' the Trans-Himalaya!
Goodbye Rangdem...
David was the first to wake. He was pacing the room frantically, grinning insanely; muttering incomprehensibly. There was no way he was getting me out of bed at this obscene hour of the morning. The only trek we had planned for the day was six hours away by some form of transport and it wasn't even light yet. I peeped out the bed-covers and noticed that he was fully dressed in hat, boots, woolly jumper - like he'd just come in from the cold. “Look outside, look outside!” From the large pane windows, I could see nothing but white, unable to distinguish sky from landscape. It was another few hours before I was out of bed to see the light of day, and boy was it bright. It was the first time we'd seen snow covering the entire landscape around us. David was in heaven. He'd been up taking photographs since 5.40am and had captured a collage of the cold, hard climate, the austere of its solitary soul weeping melancholy tears in all its moody-blue-tinged glory. I felt cold just looking at the images as I lay in bed with the laptop resting on my sleepy corpse. David has a unique ability for capturing the soul of the mountains. Perhaps it is because the mountains are the very food of his soul.
I noticed the snow-covered mountains merge into the pasty clouds, felt my face whipped by the piercing, bone-chilling wind that swept through the valley as we walked the long stretch from the family home across the field with our rucksacks.
Ruth had been crying that morning. She complained of stomach ache. David and I guessed that the rough, remote, wilderness had become a little too much for the Jewish Princess who seems accustomed to package holidays, airport transfers and room service. Boaz put on a brave face, although we could see he was disappointed to miss out on the trans-Himalayan adventure that David and I were about to embark. Like the true gent that he is, he accompanied a relieved Ruth back to Kargil and on to the creature comforts of Leh.
Splitting up...
We were to split two directions at the police check post, which served as a hitching point for trucks as well as a stop for buses: Boaz and Ruth heading north, David and I delving deeper south into the heart of the Zanskar Valley. We were the first to depart. A truck pulled up and throwing our rucksacks on top, we hugged the guys goodbye and dived into the spare seats next to the driver.
Into the void...
We wondered at the possibility of the giant truck losing its balance over the narrow 4,900 metre pass and falling into the void. We were traversing the Penzila, the highest mountain pass of the Zanskar Range, not to mention, one of the coldest with the glacier that hung menacingly down below. The weather conditions were not exactly mild either, yet David and I felt positively exhilarated at hitching a lift in a truck through something that resembled a snow-blizzard.
The truck driver, Mohammad, was a shining star. Not only was he fasting for Ramadan, meaning he hadn't eaten anything since 4am, and wasn't about to at least until 7pm, but he had driven with considerable expertise, confidently manoeuvring the vehicle around the impossibly tight corners of the Penzila, the wheels of the truck teetering on the edge of the narrow, snow-ridden road while thousands of metres of nothingness plummeted down below us.
David was the first to wake. He was pacing the room frantically, grinning insanely; muttering incomprehensibly. There was no way he was getting me out of bed at this obscene hour of the morning. The only trek we had planned for the day was six hours away by some form of transport and it wasn't even light yet. I peeped out the bed-covers and noticed that he was fully dressed in hat, boots, woolly jumper - like he'd just come in from the cold. “Look outside, look outside!” From the large pane windows, I could see nothing but white, unable to distinguish sky from landscape. It was another few hours before I was out of bed to see the light of day, and boy was it bright. It was the first time we'd seen snow covering the entire landscape around us. David was in heaven. He'd been up taking photographs since 5.40am and had captured a collage of the cold, hard climate, the austere of its solitary soul weeping melancholy tears in all its moody-blue-tinged glory. I felt cold just looking at the images as I lay in bed with the laptop resting on my sleepy corpse. David has a unique ability for capturing the soul of the mountains. Perhaps it is because the mountains are the very food of his soul.
I noticed the snow-covered mountains merge into the pasty clouds, felt my face whipped by the piercing, bone-chilling wind that swept through the valley as we walked the long stretch from the family home across the field with our rucksacks.
Ruth had been crying that morning. She complained of stomach ache. David and I guessed that the rough, remote, wilderness had become a little too much for the Jewish Princess who seems accustomed to package holidays, airport transfers and room service. Boaz put on a brave face, although we could see he was disappointed to miss out on the trans-Himalayan adventure that David and I were about to embark. Like the true gent that he is, he accompanied a relieved Ruth back to Kargil and on to the creature comforts of Leh.
Splitting up...
We were to split two directions at the police check post, which served as a hitching point for trucks as well as a stop for buses: Boaz and Ruth heading north, David and I delving deeper south into the heart of the Zanskar Valley. We were the first to depart. A truck pulled up and throwing our rucksacks on top, we hugged the guys goodbye and dived into the spare seats next to the driver.
Into the void...
We wondered at the possibility of the giant truck losing its balance over the narrow 4,900 metre pass and falling into the void. We were traversing the Penzila, the highest mountain pass of the Zanskar Range, not to mention, one of the coldest with the glacier that hung menacingly down below. The weather conditions were not exactly mild either, yet David and I felt positively exhilarated at hitching a lift in a truck through something that resembled a snow-blizzard.
The truck driver, Mohammad, was a shining star. Not only was he fasting for Ramadan, meaning he hadn't eaten anything since 4am, and wasn't about to at least until 7pm, but he had driven with considerable expertise, confidently manoeuvring the vehicle around the impossibly tight corners of the Penzila, the wheels of the truck teetering on the edge of the narrow, snow-ridden road while thousands of metres of nothingness plummeted down below us.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A trans-Himalayan Adventure...
Kargil
Kargil marks the line of control between India and Pakistan. It's not exactly a border, but divides two thirds of Indian-controlled Kashmir from one third Pakistan. Thousands of families were reunited in the nineties when the first bus from Srinagar to Lahore (?) traveled across it. Bombs and shells fly over it from Pakistan now and then, but not frequently. Most people only stop the night before moving on to Srinagar, Zanskar or Leh. Police are everywhere and the town is a strategic point for the military machine that controls it.
Dividing India and Pakistan, Kargil is dominated by Tibetans, Kashmiris and Ladakhis. They're all troubled by either Pakistan, China, India and / or Afghanistan. Many Shi'a in the area. Strolling down the street we spot a poster of an Ayatollah leader and Boaz and Ruth, being Israeli, balk at the sight of it. All the hotels are scummy, expensive, unfriendly. We find one by squatting patiently outside it.
It was a better than the other dingy dives with their flee-infested beds, stained sheets, peeling paint, horrible toilets, sleazy men. That night, however, we witnessed the premier of the Itchy and Scratchy Show – In other words, bed bugs. Nice.
In the centre of town, we tried to hustle a jeep for Panikar, a sweet village positioned at the opening of the Suru Valley. A crowd had gathered around us, mostly drivers trying to rip us off with tourist prices. David and I have been there, done that and got the tee shirt, so there was no way we were going to fall for any of their crap. Neither were we about to get all flustered in the chaos and commotion many were creating around us. We picked the quietest guy, “Doh hazaar”, he said; meaning, 2000 rupees. “Ek hazaar”, I countered. “Teek hai.” We steered him away from the crowd and sorted out the rest. We had a done deal with a stellar dude and he was taking us to Panikar for the price we wanted to pay.
Panikar
A tiny white-washed pueblito with no more than about 100 residents, Panikar is an agricultural area with few shops, most of which remain closed throughout the week. It's difficult to buy basic necessities and we found ourselves scouring the town when looking for things like butter (nope), bread (only comes in form of chapati made at home), tomatoes (it's not the season), water (short supply).
Sunny and dusty, there was hardly a soul to be seen on the one street that made the town, a kind of a town. It felt like we'd entered a place fresh off the set of a western. Pretty colours of fields lined the country road. Stretching out for acres, they were dotted by locals who worked until their backs broke to harvest crop for the winter. This is the Suru Valley, leading to Zanskar. It was the start of something beautiful, the beginning of an adventure, a trans-Himalayan adventure. I was not prepared for the way in which the landscape was to change for us over the following weeks, but Panikar eased us in to that change with love.
Send the men to the kitchen!
The men took their place in the kitchen while Ruth and I took off for town to find some ingredients. We were staying at J&K Bungalows, a government-run affair with Mohammad, an elderly local man, as its caretaker. The rooms were huge and there was a sublime view from our “chill out” lounge to the spectacular Nun and Kun glaciers. We had our own kitchen and were the only ones staying in the place at the time. Panikar, at that moment, to me, felt cut off from the rest of the world. There was no way we could contact anyone - either by phone, email, text message or whatever. It felt like a techno-detox. In a way, it brought the four of us together – Ruth, Boaz, David and I. We'd only known the guys a couple of weeks and had dragged them with us as far as Panikar when they'd had no plans to even come this far. Boaz appreciated the place, the wilderness, the countryside, the seclusion from the outside world, while Ruth, we felt, was missing her creature comforts and mod cons. She did however, appreciate Panikar and was happy for us all to chill out together in the evenings, watching the mountains Nun and Kun, shimmer like disco balls under a full moon.
We fell upon a local who was kind enough to sell us some spinach, carrots, potatoes, onions, curd, butter. It was the best curd that we'd tasted, home made of course and amazing with fruit and honey for breakfast. Our whole survival of eating and cooking together was beautiful and something that I don't think any of us will forget.
Not trekking again!
Ruth hadn't expected the “walk” to be such a tough call. She didn't want to let Boaz down either so she braved it almost to the very end. We jumped across the river, crossed the bridge, took our time walking across multicoloured fields where locals worked and waved us in the right direction. It was a gentle ascent. Bouncy green meadows swirled with green, purple, pink, violet, yellow, orange, gold. David loves ascents, anticipating the summit, wanting to get higher and higher. I on the other hand, am not the greatest fan. He tries to encourage me as it gets tougher. I swear at him. “This is all your fault! Always want to get higher, we can see everything from here, we don't need to suffer anymore! You just enjoy making me suffer, don't you? You freak!”
David, at the best of times, is a man of few words, yet he transforms into a chatterbox once up in the mountains. While everyone else is huffing and puffing, focusing on breathing, David is nattering away while his lanky legs zig-zag effortlessly up the steepest ascents. “Shut up will you!” I say. He laughs then begins to encourage me again. David reckons that the mountains reveal what people are really like because it puts them to the test. If they cannot persevere and continue the exercise, then something is lacking in them. I think that his theory is a little harsh, but then again, my experience of mountains in comparison to that of David, is limited. David has been climbing mountains since the age of about two, when his dad would take him up into the Scottish Highlands. He's never felt complete without a mountain in his vicinity since. Bless! He admitted he was surprised at my resilience and felt that I was made of stronger stuff than he thought. That for me, was quite a compliment. “You might be small, but you're stronger than most when it comes to climbing mountains!” He's good at encouraging me in the mountains is David!
Between a rock...
David is standing on a rock a few metres above me. I zig-zag across the hilly terrain and join him. We settle for a cigarette and look down to see Ruth and Boaz, slowly but surely making their way up. We finally make it to the top and can see the glacier, Nun. The altitude was getting a bit much. We'd gone up about 1200 metres, hitting about 3,800. Coming down, we see Boaz. He'd left Ruth with a local shepherd and had decided to get to the top by himself. Approaching Ruth, we decide to cheer her up. It was impressive that she'd made it so far. David, however, was not impressed! He felt that she was pulling us back, that her heart was not in it and that she was negative because had been complaining about walking anywhere before we'd even properly begun. She'd tried, in David's eyes, and failed, at deterring us from climbing up to the summit. I guess trekking is not for everyone.
People of the land – Rangdem
Panikhar was just a starter. The environment ahead of us was about to change. We were about to continue along the Suru Valley and enter Rangdem. Rangdem defines the opening of Zanskar. It is the harsh, rocky, barren climate. As we drive into the village, Ruth is the first to react, speaking exactly what I was thinking: “Is this it?”.
The place, I felt, was magnificent. It's twisted landscape has been contorted by plate tectonics, giving the mountains a warped character. You can feel the landscape and it feels alive. Rocks are distorted too, the whole place is trippy – the effects of plates colliding during earthquakes. It's a harsh, barren land with temperatures plummeting to minus 40 in the winter. We arrive during the height of summer and snuggle into our jackets sitting in the shade. The sun is bright, the sky is super blue and there is a bone-chilling wind sweeping across the valley. A cluster of about 30 houses, an amenities store and a monastery with school seven km away makes up the town of Rangdem. A river washes across a sea of rocks. Ahead of that lies the monastery.
People of the land
They are real salt of the earth people of the land. The inhabitants of Rangdem cannot be described in any other way. The fruits of their labour are savoured in the winter, when nothing grows and life appears to cease as they hibernate and survive until summertime again. You can see their weatherbeaten faces, skin like leather, cheeks marked red by the wind, features contorted by the drastic climate. Money, money, money – they don't need it. Perhaps to pay the 200 rupees per month for each child's schooling and books. They don't even know the colour of it. Papa Ji, the head of the family we were staying with, had asked us to give him whatever we felt was right. His eyes lit up at the amount we had calculated.
No medicine, no mercy
The people of Rangdem had more of an effect on me than those of any other place that I have been to. They work hard, live simple, have few expectations and their ideals about life are worlds apart from the materialistic bullshit and consumer-driven chaos that I have seen dull the souls of people in the west. They're faces are lined by worry, illness, hardwork, but their eyes are soft and moist, and filled with kindness. No one is making it easy for them. No pharmacy, no doctor, no hospital, so no access to medicines. Papa Ji had an abscess and the pain was proving too much for him. His granddaughter, Dolma, a six year-old, painfully shy, whispering sunflower of a child, was sick with fever. She walks 14 kilometres to school and back in fierce weather conditions. We did that trek too, partly to see what it was like, so you could say we know what she does everyday. Boaz, thankfully, had some painkillers and paracetamol. The following day, we were greeted with gratitude. Boaz was meant to hand out more medicines to the family as his father, a physician, had stocked him with plenty. In the commotion to get packed and leave however, we had forgotten to do so. That thought remains with me until today. I hope to return to Rangdem one day.
School trip
We took a trip to the monastery, seven kilometres away and in the pouring rain, ended up killing time visiting the school. Dolma sat quietly in the corner, barely speaking as we tried our best to make her look cool by calling out her name. She speaks in whispers but smiles like a sunflower. She's a whispering sunflower, blown about by a harsh climate and living conditions. The teachers at least make it all worthwhile. There are seven of them, all young, funky and fluent in English. They teach Ladakhi, Hindi, English, Maths, Geography, History and Social Sciences. As David says, my sense of social responsibility kind of flew out the window when I asked them to repeat the names of birds, each bird representing a letter of the alphabet. Arriving at the letter “C”... The teacher was splitting his sides laughing. Thankfully the kids didn't clock the joke.
We'd noticed members of the Indian military guarding the monastery. One of the teachers admitted that two monks had been shot dead right here, in this isolated village, about 10 years ago. My first reaction: “do you think it had something to do with the Chinese or the Pakistani Mujahaddin?” David gave me one of his funny looks and I realised the teacher did not want to answer the question. Granddad filled us in later, admitting that it was to do with Pakistan.
Panikar and Rangdem form the Suru Valley. It's another world that has given me a new perspective into the lives of people who have different values in life. It opened my eyes as once again, I imagined a parallel world of busy highstreets, christmas shoppers that run like sheep to big department stores – intriscally, babylon at its best. It made me appreciate that truth will always prevail over the shit that we are constantly bombarded with in the samsara that engulfs the west. How ashamed people would feel of the lives they lead had they ever discovered the opportunity to see the world through the eyes of the people who live here. They are pure people and they reflect the clean, pure, beauty of the environment in which they live. They are people with heart and soul who are privileged enough not to be contaminated by the so-called civilized world. I will miss the Suru Valley and I will miss its people.
Kargil marks the line of control between India and Pakistan. It's not exactly a border, but divides two thirds of Indian-controlled Kashmir from one third Pakistan. Thousands of families were reunited in the nineties when the first bus from Srinagar to Lahore (?) traveled across it. Bombs and shells fly over it from Pakistan now and then, but not frequently. Most people only stop the night before moving on to Srinagar, Zanskar or Leh. Police are everywhere and the town is a strategic point for the military machine that controls it.
Dividing India and Pakistan, Kargil is dominated by Tibetans, Kashmiris and Ladakhis. They're all troubled by either Pakistan, China, India and / or Afghanistan. Many Shi'a in the area. Strolling down the street we spot a poster of an Ayatollah leader and Boaz and Ruth, being Israeli, balk at the sight of it. All the hotels are scummy, expensive, unfriendly. We find one by squatting patiently outside it.
It was a better than the other dingy dives with their flee-infested beds, stained sheets, peeling paint, horrible toilets, sleazy men. That night, however, we witnessed the premier of the Itchy and Scratchy Show – In other words, bed bugs. Nice.
In the centre of town, we tried to hustle a jeep for Panikar, a sweet village positioned at the opening of the Suru Valley. A crowd had gathered around us, mostly drivers trying to rip us off with tourist prices. David and I have been there, done that and got the tee shirt, so there was no way we were going to fall for any of their crap. Neither were we about to get all flustered in the chaos and commotion many were creating around us. We picked the quietest guy, “Doh hazaar”, he said; meaning, 2000 rupees. “Ek hazaar”, I countered. “Teek hai.” We steered him away from the crowd and sorted out the rest. We had a done deal with a stellar dude and he was taking us to Panikar for the price we wanted to pay.
Panikar
A tiny white-washed pueblito with no more than about 100 residents, Panikar is an agricultural area with few shops, most of which remain closed throughout the week. It's difficult to buy basic necessities and we found ourselves scouring the town when looking for things like butter (nope), bread (only comes in form of chapati made at home), tomatoes (it's not the season), water (short supply).
Sunny and dusty, there was hardly a soul to be seen on the one street that made the town, a kind of a town. It felt like we'd entered a place fresh off the set of a western. Pretty colours of fields lined the country road. Stretching out for acres, they were dotted by locals who worked until their backs broke to harvest crop for the winter. This is the Suru Valley, leading to Zanskar. It was the start of something beautiful, the beginning of an adventure, a trans-Himalayan adventure. I was not prepared for the way in which the landscape was to change for us over the following weeks, but Panikar eased us in to that change with love.
Send the men to the kitchen!
The men took their place in the kitchen while Ruth and I took off for town to find some ingredients. We were staying at J&K Bungalows, a government-run affair with Mohammad, an elderly local man, as its caretaker. The rooms were huge and there was a sublime view from our “chill out” lounge to the spectacular Nun and Kun glaciers. We had our own kitchen and were the only ones staying in the place at the time. Panikar, at that moment, to me, felt cut off from the rest of the world. There was no way we could contact anyone - either by phone, email, text message or whatever. It felt like a techno-detox. In a way, it brought the four of us together – Ruth, Boaz, David and I. We'd only known the guys a couple of weeks and had dragged them with us as far as Panikar when they'd had no plans to even come this far. Boaz appreciated the place, the wilderness, the countryside, the seclusion from the outside world, while Ruth, we felt, was missing her creature comforts and mod cons. She did however, appreciate Panikar and was happy for us all to chill out together in the evenings, watching the mountains Nun and Kun, shimmer like disco balls under a full moon.
We fell upon a local who was kind enough to sell us some spinach, carrots, potatoes, onions, curd, butter. It was the best curd that we'd tasted, home made of course and amazing with fruit and honey for breakfast. Our whole survival of eating and cooking together was beautiful and something that I don't think any of us will forget.
Not trekking again!
Ruth hadn't expected the “walk” to be such a tough call. She didn't want to let Boaz down either so she braved it almost to the very end. We jumped across the river, crossed the bridge, took our time walking across multicoloured fields where locals worked and waved us in the right direction. It was a gentle ascent. Bouncy green meadows swirled with green, purple, pink, violet, yellow, orange, gold. David loves ascents, anticipating the summit, wanting to get higher and higher. I on the other hand, am not the greatest fan. He tries to encourage me as it gets tougher. I swear at him. “This is all your fault! Always want to get higher, we can see everything from here, we don't need to suffer anymore! You just enjoy making me suffer, don't you? You freak!”
David, at the best of times, is a man of few words, yet he transforms into a chatterbox once up in the mountains. While everyone else is huffing and puffing, focusing on breathing, David is nattering away while his lanky legs zig-zag effortlessly up the steepest ascents. “Shut up will you!” I say. He laughs then begins to encourage me again. David reckons that the mountains reveal what people are really like because it puts them to the test. If they cannot persevere and continue the exercise, then something is lacking in them. I think that his theory is a little harsh, but then again, my experience of mountains in comparison to that of David, is limited. David has been climbing mountains since the age of about two, when his dad would take him up into the Scottish Highlands. He's never felt complete without a mountain in his vicinity since. Bless! He admitted he was surprised at my resilience and felt that I was made of stronger stuff than he thought. That for me, was quite a compliment. “You might be small, but you're stronger than most when it comes to climbing mountains!” He's good at encouraging me in the mountains is David!
Between a rock...
David is standing on a rock a few metres above me. I zig-zag across the hilly terrain and join him. We settle for a cigarette and look down to see Ruth and Boaz, slowly but surely making their way up. We finally make it to the top and can see the glacier, Nun. The altitude was getting a bit much. We'd gone up about 1200 metres, hitting about 3,800. Coming down, we see Boaz. He'd left Ruth with a local shepherd and had decided to get to the top by himself. Approaching Ruth, we decide to cheer her up. It was impressive that she'd made it so far. David, however, was not impressed! He felt that she was pulling us back, that her heart was not in it and that she was negative because had been complaining about walking anywhere before we'd even properly begun. She'd tried, in David's eyes, and failed, at deterring us from climbing up to the summit. I guess trekking is not for everyone.
People of the land – Rangdem
Panikhar was just a starter. The environment ahead of us was about to change. We were about to continue along the Suru Valley and enter Rangdem. Rangdem defines the opening of Zanskar. It is the harsh, rocky, barren climate. As we drive into the village, Ruth is the first to react, speaking exactly what I was thinking: “Is this it?”.
The place, I felt, was magnificent. It's twisted landscape has been contorted by plate tectonics, giving the mountains a warped character. You can feel the landscape and it feels alive. Rocks are distorted too, the whole place is trippy – the effects of plates colliding during earthquakes. It's a harsh, barren land with temperatures plummeting to minus 40 in the winter. We arrive during the height of summer and snuggle into our jackets sitting in the shade. The sun is bright, the sky is super blue and there is a bone-chilling wind sweeping across the valley. A cluster of about 30 houses, an amenities store and a monastery with school seven km away makes up the town of Rangdem. A river washes across a sea of rocks. Ahead of that lies the monastery.
People of the land
They are real salt of the earth people of the land. The inhabitants of Rangdem cannot be described in any other way. The fruits of their labour are savoured in the winter, when nothing grows and life appears to cease as they hibernate and survive until summertime again. You can see their weatherbeaten faces, skin like leather, cheeks marked red by the wind, features contorted by the drastic climate. Money, money, money – they don't need it. Perhaps to pay the 200 rupees per month for each child's schooling and books. They don't even know the colour of it. Papa Ji, the head of the family we were staying with, had asked us to give him whatever we felt was right. His eyes lit up at the amount we had calculated.
No medicine, no mercy
The people of Rangdem had more of an effect on me than those of any other place that I have been to. They work hard, live simple, have few expectations and their ideals about life are worlds apart from the materialistic bullshit and consumer-driven chaos that I have seen dull the souls of people in the west. They're faces are lined by worry, illness, hardwork, but their eyes are soft and moist, and filled with kindness. No one is making it easy for them. No pharmacy, no doctor, no hospital, so no access to medicines. Papa Ji had an abscess and the pain was proving too much for him. His granddaughter, Dolma, a six year-old, painfully shy, whispering sunflower of a child, was sick with fever. She walks 14 kilometres to school and back in fierce weather conditions. We did that trek too, partly to see what it was like, so you could say we know what she does everyday. Boaz, thankfully, had some painkillers and paracetamol. The following day, we were greeted with gratitude. Boaz was meant to hand out more medicines to the family as his father, a physician, had stocked him with plenty. In the commotion to get packed and leave however, we had forgotten to do so. That thought remains with me until today. I hope to return to Rangdem one day.
School trip
We took a trip to the monastery, seven kilometres away and in the pouring rain, ended up killing time visiting the school. Dolma sat quietly in the corner, barely speaking as we tried our best to make her look cool by calling out her name. She speaks in whispers but smiles like a sunflower. She's a whispering sunflower, blown about by a harsh climate and living conditions. The teachers at least make it all worthwhile. There are seven of them, all young, funky and fluent in English. They teach Ladakhi, Hindi, English, Maths, Geography, History and Social Sciences. As David says, my sense of social responsibility kind of flew out the window when I asked them to repeat the names of birds, each bird representing a letter of the alphabet. Arriving at the letter “C”... The teacher was splitting his sides laughing. Thankfully the kids didn't clock the joke.
We'd noticed members of the Indian military guarding the monastery. One of the teachers admitted that two monks had been shot dead right here, in this isolated village, about 10 years ago. My first reaction: “do you think it had something to do with the Chinese or the Pakistani Mujahaddin?” David gave me one of his funny looks and I realised the teacher did not want to answer the question. Granddad filled us in later, admitting that it was to do with Pakistan.
Panikar and Rangdem form the Suru Valley. It's another world that has given me a new perspective into the lives of people who have different values in life. It opened my eyes as once again, I imagined a parallel world of busy highstreets, christmas shoppers that run like sheep to big department stores – intriscally, babylon at its best. It made me appreciate that truth will always prevail over the shit that we are constantly bombarded with in the samsara that engulfs the west. How ashamed people would feel of the lives they lead had they ever discovered the opportunity to see the world through the eyes of the people who live here. They are pure people and they reflect the clean, pure, beauty of the environment in which they live. They are people with heart and soul who are privileged enough not to be contaminated by the so-called civilized world. I will miss the Suru Valley and I will miss its people.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Kashmir continued... The action begins!
Pahalgam
Now I understand why Kashmir has been eternally renowned as "Paradise on Earth".
Srinagar to Pahalgam is but a three-hour journey that includes a jeep change in the town of Anantanag, otherwise known as Islamabad. The divine landscape of the Kashmiri Himalaya lies ahead of it. We arrived and David made me walk at least five kilometres! He insisted we trek around and find a location we liked as opposed to giving into tempting offers of lifts to specific guest houses by the touts that rounded on us the second we set foot on Pahalgam soil. It was good practice for the trekking expeditions that I'd decided I'd like to try.
I've never been trekking in my life. In fact, I have a tendency for taking the piss out of trekkers and have this image of them in anorak coats, sensible shoes, silly hats and hiking sticks. And binoculars. And Gore Tex trousers. And thermal underwear of course. They're strange creatures. Remind me of studious aliens with their fluorescent goggles, Northface rucksacks and illuminous bright orange waistcoats. David reckons that the ones I'm talking about are usually German, or that they're just posing as trekkers in their snazzy, high-tech gear.
I'm not the kind of person to say no to an adventure, even if it's something that I've never tried before. Well, apart from the kind of lunacy that involves bungee jumping, parachuting or base-jumping. Never say never though. I did manage to abseil down waterfalls in Nepal with Nicola and didn't really like it at the time, although in the aftermath, I did admit that I'd do it again. I've lived in southern Spain's Alpujarra – a range of 13 mountains sprawled out across the Granada region. They were immense in themselves, yet just a speck in comparison to what we were about to experience here in the Kashmiri Himalaya – so this was not something that I was about to miss out on.
We discovered the village of Loripora and found ourselves surrounded by vibrant green Kashmiri countryside with the snow-capped tips of the Himalaya Mountains peaking out from behind a stunning, picturesque landscape. We could hear the sound of the fresh water river rustling like the wind blowing thorough leaves and bounced over stones to cross it before walking through the tree-lined country road that led us to the Brown Palace Guest house – a place that kismet (fate) had brought our way.
We'd spoken to Ibi, the son of the owner and rafting fanatic privy to the odd tipple and smoke. In comparison to what others had tried to bribe us with, we were given an extremely good offer to go on an adventurous trek with his younger brother and trekking assistant.
Tales of Kashmir
I don't have an anorak or sensible camel coloured shoes. What I do have is a Bench snowboarder jacket and huge stomper boots that could kick an arrogant man's arse to Timbuktu. Along with a fleecy top and hoody, it was plenty for trekking. The minute we'd agreed, the boys busied themselves with preparing for the trek – packing sleeping bags, tents and food.
In the meantime, Haji, the owner of the guesthouse told us stories of Kashmir. “Business was so bad in the nineties that I had to go to Manali where I opened the Jungle Bungalow”, he recalled, smiling, “Sheep, goats, chickens, I think maybe one yak too, lived in the room downstairs, so we called it Jungle Bungalow.” He also told us of the time an Israeli client had gone missing. “His clothes were still in his room so when he failed to return on the second day, I called the police,” “My place was full of embassies, press, government officials! It was crazy! No one could find him. Then after two years, they found his body hanging from a tree. Nepalis had killed him in Parvati Valley.” Following the incident, Haji decided that he'd had enough of Manali and that it was time to return to his Kashmir to begin again, starting up the Brown Palace here in Loripora, Pahalgam. Business has been picking up slowly, but there are not enough tourists coming to Kashmir. “Slowly, slowly, things will get better, Insh'Allah.” Haji also recalled the time that he'd smuggled a Dutch journalist up to the dangerous insurgent-infested mountains at three in the morning. They were questioned by the rifle hugging young men just as they set up camp. Haji explained how he then convinced the insurgents that the journalist was around to tell their side of the story. He laughed as he told us of how they'd managed to give the insurgents the slip.
“BBC came and put a satellite in my garden! Right there!” he pointed to the spot, “can you believe it? They were broadcasting Kashmiri news from my place!” We laughed together at length. He'd been a rich man as well as a poor man, admitting that right now, he was just okay. “I've seen it all now. But more people should come to Kashmir. Some people though, they just don't know how to appreciate the beauty of what is here! It makes me mad! Especially Israelis! All they ever do is smoke. Smoke, smoke, smoke...” He said it in jest, but meant it. I can understand. Most Israelis that I have met are content with floating around India on the tourist circuit and going from place to place getting stoned.
We'd met Boaz and Ruth, a couple from Israel and found them positively charming, spending evenings talking about Palestine. They confessed to being sympathetic to the situation, but were far from pro-Palestine. I have met only two people from Israel that profess to being pro-Palestine. It seems the rest have been brainwashed by the Israeli government and transformed into a nation of assassins. They finish their compulsory time with the military and come straight to India to find solace, some of them losing the plot and flipping out while Jewish missionaries go around the subcontinent picking them up and sending them back home to recover.
Considering the fact that they're not very liked in the world, Israelis can still be commended for having the balls to travel, especially in areas where there is a large concentration of Muslims. Part-Italian, Boaz has a dual nationality, while Ruth, who's mother is English, has a British passport, which makes it handy when checking into hotels that declare in Hebrew, “Israelis Are Not Welcome.”
Aru – onwards and upwards
More on the guys later. We jumped into a jeep and drove to the small village of Aru, situated at the foothills of the mountains that we were about to ascend. Haji accompanied us up to the village and said, “Insh-Allah, we will meet when you return.” Two donkeys were loaded up and we set off, climbing an ascent that led up through the village and into the mountains.
So we did our first leg of trekking and about four hours later, arrived at base camp, which nested at 3,500 metres.
Kolohai Glacier
The following morning, David jumped up and down like an excited child, grinning insanely, speaking very fast in a high-pitched voice and trying to coerce me out of bed with coffee. I don't think you need me to tell you that David is a fanatic when it comes to mountains. Meanwhile, I'm not exactly a morning person, but managed to get myself together, brush teeth by river, eat breakfast and set off with the boys for the trek to Kolohoi Glacier. I was tired! It was too early! I wanted to sleep more! But as I learnt, there is no arguing with the mountains and you have to set off early if you want to get back before dark. Ten minutes later, they threw me onto Bul-bul the horse. Two hours later, I was able to open my eyes and walk. I found myself clambering over giant rocks like a mini figurine. The landscape had changed from a vibrant psychedelic green to a barren dessert of rocks.
We could see Kolahai Glacier from the camp itself. This is the illusion of the mountains. They're also deceptive, hostile, unwelcoming and unpredictable. It was a sixteen km trek that involved crossing a number of rivers, bouncing over giant boulders, scrambling over huge rocks and climbing dizzying ascents. David and Aja shot ahead and became tiny dots in the distance while Atta, Ibi's brother, accompanying me at a speed I felt comfortable. It became difficult to breathe but David had taught me a technique that involved breathing in through the nose and out from the mouth. We stopped for a break and Atta suggested smoking a cigarette. This is the Kashmiri solution to dealing with altitude. We could see the ice on the glacier and the two tiny dots – David and Aja - eagerly running across it to reach the other side. Climbing over a dessert of gigantic boulders and rocks is not easy; especially when you begin to feel tired because one slight mistake and you could end up with a splattered chin or broken ankle. We made it though, had lunch and sat around for about an hour freezing our balls off before taking off for the descent back down to the camp.
As we passed an unfriendly gypsy camp, two dogs began barking ferociously. Luckily they were tied to the shack and couldn't quite reach us. David nearly jumped on their heads as he bounced between the boulders. We stopped for chai at a friendlier nomad camp and welcomed the warmth of the stone house in which we sat. The mother prepared a hookah for herself as her daughter served us tea, her eyes burning holes in my soul the entire time. They spoke Kashmiri, so conversation in Hindi was off bounds. The experience was strange, yet nice. On the way back, three small gypsy children with beautiful translucent eyes and almost-blonde hair, squeaked on top of their voices, “Tawfee, tawfee, tawfee!” They wanted toffees. Luckily, we had some on us and to their sweet delight, distributed the few that we'd bought with us.
For me, the trek was an experience that I'd never really encountered before. It tested my resilience, strength and stamina, which for some reason had surprised David. He wasn't sure if I was brave or completely ignorant of fear, in other words, stupid! I was happy to get back to camp, where we walked about to loosen the muscles in our legs.
The poison that is “civilization”
The nomads, gypsies and tribal people of the mountains intrigued me most. Their way of life is far, far away from the world that I have known in the west, far away from a life they could never envisage. They are Free. Free from a corrupt system built on greed, power and money, free to live their lives in the only way they know how amidst the majestic glory of the soul-stirring Kashmiri Himalaya. The substance of their existence felt worlds apart. It made me realise how in our so-called “civilized” world, we suffocate in the vomit of an egalitarian society. In our contemptuous minds, we have tried to penetrate the beauty that lies in the simplicity of life, with the poison we term as “civilization”. As they try to ape their British colonial predecessors, the Indian elite continue to impose their so-called world view, feeling ashamed enough in the face of western ideals to pollute their own people and land; like the suffocating effect of a man tied to the noose of a horse running wild through a colossal of unforgiving thorns, shredding them to pieces. What I witnessed in the mountains was the dregs of beauty that remain. I imagined walking through the doors of a parallel world, visualizing the contemptuous, condescending and barbaric nature of a so-called superior civilization that succumbs to the expectations of an egotistical society with its brain-dead disposition to wasting away, replacing the necessity of returning to nature to realise ourselves, with washed out, faded dreams that aspire to a material world. We try and fail, left to be scraped up as garbage and dumped into the pile for losers. We succeed and forget who we are. The people I met in the mountains will never forget who they are.
Unforgettable
As we sat around our camp, small nomadic children suddenly appeared, and as they sat, watched us awkwardly from a safe distance. We beckoned them to join us and felt delighted to make conversation in Hindi with the brave few. Others were were subdued, quiet and extremely shy. One particular boy, about eight years old would not speak at all. According to one of the older children, he had lost his father in the previous year.
It was a beautiful day in the midst of the Kashmiri Himalaya and I reminded myself that this was the most unique experience that I'd encountered so far, and the beginning of an adventure that I will never forget.
Day 3 – Tar Sar Lake
It's day 3 and we're stuck high up in the mountains, so there's absolutely no way of going back down. Hooray! Well, that's not what I was thinking during the evil 50-degree gradient inclining from the foothills of the base camp to the narrow ridge that snaked around the mountain high above. We followed it round until we were faced by a fierce river, gushing about wildly about 10 metres below. I felt like a tightrope walker crossing it over a narrow, precariously thrown, wooden plank. At 4,800 metres, the altitude was higher than the previous day, making it both tougher to climb and difficult to breathe.
We found ourselves in the clouds with sudden abruptness. There were mystical green meadows all around. It was like landing in a magical and unknown land tucked away in the midst of the clouds. I almost expected to see some half-man-half-horse creature cantering elegantly across the misty horizon.
I also realised the schizophrenic nature of the mountains amidst the reduced visibility as we guessed the route to Tar Sa Lake. Legend has it, the lake behind Tar Sa is cursed and that an evil monster resides there. Anyone who visits the lake is cursed by the monster of the lake, so nobody dares to venture there, not Kashmiris, not Indians and not even the courageous nomads, tribes or gypsies that know and understand the mountains better than anyone.
We'd climbed some one thousand metres that day, so it was cold by the time we got to Tar Sa Lake. The 10,000 square metres of water that rippled serenely across the infinite liquid horizon in front of us wasn't exactly a pond. We had lunch and psyched up for the walk back.
Women don't trek!
A group of young Kashmiri men had joined us, one of them declaring, “women don't do what you are doing. They are not supposed to.” Great, I thought, I either ignore this prick or give him a piece of mind. I did the latter of course and ended up talking about the so-called code-of-conduct supposedly imposed upon women by the Qur'an. “If the Qu'ran dictates the way women should conduct themselves, it also makes reference to the way YOU, and yes, I mean YOU, yourself, should refrain from drinking like a fish and smoking hashish like it's going out of fashion in the way that I have seen you do. So I guess that makes you a hypocrite, meaning you're not in any position to judge or criticise others,” I replied before stopping myself.
Mountains bring people together
A shy young man of not so many words, Atta, who has a Sufi-like aura just like his father, Haji, had begun to open up to David and I, feeling comfortable in our company and appreciating the fact David had such a natural connection with the mountains. He even laughed at our jokes and confided that he enjoyed trekking with us. We asked him if he'd like to accompany us as a friend to Nepal for the Anapurna trek and his eyes shone with excitement.
Descending, we arrived at the furious river that we had crossed nearer the beginning of trek. The sun was hot so we took off our shoes and sitting on a short wooded area over rocks, soaked our feet in the icy water, smoked a few cigarettes, took some photographs and chilled out, absorbing the warm and gentle rays. It was a magic moment for us. Atta knew we were coming to the end of our trek together and felt sad.
Back to base
We had covered some 80km in four days and although I was happy with the experience that we'd had, I was also overjoyed at the thought of a bed and a shower, scampering down the flower-carpeted meadows like Heidi, leaving an exhausted Atta and sulking David, who was sad to leave the mountains, shuffling along slowly behind me. Wow. What an experience. I felt exhilarated with my first ever mountain trek in the Kashmiri Himalaya!
Now I understand why Kashmir has been eternally renowned as "Paradise on Earth".
Srinagar to Pahalgam is but a three-hour journey that includes a jeep change in the town of Anantanag, otherwise known as Islamabad. The divine landscape of the Kashmiri Himalaya lies ahead of it. We arrived and David made me walk at least five kilometres! He insisted we trek around and find a location we liked as opposed to giving into tempting offers of lifts to specific guest houses by the touts that rounded on us the second we set foot on Pahalgam soil. It was good practice for the trekking expeditions that I'd decided I'd like to try.
I've never been trekking in my life. In fact, I have a tendency for taking the piss out of trekkers and have this image of them in anorak coats, sensible shoes, silly hats and hiking sticks. And binoculars. And Gore Tex trousers. And thermal underwear of course. They're strange creatures. Remind me of studious aliens with their fluorescent goggles, Northface rucksacks and illuminous bright orange waistcoats. David reckons that the ones I'm talking about are usually German, or that they're just posing as trekkers in their snazzy, high-tech gear.
I'm not the kind of person to say no to an adventure, even if it's something that I've never tried before. Well, apart from the kind of lunacy that involves bungee jumping, parachuting or base-jumping. Never say never though. I did manage to abseil down waterfalls in Nepal with Nicola and didn't really like it at the time, although in the aftermath, I did admit that I'd do it again. I've lived in southern Spain's Alpujarra – a range of 13 mountains sprawled out across the Granada region. They were immense in themselves, yet just a speck in comparison to what we were about to experience here in the Kashmiri Himalaya – so this was not something that I was about to miss out on.
We discovered the village of Loripora and found ourselves surrounded by vibrant green Kashmiri countryside with the snow-capped tips of the Himalaya Mountains peaking out from behind a stunning, picturesque landscape. We could hear the sound of the fresh water river rustling like the wind blowing thorough leaves and bounced over stones to cross it before walking through the tree-lined country road that led us to the Brown Palace Guest house – a place that kismet (fate) had brought our way.
We'd spoken to Ibi, the son of the owner and rafting fanatic privy to the odd tipple and smoke. In comparison to what others had tried to bribe us with, we were given an extremely good offer to go on an adventurous trek with his younger brother and trekking assistant.
Tales of Kashmir
I don't have an anorak or sensible camel coloured shoes. What I do have is a Bench snowboarder jacket and huge stomper boots that could kick an arrogant man's arse to Timbuktu. Along with a fleecy top and hoody, it was plenty for trekking. The minute we'd agreed, the boys busied themselves with preparing for the trek – packing sleeping bags, tents and food.
In the meantime, Haji, the owner of the guesthouse told us stories of Kashmir. “Business was so bad in the nineties that I had to go to Manali where I opened the Jungle Bungalow”, he recalled, smiling, “Sheep, goats, chickens, I think maybe one yak too, lived in the room downstairs, so we called it Jungle Bungalow.” He also told us of the time an Israeli client had gone missing. “His clothes were still in his room so when he failed to return on the second day, I called the police,” “My place was full of embassies, press, government officials! It was crazy! No one could find him. Then after two years, they found his body hanging from a tree. Nepalis had killed him in Parvati Valley.” Following the incident, Haji decided that he'd had enough of Manali and that it was time to return to his Kashmir to begin again, starting up the Brown Palace here in Loripora, Pahalgam. Business has been picking up slowly, but there are not enough tourists coming to Kashmir. “Slowly, slowly, things will get better, Insh'Allah.” Haji also recalled the time that he'd smuggled a Dutch journalist up to the dangerous insurgent-infested mountains at three in the morning. They were questioned by the rifle hugging young men just as they set up camp. Haji explained how he then convinced the insurgents that the journalist was around to tell their side of the story. He laughed as he told us of how they'd managed to give the insurgents the slip.
“BBC came and put a satellite in my garden! Right there!” he pointed to the spot, “can you believe it? They were broadcasting Kashmiri news from my place!” We laughed together at length. He'd been a rich man as well as a poor man, admitting that right now, he was just okay. “I've seen it all now. But more people should come to Kashmir. Some people though, they just don't know how to appreciate the beauty of what is here! It makes me mad! Especially Israelis! All they ever do is smoke. Smoke, smoke, smoke...” He said it in jest, but meant it. I can understand. Most Israelis that I have met are content with floating around India on the tourist circuit and going from place to place getting stoned.
We'd met Boaz and Ruth, a couple from Israel and found them positively charming, spending evenings talking about Palestine. They confessed to being sympathetic to the situation, but were far from pro-Palestine. I have met only two people from Israel that profess to being pro-Palestine. It seems the rest have been brainwashed by the Israeli government and transformed into a nation of assassins. They finish their compulsory time with the military and come straight to India to find solace, some of them losing the plot and flipping out while Jewish missionaries go around the subcontinent picking them up and sending them back home to recover.
Considering the fact that they're not very liked in the world, Israelis can still be commended for having the balls to travel, especially in areas where there is a large concentration of Muslims. Part-Italian, Boaz has a dual nationality, while Ruth, who's mother is English, has a British passport, which makes it handy when checking into hotels that declare in Hebrew, “Israelis Are Not Welcome.”
Aru – onwards and upwards
More on the guys later. We jumped into a jeep and drove to the small village of Aru, situated at the foothills of the mountains that we were about to ascend. Haji accompanied us up to the village and said, “Insh-Allah, we will meet when you return.” Two donkeys were loaded up and we set off, climbing an ascent that led up through the village and into the mountains.
So we did our first leg of trekking and about four hours later, arrived at base camp, which nested at 3,500 metres.
Kolohai Glacier
The following morning, David jumped up and down like an excited child, grinning insanely, speaking very fast in a high-pitched voice and trying to coerce me out of bed with coffee. I don't think you need me to tell you that David is a fanatic when it comes to mountains. Meanwhile, I'm not exactly a morning person, but managed to get myself together, brush teeth by river, eat breakfast and set off with the boys for the trek to Kolohoi Glacier. I was tired! It was too early! I wanted to sleep more! But as I learnt, there is no arguing with the mountains and you have to set off early if you want to get back before dark. Ten minutes later, they threw me onto Bul-bul the horse. Two hours later, I was able to open my eyes and walk. I found myself clambering over giant rocks like a mini figurine. The landscape had changed from a vibrant psychedelic green to a barren dessert of rocks.
We could see Kolahai Glacier from the camp itself. This is the illusion of the mountains. They're also deceptive, hostile, unwelcoming and unpredictable. It was a sixteen km trek that involved crossing a number of rivers, bouncing over giant boulders, scrambling over huge rocks and climbing dizzying ascents. David and Aja shot ahead and became tiny dots in the distance while Atta, Ibi's brother, accompanying me at a speed I felt comfortable. It became difficult to breathe but David had taught me a technique that involved breathing in through the nose and out from the mouth. We stopped for a break and Atta suggested smoking a cigarette. This is the Kashmiri solution to dealing with altitude. We could see the ice on the glacier and the two tiny dots – David and Aja - eagerly running across it to reach the other side. Climbing over a dessert of gigantic boulders and rocks is not easy; especially when you begin to feel tired because one slight mistake and you could end up with a splattered chin or broken ankle. We made it though, had lunch and sat around for about an hour freezing our balls off before taking off for the descent back down to the camp.
As we passed an unfriendly gypsy camp, two dogs began barking ferociously. Luckily they were tied to the shack and couldn't quite reach us. David nearly jumped on their heads as he bounced between the boulders. We stopped for chai at a friendlier nomad camp and welcomed the warmth of the stone house in which we sat. The mother prepared a hookah for herself as her daughter served us tea, her eyes burning holes in my soul the entire time. They spoke Kashmiri, so conversation in Hindi was off bounds. The experience was strange, yet nice. On the way back, three small gypsy children with beautiful translucent eyes and almost-blonde hair, squeaked on top of their voices, “Tawfee, tawfee, tawfee!” They wanted toffees. Luckily, we had some on us and to their sweet delight, distributed the few that we'd bought with us.
For me, the trek was an experience that I'd never really encountered before. It tested my resilience, strength and stamina, which for some reason had surprised David. He wasn't sure if I was brave or completely ignorant of fear, in other words, stupid! I was happy to get back to camp, where we walked about to loosen the muscles in our legs.
The poison that is “civilization”
The nomads, gypsies and tribal people of the mountains intrigued me most. Their way of life is far, far away from the world that I have known in the west, far away from a life they could never envisage. They are Free. Free from a corrupt system built on greed, power and money, free to live their lives in the only way they know how amidst the majestic glory of the soul-stirring Kashmiri Himalaya. The substance of their existence felt worlds apart. It made me realise how in our so-called “civilized” world, we suffocate in the vomit of an egalitarian society. In our contemptuous minds, we have tried to penetrate the beauty that lies in the simplicity of life, with the poison we term as “civilization”. As they try to ape their British colonial predecessors, the Indian elite continue to impose their so-called world view, feeling ashamed enough in the face of western ideals to pollute their own people and land; like the suffocating effect of a man tied to the noose of a horse running wild through a colossal of unforgiving thorns, shredding them to pieces. What I witnessed in the mountains was the dregs of beauty that remain. I imagined walking through the doors of a parallel world, visualizing the contemptuous, condescending and barbaric nature of a so-called superior civilization that succumbs to the expectations of an egotistical society with its brain-dead disposition to wasting away, replacing the necessity of returning to nature to realise ourselves, with washed out, faded dreams that aspire to a material world. We try and fail, left to be scraped up as garbage and dumped into the pile for losers. We succeed and forget who we are. The people I met in the mountains will never forget who they are.
Unforgettable
As we sat around our camp, small nomadic children suddenly appeared, and as they sat, watched us awkwardly from a safe distance. We beckoned them to join us and felt delighted to make conversation in Hindi with the brave few. Others were were subdued, quiet and extremely shy. One particular boy, about eight years old would not speak at all. According to one of the older children, he had lost his father in the previous year.
It was a beautiful day in the midst of the Kashmiri Himalaya and I reminded myself that this was the most unique experience that I'd encountered so far, and the beginning of an adventure that I will never forget.
Day 3 – Tar Sar Lake
It's day 3 and we're stuck high up in the mountains, so there's absolutely no way of going back down. Hooray! Well, that's not what I was thinking during the evil 50-degree gradient inclining from the foothills of the base camp to the narrow ridge that snaked around the mountain high above. We followed it round until we were faced by a fierce river, gushing about wildly about 10 metres below. I felt like a tightrope walker crossing it over a narrow, precariously thrown, wooden plank. At 4,800 metres, the altitude was higher than the previous day, making it both tougher to climb and difficult to breathe.
We found ourselves in the clouds with sudden abruptness. There were mystical green meadows all around. It was like landing in a magical and unknown land tucked away in the midst of the clouds. I almost expected to see some half-man-half-horse creature cantering elegantly across the misty horizon.
I also realised the schizophrenic nature of the mountains amidst the reduced visibility as we guessed the route to Tar Sa Lake. Legend has it, the lake behind Tar Sa is cursed and that an evil monster resides there. Anyone who visits the lake is cursed by the monster of the lake, so nobody dares to venture there, not Kashmiris, not Indians and not even the courageous nomads, tribes or gypsies that know and understand the mountains better than anyone.
We'd climbed some one thousand metres that day, so it was cold by the time we got to Tar Sa Lake. The 10,000 square metres of water that rippled serenely across the infinite liquid horizon in front of us wasn't exactly a pond. We had lunch and psyched up for the walk back.
Women don't trek!
A group of young Kashmiri men had joined us, one of them declaring, “women don't do what you are doing. They are not supposed to.” Great, I thought, I either ignore this prick or give him a piece of mind. I did the latter of course and ended up talking about the so-called code-of-conduct supposedly imposed upon women by the Qur'an. “If the Qu'ran dictates the way women should conduct themselves, it also makes reference to the way YOU, and yes, I mean YOU, yourself, should refrain from drinking like a fish and smoking hashish like it's going out of fashion in the way that I have seen you do. So I guess that makes you a hypocrite, meaning you're not in any position to judge or criticise others,” I replied before stopping myself.
Mountains bring people together
A shy young man of not so many words, Atta, who has a Sufi-like aura just like his father, Haji, had begun to open up to David and I, feeling comfortable in our company and appreciating the fact David had such a natural connection with the mountains. He even laughed at our jokes and confided that he enjoyed trekking with us. We asked him if he'd like to accompany us as a friend to Nepal for the Anapurna trek and his eyes shone with excitement.
Descending, we arrived at the furious river that we had crossed nearer the beginning of trek. The sun was hot so we took off our shoes and sitting on a short wooded area over rocks, soaked our feet in the icy water, smoked a few cigarettes, took some photographs and chilled out, absorbing the warm and gentle rays. It was a magic moment for us. Atta knew we were coming to the end of our trek together and felt sad.
Back to base
We had covered some 80km in four days and although I was happy with the experience that we'd had, I was also overjoyed at the thought of a bed and a shower, scampering down the flower-carpeted meadows like Heidi, leaving an exhausted Atta and sulking David, who was sad to leave the mountains, shuffling along slowly behind me. Wow. What an experience. I felt exhilarated with my first ever mountain trek in the Kashmiri Himalaya!
Kashmir, Cashmere, Cashmeer, Kashmere, Kashmeer, Cashmir
Kashmir is like the face of a beautiful woman marked by an ugly scar. Offering a buffer zone to India and a wealth of resources to Pakistan, It is the bruised, abused, child that has been kicked about in a war of egos between two squabbling brothers. Kashmir still bleeds, insurgents still exist and India's military might has transformed it into an open prison, continuing to patrol its streets by day and night. Volatile and uneasy, governments have had the pretext to label Kashmir as one of the world's most dangerous places. Embassies warn of its dangers, insurance companies refuse cover and propaganda stops people coming here. We took an alternative route into the troubled state and discovered another Kashmir - one that was well worth the arduous journey that it took to get here.
It's a Family Affair
I've always wanted to visit Kashmir. According to research carried out by an uncle, the origins of my mother's family lie right here. I haven't had the opportunity to discover exactly where in Kashmir we come from, however, my grandmother claims that we are of Iranian descent and arrived some 500 years ago. My family are Hindu, however, it was the Mughals that arrived from Persia all those years ago – so the connection between my family and the religion it adapted is interesting, and something that I aim to investigate further. Watch this space.
Let's talk...
In case you hadn't noticed, I've been off the radar for a while. Call it writer's cramp, pure laziness, simply switching off or getting caught up in the mundane of life – I've been a naughty girl and not written for sometime. But I'm back, and I think you might understand why.
There are a million and one things to say about Kashmir. Coming here has sparked an energy in me that has been missing over the last few months. So before I go into the details, let's talk politics and get that out the way first.
Poli-triks
Realising the history of Kashmir, understanding its people and attempting to grasp its politics has confirmed the same thing again: That governments will do whatever it takes to divide, conquer and rule. Fear is the other thing: Give people enough reason to be afraid, and power will reign.
The veil that exists between Kashmir and the world has obscured its true colours. It's as if both the government and the insurgents want to cut Kashmir off from the rest of the world. Walk through the streets of Srinagar and you will have a tough time trying to find an Internet cafe. If you have a pre-paid mobile, then forget about using it because the signal is only available to those with contracted phones so that they can easily be traced. To an extent, culture too has been repressed, with insurgents putting an end to Srinagar's movie theatre some 10 years ago, cutting off any outside cultural influence. In fact the whole of the Jammu and Kashmir region – which comprises Jammu, Kashmir and Ladakh – is almost off bounds in terms of communications. Kashmir is severely controlled – its communications, its government, its streets, its life and its people. During elections in Kashmir, supporters of the opposition were threatened or arrested, bringing to question the agenda of the so-called “world's biggest democracy”. Fear is control and control is power. The Indian government and elite have learned well from its British colonial rulers.
I have to admit, that if I had been travelling solo, I would not have ventured into Kashmir alone. I've been travelling with David for the last few months and he managed to convince me to join him on this Kashmiri adventure. We scanned the latest news and felt satisfied that it wasn't as intense as the Indian government likes to presume. A few grenades, the odd missing person, one or two protests – as long as you're not in the wrong place at the wrong time, not really too much to worry about. It's a volatile place ridden with undercover insurgents; however, their militant activity has been significantly reduced in recent years. Things are not like they used to be.
Back in 1990, India and Pakistan squared up to each other during the bloody Kargil War. The situation intensified to the extent that the two countries were on the brink of a nuclear war and had to be talked out of it by the UN. It's another example of India's willingness to sacrifice people for power and to do whatever it takes to maintain its stronghold on Kashmir.
India stripping Kashmir of its autonomy has created a civil war that can detonate at any given time. Over a bloodstained time-line, the Kashmiri people have realised there is no messing with the Indian government. It's no wonder insurgency kicked off in the way that it did in Kashmir. However, any retaliation – whether it be peaceful protest or guerrilla attack – has resulted in the deaths of thousands of innocent Kashmiris. If they protested in peace, they were faced by military gunfire. If they retaliated as insurgents, again, there was the high risk of a brutal face-off, while giving the Indian government a further pretext to maintain its military presence in Kashmir.
In fact that very insurgency triggered India's bill on the so-called “war on terror” - protested against by NGOs, including Amnesty International. Walk around Delhi and prepare to be frisked at train, metro and bus stations, at temples, hotels and restaurants. The Indian government is spending more on security and its nuclear weapons program than it is on education, healthcare and creating jobs. Nonchalant is the attitude of the Indian government and this is witnessed in the hundreds of thousands of jobs that are lying vacant within its pubic sector. Nobody bothered to take care of that slight mishap. When it comes to leading the investigation on acts of terror, such as the 2003 attacks on the Indian parliament, innocent people are convicted and savage legal battles fought to clear names. In other not so-fortunate cases, innocent people have been convicted and sentenced to death. In the meantime, the Indian government continues to rule Kashmir with an iron fist, and there is little that anyone can do about it.
The number of insurgents that crossed the Line of Control (above Kargil), to train as guerrillas in Pakistan is therefore not surprising. However, it is also a situation that has bred fundamentalist attitudes amongst young Muslim Kashmiris – driving them to the brink of insanity, driving them to commit irrational crimes against their own people, fuelling a civil war. My Kashmiri friends have been telling me that the situation with insurgents today is nothing in comparison to what it used to be in the nineties. According to Shasta, a documentary filmmaker who lives in Delhi, people were terrorized for anything the insurgents considered “dishonourable”. It was not uncommon for acid to be thrown in the faces of women, for them to be abducted, or for their legs to be shot if they were seen wearing jeans. In the meantime, the Indian government has carried out its own dirty tricks campaign as a military dictatorship. It demanded every family in any given village, send every male member – boy or man – to its barracks for interrogation of any insurgency-related activity. Many innocent men would be taken away and brutally tortured, firing them up to join the Kashmiri Freedom Movement (KFM) or to become insurgents. While they were being interrogated, members of the Indian military would charge their homes and in many cases, soldiers would rape and pillage their mothers and daughters. Family members of the convicted innocent tried to play it down, tried to convince the militants not to retaliate for it gave the Indian government even more reason to maintain its presence, and what's worse, spark a counter attack, meaning they'd have to flee their homes, their villages would be set alight by the army.
David and I spoke to a number of Kashmiris about their opinions on the situation. Some Kashmiris living in India disagreed with an autonomous Kashmir because it would make their lives in India, a living hell. Muslims in India are already treated with great injustice and the situation would only get worse. Others, such as the shopkeeper I spoke to had other views.
As I sat on the floor of his floating shop on Srinagar's Dal Lake, gazing at the wonderful colours of embroidered Kashmiri tops and shawls that lay sprawled before me, he hinted, “there is Afghanistan, Pakistan and China all around us.” In the meantime, David was seated in our shikara (traditional wooden boat) outside the shop talking to a young radical. A big strong man with his own shop selling intricate woodcarvings, he spoke of his hate for India and his passion for an independent Kashmir. He joked of plans to grow his beard and head for Goa this year to scare the Israelis! We found that quite funny, yet also recognized his angst as a Muslim against the world.
David and I came across another businesses man, a Kashmiri houseboat owner who declared, “I am Muslim, but I am Indian first and Kashmiri second.” The situation is complicated. There are too many livelihoods at stake and separation would not serve the interests of the millions of Kashmiris with businesses. Kashmiris in India are victimised enough as it is, for example, Arif, a 22 year old gentle soul from Srinagar, recalled the time a Mumbai hotel had told him Kashmiris were not welcome. He'd tried to get a hotel in the Muslim quarter and was given the same answer. Autonomy would create a situation much worse. In the meantime, it's also been argued that without India's military might, Kashmir does not have the capacity to defend itself and would be left open to attack from the greedy, preying eyes of countries in the north-east and north-west.
Kashmiri people are proud and (unlike Tibetans), hardly a nation of victims, proving their defiance in the face of blood, war, death and destruction. Young people that we spoke to, including a bunch of twenty-something Kashmiri boys, lamented freely of India. India is not Kashmir and Kashmir is not India. It is a state and a country and people and a language unto itself. The boys were adamant about the facts, raising their fists and speaking in anger about the open prison in which they live. “They killed 500 people last year during a protest in Srinagar”, one of them told me, “We don't want to be part of India, we are separate from them.”
Military Machine
Haji, our wonderful Kashmiri host, is old school. He has witnessed Kashmir during both its glory years and its years of war. Haji, in his sixties, runs the Brown Palace guesthouse in the picturesque village of Loripora, Pahalagam. He has a naturally cheeky smile and the mischievous glint in his eyes cannot go unnoticed. Yet he possesses a Sufi-like presence, floating not walking, appearing out of nowhere and surprising us every so often. “There should be no more war anywhere in the world, ever. Every country in the world should be free of the bullshit of war. So bad… So bad…And for what? Money? Power? Enough is enough… No more war…” he spoke with sadness. “The problem with young people,” he then began, “is that they were born in the nineties. They witnessed all these bombs and sniper attacks happening all around them, but nothing else. So what else can we expect from their attitudes? They have seen their friends and families get stuck in the crossfire. But that's all they've seen.”
From the barbed wire that tears across the Line of Control (LoC) and the groups of uniformed men that stand nervously twitching their rifles on the street corners of Srinagar - to the army barracks that are positioned at every kilometre or so along the 280 km road that winds up from Jammu to Kashmir - It has been estimated that there are some 120,000 military personnel stationed in Kashmir.
We'd been to the border ceremony in Amritsar some weeks before so witnessing the graphic reality of the situation that stood before us here in Kashmir, amplified its absurdity. The border ceremony in Amritsar involves a football stadium-like crowd of cheering Indians chanting nationalist slogans and waving Indian flags as army personnel goose-step across to the gate that divides the two countries, glare at each other, salute and goose-step it back. There was humour to be found in the whole she-bang (two idiotic brothers pulling faces at each other) - however that humour did not run deep enough to ignore the sheer stupidity of the joke and ridicule made out of a very serious situation that has already cost millions of lives.
India and Pakistan are two brothers that swear in the same language, eat the same food and enjoy the same sport – yet they want to blow the living daylights out of each other. This is the reality, so the only conclusion that we could arrive at was this: that this meaningless, futile exercise was instructed in vain to stir patriotic, nationalist feeling, and fuel racial and religious intolerance amongst the mostly Hindu crowd that watched the spectacle. One guy was shouting so hard that he'd almost lost his voice, yet carried on hollering, “Hindustan, Zinadbad!” (Long live India). The guards had to tell him to stay seated on a number of occasions. I felt like punching him. These are the kinds of dirty tricks played by the Indian government and its military machine. Nobody even knows why they hate who they hate. They just do it because of what they are told to believe. No one has attempted to understand the real plight of the Kashmiri people and the Indian media are the last ones to even try.
Experiencing Kashmir for the very first time brought back that memory of Amritsar and put the whole thing into an even clearer perspective. While insurgents are firing bombs and shells across the line of control into Kargil, guards from opposing sides are doing Hitler impersonations in Amritsar and entertaining thousands of brainwashed Indians and Pakistanis both sides of the border. As a shell explodes mid-air, catapulted across the Line of Control by an insurgent having an off-day, the crowd in Amritsar cheers. As a sniper rifle targets and kills two Indian officers in Srinagar, small children are running to the border gate with Indian flags as Bollywood songs blare from the barely audible, poor sound quality speakers. This is the reality of a stupid game of war that is happening in India today. This is the level of brainwashing that is taking place as the Indian government continues to control its people with anti-Muslim propaganda and everyday events featuring the all-star goose-stepping military brigade.
I realised to an even greater extent, that there was more to this wonderful, yet terrorized paradise than meets the eye. I wanted to ignore this brutal military presence, see past it and get to know its divine landscape, connect with its people and learn to appreciate the highly distinctive and refined culture of Kashmir.
Getting past Jammu
Rewards in life need to be earned. We were still at the Golden Temple and eager to get to Kashmir. To get there, we had to endure the ordeal of getting past Jammu.
We had decided fairly early on that Kashmir was on the cards. We opted for an alternative route into the state as opposed to following the tourist circuit from Dharamsala to Manali and up to Leh. It made sense to head up from Amritsar to Jammu and on to Srinagar and the Zanskar region, acclimatizing slowly en route to Leh instead of rocketing straight up over 5,500 metres of the world's second highest pass from 2000 to 3,505 metres.
The Golden Temple was nice, yet extremely intense and for me, a little too gold, especially by night, when its glow intensified under sodium floodlights. I preferred to see it by day, when its gold was more of a matte, modest colour. I had to stay an extra night, so David, who'd had enough by this point, shot off ahead of me to Jammu. I was to meet him in the next 24 hours. Our respective journeys revealed a conclusive perspective: Jammu was not Kashmir. Either that, or it did not represent the image of the Kashmir we had imagined. More on Jammu later.
But first – The Golden Temple
As clichéd as it sounds, India is indeed a country of contrasts. Leaping from the sea of turbans that milled about Punjab's Amritsar and its Golden Temple, to the pristine pine forests and emerald meadows of the Kashmir that lay ahead of us - was a surreal experience. It disclosed the difference between Kashmir and the rest of India.
The Golden Temple is a vast piece of architecture built four centuries ago and is made up of no less than 500 kilos of gold. People mill about 24hours of the day and night, walking studiously across its white marble pathways, gazing at the brilliance of the temple's reflection in the water, or simply meditating to the sound of prayer that continues around the clock. The stunning gold structure houses the Guru Granth Sahib – the Sikh holy book, which is ceremonially carried out each evening and put to bed.
David had left and I had befriended a psychologist from Spain and TV director from Poland. Climbing the steps of the temple, we reached a room that revealed where the crystal clear sound of music throughout the vicinity was resonating from. It was a surprisingly small room housing the musicians that sung religious hymns and played tabla and harmonium. Sitting and listening for a short while, the girls and I decided to ascend to the rooftop. It was evening time, there was a beautiful spiritual feeling in the air, the water glistened with the reflection of gold all around us and the full moon shone with all its vigour, illuminating each of us as we stood staring out across the liquid gold that and splendid architecture around us, mesmerised. The energy was charged.
There are four entrances into the Golden Temple, and despite their labels, nobody really pays any attention to the one they “should” be walking through – not that this is given any importance. The entrances for Sikhs, Hindus, Muslims and Christians, is symbolic of religious tolerance in itself.
By day, we'd take off our shoes, cover our heads and make our way down to the dining area, where we'd pick up a plate and spoon, sit on the floor and get served chapatti, dal and rice pudding. I had the opportunity to sus out the city, scooting about in an auto sorting out errands. David suggested I meet him at his favourite dhaba (cheap chai and food place, traditionally started by poor people for poor people). It started raining a little, and then just as I remembered that it was monsoon time, the heavens exploded and it was water, water, everywhere. I waded through a knee-high sea of dirty rainwater mixed in with the mud and dirt of the streets and found David on the other side of the road. The water felt hot and I stepped precariously across the road, careful not to step into anything too unlikely. Wearing Sinbad trousers, a dress and a thin veil of a scarf around my shoulders, I looked and felt like a drowned cat.
This is Amritsar, the place where you can get fined for smoking on the street. David had become best buddies with the dhaba owners (probably because he's white and a man), so he smoked freely, while I took secretive tokes from his cigarette. Amritsar was beginning to get on my nerves. It was a place of contradictions; particularly with the restrictions it imposed yet gawking men and boozers on every street corner. Following the ridiculous guard ceremony at the Indo-Pakistan border, David and I both agreed it was time to leave. The girls and I awoke 4am the following morning to watch the sunrise over the temple. We got dressed and walked around its architecture and past the lengthy queue outside its main shrine where people waited patiently to make their praises. Again, I felt the urge to leave and booked a ticket for Jammu.
Recalling the events, it had been a fascinating, albeit, intense experience. Sikhism represented a positive socialist system. We had stayed at the temple premises for a small donation and had use of its super clean bathroom facilities. In fact, considering the mammoth size of the building, absolutely everything was immaculately clean with volunteers cleaning up around the clock. Nobody goes hungry in Amritsar either. The Golden Temple caters for one and all. The poor are not left to die and every beggar is welcomed as equally as every rich be-turbaned landowner. It was evident from the surroundings that many Sikhs had gone abroad, made plenty of money and returned with hefty donations that contributed to high-tech equipment such as the chapatti-making machine, which churns out some 1000 chapattis per hour. We had learnt that the Golden Temple receives around 15,000 visitors per day and some 10,000 staff and volunteers work here around the clock. An eager young Sikh man had spotted David of course, and given us an interesting tour, which included the enormous kitchens, and I felt like Thumbelina amongst it giant-sized pots, pans, and cookers. Three eventful days later, I took off like a bat outta hell. Kashmir was calling.
Escaping Jammu
Kashmir was calling but Jammu wasn't welcoming. Barbed wire and army barracks positioned at every other kilometre or so prepared me for what was to come. Every Indian train station that I've frequented has buzzed with tuk-tuk touts, rickshaw wallahs, garam chai wallahs, shoe shiners, street kids, college students, Rajasthani women (they're everywhere!), beggars, snack stalls, dogs, cows, horses... Commotion, y'know? Instead, I'd found myself in a place stripped of the usual colour, noise, smells and chaos to which I've become happily accustomed.
The first thing I see as I step down from the platform bridge is the barbed wire, a number of army vehicles and a splattering of uniformed men. I walk out of the station and through the car park and see not the usual procession of auto-rickshaws and clusters of drivers, but a handful of men loitering around the odd taxi.
The reception from the taxi driver prepared me for the hardcore Kashmiri mentality for bargaining. The car flew through the city, the driver stopping at intervals to ask directions. Paying him, I found myself entering what looked like a brothel. A long dark reception area with a cold wooden front desk housing a short fat man greeted me. He directed me upstairs. I could smell urine as I climbed the stairs. A couple lay in one of the rooms I passed and stared nonchalantly out of its half-open door as I walked by. I had wanted to freak David out with the words, “open up it's the Indian army!” I see a dark-skinned man with a thick moustache sweating profusely in a dirty wife-beater vest, shouting violently into a mobile phone and decide against it; opting instead, to knock discreetly.
“I was expecting room service at the very least!” I lamented as David opened the door. We knew we'd be out of the place in less than 12 hours so found it easy enough to take the piss out of everything around us. David had arrived the day before and had spent a good three or four hours hunting down the most decent hotel he could find. He was sure he'd heard of better looking brothels. At least we had a water cooler to relieve us of the smothering, hot and humid air. With its broken springs and stained, hole-ridden sheets, the lumpy bed didn't look too inviting either. In the first few minutes of entering, I couldn't even bring myself to go to the bathroom, letting out a short, sharp scream at the sight of the resident cockroaches in the toilet basin. David was on the floor, laughing, at my expense of course, and even more so when I exclaimed “I've arrived in these clothes. I'm sleeping in these clothes. And I'm leaving in them tomorrow!”
Walking around the town, I noticed that there was barely a woman on the street. This was one of those moments for David to transform into my husband. It helps. We felt the town fuelled with paranoia, its atmosphere hostile. There were gun shops with their “Save India” and “India is Great!” slogans. We happened to be staying in the Muslim ghetto of the city and by night, noticed the streets dramatically quieten down. At hearing anything sounding remotely like a gunshot, we pondered if it might be the beginning of some kind of commotion. The paranoid vibes of the place rubbed off on us, David answering a knock on our door with a knife in his back pocket and me hallucinating about men bursting in with AK47s.
Early evening however, had an Indian lull about it with cars tooting horns, people walking everywhere and small dhabas serving local fare to local people, their chatter spilling out onto the darkening street outside. We even saw a bull trying to mate with a cow in the middle of a busy junction next to a roundabout, causing a traffic jam! Only in India! And again, may I reiterate, that despite its geopolitical label as the state of Jammu and Kashmir, Jammu is not Kashmir.
Finding ourselves in the Hindu quarter, we came across a shopkeeper who models himself on the famous Bollywood actor, Amitabh Bachan. Proud of his obsession with his idol, he showed off some newspaper clippings featuring his fame to claim as the celebrated spoof star. He looked like an Indian Elvis, yet kept an air of nonchalance and pride as he served us two packets of Win cigarettes.
By 5.30 am the next morning, we found ourselves at the bus station raring to get the hell out the dodgiest town we'd experienced in India. The bus wasn't going anywhere until it was absolutely full and we were the first ones there. Five hours later we hit the road.
Kashmir Calling
I felt a magnetic pull towards the Kashmir I had imagined. It must have been a powerful magnet because the road from Jammu to Srinagar stretched for some 280km, taking us a good 15 hours to get there.
The landscape became green, wild and beautiful. We could detect the strong, sweet, pungent aroma of marijuana that incensed the air as we drove through the Kashmiri countryside. The surroundings changed as we took on an ascent and began to witness the panorama of the space as it stretched out wider before us and as valleys became increasingly visible, getting deeper as we got higher. Army barracks pierced the road every kilometre and we noticed marijuana plants growing freely - if not in the very premises of the military quarters, then outside of them, fluttering next to the barbed wire. It was an insane contrast.
The dramatic nature of the Kashmiri Himalaya came into view. Craggy rock faces, small white villages stuck into the bosoms of voluptuous mounds, bridges that connected the expanse between valleys, bright, psychedelic greens, the sheer drop as I looked outside the window and the huge incline ahead as the bus snaked into the infinite road ahead.
We stopped at a police check post and as the only two foreigners on the bus, were commanded to fill in a form with all our details. Is this what the Indian military has been putting Kashmiris through over the last 20 years? No, it hasn't. It's been putting them through much worse than we could ever imagine.
A small crowd formed as I smoked a cigarette with David outside a food place en route, some of them friendly enough to make polite conversation. In the all-male crowd, a short, podgy young man suddenly singled me out, declaring that as a woman, I should not be smoking. Maintaining a calm exterior, I threw the energy of my disdain upon him. “Are you disrespecting me in front of my husband? In fact I'd say you were also disrespecting my husband because he doesn't even tell me what to do. So who do you think you are to tell me? Why don't YOU stop smoking?” I hear a few laughs and claps around me. He suggested that we are friends and I tell him I'd rather be his older sister. Sister is preferred to friend and any man who thinks he can become a woman's friend is suggesting that she is easy because a woman does not accept just any man's friendship so easily – especially one like this. “I don't know you,” I responded, “so there's no way you can be my friend.” I heard a few voices agree with me as I walked away.
Srinagar
We arrived late at night and dived into the most decent hotel we could find. My Kashmiri friend, Shazia, is chauffeured around in her snazzy four-wheel drive. She smokes, swears, makes controversial documentaries, parties with a degree of modesty and during our entire time in Kashmir, not once did we see her in a headscarf. Walking around on the streets however, is another story. The women I noticed in the Dal Gate area where we stayed, were either covered head to toe in burkhas, or sported headscarves in a multitude of colours. They'd smile shyly, others would curiously stare until I smiled and graciously, they'd do the same. I opted for a headscarf too, but still felt the eyes of men staring right through my clothes. David reckons its because they are such a sexually repressed society. The scarf was a light cloth and even with that, I felt it as a weight on my head as I walked down the street trying not to let it fall off in any which direction. David insisted I float down the street without feeling conscious; wear it with style and glam up. So I did and I felt better.
Not many tourists
Touts are everywhere. Business has been dire so they'll do everything in their power to coerce you into buying a hat, scarf, shawl, shakira ride, houseboat, trekking expedition... A nail clipper perhaps? The nineties were an inevitably bad time and many Kashmiri people opened business in major cities across the subcontinent.
Despite being famed for the immensity of its beauty, Kashmir is off the beaten track. Not many a tourist in town! We bumped into about 10 over the six days we spent in Srinagar. One guy had arrived on an Enfield from Ladakh. He was the only person we spoke to, apart from Shazia of course, who happened to be visiting her parents in the city at the time.
Propaganda that supports the agenda of the Indian government has sparked wide disinterest in Kashmir as a place for travel. So you could say people were happy to see us, and even happier when they understood that we had arrived independently on a bus from Jammu as opposed to an organised tour – something that was common amongst most other people that we'd met during the month that we spent here in Kashmir.
In recent weeks, insurgents targeted two policemen with sniper guns. There was also a protest and police fired tear gas. A few people have been missing and Independence Day saw the big city shut down in defiance of its association with India. More recently, 50kg of explosives were blown up near the city jail, killing three people and injuring 10 others. Insurgent activity happens every now and again. It'll probably quieten down for a month or so. It's ideal to keep an eye on the news and stay out of site on public holidays. According to Asif, a gentle 21-year-old Kashmiri guy from Srinagar, during the nineties, the military had a shoot-on-site policy if anyone was seen on a public holiday, in particular, Independence Day. He predicts insurgency to flare up just after Eid. It happens every so often, usually as a result of military action. Last year five million Kashmiri people protested against human rights violations in the city of Srinagar. It was a peaceful protest that ended in a bloodbath when military fired on the crowds, killing some 500 innocent people. We were in Kashmir on the anniversary of the fatal protest and realised why every business was shuttered down in memory of the victims. Kashmiri people are fed up and frustrated. “I don't care if we are autonomous, or if we end up as part of Pakistan or if we continue to be a part of India,” Asif told us, “I just want peace in Kashmir.”
Military presence gives the place a sense of danger and uniformed men are often seen twitching nervously at their M16s. The local Muslim girls school is cordoned off from public view with towering walls and a set of imposing doors lined with wrought iron gates that barricade them in from the outside world. Meanwhile, the bridge outside the college building is protected by bulletproof glass and there is a cluster of armed men alertly watching every new face in town. Walking through the streets of Srinagar's old town, we head off into the city area and discover shops, wide streets and busy highways. There are major tourist hotels and some are cordoned off, again with barbed wire. A nice welcome for the unsuspecting American tourist.
A city that has seen everything
As Bashrat Peer says, “Srinagar is a medieval city living a modern war”. It is also a city of contrasts and we were eager to get away from this paranoid vibe and discover its true landmarks so we took off for the main mosque. It was a simple, cold building. We went round it twice and trekked off into the midst of the town, discovering the pathway to the fort that was built here during the Mugul times. Climbing higher, we discovered a mosque. Walking briskly through, we found our way to the highest point and swallowed in a panoramic, almost aerial view of the city of Srinagar.
I watched the city from above and tried to imagine the dramatic changes that have swept through its perimeters over centuries. From the existence of civilizations (the Nagas, Vedics, Burzahoms and even the Greeks), to several distinctive religions (including Buddhist, Hindu, Shaivist, Aramaic and Islam) – Srinagar is a special city, possessing a rich tapestry of cultures as it discloses today intricate architecture and wood carvings, papier mache, crewel embroidery, Pashmina shawls, ornate furniture and magnificent paintings, sculptures and not to mention, profound Sufi poetry. As we absorbed the nature of its spirit, the hypnotic call to prayer resonated across the city that sprawled out before us.
Another Country
Stepping into Kashmir is like stepping into another country and its situation was self-explanatory. We could read the frustration in the eyes of the young; see the sadness in those of the old and the desperation in the demeanour of every tout that tried to sell us everything under the sun. We witnessed it in the barbed wire, the bunkers, the police check-posts, the military vehicles, the armed men. Yet so profound is Kashmiri culture, that not even a brutal military machine could disguise its distinction from Indian culture. Kashmiri people are a world unto themselves. The language, the music, the religion, the art, the culture and the mentality and gestures of Kashmiri people themselves are a world apart from the rest of India. In fact every state in India is distinct. People, costumes, festivals, celebrations are different between one state and the next. However, Kashmir is something else and we began to understand its plight simply by seeing all that we could see around us.
Kashmir – a crime to bypass
I had a number of people that we were going to Kashmir. Their immediate response was, “be careful” or “why would you want to go there?” I answered the question with a question: How can I possibly come to India and miss out on the opportunity of experiencing paradise on earth?
It was well worth the trip and I would recommend anyone that is anyone, to put aside their prejudices, open their minds and discover Kashmir and its people for themselves. The Indian government has already done enough damage by injecting the fear factor and stopping people from travelling here.
I went for a coffee in a Leh restaurant recently and met two guys from Jammu who were working there. They found me fascinating for the fact that I am Indian and yet looked, dressed and spoke in a manner that they are not accustomed to. We ended up having a debate about the Indian government and its role in brainwashing the masses against Kashmiri people and Muslims in general. “They are all insurgents”, one was telling me, “and the government has equipped us with what we need to defend ourselves in case they raid our homes.” He was adamant: “Not only are they pro-Pakistan, but they are all going there for training.” I argued that the government has created that very insurgency by firing it up with the human rights violations that it's committed. “You'd probably end up as an insurgent yourself if your rights were taken away, if your city was pillaged, if your friends and family were caught in the crossfire. Do you even know what you're fighting about any more? Do you even remember how and why this was all even started? Read the fucking papers and see how you're being controlled!” It was a pointless discussion as it is not my place to change minds. People need to learn to think freely for themselves. They know what they know from their own experiences, so it was interesting to see the extent to which the minds of different groups of people have been effected.
Dal Lake
I happened to be in a shop trying to pick an embroidered Kashmiri top and headscarf (might as well get in with the local fashion!), while a bored David hung about smoking a cigarette outside. He'd managed to draw the attention of an old Kashmiri man, who'd coyly approached him for a cigarette. It turned out that the little old man was a shakira wallah. I popped my head out the shop at intervals to ask David's advice on colours and designs I'd chosen, while the little old man busied himself with discreetly getting business from David. Flustered that I was not getting any attention, I left the shop to join them, by which point David had been convinced to join the little old man on a shakira ride. Ghulam Mohammad is an 82-year-old shakira-boat owner and has been doing his job for 60 years. He took real pride in his role as a man who can make us very happy aboard his shakira. So charming and gentle was his manner, we just couldn't resist, and accompanied him to the shores of the magnificent Dal Lake.
Despite it's reputation as Kashmir's biggest tourist attraction, there is no denying the infinite beauty of its most famous lake. The Dal Lake spreads across some 50 square kilometres and is lined with hundreds of palatial houseboats, intricately carved wooden shakiras and floating shops that sell everything from precious stone jewellery and crewel embroidery shawls to hand-carved wood ornaments and the perpetual Kashmiri silk carpet.
Ghulam's translucent watery eyes filled with tears as he reminisced of the golden years in Kashmir, adding “I bought my shakira for 200 rs in 1945”, he told us “and then I sold it in 1949 for 600 rs. Very good price!” Working each day with his grandson, Tariq, a young, sweet-natured, gentle giant, Ghulam tries to bring in the clients for shakira rides across the Dal Lake. It's hard work rowing across that huge expanse of a lake and we felt guilty that a sweet old man like Ghulam was taking us around it. David and I took the oars and rowed until my arms nearly fell off. Apparently, we had rowed out further than any of the other shakira owners would dare. “No one comes out this far, they're all lazy young men,” he told us, “all they're good at doing is taking tourists literally for ride that's short in time and high in price.” The silence on the lake was golden, David and I mesmerised by the beauty around us, the vastness of the lake itself and the sound of nothing but nature. We transcended into a communal quiet, hypnotised into silence.
“You will be very happy. Here is a flower for beautiful Anu,” Ghulam gently broke the silence, passing a string of floating lilies that he'd collected from the lake and tied together for me. “Are you happy? I want you to be happy.” Arriving on the shore at the far flung side of the lake, Ghulam told us that he'd be very happy if we accompanied him to a special shop because it would help his grandson get a job there, even if we didn't buy anything. Walking down the wide, tree-lined, sunny street, it was evident that this was one of Srinagar's rather well to do areas. We arrived at large imposing gates, and walking through them, Ghulam received a salaam from the security guard. He was obviously a very well respected man in Srinagar. Walking down the 15-metre entrance lined with flowers, we reached the doors of a beautiful store, selling la crème de la crème of Kashmiri shawls, carpets, scarves and tops. These guys import to places like Nichols in London. They make Hermes look cheap. The shop manager spoke to David, ignoring me almost completely. His attitude failed to faze me as I busied myself picking out a number of shawls and trying them on. I found a beautiful sky-blue Kashmir wool jumper and immediately thought of my dad. It was 4,500 rs and worth about 300 quid in the UK. I didn't buy it, but knew I'd be back for it and that I'd bargain the arrogant shop manager down to a price that I wanted to pay.
The sun was setting as we returned to our shakira. It was a magnificent sunset, a golden yellow mixed with a vibrant orange glow and splashes of purple. Like a supernova, the juices of its colours splashed across the horizon, puffs of white cloud perforating the sky like a million tiny puncture marks. It lasted but 20 minutes and we gazed at the horizon until the buildings in the distant became silhouettes and the mosque on the other side of the city, illuminated in all its glory.
Tariq had just finished praying and had found time at stops between rowing to tend to his daily five-times per-day ritual. We took off for the shores on the other side of the lake, taking the oars from Ghulam and helping Tariq to row. Ghulam took a back seat and as we set off into the middle of the lake, he began chanting his prayers. We floated back into an amicable silence, feeling tranquil and at peace listening to the sound of his voice as darkness fell around us and as the city came to life for the short evening ahead.
It's a Family Affair
I've always wanted to visit Kashmir. According to research carried out by an uncle, the origins of my mother's family lie right here. I haven't had the opportunity to discover exactly where in Kashmir we come from, however, my grandmother claims that we are of Iranian descent and arrived some 500 years ago. My family are Hindu, however, it was the Mughals that arrived from Persia all those years ago – so the connection between my family and the religion it adapted is interesting, and something that I aim to investigate further. Watch this space.
Let's talk...
In case you hadn't noticed, I've been off the radar for a while. Call it writer's cramp, pure laziness, simply switching off or getting caught up in the mundane of life – I've been a naughty girl and not written for sometime. But I'm back, and I think you might understand why.
There are a million and one things to say about Kashmir. Coming here has sparked an energy in me that has been missing over the last few months. So before I go into the details, let's talk politics and get that out the way first.
Poli-triks
Realising the history of Kashmir, understanding its people and attempting to grasp its politics has confirmed the same thing again: That governments will do whatever it takes to divide, conquer and rule. Fear is the other thing: Give people enough reason to be afraid, and power will reign.
The veil that exists between Kashmir and the world has obscured its true colours. It's as if both the government and the insurgents want to cut Kashmir off from the rest of the world. Walk through the streets of Srinagar and you will have a tough time trying to find an Internet cafe. If you have a pre-paid mobile, then forget about using it because the signal is only available to those with contracted phones so that they can easily be traced. To an extent, culture too has been repressed, with insurgents putting an end to Srinagar's movie theatre some 10 years ago, cutting off any outside cultural influence. In fact the whole of the Jammu and Kashmir region – which comprises Jammu, Kashmir and Ladakh – is almost off bounds in terms of communications. Kashmir is severely controlled – its communications, its government, its streets, its life and its people. During elections in Kashmir, supporters of the opposition were threatened or arrested, bringing to question the agenda of the so-called “world's biggest democracy”. Fear is control and control is power. The Indian government and elite have learned well from its British colonial rulers.
I have to admit, that if I had been travelling solo, I would not have ventured into Kashmir alone. I've been travelling with David for the last few months and he managed to convince me to join him on this Kashmiri adventure. We scanned the latest news and felt satisfied that it wasn't as intense as the Indian government likes to presume. A few grenades, the odd missing person, one or two protests – as long as you're not in the wrong place at the wrong time, not really too much to worry about. It's a volatile place ridden with undercover insurgents; however, their militant activity has been significantly reduced in recent years. Things are not like they used to be.
Back in 1990, India and Pakistan squared up to each other during the bloody Kargil War. The situation intensified to the extent that the two countries were on the brink of a nuclear war and had to be talked out of it by the UN. It's another example of India's willingness to sacrifice people for power and to do whatever it takes to maintain its stronghold on Kashmir.
India stripping Kashmir of its autonomy has created a civil war that can detonate at any given time. Over a bloodstained time-line, the Kashmiri people have realised there is no messing with the Indian government. It's no wonder insurgency kicked off in the way that it did in Kashmir. However, any retaliation – whether it be peaceful protest or guerrilla attack – has resulted in the deaths of thousands of innocent Kashmiris. If they protested in peace, they were faced by military gunfire. If they retaliated as insurgents, again, there was the high risk of a brutal face-off, while giving the Indian government a further pretext to maintain its military presence in Kashmir.
In fact that very insurgency triggered India's bill on the so-called “war on terror” - protested against by NGOs, including Amnesty International. Walk around Delhi and prepare to be frisked at train, metro and bus stations, at temples, hotels and restaurants. The Indian government is spending more on security and its nuclear weapons program than it is on education, healthcare and creating jobs. Nonchalant is the attitude of the Indian government and this is witnessed in the hundreds of thousands of jobs that are lying vacant within its pubic sector. Nobody bothered to take care of that slight mishap. When it comes to leading the investigation on acts of terror, such as the 2003 attacks on the Indian parliament, innocent people are convicted and savage legal battles fought to clear names. In other not so-fortunate cases, innocent people have been convicted and sentenced to death. In the meantime, the Indian government continues to rule Kashmir with an iron fist, and there is little that anyone can do about it.
The number of insurgents that crossed the Line of Control (above Kargil), to train as guerrillas in Pakistan is therefore not surprising. However, it is also a situation that has bred fundamentalist attitudes amongst young Muslim Kashmiris – driving them to the brink of insanity, driving them to commit irrational crimes against their own people, fuelling a civil war. My Kashmiri friends have been telling me that the situation with insurgents today is nothing in comparison to what it used to be in the nineties. According to Shasta, a documentary filmmaker who lives in Delhi, people were terrorized for anything the insurgents considered “dishonourable”. It was not uncommon for acid to be thrown in the faces of women, for them to be abducted, or for their legs to be shot if they were seen wearing jeans. In the meantime, the Indian government has carried out its own dirty tricks campaign as a military dictatorship. It demanded every family in any given village, send every male member – boy or man – to its barracks for interrogation of any insurgency-related activity. Many innocent men would be taken away and brutally tortured, firing them up to join the Kashmiri Freedom Movement (KFM) or to become insurgents. While they were being interrogated, members of the Indian military would charge their homes and in many cases, soldiers would rape and pillage their mothers and daughters. Family members of the convicted innocent tried to play it down, tried to convince the militants not to retaliate for it gave the Indian government even more reason to maintain its presence, and what's worse, spark a counter attack, meaning they'd have to flee their homes, their villages would be set alight by the army.
David and I spoke to a number of Kashmiris about their opinions on the situation. Some Kashmiris living in India disagreed with an autonomous Kashmir because it would make their lives in India, a living hell. Muslims in India are already treated with great injustice and the situation would only get worse. Others, such as the shopkeeper I spoke to had other views.
As I sat on the floor of his floating shop on Srinagar's Dal Lake, gazing at the wonderful colours of embroidered Kashmiri tops and shawls that lay sprawled before me, he hinted, “there is Afghanistan, Pakistan and China all around us.” In the meantime, David was seated in our shikara (traditional wooden boat) outside the shop talking to a young radical. A big strong man with his own shop selling intricate woodcarvings, he spoke of his hate for India and his passion for an independent Kashmir. He joked of plans to grow his beard and head for Goa this year to scare the Israelis! We found that quite funny, yet also recognized his angst as a Muslim against the world.
David and I came across another businesses man, a Kashmiri houseboat owner who declared, “I am Muslim, but I am Indian first and Kashmiri second.” The situation is complicated. There are too many livelihoods at stake and separation would not serve the interests of the millions of Kashmiris with businesses. Kashmiris in India are victimised enough as it is, for example, Arif, a 22 year old gentle soul from Srinagar, recalled the time a Mumbai hotel had told him Kashmiris were not welcome. He'd tried to get a hotel in the Muslim quarter and was given the same answer. Autonomy would create a situation much worse. In the meantime, it's also been argued that without India's military might, Kashmir does not have the capacity to defend itself and would be left open to attack from the greedy, preying eyes of countries in the north-east and north-west.
Kashmiri people are proud and (unlike Tibetans), hardly a nation of victims, proving their defiance in the face of blood, war, death and destruction. Young people that we spoke to, including a bunch of twenty-something Kashmiri boys, lamented freely of India. India is not Kashmir and Kashmir is not India. It is a state and a country and people and a language unto itself. The boys were adamant about the facts, raising their fists and speaking in anger about the open prison in which they live. “They killed 500 people last year during a protest in Srinagar”, one of them told me, “We don't want to be part of India, we are separate from them.”
Military Machine
Haji, our wonderful Kashmiri host, is old school. He has witnessed Kashmir during both its glory years and its years of war. Haji, in his sixties, runs the Brown Palace guesthouse in the picturesque village of Loripora, Pahalagam. He has a naturally cheeky smile and the mischievous glint in his eyes cannot go unnoticed. Yet he possesses a Sufi-like presence, floating not walking, appearing out of nowhere and surprising us every so often. “There should be no more war anywhere in the world, ever. Every country in the world should be free of the bullshit of war. So bad… So bad…And for what? Money? Power? Enough is enough… No more war…” he spoke with sadness. “The problem with young people,” he then began, “is that they were born in the nineties. They witnessed all these bombs and sniper attacks happening all around them, but nothing else. So what else can we expect from their attitudes? They have seen their friends and families get stuck in the crossfire. But that's all they've seen.”
From the barbed wire that tears across the Line of Control (LoC) and the groups of uniformed men that stand nervously twitching their rifles on the street corners of Srinagar - to the army barracks that are positioned at every kilometre or so along the 280 km road that winds up from Jammu to Kashmir - It has been estimated that there are some 120,000 military personnel stationed in Kashmir.
We'd been to the border ceremony in Amritsar some weeks before so witnessing the graphic reality of the situation that stood before us here in Kashmir, amplified its absurdity. The border ceremony in Amritsar involves a football stadium-like crowd of cheering Indians chanting nationalist slogans and waving Indian flags as army personnel goose-step across to the gate that divides the two countries, glare at each other, salute and goose-step it back. There was humour to be found in the whole she-bang (two idiotic brothers pulling faces at each other) - however that humour did not run deep enough to ignore the sheer stupidity of the joke and ridicule made out of a very serious situation that has already cost millions of lives.
India and Pakistan are two brothers that swear in the same language, eat the same food and enjoy the same sport – yet they want to blow the living daylights out of each other. This is the reality, so the only conclusion that we could arrive at was this: that this meaningless, futile exercise was instructed in vain to stir patriotic, nationalist feeling, and fuel racial and religious intolerance amongst the mostly Hindu crowd that watched the spectacle. One guy was shouting so hard that he'd almost lost his voice, yet carried on hollering, “Hindustan, Zinadbad!” (Long live India). The guards had to tell him to stay seated on a number of occasions. I felt like punching him. These are the kinds of dirty tricks played by the Indian government and its military machine. Nobody even knows why they hate who they hate. They just do it because of what they are told to believe. No one has attempted to understand the real plight of the Kashmiri people and the Indian media are the last ones to even try.
Experiencing Kashmir for the very first time brought back that memory of Amritsar and put the whole thing into an even clearer perspective. While insurgents are firing bombs and shells across the line of control into Kargil, guards from opposing sides are doing Hitler impersonations in Amritsar and entertaining thousands of brainwashed Indians and Pakistanis both sides of the border. As a shell explodes mid-air, catapulted across the Line of Control by an insurgent having an off-day, the crowd in Amritsar cheers. As a sniper rifle targets and kills two Indian officers in Srinagar, small children are running to the border gate with Indian flags as Bollywood songs blare from the barely audible, poor sound quality speakers. This is the reality of a stupid game of war that is happening in India today. This is the level of brainwashing that is taking place as the Indian government continues to control its people with anti-Muslim propaganda and everyday events featuring the all-star goose-stepping military brigade.
I realised to an even greater extent, that there was more to this wonderful, yet terrorized paradise than meets the eye. I wanted to ignore this brutal military presence, see past it and get to know its divine landscape, connect with its people and learn to appreciate the highly distinctive and refined culture of Kashmir.
Getting past Jammu
Rewards in life need to be earned. We were still at the Golden Temple and eager to get to Kashmir. To get there, we had to endure the ordeal of getting past Jammu.
We had decided fairly early on that Kashmir was on the cards. We opted for an alternative route into the state as opposed to following the tourist circuit from Dharamsala to Manali and up to Leh. It made sense to head up from Amritsar to Jammu and on to Srinagar and the Zanskar region, acclimatizing slowly en route to Leh instead of rocketing straight up over 5,500 metres of the world's second highest pass from 2000 to 3,505 metres.
The Golden Temple was nice, yet extremely intense and for me, a little too gold, especially by night, when its glow intensified under sodium floodlights. I preferred to see it by day, when its gold was more of a matte, modest colour. I had to stay an extra night, so David, who'd had enough by this point, shot off ahead of me to Jammu. I was to meet him in the next 24 hours. Our respective journeys revealed a conclusive perspective: Jammu was not Kashmir. Either that, or it did not represent the image of the Kashmir we had imagined. More on Jammu later.
But first – The Golden Temple
As clichéd as it sounds, India is indeed a country of contrasts. Leaping from the sea of turbans that milled about Punjab's Amritsar and its Golden Temple, to the pristine pine forests and emerald meadows of the Kashmir that lay ahead of us - was a surreal experience. It disclosed the difference between Kashmir and the rest of India.
The Golden Temple is a vast piece of architecture built four centuries ago and is made up of no less than 500 kilos of gold. People mill about 24hours of the day and night, walking studiously across its white marble pathways, gazing at the brilliance of the temple's reflection in the water, or simply meditating to the sound of prayer that continues around the clock. The stunning gold structure houses the Guru Granth Sahib – the Sikh holy book, which is ceremonially carried out each evening and put to bed.
David had left and I had befriended a psychologist from Spain and TV director from Poland. Climbing the steps of the temple, we reached a room that revealed where the crystal clear sound of music throughout the vicinity was resonating from. It was a surprisingly small room housing the musicians that sung religious hymns and played tabla and harmonium. Sitting and listening for a short while, the girls and I decided to ascend to the rooftop. It was evening time, there was a beautiful spiritual feeling in the air, the water glistened with the reflection of gold all around us and the full moon shone with all its vigour, illuminating each of us as we stood staring out across the liquid gold that and splendid architecture around us, mesmerised. The energy was charged.
There are four entrances into the Golden Temple, and despite their labels, nobody really pays any attention to the one they “should” be walking through – not that this is given any importance. The entrances for Sikhs, Hindus, Muslims and Christians, is symbolic of religious tolerance in itself.
By day, we'd take off our shoes, cover our heads and make our way down to the dining area, where we'd pick up a plate and spoon, sit on the floor and get served chapatti, dal and rice pudding. I had the opportunity to sus out the city, scooting about in an auto sorting out errands. David suggested I meet him at his favourite dhaba (cheap chai and food place, traditionally started by poor people for poor people). It started raining a little, and then just as I remembered that it was monsoon time, the heavens exploded and it was water, water, everywhere. I waded through a knee-high sea of dirty rainwater mixed in with the mud and dirt of the streets and found David on the other side of the road. The water felt hot and I stepped precariously across the road, careful not to step into anything too unlikely. Wearing Sinbad trousers, a dress and a thin veil of a scarf around my shoulders, I looked and felt like a drowned cat.
This is Amritsar, the place where you can get fined for smoking on the street. David had become best buddies with the dhaba owners (probably because he's white and a man), so he smoked freely, while I took secretive tokes from his cigarette. Amritsar was beginning to get on my nerves. It was a place of contradictions; particularly with the restrictions it imposed yet gawking men and boozers on every street corner. Following the ridiculous guard ceremony at the Indo-Pakistan border, David and I both agreed it was time to leave. The girls and I awoke 4am the following morning to watch the sunrise over the temple. We got dressed and walked around its architecture and past the lengthy queue outside its main shrine where people waited patiently to make their praises. Again, I felt the urge to leave and booked a ticket for Jammu.
Recalling the events, it had been a fascinating, albeit, intense experience. Sikhism represented a positive socialist system. We had stayed at the temple premises for a small donation and had use of its super clean bathroom facilities. In fact, considering the mammoth size of the building, absolutely everything was immaculately clean with volunteers cleaning up around the clock. Nobody goes hungry in Amritsar either. The Golden Temple caters for one and all. The poor are not left to die and every beggar is welcomed as equally as every rich be-turbaned landowner. It was evident from the surroundings that many Sikhs had gone abroad, made plenty of money and returned with hefty donations that contributed to high-tech equipment such as the chapatti-making machine, which churns out some 1000 chapattis per hour. We had learnt that the Golden Temple receives around 15,000 visitors per day and some 10,000 staff and volunteers work here around the clock. An eager young Sikh man had spotted David of course, and given us an interesting tour, which included the enormous kitchens, and I felt like Thumbelina amongst it giant-sized pots, pans, and cookers. Three eventful days later, I took off like a bat outta hell. Kashmir was calling.
Escaping Jammu
Kashmir was calling but Jammu wasn't welcoming. Barbed wire and army barracks positioned at every other kilometre or so prepared me for what was to come. Every Indian train station that I've frequented has buzzed with tuk-tuk touts, rickshaw wallahs, garam chai wallahs, shoe shiners, street kids, college students, Rajasthani women (they're everywhere!), beggars, snack stalls, dogs, cows, horses... Commotion, y'know? Instead, I'd found myself in a place stripped of the usual colour, noise, smells and chaos to which I've become happily accustomed.
The first thing I see as I step down from the platform bridge is the barbed wire, a number of army vehicles and a splattering of uniformed men. I walk out of the station and through the car park and see not the usual procession of auto-rickshaws and clusters of drivers, but a handful of men loitering around the odd taxi.
The reception from the taxi driver prepared me for the hardcore Kashmiri mentality for bargaining. The car flew through the city, the driver stopping at intervals to ask directions. Paying him, I found myself entering what looked like a brothel. A long dark reception area with a cold wooden front desk housing a short fat man greeted me. He directed me upstairs. I could smell urine as I climbed the stairs. A couple lay in one of the rooms I passed and stared nonchalantly out of its half-open door as I walked by. I had wanted to freak David out with the words, “open up it's the Indian army!” I see a dark-skinned man with a thick moustache sweating profusely in a dirty wife-beater vest, shouting violently into a mobile phone and decide against it; opting instead, to knock discreetly.
“I was expecting room service at the very least!” I lamented as David opened the door. We knew we'd be out of the place in less than 12 hours so found it easy enough to take the piss out of everything around us. David had arrived the day before and had spent a good three or four hours hunting down the most decent hotel he could find. He was sure he'd heard of better looking brothels. At least we had a water cooler to relieve us of the smothering, hot and humid air. With its broken springs and stained, hole-ridden sheets, the lumpy bed didn't look too inviting either. In the first few minutes of entering, I couldn't even bring myself to go to the bathroom, letting out a short, sharp scream at the sight of the resident cockroaches in the toilet basin. David was on the floor, laughing, at my expense of course, and even more so when I exclaimed “I've arrived in these clothes. I'm sleeping in these clothes. And I'm leaving in them tomorrow!”
Walking around the town, I noticed that there was barely a woman on the street. This was one of those moments for David to transform into my husband. It helps. We felt the town fuelled with paranoia, its atmosphere hostile. There were gun shops with their “Save India” and “India is Great!” slogans. We happened to be staying in the Muslim ghetto of the city and by night, noticed the streets dramatically quieten down. At hearing anything sounding remotely like a gunshot, we pondered if it might be the beginning of some kind of commotion. The paranoid vibes of the place rubbed off on us, David answering a knock on our door with a knife in his back pocket and me hallucinating about men bursting in with AK47s.
Early evening however, had an Indian lull about it with cars tooting horns, people walking everywhere and small dhabas serving local fare to local people, their chatter spilling out onto the darkening street outside. We even saw a bull trying to mate with a cow in the middle of a busy junction next to a roundabout, causing a traffic jam! Only in India! And again, may I reiterate, that despite its geopolitical label as the state of Jammu and Kashmir, Jammu is not Kashmir.
Finding ourselves in the Hindu quarter, we came across a shopkeeper who models himself on the famous Bollywood actor, Amitabh Bachan. Proud of his obsession with his idol, he showed off some newspaper clippings featuring his fame to claim as the celebrated spoof star. He looked like an Indian Elvis, yet kept an air of nonchalance and pride as he served us two packets of Win cigarettes.
By 5.30 am the next morning, we found ourselves at the bus station raring to get the hell out the dodgiest town we'd experienced in India. The bus wasn't going anywhere until it was absolutely full and we were the first ones there. Five hours later we hit the road.
Kashmir Calling
I felt a magnetic pull towards the Kashmir I had imagined. It must have been a powerful magnet because the road from Jammu to Srinagar stretched for some 280km, taking us a good 15 hours to get there.
The landscape became green, wild and beautiful. We could detect the strong, sweet, pungent aroma of marijuana that incensed the air as we drove through the Kashmiri countryside. The surroundings changed as we took on an ascent and began to witness the panorama of the space as it stretched out wider before us and as valleys became increasingly visible, getting deeper as we got higher. Army barracks pierced the road every kilometre and we noticed marijuana plants growing freely - if not in the very premises of the military quarters, then outside of them, fluttering next to the barbed wire. It was an insane contrast.
The dramatic nature of the Kashmiri Himalaya came into view. Craggy rock faces, small white villages stuck into the bosoms of voluptuous mounds, bridges that connected the expanse between valleys, bright, psychedelic greens, the sheer drop as I looked outside the window and the huge incline ahead as the bus snaked into the infinite road ahead.
We stopped at a police check post and as the only two foreigners on the bus, were commanded to fill in a form with all our details. Is this what the Indian military has been putting Kashmiris through over the last 20 years? No, it hasn't. It's been putting them through much worse than we could ever imagine.
A small crowd formed as I smoked a cigarette with David outside a food place en route, some of them friendly enough to make polite conversation. In the all-male crowd, a short, podgy young man suddenly singled me out, declaring that as a woman, I should not be smoking. Maintaining a calm exterior, I threw the energy of my disdain upon him. “Are you disrespecting me in front of my husband? In fact I'd say you were also disrespecting my husband because he doesn't even tell me what to do. So who do you think you are to tell me? Why don't YOU stop smoking?” I hear a few laughs and claps around me. He suggested that we are friends and I tell him I'd rather be his older sister. Sister is preferred to friend and any man who thinks he can become a woman's friend is suggesting that she is easy because a woman does not accept just any man's friendship so easily – especially one like this. “I don't know you,” I responded, “so there's no way you can be my friend.” I heard a few voices agree with me as I walked away.
Srinagar
We arrived late at night and dived into the most decent hotel we could find. My Kashmiri friend, Shazia, is chauffeured around in her snazzy four-wheel drive. She smokes, swears, makes controversial documentaries, parties with a degree of modesty and during our entire time in Kashmir, not once did we see her in a headscarf. Walking around on the streets however, is another story. The women I noticed in the Dal Gate area where we stayed, were either covered head to toe in burkhas, or sported headscarves in a multitude of colours. They'd smile shyly, others would curiously stare until I smiled and graciously, they'd do the same. I opted for a headscarf too, but still felt the eyes of men staring right through my clothes. David reckons its because they are such a sexually repressed society. The scarf was a light cloth and even with that, I felt it as a weight on my head as I walked down the street trying not to let it fall off in any which direction. David insisted I float down the street without feeling conscious; wear it with style and glam up. So I did and I felt better.
Not many tourists
Touts are everywhere. Business has been dire so they'll do everything in their power to coerce you into buying a hat, scarf, shawl, shakira ride, houseboat, trekking expedition... A nail clipper perhaps? The nineties were an inevitably bad time and many Kashmiri people opened business in major cities across the subcontinent.
Despite being famed for the immensity of its beauty, Kashmir is off the beaten track. Not many a tourist in town! We bumped into about 10 over the six days we spent in Srinagar. One guy had arrived on an Enfield from Ladakh. He was the only person we spoke to, apart from Shazia of course, who happened to be visiting her parents in the city at the time.
Propaganda that supports the agenda of the Indian government has sparked wide disinterest in Kashmir as a place for travel. So you could say people were happy to see us, and even happier when they understood that we had arrived independently on a bus from Jammu as opposed to an organised tour – something that was common amongst most other people that we'd met during the month that we spent here in Kashmir.
In recent weeks, insurgents targeted two policemen with sniper guns. There was also a protest and police fired tear gas. A few people have been missing and Independence Day saw the big city shut down in defiance of its association with India. More recently, 50kg of explosives were blown up near the city jail, killing three people and injuring 10 others. Insurgent activity happens every now and again. It'll probably quieten down for a month or so. It's ideal to keep an eye on the news and stay out of site on public holidays. According to Asif, a gentle 21-year-old Kashmiri guy from Srinagar, during the nineties, the military had a shoot-on-site policy if anyone was seen on a public holiday, in particular, Independence Day. He predicts insurgency to flare up just after Eid. It happens every so often, usually as a result of military action. Last year five million Kashmiri people protested against human rights violations in the city of Srinagar. It was a peaceful protest that ended in a bloodbath when military fired on the crowds, killing some 500 innocent people. We were in Kashmir on the anniversary of the fatal protest and realised why every business was shuttered down in memory of the victims. Kashmiri people are fed up and frustrated. “I don't care if we are autonomous, or if we end up as part of Pakistan or if we continue to be a part of India,” Asif told us, “I just want peace in Kashmir.”
Military presence gives the place a sense of danger and uniformed men are often seen twitching nervously at their M16s. The local Muslim girls school is cordoned off from public view with towering walls and a set of imposing doors lined with wrought iron gates that barricade them in from the outside world. Meanwhile, the bridge outside the college building is protected by bulletproof glass and there is a cluster of armed men alertly watching every new face in town. Walking through the streets of Srinagar's old town, we head off into the city area and discover shops, wide streets and busy highways. There are major tourist hotels and some are cordoned off, again with barbed wire. A nice welcome for the unsuspecting American tourist.
A city that has seen everything
As Bashrat Peer says, “Srinagar is a medieval city living a modern war”. It is also a city of contrasts and we were eager to get away from this paranoid vibe and discover its true landmarks so we took off for the main mosque. It was a simple, cold building. We went round it twice and trekked off into the midst of the town, discovering the pathway to the fort that was built here during the Mugul times. Climbing higher, we discovered a mosque. Walking briskly through, we found our way to the highest point and swallowed in a panoramic, almost aerial view of the city of Srinagar.
I watched the city from above and tried to imagine the dramatic changes that have swept through its perimeters over centuries. From the existence of civilizations (the Nagas, Vedics, Burzahoms and even the Greeks), to several distinctive religions (including Buddhist, Hindu, Shaivist, Aramaic and Islam) – Srinagar is a special city, possessing a rich tapestry of cultures as it discloses today intricate architecture and wood carvings, papier mache, crewel embroidery, Pashmina shawls, ornate furniture and magnificent paintings, sculptures and not to mention, profound Sufi poetry. As we absorbed the nature of its spirit, the hypnotic call to prayer resonated across the city that sprawled out before us.
Another Country
Stepping into Kashmir is like stepping into another country and its situation was self-explanatory. We could read the frustration in the eyes of the young; see the sadness in those of the old and the desperation in the demeanour of every tout that tried to sell us everything under the sun. We witnessed it in the barbed wire, the bunkers, the police check-posts, the military vehicles, the armed men. Yet so profound is Kashmiri culture, that not even a brutal military machine could disguise its distinction from Indian culture. Kashmiri people are a world unto themselves. The language, the music, the religion, the art, the culture and the mentality and gestures of Kashmiri people themselves are a world apart from the rest of India. In fact every state in India is distinct. People, costumes, festivals, celebrations are different between one state and the next. However, Kashmir is something else and we began to understand its plight simply by seeing all that we could see around us.
Kashmir – a crime to bypass
I had a number of people that we were going to Kashmir. Their immediate response was, “be careful” or “why would you want to go there?” I answered the question with a question: How can I possibly come to India and miss out on the opportunity of experiencing paradise on earth?
It was well worth the trip and I would recommend anyone that is anyone, to put aside their prejudices, open their minds and discover Kashmir and its people for themselves. The Indian government has already done enough damage by injecting the fear factor and stopping people from travelling here.
I went for a coffee in a Leh restaurant recently and met two guys from Jammu who were working there. They found me fascinating for the fact that I am Indian and yet looked, dressed and spoke in a manner that they are not accustomed to. We ended up having a debate about the Indian government and its role in brainwashing the masses against Kashmiri people and Muslims in general. “They are all insurgents”, one was telling me, “and the government has equipped us with what we need to defend ourselves in case they raid our homes.” He was adamant: “Not only are they pro-Pakistan, but they are all going there for training.” I argued that the government has created that very insurgency by firing it up with the human rights violations that it's committed. “You'd probably end up as an insurgent yourself if your rights were taken away, if your city was pillaged, if your friends and family were caught in the crossfire. Do you even know what you're fighting about any more? Do you even remember how and why this was all even started? Read the fucking papers and see how you're being controlled!” It was a pointless discussion as it is not my place to change minds. People need to learn to think freely for themselves. They know what they know from their own experiences, so it was interesting to see the extent to which the minds of different groups of people have been effected.
Dal Lake
I happened to be in a shop trying to pick an embroidered Kashmiri top and headscarf (might as well get in with the local fashion!), while a bored David hung about smoking a cigarette outside. He'd managed to draw the attention of an old Kashmiri man, who'd coyly approached him for a cigarette. It turned out that the little old man was a shakira wallah. I popped my head out the shop at intervals to ask David's advice on colours and designs I'd chosen, while the little old man busied himself with discreetly getting business from David. Flustered that I was not getting any attention, I left the shop to join them, by which point David had been convinced to join the little old man on a shakira ride. Ghulam Mohammad is an 82-year-old shakira-boat owner and has been doing his job for 60 years. He took real pride in his role as a man who can make us very happy aboard his shakira. So charming and gentle was his manner, we just couldn't resist, and accompanied him to the shores of the magnificent Dal Lake.
Despite it's reputation as Kashmir's biggest tourist attraction, there is no denying the infinite beauty of its most famous lake. The Dal Lake spreads across some 50 square kilometres and is lined with hundreds of palatial houseboats, intricately carved wooden shakiras and floating shops that sell everything from precious stone jewellery and crewel embroidery shawls to hand-carved wood ornaments and the perpetual Kashmiri silk carpet.
Ghulam's translucent watery eyes filled with tears as he reminisced of the golden years in Kashmir, adding “I bought my shakira for 200 rs in 1945”, he told us “and then I sold it in 1949 for 600 rs. Very good price!” Working each day with his grandson, Tariq, a young, sweet-natured, gentle giant, Ghulam tries to bring in the clients for shakira rides across the Dal Lake. It's hard work rowing across that huge expanse of a lake and we felt guilty that a sweet old man like Ghulam was taking us around it. David and I took the oars and rowed until my arms nearly fell off. Apparently, we had rowed out further than any of the other shakira owners would dare. “No one comes out this far, they're all lazy young men,” he told us, “all they're good at doing is taking tourists literally for ride that's short in time and high in price.” The silence on the lake was golden, David and I mesmerised by the beauty around us, the vastness of the lake itself and the sound of nothing but nature. We transcended into a communal quiet, hypnotised into silence.
“You will be very happy. Here is a flower for beautiful Anu,” Ghulam gently broke the silence, passing a string of floating lilies that he'd collected from the lake and tied together for me. “Are you happy? I want you to be happy.” Arriving on the shore at the far flung side of the lake, Ghulam told us that he'd be very happy if we accompanied him to a special shop because it would help his grandson get a job there, even if we didn't buy anything. Walking down the wide, tree-lined, sunny street, it was evident that this was one of Srinagar's rather well to do areas. We arrived at large imposing gates, and walking through them, Ghulam received a salaam from the security guard. He was obviously a very well respected man in Srinagar. Walking down the 15-metre entrance lined with flowers, we reached the doors of a beautiful store, selling la crème de la crème of Kashmiri shawls, carpets, scarves and tops. These guys import to places like Nichols in London. They make Hermes look cheap. The shop manager spoke to David, ignoring me almost completely. His attitude failed to faze me as I busied myself picking out a number of shawls and trying them on. I found a beautiful sky-blue Kashmir wool jumper and immediately thought of my dad. It was 4,500 rs and worth about 300 quid in the UK. I didn't buy it, but knew I'd be back for it and that I'd bargain the arrogant shop manager down to a price that I wanted to pay.
The sun was setting as we returned to our shakira. It was a magnificent sunset, a golden yellow mixed with a vibrant orange glow and splashes of purple. Like a supernova, the juices of its colours splashed across the horizon, puffs of white cloud perforating the sky like a million tiny puncture marks. It lasted but 20 minutes and we gazed at the horizon until the buildings in the distant became silhouettes and the mosque on the other side of the city, illuminated in all its glory.
Tariq had just finished praying and had found time at stops between rowing to tend to his daily five-times per-day ritual. We took off for the shores on the other side of the lake, taking the oars from Ghulam and helping Tariq to row. Ghulam took a back seat and as we set off into the middle of the lake, he began chanting his prayers. We floated back into an amicable silence, feeling tranquil and at peace listening to the sound of his voice as darkness fell around us and as the city came to life for the short evening ahead.
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