11pm Friday night saw me leaving for Bangalore, 2am, I arrived and got an expensive and long and cold rickshaw ride to the airport. 3am-6am, waiting... Finally boarded the plane, my eyelids closed and when I opened them, I was in Delhi. I was exhausted and anxious to get to my room. ( I had booked ahead to save myself the trouble of finding a place on arrival and to ensure that a nice safe place to stay was waiting for me.) Up to this point, I'd been constantly surprised by how wrong my preconceptions of India had been. I recalled that before I left, an Indian women visiting my neighbor had told me that Northern India (including cities such as Delhi and Calcutta) was the 'real India' (it sounded like a warning the way she put it). Immediately I understood what she meant. Absolutely filthy, obnoxiously noisy, extremely crowded--these were my impressions of Delhi from the get go and they matched my previous notions dead on. It's not like I haven't come across filth, noise and crowds (have I ever), but Delhi trumped just about anywhere I'd been in all three categories. My driver spoke no english, zippo, zero, and we spent 2 frustrating hours forcing our way through streets much too narrow to accommodate our vehicle stopping every 30 meters to ask directions and everyone gave different ones. I winced as our small van came within inches of hitting rickshaws, dogs, carts, fences, people; I was in a constant wince. Eventually, we arrived and I'd planned to take a nap but figured I should secure my next day train ticket to Agra first.
Long story short, I ran into a plethora of road blocks and irritations and was really not in the best of spirits when I arrived hours later at a travel agency (not the first I'd been to) to ask about jumping on a tour of Old Delhi. (I did not have the will nor the wakeful brain cells needed to navigate it myself at this point.) Suddenly, my luck changed. A young, well spoken travel agent named Janna saw that I was about to break and helped me figure out how to configure the next couple of weeks travel to get to the places I had in mind beginning by booking a package deal that included a plane ticket to Srinagar and 2 nights room and board in a houseboat plus he threw in a driver to take me around Delhi that afternoon! Splendid! And he invited me for dinner that evening--the cherry on top. I rode off in my air condition sedan to see Humayun's Tomb and Akshardham Temple--two sprawling and magnificent complexes (very old and very new respectively) that took me far from the unpleasantness of Delhi's chaos and dirt. Dinner at Janna's house was delicious, after which I enjoyed my nice room until too late--gotta get my money's worth--and then fell into a deep dreamless slumber.
The next morning began abruptly. My deep slumber lead to oversleeping and I was biting my nails all the way to the airport so that I barely registered Janna on the driver's phone telling me there was a strike in Srinagar but not to worry--it was perfectly safe. I made my flight with no trouble and began reading my lonely planet's Srinagar section. 'DO NOT under ANY circumstances' it said ' book a package deal from Delhi that includes a stay in a houseboat.' It went on to list a bunch of really convincing reasons why not to do this. Although I could not imagine that Janna, who was so exceptionally kind, would deceive me, a rather large knot formed in my stomach. As the plane descended over the snow capped peaks of the Himalayas, I was temporarily distracted from my fears by their beauty but when the plane touched down the knot was right back in its place.
To appreciate this next portion of the story, a little background information is necessary. Srinagar is in Kashmir which is the northern most state in India at the very tippity top. In 2000, Bill Clinton named Kashmir the most dangerous place on earth. Here's why: when India gained independence from British colonization, it was disputed whether ownership of Kashmir should go to India or to Pakistan and much bloodshed took place at the border as a result. Truth be told the people of Kashmir would generally prefer neither; they would like to be free to be Kashmiri if you will, without India or Pakistan's interference. As it were, things did not turn out that way and much to Kashmir's dismay and frustration India sent in a heavy military occupation to keep things under control--also a violent business, at least at first. In the recent couple of years past, both India and Pakistan have relaxed their efforts making for a much calmer situation, however, the place is still overrun with Indian military patrol. I don't know if this analogy works, but I'm putting it in anyway, because it makes sense to me. Say Kashmir is Texas. Bare with me here. Both Mexico and the US want Texas, but the US clearly has it (Mexico is Pakistan and the US is India in this wierd parallel). Texas however would prefer to be a lone ranger. Even as a part of the US, Texas flies its own flag, and its people appear to have more state loyalty than they have allegiance to the nation as a whole. Think how Texas would react if the US sent in a bunch of soldiers to make sure there was no funny business and to keep Texas pride and flag flying, as it were, to a minimum. Agree that the Texans wouldn't just take it lying down? ok.
Back to topic--every so often, the Kashmiri people attempt to protest India's hold with some sort of strike or demonstration. When I was on my way there, one such protest was in the works and in order to prevent it from being carried to fruition, a curfew had been placed on Srinagar and no one was allowed to move about or even leave their homes. As you can imagine, this caused some difficulty on the way from the airport to the houseboat (which I was dreading anyway due to the warning I'd just belatedly received in print). Keep in mind that I did not know what a curfew looked like, let alone that that's what all the fuss was about, when I tell you my jeep was stopped in excess of 15 times (I lost rack) by armed military personnel on the way. Some stops were longer than others and I had to show my passport and flight ticket stub (thank goodness I still had it) a number of times.
We reached the houseboat eventually and it turned out to be fine and I was served decent food and there was no sketchy anything to worry about after all. Phew. That afternoon, I took a really relaxing and scenic shikara (certain loungy partially covered boat) ride around Nagin and Dal lakes and got a chance to admire the reflection of the mountains in the glassy water. For the next two days, I had arranged a trek outside the city. Mustafa, the houseboat owner (who looked exactly like someone who's name would be Mustafa by the way) guessed the curfew would be lifted (they usually only last between a few hours and a day) or that if it weren't we'd be able to pass anyway once we explained out purpose and because we would be leaving the city, not entering it.
At 9am sharp I was packed and ready to go when I was informed that the curfew was being much more heavily enforced than usual and we couldn't leave. Mustafa had gotten a permit from the magistrate but they wouldn't accept it or even let him come and tell me himself--he had to call and send a neighbor. I groaned at this news and my heart sunk; I'd been dreaming about trekking in the Himalayas for so long and now, because I was on such a tight schedule, I couldn't extend my stay in Srinagar which meant I might only get one day in. Confined to the houseboat, I tried to enjoy the day, but even the warm sun and pretty surroundings couldn't cheer my spirits. Mustafa said there was a chance we may be able to leave that afternoon, but hours passed with no word.
At 5pm, I'd just resigned myself to another night in the houseboat and was practicing yoga on the roof as a means to keep from falling into the pit of despair when Mustafa showed up and said to be ready in 5 minutes. I was and we hopped into the car with the military escort he'd procured through various friends and bribes. I wrongly assumed that having a man in uniform along with us would make the check points a breeze. The first time we were stopped, it was for almost 20 anxious minutes. The escort we had, you see, was a Kashmiri soldier and the military on patrol was Indian, so the rivalry I mentioned earlier was in play here. I breathed a sigh of relief when we were allowed to pass. We dropped off out escort but were stopped 4 times more before exiting the city bounds. Each time I thought we'd have to turn back especially when the road was blocked by two rows to barbed wire, but they moved it aside for us with some persuasion, and in a couple of hours we arrived at the house where we'd be spending the night. It belonged to a gypsy family, a title which means they're hill people who move up and down the mountains with the change of seasons. One of the women lead me down a treacherous hillside in the pitch black and we stepped into the sparse yet cozy room where we drank tea and ate dinner and drank more tea before bedtime. Though we couldn't communicate because of the language barrier, it was pleasant to observe family life as usual going on around me and I went to bed content and excited.
During my sleep, I had a nightmare that it was raining and we couldn't go. I started awake and relaxed ...until I looked outside. Torrential downpour. I knew I had been getting too lucky with the weather, but did my first real shower have to come on the worst day possible?! We had breakfast and I alternately played with the adorable kids and wallowed in my disappointment until about 10:30am when the rain had let up enough that I could go.
Because of the downpour, the paths were too slippery and dangerous for us to go up any steep inclines so we were forced to stay in the valley, another let down, but I was happy to be going at all. The hiking was nice, if a bit wet (actually quite a bit wet and if I hadn't been so happy just to go at all, I might have been complaining) and there were still pretty spots for photos and so on. On our way back, me and my guide stopped for hot coffee at the tent of Mustafa's friend Rafiq. Rafiq sat like a king wrapped in blankets at the end of the tent opposite the entrance puffing away on his cigarette and sipping from his mug. He was fantastically cheerful and easy to talk to, he insisted that I have a second steaming hot mug of coffee and an extra cookie--he said he could tell I'd been a bit down when I entered and as the liquid ran through my veins infusing them with its warmth, I realized he was right and admitted so, but I was really feeling much better already. When we left the tent, the rain had stopped and the clouds had given way to magnificent glimpses of snow dusted peaks. The first snowfall of the season had happened while we were sleeping.
The air was brisk, the colors were fresh after the rainfall and the rest of the walk along the river flew by and I wanted more so I got Mustafa to agree to let me walk part way along the route back. By the time I'd scarfed down a late lunch and got on my way, the mist had cleared a bit more leaving behind one of nature's masterpieces on display. From the river at the bottom of the valley, green and brown mountains rose sharply on either side forming a V which elegantly framed a monstrous snowy summit displaying it in all its glory decorated by a few small lingering clouds. I craned my neck to continue to view this surreal picture and snap just one more photograph in attempts to package it up for later enjoyment (no use I'm afraid except to jog my memory of the real thing). Lost in admiration I somehow went astray (though I didn't notice any turn offs) and luckily the father of the gypsy household where we'd stayed spotted me and pointed me in the right direction--up a steep muddy hillside to a narrow steeper path covered in loose rocks which after some amount of time lead to the correct road. Oops. It pulled at my heartstrings to leave such an amazing spot so quickly, but after all, I had places to go.
It was on that walk that I came to an important conclusion about the nature of myself. Let me explain; there are two kinds of people in the world--you are either a mountain person or a beach person. This does not mean that you cannot thoroughly enjoy both locations--for many years, I thought I could be an inbetweener, but these of course only exist in myth and fable. One landscape will always edge out the other even if by the smallest degree. Over the course of my travels I have had a unique opportunity to access this quality in myself as I have moved rapidly from beaches to mountain ranges and vise versa in Vietnam, Thailand and now India. Allowing for a small margin of error due to the potentially unfair powers of persuasion the Himalayas have merely by being themselves, I think I can finally conclude that I am a mountain person at the core. Beaches may warm my heart and hands, but mountains whisper to my soul.
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