India (Part 3a) - Kashmir and Ladakh

May 2000

On Day 174, we caught a 6-hour bus ride south from Kathmandu with Jude to the Nepalese border town of Birjung and walked across the border past the "Welcome To India" sign into the town of Sonauli. It was 33'C and the sweat dripped off me as I filled in the immigration papers. Today, the Indian Govt had officially announced that the Indian population had reached 1 billion people. We were returning for our third and final visit to the human anthill living on a rubbish dump and being dry roasted by the sun.

A three-hour bus ride took us to the first major centre of Gorakpur. There was a family from Bombay on board and I don't know what they'd down to annoy the Indian army, but the bus was stopped half a dozen times while the army searched their bags on the roof. The bus driver was manic, and we nearly crushed two jeeps en route. We passed colourful rural scenery in the late afternoon. Rural India has a special ambience. I could smell the maize from the bus window. The large bright orange sun set right over the fields. Men pulling ploughs, women bending over to weed crops, a barber cutting someone's hair - just sat in a chair by the side of the road. Fires were ablaze in other fields as crop debris was being burned.

Gorakapur was a noisy but friendly town. I had a shower at the hotel but it covered the walls, ceiling and door, anywhere but my body (Indian design award). At 5am the next morning, a loud bell echoed outside our room incessantly, which drove us out. An unwelcome return to noisy India. Trucks barrelled down the main street, tooting their horns. The town is infamous for its flies and we saw millions of them buzzing everywhere, especially over the food. In the outside hotel restaurant, I also saw the largest brown rat I've ever seen, scuttling around. At one stall, for breakfast, I tried the local cheap food - small round chapati rolls around smoking cow dung. They were served with cold mashed potato (with chilli), raw onions and dill pickle. Hot food in 35'C temps.

Gorakpur's hectic railway station with hundreds of people lying on the floor offered us a way out with a 24-hour train ride to Amritsar in the northwest. In the reservations office, two huge cows had decided to lie down. They were enormous. So big, I could not have jumped over them. Not something you see everyday in your average British train station. The train ride was very comfortable with air conditioned sleeper cars. I chatted to the military guards at the end of the carriage as they held their decrepit English Enfield rifles. The air outside was like being hit by a hair dryer on full blast. Inside the air-conditioned carriage, it was like a morgue, all the more so because all you could see from the aisle were pairs of bare feet sticking out over the sides of the seats. We rolled through the 4th largest and most heavily populated Indian State of Uttar Pradesh. Around 4am we passed through Delhi, but I was fast asleep.

Amritsar had been our first arrival point in India back in early January. Five months later, we were back here again having travelled full circle around the whole outline of India. We revisited the 'Golden Temple'(see India Part 1) which was as spectacular as we remembered it and I'd rate it as one of the top five sights in India. Jude, on his first visit to India, was overwhelmed by its beauty and ambience as were we. A return to India meant watery bowels. I made it back to the hotel toilet before dropping my trousers and letting go. One second later and it would have been in my trousers.

Our major problem was that we were carrying all our souvenirs from Nepal and needed to post them before moving on. It was a nightmare. Here is a simple guide to dealing with the Amritsar post office.
1. Get packages wrapped at local tailor. When I am away finding post office, a dead man is wheeled past Jo at the tailors under a metal box (probably coming back from trying to get something done at the post office).
2. Arrive at 8.55am to discover that my watch is still 30 minutes fast from Nepalese time. Put watch back.
3. Wait 40 minutes while cleaners clean counters etc and then cashier comes, cleans computer/printer, and gets ready.
4. Ask to send the packages seamail. His computer only has "registered seamail" facility. We don't want that.
5. He also says that all packages have to be sealed with wax (they don't but...)
6. Go outside and get packages sealed with wax.
7. Back to counter. He tells us that it is an astronomical 750rp for the first kilo and 95rp for extra kilos. From our previous experience, we know that there is a 'small package rate" - 110rp for 1 kilo. 155 for up to two kilos. He has never heard of this. Consults his manager. We stand around for ages and then...
8. Ask to see Manager who spends 30 minutes flicking through paperwork and finds "small package rate".
9. Get 13 packages weighed. All under 2 kilos.
10. Get directed to stamp counter. 3 women sit there. They know nothing about the "small package rate". Manager called over to explain. They give us over 1000r worth of stamps in 10rp and 5rp denominations.
11. Go to the almost empty glue pot to try and cover parcels with stamps.
12. Take parcels to get franked. Franking woman knows nothing about the "small package rate". Manager called over to explain. Finally parcels sent.
13. Find beer shop, buy beers and spend rest of day calming down.

This only took 4 and a half hours! In between, I rushed to the bus station 2 kilometres away to catch Jude who was expecting us to catch the midday bus north. I explained that we were locked into the system and would not move until it was completed. We arranged to meet in Dharamsala but we never saw him again.

Amritsar is a friendly place (both the moneychanger and tailor gave us tea plus a free face flannel because I was sweating so much), but crossing the roads is something else. The traffic all proceeds at different speeds. Bicycle rickshaws, cyclists, scooters, cows and horses pulling carts, pedestrians and the fastest of all - the cars and jeep drivers. Everytime we crossed a roundabout, bridge or road, we had to estimate speeds of oncoming traffic and inevitably ended up stranded in the middle of the road looking for a gap where we could get across. It was also strange to see two turbaned Indian soldiers on a Vespa scooter with their rifles over their shoulders weaving in and out of the chaos.

Dharamsala is the home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan Government in exile (set up in 1960). Spread across wooded ridges, the town is divided into two distinct sections separated by 1000m in height. Originally, a British hill station, the town has been transformed by the influx of Tibetan refugees fleeing Chinese oppression. There were lots of Buddhist monks wandering around in their scarlet robes. Passing a dozen beggars, I visited the residence of the Dalai Lama. There were signs saying "Understanding of culture enables to understand you" and "Tradition is our cultural legacy to our posterity". The Dalai Lama was off on his European tour (he's not stupid). In the nearby ugly concrete structure adjoining the residence, I visited the 'Tsuglagkhang' temples. One was packed full of devotees attending a service. All their shoes were piled up outside. The other temple gradually filled with 50 Buddhist monks getting ready for their own service. Surrounding the temples were lines of prayer wheels. A sign said " This is a Mani prayer wheel. It is filled with thousands of Avalokiteshvara mantras "Om Mani Padme Hum". By turning this wheel one earns merit equal to the recitation of the mantras filled inside this wheel. Kindly turn it clockwise. May all beings find piece and happiness".

We had a mostly, excellent ten hour bus ride with a careful driver to Manali via the Kangra and Kallu Valleys. Tree clad slopes gave way to rolling green fields and tea growing areas. Roaring rivers, pretty mountain villages, orchards and terraced fields. Known as Kulanthapitha or "End of the Habitable World", the adjoining Kallu Valley extends 80km north from the mouth of the perilously steep and narrow Largi Gorge to the foot of the Rohtang Pass - gateway to the arid mountain wastes of the region of Ladakh. There was a new dam at the Largi Gorge which held back a large reservoir of endless narrow kilometres created by a fast flowing river. A new hydroelectric complex was still being built. There were near vertical cliffs on either side.

We reached Kullo at dusk "a dishevelled, lacklustre collection of shops and concrete houses, it is noisy, polluted and grim" (Rough Guide). While the driver had a rest, we heard a loud band and chanting going on in a nearby building. Inside 'paharis' (hill people) were dancing around in a circle singing and chanting. The men wore traditional Kallu caps and waved daggers in the air. The women wore colourful headscarves and shawls. An interesting tea break! All around the town were Angora rabbit breeding centres to produce the traditional colourful clothing.

The last leg was in the dark along a single-track road perilously close to the rushing river down on our right and no barriers between the road and the vertical drop to the river. Parts of the road had crashed into the river and we had to weave around temporary tracks. In a small hamlet, a traffic jam occurred, illustrating your typical Indian driver mentality. Never back down regardless of the delay or chaos. Trucks, buses and jeeps attempted to force themselves down the narrow road ignoring oncoming traffic. It took our bus over 30 minutes to cover 400ft. Morons - all of them. After escaping that episode, our driver put his foot down on an open single lane road, albeit in complete darkness, and scared the living hell out of the passengers.

Manali was a hectic tourist town, full of Indian families on their holidays in the cooler mountain areas. At the quiet post office, there was a board offering a list of 40 standard phrases for greeting telegrams. These included "Best whishes for a long and happy married life", "Sincere greeting for the republic day. Long live the republic", “Many thanks for your good whishes" and "May heavens's choisest blessing be showered on the young couple". Nothing much for us to do here, but enquire on how to push further north to Leh in the Ladakh. It was early in the season and no tourist buses were operating, but we were told to catch a local bus to Keylong 110km further north where the first public buses of the year were about to cross the passes at 4am the next morning. Usually the pass is closed until June. We were very fortunate to cross it much earlier than usual.

There was an almighty rush for the seats on the last bus to Keylong at 3.30pm. Jo grabbed two seats, while the conductor kindly took me to the "computerised ticket booking" office, to attempt to book us into the seats we had grabbed. Inevitably, the computer system was down. It was bedlam. They scribbled seat numbers on the tickets and after stowing our packs on the roof, I climbed aboard a really uncomfortably packed bus. During the rough trip, a standing French tourist ended up in a punchup with a seated Indian. Nerves were frayed.

Since it opened to foreign tourists in 1989, the famous Manali-Leh highway has become the most popular approach to Ladakh. It is the second highest road in the world, which reaches a dizzying altitude of 5328m (higher than Everest Base Camp). It’s surfaces vary wildly from bumpy asphalt to dirt tracks sliced by glacial streams, running through a starkly beautiful lunar wilderness peopled only by nomadic shepherds and soldiers that man isolated military checkpoints. The journey is 485km.

For our first stretch to Keylong, we climbed the long ascent of the Rohtang Pass (3978m). A roadsign said "When the going gets tough, the tough get going". The views over the eternal snows of the Solang Nala improved as we progressed slowly up the switchbacks, which emerged from the conifer forests to enter grassy mountain pastures strewn with glacial debris and grazed by herds of wild horses. Rohtang itself, (meaning 'piles of dead bodies') a U shaped valley, though not that high by Himalayan standards, is one of the most treacherous passes in the region. when we finally reached the top, there was a breathtaking vista of the dusty dark-brown mountains of the region of Ladakh to the north. The descent from Rohtang to the floor of the Chandra Valley afforded tantalising glimpses of the shining 'White Sail' massif (6446m). At an army checkpoint, we produced our passports, the details of which were duly noted down in an exercise book. Whenever I was allowed to fill in such details I always wrote my name as Hugh G. Rection.

We arrived in Keylong, a bleak town in pitch darkness around 10pm. There were no hotels. In fact, there was nothing visible at all. Asking a local for lodgings he directed us to a tiny cafe, above which was a bedroom with two double beds. 35p each. No water and if you want the toilet "use the hill outside". After a late supper, we returned to find the other double bed filled with 5 Indian men. They were very disappointed that Jo didn't bother to undress.

We crawled out to two buses at 3.45am to find them absolutely packed. You were supposed to reserve tickets (difficult when the town is closed on your arrival), so while Jo squeezed aboard one and stole a seat, I climbed up onto the roof and attempted to secure our packs in pitch darkness onto the 4 foot pile of luggage already stowed. Our Gerry Adams lookalike conductor was not pleased but Jo refused to move. I wasn’t as fortunate. I was reduced to sitting on 4 suitcases in the packed aisle of suitcases for the whole journey. Only 14 hours. I still have the damned suitcase handle imprints on my behind even now. It turned out to be both the most uncomfortable yet most spectacular bus ride I had ever taken.

Setting off at 4am, someone had a cassette player with one tape. He played the same three Indian songs with different versions for the next eight hours until the batteries faded and then he kept it going until it died. Silence at last. Until someone produced more batteries and we had the same tape for another 6 hours. I could have killed him. The last time I had such an attack on my eardrums was hitching with a Queensland trucker in Australia who insisted on playing "Dolly Parton's Greatest Hits" for 12 hours. By the time I got off, I wanted to slap her. For some reason, there are only three Indian songs that are currently all the rage and we have heard them endlessly for the last few months. You' d think that in a country of 1 billion people, that they could come up with something better than dreary melodic songs where a female and male take turns to repeat the same verse over and over.

As with the music, I have not been impressed with the "Bollywood" movie industry. I have done my best to escape what are essentially dance routines held together by irrelevant and non-sensical plots. Flicking through the hotel TV channels has put me off from visiting any local cinema for the "cultural experience". Bollywood actors/actresses bare no resemblance to your average Indian in the street. The men are either all swarthy men with large black beards or teenage idols dressed in Levi’s and sunglasses and driving fast cars. The women are all thin virginal nubile western looking girls who prance along to synchronised dance routines and avoid any bodily contact with male members attempting to get in their pants. You have been warned.

Beyond Keylong, as dawn approached, the Bhaga Valley broadened, but its bare slopes supported few villages. By the time we reached Darcha, a lonely cluster of dry stone huts and tents on the edge of a vast pebbly river confluence, the landscape was utterly denuded. We registered with another military checkpoint. The single-track road was absolutely deserted. In 12 hours, I would only count 2 buses and 5 military trucks passing us coming the other way. We passed nothing going our way. We stopped every 90 minutes so everyone could piss in the desert (except Jo, who as the only women, had to walk hundreds of yards to find sparse cover).

From Darcha, the road climbed steadily across mountainsides of wine-red and pale-green scree. It was a mix of Iranian-type deserts and Kyber Pass mountains - but on a massive scale. Dusty windswept mountains on either side with snow trapped in the shady parts. The road followed the relatively flat valley, occasionally rumbling across unsurfaced roads, and over waterfalls that crashed down onto the road. Occasionally corrugated-iron Indian army huts would appear with thousands of empty 60 gallon drums strewn everywhere. The whole journey was one of isolation, desolation and being on another planet. This wasn't India. It was the Moon. The road builders (Himal company) were obviously very proud of their achievements - they had left stone signs like "The mountain tamers", "The highest road builders in the world" and "Where eagles dare".

We crossed over the Langlacha La Pass - at 5059m, it was the second highest on this journey. The army camp at Pang stood at the far southern end of the extraordinary Moray Plains - a 45km plateau encircled by rolling hills and nosing above them, brilliant white Himalayan peaks. Finally, we ascended the fourth and final pass. At a head spinning 5328m, Tanglang La is the highest point on the Manali-Leh highway. A sign at the top with the details said "Unbelievable! It is not!"

From here onwards we entered the region of Ladakh, known as "Little Tibet" which lies next door on the same plateau. The Himalayas are a very effective barrier to rain and few clouds get across their awesome height. As a result, Ladakh is barren beyond belief, as dry as the Sahara and is also called "the moonland". The region has ancient palaces clinging to sheer rock walls, strange whitewashed Buddhist gompas perched on soaring hilltops and shattered looking landscapes splashed with small but brilliant patches of green where irrigation has been developed.

We finally reached Leh after 14 hours. Centuries ago, it was an important stop on the old caravan 'Silk Route' to China. I had expected to see an attractive fortress town, but was disappointed to find a scruffy town with army camps and a rundown palace on a hill. Masquerading as a 'tourist resort', it is cut off for most of the year and only the determined ever bother to visit (or those with cast iron backsides).There was no hot water in town and power cuts all evenings. But the scenery of the surrounding blue/gold Zanskar mountains was stunning.

Outside the hospital was a large wall painting with a "Leprosy Diagnosis". You should be looking for 1. Shiny oily skin, 2. Thickening of skin, 3. Tingling creeping sensation, 4. Thickening of earlobe, 5. Thickening of truck nerves, 6. Numbness over hand and feet, 7. Loss of eyebrows, 8. Loss of sweat on some part of body. Since I get most of these symptoms everytime I run a marathon, perhaps I should be worried.

The most interesting sight for us was the imposing hilltop palace at Thiksay just outside Leh in the middle of a desert moonscape. The ramshackle series of buildings and gompas contained a temple with a huge gold leaf painted wooden statue of Buddha. The Buddhist monks were hanging out their washing as we explored their home. We had hoped to visit the highest road in the world about 100km from Leh, but the Nubra Valley, reaching 5606m, appeared to be off limits to anyone not on an organised tour and since we were the only tourists in town and not organised, they wouldn't let us go. No matter, the following journey to Kashmir more than made up for it.

The bus left for Kashmir at 5.15am and we had front row seats for the two day 434km journey. A sign above us said "To keep the bus clean is your moral duty" so everyone chucked their rubbish out into the desert. We were surrounded by towering desolate brown mountains with snow capped peaks lying behind them. Following the mostly surfaced single-track road, there were plenty of trucks delivering supplies to Leh. Driving through this barren landscape was like driving through the Grand Canyon. We felt tiny against the scale. Desert foxes disappeared over sanddunes. There were strange walking birds (partridges?) and the occasional nomadic shepherd and goat herd. Intermittent army camps appeared in the middle of nowhere with artillery guns sticking out behind sandbagged bunkers. There was a slow climb along endless loops and switchbacks to cross the 4094m Fatu La pass, the highest pass on the route. Spectacular views across the mountains and valleys. We drove perilously close to the edge with drops hundreds of metres below. One truck had recently gone over the side, and soldiers were emptying its fuel tanks as it lay on its side. There wasn't much room to squeeze a truck and a bus past each other.

We reached Kargil for a late lunch and since the bus was making a strange rattling noise, an even later departure 3 hours later. We pulled into our overnight stop called Drass at 7pm (we called it Dross). There wasn't much going on. We got a room without water or electricity. A large bucket for the toilet and candles were produced. At the restaurant, anything we ordered was "unavailable". I later discovered that a year ago, the Kashmiri militants had a surprise massed attack in this area and destroyed much of Drass. Over 1000 soldiers/militants were killed and it shocked the hell out of the Indians. No wonder there were no hotels. The road was also still being repaired from the shells that landed on it. The Indian Government was taking no chances of a repeat episode this summer, and from now on we would see hundreds of army trucks in convoy and thousands of soldiers all moving into the area from Kashmir.

Our bus driver decided that we would leave at 3am the next morning. Thanks pal. I needed that 4 hours sleep in my clothes after another 14 hours on a bus. Jo had the runs and didn't sleep at all. Our early departure was to join the convoy of traffic to cross the difficult Zoji Pass (3529m) first thing in the morning. The road is so narrow and bad that a one way traffic system works. The traffic from Kashmir crosses it going east in the afternoon. Consequently, it was a slow drive following 50 trucks over the pass shrouded in low thick cloud at 5am. The pass is the first to get snow in winter and the last to clear in summer. It had only just opened this year. Snow was down to the road level and the unsurfaced road was just slush in many parts. The scenery was very reminiscent of the European Alps - snow capped forested slopes and completely different to yesterday's desert.

We reached the shabby Kashmiri frontier town of Sonamarg around 7.30am. My first impressions of Kashmir were of the enormous numbers of armed military personnel everywhere. They walked along the road or sat in pillboxes built at every bridge, crossroads and village. But so did the locals. Everyone seemed to have a rifle over his shoulder, even small kids. We had our passports cursorily examined at one checkpoint. They were surprised to see tourists. We hadn't seen one since Leh.

The scenery was of very green forested mountains with a rushing river flowing in the valley. Terraced farming. Men were leading their oxen and wooden ploughs into the fields. Others stooped over paddy fields planting rice. A man walked down the road with a bag of goats’ heads over his shoulder. Convoys of military trucks (one was 100 vehicles long) passed us heading for Kargil. Trucks commandeered by the army had stickers on the windscreen saying "On army duty (military ration)". One truck said on its side "Work like a coolie, live like a Prince". It was disconcerting to have the army pass by because the young soldiers held their guns out of the sides of the trucks pointed right at your heads, since we were sitting in a bus at the same level. We hoped they had their safety catches on. There was lots of yelling and posing with guns, bandannas and sunglasses. Indian Rambos. Not. They all looked so skinny.

The state of 'Jammu and Kashmir' has been a hotbed of Indian/Pakistani agitation since the two countries were granted independence in 1947 and Kashmir as a 'princely state' in the middle, was left to decide who to join. The Prince delayed and Pakistan, arguing that the predominantly Muslim population should join their new Muslim country, invaded Kashmir. India was called into to defend Kashmir which has remained within India 'de facto' . Ever since, it has given the two countries an excuse to have a go at each other. A 'line of control' ( putting 2/3rds of Kashmir within India) is a constant guerrilla battleground, especially at the moment, since both countries, now with nuclear weapons, attempt to flex their muscles. Add to this flashpoint, Kashmiri extremists who want independence for the state are currently physically attacking the government with weapons (and 5 years ago even killed western tourists). It is a very nervous place, off limits to everyone because it is currently one of the most dangerous in the world and whose main industry, tourism has collapsed over the past decade. They are desperate to get back western tourism. Despite the danger, and ignoring all warnings by the media, we wanted to take advantage of an 'empty' Kashmir and check out the situation for ourselves. (We counted a dozen western tourists during our stay).

On arrival in Srinagar, the capital, the "Mirror of Kashmir" newspaper headline was "Grenade explosions rock Srinagar, 1 killed, 2 injured" and "11 foreign militants, 3 security personnel among 26 killed in Jammu-Kashmir". Oh shit. The capital really is being attacked. But strangely, despite the fact that we spent 5 days there, we never heard a thing even though grenades were being tossed every night. The militants were targeting government buildings and these were away from the main centre. The place was crawling with soldiers (disconcerting to see two soldiers with rifles walking down the road holding hands, as Asian men often do, to display "best friendship") and security personnel - locals who guard the streets at night. One carefully showed us his Chinese 156 rifle.

The "Indian Express" had a "Body Count" on its front page which stated: Killings in Jammu & Kashmir since January 1st. Total 851. Civilians 272. Male 248, Female 19, Children 5. Militants 438. Security Men 130. Today's Toll 8.

We found the Kashmiris were friendly people. "How do you like Kashmir? How do you like the people?" were frequently asked questions. A local with a splendid English accent specialised in 'English style tailoring'. He had a great sales patter "God made you a man. I will make you a gentleman". Sadly, I had no use for a custom made tweed suit in this heat - about 25'C but seemed warmer.

With only Indian tourists making the trips here, all the hotels were offering 30% discount and we got it down to 50% staying, at first in an upmarket hotel in the centre where "security" came around at night to check guests' passports and ID. We were told "do not go out very early and make sure you are back before dark" (though we ended up ignoring this) and "don't stray!". We weren't sure what to expect but found a colourful, distinctly central Asian city based by a beautiful large Dal Lake. The lake had a backdrop of lovely green hills, gardens in full bloom, which were built by 17th Century Princes. In one, we hired traditional Kashmiri costumes for photographic poses. When in doubt, attempt to blend in with the locals. Endless Indian families on holiday came up and asked to have their picture taken with Jo. At least I now understand Hindi for "can you get the fat sweaty English bloke out of the picture?".

The day after we arrived, the city ground to a halt. There was a general strike by all the shopowners in the city to protest against the innocent killing of citizens by the militants. Nothing was open. We had enough sightseeing around the lake to keep us occupied. One afternoon we walked through a scruffy area towards the Jami Masjid mosque. There was a military cordon nearby. We were ushered by a soldier to see the commander. "What the hell are you doing here?" "We came to see the mosque". "Well, this area is insecure at the moment. There was a tourist shot here 2 days ago. From the Chech Republic." "Was he hurt?" "No it went straight through his thigh" "What was he shot for?" "Who knows". In the end, he allowed us to visit the mosque if we had a military escort, so we were surrounded by seven soldiers toting rifles on the look out for trouble and taken to the entrance. While we wandered around inside, they covered the entrances and waited. It was a large but plain mosque, with a service going on (200 men in a straight line facing Mecca and aerobic-like co-ordinated standing, kneeling and bowing to Allah) but 300 pillars each made from a single deodar tree-trunk supported the roof. It was like a forest under the roof. Outside, we were again surrounded by the soldiers and taken back to the security area. Boy did I feel conspicuous. The British High Commissioner to India was in town during our visit, on his first visit to Kashmir to check out the security situation. He was staying at a houseboat just near ours under tight security. He was heard to remark "English tourists? Here? No, they wouldn't be that stupid!".

Srinagar is famous for its old English houseboats. The English liked to escape the torrid Indian plains in the summer and head for the cool Kashmiri hills, but they were not allowed to buy land around the lake so had huge wooden houseboats built that were permanently moored to the banks. These were now mostly vacant. Until three years ago, they wouldn't let Indian tourists stay on them, but now as the only tourists they had no choice, but they seemed to resent them. "These Indians, they have no respect" one told me as he pointed at the rubbish in the lake "look at that, they just throw their rubbish anywhere. We want more of you people (meaning westerners). You respect our city". It was a comment that we often heard. Kashmir had been a beautiful place until the troubles started a decade ago and things were allowed to run down (like the gardens). Now the Indian tourists were turning it into your average scruffy Indian town.

We moved onto a houseboat called "Teal" for a couple of nights. The large lounge was full of British china, antiques and furniture. Our large bedroom had an en suite bathroom that was 25 years old. We could sit on the small veranda and watch the world go by. The owners who lived behind the boat prepared our (indifferent) meals. Kashmiri tea is wonderful. The lake and surrounding canals have their own life. Traders paddle canoes up and down past the houseboats selling anything (groceries, flowers, jewellery, fruit & veg etc). We often spent our time just fending off these people desperate for a sale, but surrounded by water and away from the noisy traffic, it was an enjoyable experience.

The main mode of transport are 'Shikaras' - gondola type canoes, where you lie on a double bed seat under a colourful canopy and get paddled gently around the waterways by the pilot who sits at the back. We had to use one everytime we wanted to get off houseboat. We hired one for a morning. A lovely tranquil ride took us under drooping willow trees covering the narrow canals. At the 'floating gardens', locals have formed mounds of earth in the shallow lake and plant tomatoes, watermelons, flowers etc and they tend them from boats. From a distance, they seem to be 'floating'. Women washed clothes. Yellow water lilies were in bloom, large green leaves covered the water surface and blue kingfishers dived over the water that was amazingly clear despite all the sewage from the houseboats. Chicken Eagles soared on the thermals (so called because given the chance they steal chickens that were keeping a low profile). Men were digging up the lakebed to be used as fertiliser. We got paddled to the mosque and (since it was Friday) watched Muslim families dressed in their best clothes getting paddled to the mosque for lunchtime prayers. Later that day, I watched a lovely golden sunset.

Leaving Srinagar for Jammu, we passed through the 2.5km Jawarhar Tunnel which had opened up the Vale of Kashmir during the winter months. Before its construction, it was completely cut off for 6 months a year. At the final army checkpoint, they asked, "How did you enjoy Kashmir?" and then we entered the region of Jammu. On bad twisting hairpin mountain roads, we saw endless road accidents on the narrow roads - trucks hitting trucks, trucks hitting buses, trucks crushing cars, trucks over the edge, trucks losing wheels stranded in the middle of the road. At least a dozen smashes. The impatient drivers were obviously ignoring the signs which said "If married to speed, divorce her" and "Drive with your nerves calm and see the Valley's charm". There were endless tailbacks caused by army convoys delaying us for hours. Hundreds of monkeys lined the mountain roads looking for titbits thrown out of cars and buses. At Jammu, we saw the state newspaper office that proudly boasted "Free opinion". Maybe, but there was still army protection encamped outside to make sure it wasn't blown up.

We had enjoyed the visit to Kashmir. The whole 2-week detour had been worth it just for the scenery alone. But it did not feel like India. It would take us 36 hours non-stop on three buses via Delhi to reach Jaipur in Rajastan and get back to our original plans.