Guru Nanak

On Saturday morning, my usually lazy late sleep was shattered by a cacophony of Hindu music, chanting and crowd noise.  At first I thought the neighbors downstairs had turned up their television and spent the next few minutes laying in bed trying to figure out why they would do that at 8:00am on a Saturday morning.

The noise, though, grew louder and I concluded in my morning haze that this was no television.  I rolled, literally, out of bed and made my way to the balcony.  The is what a saw.....

WTF!  What made matters worse was that we had been out at an Indian Wedding (here they just call them weddings) boozing it up the night before.  

To an uninformed foreigner, the scene looked like this:  An hour procession of different types of trucks, with different types of people singing different songs watched by a horde of people eating free food from tables that magically appeared in front of my home.  Yep, that about summed it up.  I stood on the terrace and watched for a while, but the curiosity to find out what was really happening on my usually lazy, quiet street was killing me.  I needed pants.

With pants on, I made my way to the street into a scene that would rival most town art shows.  Tables were lined up on the sidewalk dishing out some kind of Indian delicacy, while women plied the crowd with buckets of what looked like Indian Chex-Mix.  My landlord's family was sitting in a line in front of the house in traditional Indian dress with their heads covered, while the crowd buzzed about them.  I must have had a puzzled look on my face, because the woman standing next to me began to explain...

Tomorrow, apparently, is the birthday of the founder of Sikhism and first of the 10 celebrated Sikh Gurus, Guru Nanak.  The day before his birthday, a procession is organized which is led by the Panj Pyaras (Five Beloved Ones). They head the procession carrying the Sikh flag, known as the Nishan Sahib and the Palki (Palanquin) of Sri Guru Granth Sahib. They are followed by teams of various singers singing hymns (check) and bands playing different tunes (check), and devotees sing the chorus (check).  The leaders also spread the message of Guru Nanak (I assume that what they were saying, so check).  

So it looks like my morning wake-up call was the equivalent of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, only without the 40 foot Underdog balloon and in better weather.

Biblical Incompetence

As most of you know, I travel a lot.  And as most of you know, I do not suffer fools well.  When the two come together, though, it can truly send me over the edge.  On our return trip from Sri Lanka, we experienced levels of apathy and incompetence that would make even the likes of Nancy Pelosi blush!

Our journey home began with a 4-hour car ride through the hinterlands of Sri Lanka.  Although it is only about 100 miles from the hotel to the airport, as I have said in an early post, the roads are small, crowded and generally slow.  By the time we reached the airport, we were already exhausted.

Like in India, the Army stands guard at the door of the airport to ensure only ticket carrying passengers enter the hallowed halls. The guard lazily checked our papers and flagged us through to have our bags scanned and then to the check in counter.  We quickly checked in and proceeded though passport control.  Quick and easy - kudos to the Sri Lankan government on this process - they have India beat by miles.

We grabbed a quick coffee, passed through security and sat at our gate for roughly 40 minutes as the incoming plane was delayed due to, well most likely simply coming from India.  We were then cattle-called for boarding.  About 10 steps down the jetway, two tables were set up and Sri Lankan soldiers were going through everyone's bag.  Now, we had been check entering the airport and we had been checked going through security, but apparently a third check was needed in case somehow we magically acquired something in the secure gate area.  The real pisser was that the entire group of passengers had been waiting in a secure gate area for 40 minutes - might we have considered doing this whilst we waited, rather than holding up an already late plane?  I had my bag checked and preceded to the plane.

I need to stop here and explain that that, like in India, every carry-on bag in Sri Lanka has to have a paper tag, the cheap paper nametags the airlines give out at the check-in desk, so that security can stamp it to show that you have been through security.  In most airports, you get stamped as you pass through the general security, but in Sri Lanka, you get your stamp when the soldier goes through you bag in the jetway.

Anyway, I get to the door of the plane at the end of the jetway where another security guy checked my paper tag.  The bag-searching soldier had apparently forgot to stamp my tag, so I now needed to go back up the jetway against the horde and have my bag stamped.  Understand, I am at the plane end of the jetway and the soldier is a quarter of the way down the jetway.  There is no possible way I could have materialized between the two security guys.  The second guy was having none of this logic.  I marched back up the jetway, against the flow of passengers, and asked the guy to stamp the tag.  Without even looking up, he stamped it.  So if I had materialized, no one was checking my bag anyway.  Ugh!  But with the stamp, I could board.  As a side note, as I was coming back to the plane, a mob of passengers was making the same trek back to the stamp-negligent soldier.  Apparently, no one told said soldier he need to stamp the tag.

We took off roughly 40 minutes late and headed to Chennai for our brief layover.  According to our schedule, we had a little over an hour to wait in Chennai, but had to clear customs, get our luggage, recheck our luggage, pass through security and get the plane.  All achievable in the allotted time, but we were no 40 minutes late.  Luckily for us, the plane on which we were riding was the plane to Delhi, so it could not leave before we got there.  What was unknown was the turn-around time needed.

The Chennai airport consists of two separate airports that are connected by a common gate area.  You must leave the domestic building where you collect you luggage and re-enter into the international building to check in.  We learned this on the way down.  The interesting thing is that the parking spaces for the planes are the same, but the domestic travelers use the stairs and walk outside and the international passengers use the jetway.  Same plane, same airport, same parking spot, but you must egress and ingress differently.  

We deplaned and made our way to passport control.  Here begins the series of truly nonsensical events that would plague the remainder of the journey.  There are four open positions at customs, two for foreigners and two for Indians.  This is the right amount.  We get into one of the lines and quickly notice that the passport control officer is on his mobile phone.  The custom guy is chatting with friends and family and he is half-looking at the passports and documentation being presented.  I observe that his line is moving at about twice the rate of the others, as well.  This guy is simply opening passports, finding an empty page and stamping without ever looking up.  When it is our turn, he quickly finds an empty page, stamps and literally throws the passports on the desk without ever looking at the photo.  This is Indian National Security!

Not to fear though, the opposite happens at baggage claim.  As we near the baggage area, they have cleverly set up an x-ray machine to scan all carried-on (past tense) bags before you can enter the baggage claim area. Now, remember you have already been though three security checks in Sri Lanka and have actually flown on the plane.  Seriously, you cannot make this up.   I am at a loss for words.  I can rationalize the 50 checks before you get on the plane, but I am a little skeptical of the terrorist that foregoes blowing up the plane to make his statement in the baggage claim area.  But at least in Chennai, you can pick up you bags with the secure notion that you are protected from that guy!

We collect our bags and head out of the overly secure baggage area and drop our bags off with the pleasant Kingfisher attendants for re-checking to Delhi. We then exit the international airport and make the 100-foot walk to the domestic airport door.  After passing though the crack security at the door that ensures we are not just loitering in the lobby with no ticket, we are confronted by a huge x-ray machine in the lobby.  The machine is in kind of a stand-alone position in the center of the lobby.  As well, it is manned by a fairly young boy being supervised by three older, less energetic men drinking coffee.  We approach the machine and the boy takes our carry-on bags and proceeds to zip-tie the zipper.  This is when I realize this may not be the right move.  I tell him three times, that the bags are carry on, but he continues to zip-tie them until one of the men tell him in Tamil, the local language, not to continue.  He hands us back us bags, albeit zip-tied.  With time of the essence, we proceed to security.

In India, the Army runs the security in the airport, which, actually is not a bad idea considering the moron-squad we use in the US.  But in India, I am convinced that these are the soldiers that are not fit for any other duty.  These are the ones that failed even the test for infantry - "we are sorry, but you are deemed to stupid to run into enemy bullets."  Time and time again, the apathy and stupidity of the Indian Airport Security Personnel amazes me.

So, we are in Chennai, and I put my bags into the screener.  There are three people manning the machine:  One helps you put your bags in the machine; one looks at the bags on the screen; and the third stamps your paper tag.  The first got our bags into the machine.  I assume the second one looked at them - although there are no guarantees.  The third sat there coloring.  Yep, his entire duty was to take a stamp and press it to the little attached tag.  Failed!  Of coarse, we did not know this until we tried to board the plane and the crack gate checker saw we had no stamp.  The best part of this story is we went to a different security point and, like the boys in Sri Lanka, she never looked inside the bag, she just stamped it.  The take away is that in Chennai, the baggage claim area is secure, but the plane full of people, not so much!

We boarded the plane and flew to Delhi for the final chapter of ridiculousness – The Indira Gandhi International Airport Baggage Claim. I have opined several times on the new airport in Delhi.  Much nicer, much more modern and much better organized.  They are, though, having an issue with the luggage.  A few months ago, the big three Indian airlines moved 100% of their operations, both international and domestic, to the new terminal.  This, I speculate, created a bit of overload and the baggage system melted down. The local newspapers have been covering this mercilessly, but until you experience it, you really cannot understand the extent of the idiocy.

Our plane arrived and the flight attendant announced to us that our bags would be coming out on belt 7.  I, being a savvy traveler, double-checked on the baggage claim board and at the belt.  Yep, belt 7 - flight 233 from Chennai.  Then we waited … and waited.  Finally, bags began to flow.  As all savvy travelers do, I checked the tags as the first few bags emerge to make sure the right flight number is there so that I am in the right place. 

The baggage claim area is divided into domestic and international by a glass wall.  There are a handful of baggage carrousels on either side of the wall with a sliding door in between.  Passengers, though, are not supposed to cross through this door, as the baggage security measures are different for each section.

As a check the tag on the first bag, it said CO82.  Now, I know CO82, because that is the Continental flight I take from Newark to Delhi.  The INTERNATIONAL flight from Newark New Jersey coming out on the domestic carrousel! The Continental bags continued to come out and predictably began backing up the line, as no one from the flight was there to remove them.  I highlighted this small piece of obviousness to the Kingfisher baggage guy and requested that he organize a trolley to get these bags to their owners.  He retorted that he could not, as he can only help Kingfisher passengers with their bags.  Removing the bags would be the responsibility of Airport Operations.  Hum?  “Where might I find them,” I asked.  He gingerly pointed toward an office in the back of the hall in which two men sat drinking tea.   I approached them and explained the issue, but they could not have cared less.  It had been well over an hour and my patience was running thin, so I thought I would take another approach.  I must say, the capacity of mid-level, Indian bureaucrats to take a verbal beating is impressive.  Only, when I threatened to go above their heads and identify them personally as the root cause of the problem did they move.

After another 30 minutes, the Continental bags were off the line and on their way to their frustrated owners, but not without me pointing out each bag as it passed to the dim-witted baggage handlers.  Finally, the Kingfisher bags began to spew forth like a glorious luggage fountain and all was back to normal.

We grabbed our bags and headed home through the foggy Delhi night.

The Art of Doing Nothing

Sri Lanka has been a very pleasant surprise.  I was expecting a sort of India light with the noise and the garbage and the traffic and, to be honest, everyone trying to rip you off.  This country, though, is something entirely different. It is clean, relatively well managed and commercialism has not taken over.  It may be the last vacation paradise left in Asia. 

I gave a rather in depth description of the hotel in the last blog, but now that I have had the time to experience it, I would like to add just a few thoughts. The name is Aditya ((www.aditya-resort.com) if you are interested in coming here) and it is a very small, secluded place.  It feels like a cross between a private villa and a 5-star, luxury hotel - your own private island home just with an army of people to cater to your every whim.  What is really incredible is that for a place of 12 suites, they have an award-winning chef that will whip up anything you want in addition to his extensive menu that includes such showstoppers as Pumpkin-Lemongrass soup.  The best part is that they will serve it to you anywhere – you want breakfast on the beach – they will set up a formal table for you; you want lunch in the garden – out comes a table; you want dinner in the reception area – so be it.  All for no charge.  It makes for a very cool meal plan. 

Anyway, we have spent the good part of 4 days sitting around the beach and pool doing absolutely nothing.  Doing nothing takes effort and is very tiring, I have come to find out.  The more I sit around, the more naps I need to recharge my strength from doing nothing.  I am not sure if I have the endurance to do nothing for an entire week.  I am exhausted! 

Olga by the pool

Enjoying a recently cut coconut
This actually required effort as I had to sit up to drink it

Olga enjoying her coconut on the beach

Napping after a tough day of sitting at the pool

The ever-stressful watching the sunset

Another well deserved break from the grind

So to break the cycle, yesterday, we decided to do something.  We jumped in a tuk-tuk and went down the road to the local cove to do some snorkeling.  They have a beautiful coral reef just off the beach and snorkeling is something Olga and I have found we both highly enjoy.  We even have our own custom fitted, very gadgety snorkeling equipment.  So we trundled off to Hikkaduwa to see what we could see.  It was pretty amazing.  You must remember, this is a developing nation, so they have not quite yet established Nazi-like parameters around any interesting natural phenomenon that keeps everyone out.  We strapped on our gear, entered the 82-degree, crystal clear water and spent the morning poking around the reef.  It was pretty damn cool.  When we came back to the dive center, the gentleman running the place said that the real snorkeling is a reef island about ½ km off the shore.  We were game and said we would return the next day. 

To maintain the theme of doing something, we decided to spend the late afternoon visiting the old Dutch fortress city of Galle.  We again climbed into a tuk-tuk and traveled the 30-minute to see what we could see.  Galle is actually a pretty cool little town.  The Dutch built a large fortress at the entrance to the harbor and a fairly good size town sprung up within its walls around the 18^th Century.  It is actually considered to be the best example of European colonialism in Asia.  I can understand why – it has not changed since the Dutch left.  The architecture is stunning in that many of the buildings have not been touched in a significant way since the 1700s, but are decently maintained and continue to function as residences and businesses.  A few have been renovated, but done so with such attention to detail that they blend in.  The Galle Fort Hotel, which is a beautiful 5 star hotel, is done so well that we walked by it twice and never noticed it. The inside is spectacularly done as if the Dutch merchant who owned the house just moved out.  The entire town has a worn, authentic feel to it that makes it very unique.  Tourists have not yet overrun the town, so the commercialism that follows tourists is not yet there either. If you are going to visit, I would hurry as it is not going to last, it is too interesting of a town.

In case you were unsure what it was like to ride in a tuk-tuk

The Main Street of Galle
Notice the well hidden Galle Fort Hotel on the immediate right

The lighthouse
The white building is a Mosque

The old fort walls

A typical street in the fort city

Old gun emplacements

More of the town

A street in the city center

An old Dutch Church

And another

Olga recharging with some Sri Lankan Tea at the Galle Fort Hotel

The remainder of Dutch colonialism 

We walked around for a few hours, had tea at the Galle Fort Hotel and grabbed a tuk-tuk for the ride back to seclusion.  Apparently, doing something is also tiring, because we were asleep by 9:00pm.  

Sri Lanka

A few Sundays ago, we began our journey south for our first real vacation in 1 year.  The last time we took some time off, we went to Mayakobe in Mexico. With everyone scared to come to Mexico due to the swine flu and Mexican drug violence, it was a great vacation.  We were looking for more of the same!

This time, we decided to go to Sri Lanka for Thanksgiving.  A far-off, exotic land for you, but a mere 3-hour plane ride for us.  I had done my research and found a nice little boutique hotel in the southwest corner of the island - small enough to keep out the noise (read children) and remote enough to keep out the accidental tourist. 

We left our flat at around 6:30am and made our way to the Delhi airport.  After the usual ridiculousness of boarding a place in India, we finally departed Delhi.  After a brief layover in Chennai, we landed in Colombo, the only airport in the country without incident.  A brief kudos to the people at Kingfisher Airlines: If you are ever traveling within India, this is the only airline to take.  The people are helpful and they are almost always on time.  Two things that the other Indian airlines seem to miss – a lot!

Anyway, we arrived in Colombo and were met by our driver.  He was a very pleasant guy who greeted us with a huge smile and scurried off to fetch his bright orange Toyota.  Just as he pulled around, we were met with torrential downpour.  We had been told by everyone in Delhi that Sri Lanka was experiencing unusually wet weather.   We had already booked the room and were in dire need to get out of India, so we agreed that Sri Lanka in the rain was better than Delhi in whatever weather it was today.  What I am saying is we were prepared for the rain and did not care.

We were also warned that the drive from Colombo to, well, anywhere worth going is long and arduous.  Colombo traffic is epic in the kinship of Delhi or Jakarta, so nothing out of the ordinary for us, but what we were not expecting was the slowness of the road once you leave Colombo.  It is truly painful.  Buses, tuk-tuks, cars and motorcycles all compete for the small, two-lane country road.  We averaged about 20mph for the entire 70 miles.   But, the scenery is tropical and, outside of the 80s softrock on the radio (which clearly our driver choose for us), it was a nice drive. 

We arrived at our destination about 6:00pm.  It is called a boutique hotel, but I am not sure this really sums up the atmosphere here.  First of all, the property, although one building, feels like a series of separate open spaces.   There are no doors, but the clever use of the support walls and varying heights of the floor create the illusion of openness and separation at the same time.  You enter through a lobby that seems detached from the rest of the building only to eventually find that it too is under the same roof.   From the lobby, you pass through an open courtyard and into the main area.  This area is an architectural marvel.  It consists of a restaurant, three cozy seating areas, a bar and a foyer that leads out into the pool.  All these areas are open to each other and the outside, but all seem like completely separate spaces.  Hard to describe, so I took some pictures.   The most impressive element of the property is that you are exposed to the adjacent ocean in almost every common area.  The entire front side of the hotel is completely open. 

Entry way into the resort

Garden between he entry and the main common areas

Looking out through the common area to the pool

The Dining room with the pool area through the orange arch

Looking from the garden into the dining area

The view from the room toward the ocean

We were escorted to our room and were happy to see the creative elements of the ground floor continued.  The room was a huge space with a very high vaulted ceiling and large french doors which opened onto a verandah over the ocean.  There is a raised sitting area (to give better views of the ocean) and a sleeping area in a well (as not to get in the way of the views from the seating area).  Through the french doors, there was the aforementioned veranda that had a seating area and a large outdoor day bed that was made up every morning for us.   The pièce de résistance, though, was the bathroom. 

Sitting area in the room

Looking from the seating area toward the ocean

The verandah complete with plunge pool and day bed

From the room the bathroom door reveals nothing of what is behind it.  As you enter the bathroom, you quickly understand, though, this is no ordinary space.  It is a large, elongated, well appointed space with a huge shower at one end and…. (wait for it)….. nothing at the other.  What I mean is, it was completely open to the outside.  No wall, no screen, no curtain – just you and the outside world.  Now, to be fair, you are on the 2^nd floor and the first floor has 40 foot ceilings, so it is not like people are walking by, but still at first, it is a little disconcerting.  After a while, though, you really start to enjoy it.  In front of the shower, there is a large vanity.  Next to that, set in a well of its own is the toilet with 3 long stairs running past which spill the bathroom out onto the veranda in the form of a plug pool.  Because of the elevation caused by the stairs past the toilet, the pool sits roughly three feet about the rest of the veranda. It is hard to explain, but the design is very cool.

The ultimate bathroom

Looking from the plunge pool toward the massive shower on the back wall

So we settled in for the week with great expectations of doing absolutely nothing for the next 7 days!  

Kashmir - The Final Chapter

As I regained consciousness, I tried to move in the bed, but movement of any kind was virtually impossible.  My entire left side had become paralyzed due to the sleep coma into which I entered 14 hours prior.  I painfully wiggled my fingers and toes, but that was all the animation I could muster.  More frustrating, I knew the worst was yet to come.  As the blood began to flow, so did the excruciating pain of the returning feeling.  After about 15 minutes, I staggered to the bathroom to begin the day still dragging my left foot.

My flight was schedule to depart in the late afternoon, so I grabbed an early lunch at the hotel, put my gear into traveling order and arranged a taxi to the airport.  The cab was a white Indian Jeep that had seen better days, but was clean and well maintained.  The driver was a pleasant and talkative fellow who was happy to get a foreign passenger.  His English was excellent, so we had an entertaining discourse as we motored toward the airport.  He told me that he was glad to see an American, as the only foreigners that he typically encounters are Germans and, according to the Taxi driver, they are demanding and do not tip well. 

As we got closer to the airport, the security on the streets began to visibly change.  The sandbag forts located sporadically throughout the town, now became a consistent sight at every intersection. Since the airport was located on the edge of the city, the road leading up to the entrance was like any city street in that it was lined with shops.  In order to maintain security, though, the road had a cement and fence barrier between the street and the sidewalk.  In other words, you could not get from the road to the adjacent shops.  At the edge of the airport property, there was a checkpoint for vehicles in which all bags and passengers needed to removed from the vehicle and scanned.  Luckily, the traffic to the airport in Srinagar is light or this would have taken days. 

The cabbie dropped me off in front of the terminal which was deserted outside of an antiquated x-ray machine and a few soldiers.  I made my way through the first security check without incident and scurried toward the main terminal.  The airport was eerily empty and silent.  Before I could enter the main terminal, though, I had to go through another security checkpoint. This station had roughly the same equipment as the first, but these soldiers were a little more attentive as they patted you down, as a bonus.  I know there is a great deal of controversy about the pat down in the US right now, but you have never had an intrusive pat-down until you have tried to fly out of a war zone.   I mean, jeez, buy me dinner first – or a least get to know my name!

I was now in the main terminal.  This was a large, cold two-story room divided from the solitary gate area by a low plywood wall and another security checkpoint.  Above the gate was a loft area that had a restaurant and additional seating.  Along the right wall, there were a series of individual kiosks at which one would check in.  They looked more like carnival booths than airline counters as each one stood individually and had wheels.  There was no one behind the Jet Airways converted kissing booth, though.  Apparently, although you have to be in the airport 3 hours prior to take-off, the airline staff shows up when they damn well feel like it.  At least that’s universal!

I took a seat in an orange molded plastic chair and waited.  In about 30 minutes, a woman wondered in the main terminal with a Jet Airways uniform and leisurely took her place behind the counter.  I darted up eagerly to get this milestone behind me.  She checked me in, gave me my ticket and then told me that there was no carry-on allowed.  What?  No carry-on?  You mean like no excessive carry-on?  Nope, none what so ever!  I reminded her that I was business class and she reminded me that she did not care. NO CARRY-ON!  I explained diligently that I had my ski boots in my boot bag and these would not travel well - clanging around in the belly of the aircraft.  She explained diligently that there was NO CARRY-ON!  After a lively discussion, she recommended I take it up with the security people and maybe they would let it on.  Hum?  I mean what harm could come of demanding to take ski boots onboard an aircraft from the commander of security in an airport located in a militant zone full of terrorist.  Again, I really need a new “little voice.” 

So, like an idiot, I went over to the soldier guarding the gate area and asked to see his commanding officer.  He told me to take a seat and he would go get him.  A few minutes late, I was escorted into a small office and was face to face with the captain of the guard.  I explained my situation….. and then explained what ski boot were.  Not a good start.  Apparently, this was a case of know your audience.  We had a nice discussion ranging from why I was in India to how I liked sourcing as a career.  By the end of it, we were fast friends and he agreed to let me carry them on.

The other thing that the woman at the Jet Airways Kiosk gave me was my Business Class Lounge Pass.  She explained that the lounge was located at the back of the restaurant and pointed up the stairs. After my discussion with the Captain, I made my way up the stairs and showed the waiter my lounge card.  The restaurant was not very big and sat in the corner of the loft.  There were no walls or dividers of any kind delineating the restaurant other than the tables which contrasted to the rows of connected molded plastic seats.   Along one wall, there was an angled glass counter, like a deli counter, full of pre-made Indian dishes and desserts and roughly 8 tables splayed in front of it.   On the far side of the counter, there were two tables sectioned off from the rest by rope, regular rope, not velvet rope.  This was the business class lounge.  I hesitantly skulked to the makeshift VIP area and waited out my remaining time before my flight was called and we were allowed into the gate area.

Finally, it was time to move through the final milestone.  I made my way down the stairs to the gate area underneath.  There was a final checkpoint, complete with the feel-up by a heavily armed soldier and an underused x-ray machine (since no one had carry-on).   I stepped through security unchallenged, as clearly my new friend had cleared the way, and took my seat in the gate area.  I now felt relief as I was almost out …or so I thought.

As I settled into my book, I was tapped on the shoulder.  It was a lowly, and somewhat hygienically-challenged, soldier.  Grunting, as only a developing nation soldiers can, he motioned me to the door at the back of the gate area.  My heart sunk!  I thought to myself, “damn!  Should have just checked the boots.  Now you are going to see how the professionals handled uppity Americans.  Shit!”  It was all just too easy.  I was escorted into a smallish room with a table and two chairs on either side.  I took my seat and waited.  About 10 minutes later, my Captain friend came in and sat down across from me.  He asked me a few more questions about my job, my company and why I was in India.  Then, out of nowhere, he starts pitching his brothers furniture manufacturing company in Kashmir.  I was floored … albeit not too floored to see the opportunity.  I listened attentively and injected “really” and “sounds great” strategically in all the right places.  I spoke about the possibilities in a non-committal manner, took his number, thank him and went back to the seating area to collapse with relief.

I really could not concentrate on my book any longer and took a look around the gate area.  The section held about 100 people and had a glass wall interrupted by a pair of glass doors leading out to the tarmac. Beyond the doors, there was about a 100-yard walk to another building that looked like a turnstile building from a high school football stadium.  Here, you went through another checkpoint, bag check and pat-down.   From there, you had about another 50-yard walk to the plane.

As the pre-boarding activity began, the odiferous soldier returned to summoned me back to the room.  I was again met by the Captain, but this time escorted out the back door and into a jeep.  WTF! Maybe I had not made such a good impression on the Captain and I was being taken to somewhere no one would find the body.  Shit! Shit!  The jeep took off, rounded the building, headed straight for the plane and dropped me at the foot of the stairs.  No security, no checkpoint, no walking for me!

Shocked, I thanked the Captain profusely, grabbed my ski boots and climbed up the stairs.  I entered the empty plane, stored my boots in the overhead compartment and promptly collapsed into the seat! 

Flying out if Kashmir

I was finally leaving Kashmir … and could not wait to return! 

Kashmir - Down the Mountain

Morning could not come soon enough.  Although the trips to the refriga-bathroom had subsided, I was still feeling sluggish and was happy with my decision to head to a more sensible altitude.  I remembered as I was building my contingency plan in case things did not go as smoothly as they did on arrival (ahem!), that there was an Intercontinental (since bought by an Indian Hotelier) in Srinagar.  I was enacting my back-up plan.   

The Ski Shop owner came by about 9:00am and after settling my bill, I began my final preparations for departure.  Just as I was about ready, the woodsman appeared, but this time without the usual basket of wood on his back.  He asked to ferry my bags to the car.   Having no idea where that would be or how far, I agreed.  He grabbed my pack and ski boot-bag and quickly disappeared out the door.  A little concerned, I followed him along the shoveled path and down into a dell in which a black Indian jeep was sitting idling on a snowy road.  I cursed the driver who brought me up here and left me in a field in the dead of night, tipped the woodsman and got in the jeep to make my escape. 

The woodsman with my bags

The route down the mountain is spectacular and much more enjoyable in the light and not scared to death.  The combination of the sun, snow, mountains and forest is truly breathtaking. I have skied Canada, America, Switzerland, Austria and Italy, but there is nothing like Kashmir.  This area has not been encroached upon by multi-million dollar homes and mega-resorts.  It is simple and authentic. 

As we get to the base of the mountain, the Indo-Alpine ambiance becomes decidedly more Indian.  We pass through villages in which people and traffic overwhelm the natural beauty of the area.  Trucks chug out black smoke and people jump on and off moving buses without a worry of life or limb. I have returned to the land of people staring and the distinct feeling of not belonging. 

Coming out of the mountain area and into the encroachment

The first village we passed through

 We arrive in Srinagar round noon and our first stop is the Mosque, Jamia Masjid.  This landmark was built around 1400 and is best known for its 370 wooden pillars and the absolute peacefulness inside.  It sits in the old city and right in the middle of the bazaar, but is completely isolated from the noise.  We were dropped off directly outside the main door and hurried inside.  I got the impression I was not supposed to be there, but it was worth the risk.  The inside is magnificent and completely unique.  I have been in many Mosques throughout the world, but this one, ironically located in one of the most tumultuous areas in the world, was absolutely peaceful.

Inside the Jamia Masjid

We roamed around the Mosque until we garnered some uncomfortable looks and departed for the surrounding bazaar.  There were the typical stores and roadside trolleys that you see all over India, but this area has a flavor that is distinct to Kashmir.  Just a little more interesting and exotic than your average sub continent market. 

After a few minutes of absorbing the sights and sounds of a market that has been around for hundreds of years, we drove across town to the two famous gardens in Srinagar: Shalimar and Nishat.  Both gardens were built in their current form by the Moguls, but the origins of Shalimar predate the Mogul invasion to the ancient Hindu kings around 79AD.  Both are absolutely gorgeous even in the December gray and chill.   

In the center of Srinagar, there is a large lake that serves as the life-blood of the city.  Around it, the city of Srinagar grew from its early beginnings and then during the British Raj, the city grew into the lake, literally.  To circumvent property growth restriction imposed on them by the Maharaja of Kashmir, the British began to build lavish houseboats and lived on the lake rather than around it.  This created a new water-city that survives today replete with grocery boats and small islands to raise livestock.   Also, many stores are only accessible by water taxi, so an entire commercial center has emerged within the houseboat community.  Over the last 50 years, during times of peace, this was the ultimate destination for Indians and staying on a houseboat was considered the superlative treat to escape the heat of Delhi and Bombay.  Unfortunately, the tension with Pakistan and the subsequent militancy have all but killed the tourist industry and many of the once immaculate houseboats have fallen into disrepair. 

We grabbed a boat and toured around the lake.  The boats are long and narrow and have comfortable lounge seats covered with big fluffy pillows.  The main body of the boat is covered and the oarsman or motorman stand on the back.  It is actually a great way to spend a day.  We cruised the open lake for a short while and took in the sights of the surrounding Himalayas before making our way into the backwater streets of the boat community.  It has a kind of alternative feel to it for a westerner, but it is a very mainstream life for the people of Srinagar.  The Ski Shop Owner knew many of the shopkeepers and we stopped to chat and drink tea.  It was a great afternoon.   Did I mention the amazing hospitality of the people of Kashmir?

Boats on the lake 

Note the fort in  the background overlooking the lake 

Shabby without the chic

Commerce on the lake

Livestock on the lake  

The grocery boat

Boats in the shadow of the Himalayas

As the afternoon winter sun began to retreat behind the imposing surrounding mountains, we made our way to the hotel.  The Grand Palace, which at the time was the only western hotel in Srinagar, was set up like a fortress.  It began life as the Maharaja’s palace in the 1910, but was converted in the 1950’s to a hotel, but has lost none of its royal feel.  Surrounded by high walls and long greens, you can image the Maharaja’s personal army standing guard on the parameter.  The Ski Shop Owner dropped me off and after I thank him profusely, he set off back up the mountain. 

I checked into the hotel and had my first shower in 4 days.  It felt good.  I also had not eaten since that fateful lunch, but my appetite had not returned, so I passed on dinner and took a quick walk around the property.  The hotel was almost completely empty.  Apparently, December was not the time to visit Srinagar. It seemed even more desolate as my footsteps echoed in the long marble corridors.  The property sat at the base of a mountain and had a commanding view of the city and lake below.  It was a great location.  The entire hotel had well-bred feel to it and even the rooms, tastefully decorated in antiques, had a regal feel.

The Maharaja's Palace

The grounds of the hotel

Secure in my 5-star hotel and at only 6000ft, I collapsed into bed and fell into a coma-like sleep. I had only one more obstacle to navigate, the airport, and it would prove to be no easy task.  

Ski Day

After breakfast, I wondered over the Kashmir-Alpine Ski Shop.  To say it is a ski shop is, well, a bit of an overestimation.  It is a 15x10 shop in a building with three other shops, 2 Tea Stalls and a Carpet Shop.  The aforementioned building was also the entire downtown.  I had been in touch with these guys in planning my excursion and, they being the only facsimile of a commercial ski outfit within 5,000 miles, I thought I would say hello.  After all, I came to ski India. 

Downtown Gulmarg
Note the ski shop on the far right

I arrived in the morning and met the owner.   In his late 50s, he was a thin and engaging fellow.  He warmly greeted me with a large toothy smile and after a few minutes, we were talking over tea like we were old friends.  His easy and disarming manner, though, hid a very sharp business sense.  As I got to know him over the next few days, he continued to impress me with his small, but focused operation. He had identified the potential in Gulmarg many years ago and had established himself as the go-to guy for all things skiing in the region.  He has a partner in Whistler, Canada that fields all the emails and maintained the website, while he relaxes in his little shop and entertains the folks once they arrived in his personal paradise.  He had a natural talent at being a gracious host and understood the western skier far better than most big Colorado resorts. 

My intention was simply to enjoy the day poking around the area and taking it easy, but the temptation of the mountain was too strong and soon I was convinced to take a try at the towering mountain.  The owner hooked me up with a pair of pontoon skis, built for powder, and his son as a guide and off we went to the highest gondola in the world.  Gulmarg get a ton of snow each year, so much, in fact, that they sometimes have to burrow out of their homes.  At the moment, though, we had about 3 feet, so there was some consternation about whether the gondola would run or not.  In the end, they let us go.  I wish they hadn’t.

Waiting for the Gondola to open.
We were the only two on the mountain

We got to the top and shuffled out on to the steep incline.  This was my first attempt at using pontoon skis and this was not the terrain to learn a new skill.  We were already way over my pay-grade even if I had familiar equipment.  We skied down some shoots and into the forest backcountry.  The guide cut his way through the brush, channeled through boulders the size of Buicks and dropped through narrow shoots to the terrain below.  I followed tentatively.   At one point, we actually had to forge a stream.  This was really backcountry skiing. 

Let us recap for a moment.  I am now at roughly 14,000 feet, strapped to the biggest, heaviest skis I have ever used, pushing through terrain that I would never attempt in North America … grinning like a child! It was an absolute blast. One of those moments that you know you are experiencing something few others will ever.  It was also unbelievably, physically exhausting.  Lets face it, I was 40 and not in the best shape. 

Skiing through a village with my ski sherpa

We skied for the good part of the day and retired back to the Ski Shop for some Tea and conversation.  I removed my boots and sat around with the crew for a few hours – mostly because I did not have the strength to move.  I was absolutely knackered.  After a spell, hunger finally got the better of me and I stiffly walked the 100 yards back to the hotel to have a late lunch. 

In Kashmir, the locals are really proud of their lamb.  You hear all sorts of stories about Kashmiri holidays during which they serve 5 different types of lamb all prepared differently and all incredible.  So for lunch, I went with the lamb.  What you do not hear in all the stories is that they prepare their lamb in a vat of oil of which the western stomach may not be accustomed.  By 7:00pm, the combination of the lamb, the altitude and sheer exhaustion joined forces to create to worst stomach-head ache in the history of mankind.  I thought I was actually going to die except that the frequent trips to the bathroom reminded me I was unfortunately still alive. 

The bathroom was decorated in a mid-century combination of faded white tiles and yellow-green amenities.   In my condition, I was not concerned about the décor, though. What I was concerned about was the complete lack of heat in the bathroom.  There was an open electric heater next to the shower that no longer worked (probably because it electrocuted someone) and the heat from the stove did not quite reach.  This was very bad, as porcelain is not comfortable when it has been sitting in 35-degree temperatures – not comfortable at all.

I was now a prisoner in my room, as I could not venture more than 5 minute from my bathroom.  There were moments where I thought I was getting over it, but whatever “it” was had a sick sense of humor and without warning would send me running for the icy-cold toilet to blow mud with such violence, I feared for the plumbing.  It was agony. 

As I suffered inside, the Hotel staff gathered for their daily meeting outside

The nights were worse.  The cold would creep into my room like Michael Jackson in a kindergarten (too soon?).  You would be fine one minute and the next you would be chucking logs on the fire like your life depending on it.  It was a vicious cycle.  I was lucky to have brought a good book, as it kept my mind off the battle with the constant cold in the room and the freezing toilet seat.  By morning, it was all I could do to hold on to my sanity. 

The next day was spent watching bad Indian soap operas, courtesy of the VCR in the reception area, and well, running to the bathroom.  Word got around town pretty fast that I was not feeling well and many people came by to visit.  The one thing that I really did take away from Kashmir is that the people were genuine and caring.  I had not known the ski shop owner for more than a day, but he came by several times to see if I needed anything and to simply chat. 

I was also visited several times by the man who fills the woodbin, the woodsman as I call him.  The woodsman was old, very old, but several times a day, he would swing by to deliver the precisely chopped wood for my stove from a wicker basket he toted on his back.  He had leathery, dark brown skin and barely had 10 teeth left in his mouth.  He would always come in with a huge toothless smile, drop off the logs and ask if I wanted my legs massaged.   I declined, but it was the thought that counted.

I made it though another night, but the lack of sleep was starting to take its toll.  In the morning, the owner came by to see if I was well enough to take a hike in the forest.  I felt much better, but I could only image “it” returning when I was deep in the woods.  I politely declined.  I also realized that I needed to leave, as I was never going to recover fully at this altitude, so I made the decision that I would leave the next morning and head to Srinagar.  I spoke to the Ski Shop owner about getting down the mountain and he volunteered not only to drive me, but also give me a tour of the city. I happily accepted and resigned myself to fight through one last night in the Himalayan cold.