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.  

Kashmir - Night into Day

(Just a quick note - I posted two blogs today, so make sure you read the earlier posting "Kashmir - The Long Walk" before this one, so you stay in chronological order)   


The cold seeped into the bed like someone had poured cool liquid between the blankets.  Disoriented, I woke up and peered around in the darkness.  The only light was the red glow of almost extinguished fire peering from the stove.  Shit!  I shuffled myself out of the chilled bed into the breath-revealing cold and tried in agony to get the fire going again.  I stuffed the top hole with wood and opened the airflow hole to allow in the air. The wood did not catch. I took a few deep breaths and blew into the hole and although there were the promising signs of the coals getting redder, I could not gain any fire-traction.  After about the third exhale, my head went spinning as the thin air decided to remind me that I was hovering around 10,000 feet.  Freezing, I fumbled around the room and found a magazine and began waving it at the fire.  Slowly at first, but then with earnest, the fire came to life.  So to did the accompanying smoke.  In the end, though, the fire was going and I pushed through the smoky room and climbed back into bed.

Apparently, fire does not heat the room instantly, so although I was in bed with a fire burning, it was still freak’n freezing. I grabbed all the blankets I could find and piled them on top of me, settled into my cocoon and waited for sleep to come.  As the shivering slowly subsided, the combination of 4 blankets and the absolute board-like bed began to compact my shoulders as I tried to heat myself in the fetal position. I knew the blankets were heavy, but upon further inspection realized that these blanket were the old, wool type that you see in WWII movies – gray, itchy and about 50lbs a piece.  Every time I would start to fade, the searing pain in my shoulder would wake me up.  In the end, the combination of jet-lag, cold and weight prevented me from getting any real sleep that night and by 4:00am, I had given up and huddled near the fire and read my book.  By the way, if you have never read “The life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid” by Bill Bryson, it is a fantastic read – even if you are not trapped in a shack in the Himalayas. 

I waited patiently for 7:00am to roll around, so I could emerge from my hut for breakfast.  I was told that there was a restaurant just past the reception, but like most things on this trip, the term may not always meet expectations.  I suited up not really knowing what to expect when I opened the door.  There was a window in the bungalow, but it looked out into the woods, so I expected to see nothing but trees.  I was very wrong.   As I emerged from my hut, a postcard perfect mountain scene opened up in front of me.  I had never seen anything like it.    

My bungalow is tucked behind the one you see.
You can just see the roofline peeking out from behind.

A room with a view

Looking from the Hotel

Wider view from the restaurant
Somewhere beyond the trees is where we were dropped off the previous night

Looking out on the highest Golf Course in the World.
The Brits would no be without their golf - even at 10,000 feet.

To put things into scale, those mountains are another 4000 to 5000 feet from the town rising in almost all directions.  From the top, you can actually see the K2.... and the Pakistani artillery installations.  Did I mention, Gulmarg is roughly 12 km from the Pakistani boarder, although I doubt anyone is coming over the boarder from that direction.  

I meandered over to breakfast slowly, enjoying the view with some validation of my choice to come to Kashmir.  With a renewed sense of purpose I entered the restaurant.  It was exactly 34 degrees inside and deserted.  Not a good sign.  Still with an optimistic outlook, I took a seat.  The restaurant was a continuation of the room decor - thin, wall-to-wall rose colored carpet with Kashmiri accent rugs. On the walls, were a variety of animal skins, old British Raj memorabilia and some old paintings.  There were two large stoves in the middle of the room that, although surrounded by wood, were not lit.  Slowly, the staff emerged from the kitchen.  The first two men acknowledged me with a good-morning, but went right to work on the stove.  The second and third men approached my table with an oral menu.  These four guys served me breakfast every day and during that time, I actually got to know them since we were the only five people up in Kashmir at 7:00am.   One of them had been working for the hotel since 1967.

The restaurant
The two large stoves were the only source of heat

My new Kashmiri morning friends

I was fed and invigorated by my new surroundings.  I had made it half way around the world, up a mountain, through a forest in the dark and survived the cold of the Himalayan night. What more could Kashmir throw at me?

One should never ask!

Kashmir - The Long Walk

It was completely black.  The kind of darkness that is so heavy, that the mere absence of light dampens all sound.  I could tell it was snowing, but only because I could feel the flakes hit my face.  As my eyes adjusted, I could see I was standing in about a foot of light, fluffy powder, but as I began to walk, the snow was so light, it offered no resistance to my boots cutting through the frozen blanket.  It felt like the earth had been covered in packing peanuts.  I scanned the emptiness and gambled that the depression in the landscape to my left was actually a road disappearing into the abyss of the forest.  I grabbed my bags, slung them over my shoulder and began the trek into the heart of darkness.

The three Sikhs who had proved to be so helpful up to now, proved to be less so in this Indo-Alpine environment.  I was now the guide. At first glance, it seemed my chosen path was leading away from civilization, but as we took stock of our new environment, we quickly realized there were no signs of civilization behind or in front of us.  We followed the winding road in the darkness for about 30 minutes in nervous silence with only the "little voice inside our heads" to keep us company.  Since my "little voice" was already 0 for 1, I was really wishing I had a better company.  Soon my thought turned to an article I had read a few days earlier about how the people of this region are very proud of their bear and snow leopard population.  Not comforting. Less comforting was the sound of the snow monkeys in the trees overhead.  My "little voice" was now convincing me that these denizens of the alpine forest were positioning themselves for a deadly and decisive attack. I really needed to get a new "little voice inside my head."   

We continued for about an hour winding our way through the forest - up and down small inclines and around blind turns.  It was not too cold for me, as the ski-gear that so recently had increased my chances of kidnapping, was now keeping me at the perfect temperature.   On the other hand, the fact that in 8 hours, I had gone from 600 feet to well over 10,000 feet was proving to be a hindrance.  I could actually feel my heart pounding in my ears.  The overall assessment was grim:  It was cold, dark, remote, snowing and area was crawling with man-maiming animals.  Hum?  I don't know if it was the altitude or the fact that I had 5 hours of sleep in the last 36, but I was pretty optimistic about my chances .....  of surviving the walk to a hotel.  Seriously, it wasn't like I had plan an excursion to the roof of the world, I had simply planned for a few days of skiing…. in India…. in Kashmir…. in the Himalayas. In retrospect, this is probably when I should have reassessed my vacation assessment abilities.   

The Hotel Highland Park
#1 rated hotel in Gulmarg, India!

Finally, after about 1 hour and a half and several dead ends, we actually arrived at the Hotel Highlands Park tired, cold and hungry.  After trudging through a series of dimly lit outbuildings, we found one with a light on.  The reception area was quite a narrow space with a high counter at one end and a shelf with a VCR at the other. The elderly gentleman manning the counter was very gracious and after completing the necessary paperwork, he dispatched a porter to escort me to my "room."   I thanked my fellow travelers for their potentially lifesaving help, grabbed a photo with them and headed out the door to my new abode. 

My new traveling companions upon arrival

Internet information is sparse on the Hotel Highland Park and adjectives range from cozy to rustic to charming - very little is mentioned about old, shabby and generally uncomfortable. Built by the British Army as a place to escape the heat in a time before air conditioning, the Inn is actually a series of bark-covered duplexes scattered randomly along the hillside.  I assume the duplexes have been updated since they were built, but any updates were clearly done by the British before they left in the 1940s.  

We trekked for a few minutes along a newly shoveled path until we came to a bungalow on the far side of the property.  There were two rooms in this particular bungalow and a houseboy's quarters in the middle.  The door sat atop a series of concrete stairs and rather than a knob had a slide bolt with a padlock.  It looked more like the entrance to a prison camp barracks than a room at an inn.  The Porter fiddled with the lock for a few minutes before the ancient mechanism popped and we were in.  

The bungalow in the daylight
Note the lock and bark

The room was decorated in early "WTF!”  The backdrop was a faded rose-colored wall-to-wall carpet on top of which a yellow, gray and black accent carpet was laid.  The curtains were brown and beige and the accent chairs were silver. I was on the verge of an epileptic fit.  The centerpiece was a “queen” size bed that consisted of two single beds pushed together, separately made and united only by the bed frame.  But the pièce de résistance was the stove. 

Feel free to steal any decorating tips you need!

Note the electricals are on the outside of the wall

The only source of heat

Set on a lime green carpet of its own, the stove was a smallish, Indian version of the potbelly stove used by the settlers.  This one, though, was upright and had a small diameter hole in which you shoved wood on the top and an equally small hole in the front by which you regulated the airflow.  On top, was a large brass urn full of water – this was the humidifier.  The houseboy dropped my gear on the floor and went to work lighting the stove.  He shoved several pieces of specifically cut wood into the hole followed by gasoline.  The result was predictable.  After the flames retired back into the stove, he explained that I needed to keep putting the wood into the hole or the fire would go out.  Really?  It is not magic Kashmiri fire?  Disappointed, I nodded. 

The Humidifier

I unpacked my gear and collapsed into bed.  I fell fast asleep and, alas, the non-magic fire went out.  Burr!

Thanksgiving Greetings from Sri Lanka

Olga and I were sitting on the beach here in Sri Lanka, as one does in Sri Lanka, thinking about those folks back in the USA and what they are doing today!  Eating turkey, watching football, arguing?  Whatever it is your family does to kick off the holiday season.  Anyway, we thought we would wish you a Happy Thanksgiving and show you a little of what we were doing this Thanksgiving Day.

Drinks on the beach

These coconuts were actually shanked earlier by this guy.  He shimmied up the tree, whacked a few of them down and shimmied down.  No safety harness, no net, just a rope tied between his legs.  

Coconut Hunter at work earlier in the day

The Inn is unique to say the least.  There are only twelve suits and all the bathrooms are al fresco more or less.

This is our bathroom - completely open to the ocean
There is a plunge pool at the end of the steps

Reverse shot of the above picture
Entire back wall is shower completely exposed to the ocean view

This is the main courtyard view from our room.  Note the hammocks - they were well used. 

I think this sums it up!
  Olga and a cup of tea in the old Dutch city of Galle.
Relaxing!

So happy Thanksgiving from Sri Lanka and enjoy your turkey.  We will be having Indian Ocean Lobster!

Sorry about the break in the Kashmir story

I must apologize for the long time between segments of the Kashmir story, but we are currently in Sri Lanka (more on that later) and the upload speed for the internet is measured in bps and not high ones at that.  All my pictures of Kashmir were taken with a very high resolution camera and are 5.8 MB per picture.  Due to this, I am having trouble uploading said pictures with the story and have made the hard decision to suspend publishing the story until I can publish the pictures along with it.  I have been receiving a lot of mail on the long interval, so hang in there and I will resume publishing when I return to Delhi.

Sorry!

Kashmir - The Journey Up the Mountain

As we pulled out of the airport into the streets of Srinagar, I knew this was going to be a long ride.  Traffic in the city center was precarious and my young driver clearly wanted to make this trip as quickly as possible.  As we weaved in and out of the slushy streets, I began to get used to the cadence, eased my death grip on the handle above the door and began to take in the scenery.

Srinagar is not what you would call a modern city.  The streets are lined with indiscernible buildings that could have been built in the 1760s or the 1960s.  Every intersection had a military post with an Indian soldier barricaded behind sandbags and barbed wire. Small helmeted faces looked out from behind these mini-fortresses down the barrel of a large, mounted machine gun ever vigilant for the out-of-the-ordinary.  The city generally had a gray, late autumn, wet feel to it without the holiday spirit.  

As we drive, the density of buildings began to loosen and the countryside emerged.  This is when you could really get a sense of Kashmir.  Although still hazy with snowfall, I could now begin to make out the outline of the Himalayas in the distance.  As well, the landscape began to change into large fields dotted with the occasion clump of buildings selling the necessary wares for life in the Kashmiri countryside.  This was the real Kashmir - no politics, no militancy, no uprisings -  just people living their lives.

Every so often, we would happen upon a town in which the generally speedy traffic would grind to a halt and vehicular pandemonium would break loose. It would begin innocuously enough with one car trying to make a turn or pushing its way into traffic, but then one impatient move would lead to another and in a matter of seconds, the whole flow of a traffic solidifies into one large, apoplectic mass. The more gridlocked the road became, the more cars would try to circumvent the chaos creating a sort of automotive Rubik's Cube. Lane direction became a memory as cars faced each other head on with no room for maneuvering.  The driver took all of this in stride and as quickly as it appeared, the gridlock dissolved as if a large log had been removed from a stream.  The flow was restored and we were off again.  

Village Traffic - better than a Disney ride! 

When we passed through the larger towns, my feeling of remoteness was reinforced.  As we sat in traffic, men dressed in their pheran's stared into the SUV as if memorized by my strange skin color and facial features.  Apparently, and with good reason, not a lot of Westerns pass this way.  The staring was less threatening, than it was unsettling.  I felt like a new species in a zoo.  A friend of mine said that the Muslims in Iraq did the same thing, but a 50cal machine gun apparently is incentive to overt one's gaze. I did not have one handy, so I endured as the new traveling curiosity.       

The locals as we passed through a village

The road had opened up and was becoming slightly more inclined.  Feeling as if we were finally making progress toward the mountain, I began to feel more relaxed.  We had been on the road for a little over an hour and I was starting to get to the point in the trip where you nod off.  Remember, I had flown half way around the world, slept 5 hours and then had been on full alert for the last 8 hours.  I was exhausted.  Just as I began to drift into blissful sleep, I felt the car stop.  

I opened my eyes to find we had stopped in a small village at the base of the mountain.  It was dusk and the snow was really coming down.  The village consisted of a few exposed brick and concrete buildings surrounding a parking lot full of idling, slightly rusting, Indian-made, Tata jeeps.  The driver, in his broken English, grunted and gestured that he can go no further due to the snow and not having chains.  Motioning like a pecking bird, he pointed to the 5 or 6 Jeeps in the parking lot that had chains encouraging me to get out.  I sat there and stared in disbelief.  He, then, hopped out of the vehicle and began unloading my stuff.  Before I could say anything, he was gone.  Are you freak'n kidding me!!!  It was like a well-planned hostage dump.  I stood for a moment in the middle of this makeshift parking lot dumbfounded and, to be honest, a little concerned.  At least in Srinagar, people spoke English, but out here the prevalent languages are Urdu and Kashmiri.  Not too many university classes in Urdu these days.  

Once again, I quickly took stock of the situation and realize that I needed to get up the mountain.  There were several jeeps parked in a line.  Some had passengers and some were empty with just a driver.  I approached the first driver and in my best Urdu accent said "Gulmarg?"  He shook his head no.  The second was the same.  As I approached the third, I heard a voice in English call out.  It came from the backseat of a packed jeep that just pulling out.  I approach the SUV and the gentleman in the back asked if I was looking for transport to Gulmarg.  Without hesitation, I climbed into the front seat, paid my 100 rupees and we pulled out away from the place where I was sure I was going to be "last seen."   

The first few miles were uneventful and I began to take stock of my fellow travelers.  In the seat behind me there were three Sikhs including the gentleman who had called out.  They all spoke perfect English.  I soon discovered that they were businessmen from Jammu who had been in Srinagar for business.  Having never seen snow, they though they would take this opportunity to go to Gulmarg and see winter.  Behind them, in the third row, two local Kashmiris had wedged themselves in the small seat.  They were dressed in the traditional pheran and did not utter a word.  

The sun was going down and snow was falling on the surprisingly well-maintained road.  It was a narrow, mountain road for sure, but the pavement was sound and the usually prevalent potholes of the Indian roads were absent.  As we progressed, the hairpins turns increases and you could feel a slight slid in the rear as we navigated each switchback. About 20 minutes out, we came around a turn and although the driver turned the wheel, the jeep did not.  We slid off the road, onto the shoulder and came to an abrupt stop against a large boulder.  It was all in slow motion.  

The jeep came to rest slightly askew as the shoulder sloped away from the road at about a 30 degree angle.  I scrambled out of the car and took stock of the situation.  The jeep was resting on a stone about the size of a dinning room table.  Luckily, we were not going too fast and the rock was enough to stop the momentum.  This was good, because behind the stone, the was about 3 feet of shoulder and then a 50 foot drop-off through some lovely Kashmiri pine trees and then on to the rocky basin below.  The two local guys scurried out of the back door and after seeing the situation, buggered off down the road.  Apparently, they knew something we did not.  

The driver removed some old nylon rope from the back and we, the remaining 4 passengers, pulled the jeep off the rock while our driver piloted the beast back on to the road.  It was the first time I had a chance to really look at the vehicle.  It was dark blue and the wheel-wells were slightly rusted.  The tires were jeep tires, but the tread had been well used, albeit not completely gone.  The vehicle had chains on the tires, but the damn things were way too small for the truck tires and were held on by a bungee cord and some twine.   

Now a normal, rational person would have assessed the situation, deduced that the road will only get more treacherous the higher we go and bailed like my two Muslim friends.  I was neither normal, nor rational at this point.   My logic was I did not fly around the world, jet through India and drive this far to be turned back by the very likely potential of death at the hands of a 20 year old, inexperienced Kashmiri driver and a 30 year old, poorly maintained, 2/3rd chained jeep!  In all honesty, the logic really did seem sound at the time.  I convinced everyone to get back in the car and we would complete the journey - albeit at a much slower pace.  The second half of the trip took well over 3 hours, but was without incident.  

We finally arrived in Gulmarg in what seemed like the middle of the night.  It was pitch black and the snow was coming down in earnest.  We stopped in a large clearing which reminded me of a ski lodge parking lot minus the ski lodge or any signs of life.  My new Sikh friends asked the driver where the Highland Inn was and the driver pointed to dim beacon across a huge expanse of black.  I guestimated it was about a half mile trek.  I was wrong!

Kashmir - The Arrival

As you approach Chandigarh by air, you have a clear view of the Himalayan Mountain Range off in the very near distance.  It got me thinking about the time I decided to go to Kashmir.  It is a long story, so I decided to do it in installments. Think of it as my Thanksgiving gift to you!

-----------------------------------

Several years ago, I was reading an article in Men's Journal about some guys (professionals) that went skiing in India.  Men's Journal is a great magazine if you are interesting in outdoorsy activities that are unusual, but not entirely insane.  Anyway, the article described this yet undiscovered, winter wonderland in the Himalayas which the snow was perfect, the people were wonderful and the ski runs were world class.  I remember thinking how awesome it would be to be one of the few to experience it.

The reading of the article also corresponded to my re-discovery of skiing.  After a 25-year hiatus, I readopted the sport of my childhood.  We spent a wonderful weekend in Telluride that year where, at first hesitantly and then relentlessly, I reacquired some lost Alpine skills.  Over the next few years, I took full advantage of working for a Lichtenstein-based company and headed to Switzerland and Austria every chance I got. With a change of jobs, came a change in location and in moving to Oregon, I acquired a mountain of my own which I used almost every weekend in the winter.  I was clearly addicted to the sport.

In 2007, after moving to Minneapolis, India appeared on my travel schedule.  It was late December and, remembering the article and forgetting my age, the "little voice in my head" told me this would be a once in a lifetime experience.  I mean, how many times would I get the chance to go to India (I have since fired the "little voice in my head").  So I packed up my ski gear, along with my suit and tie and headed to India.

I arrived in Delhi on a gray and hazy December night.  It was 2:30am and I was exhausted and nervous. I would spend one night (or a partial night) in Delhi and catch a domestic flight to Srinagar in the morning.  I checked into the Imperial Hotel and went to sleep.  The next morning, the hotel car dropped me off at the domestic airport and I began my adventure!

The domestic airport in Delhi back then was a smallish terminal, poorly lit, overcrowded and under-manned.  In summary, it was very disorienting and a little intimidating.  I checked in, passed through security and waited for my flight.  After a 3-hour delay due to snow in Srinagar and threats of cancelation, we finally boarded.  

The flight was quick and we arrived in Srinagar a little over an hour after takeoff.  This was no ordinary airport, though.  As we approached the city, we were informed to close our shades and no pictures were allowed until we were clear of the airport property.  Hum?  We landed and came to a stop roughly a kilometer from the terminal where we exited the plane and walked to the terminal across the runway.  Being the only Business Class passenger, I got to lead the procession.  I entered the baggage claim area and had to fill out forms on my projected daily movements, contact phone numbers and the address of the hotel.  The latter proved to be problematic, as to my recollection, the hotel did not have an address.  Anyway, I filled out what I could, gave my form to the heavily armed guard and exited the airport.  

I walked outside onto a gray slab of cracked cement that overlooked a jumble of small taxis, a few larger taxi SUVs and a lot of soldiers.  What I did not find was the guy with whom I had arranged to ferry me to the mountain village I had read so much about.  This was disconcerting.  I have traveled all over the world and have traveled to some questionable places, but this was only the second time in my life, I actually felt uneasy about my safety (the first was when I got lost in the city of Jerusalem.... at night.  Do you know that Jerusalem is a walled city with only a few exits and a large, angry Muslim population?)  

As I scanned for my escort, I sinking feeling began to take hold in the pit of my stomach.  The daylight was beginning to wane and the snow had begun to fall again, but this is not what had me worried. As I scanned the crowd, I noticed everyone was wearing long, gray, Kashmiri ponchos called pherans, had beards and were sporting the nice skullcaps we usually associate with Muslim terrorist.  I, in contrast, was sporting my best Marmot, high-tech, ski gear, huge Merril boots, a bright red ski cap and was surrounded by luggage and ski gear.  I held my breath and simply waited for the dark van to pull up and the kidnappers to snatch me.  I was not blending.  

After a few tense moments and an internal sigh of "WTF was I thinking coming here," I gathered my resolve and marched over the taxi stand.  I found the uniformed guy that was clearly in charge and told him I wanted to go to Gulmarg.  He laughed a little, looked up at the snow and told me I would be better off waiting until morning.  I thought this was sound advice until he recommended his cousin's house boat - "like a palace..... all the modern stuff..... flat screen TV."  Apparent I had "IDIOT TOURIST" tattooed on my forehead, so I forcefully wiped it off and demanded a taxi.  He obliged and guided me to a blue, Indian-built SUV and a young driver.  I paid the asking fee which was not much, loaded my gear in the back and we were off to Gulmarg ..... or so I thought.  

(Stay tuned for the next installment, "Kashmir - The Journey Up the Mountain")

Diwali -The Festival of Lights (and noise apparently)

Last week was Diwali here in India.  This is the biggest holiday in a country that has 1000 gods and a holiday for each of them.  It is basically the combination of Christmas, New Years and the 4th of July all culminating in one hell-raising night!  Diwali technically is 5 days and is referred to as the festival of lights.  As with almost all Hindu holidays, it celebrates the triumph of good over evil and in some way celebration of said triumph will lead to prosperity.  This specific celebration commemorates the return of Lord Rama along with Sita and Lakshman from their fourteen-year-long exile and the vanquishing the demon-king Ravana. To celebrate the victory and the return of their king the people illuminated the kingdom with earthen oil lamps and lit fireworks.

Like any good modern interpretation of a holiday, this celebration has been hijacked by the retail industry and has transmogrified into a commercial bonanza. Christmas in the US is bad, but image 1 billion people trying to do their last minute shopping.  I can tell you that you have never seen anything like it.  It is best just to stay indoors and hide in the weeks leading up to Diwali.  

The other aspect of Diwali is the illumination piece.  Like Christmas, houses are decorated with loads of string lights in all sorts of colors.  They drape from every building and every house and the amount of lights shows, in some manner, your economic level.  Some are thoughtfully placed, but most hang from the buildings in straight lines like bars on a jail cell.  Overall, though, the impact is nice and it breaks up the usual concrete jungle of Delhi.

Lights in the Neighborhood
(You will have to excuse the dirty lens)

Our Building!

The second part of the illumination is the fireworks.  For this, I was unprepared.  Fireworks are plentiful, cheap and unregulated in India and although they are used liberally throughout the year for various holidays, it is only on Diwali that the 1 billion souls fire their accumulated arsenal at the same time.  In Delhi, we have an unofficial population of roughly 18 million and I can tell you that each and every Delhite spent a month’s salary on explosives.  

Just after sundown the thunderous sound of roman candles and firecracker begins. This slowly builds through the night until the people of Delhi unleash the big guns of starbursts, M250s and fire-spewing, spinney things that, I'm guessing, are outlawed in any country not looking to reduce it's citizenry by incineration.  Things that would only be available to professionally licensed experts, and some that would not, are being ignited by 12 year olds in the streets while the intoxicated parents proudly look on.  For 10 hours, these heart-thumping, explosions continued without pause on the arid streets of Delhi.  I now know how Saddam Hussein must have felt on the first night of "Shock and Awe" - although my guess is that the battering he took was quieter and less dangerous to the general population.  

The fire-spewing, spinney thing.
This is taken from the roof (6 floors up) and is looking down the street about 200 yards.
No fire hazard here!  

In the morning, the entire city was blanketed with an after-battle haze and the smell of used gunpowder.  Used ordinances littered the streets with their brightly colored wrappers singed and torn from the night’s festivities.  Usually, the trash-covered streets of Delhi have a homogeneously gray tone to them, but apparently Diwali brightens up even this aspect of Indian life.  

All in all, it was interesting night.   Olga and I, though, are a little shell-shocked and will be entering treatment for battlefield trauma.