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!