Arrival in Singapore

I had heard the airport was very nice, and it lived up to expectations. Landscaped glassed-in gardens lined both sides of the terminal walkways, and the overhead lights shed a warm glow, illuminating the tastefully-decorated interior. As I walked through the airport, I was baffled to discover that my vision had improved. It took a few seconds for me to realize that it wasn’t my vision, but the lack of haze that I was perceiving. As we approached the inevitable hassle of customs, I was astonished to see that I had my choice of wide-open customs agents to choose from- several times as many available agents as other airports, and no one in line for most of them. And these customs agents were actually friendly- a rarity in any country. With an astonished “that’s it?” we made it through customs with less time than it had taken to exit the plane.

Outside the airport it was time to find a cab. After months of traveling in and out of Delhi, and dealing with the unscrupulous cab drivers who refuse to use their meters and demand ridiculous amounts to take you to your destination, I was skeptical of the cab driver who came up to us outside. I stood there gripping my suitcase with white knuckles wrapped around the handle of my suitcase, ready for a tug-of-war game with a herd of porters who never materialized. Once we were in the air-conditioned Toyota (about the size of a Lexus LS430 but with the no-frill interior of a cab), with an LCD screen taxi meter and a friendly old driver, I could finally drop my guard just a little.

As we left the airport I saw perfectly landscaped streets and trees, and was struck by the absence of people and animals walking, standing, laying everywhere. I kept expecting this to transition to something less… organized… as we left the airport area, but to my surprise it never did. I honestly wonder if the powers that be here contracted with the groundskeepers from Disney to maintain their entire country.

Chinatown

The entrance to Chinatown- all set for Chinese New Year

In Singapore- a city seemingly based on a combination of cultures melded from the surrounding countries, and somehow whitewashed of all of them with its modern skyline and clean-swept utopian streets - I found it hard to single out a unified cultural identity, until I went to Chinatown at the end of my first day. Large cartoon characters decorated the streets in anticipation of the following week’s Chinese New Year. I was almost disappointed that I was a week too early, until I walked through the hot Chinatown bazaar with stall upon stall of counterfeit merchandise. Here though I must give credit where it’s due- the items looked far more genuine than the “Nikey” (complete with a backwards “N”) jacket I saw on the back of a cyclist on the way to work one morning in Delhi. Odd though that they could all be sold so openly in a city where dropping a gum wrapper on the ground earns a hefty fine, vandalism as we all know from what happened to that guy in the 90’s gets people caned, and where an Australian was hung about three months ago for drug trafficking. Not that I’m advocating any of the above, but it is strange to me how a country can pick and choose what constitutes a major vice and what doesn’t so arbitrarily. Counterfeit items- ok. Jaywalking- big penalty. Prostitution- that was ok also, according to the cab driver who kept trying to convince a friend and me to visit some “girls he knew”. Still, the backpack I bought at the market was pretty cool. I guess the lesson is choose your vice and then travel accordingly.

Sentosa Island- Singapore

Cable cars to Sentosa Island

The sensation of being in a Disney park continued when we arrived at Sentosa Island. An unabashed tourist destination accessible by cable car from the mainland, this place is like Epcot without the big white ball. In its place you’ll find their gargantuan statue of the Merlion, the top half being a lion and the bottom half being a fish (yeah I wondered what the hell that’s about too). Our cab took us to a hilltop where we purchased a pass that included a ride on the cable cars and some of the attractions on the island. After stopping at the best koi pond I’ve ever seen we boarded the cars to the island. It was the first cable car system I had seen that didn’t exist to whisk White Trash across Six Flags Amusement Park, and in the true multi-national sprit of Singapore it included a box with buttons for several major languages. As the voice-coached lady spoke on the history of Sentosa Island, we soon became restless and fought over pushing the buttons next to the letters and symbols of the other languages.

The main tourist attraction was Underwater World- an underground aquarium with the main attraction being a circular underwater tunnel with a moving walkway, where you can stand or walk amidst the camera-happy tourists pointing their lenses straight up overhead. If it wasn’t for digital cameras, Kodak would be making a lot of money here.

Also on our trip was a 4D movie where we sat in big chairs and wore special glasses. We sat in the front row and watched a 15 minute pirate movie and as large sand crabs ran out of the screen towards us and down towards our legs, clicking their claws, something under our chairs whacked at the back of our legs, prompting everyone in the audience to jump and yank their knees up to their chins. Also in store for us was a swarm of bees that triggered the chairs to blow sharp puffs at the back of our necks, making us laugh and wince together. By the time the big spider was hanging down from the screen pinching its fangs at us, the two young Japanese children in the row behind us were completely terrified, while their parents tried to tell them it was only a movie. I have to admit screaming children in public get on my nerves, but before I could even give their parents a “take them AWAY from me!” kind of look, I was struck by how funny the situation was, and couldn’t stop laughing at what a perfect machine for horrifying children that the good folks at Sentosa Island had unwittingly designed. The parents grabbed them from their chairs and took them out, probably never to enter a movie theater again for another 5 years.

After returning to Delhi after our weekend trip to Singapore, and the cleanliness and organization and beauty, Soraya and I rode in our cab through a croweded dusty market street on the way home- one we recognized from our daily trips home from the office. We looked at each other, and we realized at the same time that we were both feeling something quite unexpected- a sense of relief at being home in Delhi again! As the boxy springy cab swerved around potholes and people and half-sleeping bulls, the Oz-like city of Singapore a 5 hour flight behind us, I felt like I was back in the real world again.

Pictures from Singapore

Koi Pond- Makes me want one of my own!

Pictures from Singapore

Trip through underwater tunnel at Underwater World

Pictures from Singapore

A jellyfish at Underwater World.

Always thought it would be cool to have a pet jellyfish. Bet they're hard to train though.

Pictures from Singapore

Crab from Underwater World at Sentosa Island.

Pictures from Singapore

View of the city as we returned via cable car from Sentosa.

Suit Made in Delhi

My Kind of Shopping

At first, I think you can gather, I didn’t find shopping here to be that enjoyable. The stores I’m used too back at home, where I know exactly where to go to find exactly what I want, were nowhere to be found. The first markets I was taken to was on the day following the pre-Diwali terrorist market bombings, and the experience was more unnerving than exciting. Following that I was dragged to the street markets at Janpath with a couple of girls from my company, where they shopped for inexpensive jewelry, purses, bed sheets, pillowcases, and all other sorts of things I couldn’t really give a damn about.

Finally I found something fun for me as a guy to shop for. The main thing, which I do every weekend, is make trips to the tailor. It didn’t seem that exciting at first, in fact the picture I had of my head was a stuffy establishment old businessmen lined up for an 80-year old tailor to fit them for a tux. I had intended to have something made here, but was planning on putting it off until the end of my trip. After a day of shopping at Janpath, my companions decided to stop by a tailor to “get a shirt copied”. That didn’t sounds so interesting- what’s the point of getting a copy of a shirt you already have? We walked into the Grover’s Tailoring House at Khan Market, a narrow shop with a long counter on the left, and stacks and stacks of cloth on the right and left. Mostly wool and cashmere on the left if I recall, and fabrics for shirts on the right. One of the salesmen brought out two buttoned shirts, one with a label and one without. The shirts were completely different in cloth pattern and texture, the main similarity being in the overall manner in which they were sewn. One of the girls dropped off another store-bought shirt and asked, “Can you make one like this, but make the collar bigger here, and the waist smaller here,” indicating a couple of places on the shirt she wanted changed in the new copy.

I realized this was perfect for me- I’d be able to walk out with not just a copy of what I already had, but something completely new, with a shirt I brought as a foundation for how to make it, but customized to how I want it. I’m a hard guy to fit; tall with long arms and wide shoulders, but a narrow waist (narrow again thanks to my new diet in India, and from food poisoning back in December). Shirts bought from home end up either having sleeves that are too short, or long enough sleeves but are too poofy at the waist. Neither look is what I’m going for! So I brought in some Express Men shirts, with designs I like- the way the collars are shaped, French cuffs, and some with double-buttoned collars and longer cuffs with two buttons that both fasten lengthwise along your wrist instead of one. The way they were made was what I wanted to keep; but I also had them take measurements and make the sleeves a bit longer and the waist a little smaller. I also have them made in different fabrics for work, for going out at night, or for both; they don’t resemble each other, other than in how they’re made. Finally nice shirts that I don’t have to spend all day tucking into my waist because they’re too big around for me! The price- somewhere around $30 - $35 US each. Not cheap by standards in India, but about the same price as I’d pay for an ok-fitting shirt back home, in a plainer material.

I’ve also had a suit made here from 100% merino wool. Everything about it is custom to how I wanted it- I started off looking at some designs from a catalog, and choosing the features I wanted; then from my shoulders to my ankles they measured and made it to fit me. It cost around $350-$400 US, and a suit could be purchased at most department stores back home for that, but not one like this.

There are a couple of other tailors I patronize here as well- the finish isn’t quite as exacting, but for $12 a shirt it’s a steal. Plus the hotel laundry will f’ up your clothes here sometimes- break buttons, or they’ll get worn around the edges- so I’m saving some of my Grover’s-made shirts until I get home to Atlanta. And there’s something I didn’t envision having made that I enjoyed getting- a custom leather jacket with a motocross-style collar. I started with a magazine photo of a jacket I liked, and they took my measurements and made a well-fitting jacket based on the picture. That place is Ravi Leather at Palaka Bhawan, if anyone wants to know. Palaka Bhawan is not nearly 1/10th as attractive of a market as Khan Market, and when someone took me there I asked “what the hell are we doing here?” but in India, like anywhere else (but maybe more so), you pay for the location, and when you venture out from where only the foreigners shop, you can find good prices. I’ll probably go back and have another jacket made. Someone else is getting leather pants made, that’s a little too out there for me… but who knows, I've got a month left to change my mind.

Based on reading this, you’d think I came to Delhi and used it mainly as a launch pad to travel to other places. And I have been quite the jet setter, but my life here after all is mainly in Delhi. What did I name this blog again??? So here’s a novel idea, I’ll take a break from the vacation reporting and talk about what it’s like day to day here.

So where to start… how about the one consistent thing I do each weekend- shopping. That sounds really trite doesn’t it? But there is a lot to shopping in Delhi- I have procured hand-made rugs waiting to sprawl out across my condo’s hardwood floors; silk and cashmere shawls for friends back home; marble boxes and coasters inlaid with semi-precious stones to adorn my living room- and hopefully not gather too much dust. And the best thing of all- custom clothing, from white linen pants for the beach to a merino wool pinstriped suit that would be suitable for pulling off a mob hit at the finest Italian joint in New York.

Let’s start with the kind of shopping you don’t want to do- or at least, you don’t want to do too much of. These are the stores which some of us call the “Gora Stores”. Gora would be the Hindi word for, well, me. Basically the word used to describe foreigners. It isn’t the name for “white” as I had originally thought it to be (so when I asked at a tailor once for a shirt made from “gora cloth”, they might have taken me to be some kind of Silence of the Lambs freak). So I’m not sure exactly what it means, other than that I’m an example of it.

If you’d like to visit a Gora Store, you don’t even have to ask. All you have to do is jump in one of the black and green cabs, and you may end up there whether you want to go or not. Everyone should go at least once, but don’t go crazy when you get there. As cool and unique and Indian as the things they sell appear- if you buy them and pay their prices, to your eventual chagrin you’ll find the same items at market after market, at three stores in a row on Janpath road, for a fraction of the price (once you haggle and haggle, or just do what I do, bring a friend who’s from here). So if you haven’t figured it out yet- Gora Stores are tourist shops. In them you’ll find racks upon racks of shawls (anything above $5 they call “pashmina”, the definition of which seems to be up to interpretation). If you think the ultra-fine wool known as pashmina in the US, which can cost hundreds of dollars for a shawl, is the same thing as a $30 shawl in one of these stores- then they’ll positively love you in these stores. You’ll also find handicrafts, such as carved marble elephants (I’ve seen 100 marble elephants in India for every real one), handmade rugs, basically everything you’ve wanted to bring back home from India- at quadruple the price because you don’t know any better. Converting rupees to dollars, and dollars to rupees- that’s the easy part. Knowing the value of items here versus what they’re worth back home- that’s not so easy.

So how do you find one of these wonderful places? It’s easy enough- just step into a cab from your hotel and look clueless. Or, if the driver asks you questions about when you arrived in India or how you are enjoying your stay, give him any answer at all. They’ll be more than happy to drive you to a shop of their choosing, for a cut of what you buy, or even just a kickback for bringing you into the store regardless of whether you get anything or not.

Luckily I was educated on this right after I got there. My first weekend here, when I was confused, isolated, and just wanted to go home, a coworker whom I met by chance at the hotel was kind enough to take me on a round of pre-Diwali shopping. He hailed one of the cabs at the hotel, and since they usually refuse to use their meter, he negotiated a price to go to a couple of markets- I.N.A. Market and Khan Market, if I remember correctly. Two minutes into the car ride the cab driver says he knows a “very good gift shop” and says “very good prices”, two phrases I’ve heard from many a cab driver. So Chris, my coworker, adamantly says “no”, that we only want to go to these two places which we are paying him to take us. When he takes a left off an interstate overpass, I assume it’s part of our intended route, until Chris starts saying “No, do NOT take us here!” We pull by a gift shop (with big concrete elephants out front, carpets hanging in the windows, the whole works) and the driver pulls in. Such a new concept- a taxi driver refusing to use his meter, and taking me where I don’t want to go- but one which I had to get used to here pretty damn fast since I’m responsible for my own transportation here on nights and weekends. “Very good price” the driver insisted, “just go in for five minutes”. Chris told him we weren’t getting out of the car, and after a couple of awkward minutes the driver begrudgingly drove us away. “This is the 10th time one of these drivers has taken me to this store,” he told me, “their prices are outrageous.”

If you’re shopping here and have any doubt as to whether or not you’re in a Gora Store, here are two questions you can ask yourself. The first- are all the shoppers foreigners accompanied by cab drivers? Then yes, you’re in a Gora Store, and no, they aren’t really negotiating on your behalf. Two- do the sales people have big calculators they punch the price in, then do some kind of subtraction to give you the price available to YOU as a discount? Then you’re definitely in a Gora Store. “Ooh, the calculator said 14,500 rupees, now it magically says 11,250!” You’ll kick yourself when you find out it’s worth 4,500.

Enough about the Gora Stores- shop at your own risk, and don’t say I didn’t warn you! If you find something you want at a price you’re happy with, then just get it- as long as you’re someone who won’t regret it later if you find it for cheaper. It depends on you.

So is all shopping here frustrating, and are all people here out to get your money? Not at all! But that’s how I felt at first, and that’s one reason I had it hard here in the beginning- feeling that I was nothing more to people here than a walking $ sign. I realized that the reason I was frustrated and had a negative opinion, was because that’s who my initial primary contact was with- cab drivers and shopkeepers. It’s as unfair to base an opinion of the people of this country based on that group, as it would be to base an opinion on Americans on people with W stickers on their cars. I wanted to share the worst of it first, because that’s the first thing you notice.
Once you know where to find it, it’s not all bad- the custom clothing I have made every week; stuff for my home. I’ll share what I do in an average Saturday of shopping in my next update. I promise it won’t be a month from now!

Back to writing

I guess it’s obvious by now- I’m a little late in updating this blog. To be fair, I have been busy- busy working, busy traveling, and busy living life like I never have before. I had intended to write more about Kashmir, but not having had the time to do that to my satisfaction, kept waiting until the right time. But I’ve decided it’s more important to me that I keep going with this then get hung up telling each story in perfect detail. After all, I’m here on behalf of a corporation, not as a writer, so what does it matter if I have a few hackneyed phrases scattered about?

Time for my last update on Kashmir. It’s hard to capture all the little things you see and feel that define a place. All the moments I had there which come to mind, that together constitute a trip that doesn’t feel possible to only have been three days long. To hurry them down onto a piece of paper (or should I say a computer screen) would be a disservice to them. Those memories I’d rather keep in my mind how they were, than read them one day and think “Oh, was that all there was to it?” There are too many things I want to remember how they are… locking eyes through my car window with passersby who were as curious about me as I was about them; laughing with two young women in traditional headscarves as we shared a cab in the icy mountains, as our driver attempted to dislodge us from a snowdrift.

So if you want to know more about my experiences in Kashmir, you’ll just have to ask me. Besides what will I have to talk about when I get home, if it’s already laid out on here?

Kashmir
Srinigar Boathouse

Our stay in Gulmarg was curtailed by the unrelenting snowstorm, and on the advice of our tour guide and travel agent we decided to return to Srinigar, so as not to be snowed on the following day and miss our return flight to Delhi.

By this point it had been snowing for hours; heading down from the mountains was no easy undertaking. Our SUV couldn't make it up the icy mountain pass, which meant no hotel pickup. In fact, none of the cars up in Gulmarg could go anywhere, so the hotel produced sleds (and people to pull them) to transport us and our luggage to the entrance of Gulmarg. By this point I had enough of snow and sledding, and would have preferred the comfort of a car.

We sledded down steep hills, luggage in tow, trying not to tip over. Mostly we were successful, but now and then one of us would shift too far off balance and slide into the bank of snow beside us. Several times I got off the sled so I could walk; I felt bad for the sled guys dragging me uphill, and besides walking would have been faster. But unless the hill was really bad they would stop and insist that I sit down and ride, so I went along with it. I felt like the stereotypical overprivileged foreigner, being dragged on a sled with my luggage while the locals walked along the road beside us- somewhat embarrassing.

We were dropped off at an SUV sent to take us down the mountain to the one we came in, and after about 10 minutes of spinning the wheels our driver was able to dislodge it from the ice and start moving. A couple of women wearing headscarves, and a couple of men in the wool coats, joined us, but I don't think they were together. We headed down the curvy mountain roads, all the more treacherous this time from the day of heavy snowfall. Our driver was making good progress down the road, until a large army truck coming up the middle forced us off to the side into a snowbank, were the car became stuck. The tour guide and the two local men got out and started pushing, as did I. I didn't speak the same language as the two guys, but the language of trying to move a stuck car is universal; push from one end, and if that doesn't work, walk around and push from the other. Repeat until car is moving again. After 10 minutes of this the car bolted out onto the road, and with a cry of victory from all of us inside and outside the car, we continued down the mountain.

On the road back to Srinigar, it surprised me how many buildings, which I had only seen once, I recognized on the return trip. How they ingrained themselves in my mind I don't know, but even now I can vividly recall the homes and stores we passed; some imposing, some half completed (or was it half torn-down), all dark... and all beautiful.

We arrived back in Srinigar and proceeded to Daal Lake, which we had passed the previous day when we arrived, only this time we were headed to a houseboat hotel on the lake. I didn't know at all what to expect; a gigantic hotel in the middle of the water? A small one-room boat? We ended up with something in between, which ended up being one of the most unique and amazing places I've ever stayed.

Our SUV pulled over on the side of the road at a seemingly random spot next to the lake. Waiting for us was a boat to take us to the hotel. A boatsman rowed us across the semi-frozen water past rows of stores and homes, semi-fixed on the lake like an upscale trailer park. The lake mirrored the grey sky above.

We pulled up to our hotel, which looked like all the rest with one important exception; the lights were on. On both sides the rest of the boats were dark, idle from the lack of tourism arising from the regional strife. The first thing I noticed- that every inch of the exterior was intricately carved wood- something that would be the same on the inside. The name of our boat- Shahnama:

A view towards the right off the front poarch of the boat- rows of hotels waiting to be filled by those waiting on tourism in Kashmir to rebound:

From inside the boat (which once inside I realized was more like a home built on a barge), you can see the exterior of the one next to ours, which was much the same:

As we were shown into the boat I was surprised by how large and ornate it was. Not ornate in the guady 5-star hotel kind of way, but modern in the plush old-money sort of way- hand carved furniture, walls, everything... that spoke of age and of much effort taken in its creation. We walked through the living room, past the dining room and kitchen to the narrow side hallway along the three bedrooms; I was surprised (but then not really) to find out we had this hotel to ourselves. I negotiated a very low price for a room to myself, so I wouldn't have to share; I was overdue for a night of good sleep and wanted time by myself in one of these large ornate bedrooms to clear my mind and take in my surroundings.

The bedroom, like the rest of the boat, had a wood burning stove. In addition to my two friends accompanying me on the trip, it was just a guy living on the boat keeping the stoves filled for us. He would reach into the hot metal stoves with his bar hands and shift the wood around, sparks swirling around his arm. A contrast to my performance later that night trying to put more wood in the stove once he retired for the night, holding the hot lid of the stove off in the air with a stick, instead of my fingers, and trying to drop split pieces of wood from above without burning myself.

The stove provided some heat (and the cold water and air around the boat took plenty of it away), so I made good use of the piles of quilts on the bed. There aren't many things as comforting as a stack of warm blankets on a cold night.

My bedroom is pictured below. You'll see the ceiling has carved wood patterns, as does the walls, the bed's headboard... you'd be hard pressed to find a flat surface nearly anywhere.

The doorway to the dressing area and bathroom was also carved, and through the holes the dim light I had left on shone like stars.

There was an interesting dresser and mirror in my bedroom. I don't know what style I'd call it- Kashmiri I guess. It was low to the ground, with a low chair; I wondered how many people sat here and used this mirror to get ready, for events that happened in more festive times.

On the dining room wall, more patterns were carved, like the circular pattern here:

The dining room had old china on display in cupboards along the walls; the whole room made me feel like I was in one of those antique shops which my mom would drag me to as a kid where I'd be bored out of my skull. Except this time I wasn't bored, I was amazed that this place was mine to experience for a night, and sad too knowing that this place and the many rows of ones like it were built to be enjoyed by more than just three lonely travellers. The lights in the chandelier stayed off; like any other night, the many chairs and couches would go unfilled.

Another view of the dining room:
The entrance/living room of the boat- and to the left, the stained glass window in the door to the front porch.
The guide and travel agent said we were under guard and not to worry about anything; still that night I shut all the curtains and blinds to the outside as I suddenly felt rather conspicuous in our brightly lit boat in a lake of darkness.

Ironically we were safer here than in many parts of Delhi because of the army and guards all around; they take protecting tourists here very seriously, as the tourism industry is bad enough already. But one aspect of adventure travel is you don't see other tourists around you doing the same thing you are... with the herd comes safety, and being off the beaten path means that you're on your own. I'd say coming here isn't the best idea for most people, or at least, most of the people I know. While you can come to Kashmir legally, and almost as easily as travelling to most other places in India- due to the absense of other tourists, and the reports in the news (which never involve tourists)- many people would feel uneasy here.

I turned off the lights and slid under 5 layers of covers, and fell asleep next to the warm glow of the stove, listening to the crackle of the wood.

Kashmir- Trip to Gulmarg

We continued by road to Gulmarg, a city high in the mountains of Kashmir which includes a ski/golf area. Pedestrians in the long wool overcoats (I wish I remember what they are called) walked the streets and markets of the many villages the road passed through, and at close intervals stood soldiers weilding AK-47's watching the traffic go by. It made me think... me being an A.D.D. Extroidinaire and everything who can't concentrate on one single thing for more than a couple of minutes, and always complains of being bored- I have it pretty good compared to these guys standing by the road in the snow watching cars all day.

We passed through one of many security checkpoints as we entered Gulmarg. "Gora tourists" I heard the driver said. I've been here enough to know that Gora means white, and that he was implying that they should speed things along- tourists after all are pretty rare here these days. Most of times we had to stop at the checkpoints, it was so the soldiers could ask where we were from, what it was like there. I didn't mind really; speaking with a car of people from another country hopefully broke up the monotony of their day, though I was eager to get to our destination.

Past the last checkpoint we traversed up the side of the mountain, the Himalayas in view ahead of and beside us. The air became thinner, and the snow deeper. There were no more villages to pass, as the terrain was now too steep.

The road ended in a valley high up in the mountains. It was early evening as we headed into the ski town, and the roads were iced over. Our Scorpio SUV was able to navigate the roads through the resort, but an army truck blocking our path was not so lucky. Tired of sitting in the car, I decided to walk in search of the hotel while the soldiers tried to dislodge their truck from the icy road.

As I walked along the road I noticed something I'm not used to seeing in ski resorts in mid-January- the complete absence of other people. The streetlights were off, and most of the cabins dark. The impression it gave me was that I was in Friday 13th's Camp Crystal Lake, with snow.

We checked into our cabin, surrounded by evergreens. It was quaint but warm; well, it was warm until around 3 AM when the wood in the stove which heated our cabin ran out. The layers of handmade quilts over me kept me warm. It reminded me of winter nights spent at my grandparents' house as a child, bundled up under old quilts next to the dim reassuring glow of a heater.

Below, a view from our cabin window...

The first night a snowstorm hit. The snow came down hard, the heavy kind of snow which back home comes and goes quickly, leaving you wishing for more to stick to the ground. Only here it was still falling the next morning, and when I tried to walk outside our cabin my legs sunk past my knees into the cold snow. Amazing that I didn't get a bad cold on this trip.

We received a call to the agent who booked the trip; he was going to send the SUV after us a day early to take us to Srinigar so that we wouldn't be snowed in. But we still had half a day to experience Gulmarg.

The hotel after a night of snowfall...

And at the hotel restaurant, a sign to remind us of where we really were:

Kashmir

Day 1- Arrival in Srinigar

Until last weekend, I thought I knew what Adventure Travel was. Kashmir has just redefined that for me. Now I see the other places I’ve been so far as just so many dots on the maps and guides connected by busloads of tourists buying trips to the great unknown off of the Internet. The inevitable packs of tourists flaunting their newfound, spiritually-linked lack of concern for their personal appearance were nowhere to be found as I stood in line for the flight to Srinigar airport early Saturday morning. While a mad jumble of people pushed and shoved in line (jostling for position is too polite of a phrase to adequately describe airport behavior here) for the flight to Mumbai at a neighboring ticket counter, I started in position three in line for the flight to Kashmir. I saw a few scraggly foreigners in the line next to me, complete with their requisite Ohm t-shirts and faded jeans, but nothing of that ilk in line with me. The tourists here are odd; they don’t dress like the locals (those who try usually overdo it), they don’t dress like the people at home- they just dress like each other.

“Srinigar?!” the gate agent asked me, with some measure of disbelief that I was in line for the correct flight. I showed her the ticket confirmation, and was issued a boarding pass. After the customary molestation by the guards who patted me down in the security line, I waited in the terminal for Alison and Nilton, the two fellow associates on business here joining me for this trip to arrive.

Once together we boarded the flight, which ended up being less than half full. I got the “YOU’RE going to Srinigar?” question once or twice more from the various people I had to show my ticket to. About 40 minutes into the hour flight, I saw the tall edge of the Himalayas approaching, a long line proceeding past the horizon through the window on both sides of the plane. Crossing over that line, we saw jagged, snow covered peaks beneath us- too craggy for human settlement. As the plane descended, valleys of evergreens and snowy fields came into view. Farm houses appeared as the groan of the landing gear rumbled through the floor. As the ground loomed upwards, buildings painted in camouflage, barbed-wire fences and stacks of sandbags appeared. I was thinking it to be odd that the plane was allowed to fly so low over a military base… and realized that we were too low for this to be anything other than the airport we were to land at. Welcome to Kashmir.

If the Delhi airport has a lot of people to handle luggage, Srinigar has just as many people handling AK-47’s. Alison and I were approached immediately upon entering the terminal by an official who gave us paperwork to be filled out by arriving foreigners- something not typically required once you’re actually traveling from within the boarders of another country. Passport information, visa information, where I’m staying… great idea, I thought, “Let’s document where they newly-arrived Americans are going to be in case anyone wants to find them”.

The travel guy who arranged our stay in Kashmir met us there, and took us to the awaiting Scorpio SUV. We were happy to see that we wouldn’t be making the trip in a sub-compact car- which is pretty much the standard here. After a security check or two (you lose count here) we left the airport and were of the road. We passed stacks of sandbags such as were seen from above, but from this distance we could see the soldiers with their machine guns and rifles standing behind them.

The day was cloudy, but the snow reflected the grey light back up at us. Large stone and wood houses lined the streets and canals we passed by. The houses were large and at first glance, deceptively simple in design. Many of the houses were square or rectangular in design, with large triangular roofs extending over the houses in various directions. The windows had ornately designed panes which contrasted with the austere fortress-like walls. All of the houses were dark inside. I really loved the design; some of the houses reminded me of the houses in Amsterdam, others of some of the old houses near my home in Midtown Atlanta.

The people of Srinigar milled about on the streets, with practically every man (who made up the majority of those outside) wearing a coarse brown or grey wool pull-over full length coat. Most of them watched us as we rode by. If you can’t stand being stared at in New Delhi, then Kashmir is definitely not for you. But one advantage a car ride here had over that in Delhi- no one approached my car to beg for money.

We had the driver take us to a store to look at Kashmir-made rugs. I’ve already been doing my homework on how rugs are hand-made, the quality and the pricing. The ones in the good stores in Delhi usually come from Kashmir, but with Delhi tourist pricing. At the store I went to I was probably the first tourist they’d seen in a week.

Persian rugs are made with wool or silk string one knot at a time (if you buy the higher-quality single knot variety, vs. a double-knot rug which has larger knots and thus less detail- think of it in terms of pixel resolution if that helps). I found two red rugs with an Islamic design which I liked and purchased them, and a large cashmere shawl to give to my mom when I return home.

We drove out of town by way of Daal Lake, where on our second night we would stay in the large city of houseboats stationed on the water, and headed to Gulmarg, high up in the mountains.

The trip to Gulmarg I will have to describe in another sitting, as to try to write about this entire trip in the time I have available in one day would not do it justice.

Houses along a canal in Srinigar. In the front you can see a couple of houseboats.





Crossing a bridge over one of the many canals.

Many houses such as the one in the foreground were three stories. Whether or not they were occupied I couldn't tell. As in the rest of India, these houses are often inhabited by several generations, hence their larger size.



Daal Lake with a resort on one of the far banks. Most likely empty as tourists don't exactly flock to places known for dischord.

Day to day I never know how I'm going to feel when I wake up in the morning. When you live in a hotel without your usual diversions, you have a lot of time to think, for better or for worse. Some days I think of the things I miss; other days I question my life and wonder if it has any meaning or if I'm just a spoiled hedonist; some times I wonder if anyone even gives a damn that I'm gone, and usually conclude that most probably don't- but the ones that do are the reason for me to keep going, and look forward to my return home.

Some days I ride to work and see unhappy people everywhere I look. People on rusty bikes struggling to pull a heavy wagon loads behind them; the beggers waiting on me at the intersection to bang on my car window. Today though as I left the hotel I felt good for some reason which I can't explain. It's a beautiful sunny January day, a little cool but certainly not what I'd consider to be cold. The India-Pakistan cricket match is playing, which is the most important cricket match here from what I can ascertain. On the ride to work I saw the same beggers as yesterday, but this time it was in front of a shopping mall in Gurgaon several kilometers from where I saw them in Delhi yesterday- farther than they could have walked. It may sound cruel to someone who has never been here, but I couldn't help but laugh. It's basically just a travelling show, with dirt for makeup, performed for the sake of the tourists and business people who may not know better. Of course it's easier to laugh when it's a healthy teenage girl asking for money; not so when you have a mother pinching her baby to make it cry or a couple of five year olds sent out by their parents to beg on a crowded highway; but today it looks like all of the latter took the day off. Everyone seems more cheerful all around, or maybe it's my perception of what it is to be happy that is changing. As we pulled into the office, a group of young children played cricket in an empty lot, most definately having a better understanding of the game than me, and they looked as happy as any group of children back home.

I think one reason I feel good today is because tomorrow I'm leaving for Kashmir. Kashmir is part of the disputed territory between India and Pakistan; from this dispute has arisen terrorism such as the Delhi market bombings which occurred my second night here, and there has been a tremendous loss of life in Kashmir over the last several decades, including both military and civilians. So what am I doing going there? There is a reason so many people on both sides want to claim Kashmir- it is amazingly beautiful, and hopefully in a few days I'll be posting pictures to show it. In Kashmir you'll find Daal Lake- right now frozen for the first time in 70 years. People are walking across it, and if I make it there I hope to as well, if it's still frozen thick enough. In the area of Kashmir where I'll be going the Himalayas are there- I'll be taking a gondola to 14,000 feet and snow skiing, not something I had thought I'd be able to do in India, but something I'm really looking forward to. For me a winter without a ski trip is a winter wasted. The snow is supposed to be good and the weather uncommonly cold right now; since I feel like I've had a year without a Christmas I'm really looking forward to seeing it. And it is dangerous in Kashmir, but my time in India, and my time in general, is limited; I'm going to choose having the experience, for better or worse, over having the regret the rest of my life for passing up the opportunity to see this place.