A journey of 1000 miles begins with a cash advance
Trip Start
May 17, 2010
1
26
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Trip End
Feb 10, 2012
Srinagar, Jammu and Kashmir, India
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Delhi, the second time round, and suddenly the city hangs together. As with a jigsaw, tourist areas, the diplomatic enclave, the parks, the wide political avenues, shanty huts and the rich residential all fit together. I find I like Delhi and can see why those from other countries wish to live here. We spent some time at Vasant Kunj, an area that houses some of the poshest Delhi inhabitants in gated communities and is also, according to the “India Times” the worst crime area of Delhi with three murders committed in the past ten days. According to the paper the “city's elite and fash-frat press on the gas and zoom past” thus ignoring the unpleasant.
“India Times” also informed me that, according to some Planning Commission, an urban Indian spending a penny more than 570 rupees a month, roughly 20 rupees a day (about 34 cents Euro), on his basic wants, cannot be termed poor. Can this be true? The rural Indian is expected to live off less, only 15 rupees a day. And as they say 41% of rural Indians are below the poverty line, then 41% are exceedingly poor. A high percentage. One suspects the poverty line is set so low to prevent payment of food aid, shelter and social benefits from the government.
In Delhi temperatures were soaring up to 44. The heat was heavy, the mosquitoes biting. Dust and bad tempers were everywhere. It was madness to remain; so being sane we flew to Leh in Ladakh. Literally flew, by Air Indigo (clever name?) about one hour north. We went on holiday to a different world. Up over the Indian plains, the lesser Himalayas, the the Greater Himalayas. Stunning views over mountains untouched by humans, wave after wave of them resembling whipped cream, the untouched snow stretching as far as the eye can see. Landing at Leh the plane descends dramatically, its wings almost brushing the hills as it circles to come in.
Some 180 million years ago where now are the Himalayas was once a vast ocean. The mountains were formed by a collision of the Indian landmass against Asia. The range known as the Himalayas began rising a mere 25 million years ago and only between 8 and 10 million years ago did they rise to their current heights, high above the line of perennial snow. More recent convulsions 600,000-800,000 years ago gave a final boost creating the Greater Himalayas – so Everest etc., the highest mountains in the world are also the youngest.
Between November and May Ladakh is isolated from the rest of the world, as the access roads are closed, crossing as they do some of the world's highest passes. Until the military airport was built no one could reach Leh, the capital, during those months. Tourism was only permitted in 1974, that added to the isolation. There was once a royal family but they ended their rule back in 1846 after 39 generations. Known as little Tibet, Ladakh is immense and empty, a high altitude desert with the sky seemingly a startling blue every day. India's highest, coldest and driest zone. The winters are long and bitter. The lowest temperature recorded was -49 although -5 is more usual. It has an austere beauty with Leh high above 3,500 metres, surrounded by snow capped mountains and quiet, still, fresh air and fields of barley watered by melt water from the glaciers. There is little rainfall here. Tsampa, roast barley flour, is the staple of both Ladakh and Tibet.
The villages are oasis like, dwarfed by the mountains. The green of the oasis comes from the watered fields and the poplars and willow trees. The poplar is used for the rafters of the houses, and support the willow and shrub and mud roofs. A family will often have just five acres of land which passes intact to the eldest son. The second son becomes a monk. It cannot be an easy life with such a brief growing season. Lives must be lived to the rhythms of nature, and here, with the precepts of Buddhism. In summer they work hard in the fields ploughing with a dzo, a hybrid of yak and cow. In winter they stay indoors and drink barley beer and go to monastery festivals.
The mountains are dotted with medieval monasteries, or gompas. Gompa means “solitary retreat” and most monasteries are secluded sanctuaries, generally sited high on a hill. They are collections of buildings, often rising tier upon tier and look more like fortresses. The mud brick walls blend into the landscape. Inside are statues of deities, dark shrines, ancient murals where the robed lamas live lives of piety. Alchi is more shrine than monastery, having white washed mud brick buildings housing frescos and murals from the 12th century, which are rather dark due to years of soot from the butter lamps and lack of light. On the way to Alchi we crossed a river covered with prayer flags where a woman construction worker was mixing cement whilst on her mobile phone. Another way of reducing the isolation. At the museum at Stok Palace (where the ex royal family occupy one wing) we saw an eclectic collection including a “portion of a skull”; a trumpet made from a human thigh bone – said to be so as a reminder of Man's impermanence; and charm boxes with eight auspicious symbols said to guard the traveller which I long to possess. Also dotted round the hills and villages are chortens, or stupas. Stupa literally means heap. They are the focus of religious devotion as it is believed they ward off evil spirits, although they are usually constructed to gain merit. Often they contain the remains of illustrious dead. Buddha built the first one as a shrine for one of his closest disciplines.
From Leh we drove to Srinagar, capital of Kashmir. By we, I mean us and Ali, our driver. A skinny lad, yet to shave on a regular basis, popping bubble gum continually, and twirling round hairpins with one hand casually on the wheel. Me, a justifiably nervous passenger, just wished him to keep both hands on the wheel, be aware of traffic and keep the bubble gum in his mouth. On the second day we forbade him from driving. Bart took over the wheel after Ali insanely accelerated down an icy hill and to avoid hitting the vehicle in front lurched the car to the side where, fortunately, there was a rough area where they are widening the road. The car shuddered to a halt inches from the edge of an exceedingly large drop. Ali cannot, like most Indian drivers, anticipate or read the road. I do not think he realised how close he came to killing us all. Plus he has the idea that seems to come to Indians along with mother's milk that reversing is for wimps. Earlier, in the snow, we were held up in a long line for nearly two hours, for no logical reason other than, one suspects, someone couldn't or wouldn't reverse to allow oncoming traffic to get through – consequently both ways were blocked.
The route from Leh to Srinagar crosses three major passes and goes within 5 km of the Line of Control – the de facto India/Pakistan border near Kargil where we spent one night. Hence a strong military presence. In Kargil we stayed at hotel Caravan Serai where an Indian family arriving just after us were bewildered by the lack of bars and a swimming pool. Apparently the website gives photographs of both. The poor man was wandering around in a bemused haze while his wife just wanted the election results of West Bengal and brought me up to date on the political implications. The hotel might have been lacking a swimming pool but the owner did get up at 2.00am to give us breakfast (omelet and fried eggs). The awful early start was due to supposedly having to be at Dras in time to travel along a narrow part of the road which is one way and traffic is staggered. We waited over three hours at Dras and all I could think of was that I would rather be in bed. Our bubble gum popping driver was late to collect us and then managed to park so he couldn't get the car out... he was also silly enough to tell us he didn't get to bed until midnight. And, to really make our day, at Dras when we finally could move we had a flat battery because he had left the lights on.... Luckily it wasn't winter. Dras claims to be the second coldest place on earth, after Siberia, having once recorded a temperature of -60. In winter the snow lies 40 feet deep. Houses, as in Switzerland, have deeply sloping roofs and small windows. It is said to be better to be too cold rather than too hot, as it is easier to warm oneself rather than cool. After Delhi I am inclined to agree.
Leaving Leh we passed through an arid and seemingly barren plateau. Flat and rocky and desert like. There were rugged hills in the distance and the landscape was desolate and austere. The hills were all shades from chocolate brown through purples to yellows. This is countryside to dwarf human activity and I love it. I wonder why these arid wastes take so strong a hold on my heart. Perhaps it is that this boundless landscape gives free rein to imagination and possibilities are as far reaching as the scenery. Gradually the road winds down to lush greenness with blossom and green shoots and apple orchards. Then we are again high in the Great Himalayan range; the first pass, FotuLa is 4108 metres ; next NamikaLa at 3,720 and the most dangerous, due to the state of the road, ZoliLa (3,529m).
We pass through small oasis like villages. We look down at the river Indus meeting with River Zanskar, the Indus a muddy brown, the Zanskar greenish. We travel through Nimu, all apple orchards and military. The colours around are brilliant and almost too bright – the vivid greens and the intense blue of the sky. We climb mountains for which the phrase hairpin bend was invented. Once all this was just a line on a map, now it takes on life and lives. That I like about travelling; the bringing to actualité the contours and names of a map. At times the route narrows to a canyon, and then a gorge with steep sides. Harsh mountains all around streaked with snow. We are diverted at one stage over mountains, passing “moonland” a strange wind eroded formation of butter yellow rocks, once, many years ago, a lake. We pass through Bodh Kharbu where forty odd years ago a cannibal lived (off) passing travellers. Near Mulbeck we stop for the bas relief of Maitreya, the future Buddha, nine metres high and carved into a cliff.
Once again there are warning road signs. I think Ladakh wins over Sikkim. Some signs are inexplicable. “The child is father of the man” is one. For what purpose, one wonders is Wordsworth (or Gerald Manley Hopkins) being invoked. Something to do with the young being closer to nature, the older to death; or are they evoking Freud who thought that it was only experiences in childhood that explained susceptibility to later traumas. Most odd. Others are simpler. “Peep. Peep. Don't sleep”. “I love you darling, but not so fast”. And a few kilometres further - “I like you darling, but not so fast”. Presumably he hadn't slowed down and her affection waned. There is the sexist - “Let him drive. Don't gossip.” And the neat - “After whisky. Driving risky.”
This has to be one of the best drives in the world and I urge you all to come! It took two stupendous days. When you think it cannot get more magnificent, it does. When you think it cannot be more awe inspiring, it is. When you think it cannot be so tranquil, so peaceful, it is. Nearing Srinagar we were below the tree line, the coniferous belt. We stopped for lunch at Sonamarg and tried, and disliked, the Kashmiri speciality of mutton balls. It was a Saturday and the locals were out for a day of riding in the sun and falling over on the glacier. As the scenery changed, the height dropped. The dramatic landscape faded as we slipped into the Kashmir Valley. Buddhism is left behind and we are back in Muslim land.
The valley of Kashmir has had people waxing lyrical over the years. “It was like the face of a beloved that one sees in a dream” said Nehru, rather extravagantly. In the midst of the valley lies the capital of Srinagar and the huge Dal Lake. Around Dal Lake many families live by fishing, cultivating vegetables on floating gardens, lodging tourists in houseboats. Dal Lake is known for its houseboats. The first was built back in 1888, and built because the king refused the British permission to build on land. He was suspicious about their motives. Now there are about 500 from the de luxe to category D which just about float. We stayed in/on a houseboat with the not very Kashmiri name of Young Hollywood. And were paddled around the lake and canals in a shikara, a sort of mixture of a gondola and a rowing boat.
Kashmir has been fought over and many are still wary of coming here. Sadly that has added to its isolation as in the 90s Srinagar was virtually struck off the tourist list because of militant insurgency. And its economy depends upon tourism. Lets just start from 1947 when the king chose to remain independent (under the British it was an autonomous state) but Pakistan invaded within months of partition. About a third of Kashmir remains under Pakistan, although India kept the most valuable parts. Since then two wars have been fought between Pakistan and India. As the vast majority of the population are Muslim Pakistan considers Kashmir should be part of it. I met, in a garden in Srinagar, a group of University students who began talking by saying, slightly aggressively, that they wanted an independent Kashmir belonging to neither India or Pakistan, as if I was somehow responsible for preventing it happening. They said their parents generation felt the same way. But, one wonders, what about security? A small Kashmiri state would be very vulnerable to China.
At Pir Dastgir Sahib, it was a day of celebration. The mosque was full of men and the women had the walls outside to pray at. Nearby is the tomb of Jesus, or not the tomb of Jesus. I refer you back to my first Indian blog where I mention that some believe Jesus survived the crucifixion and travelled to Kashmir. Whether inside the shrine lies the remains of Jesus or of a saintly preacher named Hazrat Youza Asif (Yuz Asaf) the place arouses strong feelings. Ever since an American lady claiming to be a descendant of Jesus tried to x-ray and dig at the tomb (again see earlier blog ) visitors to the tomb have been discouraged. Almost immediately we arrived so did a cluster of young men who wanted us (a) to take no photographs and (b) insisted that the grave was not that of Jesus and (c)to leave the area. It was a public road and none of them had any authority but our guide became twitchy. So we went to the Mosque on the banks of Dal Lake which has a strand of hair from the Prophet Mohammed. Kashmiris were only converted about 600 years ago to Islam by Sufi mystic Shah Hamdam. At Jamil Mosque we talked with a cleric. “Sit for a while” he said. He was adamant that Jesus went to heaven, “body and all”. That Mosque holds 33,333. A significant figure?
From mosques to the Mughals, and their gardens. In the 17thand 18th centuries the Mughals came in the summer to “paradise on earth”. The gardens are nearly all laid out with terraces going up hills and stone built water channels running through the middle occasionally cascading downwards. The water comes from a mountain spring. Flowerbeds line either side of the channels. Shalimar Gardens was laid out by Emperor Jehangir for his Queen Noor. A Sufi mystic declined to visit it because of its beauty, “if I visit this place now, I shall not be allowed to visit paradise hereafter.” Nishat Gardens were laid out by Asaf Khan, father in law and prime minister to Emperor Shah Jehan (builder of the Taj Mahal). Eleven terraces in all. It is said that Jehan wished the garden to be gifted to him, and when his father in law refused to take the hint he cut off the water supply. Both gardens were full of bright, colourful, common and long lasting flowers. All very bedding, all very neat. Huge, and old, chinar trees gave shade. Needed for the many picnicing families. As in Iran people came up to us constantly – to take photos, to chat, to invite us to their homes. The chinar tree with its maple like leaves (Platanus orientalis Kashmeriana) is the national tree of Kashmir. It is known for its longevity. One in Kashmir was planted by a Sufi mystic 627 years ago. Luckily it likes water, an important feature in Persian gardens which are built round water and shade. Recently a ban was brought in to prevent felling and chinars are now protected.
From Kashmir briefly back to scorching Delhi; then east towards Nepal. Good roads, nice people. But then we arrive at Pilibhut. Ask directions. Am told directions. But no one mentions there is a bypass …. and so we find ourselves in the midst of the town, with its narrow lanes, market day, hundreds of people, impossible to turn; they have to open roads for us. We drive through these narrow alleys, centimetres from the the shops and people and cycles and motorbikes and animals, and apart from one man who takes it upon himself to be the town ranter and complains everyone is incredibly helpful. As we push our way through it is as if the Red Sea parts with people, bikes, children, rickshaws, awnings, being taken to the side. Then is but a brief journey to the border with Nepal where we drive over a narrow bridge with a man on a bike in front supposedly warning of our approach. We have had our last trip over the Ganges, seen our last cricket games, so it is farewell to India.
I feel that India for me is a place skimmed over. Maybe it is too large, too many lives, too much to do other than skate on the surface. Perhaps India is not a place to be understood, only accepted. A few last, modern, thoughts on India from a local, a Bombay man on the web. “We live in a nation where rice is 40 rupees a kilo and a sim card is free. Pizza reaches homes faster than ambulances or police. A car loan is 5% but an educational loan 12%. Footwear we wear is sold in air conditioned shops but the vegetables we eat are sold on footpaths. Where we make lemon juices with artificial flavours and dish-wash with real lemons.” We are passing through, we can only accept.
Rowan
