Shout Out #19

Trip Start Jun 05, 2006

Trip End Ongoing

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Flag of India Gulmarg, India
Friday, April 27, 2007

Gulmarg is about 50 kilometers to the west of Srinagar. It's a small resort village on a nationally protected piece of land, 50 kilometers closer to Pakistan, within a few kilometers of the Line of Control. Two Tata Sumo's (Jeep-like trucks- Tata is an Indian brand) took me through all the checkpoints and heavily guarded roadways. Along one stretch of a poplar lined road, soldiers stood at 20 meter intervals. Bunkers sat slightly behind the trees with one or two soldiers in each. At one of the checkpoints, we pulled up to a mass of soldiers surrounding a military truck with the doors open wide. They were all coated in chalky day-glo colors and danced wildly to the music coming from the truck. A man in the back was busy filming the show, I wanted to jump out and do the same. If I knew what it was all about, I would have. One of the soldiers came over to our truck and spoke with the driver. He looked at me and said something about 'tourist', the driver replied with something regarding 'one tourist'. The soldier opened my door. "Great, I'm going to be searched by a hippie soldier in the middle of a military freak-out." He smiled, dipped his hand in some chalk, and smeared a big stripe up my forehead and into my hair. He then gave me a big hug and ran off to dance with all of his friends. I learned later that it was Holi, one of the best Hindu holidays, and I was surrounded by earth-tone Muslims. In most parts of the country people were blasting one another with bright paints and dancing in the street.

I got the streamlined military version (which probably has an acronym to go with it). Hindu Operatives Living with Islam?
The second Sumo cruised up the mountain roads, higher and higher above the broad valley where Srinagar and several other towns sit. Some of the switchbacks had great views of the valley surrounded by towering Himalayan ranges. At one last checkpoint, all of the passengers had to exit the vehicle for closer inspection. I was allowed to remain inside. On the other side of the gate everyone got back in and we rounded the corner into town.
Gulmarg is arranged around a large central meadow. Most of the shops and hotels are on the east side, the gondolas are to the west. All of it was covered in deep snow. Two weeks prior, two meters of snow fell in one storm. About a foot of snow had fallen that night. Everything was perfect for some mental healing.
The resort is comprised of one gondola built in two phases. The first phase gives access to easy runs on the lower portion of the mountain; mostly paths through sparse trees with many flat sections. The second phase unloads at a station in the range of 13,000-14,000 feet in elevation (depending on who you ask). It gives access to huge amounts of terrain, most of it requires additional hiking. For the men and women with really hairy chests, some routes go several kilometers down the mountain where transportation would have to be arranged. On a mountain surrounded by soldiers, avalanche blasting is strictly prohibited.

All the upper terrain is either off-piste or backcountry. The second phase is only opened upon approval by a small team of patrollers who manually cut the main slopes to minimize avalanche danger. The side bowls are left untouched.
On my first day, the upper lift wasn't opened until after 2 PM. Seeing the warning signs saying human triggered avalanches are probable and watching the foreigners who'd come for the full winter, I grew a little concerned. They had packs with beacons, shovels, and poles and I had my recently purchased cheap winter clothes and an equally cheap rental board and boots...and there was the fact that a man had died within the month due to an avalanche. I didn't wait most of the day to go to the top. Instead I made a few rounds on the easy lower slopes and decided to 'save my legs for day #2'. On my last run I joined a man named Shawn from South Africa as he spun his way down the mountain. He was a beginner and decided to learn in the trees rather than the bunny slopes near the meadow. He couldn't link turns so he spun in circles all the way down...with much joy and enthusiasm.
The evenings in my room were always superb. Once I ladled myself clean with the hot water, I'd relax on my bed and watch the sun setting behind the resort. The afternoon and evening sun provided a touch of heat before the freezing night moved in. There was no heating in my hotel and no stove in my room. I'd typically have dinner after sunset then return to bury myself in the thick blankets.

I'd read or write wearing 2 hats and several layers of shirts while my legs struggled to heat my toes under the blankets. Though I was physically tired, I rarely slept well in Gulmarg.
That night on the way back to my room after dinner, I met Radi. Radi pulls a sledge. Pulling sledges is a job created by men with little more than their sledge. They pull people along the snow to the lifts or hotels. Mostly Indian tourists hired the sledgers to pull them and their families across the meadow or down the street. I personally didn't understand how cramming myself on a child-sized sledge to be dragged along at a slower pace than my own was a service. Radi didn't talk to me about sledges though. He wanted me to go and stay with him and his parents in the village a couple kilometers away. It took some effort to get through his broken English. I only understood what he wanted by his persistence in saying it was something I must do..."No big deal."
"No Radi, I already have a room here in town. I came to snowboard."
"You come to village. No big deal."
"No. My room is right there and I'm tired from snowboarding." (Pointing to my hotel was a big mistake) I kept saying no and he kept pointing out the 'No big deals'. I should have told him to piss off. Instead I signed his book so he could show other tourists that at some point in time he had a conversation with a man from the United States; it was my escape. I later saw that telling him no and walking off would have been better for us both.

Sometimes harshness is more respectful to all parties involved.
The next few days the upper lift opened at sometime between 11 and noon. I put all my energy into the upper bowls. I no longer looked at the signs or the other riders. (I did watch the two European men parasail-skiing down the mountain. One ultimately broke a leg in several places and had to be rescued.) Foreigners and local guides comprise almost all the traffic on the upper sections. This season the resort saw about 500 foreign tourists. With such a small number of poachers, the powder stays as long as the conditions allow. The biggest obstacle to constantly powdery runs was the wind. It created a hard crust in some of the areas.
To minimize the avalanche risk, I rode where the patrollers cut the snow...for about a day and a half. Then I met an Australian named Luke and we ventured to some of the side slopes. The runs always started with a jump off the snow-packed cornice. Then we took off down runs with some of the best powder I've ridden. Keeping up with the Aussie was difficult. He rode balls-out top-to-bottom; the perfect riding buddy. My legs were spent when we took the lift up but I managed a couple more runs because it was so good. A full day typically meant 4 or 5 runs.
We completed the day with a late lunch at mid-mountain. We sat with a couple of landscape architects working in Dubai. The woman was Lebanese and during a visit to see her family the fighting with Israel erupted over wine and cheese; listening to jets breaking the sound barrier overhead while bombing the Muslim part of town.

They told us of the hassles with embassies, their ultimate escape caravan to Syria, and the delays in crossing the border. They passed precisely bombed trucks on the road out of town. Charred cab sat on untouched trailers. Many of the places of relative safety while they were there were ultimately bombed. The border with Syria was one of those places.
At my hotel the owner told me Radi had visited several times throughout the day. Apparently I wasn't through with him.
On my last day of riding we had to catch the lower lift at 9:30 because they were shutting it down for repairs. With a couple hours before the upper lift opened, Luke and I sat for a mid-mountain breakfast. We joined Shawn the South African. The first thing from his mouth was that he had followed my advice and did a run on the upper lift. I learned to snowboard by following friends down runs I had no business being on. There are some good stories of table-tops and powder in my eyebrows. I couldn't believe this crazy bastard tried to learn how to link turns on off-piste runs...even if I may have said something about learning quickly by diving in full force. He said he almost flew off a big ledge near the bottom but someone warned him in time. His day was going to be one of recovery.
His South African tales were the best, mostly because of the way he told them. Everything he said was with child-like enthusiasm and he'd often interrupt himself if he remembered something even more thrilling to share. He spoke of chasing a rhinocerous- 'a 2 ton hot dog with horns crazed on amphetamines'- out of a campsite by blasting it in the nose with mace and a lighter.

He said it reared up, fell on its back from its own weight, rolled over, and ran off making a sneezing sound.
There's also a certain root that grows in South Africa. The Zulus ate it before going to war with the British; when they attacked with sword-like spears, they had to be shot four or five times before they went down. Shawn and his brother live in the desert outside of Johannesburg. They were returning to their home after a really long hike and they both felt exhausted- like they couldn't lift their legs anymore. The root grows on the mountain by their home so they decided to dig it up and eat a little slice. They proceeded to run the remainder of the way home, 'talking about quantum physics and other things' they didn't understand.
When the lift opened, Luke and I went one bowl further out. On our way down we saw some pro skiers and boarders setting up on a few different jumps. They were all in town for various filming or photography projects. The boarders were big name Czech freestyle riders, the skiers were Americans from Squaw Valley- "Squawlywood bro." We semi-seriously considered taking one of the jumps and the 'semi' part of that thought made me feel old.
In total I spent four days on the mountian- each sunny and warm. It was perfect Spring riding in the Himalayas. When I returned to my room on the last day, my legs felt spent in a good way and my brain had healed from the travel-weariness. I was ready to see more of the country. First I needed a bath.

I'm not sure how I forgot. Always, I locked my door when in my room. People in India have very little understanding of privacy and hotel staff sometimes felt free to open the door; usually only if you were expecting them, i.e. room service. I preferred to hold the entry pass. My room is often the only place I can go if I want any sort of quiet time...or if I was simply tired of being stared at. This time I somehow forgot. As I was ladle-bathing on the wood platform in the bathroom, I heard a 'Hello' come from my room. Looking out the door, I saw Radi. "Get out of here man! What are you doing?" I then had to use the warm water to clean away some anger too.
The sun was starting to descend, shining directly on my bed. I basked in the heat one last time, ate some chocolate, and decided to go for dinner. Radi was still standing outside my door. He grabbed me in a hug, struggled to pick me up, and kissed my cheek; his efforts an obvious compensation for my demeanor. The purpose for his visit- posed as a problem I didn't quite understand- was that he was leaving in a day or two for a stay with his brother in Jaipur. If I went with him, the problem was somehow solved...no big deal. Again, I should have told him I had no interest in anything he offered aside from a quick exit. It would have been better for us both, but I didn't. My forced niceness wasted both our time. It wasn't really nice.
In Srinagar I checked into a place highly recommended by two Americans spending their winter in Gulmarg.

The bus pulled up to a curb I didn't recognize. Thinking it was near the bus station, I accepted the rickshaw's 50 rupee offer- knowing it was too much and not caring about the extra 50 cents. In my haste to escape the Sumo (it wasn't a pleasant ride) I didn't take the extra few seconds to get my bearings. Later that afternoon I realized my mistake- the bus had dropped me off in the same part of town I told the rickshaw driver to take me. After driving around the back roads awhile, he pulled up from a different angle and handed me a business card. (Just in case I needed to go in any more circles) Everyone in India has business cards. The amount of cards I could collect in a few months is staggering. Rickshaws, hotels, restaurants, fruit vendors...just about anybody who sees business in my paleness has a card. I'm eagerly awaiting a card from 'Baba Begging Services' or 'Prakesh Soandso- Tout Extraordinaire'. (None would ever trump 'Wile E Coyote- Genius')
My room was indeed Cheapest and Best- the Americans gave me good advice. The room was immaculate, the shower was hot, the bed had an electric blanket, and one wall of windows faced Dal Lake. The one minor flaw was the number of spiders along the ceiling. A quick count came to 24 of the exact same type of spider- all waiting for that precious fly. It was hard to understand how they all survived. How could there be enough flies for all these spiders? Much of India seems to be that way but it still functions. The operations are just harder to understand than anywhere else I've been.

After a couple days in Srinagar I was set to fly back to Delhi. A steady rain had arrived and another rockslide closed the road to Jammu. I didn't plan on returning by road anyhow. The trip up the mountain took away any desire to make a repeat. The rain turned to snow overnight. I awoke to the sound of shovelling and saw a heavy descent of 1" snowflakes. Much of the snow melted on the rain-moistened ground, but it started to accumulate quickly. I was happy to be leaving the cold behind.
The rickshaw dropped me off at a security gate 1 1/2 kilometers from the airport for the first series of baggage x-rays and body frisks. I was told to remove the battery from my camera and put it in my big backpack. Once I left, I instantly pocketed the battery so I could take photos of the mountains from the plane. A second series of taxis operated within the secure zone. They charged 10 times the common rates, and, somehow in the snow and slush I decided I didn't want to pay it. A taxi with a customer decided to pick me up for free further down the road. Sometimes it's all in the principle I guess. At the terminal I had to go through a second x-ray and frisking. My camera battery went undetected in the process. They manually searched my carry-on after they told me it was not allowed on the plane. I nicely said it doesn't leave my side. All my important items are in the carry-on and if there are no carry-ons, why would they care about my camera battery?
And from there was the ticket counter/baggage check-in then the outer terminal.

Only passengers within about a half hour of boarding were allowed through the next round of security to the luxury of the inner terminal. Passengers aren't allowed in the airport if they don't arrive two hours prior to the flight. The arrangement leaves much excess time spent in the outer terminal with few seats and many food stands. I needed the time to fill out the tedious foreigner registration sheet.
Had my plane not been cancelled, I would have faced two more frisks and a baggage identifying process. But it was cancelled. I retrieved my bag and forced myself to engage in the battle of getting a rescheduled flight. Two employees in the corner of a little room hurried to rearrange flight plans for loads of Indian men pushing through the doorway. By the time I gnashed my way to the front, the next available flight wasn't for three more days.
The scene outside the airport wasn't much different aside from the snow and taxis. I opted to walk, betting I'd be picked up. Two locals in a nice SUV did just that. They were going to the same part of town as well. I checked into the same guesthouse though the power was now out. It was out all over town. I noticed several people using the outage as an opportunity to readjust their thievery wires. Apparently the gigantic billboard on the main road regarding the perils of power theft hasn't deterred many people from enjoying free electricity. I noticed the wire running from my guesthouse as well. The owner told me he was charging the Indian guests extra because he now had to use a gas powered generator.

The generator gave me light and some heat in the electric blanket until he shut it down at about 10. It did nothing for the water heater.
For three days I didn't shower. Showering wasn't overly important at this point- my clothes hadn't been washed in three weeks. I only had enough to keep me warm if I wore them all at once. Hand washing was out- the clothes would freeze. Using a laundry service meant a day of lying in bed- also not an option. My body odor smelled like curry. All my shirts carried this odor in increasing magnitude going from the outer gear to undershirts. When I left Thailand several Thais mentioned the smell of Indians. Basically they just said, "Indians stink". The bluntness always triggered a nasty cultural taint- political correctness (P.C.B.S.). "How can you say a billion people stink?" Then I boarded my flight in Bangkok, noticed the odor, and smiled when the stewardess made two sweeps with an air freshener. I felt alright going three days without a shower in clothes I hadn't washed for three weeks. I was in India, er, Kashmir.
The biggest discomfort came simply in walking down the street. A meter of snow fell in Srinagar, 2 meters in Gulmarg. Because of the rain and the melting of the early snowflakes, the streets and sidewalks were puddles covered in about 18" of snow. My shoes, socks, and pant legs were completely soaked. Each night they'd freeze, each morning I'd put on the frozen lower elements, my curried uppers, and I'd have coffee in a nearby cafe.
And on the third day I could fly. Once through all the security procedures, with my camera battery stowed away, I boarded the plane. I saw that the terminal was about half its original size. The other half looked like it had been blasted out. Another building was under construction off to the side. We taxied by an Air Force plane, took off over several barracks or military compounds, and from my window seat, I was able to see (and photograph) the Himalayas from above. It veered south towards Delhi, a city I was now ready to experience.