Kashmir

“Y’all gonna miss Imtiyaz?”

Everyone rolled their eyes and laughed.

“Dude, something is seriously wrong with that guy.”

“He killed a guy. He has that look. He definitely killed a man.”

“I like you. I love you. I like your breasts.”

Another round of laughter.

“Jesus. The guy yesterday, the grey polo guy…”

“Ha, yeah”

“He definitely woke up and thought ‘why the hell did I drink so much?!’”

“He’s Russian. Probably not.”

“He was killing it!”

“HOTEL HILLTOP”

“Jesus, should have stayed at the Khyber.”

“We’d go broke man! Five hundred freaking rupees for a hot chocolate.”

“It’s a good thing we met Zeph—“

“Zepher. Sounded like Zepher I think.”

“Yeah dude he was the freaking bomb.”

Alex, Francisco, Lukas and I were standing in the cold at the ticket counter of the highest gondola in the world. We were in the Indian Himalayas, dangerously close to the Pakistan border. I use the word dangerously only because danger seemed imminent. Soldiers, Army trucks, and AK-47s were everywhere. We were just miles away from the LOC in Kashmir. This region has been disputed, claimed by both India and Pakistan, for years. Until 10 years ago, armed encounters and skirmishes weren’t abnormal. Those direct conflicts have died down in recent years. Now avalanches are the main killer. The week before, on the same mountain, a Swiss skier had been killed by an avalanche. But we had survived the weekend, despite the snow and guns.

This morning was clear, and we could see the top of Mt. Apharwat. For the last two days of skiing, we had encountered heavy and consistent snow. It blew in hard, and created near white-out conditions. As Alex and I skied down, following our guide, we had some scary moments. We could see about 15 feet in front of us, before everything went white. The one groomed trail was hard to follow, and our guide took us off-piste, through the woods down steep hills and untouched powder. It was beautiful and terrifying. Because of the conditions though, we only skied Phase I: about halfway up the mountain. Today, the weather was clear, and we had a small window of opportunity to go up to Phase II: the top. We had already turned in our skis, so we were simply visual wanderers. We sought the bounty of the Himalayas.

The one skier in front of us in line turned back.

“Where are you guys from?” he said, in a foreign accent. It looked like he was from Europe, but he wasn’t Russian. You can spot Russians from a mile away. But then again, you can spot Americans too.

“U.S.A.”

 He smiled, “Yeah—“

 “Yeah, we’re loud and annoying Americans.”

We all laughed. Couldn’t really argue this one. The four of us were being abnormally loud. Maybe we were excited. Maybe we just needed to talk and cuss to keep warm. In any case, we were fed up with the ticket line.

Soon enough, the ticket office had opened, and we got our tickets to go to the top: 1000 rupees each. It was about 9:15 in the morning, and the gondola had no line whatsoever. We went up the wooden stairs made with fresh 2x12s. No sanding or staining. The columns of the building were exposed I-beams, and heavily rusted. The windows had no glass, and there were piles of bricks everywhere. Some snow had fallen through the open holes in the roof. We piled into the gondola, and with a small swing, we were off on our ascent.

The ride took about 15 minutes. As we approached the top, the wind became noticeably stronger, as it shook the gondola car, and squeezed through the door and around our legs. It was cold. The snow on the top of the mountain hung over on one side, as the wind swept it over the top, and the cold froze it mid-crest. It looked like a wave about to crash. It was aggressive and intimidating. We got to the top, and ran out like school kids. The wind hit our exposed skin hard, and it was a painful hit.

We weren’t exactly at the top though, so we decided to trek just a little further and see what we could see. As we walked forward, we walked into the wind. My foot went down into the snow, and as it came back up, the snow blew around like loose sand. It flew behind me, far away. We only had tennis shoes and a pair of socks. Not exactly mountaineering gear. One step at a time, we made it to where we couldn’t really go any further. We were too cold, and there was a sign that said, ‘Do not go any further’. In this disputed territory, you should listen to those kinds of signs. We stopped and looked around.

Mountains surrounded us. They were bare on the top, brilliantly white. The snow was undisturbed, except for the wind that ran through it, carving wide rivers. Some rocks jutted from the top and steep faces, and created jetties of snow. The black of the rock fought hard with the piles of white. Further down, the tall pines added a splash of dark green. They continued down , and far at the base of these giants, the ground turned brown and grey. The colors were more vibrant up here. The peaks of the mountain scratched the sky, which was a deep and heavy blue. We were closer to the black of space up here, and the sky was dimmed. More clouds were below us than above us. Here, at 13,500 feet, we were among the world’s grandest mountains. We were in the crumple zone, where India has been slamming into the Asian continent. Up here, you could feel time at that tectonic scale.

Almost as soon as we saw the scene around us, the cold told us to turn back. We weren’t meant for this world. At least, not yet. So we four adventurers turned back, to descend eventually to sea level. Back to Mumbai.

When we got back to the bottom, the 4x4 taxi I ordered had been waiting for 45 minutes. He was not happy.

“Mr. Black?”

“Yes?”

He held out his phone, and pointed to the time. 10:15. I nodded, “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, we got held up. We’re going to the room to get our bags.”

“You’re late.”

“Yes I know. We’re not happy either. We’re hurrying.”
“Why are you so late?”

“We got held up! Now, we’re going. Okay?”

“You’re late.”

I was tired of this broken record machine. “Well what do you want me to do?! We’re going to get our bags right now!”

The owner of the hotel also decided to inform us on how late we were. My patience was a little thinner for him.

“Mr. Black?”

“What?” I snapped.

“You’re so late. The driver has been waiting for one hour!”

My mind raced for the proper response. Silence? Sarcasm? Aggression? Aggression.

“Yes,” I said slowly, and nodded my head in the same fashion, “I’m aware of that. Where does it look like I’m going now?”

I instantly felt bad. I’m sure he was just trying to help. But no time for an apology now.

We were late. Did you know?

About 10 minutes later, we were on the road with an impatient and angry driver. Not exactly the ideal combo on icy mountain roads. I looked over at him. He had a thick black beard, but fair skin. His eyes were brown, but lighter than most Indians you meet. He was undoubtedly Kashmiri. Soft but fierce words escaped his mouth as he zoomed down the icy road. Maybe he was cursing us, maybe he was cursing the road, but he was definitely not your neighborly taxi driver.

The mountain road was a terrifying combination of snow, ice, violent drops, blind corners, and speeding cars. Snow plows were nothing more than a whisper on the wind, and the hot rubber of the tires was the only melting agent. Passing 4x4s had created ruts in the snow, which acted as small toboggan runs, keeping us in line. The only problem was that to pass another car, you had to get out of the rut. Our driver was tired of waiting at one particular jam, and accelerated hard. He jerked the wheel hard right, and the front wheels jumped out of the rut. Then, he turned back to the left suddenly, quickly passing hand over hand on the wheel. The back tires followed out of the rut, but didn’t go so far as to fishtail. We passed the stopped bus with a roar, but hurtled towards a head-on collision with an on-coming jeep. Inches after we passed the bus, the driver jammed us back into the rut, as we missed the other jeep by just a hair.

Everyone hooped and hollered. We grabbed our hats, and hugged each other. Someone let out a ‘yeee-haw!’. The driver remained stoic as ever.

At Tangmarg, at the base of the mountain road, we switched to a van without snow chains. We paid the jeep driver, with a handsome tip, and said hello to our new driver. It was noon, and we had about an hour and a half drive in front of us. Our flight left at 2, so we were all a little on edge.

“Late,” said the driver, as he merged onto the road, and looked back at us through the rearview mirror.

We all rolled our eyes. “Yes,” I said, “we know. We got held up.”

He thankfully didn’t press further. Instead, he decided to press the accelerator pedal.

60.

70.

80.

90.

I didn’t know minivans could hit 90 mph. This one certainly could. We would approach a slower car, lay on the horn, and zig around. We were narrowly missing dogs, motorcycles, and even large trucks. We came up to a long military convoy, going about 50. We slowed down momentarily, but then caught some wind and blew past the massive troop carriers with a loud honk.

The rural areas of Kashmir in February are brown and dead. The dirt on the road doesn’t see water for months, and turns tan and sandy. The rice fields lie dead and fallow, dark brown and silent. People sit in front of shops, huddled around Khawa, a Kashmiri tea of saffron and almonds. As we flew by at 90, I wondered what they were thinking about. What did they talk about? Two men laughed in a particular blur. What was the joke?

DOG! We narrowly missed a sniffing dog, nose low to the ground. My heart jumped and told my head to stop worrying about what old men laugh about.

We were getting into the edge of Srinagar, and settlements began to grow and build. The houses were large, with steep tin roofs. In fact, all the houses had silver tin roofs, spattered with orange rust. Along the road, shops and food stalls lined and colored the curbs, and people wandered everywhere. It looked a little like Mumbai, but with less people and a whole lot less noise. Signs were in Kashmiri, not Hindi, and the letters looked much more Arabic. A small billboard had a picture of Ahmedinejad, the ex-PM of Iran. On the backside, as I stared in disbelief, was the ayatollah Khomeini of Iran. We weren’t in Kansas anymore.

“Did you see that?” asked Lukas, as he looked back at us.

“Yeah,” I replied, wide-eyed.

That was all that needed to be said. A call to prayer floated in the air. It was a very foreign moment. It wasn’t scary, it wasn’t intimidating. It was simply different.

As the crow flies, we were 60 miles from where Seal Team Six took out Osama bin Laden.

All these thoughts floated around as we came up to an intersection. As we were stopped, a man came up to my window. He nodded to the driver. In coordination, the driver rolled my window down. The lightly bearded man leaned into our car, and looked around for a moment.

“Who is Michael Black?”

My heart skipped a beat. A million questions ran through my mind. Who was this guy? What did he want? How did he know my name? Why does he know the driver?

“Uh, I am. Why?” I said, feigning some confidence.

“I’m with Travel Planner. You owe 6500 rupees for the taxi rides.”

“What? No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No I don’t. Look, we’ve already paid all the drivers.”

“No, you pay me.”

“No, we’ve been paying the drivers as they drive us around. They have your money. You can go get it from them,” the light turned green and cars began to pass around us. It was 1:15pm.

The man looked around. I guess he didn’t expect this answer.

“Look,” I said, “we have a plane to catch like right now. We don’t have time for this. I can call you back and settle this from Mumbai.”

He turned to the driver, and Kashmiri flowed back and forth. The man stepped away from the car, and I thought victory was imminent.

He walked to the back, and opened the door. He jumped up with our bags, and closed the door as the driver sped off.

“Woah!” said Alex, “What are you doing?!”

“You owe 6500 rupees.”

“Hey, first of all, no we don’t. We paid the driver directly. Secondly, that rate is too high. I was quoted 3000 rupees for the journey and back,” I said back to him.

“No sir.”

“Yes sir. That’s a ridiculous price!”

“No.”

“Who can I talk to? That’s not the correct quote.”

“Talk?”

“Yeah, is Usma there? I talked to Usma about the price.”

He put a finger up and nodded. He took out his phone, dialed a number, and stuck the phone out to me. “Usma,” he flicked his head.

“Hello, Usma?”

‘Hi?’

“Hi Usma, this is Michael Black I--”

‘Yes, Michael, how are you?’ she said in a friendly voice.

“Well not good Usma. We have some guy here saying we owe 6500 rupees, when you told me it was 3000, and we already have been paying the drivers.”

‘No it’s 6500 Michael.’

“No Usma, that’s not what you told me before. If you had, I would have looked elsewhere, because that is a crazy price!”

Suddenly she exploded, ‘You are a liar Michael! You are a liar!’

I didn’t really know how to respond. “Wh-what? Are you serious?”

‘You are lying Michael!’

“Usma, I’m not lying. What are you talking about?”

‘What the hell are you talking about Michael?!’

I didn’t know how to handle the situation. I stumbled through a few more volleys. I wasn’t used to calling customer service and getting accused of lying. But the stranger in the car, the yelling Usma, and the impending flight weighed heavy on my stressed head. I hung up on her mid-sentence.

“What did she say?” asked Lukas.

I shot him a look. “I don’t know. But look, let’s stop at an ATM. I’ll pay the amount, and we can settle it later. I think we should just get this guy out of the car.”

We pulled over at a State Bank of India ATM, and I begrudgingly pulled out 8,000. I gave it to the stranger as we continued on to the airport.

Eventually, we made it onto Indigo flight 6E 448. It was close, but thankfully it was delayed coming in, and we could buy more time. On the flight back, I tried to de-stress from the last three hours, and internalize all that just happened on our Kashmiri adventure.

“Excuse me sir, would you like a drink?” the air hostess asked over the noise of the plane.

“Yeah, can I have a coke please?”

“Yes sir,” she smiled.

“Can I also get some cashews?”

“What flavor sir?”

“What do you have?”

“BBQ, chili, mint, plain, and salted.”

“Can I get the salted please?”

“Yes sir.”

I opened up Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and took a sip of coke. The main character, at that point, was riding an old motorcycle up to the Rocky Mountains, and he was speeding down a mountain pass, musing about the “high country”. He painted a beautiful picture of the mountain, with the same vibrant colors, thin air, and deep blue sky that we saw in Gulmarg. He likened the physical high country to the philosophical high country, and put forth a theory:

The high country, whether physical or philosophical, is visited by few people. It is a realm of adventure and freedom, where you can romp and explore for the sake of exploration.

In other words, the philosophical high country is a metaphorical area of higher thought, where philosophers wander. Thoreau was there once, brought a relic down from the mountain, and gave us A Civil Disobedience.

I took another sip of coke, and ate a cashew as I mulled that point over.

The plane continued its path south, gliding over the rough thin air of the Himalayas.