Our flight from Delhi to Srinagar was beautiful. At the airport Scot told us that this flight would be enjoyable, and when he came around with our tickets, and asked who wanted the window seat, I wasn't shy. Neither Rob nor I was interested in food on the flight, and Rob disappeared to another part of the airplane early on when he saw someone light up a cigarette not far from our seats, so I had nothing to distract me from the scenery. The land around Delhi appeared flat, just brown dirt and green squares of irrigated agriculture with lines of roads and rivers or canals. But as we flew north the land changed suddenly; folds and wrinkles appeared, and we were seeing the foothills of the Himalayas. The hills, or mountains, appeared arid, with green valleys between.
Caption: Northern India
Before long we were flying at, then into a wall of clouds, the air grew more turbulent, and Rob returned to his seat expressing hopes that the pilot was familiar with Srinagar airport. We flew along as if in a dream, with nothing visible below us but dim grey clouds, though we knew that we were flying over increasingly higher mountains. Then, in a moment, we broke out of the clouds to find ourselves above the Vale of Kashmir, not far from the airport. Mountains shrouded in fog loomed behind us, but we flew on well below the cloud ceiling over greenness and houses, talking excitedly about what we were seeing, and soon we landed uneventfully at Srinagar Airport.
Scot was in his "tense mode" still, and asked us more than once to stick together inside the airport; our duffels would be collected for us (we were carrying our packs), we were to wait in a group, not go wandering around alone getting scattered...he was most emphatic, and I imagined previous excursions of his with trekkers who burst from the airplane into the airport and perhaps kept right on going, too excited to wait another moment to see the wonders of Srinagar. He certainly had more reason to be tense than we did, since he was worrying about everything practical for us. When we entered the terminal after the usual stroll across the runway (under the scrutiny of armed military personnel this time) we found a small building (hard to imagine how we could get too far separated), attractively decorated with wood work and large windows; signs and posters for local businesses were everywhere, and taped ads were broadcast again and again, in English, over a loudspeaker system.
Right inside the door were two men at a long table, checking passports. A couple ahead of us was having a hard time; they sounded French, evidently they did not speak English, and the guards did not speak French. We had no trouble. Our passports were collected and we were processed as a group. We had a little wait, until our duffels were claimed and the local travel agent that dealt with Mountain Travel could be located.
I needed to visit the bathroom, so I went looking. The door was obvious enough; inside, I was greeted by the charming sight of several drain holes in the floor along the wall. Oh well, I thought, when in Rome...besides, I had toilet paper with me this time. A woman holding a small baby was squatting against a wall inside, and when she saw me, she got up and hurried over, making it plain that I was not to use the regular toilet facilities; there was one chamber with complete privacy that I had not noticed, possessing a door and a throne, of sorts. I thanked her, closed the door, and spent a few minutes figuring out a way to tie my pack off the floor, for reasons that are probably obvious. After using the facility I left, thanking her again; it was not until later that I realized that I should have left some baksheesh with her. She probably made her living that way. I had been in India for a few days and had learned about baksheesh, but it was a new idea for me and I didn't have it on the tips of my mental fingers, so to speak. So that woman lost out; I still feel a bit sorry about that.
This was "Day 6" of our itinerary. Mountain Travel described it thus: "Morning flight to Srinagar. Transfer to houseboat on Dal Lake." Houseboat! That sounded pretty exotic. Rob had bought a few books on India before the trip, and the best one talked about the houseboats and their origins. The following is an excerpt from Kashmir, Ladakh and Zanskar by Margret and Rolf Schettler, published by Lonely Planet; a book I highly recommend to anyone interested in visiting or reading about that part of the world (page 40).
The book went on to describe the classes of houseboats ("5-star" through
"D-class"), how to find the boat that suits your needs, how much to pay, what
services to expect for your money, etc. Of course we didn't have to worry
about finding boats; they were reserved for us, and the two women we had
met in Delhi, Mary and Ann, were already staying on one, with another trek
member, Nat, whom we had not yet met.
Meanwhile, back at the airport, while we were speculating on what Srinagar
would be like, Scot saw to the collection of our duffels. Mrs. Kumarr,
Mercury Travel's representative in Srinagar, was there to meet us and
supervise the loading of ourselves and our luggage into taxis that carried
us through the town and out to Dal Lake.
Srinagar appeared to be much more prosperous than Delhi. Of course that
was not surprising, though it was pleasant. Kashmir is a major agricultural
region, and I suppose many people have their own land and can grow food. We
saw many orchards and extensive irrigation systems. The houses were far
more interesting, attractive and sturdy looking than houses we saw around
Delhi. Actually they reminded me of New Mexico houses, as they were
mainly constructed of what appeared to be adobe bricks, not plastered or
stuccoed, with wood latillas and vigas. The main difference was in the
style of roof; in New Mexico, the typical adobe house has a flat roof,
traditionally covered with earth and often sprouting grass (or weeds).
In Srinagar, the roofs were steeply peaked, possibly because of higher
annual precipitation.
Many houses in Srinagar seemed quite large. Evidently
it is common for extended families to live together. That is an
especially practical arrangement when a family group is farming for a
living, and food is cheap, but many hands can be kept busy
with chores. The lifestyle there is of course much less technologically
assisted than it is here - for instance, laundry is still commonly done
at the lake or stream side, and we saw rice being threshed by hand,
and winnowed by being tossed up in the air with blankets by the side
of the road.
Our book warned that it could be confusing finding a houseboat, since
the houseboat owners collect in groups and shout out the virtues and prices
(negotiable) of their floating palaces, and can get aggressive about
luring the prospective visitor into a shikara for a tour of the accommodations
and a hard-sell pitch. Shikaras are little boats, a cross between a canoe and
a rowboat and propelled with a leaf-shaped paddle, that serve as the
taxi service between houseboats and the shore.
Kashmiris are reputed to be
very enthusiastic salesmen, and drivers of hard bargains. When we
arrived at the shikara landing, there were a whole lot of shikaras and
people, and I at least was grateful that I didn't have to make sense out
of the confusion.
Our hosts were waiting for us with their shikaras.
Scot had described the boat owners as brothers - a fat, more taciturn
one, and a thin, jolly one. They were happy to sweep us away to the
Manora 5-Star Deluxe Houseboats (I think they owned three). The shikaras
were a delightful way to travel. Each was provided with a canopy
and plump upholstered seats that were most comfortable. As soon as the
boat pulled away from the landing, the noise of the crowd and traffic
died down, and it was peaceful to be paddled along slowly amidst
the incredibly ornate boats and the floating water lilies and lotus
plants. Unfortunately the lotus were not yet in blossom, and the lilies
were only beginning to show their flowers.
The description I quoted for you from our book does not really give an
impression of how elaborate the houseboats are. Every available piece of
wood is carved ornately (wood carving is a skill for which Kashmiris
are famous) and they give the appearance of floating gingerbread
houses; absolutely delightful. The lake is shallow, and crowded
with houseboats and floating gardens; also there are gardens on the solid
earth at the sides of the lake. We were told that the lake was also badly
polluted; so, although we saw people swimming and the water looked
inviting, we restrained ourselves.
It was exciting to come around a turn in the lake and see our
houseboats before us. We had noticed some definite differences in the
appearance of the houseboats; although they were all ornately decorated, some
were obviously better kept up than others, and we knew that not all had good
kitchen facilities, safe water to drink, or hot water for bathing. You might
think that, since we were in India to go trekking, such conveniences should
not have mattered to us. Perhaps the others didn't care - but to me, as I
faced a month of washing in streams and squatting behind rocks, the last
few days of civilization mattered. I shouldn't have been
concerned. Mountain Travel was taking care of us, as advertised, and the
Manora Houseboats were among the nicest.
We occupied two boats next to each other, with a wooden walkway spanning
the water between
them. Another advantage of staying in a better houseboat, is that the
houseboat has shikaras of its own, and shikara paddlers always available, so
when one of us wanted or needed to go somewhere there was someone to take
her. Also, someone was always ready to run an errand - buy a bottle of gin on
shore, take mail to the post office - for a small fee, of course! And,
perhaps most important of all, our houseboat owners provided boiled, safe
drinking water for us. We had iodine with us, but we would be drinking
iodinated water for many days to come, and would have ample opportunity to
tire of the iodine flavor in our water. We were glad to have plain, safe
water while we could get it. Rob and I were assigned to the houseboat where
Mary and Ann, and our newest companion Nat, were staying. Colleen would stay
there also. Next door Scot, Jim, Fred and Gerry would be taken care of.
Rob and I were really charmed at the sight of our accommodations. The
description in the book was accurate, but failed to convey just how
ornate and charming the boats are. We were delighted. The sitting and
dining rooms were furnished, not only with comfortable and attractive
furniture, but also with vases of fresh flowers. The sitting room had no
television, but was provided with a supply of paperback books - an interesting
collection including romance novels, The World According to Garp, and
The Black Stallion by Walter Farley. Something for everyone - or
at least, that seemed to be the intention. A chandelier hung over the polished
dining room table, and snowy linens, sparkling crystal and gleaming china
waited on the sideboard.
The dining room also boasted a refrigerator, complete with lock, which was
stocked with soft drinks and beer. Our food, coffee and tea were included
in the price of the houseboat, but the items in the refrigerator were extra.
At lunch that first day, Scot asked us all to keep track of the
extra items we consumed, so that we could pay for them before we left.
Evidently in the past people had forgotten things, and Scot had been stuck
with tabs that were not his. This time, he decided, any unclaimed expenses
would be divided up equally among the trip participants. I don't think
there were any problems with our group.
Behind the dining room, as the book described, there was a tiny kitchen,
used for heating food, making hot drinks, and readying dishes to be
served in the dining room. I never found out where the cooking for our
boats was done. Then came the steep stair up to the sunroof, which was a
convenient place for drying laundry on sunny days. After the stair
were the three bedrooms, each equipped with twin beds, night table, dresser,
vanity, dressing room, and a bathroom boasting all the customary fixtures
plus ample hot water. The hot water was more available at some times than
others, however, since they had to boil their own at the boat; so first
thing in the morning, or late at night after the fire had been out for a
while, the water was cold. Of course that was not much of a problem.
Our houseboat was also equipped with three residents. We had met Mary and
Ann in Delhi. They had been spending their days sightseeing and shopping
and were getting anxious to do some trekking. Nat we met for the first time.
She was fifty-ish, a large woman, with a loud voice, a firm handshake and
a brash manner. She was an American but was living in Brazilia and working
at the American Embassy there. Scot had told us about Nat, back in Delhi.
He had had her on at least one Mountain Travel trip before, and knew and
liked her well. He praised her good attitude and courage; once, when she
lost her footing and fell in Nepal, she broke her nose, and he set it after
giving her a good slug of whiskey. Scot had also praised her drinking
ability. We were prepared to like her very much and had been really
looking forward to meeting her. My first impression of her was positive.
Rob felt a little more reserve; she seemed to him to be too loud and boisterous.
Time would tell!
Food on the houseboat was prosaic stuff, though always plentiful
and edible. It typified the imitation-bad-British school of Indian cooking;
considering the history of the houseboats on Dal Lake, that is hardly
surprising. The first meal we had there though, lunch together on
Scot's houseboat, impressed me with its plain edibility. My delicate
innards appreciated the lamb, cabbage and potatoes. Scot was however
pretty disgusted with the fare; on another occasion he coached the cook
on how to prepare a spicy dish, and he vowed that the next time he stayed
on the Manora houseboats he would help the cook learn some improvements.
That Wednesday afternoon, the first day, our afternoon was free to use
as we pleased. The Thin Brother offered to take us on a little guided tour
of the town; Rob and I decided to go, along with Fred and Gerry, the doctors.
Brother arranged for a taxi and off we went. We drove through town, and
first stopped near a Moslem cemetery where we had a good view of an old
fort that sat on a hill overlooking Dal Lake and the town. Hari Parbat
Fort had been built in the 1700's. The wall around it is much older,
built in the late 1500's by the Moghul Emperors. The wall is over three
miles long and 33 feet high. Visits to the fort are only possible with
special permits that we didn't have.
The cemetery was interesting; the grass
was perfectly clipped to about one quarter inch in length. The gardener
was in evidence too; a pinto horse grazing between the graves.
Evidently anyplace where grass grows is fair game for use as a
pasture for animals. We also saw a Hoopoe bird there; I was proud to
have recognized it, since I had never seen a picture of one, and had
only read about the bird. Rob spent some minutes valiantly trying to
capture the little wary bird on film for me, with some success.
Next stop was a mosque; Brother told us it was the largest and
(I think) also the oldest mosque in Srinagar. Seeing it was
an interesting experience for us all. The edifice was built as a huge square,
with a big open interior courtyard complete with grass and fountains.
At the entrance gate we were required to leave our shoes. The usual
crowd gathered as soon as we got out of our taxi, so Brother arranged
for someone to watch our valuable (in Srinagar) shoes for us, to insure
that they would be there when we returned for them. Passing through the
gate we found ourselves in a large, long chamber, very plain, no
furniture of any kind, just floor, walls, ceiling far above us and 200
cedar pillars holding up the roof.
We went through an inner door into the inner courtyard. I was evidently
suitably attired for an infidel woman (pants and shirt), but the men were not,
and tunics resembling hospital johnnies were brought for each of them to put
on, to cover their bare arms and (for those wearing shorts) bare legs. Groups
of the faithful were gathered around the courtyard, sitting and talking.
We went to the left and entered another door to find ourselves in the
middle of a prayer service. Men kneeled on rugs in front of us
praying aloud, with their heads covered. Women were gathered in a little
separate area to our right, and many were the curious glances they gave
us! A man approached us, introduced himself as the chief mullah (religious
leader or teacher), and assured us that it was all right for us to be there.
I had certainly felt like an intruder, not because we were in the mosque
but because we had walked in in the middle of a service, but he told us
that visitors were most welcome and that he would be glad to show us
around the mosque. He took us up to the bell tower.
What a climb that was! Up and up winding flights of
stone stairs, in a tower, mostly in darkness, until we reached an attic-like
room through a very narrow and low-ceilinged stone tunnel. Hundreds of
pigeons flew up at our arrival, and as we continued from this room up the
next flight of wooden stairs, we could tell that the birds had been in
residence for probably as long as the Moslems had. The bird droppings
on the stairs were very thick. We were all barefoot, and as we walked
through the accumulated mess, the doctors carried on a cheering discussion
of exactly what diseases we could all catch from the droppings. I suppose we
could have refused to go farther, but it would have seemed terribly rude
after the mullah was kind enough to take us on tour, and besides, we were
all curious to get to the top. The mullah apologized for the birds,
but as he said, there was really no way to keep them out, and keeping the
stairs clean would have been an unending job.
The view from the top was worth the climb. To the north we saw,
beyond the mosque, the hill rising with the ruined fort atop. To the
east stretched the town, in a colorful and crowded display. The day was
wonderfully clear and we could see the foothills of the Himalayas rising
beyond, peaked with snow. Most interesting to us was the mosque itself.
The mullah explained that the groups of people we saw gathered in the
courtyard were religious discussion groups. Moslems make their religion
a much more central part of their lives than most Christians seem
to. He said that everyone spends much of their time talking about
their religion, and certainly it seemed to us that the average Moslem in
India knows a whole lot more about his faith than the average Christian
in America does; not just its religious tenets, but the history of the
faith, too.
Long ago, Buddhism was the dominant religion in Kashmir. It
gradually lost its influence, and by the 600's,
most people were Hindu. Being a Hindu is dandy if you are lucky
enough to be born into an upper caste, but the lowest class of Hindus is low
indeed; the Untouchables, who are treated like animals. In some places in India
Untouchables were called Invisibles, and forbidden to show themselves
during the day, lest, I suppose, the sight of their wretched selves
offend the sensitive eyes of luckier upper-caste Hindus. It certainly
can't be much fun to live life as an Untouchable, and the appeal of the
more democratic Moslem religion to such sufferers is obvious. Kashmiris
gradually began to convert to the Islamic religion in the 1300's. The
influence of Islam grew by leaps and bounds; now, most people in Kashmir
are Moslem. Of course this has been a cause of
the dispute about the ownership of Kashmir that has gone off and on
between India and Pakistan since 1947. Another cause is the rich
agricultural productivity of Kashmir.
The Mullah explained to us that the Moslems of Kashmir were liberals,
not at all like the Moslems of Iran. He certainly seemed a
cheerful, easy-going, friendly person, and I was impressed
with the open friendliness of most of the people we met in that area.
He said that the builders of the mosque incorporated ideas from different
religions into the building; he showed us Bhuddist bells on one tower, and
the Star of David was the recurring motif in the ornate wood screen that
partially enclosed the open top of the tower we stood on. He told us a bit
of the history of Islam and impressed us all with his erudition, and we
took pictures until it was time to brave the pigeons and their
deposits again for the trip down.
When we walked out of the main gate, we found our shoes safe and
sound waiting for us; we also discovered that some gentlemen sitting at a
table at the entrance expected a donation, so we complied. Where to go
next? Brother thought we might like to see more of the town, so the taxi
drove us a little way and parked, and we all went for a walk through the
oldest part of the city, looking at the little shops that reminded us of
the shops we had seen in Delhi; these were also one-person sized, and all kinds
of things were sold, from auto parts to textiles to spices. But this part of
town was not a tourist area particularly, and the special crafts of
Kashmir - rugs, cashmere wool, embroidered items, wood carvings - were not
much in evidence. Scot was familiar with Srinagar and had recommended that we
shop at the store of a friend of his; the shop was named Suffering Moses. The
last thing we did before going back to our houseboats for the evening was to
visit that store.
What an incredible store it was! The only large store we saw in India, it
was perhaps 1500 square feet, and more like a museum than a shop. The four
of us were enchanted. The proprietor was an older man, handsome and
distinguished, who spoke perfect English, and was married
to an American woman whose brother was in the computer business in the U.S.
Mr. Gulhidin was an artist himself; his speciality was paper mache', and there
were hundreds of beautiful items in the store that he had designed or made
himself, lacquered in bright colors and painted with tiny, intricate, beautiful
designs of birds or animals, people or abstract figures. Some were lined
with gold, and very expensive. The shop also featured beautiful embroidered
cotton and cashmere items, and a variety of carved wooden objects, from small
boxes to large items of furniture, animals, people, and salad bowls. Most
were made of walnut. We wandered around aimlessly - it was really too
much to take in all at once, and none of us could make up our minds about a
purchase. But Rob and I had no doubt that we would have to return to
Suffering Moses, with our money, after thinking about the whole thing
overnight. We did, after all, have another day in Srinagar, and the
following afternoon would again be free of activities.
That night we had dinner together on Scot's houseboat, and he talked with
us about the trip. We discussed equipment; despite the list of needed items
that was sent to us by Mountain Travel, and the additional things Scot
mentioned in his June letter, some people were lacking some necessities, or
had brought things that were less than optimal. For instance, we had been
told to bring towels for washing while trekking. I packed two nice, big,
fluffy bath towels. Scot suggested they might prove hard
to dry. I don't know why that hadn't occurred to me! Next day
Rob and I bought a small piece of cotton cloth for 50 rupees, and cut it in
two (two pieces about the size of a dish towel each, but much thinner) to
create two faithful "towels" for the trek. We have them still, and they
make fine rags.
Because for part of the way our duffels would be carried
by porters, we had to be sure they weighed less than 14 kilograms, and Scot
had a nifty hand-held scale that we could all use to weigh our packed duffels.
We had checked the weight in Delhi, but we needed to check again. Anything
that we decided we couldn't take at the last minute could be left with the
Mercury Travel people, since we would be coming through the Srinagar Airport
again on our way back to Delhi at the end of the trip.
For the first portion of the trek we would be in Kashmir in the rainy
season; the monsoons had already begun in Delhi before we left for Srinagar.
To get into Zanskar we would have to cross a high pass and a glacier. There
would be river crossings along the way. Obviously, it was vital that everyone
have waterproof gear, especially waterproof boots. Getting wet in cold
weather is an invitation for hypothermia (possibly fatal), and being
insufficiently protected in the cold can lead to frostbite, and possible loss of
toes. Back in Ithaca I had fanatically waterproofed our gear; coats and coats
of Sno-seal on our boots, other kinds of waterproofing substances on our packs,
duffels, stuff sacks, and miscellaneous other gear. We had waterproofed our
boots again after Switzerland, and had plenty of Sno-seal left for additional
coats should that become necessary. Everyone had not been so careful;
our California doctors had the most problems. They were both in great
shape from running and playing tennis, but they were not accustomed to
hiking or camping. They had both bought expensive new gear for the
trip, and when the store told them that their boots were waterproof, they
believed. Unfortunately their boots were far from being waterproof, and
commercial waterproofing compounds were now impossible to obtain. We lent them
some Sno-seal. Scot suggested they melt candle wax and apply it to their
boots, and they did that too. Unfortunately these last-minute measures would
prove to be insufficient.
A separate subject for discussion was the question of medical problems.
There were no doctors where we were going. We carried a large medical kit,
but we could only carry so much, and Fred was not prepared to do surgery -
what if one of us should come down with appendicitis? In some of the areas
where we would be, evacuation could only be performed with mules or yaks, and
we might be seven days away from a road, which would lead only to the most
primitive of hospitals in any case. India is not a place to be sick in.
Animals were a real potential danger. We could not carry any rabies vaccine,
and Fred told us plainly that a bite or scratch from any kind of animal would
mean immediate evacuation out of the country. I did not pet a single dog while
I was in India! Out of character for me you might think, but really, most of
the dogs did not invite petting at all. I confess to scratching a few mules,
though. But our medical kit was well supplied for common sorts of things;
certainly a broken bone or bad sprain would not be life-threatening, though
it might be painful and inconvenient for everyone (Fred did have plenty of
morphine). I think most of the medical kit was taken up with various remedies
for stomach and intestinal disorders; as it turned out, that was exactly what
we required!
The next day, Thursday July 7, was described in our itinerary as follows:
"In Srinagar. Visit Dal Lake. Possible visit to the Moghul Gardens, hike to
the Srinagar fort or to the hilltop Hindu temple for great views. Overnight
on houseboat." Scot had offered us an additional possibility; a visit to the
floating vegetable market on the lake at dawn. Nat had seen it before, as had
Jim; the doctors and Colleen preferred to sleep late. Mary, Ann, Scot, Rob and
I wanted to go, so we got up at 5:00 A.M., dressed quickly, and got into
two shikaras for a ride across the still, misty lake to the area where the
vegetable sellers and buyers got together each morning. The sun was just
rising and it was almost too dark for pictures, though Rob managed to
capture a bit of the feeling of the scene on film. Shikaras were loaded
with vegetables, sorted by type into neat piles;
kohlrabi and cabbage, beets, beans, lettuce. Old-fashioned pan
scales were held by hand, and rocks were used as counterweights to measure
the required amount of vegetables for sale. The center of the market was
so packed with shikaras that almost no water was visible between them,
and newcomers simply pushed their way into the thick of things.
Of course some disagreements
occurred, but most business was conducted peaceably. Before the sun
was fully up sellers with empty boats were leaving, and so did we, back to
our houseboats to plan our day.
Kashmir was conquered by the Moghul Emperor Akbar in 1536, and entered
into a period of political stability and cultural activity that would last
nearly two hundred years (Kashmir, Ladakh and Zanskar). The emperors
used Kashmir as their summer residence and built many gardens for their
pleasure. Mary, Ann, Colleen, Rob and I wanted to see the Moghul Gardens;
they were supposed to be beautiful. Off we went in taxis with our guides. We
saw three gardens. Each was unique, but they had much in common.
All were very large, elaborate formal gardens. Each included areas for flower
gardens, beautiful tall trees, walls, ornate little buildings often decorated
with paper mache' designs and wood carvings, and splendid views of the
lake. All were, at least to my eyes, a bit run down, not as well groomed as
they could and should have been. The roses needed pruning and shaping. The
grass was much too short, and patchy. The roses were in bloom and many of the
blossoms were faded and should have been removed.
Gardeners were in evidence, clipping the plants and doing some weeding.
Signs requested that visitors not pick the flowers; most of
the visitors had of course picked a few. In one garden we saw a man clipping
roses and putting them into a big basket. He appeared to be a gardener. When
we walked by, he offered me a rose, which I accepted with thanks. Naive.
Next, of course, he wanted some money, and grew insistent about it. Neither
Rob nor I felt that we should have to pay for the flower, and I tried to return
it to him. He shoved it back at me most ungraciously, so
I kept it. Later when we were leaving that garden, we encountered
him again, and he tried to push me off the path. A most unpleasant person;
but I must point out that he stands out in my memory precisely because he
was so unpleasant, and such a contrast to most of the Indians we
met. We were often asked for money, but people were
matter-of-fact about making the request, as though it were
an accepted thing to do (I guess it is), and never nasty about being
refused. Strangely enough, the same man gave
Colleen a rose freely; she was walking behind us, didn't realize what
had happened between us and the gardener, and commented on what a nice
man he was. Maybe it was my blonde hair that brought out the worst in him!
After we had seen three gardens we were offered the opportunity to see
a rug factory. Mary wasn't feeling well, and she and Ann returned to the
houseboat, but Rob, Colleen and I wanted to see some rugs. The day before,
when Brother was giving us a tour of the town, he had tried to show us a rug
factory, but it was closed. Kashmir is famous for its beautiful rugs;
we were anxious to see some, and curious about the factory.
It proved to be very interesting!
The establishment we visited was a craft cooperative. Many families worked
there and sold their goods through the store outlet. The building was new,
clean, and attractive. The rug factory was located on the ground floor. It
was filled with looms of all sizes, and the workers weaving the rugs were
all small children, ranging in age from perhaps five to twelve years old.
This may sound strange to Americans, but I don't think the children were
mistreated. The man who was showing us around told us that children were
hired because they had small fingers and could knot the rugs more nimbly
than grownups with big hands. The pattern for the weavers to follow
was hung above each loom. Three or four children worked
on each rug, and they seemed cheerful, laughing and talking among
themselves. They looked clean and well-fed, too. Rug weaving seems
to be a good job; it is clean, not heavy work, the workers are
certainly creating something of beauty and quality that they can be
proud of (and that sells for a good price too!), they are contributing
to the support of their families and that must also be a source of
pride, and we were told that many of the children graduate to other jobs
in the factory when their fingers get too big to tie rugs any more.
Out in the back yard there were big kettles where the rugs were
washed after they were finished, and spread to dry in the sun.
Both silk (the most expensive) and wool rugs were made there.
After the rugs were dried, they were brought inside to - where else? - the
upstairs show room! That was quite a place. Of course the rugs on the
floor were beautiful! Long couches were provided for the prospective
buyer. Hundreds and hundreds of silk and wool rugs of all sizes, in
every design imaginable, were rolled up and stacked, waiting to be
unrolled with a flourish before the customer. Rob was the only one of
us that might have been in the market for a rug; Colleen and I
told the salesman that we weren't interested in buying, we had just
come to see the factory (I can imagine his disgust at that revelation!),
and Rob told him that he wasn't at all sure he wanted to buy anything,
but the salesman was not easily discouraged. He managed to pry out of
Rob a fuzzy description of the kind of rug Rob might be
interested in, if by chance he were interested at all, and we got to see
many beautiful rugs. Rob finally made it plain that although he
admired the rugs, he wasn't sure he wanted to buy one, and he wanted to
think about it. The salesman tried a last-ditch pitch; "People of
quality don't need to think about it!". That statement
produced the opposite effect from what he had hoped for. We left, and
Rob did not buy a rug, there or anyplace else.
I think part of our problem in thinking about rugs, was that visions
of Suffering Moses' wares were dancing in our heads. We were anxious
to get back there. After lunch Rob and I hired a taxi and went into
town. We walked all around, getting a feeling for things. Srinagar
was obviously a much less cosmopolitan place than Delhi. There were
some Westerners, but not many. Many women wore the chador, and I was stared
at, because of my pants and perhaps also because of my blonde hair. Scot
had warned us that Moslems consider pants on women to be very indiscrete,
and that wearing pants might invite some unwelcome
attention. I was never bothered in any way though, except for the constant
stares.
We walked down by the Jhelum River through town, which is lined with
houseboats that are a far cry from the luxurious boats that make up most
of the Dal Lake houseboat population. The boats were mostly small, and
incredibly decrepit looking, with peeling paint and sagging roofs.
Amazingly, some of those wrecks were for rent, with weatherbeaten
signs proclaiming their virtues, virtues that I am sure were mostly in
the past, or perhaps entirely in the imagination of their owners. We
didn't know exactly where Suffering Moses was, but we remembered that the
store fronted a walkway along the river, so we figured that if we found
the path and walked along it, sooner or later we would come to the store;
and so we did.
The store was just as wonderful as we remembered. We had
had some time to think, and had a better feeling for what we wanted. Rob
was looking for a birthday present for his niece; he had admired a beautiful,
large, scroll top desk, wonderfully carved and expensive. I think it was of
walnut, like most of the wooden items in the store. He debated with himself
the possibility of getting it for her; the store offered to send anything for
us, anywhere in the world, and Scot had assured us that they were
trustworthy. Obviously anything like a large piece of furniture would have
to be sent, but even small things would be impossible for us to carry, as we
were leaving on trek the next day and had no room in our limited luggage
for extra weight, and no way to protect delicate items. After some
thought Rob decided against the desk; instead he bought her a marvelous set
of three wooden ducks; in graduated sizes with hollow backs, they could be
used by a child to hold all sorts of things. Rob also chose for himself
a jolly fat carved wooden Bhudda; a rub on his round tummy was said to
bring luck.
I had presents to find too, and I had admired the
embroidered woolen items in the store; I knew I couldn't leave without
buying at least a shawl for myself, and I didn't take long to find the one
I wanted, white wool with white embroidered flowers. The woolen shirts
and kaftans, embroidered with designs and flowers in all colors, were
stunning. My favorite was a white wool shirt with pale green
embroidery, and I chose it for my mother. With all the wood in the store,
I figured that was the ideal place to find something for my father too; I
lingered for a long time over a strange item, a finely polished rectangular
piece of wood that was set in a stand, so it stood upright, and had
some incredible shapes in the grain, but I finally settled on a
footstool. It was a little schizophrenic really; the legs were ornately
carved, but the top was absolutely plain, beautifully finished and
decorated only by the beauty of the wood grain. I simply had to buy one
of the pretty paper mache' items for someone; I finally chose one for my
friend Kathy, who was living in London. We would be seeing her when we
left India. She had been kind enough to arrange a room for us in London,
and I wanted to get her a little something. We were more or less done at
that point, but I could not leave without trying on some of the kaftans;
Rob was, as usual, extravagantly complimentary about the way they looked,
and he bought me one, white wool with golden brown embroidery. It was
really lovely.
Now the question to be answered was, how to pay for all this stuff?
Suffering Moses does not take Visa. Visa had been our mainstay; even in
India most everyone takes it, but this store was an anomaly. I suppose
they were trying to keep their prices down. The workmanship in that store
was the best we saw in Kashmir, and the prices were very competitive.
Unfortunately we had little cash. We needed to keep a few hundred
rupees in reserve, for unforeseen
expenses while on trek; other than that little bit, all we had was
$200.00, our last four traveler's checks. We were able to get cash
throughout our travels by obtaining cash advances on Rob's Visa card at
banks, but visiting an Indian bank is a major, often all-day undertaking,
and we did not have time to get more money that way.
Suffering Moses would take personal checks; many merchants in India
did, and that was a real surprise to us. We certainly had not anticipated
being able to use Ithaca checks abroad and Rob had only one check with him,
the emergency check he kept stashed away in his wallet. I had closed out my
checking account in Ithaca, so I was no help. Rob wrote out his last check
for the amount of our purchases, then we were told that of course the items
would not be mailed until the check had cleared - and that could take three or
four months! Not what we had in mind. So we needed to use our last traveler's
checks. But they were at the houseboat! It was closing time at Suffering
Moses, but he told us he would keep the store open until we got back with
the checks, and off we rushed.
We were worried about finding a taxi right away, so Mr. Gulhidin sent
"his man" with us - an elderly gentleman who spoke little English and
seemed to spend his time sitting in the stairwell, waiting, I suppose,
to be sent on errands. He trotted down to the street with us, and after a
little while a three-wheeled taxi came by. The taxi driver wanted to charge
five rupees to take us to the boat landing, but no! That was outrageous! Our
caretaker took our side with a vengeance, bargained vociferously and got the
fare reduced to the more reasonable sum of four rupees. As we got in, he
smiled his charming toothless smile and extended his hand - what did he want?
One rupee! We paid him his fee cheerfully. He was a sweet old man.
Our taxi took off at breathtaking speed - it must have been traveling along
at (perhaps) ten miles an hour, and we really could have run faster, though not
all the way to the landing. Everyone in Srinagar passed us, as our engine
wheezed and labored, but eventually we arrived at our destination. By the way,
often some fierce bargaining went on before the fare was agreed to by all
parties, but once a bargain was struck, it was a good bargain; we never had
a taxi driver try to increase the fare at the end of the ride, and to my
knowledge no one else had that problem either. We got out, climbed into one
of the houseboat shikaras, were paddled to our houseboat, raced inside, I
found the checks, out we ran, back into the shikara for another paddle to the
landing, into another taxi, and back to Suffering Moses, who was waiting as he
had promised.
It took a while to sign the checks, print out carefully the
destination of each package (one to us in Lansing, one to Rob's niece, one
to my friend in London, and one to my parents in Connecticut), and write
out a statement for the Indian postal authorities that described the
purchases and their prices. For a fee the store agreed to package and mail
our purchases; that fee was money well spent. In India packages
to be mailed have to be packaged according to rigorous standards, which
include a sewn cloth wrapping. They must be brought to the Post Office and
innumerable forms must be filled out, permission to mail such items must
be obtained, they must have official seals stamped on them - I gather that
mailing a few packages can be an all-day undertaking. As it turned out the
small present to my friend in London was mailed airmail (it weighed almost
nothing) and she received it before we arrived there. The others were probably
mailed at the end of July; we know they were not mailed by the middle of July,
because a friend saw at least one of our packages boxed up and ready to mail,
at the store, half way through the month. My parents and Rob's niece received
their presents at the beginning of November; no doubt they traveled by slow
boat. Our things reached us in Beaverton, Oregon at the end of November,
after spending a few weeks in Lansing, New York. With typical efficiency,
the Lansing Post Office held the package there and sent several notices that
it had arrived to Rob's old address, before deciding to act on his forwarding
address and send it on to Oregon. There is no accounting for the actions of
the Lansing Post Office.
Our shopping finished, we felt drained and happy.
I felt that a necessary step had been taken in doing that shopping; now all
thoughts other than mountains and walking could be put aside. I felt really
ready to begin trekking; tomorrow would be the big day!
Scot, disenchanted with houseboat food, wanted to introduce us to something
better. Across the street from the houseboat landing was a Tibetan
restaurant run by relatives of some Kathmandu friends of Scot's, and he
offered to take us all out to dinner there. Sounded like fun to us! Colleen,
Rob and I decided that as a last gesture we would buy a bottle of gin together
and bring it along to the restaurant so that we could enjoy a few gin and
tonics with our dinner. Scot told us that it was against the law to bring
hard liquor into the restaurant, but the management would look the other
way as long as we were discrete. One
of the houseboat employees was sent out in a shikara to make the purchase
for us, and we all got ready for dinner. When we left Colleen tucked the
gin into her capacious purse; she assured us that she would be able to smuggle
it in and pour from the bottle as well, undetected. We were learning to
have confidence in Colleen's abilities.
Scot had planned the menu out ahead of time with the restaurant owner; he
had planned out other things as well. For one thing, he and Nat had brought a
bottle of excellent old rum with them, which disappeared into the hands of our
waiter right after we sat down, and reappeared before long in a suitably
innocuous looking pitcher. Our gin was accorded the same treatment; no
surreptitious pouring from purses was needed, after all! Dinner was tasty and
varied, with small amounts of many different foods. We all enjoyed the treat;
we also enjoyed the gin and rum. At the end of the meal came another surprise;
a birthday cake! Fred's birthday was imminent, and Scot had arranged for a
little celebration.
Everyone unwound at dinner. We were all still pretty
much strangers to one another, and we needed to get a better feeling of
being part of a group that would function together and be interdependent
for the next several weeks. Some progress in that direction was made that
night. We ended the party early;
we all had last-minute packing to do, and our duffels were to be
in the houseboat lounges, packed and ready to go, before 6:00 A.M. next
morning. The only sour note to the evening, for Rob, Colleen and me, was
that we got almost none of our leftover gin back! It just disappeared.
Live and learn.