Kashmir, 16-18 August 2017
Of all the place on our journey, the Kashmir region of India was the only one that raised concern for me, and although he wouldn’t admit it I know that Nick was concerned also. I had no idea what to expect, didn’t have much knowledge about the political issues, and only a cursory understanding that there was conflict in the area from an occasional article in the World section of The NY Times.
We had picked Kashmir as a possible destination so we could visit with Nick’s friend Khuram who has a successful social enterprise there. A friend of mine, who introduced Nick to Khuram, assured us that our minds would be opened, our family would be safe, and our hearts would be won. She spent a decent amount of time in the region as a journalist for a major news publication. In the end, our travel into Kashmir left us safe and gave us a completely different perspective of the region and its conflict, and the opportunities for the future.
The first step in this journey was back in the US when we applied for our Indian visas. “Do you plan to visit the Kashmir region?” My answer of yes led me into a litany of questions about Pakistan and my religion. My truthful answers that we had no ties to Pakistan and practice Judaism (which is in the “other” category on this application) landed us our visas, and we were on our way. At our stopover in Dubai, Bryna and I decided to pick up some longer, modest shirts in order to fit in with the women who mostly wore traditional Kashmiri dress of knee length pheran over loose fitting pants. That was easy since one of the biggest activities in Dubai is visiting the mall, and our hotel fortunately had an air conditioned habitrail leading to it.
Upon arriving in the Indian Kashmir city of Srinagar on a domestic flight from a layover in Delhi, where we had already gone through immigration, we had to register with the government, as do all non-Kashmiri visitors. Our amazing host, Khuram, picked us up and whisked us out safely.
The first thing we noticed on the street were armed military personnel about every 100 yards. Khuram’s first point of interest was to note that Kashmir is one of the most heavily militarized regions in the world. There is one military or police officer for every 6 people. This has been the situation since shortly after India received its independence from Britain in 1947. India and Pakistan had disagreed on a split for this region. Kashmir, which was a blend of Hindu, Muslim, and Christian, was not willing to break up and disrupt its religious harmony, and eventually paid the price. Part of power play between India, Pakistan, and now China, Kashmir has been occupied by India’s military since shortly after India’s independence 70 years ago. Separatists are still trying to obtain freedom for Kashmir, mostly through peaceful demonstrations and UN actions. Some militant groups continue to press their case more forcefully, which incites the Indian military into staking an obvious and ominous presence as a constant reminder of their power there.
When we first planned our trip to Kashmir, I looked it up on the map as a first step in trying to understand its place in the world, literally. It was difficult to understand where the borders were, with dotted lines meandering their way into abstract patterns. Upon our arrival, the cacophonic borders finally made sense to us, as we immersed in the turmoil of this melting pot of religious practice and ethnic heritage.
We drove through the bustling city of Srinagar, a collage of women in beautifully and brightly patterned pheran, a tunic-type dress with slits on the sides worn over pants and a scarf draped around the neck. Most had their hair covered in scarves of varying levels of modesty. Here and there were women in full black burkas, with the occasional full eye covering. Men wore varying types of dress, some in light blue or grayish pheran, others in all white, and the more modern set in western clothing. Headgear varied from crocheted skullcaps to turbans. Shopkeepers sold snacks, housewares, live chickens butchered to order, meats, produce grown in the city’s lakes, fruit from the city’s orchards, q-tips, scarves, clothing, phones, and anything else you needed, except alcohol.
Khuram showed us the second story water level marks from a devastating flood of 2014. Many residents lost their homes and all of their personal belongings, including Khuram’s colleague Sanna who navigated and supported us throughout our visit, and had to start from scratch.
The dense, crowded city made way for the serenity of Dal Lake, with a mysterious aura that hovered above it. Floating families of lotus flower dotted the surface, expressing peace to their visitors. A thin green swirly layer of algae bordered the shoreline. It used to be cleaner at a time when the lake was almost twice as large. But wetlands gave way to development, as there are either no laws against this or it was all too easy to get around them. Nevertheless, it welcomed us to its refuge.
Our car arrived at a boat dock, where we would board our shikara water taxi to take us to the houseboat hotel. We felt like royalty as we stretched out onto the elaborately embroidered upholstery bed and rested our heads against plush pillows on this traditional wooden Kashmiri boat. A concave wooden canopy above protected us from the sun and entertained us with traditional dangling paper mache ornaments. Our oarsman delivered us safely to the houseboat hotel, owned by Khuram’s friend who nurtured us with delicious home cooked local dishes, smiles, and thoughtful conversation throughout our stay. Every inch of the houseboat was handcrafted to his liking in traditional Kashmiri wood carving. The walls, the ceilings, the furniture, and any other accoutrements were designed and crafted with the utmost care.
We took a ride to a nearby ski resort enveloped in the beauty of the Himalayas. While waiting for the gondola, a tourist from India proper (ie not Kashmir) asked Khuram to take a selfie with him from the tip of his selfie stick. To our surprise, Khuram didn’t flinch and kindly obliged. The tourist then asked Bryna and me for the same favor. We looked to Khuram for guidance, and he told Mr. Tourist that he could take it with us seated in the background. After collecting his prize, Mr. Tourist bounced back to his group to show off the bounty. Khuram said that some of the Indian visitors get quite excited to see tourists of differing skin color. Kashmiris are much lighter than Indians, so Khuram may have even looked American by sitting with us.
The view from the top was surreal and breathtaking, even in the afternoon rain that dampened our outing. At a late lunch in the nearby Khyber Hotel & Spa, we were introduced to Kashmir’s signature tea, Kahwa. At its core, it’s an infusion of saffron with cardamom and cinnamon, garnished with slivered almonds, and most likely sugar to your liking. It can also be prepared with the addition of green tea. In any incarnation, it is delicious, soothing, and addictive. After a lunch of spicy and tangy Indian bites like samosas and pakora, we took a tour of the exquisitely crafted hotel. I snapped pics of the grounds, common areas and spa and immediately sent them to my bff’s to woo them for our next spa getaway. This hotel was finished as fine as any I have stayed in throughout the world, but the occupancy was just 4 rooms of the 85 rooms available due to conflict in the area. Again we felt safe and protected, and in all our research never heard a story of tourists in danger. In fact our friends staying in Barcelona were much closer to danger than we were that week.
When we arrived back at our hotel from the mountains around 9:00 in the evening, still full from a late afternoon lunch of deep fried vegetables, cheese curds, samosas, and a melee of sauces, our host welcomed us to the dinner table for a full-on Kashmiri dinner that had no less than four meat dishes, more cheese curds, lots of sauces, and, of course, rice. Family style not an option. Every dish must be served to us one by one.
First on our plate was a tubular shaped ground meat dish.
“What is this?”
“Mutton. Enjoy.”
Back into the kitchen for the next dish. A meatball is placed on each of our plates.
“What is this?”
“Mutton. Enjoy.”
Chicken was next. Then a braised meat. What was it? “Mutton. Enjoy.” Rice with dried fruits, blocks of cheese curds in a tomatoey sauce, and stewed prunes rounded out our feast. Red wine emerged secretly from the breakfront. It would be paid for eventually but not appear on the bill. Don’t ask, don’t tell.
Day 2, Sanna and Khuram’s expert driver picked us up at 7:30 am to head to the Farm2U facilities. The driver. Oh the driver. Even though there are lines painted on the road, they serve as a guide, not the law. Where honking in the US is reserved for taxi drivers, emergencies, and fits of extreme frustration, honking here is a replacement for rear view mirrors and a glance over the shoulder. There isn’t a passing lane. The passing lane is everywhere.
Our driver weaved in and out and around cars, motorbikes, pedestrians, and cows, on two-lane/two-way streets. Sometimes we’d be passing a car on its right while a car going in the opposite direction was passing on our right, which means there are 3 cars wide on a 2-lane road going at 100 km/hr.
But 100 km/hr soon gave way to a complete standstill as we watched Indian military roll in more supplies. They were there to keep the peace since a wanted Kashmiri militant was killed the night before. Once the rush ended, we were able to move on with our business, several orders of magnitude more humbled.
Farm2U is a social enterprise founded by Kashmiri born/American resident Khuram Mir, that has helped provide greater opportunity and earning power to Kashmiri fruit farmers. They used to have to go through many different layers of middlemen to sell their product in southern India. Farm2U has cut out these many layers so that the farmers can conduct their processing, cold storage, packaging, and distribution with one vendor. They have also developed fruit trees that bear fruit only 2 years after planting, as opposed to the typical 10 years. These quick fruiting trees also require a small fraction of the pesticides because they have less canopy, and they bear more fruit per hectare. When we visited a few of his orchards, all of the neighboring farmers with traditional trees came over to ask how they can plant these trees. Khuram spent some time in the US for education and business, and then came back to Kashmir to give back to the region he calls home.
In the afternoon we walked around the old city of Srinagar. At the largest mosque, men were performing the ritual pre-prayer washing while the call to prayer rang out from the outer pillars of the mosque.
On the way back to our hotel, we stopped at Sanna’s house for tea with her family. Her father is a famous Kashmiri artist. His photograph is on Khyber Cement ads all over the city. Cement is a hot product ever since the floods. Sanna’s family had to rebuild their house after the flood. They lost everything. The new house was filled with furniture all designed and built by her father using all discarded materials, mainly wood. Sanna’s mother set out a cloth on the floor where we would have our tea, a Kashmiri custom. What we thought would be a cup of tea and a biscuit turned into 2 types of sandwiches, 3 types of cookies, and 3 types of cake. It was a feast.
My favorite activity of our visit to Kashmir was on day 3. We woke at 4 am, with the Muslim call to prayer already in full gear. We stumbled into a shikara equipped with 2 oarsmen and a tray of coffee and sweets. We set off while the lake was still under complete darkness. The call to prayer still echoed across the lake broken by the rhythmic slosh of our shikara’s oars bringing us toward our destination, the daily floating vegetable market.
Most of Srinagar’s vegetables are grown in floating gardens on Dal Lake. Every morning, the farmers harvest enough to sell for a day, pack them up in their shikara, and sell them to the markets, from boat to boat. It remained dark for at least a half an hour before the sun started to create a mysterious blue-gray haze over the lake. We didn’t even get a chance to enjoy a glimpse of the market in the distance when “Mr. Wonderful” pulled his boat along side ours to give the ladies on board some brilliantly colored flowers. He didn’t let us refuse them, so Nick started to pull out some tip money from his pocket. Mr. Wonderful took offense.
“I don’t want your money. I only want to spread happiness and see smiles. Put your money away! Now let me show you these wonderful seeds that grow beautiful Kashmiri flowers.”
We thought we had an easy way out.
“We don’t have a garden to plant them in.”
“Ah but you can plant them in a flower pot or give them to a friend and always remember the beauty of Kashmir with these flowers.”
Needless to say, we bought the seeds.
The open waters of the lake gave way to a mele of shikara, some filled to the brim with vegetables, others empty. It was difficult to tell which empty boats belonged to farmers and which to the marketers, as all faces had the same blank yet serene expression of the dawn.
At the very tip of each 20’ shikara was a man in either full lotus position or malasana, a full squat with bottom kissing heels.
Green beans, lettuces, tomatoes, potatoes, cabbages, eggplant and more in perfect piles and bundles. My favorite though was the pumpkins. The vision of these plump, fleshy, vine-entangled, jack-o-lantern worthy squash floating on the lake could only exist as an animated film, with witches tending their garden in preparation for All-Hallows Eve.
Farmers and retailers perched on the edge of their boats haggled over prices. We weren’t sure if the yelling was in Kashmiri or the local Srinagar language, but it was clear that each was pining for their price. Money eventually changed hands once the obligatory negotiating was over. The vegetables would go to market, and the farmers would head home for breakfast.
We were approached by many more salesmen. Sweets from Mr. Delicious. Kashmiri tea, which we bought as a gift for our hosts at our next destination of Kathmandu. Leather handbags. Of course I bought one. Another Mr. Wonderful. Apparently Srinagar has room for more than one.
We sat for almost an hour watching the boats weave around each other while we sipped coffee from china cups and nibbled on coconut cookies and walnut tarts from “the second oldest bakery in Srinagar,” a fact that our houseboat host was quite proud to boast. We took turns deflecting boats that approached our port side with a quiet nudge of a finger.
By the time we left there were about six tourist boats jockeying for position to view the market, tasting Mr. Delicious sweets and clicking away on their cameras. Yet another Mr. Wonderful flower boat rowed past us, somehow knowing that his cohort had already sold us the magic beans.
To leave Kashmir from the tiny Srinagar Airport, we went through no less than four (or was it five?) security checks. Our luggage was scanned upon entering the airport and we walked through a metal detector. Then the normal security screening with another luggage scan, a metal detector, and a frisk, with men in public view and women behind a curtain.
Even though we had a personal escort navigating us through the security checks, I got separated by a few feet and was pulled over by a defiant officer for a detailed bag check. I dumped the contents of my backpack, which hadn’t been cleaned out during 3 weeks of travel, onto the counter. The officer found a suspicious looking pink wrapped item and ripped it open for inspection. She examined the tampon with a plastic applicator for a while, trying to figure out where a bomb could be hidden. When it turned up clean, she reached for another individually sealed and costly feminine protection item. I defiantly pleaded, “They’re all the same,” and fortunately she left the rest of the stash untouched. She surprisingly overlooked a suspicious collection of 5 Rosebud lip balms, but was quite perplexed by the fancy fidget spinner in its own zippered case. She asked in broken English, “What is it?” I demonstrated its use while hopping from foot to foot to somehow convey that it stops you from doing that. My act worked, but only after the officer did a thorough examination of a nasal spray applicator.
Next there was a line to wait for an open bag check and another frisk. The personal space issue was one that was difficult for us Americans to navigate. I understand and try to respect that Americans allow more personal space than eastern and African countries, but I don’t know how to dance with a woman behind me who is old enough to be my grandmother and is at least 6” shorter than me (and I’m only 5’3”!) who keeps walking even when she is pressed up against my backpack. We had to let a few go in front of us. The plane wasn’t going to leave until we all got on anyway. At one point I couldn’t let any more go ahead of me, so I put my arm up and did a terrible impression of leaning against the wall. I actually had to put my arm down at an angle since the woman I was trying to block was about 1 foot shorter than me. It was awful, and my children were ashamed, but I didn’t know what to do at this point. When I finally got into the private frisk room, she followed me right in and stood a few inches behind me as the policewoman patted my body down inch by inch.
There were at least two more bag checks and frisks before we got on the plane. I played many scenes around in my head as to what would warrant such redundancy. How could any contraband make its way into our luggage after everyone was scanned, frisked, and checked. I pictured games of hot potato going on throughout post-security territory with weapons and bombs that slipped through somehow. The tight security was comforting, annoying, and scary, all at the same time.
As we left Kashmir’s Kahwa, various forms of mutton, vegetable gardens, temples, cement, and state of political uncertainty, we talked with our kids about the liberties they will consider and challenges they will face in their quest to become an independent nation: economics, military, religious diversity, flood recovery, and Kashmiri’s undying commitment to their land. We remember the compassionate Kashmiri people we met and the other tourists who felt safe visiting this magical and intricate region. We are grateful to our hosts Khuram, Sanna, and our hotelier for sharing their culture with us, for the chance to have this experience. The one quote that sticks with us the most was from a UN staffer who was helping with the flood clean up. When questioned if the city would ever be able to rebound from such a disaster, without hesitation his reply was - “Of course, never doubt the perseverance of a Kashmiri!”
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