A Social Pitfall to the Nomadic Lifestyle

No matter where I go, especially when I find myself amongst other travelers, The question always comes up; “Where are you from?”. Limitations of the English language make this question pretty tough to answer – whereas if I were a speaker of say…Spanish I would have two separate forms of “I am” to choose from. If I were able to imply simply by my choice of verbs that the “where” that I say I am from is temporary, answering this seemingly easy question would be simpler than it is in English. Usually when someone asks me where I am from, the result is some sort of an oration or summary life story that ends with me explaining that I call Jackson, WY home but don’t actually live anywhere. If I’m in a hurry or simply don’t want to deliver a long address, I will answer simply “earth”.

Putting a Stick Pin in a map Doesn’t Make it “Home”

Jackson Hole, WY is one of the most wonderful places on the face of the earth. It is scenically gorgeous, a mecca for outdoor recreation, has a great deal to offer in the way of arts and culture, especially considering its small size and also happens to be where my children live. These are all good reasons to identify with this particular geographical location, but none of those reasons make this place feel like home.

If it “Feels” Like Home, is it Really Home?

This year the first place I went when I left Antarctica was Hawaii. Towards the end of my stay, after I had had time to really count my blessings, I was experiencing an overwhelming feeling of elation with the course my life had taken and with where I was geographically. That feeling was so strong that I was actually concerned that I might be a little bit manic. While I was in Hawaii I learned to surf, I discovered the magic of snorkeling and I began a SCUBA certification course. I also met up with a few of the folks whom I spent the winter with at The South Pole and I made a very positive emotional connection with a place and the people who were there. Upon leaving Hawaii, I experienced an emotional response that can only be described as “leaving home”.

Part 2 coming soon…

No trip to India would be complete without a visit to the Taj Mahal. But wait, back up a couple of posts: I was sick of being in India. The craziness had taken its toll on me, however, I did feel a little bit good about having learned how to play the game. The cab driver from the airport to my hotel (a few days earlier) received a tip that was larger than the cab fare. This wasn’t for his superior service but rather my own celebration of learning how to play the game. India can be fun once you have it figured out. But, I really was tired of it all. On the way to the “special white man train ticket office” I was told all kinds of things about how the ticket office had closed, burnt down, under construction…everything. They do this because they would rather sell you a ticket at a higher price and get the commission. I knew better and didn’t fall for it, but it gets tiresome. Anyhow, I got my train ticket for the trip to Agra and the Taj.

The next morning, I got up in plenty of time to get a ride to the train station. I have a habit of leaving early for things on the off chance that something goes wrong on the way I won’t be late. Today this paid off. The auto-rickshaw that I was riding in got a flat tire and one of the studs was broken off so the driver couldn’t get the old tire off. He kept assuring me that it would be “just five minutes”, I finally bailed on him and flagged a new ride down and got to the train station just in the nick of time.

The trains in India are just like out of the movies. People hanging out of windows and doors. Pandemonium. On the ride to Agra, I was seated next to an Indian land surveyor. It was as if I had my own personal tour guide.

On arrival to Agra, I booked a tour that would take me to the three main attractions near Agra (Fatah Pasikri (sp?), the red fort and the Taj Mahal) and have me back at the train station in time for my return trip to Delhi. It turned out to be a fast paced tour, with very little time at the attractions and a stop at the special tourist restaurant for an extremely (by Indian standards) overpriced lunch.

I’m really not motivated enough to write much more about the Taj Mahal. It’s worth seeing if you ever get to that part of the world.

There isn’t one adjective that can describe Delhi. If there were, it would have to be a word that combined chaos, pandemonium and mayhem. Everything about Delhi is an assault on the senses. People, cars, rickshaws, auto-rickshaws, cows, dogs, monkeys everywhere. Vendors line the trash-filled streets and squawk and holler trying to pedal their wares. Cattle and dogs graze on the trash in the street. Horns, bells, shouts fill the air. Early in the morning, after the vendors and shoppers have gone home for a couple of hours, lip service is paid to cleaning up. The trash is swept to the middle of the street and lit on fire. The lingering odor of burning trash is always present.

Right outside my hotel room window, a Hindu women’s prayer group started singing, every night, at about 10:30 and didn’t stop until well after 2 in the morning. I wish I could add audio to this post…I have a recording of it.

India is something that I can’t describe. One needs to experience it for themselves.

I remained jovial and high spirited during the twelve days of Murphyisms in Gulmarg. By the 13th day, I had had enough and I wanted to get out of Kashmir – out of India and on to something more “normal”. The airline had lost my booking for the flight to Srinagar, it was reasonable to think that they had lost the booking for the return as well. My package included two nights lodging in Srinagar, I couldn’t imagine wanting to stay more than one, in fact, if the timing had been right, I wouldn’t have stayed one night. My feelings of wanting to leave were furthered by being off-loaded at a Kashmiri carpet factory and subjected to high-pressure salesmanship. The Cliff’s Notes on India: Everyone is a hustler – A cab driver will tell you your hotel is booked, burned down, closed…whatever to try to convince you to stay at a hotel where he gets commission. At the train station you will be told that the ticket office is closed so that you can be sold high price tickets where someone gets a commission. In this case, our Sr. ski guide was looking for a commission from the sale of a Kashmiri carpet. I had no interest in carpets..what the hell would I do with it? Every second I spent in the carpet factory intensified my disdain for being in India.

To my surprise, the proprietor of the Butts-Clermont house boats on Dal Lake gave me the warmest welcome I have ever received. Mr. Butts is overjoyed to see tourism returning to Kashmir. The houseboats themselves are well known amongst the world’s elite. Senators, ambassadors and royalty have stayed there. Even George Harrison has stayed aboard the houseboats.

The Houseboats on Dal Lake

The water heaters are wood-fired, so your shower has to be scheduled.

Wood-fired water heater

One of the men that hangs around the houseboats is Lhasa. Lhasa operates a shikara service and take tourists to the floating market and elsewhere on Dal Lake. He also took me to the phone so I could reserve a plane ticket and to a wood carving studio so I could purchase souvenirs. Lhasa is a wonderful human being.

Lhasa’s shikara

on the shikara

In the morning, Tim and I took the shikara ride to the floating market. Due to the time of year, not much was happening, but it was a peaceful ride. When we got back to the houseboat, we were served a delicious breakfast. I packed my bags and realized that I was saddened to leave this tranquil setting. These people did such a wonderful job of putting me at ease I can’t imagine why I ever thought Kashmir might be dangerous or sketchy. The kindness and friendliness of the Kashmiri people is wonderful.

A bridge on the lake

paying the rent

The sheer magnitude of the avalanche which I was looking at validated my earlier fears. Four days earlier I had been skiing where this behemoth had cut its swath of destruction. It’s proportions were epic. It appeared to me that the northern 1/3 of the Pir Panjal range had slid. I had arrived in Gulmarg 12 days earlier. I had been ensnared into booking a ski trip to Kashmir by the tag line “Where decent snowfall means it is measured in meters”. The Gulmarg gondola also boasts being the world’s highest gondola and the world’s longest continuous vertical rise. All seemed like good reasons to do something unique.

The Kashmir region of India has only recently seen a return of tourist traffic. Violence has ebbed significantly since a cease-fire in 2003. My impression is that it has come a long way since, in 1999, Bill Clinton called Kashmir the most dangerous place on earth. The resentment of the Kashmiri people towards the occupying Indian army became apparent to me when my guide, Shabeer, corrected an Aussie snowboarder as he issued the customary Kashmiri greeting to some army troops. Shabeer told him “No, no it’s namaste…namaste(a Hindi greeting)”. There are many competing agendas in the region but currently peace prevails and many of the people I spoke to seem to concur that every tourist rupee spent is a vote for peace.

The airport in Srinagar reminded me of landing at King Fahd airport in Saudi Arabia at the start of Desert Shield. It was definitely a military airfield, commercial air traffic is the lowest priority. Security checks departing from Delhi were exhaustive. I found it peculiar that the more security I face, the less secure I feel. In New Zealand, for example, one hasn’t got to take off their shoes to clear security. The outward appearance is almost lackadaisical compared to that in the U.S. But flying in New Zealand I feel unthreatened. From Delhi to Srinagar, however, the checks, searches, re-checks, frisking and hand-searching left me ill at ease.

On the ground in Kashmir, the first thing I noticed were guns and troops. Guns are everywhere. I was overjoyed when a young Kashmiri man greeted me by name and helped me through the bureaucracy of departing the airport and got me to the vehicle that would whisk me the 60Km to Gulmarg. As the vehicle departed the airport a light rain was falling. Further up the road, in Tangmarg, the rain surrendered to the lower temperature and higher altitude and became snow.

Three deep on a scooter on the way down..trying to beat the storm

By the time we reached Gulmarg, it was “bucketing” as the two Aussies who had booked the same package as I said. That was on Sunday. By Monday, nearly a meter of new snow had fallen at the base area. Ironically the windfall snow would prevent it’s being skied on, at least from the top of the gondola. There are two reasons for this: One, the avalanche danger would be too high, and two, the snow storm had knocked out the electricity so we adjusted ourselves to the customs of people who don’t live by the clock, we waited. When it became apparent that even if the power came back on it would be some time before we would be able to ride the gondola, even to mid-station, we decided to hike Monkey Hill which was the only option available to us under the circumstances. It was a tough hike for me despite the fact that a boot pack was well-established. The altitude of 8800 feet caused my lungs quite a bit of trouble on the relatively short hike. The short ski down made it all worth it. By that afternoon we were finally able to board the gondola for a ride to mid-station. We got three runs in before closing time. The weather at this point was clear and still.

Welcome indeed!

Clear up to my armpits and still snowing. The electricity went out again. By Tuesday morning there was so much snow that the roads to Gulmarg were closed and completely impassable and restoration of electricity was hopeless. Every couple of hours tons of snow would slide down the roofs or the hotel and nearby buildings. These “eave-alanches” appeared that they could be treacherous to any passers-by.

On Wednesday the snow had, at last, stopped falling. At least 2 meters had accumulated at the base area and estimates of nearly 3 meters at the top of the gondola. Even with electricity, and even with western-style avalanche control, it wouldn’t be skiable today. The Aussies and I commiserated over a breakfast of eggs with no yellow color to them. Apparently chickens in India don’t eat very well. The road was cleared which opened up the option for skiing to Tangmarg and being shuttled back to Gulmarg in a truck. We were happy to be out of the unlit hotel and enjoyed the day thoroughly.

Thursday morning was foggy, but power had been restored. We remained optimistic for an opening of the upper part of the gondola. We yo-yo’ed the lower section about three times, and then, magic happened. The upper section opened. We boarded with all the enthusiasm of….well…of skiers after a snow storm. The view from the top was like looking through a milkshake. Nothing was visible except for whiteness. A lack of visibility coupled with the reality of turning on my avalanche beacon while on an unfamiliar mountain allowed terror to posses me. This was real. I could die doing this, or worse end up paralyzed or something. The sudden, unfamiliar fear in me hampered my skiing. My technique was suddenly like that of a beginner. I couldn’t see, I didn’t know where the hell I was and, one of my bindings was not working properly. The snow was excellent, but I was not. On our third run, due to a continued lack of visibility, I fell, sideways, off of a 10 foot cornice. I can’t recall ever being so scared in my life. I was sliding headfirst, downhill with no idea what was below me; rocks? cliffs? I was terrified! I managed to get my feet under me and arrest my descent. In the effort to get my skis back on, the binding which wasn’t working failed to work again at the most critical moment. The ski took off straight down the hill without me. I’m sure that I cursed mildly. One of the Kashmiri guides insisted that I take his skis, he would take my one remaining ski and ski down on it while the other guides searched for my runaway ski. They found it, we all made it down, and I called it a day.

The gondola, in all its glory

Friday and Saturday were perfect blue-sky days. I felt like I had the mountain all to myself. For the most part, I did. There were less than 25 people skiing. Seems like a constant threat of war and the world’s most unreliable gondola keep ‘em away. We made fresh tracks all day, both days. I have never skied runs like this in my life. This must be what heli-skiing is like. My legs were burning, and at 13,000+ feet, my lungs weren’t that happy either, but the smile on my face and the feeling of exhilaration overruled the legs and lungs. It was all worth it. Sunday would prove to be the last of my days on the gondola. Power outages, another three-day snow storm, the brobdingnagian ‘lanche and mechanical problems would keep me skiing to Tangmarg or not skiing at all for the remainder of my stay in Gulmarg.

Marble floors and ski boots don’t work so well together…introducing the world’s first “no fall” restroom

Elsewhere in Kashmir rainfall had caused a mudslide which closed the highway from Jammu to Srinagar. Jammu is where all the food comes from. The closure lasted nearly the entire time I was in Kashmir. The restaurant was already out of mutton the first day I was there. Near the end of my stay, after being told by the hotel staff that there were no eggs, I joked to Tim (one of the Aussies) that we must have eaten all the chickens. That evening, when I ordered a chicken dish…well, you can figure out what I was told. The electricity was out more than it was on. My accomodation was, in essence, a rodent-infested freeze-box and the only thing reliable about the gondola was that it would be closed at 3:15 PM sharp. It was running less than 40% of when it should have been. In addition to the standard skiing hazards and obstacles, Gulmarg has concertina wire, downed electrical wire, rabid dogs and poo-slinging monkeys.

Poo-slinger!

The phones don’t work. There is an internet connection, but it relies on electricity and a phone line…oh, and the space bar on the computer is broken. There’s just no end to the hilarity that can be found in such an environment. I will always remember Kashmir with great fondness and look forward to returning.