Kashmir: What did we get ourselves into?
Editor’s Note: Susan Fujiki was born in Australia, met her American husband in Japan, and is currently raising two rambunctious kids in Stevenson’s Ranch. Before making a life in the SCV, she traversed the world to amaze her eyeballs, tantalize her nostrils, and confuse her taste buds. These are her stories.
Oh, and don’t forget to read her story with an Australian accent. It’s so much better that way. Trust.
By Susan Fujiki
Cranking life up to 11
This is part 1 in a 10-part series.
It’s probably not the greatest idea to ignore the guidebook when it tells you directly NOT to go to Kashmir. But, as you will get to know me, when I see statements like those, I take them as direct challenges.
So what if some British people were decapitated in the mountains I was going to? They probably weren’t as smart as me. I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see the Himalayas, houseboats and lotus roots. Oh and the machine guns, soldiers and potential goat sacrifices sounded appealing, too.
Kashmir, for those of you who might not know, is the northwestern region of the Indian subcontinent. It is a disputed territory, claimed by both India and Pakistan, with some areas also claimed by China.
My husband Jay and I wanted to travel the world before we settled down and started a family. Our journey began in January of 2003.
When we made it to Delhi, we met two brothers – Mana and Shafi. They were touts, and slick ones at that. After showing us hundreds of photos and positive testimonials of Kashmir, they also became $1,000 richer.
The self-proclaimed “ugly Al Pacino” and his baby-faced brother had somehow talked us into the unthinkable – we were going to Kashmir.
And yes, I read the guidebook warning before coughing up the dough for the trip. Jay and I thought, “eff it. It’s a place others won’t go to. Let’s go.”
After spending the night watching cricket with the brothers and their extended family in a tiny flat in the outskirts of Delhi, we got on our plane bound for Kashmir. The sights were beautiful: Indian Himalayas to the left, Nepalese Himalayas to the right. Everything from up high seemed civilized.
And then we got off the plane.
We were greeted by a man wearing a neck-brace, which threw me off a little. His name was Bashir. He noticed us looking at his neck and muttered something about a car accident just as we were about to get into a car he was driving. Great.
His 4x4 was basic. The standard shiny CD hung from the rear view mirror (a common car ornament in this part of the world), but that was the extent of him pimping his ride. As I entered the car and started to take in everything, I suddenly felt…off. Bashir himself came off as a cocky bastard. He was proud and felt that he could do no wrong. I instantly disliked him, but there was something about the surroundings that made me feel uneasy.
I sat quietly and looked out the window as we drove off. Rolling hills with blue skies dominated the landscape. And men. I saw lots of men. Lots of em.
Um, where were the women?
The men wore grey and brown poncho looking things which I later learnt are called Phirans. As we continued our drive, I noticed a pair of soldiers with machine guns standing on the side of the road every 50 meters or so. At times, the soldiers stood with rifles and bayonets.
What the ef?
I looked over at Jay. The words “regret,” “oh shit,” and “we shouldn’t have done this” whispered between our ears in the backseat.
We held hands.
We shut our eyes.
We reached our first checkpoint.
Bashir stopped the car as a couple of soldiers flagged us to stop for a check. My eyes fixed on their huge machine guns. Why did they stop us?
Jay and I grabbed the guidebook and started to frantically read the section we had skipped over earlier: roadside bombings…terrorists…extremists…do NOT go to Kashmir…
What did we get ourselves into?
The machine guns wanted our passports. We didn’t want to give them over. Not going to hapen. Bashir strongly suggested we do what they asked, so we did. I have never felt so naked in my life.
What would they do? Would they question us? What was an Aussie and an American traveling on a Japanese passport doing in Kashmir?
The minutes they took to look over our passwords seemed like an eternity. The machine gun men looked us up and down, gave back the passports and gave Bashir the go ahead.
Phew.
Bashir put pressure on the gas pedal and we continued our drive. Destination? Dah Lake. To the intriguing houseboat we saw in photos. To the paradise that was talked about in testimonials.
So why am I starting to question Kashmir’s definition of paradise?
Susan Fujiki has lived in the SCV for six-in-a-half years. She writes and blogs due to her high intake of caffeine on a daily basis. She has no intention of stopping. Visit her blog at www.susanfujiki.com, follow her on Twitter @kungfupussy or e-mail her at susanfujiki@gmail.com.
This was printed in the first issue of altSCV.
This was printed in the first issue of altSCV.
