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 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 five in a 10-part series.
(Read parts one to four here if you missed them. )Editor’s Note: Susan Fujiki was born in Australia, met her American husband in Japan, and is currently raising two rambunctious kids in Stevenson 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 five in a 10-part series.
Hear ye, hear ye. No bombings today please. Sacrifices, on the other hand, are optional.
I’ve traveled the world wearing a Dorothy the Dinosaur beanie (she’s a character from the Australian children’s musical group, The Wiggles). The beanie served three purposes.
One: it kept my hands warm. Two: it protected my camera. Three: it hid my bleached blonde hair.
As we walked around Srinagar decked out in the oh-so-fashionable grey phirans to blend in, I wore my beanie to try to look like a guy—from a distance at least. Rape has never been high on my scale of desired life achievements and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared of being held at gunpoint and being dragged off, never to be seen again.
I make light of it now, but the entire time we were in Kashmir I was terrified.
Word must have hit the village that tourists were coming and a memo sent out informing everyone to be on his or her best behavior. When my husband and I arrived, it seemed as if everyone walked the streets … and by everyone I meant men and kids.
No women. Not one.
We got off the shikara and were greeted by kids insanely curious about us. They pointed and laughed and said hi. Our tour guide Mr. Connery led us through the village to expose what daily life in Kashmir consisted of. We walked through a small market next to the lake full of men slanging fish, lotus root, spices and wary glances.
Talk about uncomfortable. I felt like a show dog, eyes wandering up and down my body. I concentrated on the kids since they helped my heart stop racing. I trusted them. They couldn’t hurt me. Not badly, at least. I felt safe traveling on the houseboat. But once I stepped off that safe bubble, the reality of traveling in a freaking warzone brought out other feelings. We weren’t supposed to be here. As a woman, I wasn’t supposed to be here.
We continued walking, Mr. Connery trying to explain things in his broken down English. The market was full of … stuff. Here we have Kodak film for sale, maps of the lake, baskets, pots, baskets with pots of ash inside. There we have a mosque. Over there we have soldiers playing cricket.
Wait, what?
Three Indian soldiers ran around playing cricket in their army green uniforms and leather jackets. With their guns set aside on the ground, one soldier batted, one bowled and the other fielded. “Howzats!” galore were shouted and they played with the same boyish enthusiasm as the kids playing in the street next to them. Mr. Connery motioned us to join the game. HA! No thanks. My husband Jay hit a couple balls but was then bowled out and left the game gracefully. No need to start any macho man argument with those who have guns.
The mosque’s single white tower signaled for the call to prayer just as we returned to the shikara. It was beautiful and at the same time, haunting. We heard it often at the religiously designated times during our stay in Kashmir. I’m not particularly religious, but it moved me every single time. There was just something about the chanting that I felt inside. I didn’t understand it, but I didn’t need to.
Mr. Connery never stopped to pray while he was with us. Neither did Shafi, but Shafi was Tibetan so that made sense. Mr. Connery, on the other hand, was Muslim. I didn’t know why he didn’t pray, but I was glad he didn’t. The fact that he continued about his business made hearing it more comfortable for us as we felt free to do the same.
As soon as I stepped foot back into our shikara, my shoulders loosened up and a wave a comfort rushed through my body. As we floated on the water, I felt calm for the first time since we’d arrived. No more men. No more eyes staring. No more fear.
The longer I gazed out at the Himalayas the more entranced I got. To make sure it was real I dipped my cold fingers into the water and dragged them across to break the flat surface. It was real all right, and really cold. I grabbed the ash pot tightly, looked up and watched the eagles soar through the sky.
“You are very lucky (again) to see how the people were living and see a real festival while you are in Srinagar,” Mr. Connery said to us with his deep booming voice. “A festival full of excitement and feasting!”
A festival? That sounded okay, I thought. I like festivals.
“Eid ul Adha! Muslim festival of sacrifice!”
And in an instance, my natural high disappeared.
I pulled Dorothy the Dinosaur over my eyes.
To be continued next Sunday…
Susan Fujiki has lived in the SCV since 2004. She writes and blogs, mostly because she is high on caffeine. She has no intention of stopping. Visit her blog at www.susanfujki.com, follow her on Twitter @kungfupussy or e-mail her at susanfujiki@gmail.com.
Published in the 5th issue of altSCV
