Ski blogger Sam Lozier is spending a chunk of this winter in
As I wrote about earlier, the snow in Gulmarg hasnít been the best recently. In an effort to make lemonade out of a bad situation - and for a change of scenery - Allen and I decided to head down to Srinigar for a night. Our two-day trip turned out to be the most memorable part of our time in
Our adventure began at our home in
The group assembled, and we left the hotel at 11 a.m. En route, we were passed by a taxi full of workers from the
Tangmarg was busy when we arrived, as it was some kind of market day and there were women (a rare sight in Gulmarg) shopping everywhere. We picked up a few macaroons and a loaf of bread from the Snow Bakery, and set off to look for a bus to Srinigar. Eighteen rupees and 20 minutes later, I was on the most flamboyant bus Iíve ever seen, put-putting toward the city as Kashmiris deftly jumped on and off the moving vehicle at their respective stops. It quickly became very apparent that Westerners rarely take the bus into town, and the children especially regarded us with long googly-eyed stares.
Within a few minutes of the beginning of the ride, the standard inquest began: "From where is your home?" "Are you not married, where is your wife?"
Then it got a little unusual; "Why do you go to Srinigar?" "Have you heard about the unrest?"
"What?"Ē Ö. "No, whatís going on in Srinigar?"
But we never got an answer beyond "itís no big deal, youíll be fine," accompanied by the typical Indian head wiggle.
I figured itíd be prudent to get a newspaper in order to get a handle on what was going on. At one of the few actual bus stops (not rolls), we bought one Low and behold, the entire above the fold of the Kashmiri times read:
Suddenly, our lack of planning felt pretty naÔve and reckless. Even now though, when faced with direct questions, our fellow bus riders still assured us that everything would be fine, that the protesters had no quarrel with Westerners, their issue was with
As Allen and I took in the scenery and dodged questions about our marital status, the two Kiwi girls we were with made fast friends with a nicely-dressed female student who promised to look after us when we arrived. Where we finally got off the bus, it was quite clear we were not in a nice or touristy part of town, and we were quite glad to have the company of the young lady at that point.
A phone call got us in contact with Yusef, a houseboat owner, who promised to speed right over and collect us. True to his word, in less than ten minutes an autorickshaw screeched to a halt in front of the fire station we were waiting at. A rather large man jumped out, hurried the girls into the one he arrived in and flagged down another. An autorickshaw is a tiny, enclosed, three-wheeled vehicle with a two-stroke engine and motorcycle handlebars for controls. Somehow we managed to fit Yusef, Allen, and myself across the back of the second rickshaw. With the driver (also not small) there had to be at least 700 pounds in the car. Yet, after replacing the door that had fallen off as Yusef got in, we still managed to speed off into Srinigar traffic towards
After a day spent traveling and worrying about riots, we were all struck by how immediately relaxing the glassy water of
Dusk joined us as we reached a non-descript wood-carving shop that Yusef insisted we see. Steeling myself for the hard sell, I prepared my best jaded attitude for the shop, but was immediately overwhelmed by what lay inside. In this floating workshop, near the back of a decrepit houseboat neighborhood, sat some of the most amazing wood carvings Iíve ever seen. Captivated, we spent an hour examining the hundreds of years of work that had gone into creating the shop's inventory.
A short paddle returned us to Yusef's houseboat and a delicious home-cooked chicken curry. Dinner was followed by a game of cards and a long conversation with Yusef about Kashmiri politics as he smoked hash - joint after hash joint- and slowly melted into the couch. As the evening wound down I made my way to my ornately carved bed where I was embraced by a massive pile of blankets and the best sleep Iíve had in a very long time.
Eric Wilbur is a lifelong recreational skier who spends most of his winter and spring in the mountains of New England. He does not ski in jeans. You can read more of Eric's work here.
Heather Burke is an award winning ski journalist with over a decade of ski news coverage. As a former ski instructor and a ski parent, she knows the ski biz from the inside out. She and her family visit New England ski resorts, as well as the West and Canada, to report on the latest trends and their best family finds. Her husband Greg takes all the accompanying photos, and their work can be seen at www.familyskitrips.com and www.luxuryskitrips.com.