A Kitchen and the Khyber Pass

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

A Kitchen

The central role that kitchens play in one’s life has me looking back with quiet amusement. This particular kitchen is as much a story of what was absent as what was present.

There was a tap, and a bench. Atop the bench sat a two-ring gas burner, fed by a large bottle stored directly beneath in the open cavity below. We had brought our electric frypan from Australia, and it earned its passage. The water cooler and steel thermos were ours too, practical companions in a setting where nothing could be taken for granted. Tucked between these familiar comforts sat a tin-box oven, modest enough to perch on one of the gas burners should the need arise.

The large kettle occupied the burner as a matter of permanence, always in some stage of being filled, brought to the boil, and set aside to cool. We then stored the water covered, until it cooled and was transferred to the water cooler to provide safe drinking water.

1979 Kitchen in Srinagar - restored from water damaged photo

The broken ceramic tiles that decorated the bench and the kitchen floor were the very same that had cascaded from the bedroom ceiling. They were a feature throughout the apartment.

Rounding the corner, one came to the open shelves and the small, lockable cupboard where dry goods were stored with careful intent. A power transformer sat on the shelf to my left; behind me, another import from home, our small toaster oven, familiar and slightly incongruous in its surroundings. We could use the electrical devices most of the time, but power supply was unreliable and could not always be guaranteed.

 Water damaged photo AI restored 2026

Acting on local advice we employed a houseboy who would help with a variety of tasks. He came recommended as a friend of a well-trained worker which gave us every confidence. What we did not realise was that this young fellow had no prior training. One day when I returned to the kitchen where he had been washing the floor, there he was wiping his wet feet on the curtains. 

He had little English and I only had a few basic local phrases. Yet we managed, through gestures and goodwill, and by the time the summer drew to a close and he left our employ, it seemed reasonable to hope he had gathered several skills that would serve him well.

1980 - Up the Khyber Pass

There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,

And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen 

Rudyard Kipling - The Ballad of the East and West, 1899

1980 - Khyber Pass road

One does not simply drive the Khyber Pass, one is absorbed by it. After a night in Peshawar, we set out for this long and winding road towards the Afghan border. The road climbs and coils through the Safed Koh range of the Hindu Kush, hemmed by walls of bare rock that shift in colour from pale ochre to deep rust. The Khyber Pass became part of Pakistan following the 1947 partition of India. The summit of the pass lies only 5 km within Pakistan.

The landscape is layered in history. Ancient stone forts rise from ridgelines and valley walls, built and rebuilt by tribes and traders across centuries of commerce, conflict and survival. These were not romantic ruins but scars of many bloody wars fought along this historic pass. We saw unit badges etched into rocks along the way.

The Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan at the end of 1979. The border crossing was closed. 

We saw refugees, barred from entering Pakistan, sitting forlornly on the far side of the crossing, still figures against a turbulent world. They waited with the particular patience of those who have no other choice. 

History in the making witnessed, our descent back to Peshawar left us thoughtful.

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

Jeeps in a variety of situations

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

Jeeps

If there was one vehicle that defined life among the UN observers in those mountain postings, it was the jeep: that tireless, open-sided workhorse that seemed equally at home on a paved road as it did clinging to the edge of a precipice. In 1979, these sturdy machines carried my husband and his colleagues across terrain that would have defeated lesser vehicles and, on occasion, nearly defeated them too.

The drivers on both sides of the line were soldiers stationed in the high mountains.They brought to their work every shade of temperament imaginable, from the carefully measured caution of the prudent to the breathtaking confidence of those who appeared entirely unbothered by a sheer drop to one side.

1979 Skardu field station

Here’s a typical UN jeep in 1979 after arriving at a field station. Open sides, rugged going. This one has made it successfully over rough roads and steep climbs. Rest for the driver and relief for the observer.

Not every encounter on those narrow mountain roads passed without incident. My husband recalls with particular clarity the day two jeeps met head-on along a stretch of road where passing was simply impossible. There was nowhere to go, no room to manoeuvre, and the frustration of one driver spilled over into action. He climbed out and thumped the bonnet of the UN vehicle with his fist, as though the jeep itself were to blame. In the end, of course, someone had to reverse until the road widened enough to allow both vehicles through.  Frustration for both drivers.

1979 A jeep impasse

The Deosai Plateau

High on the Deosai Plateau in Baltistan, one of the most remote and elevated plateaux in the world, the jeeps faced a different kind of test. A photograph from the summer of 1979 shows a UN jeep picking its way across a small bridge in that vast, wind-swept landscape, the sky enormous and blue above the tawny plain.

On the return journey, my husband recalls, the driver took one look at the rickety bridge they had crossed earlier and decided the river itself was the safer option. He drove straight through the water. My husband, exercising what I have always considered excellent judgement, chose to walk across the bridge.

1979 bridge on the Deosai Plateau

Jeep Cherokees

For longer official journeys between Srinagar and Rawalpindi, the larger Jeep Cherokees were brought into service. They were stationed at Headquarters for the use of administrative staff. Solid and imposing, they seemed well suited to the distances involved, though, as we discovered, no vehicle is entirely proof against a Himalayan winter. 

We were travelling in one of these vehicles in winter when it slid to a halt in the snow. The more the driver spun the wheels the deeper the vehicle dug into the snow. My husband climbed out into the cold to push. After considerable effort, the vehicle lurched forward showering him in snow. The driver, perhaps caught up in the relief of the forward motion, simply kept going. From the back seat I called out as urgently as I could manage “Bas, bas, Sahib.” It took a while for the driver to realise he had left my husband behind on that cold snowy road. He eventually paused and waited while my husband caught up on foot and climbed wearily into the vehicle. 

On another occasion with my mother-in-law aboard, we were halted by a very large crowd coming towards us. While we trembled, the driver seemed relatively unperturbed. Indeed, the crowd flowed by either side with the force of the surge rocking the vehicle as they passed. It was a local demonstration underway. We continued our journey relieved to get away.

This last picture shows a summer scene high in the mountains, perhaps a rest break on a long journey. It is easier in summer light to remember the mountain scenery.

Jeep Cherokees in summer, high in the mountains

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

Inglenook and Indian Republic Day

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

Inglenook

Within the walled sanctuary of the United Nations compound in Srinagar stood a house called Inglenook, a name that conjured precisely what it promised. An inglenook is that most English of things: a cosy recess beside a fire, a place of shelter and warmth carved out against the cold. And cold, in Srinagar, was no small matter.

During the summer months the house was occupied by the Chief of Mission. Observers and administrators of lesser rank found their own lodgings outside the compound walls, scattered through the city. But when the Himalayan winter descended and the mission retreated to Rawalpindi, it became our destiny to remain in Srinagar and occupy this building. My husband was tasked with maintaining the UN presence with administration and other duties as well as responding to the daily radio communications that kept the mission connected to the wider world. The house was ideally situated next door to the Headquarters building so that even in the heaviest snowfall, work was only a few steps across the yard.

Inglenook - February 1980

Inside, the living room was heated with an old bukhari, a squat coal-fired beast that demanded patience and considerable perseverance before it could be coaxed alight. The fumes, when the coal finally caught, were deeply unpleasant. The chimney had been fitted with a right-angle bend to exit through a side wall. The bedrooms were upstairs, so out the side wall the chimney went. 

The floor was covered in a mustard-coloured carpet of a particular ingenuity: it had two sides, one for summer and one for winter. Before the cold weather set in, the carpet had to be turned, because no amount of care could prevent coal dust from embedding itself into the winter side. It was a ritual of the seasons, as dependable as the first frost.

 

A wooden display unit was fixed to the wall at one end of the room. The leaf portraits mentioned in an earlier post about Framing, are clearly visible on these shelves. We used the shelves to display goods purchased through the summer months along with some books and audiocassettes. 

This was before CDs and digital audio. In our Singapore stop over, we had purchased a large stereo cassette player that came with two detachable speakers. The very latest in audio equipment.

Towards the end of our posting an Indian asked if he could borrow our cassette player for a function at his place. We expected it to be returned, but alas that was not what he had in mind. We returned home without recompense for that piece of equipment.

The lounge room 1980

Locally embroidered cushions were displayed along the lounges.

Indian Republic Day

On the 26th January 1980, Australia Day back home, we were in New Delhi and had the opportunity to attend the Republic Day Parade. The occasion marks the adoption of India's Constitution in 1950 and the country's formal transition to a sovereign democratic republic: a day of considerable national pride.

Along with multitudes of onlookers we headed to the ceremonial route to watch the spectacle. Indeed, it was a memorable spectacle. A full-scale parade unfolded before us, marching contingents in immaculate formation, armoured vehicles rolling in solemn procession and fly-pasts threading the sky overhead. 

Woven throughout it all, there was a vibrant cultural pageant of state tableaux representing every corner of the subcontinent. The variety of military dress, the colourful headdresses, the graceful women in their saris, all of it displayed the remarkable diversity of India's peoples. This was much more than just a military parade. 

Our photos were taken over the heads of all the onlookers in front of us. One photo captures the decorated elephants lumbering along, their heads high above the level of the people.  Another is of women wrapped in beautiful saris, a swirl of colour on that January day, then a camel.

Elephants on parade 1980

1980 Republic Day parade

 

Camel on parade

We were three, my husband myself and another of Australia’s observers. None of us had ever been in such a huge crowd. When the parade finished and the crowd started to move, I grabbed the back of my husband’s belt and Paul who was behind me held onto my shoulders. Such was the pressure of the crowd we decided to move like this in order to remain together. Pressed forward as a single unit we were swept  along by the human tide.

We returned to our accommodation exhausted, but well satisfied with our experience.

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

Houseboats on the Lakes

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

Houseboats

The British colonials were ever resourceful in escaping the fierce heat of the Indian plains. Each summer, they retreated to higher, cooler climes and nowhere offered quite the same beguiling refuge as Kashmir. Yet the rulers of Kashmir in the 1880s had closed the valley to European land ownership, and so foreign residents and visitors found an elegant solution: they commissioned floating houses. These were modelled on earlier versions of covered boats.

Kashmiri artisans proved themselves masters of their craft, gradually building larger and more comfortable vessels from deodar, the fragrant local cedar that lent each houseboat its distinctive warmth and character. Many grew into substantial structures that rivalled the better hotels for both comfort and service. Interiors were adorned with richly patterned Kashmiri carpets underfoot and exquisite wood carvings overhead.

The houseboats themselves were generously proportioned, typically offering four bedrooms, bathrooms, and a proper dining room. Above, an open deck invited guests to sit in the sun and gaze across the shimmering expanse of the lake, the distant Himalayan peaks on the horizon.

Enjoying the summer sun with friends on the upper deck

During our time in Kashmir, houseboats remained a favourite destination for visitors seeking to experience life on the lakes. We spent one short break on Lake Dal. Meals were included and often when booking a stay, one could not be sure whether we would have the place to ourselves.

  
Unfortunately for one honeymoon couple we were sharing a rental. It was well after we were asleep one night that the dreaded effects of ‘Delhi belly’ set in. The evening meal had passed pleasantly but provided a nasty result. The walls of thin wood, charming in so many respects, offered precious little in the way of sound insulation, and one could only feel the deepest sympathy for the newlyweds.

A wide variety of creative names adorned the houseboats. From our summer photos we have Miss England and below the Princess Alexandra and the Alexandra Palace.

A steady procession of merchants arrived by shikara, each hoping to tempt residents with their wares. There were shikaras laden with fresh vegetables, others piled with craft goods: papier-mâché boxes, embroidered shawls and carved trinkets.

A well remembered visitor was a man known to us as Shining Roses, who glided alongside each morning in a shikara overflowing with the most beautiful blooms. He arrived quietly across the water, and delivered colour and fragrance to one's doorstep.

Times have changed for many houseboat owners but we retain pleasant memories of these elegant vessels.

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

Golf at Gulmarg and Goats

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

Gulmarg

Gulmarg sits high in the mountains at an altitude of 2,650 metres, cradled among the peaks of the western Himalayas. The final section of the road from Srinagar wound up a torturous, steep 12-kilometre incline, each bend offered another breathtaking glimpse of the valley below, and another test of nerve for the driver.

We visited Gulmarg twice: once bathed in summer light, and once deep in the hush of winter snow.

Golf in Gulmarg

We set out with Irish friends for a day in the mountains with golf in mind. We were in the Volkswagen Kombi which had been used by the Royal Australian Air Force when they provided air support to the UN for four years until just before our arrival. The Australian observers now had access to this vehicle when they were not on field station. Kombis were not known for performing well on steep inclines, so we breathed a sigh of relief as it surmounted the last climb.

The golf at Gulmarg did not disappoint. At that altitude, the air is thin and sharp, and the backdrop of snow-dusted peaks entirely surreal. The Gulmarg Golf Club is one of the highest in the world.

Summer 1979 - Golf at Gulmarg

After a thoroughly pleasant day in the mountains, the voyage home had a few surprises in store. By the time we reached the outer suburbs of Srinagar, night had long since fallen. Then came that unmistakable sound, a sudden puncture brought the Kombi to a grinding halt.

 
Within minutes, we were surrounded by dozens of curious onlookers, materialising from the darkness with the particular enthusiasm that a stranded vehicle seems to inspire. Then came the discovery that the spare tyre was entirely useless. After much angst a local came to the rescue. He whisked my husband off into the night aboard one of the little three wheeler taxis, clutching the damaged tyre.

 
That left the rest of us sitting in the Kombi as the crowd pressed steadily closer. I am not entirely certain whose idea it was to arm ourselves with a golf club, but it proved a remarkably effective instrument for encouraging the onlookers to maintain a respectful distance. The sight of a golf club wielded with quiet determination, it seems, transcends all language barriers.

Our hero returned eventually, mended tyre in hand, face triumphant. After heartfelt thanks and the appropriate exchange of currency, and the tyre restored to vehicle, we made our way home through the sleeping city.

A winter visit – February 1980

Our second visit to Gulmarg came after the snows had fallen and the mountains had drawn their white blanket close. Where today's visitors find a modern ski field with all the polished trimmings of a resort, the winter of 1979–80 offered something altogether more modest.

February 1980 - The Gulmarg Chairlift

We had skied in Australia, but Gulmarg presented its own particular challenges. There were no downhill skis long enough for my husband's considerable height, and so he was issued with a pair of wooden cross-country skis. Watching him negotiate the slope on those with the focused expression of a man engaged in a silent, personal battle against both gravity and timber was entertaining, until my own inelegant spill on the slope.

Goats

No account of Kashmir would be complete without the goats. They were woven into the very fabric of life there, appearing on cliffsides at improbable angles, as though gravity were merely a suggestion. Their long spiral horns caught the light as they picked their extraordinary way across terrain that would defeat most sensible creatures.

The flocks were also accomplished masters of the road blockage. On more than one occasion, a river of goats would bring the UN jeeps to a standstill. Some goats here were apparently weighing up whether to leap from the nearest precipice, while others simply stared at the offending vehicle and its occupants with mild disdain.

A goat roadblock

The domesticated herd goats produced the ultra-fine, warm wool (pashmina) used to make luxurious shawls. Goat also known as mutton, formed the basis of many meat-based dishes. 

The goat, in Kashmir was mountain acrobat, wool merchant, and a hearty meal. 

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

The Fish Market, Fear and Friendship

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

The Fish Market in Rawalpindi

The fish market in Rawalpindi was a unique experience. Surrounded by the strong smells and a cacophony of sounds we came upon those remarkable men seated on a platform with a large carved blade held between their toes. Each fish was taken in hand at the blade's tip and drawn downward in a single, practiced motion, filleted with a skill so precise and so swift that it was theatrical. We watched entranced by the motion. The fish arrived overnight from Karachi, on ice.

I have no photo of this memorable place but the best representation Gemini could make for me, provides some idea of the scene.  We remember the blades with more curve and the top end had a wooden piece which was held in the mouth to keep the blade steady.

Imagine this repeated over and over and let the smell of the market assault your senses.

AI generated image,
the blades had no wooden handle as opposed to the one shown here

Fear of Skylab

Skylab was the United States first manned space station, a science lab in orbit around the earth so astronauts could live and work there for weeks at a time. As its orbit dropped closer to earth, NASA knew it could only partly control where it landed on its return. By July 1979 the media frenzy stoked the fears of the people that this huge piece of space debris would cause devastation.

It was, after all, just a year since a Soviet spacecraft had scattered radioactive debris across the Canadian wilderness. 

The people in Kashmir were afraid. In Srinagar as the date of re-entry approached, shops were shut, bazaars deserted, shutters closed and the streets usually bustling with life were almost silent. The hush that settled over those familiar lanes was deeply eerie, the kind of silence that speaks louder than noise. 

Skylab, as it happened, descended to earth far away, scattered in pieces across the red dust of Western Australia. Kashmir breathed again.

As Artemis 2 currently ventures far above us, it seems timely to remember Skylab.

Friendships, food and fun

Amongst the cohort of military observers there were officers from Finland, Italy, Sweden, Denmark and Norway. Administrative staff brought yet further nationalities into the mix, and mealtimes could feel like a small tour of the world. 

With our Irish friends there was always the certainty of two different dishes of potatoes served with meals.

 
Kashmiri acquaintances offered quite different pleasures: Rogan josh, fragrant with spice, rich and deeply aromatic. The roti bread was a regular part of our diet. Loaf bread was available but heavy and laden with sugar.

 
The Finnish observers had constructed a sauna, and an invitation to experience it was not to be declined. The intensity of the heat was striking, as was the notable absence of clothing, a rather novel initiation for me. 

At the end of his posting, one of these Finnish friends left the mission in his big red Oldsmobile with wife, daughters and mother in law aboard. The 1979 Iranian revolution was just a few months old. They covered their windows with posters of the Ayatollah and drove home through Iran. 

Our Australian colleagues provided comfort and easy companionship in difficult times and we enjoyed a couple of barbecues alongside flowing streams.

Water damaged photo, 1979 Australian struggling with a barbecue

The PX store at Headquarters was a a place where families, friends and men returned from distant field stations could converge, exchange news, and simply be in one another's company for a while.

Frames

Before leaving the subcontinent, we had four pieces of delicate leaf-portrait art framed. A dark green background against gold painted frames preserved these pieces. Framing was both effective and wonderfully inexpensive.

Pen and ink portraits of a Pathan tribesman and woman were framed in black with a white border. These works hung on our walls in many places through the years. Time, as it does, had its way with them. Age brought discolouration; household moves brought breakages. They no longer grace any wall of ours, but the memory of them does, that memory has not yet shattered.

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

Embroidery and an Elephant

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

Embroidered goods

Among the many crafts displayed in bazaars of Kashmir, the beautiful embroidered shawls were a prized purchase made by many a tourist. The stitches used were deceptively simple, mainly satin stitch, stem stitch and chain stitch but the fine quality of the work, drew many an admirer.

One did not always need to seek out the merchants. They came to us. Keen-eyed and unhurried, they glided across Dal Lake in their shikaras whenever word reached them that a person was lingering on a houseboat, enjoying oneself, as one might politely describe it.

 

Carmel purchasing embroidered goods

In this photograph, a visiting merchant has drawn his shikara alongside to display his wares. It was here that I purchased a lovely white cape with pale blue embroidery, its tiny intricate stitches speaking of patient hours and practised hands. Several other shawls followed me home that season, and most have since found their way into other hands and other houses, which seems a fitting end for things made to be admired.

A shawl given to a sister

The embroidered suede coats, trimmed with fur were a particular favourite among visiting women. Mine served me faithfully for many years, and then, as the best-loved garments sometimes do, it passed to the next generation. In the late 1990s, our teenage daughter wore it in the cold winters of Paris. She assures me she still has it all these years later.

The embroidered coat many years later

Embroidered bags and cushion covers were also popular items, but again discarded after many years of use.

An Elephant in the Yard

In our apartment on the first floor in Sonwar, Srinagar, my husband woke me one morning with the calm announcement that there was an elephant in the yard. Given that we had spent a rather merry evening with friends the night before, I took this news with some skepticism. Elephants in the yard were not, as a rule, a feature of our mornings.

The apartment in Sonwar Bagh, Srinagar on the first floor.
This was the scene of the collapsed ceiling and of the elephant sighting.
(water damaged photo)

He was quite right, of course. There it stood, enormous, unhurried, entirely at ease in surroundings that were considerably less accustomed to it, than it appeared to be. The elephant had simply wandered away from its keeper. The keeper appeared later in the day enquiring whether by any chance an elephant had been sighted in the vicinity. 

It had indeed.

Not the elephant in our yard but our souvenir wooden hand painted elephants 

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

Dak bungalows and Darra

Living in Kashmir 1979-80 : A Year of People, Places and Memories

Dak Bungalows

The dak bungalow, as far as I am able to ascertain, was a peculiarly British invention, modest, utilitarian, and a reminder of the Raj at its most practical. They were built from the 1840s onwards as official rest houses for travelling government officials and postmen making their rounds across the subcontinent. These single-storey structures offered little in the way of luxury. There were a couple of bedrooms and a verandah out the front. Often there was a cook attached to supply food for weary travellers.

My mother-in-law and I encountered one of these survivors on our journey through Rajasthan and the heartland of Mughal India. We had set off from Delhi with the grandeur of Agra ahead of us, the Taj Mahal shimmering, ghostly and perfect. Then the great red sandstone ramparts of Agra Fort rising from the banks of the Yamuna. 

The second day took us to Fatehpur Sikri, where Akbar's abandoned capital lay spread across the ridge in eerie silence. Its carved sandstone courts and audience halls were  preserved as though the court had simply walked away one afternoon and never returned. From there we pressed on to Jaipur, the Pink City, spending a day wandering the Amber Fort with its mirrored halls, pausing before the lacy stone screen of the Hawa Mahal, and viewing the Jal Mahal as it appeared to float improbably on its lake.

Somewhere on this journey, the precise location has since slipped from my memory, we spent a night in a dak bungalow that had been quietly adapted for the tourist trade. It was exactly as one might have expected: modest rooms, facilities that offered function but little more. The price was remarkably reasonable. There was something rather satisfying about sleeping in a building designed for itinerants, a reminder that travellers have always passed through, paused, and moved on.

Darra Adam Khel, 1980

There are places that lodge themselves in the memory not because they are beautiful, but because they are unlike anything else encountered. Darra, as it was known was one such place.

Situated south of Peshawar in Pakistan's north-west frontier provinces, Darra wore its reputation openly. Since the establishment of a small gun factory there in 1857, this dusty place of workshops had grown into the world's largest black market in firearms, where weapons of every description were crafted entirely by hand in minimal, oil-smelling workshops.

Card purchased depicting Frontier Gun Makers

Visiting in 1980, the work was plain to see, gunsmiths were bent over their benches, fashioning barrels and stocks with tools that seemed barely changed from the previous century. We photographed a workshop, the craftsmen, the abundance of weaponry displayed with the casual confidence of men who had nothing to hide. But it was in the streets that unsettled my nerves. Guns were tested there and then, the crack of a report splitting the air without warning. The testing of firearms in a public thoroughfare has a way of concentrating the mind. 

We did not linger.

1980 Gun makers in the streets of Darra - water damaged photo

One shopfront we did not enter, though its hand-painted sign required no explanation. In Darra there was a directness in commerce. Arms and drugs.

Hashish store photo taken 1980 when visiting Darra

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

Carpets, Chilli Chicken and Crossing the Line

Living in Kashmir 1979-80 : A Year of People, Places and Memories

Carpets

Kashmiri carpets ranged from the exquisite silk weaves in jewel-like colours that seemed almost too beautiful to walk on, to the sturdy, hand-knotted woollen rugs built for a lifetime of use. They were an ever-present temptation in the bazaars. There they were hung and layered in great drifts of colour and a multitude of patterns. Forty-seven years on, and after eleven more moves across the world, our two woollen rugs have served us well.

Corners of our carpets from original photos
added to Gemini to get the side by side view

Chilli Chicken

Chilli was a serious matter on the subcontinent. Issued in generous quantities to local soldiers every month, it was part of the fabric of daily life. In Rawalpindi, one could buy a freshly cooked chicken, a welcome convenience given our rather limited cooking arrangements. Chilli was never optional, no matter our request to have a chicken not smothered in the very hot spice. Every bird arrived a vivid, uncompromising red. 

The chilli was not optional. It never was.

Crossing the Line of Control

Our first crossing from Pakistan to India took place in May 1979. Since the departure of the Australian air force support in January of 1979, the Canadians supplied a C130 to facilitate the move. Goods and personnel were processed in this manner twice yearly. For crossings at other times, UN vehicles carried us by road to the line itself, the boundary where one world ended and another began. We were driven to the crossing point, bid farewell to the soldiers stationed there, then simply walked across to the other side. 

The soldiers on duty invariably offered hospitality, and their kindness was genuine. They lived in difficult circumstances, and their efforts were well-intentioned. We were offered a cup of chai, tea boiled together with condensed milk into a thick brew. It was just not the beverage that I found it undrinkable, but my distaste was heightened by seeing the visible black cracks in the cups in which it was served. Who knew what lurked therein? 

The problem, I knew well, was entirely mine and not theirs.

There was an occasional spill, purely accidental of course, behind a rock or a convenient plant.

1979 - A Pakistani observation post

Collecting my Mother-in-law

My husband's mother, Phyll, came to visit, and the plan was straightforward enough, I would collect her from Delhi when her flight landed. The difficulty lay in getting there. Srinagar at the time was in the grip of riots, and it was quite unsafe to be seen travelling in a UN vehicle. This meant a furtive journey by local taxi to the Srinagar airport, a small adventure in itself.

Phyll’s flight arrived in Delhi well after midnight. I had arranged a taxi from the hotel to the airport, with the driver agreeing to wait and take us back. The hotel porter had kindly negotiated a fair price on my behalf, and I confirmed the figure with the driver before we set off. On our return however, the driver attempted to extract a considerably larger sum than had been agreed. My mother-in-law was quite distressed that I refused to pay it.

Common sense, as it so often does, ruled the day.

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

Bazaars, Banks and Baramulla

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

Bazaars

Bazaars of all sorts were fascinating to browse. From beautifully carved wooden goods, embroidered treasures, silver work, gems and more, through to everyday household pots and pans. There was always something to catch the eye. Fine Indian cottons were a favourite for the summer months. The vendors were happy to pull out any materials requested as they were anxious for a sale. Bargaining was expected so one could always purchase for a fair price without being unfair to the seller. 

I had taken my Bernina 707 sewing machine with me in the allowed luggage shipment so I enjoyed spending time sewing when there was reliable power. Tailors were keen to make clothes too, so many took full advantage advantage of this skilled service.

Srinagar bazaar

Material shop, Kotli bazaar - Azad Kashmir

Banks and banking

These were the days before plastic cards. We left Australia with Traveller’s cheques to be cashed when needed. The Grindlays bank in Srinagar was where we visited to obtain cash for local spending and to pay wages to the house boy. It was close to six weeks before the UN made a first payment and we were issued with a Chemical Bank cheque book. Cheques were widely accepted for larger transactions but rupees preferred for small purchases.

Unbeknown to us the bank had “lost’ the money paid by the UN. While we went about cheerfully writing cheques for various purchases, it later emerged that the funds were being drawn from someone else's account entirely. The bank took three months to untangle the mess, and even after twelve months had passed, there were still outstanding matters that had not been fully resolved. The combination of the UN and bank bureaucracies both administered from afar was not a happy marriage.

Baramulla

Baramulla - via Open Map

On the Indian side, Baramulla is about 55 km from Srinagar. In our time, the valley had many fruit orchards. We were friendly with an Australian couple working there through the summer months for the UNDP (United Nation Development Project). Ray was sharing his expertise as an apple orchardist from Tasmania.  

The road to Baramulla was lined with trees, and a wide variety of vehicles, from lumbering trucks to nimble tongas, made their way along this busy thoroughfare.
.

Travelling light

Heavy loads, cars, trucks and pedestrians in the distance

A winter visit

Some of the Indian drivers and guards working for the UN, were stationed in the military barracks at Baramulla. One driver was very keen for us to visit in mid-winter to see a popular Clint Eastwood movie showing at night. We rugged up for the journey in the jeep. The movie itself was forgettable as it appeared that most of the dialogue and many scenes had been cut out, just the action packed sequences were shown. It lasted for only 40 minutes. The audience, so it seems, were well satisfied.

It was a very cold night and at the conclusion of the movie snow was falling. We were offered a tot of the rum issued to the soldiers. This proof rum was issued to those serving at high altitude in cold or challenging conditions. It helped boost morale and maintain body warmth in harsh conditions. The rum appeared in a small glass, a generous serve. I was unaware of its potency and not liking rum, but not wishing to be impolite, I swallowed the lot rather quickly. 

The trip back to Srinagar passed me by in a warm and thoroughly cheerful blur. Yes, I was quite drunk having never previously consumed alcohol of such strength!  

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

Arrival and Accommodation

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

Arrival and all that followed

In late March 1979 we left Australia to spend a year in Kashmir. We were not travelling light, even if we tried to be practical. On our stopover in Singapore, we purchased two folding push-bikes, sensible things for navigating whatever streets awaited us, and had them sent ahead to meet us on arrival. It was the kind of optimistic planning that belongs to the beginning of adventures.

We touched down in Karachi after midnight, many hours after leaving Singapore. What followed was six long hours marooned on hard plastic chairs while armed personnel kept a steady, unsmiling watch. This was not a happy landing. Fortunately, we were befriended by two American men passing through. Their presence was reassuring. 

Early in the morning we flew onward to Rawalpindi where the United Nations Military Observer Group (UNMOGIP) was headquartered through the winter months. I was accompanying my husband. He would serve as one of Australia’s peacekeepers along the Line of Control.(1)

Compilation map of disputed territories - Wikimedia Commons
Green - Pakistan, Purple India, Yellow -China

The general practice, we quickly learnt, was that incoming military personnel were despatched to a field station along the Line of Control on their fourth day, gone for an initial six weeks before a five-day respite. Accompanying spouses remained in situ. This made me realise how necessary it would become to rely on the other wives and the UN observers as they rotated through postings. A welcome party the night of our arrival gave us a chance to meet other personnel and their wives.

Accommodation and its quirks

Our initial accommodation was in Flashmans Hotel in Rawalpindi, where I would stay for the six weeks before headquarters transferred across to Srinagar on the Indian side in early May. It was comfortable enough, but comfort is relative, and events were about to make even a hotel room feel precarious.

We had arrived near the end of March and it was just 10 days later that an event that would have far reaching consequences took place.

The Indian Express, published on April 5, 1979 reported it thus:

Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, 51, was hanged and buried this morning (April 4). The deposed prime minister was hanged in the Rawalpindi Central jail at 2 am, flown by a Pakistan Air Force plane to southern Pakistan and buried about 10.30 am in the family graveyard at Naudero (in Sind), the interior ministry announced.

The security guard outside the headquarters of the UN military observers’ team in Srinagar fired to disperse angry mourners for Bhutto. (2)

In Rawalpindi, I was confined to my room at Flashmans. Tensions were high. My husband, out on field station, tried repeatedly to reach me. Communication from those remote postings was unreliable at best, a crackling line, a wrong connection, silence. When he finally got through to what he hoped was Flashmans Hotel and asked, cautiously,
“Is that Flashmans Hotel?” the voice at the other end said simply, “Yes” and hung up. He tried again and again. When we finally managed to speak, I could at last assure him that I was safe and being looked after, and was not, despite appearances, in the midst of a revolution.

Srinigar with some hazards

In early May, headquarters moved across to Srinagar and we settled into an older, established house in the Raj Bagh neighbourhood, a spacious ground-floor apartment with the owners living quietly above us. It felt like the beginning of something more settled.

It was not.

House at Raj Bagh, Srinagar - water damaged photo, AI restored 

It is a sad fact that there are always those who will take advantage of others. One night while my husband was away on field station, I awoke to a noise in the second bedroom where all our clothes were stored. Two young men were helping themselves to our goods. My very loud screaming was enough to make them run away and bring the owners to my door. Later, in the bazaars, I always kept a lookout for any of our missing clothes. My pale pink skinny jeans, were never seen again. 

We moved. 

Our next accommodation was in a newer building, closer to UN headquarters, upstairs on the first floor, an elevation that felt, after recent events, like a reasonable precaution. One might think that misfortune followed. The bed had a wooden headboard and high baseboard, neither of which had been designed with a six-foot-two Australian in mind. My husband, when in from field station, slept curled like a letter C. 

More dramatically, the bedroom ceiling had been decorated with an ambitious arrangement of multi-coloured broken ceramic tiles, a mosaic of sorts, secured by whatever optimism had prevailed at the time of installation. Yes, a disaster waiting to happen. One day while out, whatever was securing those pieces of tile to the ceiling, failed. We returned home to find the ceiling on the bed. Luckily, we were not in it.

Later in the year we moved into Inglenook, the headquarters house within the UN compound itself. It was, by any measure, considerably more comfortable than the life lived on the houseboats moored along the water’s edge. When the water retreated along the Jhelum river, the muddy banks were exposed leaving the residents a slippery trek across that wasteland.

1979 -Houseboats at low tide, muddy banks

1. Australian peacekeepers in Kashmir from 1950 to 1985 https://anzacportal.dva.gov.au/wars-and-missions/peacekeeping/summaries/kashmir-1950-1985 

2. The Indian Express, April 5, 1979, Forty Years Ago 

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin