Z the Zumarry

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

Z for Zummary

AI generated by NotebookLM - summary of posts

What is a Zummary? Just a summary with a slight slur after a drink or two! 😀

Ask what remains of a year in Kashmir and the answer is small sturdy things. 

Two woollen rugs, still serving after forty-seven years and eleven house moves. 

Two papier mâché bells that come out from the Christmas box every December, glowing in their original colours. 

A silver bangle, still worn. 

Three matching sets of garnet, amethyst, and moonstone bracelets and earrings, each in silver, bought from the silversmith during long winter afternoons in Srinagar's bazaars. 

An olive-green medical kit turned storage box, a quiet relic of another era and some faded and water damaged photos now digitized. 

Some copper and brass trays and these stories, reconstructed from what memory held, and written down at last, they are here. A world that no longer exists as it was, but remembered by the two of us who lived it.

In case you missed a post, or just choose to revisit. 

• A for Accommodation and Arrival
• B for Bazaars, Banks and Baramulla
• C for Carpets, Chilli Chicken and Crossing the Line
• D for Dak Bungalows and Darra
• E for Embroidery and an Elephant
• F for the Fish Market, Fear and Friendship
• G for Golf at Gulmarg and Goats
• H for Houseboats on the Lakes
• I for Inglenook and Indian Republic Day
• J for Jeeps in a Variety of Situations
• K for a Kitchen and the Khyber Pass
• L for Life on the Lakes and Lambrettas
• M for Managing Medical Matters
• N for a Near Miss
• O for the OK Tickets
• P for Papier Mache and People
• Q for Quirky Tales
• S for Supplies and Suffering Moses
• T for Trucks, Trains and Tracks
• U for the Unexpected
• V for the VW and Cricket
• W for Wintering Over
• X for the eXtras
• Y for the Year in Retrospect
• Z for this Zummary

Thanks to all who read my posts, and to those who commented, multiple thanks.

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

The Year in Retrospect

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

Some events throughout that year that influenced our lives

Pre-Posting Events

Long before we set foot on Pakistani soil, the world had already begun to rearrange itself in ways that would strip away our carefully laid plans. We had been rather pleased with ourselves; truth be told. The scheme was elegant, fly to Germany, collect our newly ordered vehicle, and make the overland drive southward, through Iran, across to Pakistan, where we would spend our posting year before shipping the vehicle home to Sydney.

After twelve months back on Australian soil, it could be sold at a tidy profit, having neatly sidestepped the punishing import duties then levied on luxury cars. We were not alone in this thinking; it was a well-worn path among those posted abroad. 

Then history intervened, as it so often does, with indifference to our plans.

• 16 January 1979 – The Shah fled Iran

• 11 February 1979 – Revolutionary forces in Iran took control

• 14 February 1979 – In Kabul, Muslim extremists kidnapped the American ambassador to Afghanistan, Adolph Dubs, who was killed during a gunfight between his kidnappers and police

The road through Iran became first imprudent, then impossible, and finally unthinkable. The deposit was forfeited. The vehicle was cancelled. The grand drive south existed only as a might-have-been.

AI generated image in NotebookLM

After Arrival

We arrived in Pakistan instead by altogether more conventional means, stepping into a country that was itself poised on a knife's edge.

• 4 April 1979 – Pakistani Prime Minister Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto was executed by hanging

A period of confinement in Flashmans Hotel in Rawalpindi as riots took place in the streets.

• 11 July 1979 – NASA's first orbiting space station, Skylab, began falling back Earth as its orbit decayed after more than six years.

In Srinagar, word spread that Skylab was tumbling from the heavens, and the city shuttered itself for two anxious days, uncertain what, precisely, to expect from a falling space station.

• 4 November 1979 - militants seized the U.S. embassy in Tehran, beginning a hostage crisis.

• 21 November 1979 – After false radio reports from the Ayatollah Khomeini that the Americans had occupied the Grand Mosque in Mecca, the United States Embassy in Islamabad, Pakistan was attacked by a mob and set fire, killing four.

UNMOGIP personnel could no longer visit the US Embassy cinema or bar for entertainment as security there was tightened.

• 28 November 1979– An Air New Zealand DC-10 crashed into Mount Erebus in Antarctica on a sightseeing trip, killing all 257 people on board.

Two months later we were aboard a flight from Delhi to Srinagar when the pilot had aborted a landing on late finals, the aircraft pulling away sharply as the ground rose too close beneath us. The Erebus disaster gave that event a sharper edge than was possibly necessary.

• 24 December 1979 - The Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan.

The border closed. Kabul which we had imagined visiting, simply ceased to be accessible, sealed away behind the machinery of a new war.

In March of 1980, we departed with considerable relief, making our way home via Hong Kong. On our first night back in Sydney, we sat at Watsons Bay as the evening light softened over the harbour, a feast of seafood spread before us. The sky was clean and blue and startlingly clear. The streets were quiet and free of the particular odours that had become so familiar.

We enjoyed our food, looked out at the water, and we felt the relief of having come through it all. 

Finally, we were home.

AI generated by NotebookLM

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

The eXtras

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

eXtra memories 

These are the memories that slipped between the pages: the small absurdities, the daily disciplines, the moments that made expatriate life what it truly was for me, not merely an adventure, but a lived-in,  complicated existence. A few samples of previously undocumented memories.

1. The only advertisement on Pakistani television at the time and it was repeated over and over “Polka ice cream stick: a tasty pick” I can still hear that voice. That jingle has proved entirely impossible to dislodge from memory.

2. The Indian alternative to Coca-Cola had us amused the first time we saw the bottle -ThumsUp, It was not a spelling mistake but a well-respected brand.

3. The need to remember to keep one’s mouth closed in the shower and not to use any unboiled water for cleaning one’s teeth. Daily habits that had to be rigorously remembered.

4. The scoreboard we kept in the kitchen of the number of rats captured in winter. I once threw a plastic bowl over one running across the floor – it died of fright!

5. The “Bad-Taste” Party where we dressed in ridiculous outfits and fed our international friends Vegemite on chapatis.
 
6. The night we had a variety of local guests, I had catered for Muslim and Hindu tastes and preferences and labelled the food appropriately. Catering across cultures, however, demanded a rather more earnest attention to detail. I was unaware one person was vegan and when asked by her husband what she could eat, all I could suggest was the boiled cauliflower and plain white rice.

7. The visit to the Buddhist Temple of the Tooth in Kandy, Sri Lanka when on a break. The beach in Galle, the train ride along the coast, the friendly people, the good food. A fond memory of a short break there with Australian friends.

Caught on film

Gone fishing, or was he just getting his feet wet?

Fishing in a fabled trout stream near Pahalgam

Finnish Friends were always ready to share food and drinks

Some summer cheer with I.H and P.H

Then at last, in March 1980 there was a farewell at the PX in Rawalpindi. The excitement that we were going home.

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

Wintering Over

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

Winter in Srinagar

Winter in Srinagar that year was remembered for its sharp cold and deep snow, when the city and surrounding valley slowed under freezing nights through the long, hard stretch of those months. Power came and went without ceremony, and frozen pipes were a persistent, cheerless companion to the season.

We lived in Inglenook the UN HQ house in Srinagar through the winter months while the headquarters of UNMOGIP migrated south to Rawalpindi for the winter, as it did each year. The absence of colleagues left a quiet gap, yet there was consolation: my husband was no longer pulled away to distant field stations, and was simply home.

 
The weather was cold and bleak most of the time but there were days when the skies were clear, the mountain air sharp. Tourists had largely deserted the valley. But one steadfast figure remained: an elderly English gentleman who had been living in Srinagar since the days of the Raj. Stanley was a living thread back to another era, and we were glad of his company over shared meals. We listened as he remembered his younger days in a city that had changed beyond all recognition and yet, in certain lights, had not changed at all.

Winter view - Looking outward over the wall of the UN compound

Guards keeping watch when disturbance threatened

The Kashmiri people had their own answer to the cold. Beneath their pherans, the long, loose woollen cloaks that fell to the knee, they carried a kangri (1): an earthenware pot cradled in a wicker basket, glowing within with embers and charcoal. It was a personal hearth, carried close to the body through the long cold hours. These three chaps on the side of the road are crouched over their kangris.

Keeping warm by the roadside

Winter wanderings in the bazaar

Bazaars were treasure houses in their own right. Merchants displayed trays of precious and semi-precious stones that caught what light there was and gave it back in colours far too vivid for such a grey season. We filled many of our quieter hours wandering those stalls, turning stones over in our fingers, learning their names and their characters.

Roshangar was the respected silver merchant. Many had bought traditional silver tea and coffee pot sets from him, we were drawn instead to jewellery. Silver was the natural setting for stones, and one could browse unhurriedly, then choose or commission exactly the piece one wished made.

I came home with three matching sets of bracelet, ring and earrings: garnets, amethysts, and moonstones, each mounted in silver. I also acquired a silver bangle which is a favourite I continue to wear. We also collected gemstones in various shapes, colours and sizes: a small, glittering archive of those bazaar afternoons, of colour and quiet pleasure.

A Game for fair Weather

On milder days I made my way to the golf club, where Gulam was a most agreeable coach and caddy. His charges were modest, his patience considerable, and over those hours I developed a modest competence with a club. One afternoon the sleet began to fall in earnest so I gathered my things and headed back to the warmth of Inglenook. It was definitely not a day to stay out on the course.

In the middle of those winter months came a welcome interlude: our trip to Delhi for the Republic Day Parade, which offered a breath of warmer air and the particular thrill of ceremony and colour after weeks of grey cold.

Spring came slowly to the valley, tentative at first, then more confident, the skies brightening by degrees. With it came the knowledge that our return to Australia was drawing near. We would not miss the cold, but take with us the memories made, and Stanley’s stories of a Srinagar long past.

It was time to plan our homeward journey.

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1. Kangri the dilemma of the Kashmiri portable heater: https://garlandmag.com/article/kangri-the-dilemma-of-the-kashmiri-portable-heater/

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

The VW and Cricket

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

A Cricket Match in Srinagar

The Australian cricket team toured the subcontinent twice in the year we lived in Kashmir, and fortune or perhaps the cricket gods, arranged that the very first game of their Indian tour would be played in Srinagar itself. It was tabled for the 1st to 3rd September 1979, and the city hummed with anticipation.

The team had spent a week in Madras before travelling north, and some players were already suffering the unhappy consequences of subcontinent hospitality. Yet for all that, there was great excitement in Srinagar. A three-day match was a rare thing, and the tickets had sold well.

Threats had been made against the players by the Pakistan-based Jammu and Kashmir Liberation Front, and dozens of armed police had met the Australians at the airport. In spite of all this, the players themselves remained upbeat, the sort of cheerful stoicism that seems bred into the cricketing character.

The match was sold out, an examination of the pitch revealed a paddock suited to the spinners. They had scored well on the first day but eventually the match was a draw, perhaps fitting, given the charged atmosphere in which it was played.

1979 'CRICKET AUSTRALIANS MAKE 363',
The Canberra Times (ACT : 1926 - 1995),
2 September, p. 23. 

1979 'Australians draw in India',
The Canberra Times (ACT : 1926 - 1995),
 4 September, p. 18.

The VW moment

After the match came the moment I treasure most. We loaded a group of players into the VW Kombi, no seatbelts in the back section, which meant we managed quite a few, eight if I recall correctly. With one of the Australian observers driving, and Christine and I, the two young Australian wives, providing local commentary, we took them on a tour of the streets of Srinagar. 

Their comments were often hilarious, some rather less than complimentary about what they encountered. The more senior players tended towards measured enquiry. It was one of those remarkable afternoons, such fun.

AI generated in NotebookLM

A Second Encounter in Rawalpindi

A few months on, the Australian cricket team opened their 1980 tour of Pakistan in Rawalpindi on the 22nd of February, playing against the President's Eleven.

The usual health warnings had been dutifully issued: do not drink the local water; keep your mouth firmly closed in the shower; clean your teeth with bottled mineral water. These were all practices my husband and I had adopted from our very first day in Kashmir.

An Australian doctor travelled with the team, advising on which foods could be trusted not to cause distress. The players were also invited to a reception given by President Zia-ul-Haq. It was a dry affair and at least one member of the team confessed to us, with some amusement, that he had added a little something to his can of Coke before attending.

We were at the match itself, a small knot of Australians adrift in a sea of thousands of Pakistani supporters, who were in full voice. At one point during play, a decision clearly failed to meet with the crowd's approval, and chairs were flung from the stands onto the ground. It was, to put it mildly, a vivid afternoon.

The three-day match was played at the 'Pindi Club Ground. It ended, as the Srinagar match had, in a draw.

Different teams but some things, it seemed, remained constant across the borders.

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

The Unexpected

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

A Snowy Heart-Stopper

We did not expect to clasp hands and say goodbye to each other as the pilot of the HS748 hauled the plane out of its final approach to Srinagar Airport. 

It was mid-winter, and perhaps communications had been poor, or delayed, or simply overwhelmed by the particular chaos that descends upon mountain airports when snow falls. Perhaps it was just human error. My husband, a military pilot, had flown in the Antarctic just a couple of years earlier, and he understood what hazardous conditions looked like and what it truly meant to abort a landing on late finals. His hand tightened around mine. It was barely two months since an Air New Zealand flight had crashed into Mt Erebus in the Antarctic. 

Here, we were surrounded by snow covered mountains. The plane rallied and roared its way aloft.

The story we were eventually told was both extraordinary and, in its way, entirely of its place and time. The runway was blanketed in snow, and lacking any appropriate working machinery to clear it, the airport authorities had sent out dozens of workers with brooms to sweep it by hand. 

Dozens of men, sweeping a runway, whilst an aircraft circled above.

Needless to say, we landed safely, and we are here to tell the tale, though the memory of that flight has stayed with us.

Poverty

The scenes of poverty were expected, in the way that one prepares oneself intellectually for something one has read about and seen on television. That preparation was wholly insufficient when confronted with the reality.

No amount of foreknowledge softened the sight of a man whose limbs were so completely twisted that his hands and feet met the ground whilst his body faced the sky. He was a figure of such suffering that it cannot be forgotten.

The maimed children seated at the roadsides, small hands outstretched, were a sight that settled somewhere in my mind, and that sight has not left.

Alcohol and the Art of Concealment

Murree beer, served quite openly in the Intercontinental Hotel in Rawalpindi, was unexpected, and not a little incongruous, in a Muslim country.  In 1977, Prime Minister Bhutto  had imposed alcohol prohibition across Pakistan. The law was later amended under President Zia-ul-Haq to permit non-Muslims to consume alcohol. 

More memorable still was a small restaurant tucked somewhere in the winding streets of 'Pindi, where an empty teapot arrived at the table alongside the meal. We were quietly advised that this was the vessel of concealment, that any alcohol would be poured discreetly within it, so that to any passing eye, every table in the room appeared to hold nothing more suspicious than a pot of tea.

An elaborate, good-humoured method for finding a way, even under prohibition, to raise a quiet cup to life.

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1. Murree Beer https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murree_beer 

2. Murree brewery https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murree_Brewery

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

Trucks, Trains and Taxis

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

Trucks

These workhorses of the roads were dominating and colourful, dodging and weaving through the tightest of spaces. Their highly decorated bodies were covered in a wide variety of patterns and iconography. Their progress was noisy, horns blaring and loud music playing.

1979 - Hajira, Pakistan

The most alarming of all were the log-carriers, often perilously overloaded and sometimes seen with their front wheels bouncing clear of the road as the sheer weight of the cargo overcame the truck’s forward momentum.

Through Srinagar, the trucks would negotiate an ever-shifting obstacle course of bicycles, taxis, and sacred cows that wandered the streets quite unconstrained and entirely unbothered.

Navigating the streets

Trains

The Indian train network first established by the East India company, grew rapidly through colonial times. It is now one of the largest in the world, essential to the daily lives of millions. 

In 1979 we travelled by train from Delhi to Agra. The train journey nowadays is much quicker but our slower trip let us view the villages and activities in the fields at a more sedate pace. The Taj Express slower in those days, took about two and a half hours. 

As the train trundled past the track embankments, the absence of any public facilities for those living nearby was noted. Locals with their backs to the train, exposed rather more bare skin than one might ordinarily expect to encounter or indeed want to see!

Taxis

The small black and gold Morris Minor taxis were part and parcel of our everyday life. No matter where one wanted to go a taxi was always available. Many had no meters, or claimed theirs were broken. Negotiating a fare before setting off was always the sensible course. The larger Ambassador, based on the Morris Oxford, offered a rather more comfortable alternative for longer journeys.

Morris Minor in the bazaar

The Ambassador

The three-wheeled Lambros (tuk-tuks) were everywhere, their great virtue being an ability to squeeze through the narrowest of lanes where no four-wheeled vehicle could follow. We occasionally found this particular advantage somewhat alarming.

The 3 wheeler

The Tanga

These vehicles which had been popular in the past were fast disappearing amongst the motorised traffic.

The covered cart

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

Supplies and Suffering Moses

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

Supplies

Before we packed for our year Kashmir, we were advised by previous Australian military observers about supplies we might need. 

As we would not be eating the local cheeses, we bought several large blocks of Kraft cheddar processed cheese. Yes, that reassuringly indestructible variety that needed no refrigeration, nestled in its blue box and wrapped within in silver alfoil. 

Australia had embraced metric measurements in 1974, so by the time we departed, all food products had been converted; I suspect the blocks we chose were the generous one-kilogram size.

Image from Australian Women's Weekly via Trove

What Australian could live without Vegemite?  Two large jars were added to our growing list, glass jars with metal lids, none of the plastic containers that came later. There was something comforting about those familiar labels, knowing they were tucked in among the luggage somewhere, ready to make even the most foreign of mornings feel a little like home.

Image from Australian Women's Weekly via Trove

Another recommendation was to take enough toilet paper for a full year. How does one even begin to calculate such a thing? Calculate it we did and a carton duly joined the pile. The advice, it turned out, had a rather colourful origin. A Chilean General who had previously commanded the mission had been notorious for appropriating the UN-supplied rolls and dispatching them back to Chile. Beyond the year's supply, we quickly learned the wisdom of tucking a small roll into any bag before venturing out, since this was decidedly not a commodity one could rely upon finding in Kashmiri public spaces.

We bought a short-wave radio so that we might keep a thread of connection to news from home. Our electric frypan proved its worth many times over, and a small toaster oven completed the more practical side of our domestic arrangements. We would rely on the UN PX (Post Exchange) store for other groceries and goods that were not available locally.

For daily provisions, we relied on whatever was available in the local market. Food shopping was best done accompanied by a local. The cherries displayed so enticingly on top of the box were plump, glossy, and perfect. They bore little resemblance to what actually found its way into one's paper bag. It was a lesson learned only once.

Suffering Moses

This merchant had one of the largest emporiums of Kashmiri crafts in Srinagar. Entering into his shop was a delight for the senses. There were four rooms and as one walked deeper into this treasure trove, older and more valuable items could be seen on display. We were surrounded by superb papier mâché, finely carved wooden boxes, exquisite embroidered shawls and so much more. His goods were excellent quality and over time this store on the Bund became a favourite.

The establishment had been founded in 1842, when his ancestor migrated from Persia, bringing with him skilled Persian craftspeople and settling them in the Kashmir Valley. That heritage was everywhere visible. The decorations on papier mâché bowls, and all sorts of small ornamental pieces reflected Persian motifs with a fidelity that spoke of an unbroken tradition. These patterns had travelled across mountain ranges and generations to arrive in Kashmir, and were still vivid in these quiet rooms. The same spirit showed in the walnut-carved boxes and small tables.

In one of many long discussions, he told the tale of being wooed by a large American store. The buyer wanted thousands of articles every month. At that time, every piece was still made entirely by hand, and no honest craftsman could fulfil such a demand without sacrificing the very quality that had prompted the approach in the first place. He had, one gathered, declined with dignity.

String Secured Parcels

This was before the polluting plastic bag had made its way into every corner of our lives. We had baskets and string bags. Purchases were often painstakingly wrapped in brown paper and then secured with endless white string. It was wrapped round and round creating a puzzle to unwind when unwrapping a purchase. Both string and paper served further purposes in an economy where sparse resources were carefully husbanded. 

A timely reminder that things have value beyond their first purpose.

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1. From Persia with Love https://www.newindianexpress.com/magazine/2023/Nov/18/from-persia-with-love-2633500.html

2. The Shop around the corner https://www.livemint.com/Leisure/J91GKgs0QiQwfLDITKV12I/The-shop-around-the-corner.html

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

Roads, Bridges and Tracks

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

Roads

Roads are the lifeblood of towns, cities and mountain communities and in 1979, we were fortunate to witness, at least in part, how they were made. On one of our travels together through the region, we came upon road workers doing precisely what had been done in these mountains for generations: chipping rocks into smaller rocks, then into stones, coaxing a passage through the terrain by hand and by will.

Equally memorable was the long-handled spade we watched being used. Unfortunately we have no photograph of it. One man pushed whilst a second pulled by means of a rope attached to the base of the handle, the two of them working as one against the stubborn, ancient rock. It was an ingenious adaptation, born of necessity, and quite unforgettable to witness.

These are the roads, bridges and tracks we travelled.

The photographs that follow from the more remote areas were taken by my husband, in the course of his duties as a United Nations military observer along the Line of Control between India and Pakistan. They show a world that few outsiders ever entered, roads carved from cliffsides, bridges thrown across rock falls, and tracks that wound through landscape of almost savage grandeur. I could not accompany him into those regions, but his camera brought something of that world back.

The Skardu–Kargil road was, by any measure, a journey that tested the nerves. There were stretches so precipitous that my husband chose to step out of the jeep and continue on foot a decision that speaks rather more eloquently about the road than any description could.

1979 Skardu Kargil road carved into the cliff

A world apart from that precarious road was the newly completed Karakoram Highway, finished in 1979 though not yet open to the public. A remarkable feat of engineering, it had been constructed through the combined efforts of Pakistani and Chinese workers, but at a devastating human cost. At least 1,000 lives were lost during its construction, claimed by falls and landslides along one of the most unforgiving routes on earth.

The photograph here, taken by my husband on the Pakistani side, shows the finished road lying smooth and broad against the wild terrain surrounding it.

1979 newly finished Karakorum Highway

Other roads wound their way upward with serpentine determination, scaling one side of a mountain only to plunge with equal steepness down the other. The Sonamarg Pass was one such road.

Sonamarg pass road curling around the mountainside 

Along the lesser tracks that my husband travelled on duty, delays were simply part of the journey. It could be mules being led by soldiers up to their station, rock falls or just the mis-adventure of meeting a truck that found itself in trouble on a on a narrow road.

Mule troop on a mountain road, UN jeep in the foreground

A rather large rock blocking the road

A truck in trouble blocking the road

In the towns, a roadside tea stall offered welcome respite, a place to pause, catch one's breath and watch the world go by over a warming brew.

1979 roadside tea stall in Hajira

Bridges

Some bridges, though built with vehicles in mind were altogether more sensibly crossed on foot. One remarkable structure, thrown across a rock fall on one of my husband's official routes, offered a passage that could only be described as hair-raising, particularly for the UN military observers who were required to use it in the course of their duties. The UN jeep is on the far left in the photo.

Bridge across a rock fall

Then there were the bridges intended solely for foot traffic, where a certain quiet bravado was required simply to set one foot in front of the other. Fortunately, neither of us was called upon to cross the one pictured here, the sight of it was quite sufficient.

Crossing a river

Tracks

Where even a rudimentary road would not reach, there were tracks. Tracks belonged to two things: human feet and mules. The mule, endlessly patient and sure-footed on terrain that would defeat most other forms of transport, was as essential to life in these mountains in 1979 as it had been for centuries before. 

In this photograph, taken by my husband along one of his official routes, soldiers make their way up the Deosai Pass on muleback, the animals picking their path with unhurried confidence through the boulder-strewn landscape.

Soldiers riding up the Deosai Pass

What strikes me looking back across all of it, the road gangs chipping stone by hand, the vertiginous jeep tracks and the bridges above white water, is that we travelled mostly safely, and while sometimes it was uncomfortable, we survived to tell the tales.

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

Quirky Tales

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

We were but two of the Australian contingent in Kashmir that year. So far, my stories have involved one or both of us. Kashmir however, had a way of writing its own stories.

The two incidents below both happened in that same year to other Australian officers. As each Australian military observer returned home after his year of service, another arrived to replace him.

The Tree at the Cliff's Edge

Mountain roads in Kashmir were not for the faint-hearted. Narrow, precipitous, and hugging the sides of terrain that seemed indifferent to human passage, they demanded both concentration and a certain fatalistic acceptance of whatever lay around the next bend. 

Another of the Australian contingent, we shall call him DC, found himself one day being conveyed along one of these vertiginous tracks in a jeep. The scenery, one imagines, was spectacular. The experience was about to become more so. 

Without warning, the back wheels of the jeep slid sideways over the cliff edge. DC was thrown clear of the vehicle and, in the manner of a man whose luck was holding by the most slender of threads, landed in a tree partway down the slope. It was not so very far below the road, but far enough.

He gathered his thoughts, assessed that he was in one piece, and began the scramble back up to the road. From there, he could see the jeep still teetering at the cliff's edge, its driver desperately spinning the wheels in a frantic attempt to haul it back onto solid ground.

Just as he managed to regain his footing on the road, the jeep was flung over the edge of the cliff. 

DC crept to the rim of the cliff and peered down, bracing himself for the worst, fearing for the life of the driver, imagining the terrible sight that might await him.

There, in precisely the same tree where DC himself had so recently been deposited, sat the driver. Alive. Uninjured. His pride as a UN driver, one would suggest, had not survived quite so intact. The jeep was long gone.

AI generated image

The Wrong Landing

There is something quietly dispiriting about arriving somewhere entirely different from where one intended to be. Such was the fate of another Australian observer, we shall call him AB, as he completed the long, wearying journey from Australia to what was meant to be his new home for the coming year.

It had not been an easy decision, leaving his wife and young children behind in Australia. Kashmir was no place for small children, the living conditions demanding, and the posting itself with long absences on field stations, carried its own particular uncertainties. So AB had said his farewells and embarked on the considerable journey alone, sustained no doubt by the knowledge that a friendly UN face would be waiting to greet him at Srinagar airport.

The plane landed. AB gathered his luggage and made his way into the terminal, scanning the arrivals area with reasonable expectation.

No one from the UN was there.

He waited. He looked again. He ventured outside into the unfamiliar air and, with a certain careful tone, asked a bystander for directions to UN Headquarters.

“No, Sahib” came the reply. “There is no UN Headquarters here.”

The aircraft had been diverted. AB was standing not in Srinagar but in Chandigarh, more than five hundred and fifty kilometres from where he was supposed to be.

One imagines a long moment of silence.

It was, as these things go, nobody's fault in particular, simply one of those maddening inconveniences that travel occasionally inflicts. But as an introduction to a year's posting in Kashmir, it was not the most auspicious of beginnings.

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

Papier Mâché and People

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

Papier Mâché

In Kashmir, papier mâché was not merely a souvenir industry. It occupied a space between inheritance and commerce. In the old quarters of Srinagar, artisans still worked within workshop traditions that had evolved over centuries. They shaped paper pulp or board into boxes, trays, vases and ornaments before covering them in lacquer, gold and fine floral painting. The term itself referred as much to the decorative tradition as to the actual paper-pulp of the object.

It relied on painstaking labour. The moulding of the shapes, the hand painting and the application of the lacquer all required specialist skills.  The decorative elements often included leaves and curling vines, animals, gold scrollwork, lakeside and garden scenes. 

We chose two small bells, finely wrought and glowing with colour. They were modest things, by the standards of the grander pieces on display, yet something in their craftsmanship appealed to us. They have hung on our Christmas tree every year since, reminders of a time we have never forgotten.

Kashmiri papier mâché  bells

The Working People

No portrayal of life in Kashmir would be complete without reference to the hardworking people of the region. Our snapshots cover a range of workers in a variety of situations.

The carters with their beasts of burden

The wood carriers, usually women climbing to the remote posts in Baltistan

The sweeper in autumn

The women leaf carriers

The soldiers with mules delivering water and kerosene to their mountain posts

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

The OK tickets

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

Are you OK?

We landed back in Karachi after our Kenyan adventures, stepping into a terminal that hummed with the energy of hundreds of returning pilgrims. The Hajj had clearly been a great undertaking, everywhere we looked, large striped bags sat plump and worn from their journey, bearing the scuff marks of travel. Cartons were stacked here and there, some containing small fridges and any variety of other things. 

It was a reminder that the pilgrimage to Mecca was not only a journey of the soul but also a practical opportunity to acquire goods unavailable back home. Perhaps these items were simply too dear at home and the opportunity to acquire goods at a reasonable price could not be missed.

We joined the queue, or rather, one of the queues, along with what seemed like hundreds of others, all pressing forward with the patient determination of seasoned travellers.

Then came the question.

 
"Are you O.K.?"

"Yes, thank you," we replied cheerfully.

But the question came again, and again. From different faces, in different accents, with an air of gentle urgency we simply couldn't fathom. Why was everyone so concerned about our wellbeing? We were perfectly fine, if perhaps a little travel-worn.

It was only when one kind soul took pity on our bewilderment that the penny finally dropped.

An O.K. ticket, it turned out, had nothing whatsoever to do with one's state of health. It meant a confirmed seat and those who held one were entitled to go straight to the front of the queue. Everyone else was queuing on hope alone, fingers crossed for a spare seat on an already crowded flight.

Oh, we finally understood. A single phrase, two letters, carried an entirely different meaning in that time and place. We gathered our luggage and thankfully made our way to the front of the queue. Our flight was secured. 

We were O.K.

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

A Near Miss

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

After several months of challenging postings on field stations, observers were entitled to some well-deserved rest and recuperation. We decided to take advantage of this opportunity to visit Kenya. We planned time for a trip to Nairobi, Mombasa, the Serengeti and then onward to the Maldives for a brief sun-drenched interlude.

We had in our possession certain papers known as MCOs, Miscellaneous Charge Orders, acquired following a previous incident in Islamabad, where a travel agent had falsely claimed to represent American Express. These MCOs now covered the cost of our airline tickets, and we set off with high hopes.

Nairobi and Mombasa

Having reached Nairobi, we opted to travel by train down to Mombasa on the coast. It was the old colonial-era train, beautifully maintained: wooden panels gleaming, brass hooks and fittings polished to a brilliant shine. The waiters moving through the carriages in their black trousers and starched white coats, were courteous and efficient. The overnight passage lulled us into a contented sleep, and we arrived at the coast eager to explore.

Mombasa

High on the hill above the shoreline, Fort Jesus dominates the landscape. It was built by the Portuguese in the 1590s to secure dominance over the Indian ocean trade routes. The fort has passed through many hands as powers waxed and waned across the centuries. 

We sat on an old stone wall overlooking the water and pondered the bravery of those who had set sail from Portugal in the1490s. They were in small vessels, facing vast oceans, and an unknowable horizon ahead of them.

Below us, the markets hummed and jostled. Here we had our first encounter with the short burkas worn by local Muslim women. These burkas fell only to the knee and when the breeze caught the fabric, many a glimpse of a mini skirt was revealed beneath. We wandered through the old town, its streets replete with faded signs and buildings that spoke quietly of other eras.

The Serengeti

On return to Nairobi, we had arranged for a driver to take us into the Serengeti wildlife reserve. Our accommodation was a tent, not quite glamping by any measure, but enclosed within an adequately sturdy fence, sufficient to discourage nocturnal visitors of the wild variety.

On safari in the Serengeti - water damaged photo

We were thrilled with the wildlife encountered. Vast herds of wildebeest rolled across the plain like a living tide. Hyenas trotted with their tails carried jauntily upright. Elephants lumbered by with a quiet authority that made the ground seem to hold its breath. We craned our necks to follow the improbable grace of giraffes as they reached for the very tops of the thorn trees. Zebras, each one uniquely striped, broke into a canter and were gone in a thunder of hooves. 

We returned to Nairobi awed by the majesty of nature that we had witnessed.

The Near Miss

We were returning to our hotel in Nairobi one evening making our way along a well-lit road when two very large men stepped from the shadows and accosted us. 

They threatened us with machetes. 

It was my husband’s presence of mind that saved us. Without hesitation he hurled his bag containing our cash and travellers cheques into the far distance. The men set off in pursuit of it. Luckily, my bag contained our passports and airline tickets. We ran and ran and did not stop until we reached the hotel. 

The hours that followed were consumed by a visit to the local police station. It was impossible to identify the perpetrators from the books of mugshots laid before us, and probably unwise to do so. We turned the pages in silence and said little.

With our cash gone and our spirit of adventure severely curbed, we cancelled the trip to the Maldives. The following day was given over to the practicalities of recovery. We visited the bank to cancel the travellers cheques and secured airline tickets back to the relative safety of the known world. 

Relieved, we left Nairobi bound for Karachi.

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