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

Managing Medical Matters

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

Before our departure for the sub-continent, we were both subjected to a range of injections and a general medical examination. It would not do to send those who were not in hale and hearty condition into the field.

Medical Kits

Many years later one of our two medical kits issued before departure, survives still as a sturdy storage box, a quiet relic of those distant days. One kit was for the observer to carry to field stations; the other for the accompanying spouse or family.

The surviving box - end view

The surviving box -front view

Inside these olive-green boxes, packed with quiet efficiency by the Australian Army Medical Corps, there was every sort of bandage one might need. There were tubes of ointments, a wide variety of tablets designed to cope with common and not so common ailments and needs. Needles and syringes in sterile packaging were provided to be used in lieu of local resources should circumstances demand it.

A comprehensive list detailed every item by number, with recommended usage and dosage clearly noted.

Sand and Cement

The most called upon tablet was what we referred to as “sand and cement” otherwise known as Lomotil. Our tender stomachs took a while to grow accustomed to the varieties of food on offer, and even with the most careful precautions, frequent bouts of the dreaded 'Delhi belly' were an occupational hazard. In our own quarters we could at least govern the hygiene of food preparation, but the sub-continent had a way of humbling even the most vigilant.

An Injection Party

The kit also supplied gamma globulin to bolster our immune systems, and after six months in India, an injection party was duly convened. This was a rather cheerful name for what amounted to a necessary medical ritual. One of the Scandinavian wives, who happened to be a trained nurse, administered the shots with calm, practiced ease.

Over the years, the local soldiers had quietly acquainted themselves with the contents of these kits, and were not averse to requesting a remedy by its allocated number when the need arose. 

It was a small but satisfying thing, to be of practical use and we were grateful for the abundance of those plentiful medical supplies.

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

Lakes and Lambrettas

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

Life on the Lakes

The tourist in us, enjoyed the tranquility offered by richly adorned houseboats rocking gently on waters.

For the local trader the lake was a source of income as he plied his trade amongst the houseboats. Others passed by on their own errands, each vessel carving a brief ripple before the surface smoothed again. Above, the sunshine fell; below, its shadows shimmered in the water, and the whole scene took on a sense of timeless charm that no photograph quite captures. This blurry photo hardly does justice to one of the many scenes we observed.

Shikaras - a play of light and shadow on the lake

Looking out across the lake to houseboats framed by the mountains

Reed gatherers with view across the lake to the palace high on the hill

Those who tended the floating and lakeside gardens were well aware of their immense value to the local economy. It was a pleasure to watch them at work, carefully tending a remarkable variety of plants in those tranquil surroundings, a way of life as old as the lake itself.

1979 - Vegetable gardens at the edge of the lake

Lots of Lambrettas

Scooters weaved in and out of the traffic. For many households, a scooter was not just a vehicle but part of everyday family life. They were used for commuting, carrying shopping and visiting relatives. It was a practical answer to crowded streets, modest incomes, and the need for reliable family transport.

Among the most familiar names was Lambretta, the Italian brand that found a long life in India through local manufacture and adaptation. 

In 1972, the Indian government bought the machinery of the Milanese factory, creating Scooters India Limited (SIL) in order to produce Lambretta scooters and also Lambro three-wheelers.(1)  

The three-wheeler

These were given a variety of names across the years as models changed and developed. 

We would often see a whole family aboard a scooter, two or three crowded on the seat and one or two children standing either side of the driver. 

1. Lambretta https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lambretta 

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

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 in snowy conditions

Jeep in Pakistani village

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