DECEMBER 16, 2021 – My first glimpse of the Vale of Kashmir surpassed what the guidebooks had promised—blossoming fruit trees on the shores of Dal Lake, the glistening Himalayas jutting into blue infinity above the world. I stayed for only three weeks, but the memories are as vivid today as my actual experiences were that spring of 1981.
In Srinagar I joined forces with my houseboat-mates, John Chapple, a BBC producer on holiday while his wife, an educator, visited schools in India, and “Thierry,” a Frenchman in his mid-twenties, out to “see the world.” Together we bargained with carpet merchants, explored local food establishments, and took shikara (dugout) rides on Dal Lake. Eventually, though, I traveled to a higher place—Pahalgam, a picturesque village almost 4,000’ higher than Srinagar.
Those were my “play it by ear” travel days. Upon arriving in Pahalgam, I was surrounded by representatives of local inns—boys no more than 10 or 12 years old—all shouting, “Best deal for you, mister!”
The best deal, it turned out, was “in expensive lodging,” which, from the scruffiness of the kid handing out the flyer, I knew meant, “inexpensive.” The place was a two-story house with a front deck, perched on a hillside with a magnificent view of mountains, forest, and the Liddar Valley. As advertised, the “Inn” had “stereo music” in the form of a communal cassette player and “running hot and cold water”—the “cold” via a pipe laid in a glacial stream; the “hot” from a tank of boiling water atop a wood-fire behind the house.
The deck made a perfect writing place, where I caught up on my travelogue and correspondence home.
Joining me for meals and hiking were two Indian backpackers from Africa—Zimbabwe and South Africa. We joked about our nighttime visitors—rats—but as guys in their 20s do, we otherwise gave our rodential company little mind.
Then there was Mansour the “houseboy” who addressed our simple needs and requests, mostly involving the whereabouts of the “stereo music” machine. But there came a day when Mansour expressed his desire for my running shoes. He knew of a place in town where “fancy shoes” could be purchased by “rich Americans.” If he didn’t play on my guilt, I certainly did. I wound up buying him a pair of knock-off Adidas—white with red stripes.
It seemed to be the happiest day in Mansour’s life, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him how ridiculous he looked in a dirty, burlap shirt and bright new sneakers. Besides, that could well have led to a whole new wardrobe. At a deeper level, however, I questioned my judgment. Mansour’s handmade sandals made from old tire treads were more durable than his new “running shoes.” What future “rich American” would be on hand to buy replacement “Adidas”? I’d studied “foreign affairs” extensively in college, but this was my first course in foreign aid. I decided I’d flunked the class.
The scenery of that place, however, never failed me.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
