Kashmir

We arrived at the Mount View guesthouse in the evening. The boys who led us there told us we might find our Israeli friends, however all we found was an empty overpriced guesthouse and nice caretaker called Maza whose room in the back we ended up staying in because the guesthouse itself was out of our budget. The ride to Srinagar left us exhausted yet terribly hungry, so first thing we set out to do was eat. Maza offered to make us "rice and veggies…very very good" but we kindly declined, having decided that we deserve better after the long journey. After two days of stomach-ache-inducing dhaba food (dhabas are the smelly, fly-ridden and usually decrepit tiny café/restaurants that serve one or more of the following: chai (tea with milk), parantha (flat circular potato stuffed dough fried on a skillet), samosa (like a mini pocket stuffed with potatoes, onions and peas and deep deep fried for extra crunch), thali (a combo plate consisting of dal (lentils), aloo gobi (potatoes and cabbage), some other kind of pea dish, rice and chapatti) and maybe some gnarly sweets most of which are basically some form of packed brown sugar) we decided that we wanted something a little less harsh on the stomach and a little kinder on the tongue.

Unfortunately Srinagar is one of those cities where everything-and I mean everything- closes at ten. Since by this time it was already 10:30 at night, we had absolutely no options. Being resolutely opposed to the idea of eating Maza's "rice and veggies" we wandered the streets looking for food. All we found was a hole-in-the-wall kiosk with cookies and chips and a sour looking employee who probably resented the fact that we came in as he was about to close. Nevertheless we loaded up on "Hide and Seek" chocolate cookies and Lays Chips. In India Lays are the most popular chips, and a few native flavors are Masala Munch (Masala is some kind of Indian ingredient put in Indian food and drinks) and Curry Power (I just made that one up because I forgot the name of the other Indian-specific Lays flavor.

We slept soundly that night despite sleeping on old worn blankets on the floor. Maza woke us with his coming and goings, and when I stepped outside he was right there to greet me. He offered me tea, which I accepted, and then he told me that he'd been working in the Mount View houseboat for 14 years, having been recruited from Delhi. Like most innkeepers, he is attached to the guesthouse 24/7, and draws a meager wage for small expenditures, since most of his pay is in room and board. The caretaker does everything that needs to be done, is there at night when you go to sleep and there in the morning when you wake. I asked him if he was a Muslim to which he responded that he has no religious faith. I ended up taking pity on this man who, at age forty, had no friends nor family, and seemingly few options. He struck me as a child in a grown man's body, but in conversation I could see deep sadness and despair in his eyes. He told me the next day that he wanted to leave Kashmir, that he was sick of the owners of the houseboat who apparently don't treat him too well. Every person desires to be in control of his or her own destiny, and I got the feeling that Maza wanted to be something bigger, do something more important.

After tea Asher woke and Maza said we should go inside the guesthouse. We were amazed by the interior, which stood in stark contrast to the bare room we had slept in. 19th century furniture with red velvet upholstery, Persian carpets, and most appealing the big porch that looked out over the part of Dal Lake called Niggin Lake. We stayed in the houseboat all afternoon, reading, talking, smoking. I fell asleep on one of the couches inside at around three and was woken abruptly by one of the owners entering the houseboat. Asher was reclining generously on one of the loveseats, and this tall Indian-looking man approached him and said: "what do you think you're doing? Sitting like this in this chair, like its your home? Do you have no respect? You're not paying for the houseboat, you're paying for the little shithole in the back." Asher, lazy eyed and indifferent said nothing, which irritated the tall man even more. He became irate, told Asher to stand up, which he did, and ordered him to leave the houseboat. The whole time I was laying on the couch I wondered why all this venom was directed towards Asher only and not to me. It might very well have been a racially motivated incident.

He went on to the balcony and found Asher's "Boof" or what is known in English as his "Stash", and immediately said he was calling the police. He dialed a number and said, in English: "hi, id like to speak with the police" which let me know immediately that he was bluffing, since if he was really calling the police he would speak in Kashmiri and not in English. And he wont say something so lame as "id like to speak with the police" which is not what a person says when he calls the police. He was in fact bluffing and gave Asher back his stash after I calmed everybody down and apologized profusely, not wanting to have to find another accommodation this late in the day. The tall man I learned afterwards was a native Kashmiri who lived in Germany with his wife and kids, and was visiting Kashmir to check up on his houseboat business.

Maza didn't want us to leave and was angry with the owner for having caused us to go. But we wanted to leave anyways and find our friends from Dharamshala who were supposed to be in Srinagar too. We packed our things and locked them in the room, and then hired a Shikara (water taxi) to take us on a tour around Niggin Lake, which we knew was where our group was. The Shikara is kind of like the Gondola in Venice, except the rower doesn't stand and an awning provides shade. Also the oar is shaped like a heart, which is a memorable Kashmiri trademark. After an hours ride around the gorgeous lake surrounded by cute houseboats and covered by a cloudless blue sky, we saw in the distance, standing on the porch of a houseboat, what looked like a large guy with a beard and tussled hair: Zohar! We found our friends in the Shere-Kashmir houseboat, finally, and told our Shikara driver to stop.

Everyone was there: Zohar, Adi, Idan, Yossi, Anastasia, Nimrod and Olik. They welcomed us graciously and happily. Their houseboat was not quite as impeccably furnished as our houseboat but was much larger. Theirs was on the other side of Niggin Lake, the better side with the view of the mountain ranges in the distance. We met Jamal, the innkeeper, and he came with Asher and I, as well as Olik, on the Shikara back to the Mount View guesthouse. Jamal came to show us how to ride around the lake to get to the Shere Kashmir houseboat and Olik came for the ride. We said farewell to Maza who was sad to see us go and rode our Enfields to the new houseboat. We finally arrived after what seemed like a long delay. The next twelve days were spent in that houseboat.