Near death experience in Gulmarg
We left Pahalgam at 8 AM, which was four hours too late. We were advised by our drivers to leave at 4 AM in order to avoid the stone-pelting mobs of village folk on the way to Gulmarg, our next destination. We learnt our lesson when we were stopped on the road a couple of times by people telling us that there were indeed mobs blockading the road ahead, waiting with stones in hand. Each time we had to wait for what seemed like ages until either the mob cleared off for Friday prayers or the police escorted us through the village. Once we tried to speed through a village with the mobs still in situ and our car was promptly lashed by village boys wielding incredibly un-frightening branches of trees; needless to say, we had to turn around and wait a while before we could go any further.
The political unrest started nearly two months ago in Kashmir with the death of a teenager at the hands of the police force (who are one of the faces of the ~despised~ Indian government in this heavenly Himalayan state). Since then, tens of people have died mostly due to firing on protesting crowds.
The resulting indsicriminate public fury against government employees and tourists alike has taken the form of even more strikes and protests. Coupled with the knee-jerk daytime curfews enforced by the Indian military, pretty much everything has shut down, the obvious exceptions in this small village being hotels and self-employed horse-owners.
So with that close ~brush with death~ still fresh in our minds, we arrived in beautiful Gulmarg, 'the meadow of roses'. The place didn't do the name any justice to be honest because you'd be hardpressed to find roses growing outside the hotel's gardens.
Gulmarg in the sunlight is, however, one of the most beautiful places I've seen. Little hills carpeted with grass, home to conifers (and an impressive variety of insects) with streams running between them, and the mountains towering high above in all directions.
New day, new horse - not as well-trained as one in Pahalgam though. This one was white too but was paradoxically called Ginger. I don't think the owner knew what 'ginger' means. We rode a few kilometers from the hotel where the view was spectacular.
The next day our earnest desires to ride a cable car to the top of one of the mountains were met with blank looks and the information that the cable car operators were stuck in their nearby hometowns because of the human roadblocks on the roads leading into Gulmarg.
So with nothing to do for a whole day, we dejectedly made our way back to the hotel where we were accosted by a few more horse-owners who promised to take us to the same height on horseback in 35 minutes as the cable cars do in about the same time. The horses were beautiful young things (some were, anyway) of pleasant colors and possessing long legs. It took a lot of convincing to finally get a few of us to agree to go with them.
The treacherous path up the mountain obviously took longer than 35 minutes, a fact that I'd been loudly broadcasting all along. The way up got progressively more beautiful and I turned around several times to gaze at the sunlit green valley rising up behind us.
The view from the where we finally stopped was breathtaking. I could see far away towns and lakes glimmering in the afternoon sun. I almost didn't want to leave but I decided it wouldn't be in my best interest to live in a hut with a seventy-something-year-old shepherd and the carcasses of the dead members of his flock, so I got on my faithful steed and quietly rode downhill.
The political unrest started nearly two months ago in Kashmir with the death of a teenager at the hands of the police force (who are one of the faces of the ~despised~ Indian government in this heavenly Himalayan state). Since then, tens of people have died mostly due to firing on protesting crowds.
The resulting indsicriminate public fury against government employees and tourists alike has taken the form of even more strikes and protests. Coupled with the knee-jerk daytime curfews enforced by the Indian military, pretty much everything has shut down, the obvious exceptions in this small village being hotels and self-employed horse-owners.
So with that close ~brush with death~ still fresh in our minds, we arrived in beautiful Gulmarg, 'the meadow of roses'. The place didn't do the name any justice to be honest because you'd be hardpressed to find roses growing outside the hotel's gardens.
Gulmarg in the sunlight is, however, one of the most beautiful places I've seen. Little hills carpeted with grass, home to conifers (and an impressive variety of insects) with streams running between them, and the mountains towering high above in all directions.
New day, new horse - not as well-trained as one in Pahalgam though. This one was white too but was paradoxically called Ginger. I don't think the owner knew what 'ginger' means. We rode a few kilometers from the hotel where the view was spectacular.
The next day our earnest desires to ride a cable car to the top of one of the mountains were met with blank looks and the information that the cable car operators were stuck in their nearby hometowns because of the human roadblocks on the roads leading into Gulmarg.
So with nothing to do for a whole day, we dejectedly made our way back to the hotel where we were accosted by a few more horse-owners who promised to take us to the same height on horseback in 35 minutes as the cable cars do in about the same time. The horses were beautiful young things (some were, anyway) of pleasant colors and possessing long legs. It took a lot of convincing to finally get a few of us to agree to go with them.
The treacherous path up the mountain obviously took longer than 35 minutes, a fact that I'd been loudly broadcasting all along. The way up got progressively more beautiful and I turned around several times to gaze at the sunlit green valley rising up behind us.
The view from the where we finally stopped was breathtaking. I could see far away towns and lakes glimmering in the afternoon sun. I almost didn't want to leave but I decided it wouldn't be in my best interest to live in a hut with a seventy-something-year-old shepherd and the carcasses of the dead members of his flock, so I got on my faithful steed and quietly rode downhill.