Gulmarg, Kashmir: Heaven on Earth

The flight from Delhi to Srinigar, Kashmir, departed almost on time. I sat with a couple and their baby. I chose my seat because of the baby, who I played with for most of the flight, endearing me not only to the baby, but to the entire front half of the plane as well.

At one point, after we were commanded to return our seats to the upright position and put away our electronics, I felt the Mom’s fingertips digging into my shoulder. I asked if she was okay. She motioned dramatically for me to look out the window. There, soaring considerably higher than our plane, close enough to touch, loomed the majestic, straight from “Lost Horizon” Himalayas. It was the most spectacular sight I’ve ever seen. No words can describe seeing these mountains this close up.

Gulmarg might be heaven. It’s a high altitude ski village, minus the throngs of people. Despite the fact that there are not many tourists here, there’s huge diversity among the travelers. Russians, Swedes, New Zealanders, Australians, Croatians, Canadians, a few fellow Americans.

The military presence is the only clue that Kashmir is potentially dangerous. Well, that and the response all of the men give me when I tell them I’m alone: “You are a very brave girl.”

In Kashmir, touts dog tourists like stalkers. I was out strolling around the village, sans skis, and they kept offering their services as porters. I’m like, hello, I’m not carrying anything; there’s nothing for you to port here. Unless you want to carry my lip balm and chocolate bar. But I’m not paying 400 rupees for that.

The guy in charge of my floor in the Hilltop Hotel is totally smothering me with care. Every 15 minutes—no exaggeration—there’s a knock on my door. I have to keep the door locked because he just walks in. He brings me tea. He checks the hot water. He turns my heater on even though there’s central heat and I’m already hot and I don’t want the space heater on. As I walk up the steps, coming in from my stroll, he blocks my path and unzips my ski jacket. He grabs my room key out of my hand and races ahead of me down the hall to open my door. He turned down my bed at 8:00 and told me to have sweet dreams, he’d bring me coffee in the morning, but not too early. I need my sleep. Then he asked for the millionth time: “You are just one person?”

No, dude, I’m hiding my husband in my backpack. I have the liberty of saying this out loud because his English is limited and sarcasm escapes him completely.

How will I ever return to the real world after this?

I was told that no place treats their tourists better than Kashmir. Everyone’s so freaking grateful visitors will ignore warnings from their country’s embassies, telling them not to travel here. Even the army guys smile, wave hello, ask how I’m doing, if I’m comfortable.

Mehmood, my ski guide, calls me Zuni, which means “moon.” Or so he says. I’m thinking it probably means pain-in-the-ass client who sometimes behaves unreasonably.

I got bored with the lower slopes on my first day, so Mehmood was obliged to guide me down the advanced slope. Poor Mehmood. I skid down, maybe, half the mountain on my butt at one point. I was only able to make two runs that day, but the next day I got in seven.

Since I’m the first single woman to travel to Gulmarg, I’m somewhat of a celebrity in the village. More accurately, a goddess.

Après ski, I return to my hotel to a half a dozen messages. Men call on me. They bring along a friend as a chaperone. They invite me to dinner. They become a bit possessive. “I called you last night. You weren’t in. Where were you?” I hear this more than once daily. At lunch on top of the mountain, I look around the enormous, crowded restaurant. Sure enough, I’m the only woman. Typically, I walk in and am ushered to the table right on top of the huge space heater. Then a waiter drags over a low table for me. Within a few minutes, I’m surrounded by men.

I am asked repeatedly to explain George W. Bush. The people of Kashmir hate Bush, but quickly add that they love Americans. A group of drunken Russians started to give me shit big time at one dinner. As if Russia has behaved any better than we have in the world. I don’t say this, though. I stick with my mantra response: I’m sorry, but George Bush is not my fault.

I am asked repeatedly to explain my world view, my political and philosophical opinions. I will never again be this fascinating. Of this I am completely sure.

The very few women who are here—mostly Indians traveling with their families—are protective of me too. They invite me to ski with them. But Mehmood’s got me whooshing down the mountain almost competently, so I decline. It helps that we got about three feet of fresh powder while I was here. It’s just about the most fun I’ve ever had.