Where Are All the Women, and Ready, Set, Eat!

July 14-15 - Turkish Kurdistan, From Ani to Dogubayazit to Tatvan

It was a three-hour drive from Ani to  Dogubayazit. Rather than return to Kars, which would have been out of the way, GPS took us on a 27 km ride on a dirt, military road that paralleled the border with Armenia. That border is closed, (we were told that was due to the Armenian Azerbaijan conflict of the early 1990s, but it could also be due to lingering issues from the Armenian genocide) but other than there being no obvious crossings, I saw no evidence of the closure. The road was not too bad and we passed several small farming villages and tractors. Once we reached a main highway we passed through steppe grazing grounds and the towns of Digor, Tuzluca and Igdir. In the latter we began to see Mt. Ararat. We also encountered a French couple who stopped to talk with us during a rest/photo break because of our French auto license. They were here for a week's vacation and were largely paralleling our route.

Although it was still light when we reached Dogubayazit and we had GPS going (without the voice prompts), we promptly got lost when trying to find the hotel. In addition to the usual culprits, aside from my own inadequacies, there was major construction on the road and I think that caused me to miss a turn. We ended up turning into a parking area behind some buildings and immediately attracted a lot of attention. The adults wanted to know where we were from and where we were going. Laughed when we told them we were lost. The kids were even more friendly, but got scared off by Karen's hearing aids. With the aid of their directions and the GPS we finally found the hotel on a narrow street that had many loose bricks.

Dogubayazit is overwhelmingly Kurdish. Aside from the mountains and the palace, it does not have any noteworthy attractions other than its Kurdish environment. This seems to be a very religious and conservative area of Turkey and there is a lot of sex segregation. There are lots of tea houses in and outside of which many men congregate.

We checked into the Tehran Boutique Hotel. This is a completely renovated, almost new facility. We were their first Booking.com booking so that caused some confusion when checking in. Unlike many facilities that advertise parking, but point you to street parking, this one actually had a parking lot in the back with easy access to the hotel. The desk clerk, a young Kurdish woman in a very traditional outfit that covered her in heavy, bulky clothes from head to toe spoke no English, or Turkish (understandably, she spoke Kurdish, which alas does not show up in Google translate), but the hotel manager spoke excellent English, and was very helpful with directions and suggestions. He previously was a mountain guide in eastern Turkey, but now runs the hotel for his friend, who was out climbing the local mountain. He pointed out that he is listed in our Lonely Plant book as a recommended guide.

The local mountain is Mt. Ararat, which rises over 15,000 ft. It is the tallest mountain in Turkey and is still snow-covered at the top. It is the alleged site where Noah's Ark came to rest after the flood. You need a guide and permit to climb it. This city is only 15 km from the Iranian border, but we did not have time to visit or climb the mountain. We got a very good view of the mountain from the hotel's roof-top restaurant.

Tourist business is not very good here. The manager claimed that the many wars going on in the immediate area, Iraq and Syria, and the proximity to Iran, only 15 km, have not been good for tourism. We were the only ones on our floor and the other three rooms were open. We did not get the best room. Like most of the inhabitants in southern Turkey, the manager is a Kurd. He contended that the Turkish central government has been hostile to the Kurds and pointed to the fact that it had not been providing funds to the region and as a result, the local Kurdish cultural festival that should have been occurring then had been cancelled. Local businesses which had previously funded the festival were now devoting funds to (much needed) road repair.

In further discussions, he stated that the Kurds had been in this area for over a millennium, long before the Turks who had come from central Asia in the 9th century. After the establishment of the modern Turkish state under Ataturk, he decreed that the country be solely Turkish and in doing so denied any cultural identity for the Kurds, (or other less numerous minorities), who were labeled as mountain Turks. That led to the PKK and guerrilla rebellion and terrorism. That has largely abated now, but he said that Kurds are still not permitted to teach their language in public schools and the national government continues to discriminate against the Kurds.

After getting settled in the hotel, we walked around town. It was one day before the end of Ramadan and the streets are full of people -- whoops, make that men and boys. Lots strolling and many sitting and socializing outside the many cey (tea) houses, but virtually no women. Many of the men walked arm-in-arm; the difference in personal space and same-sex touching is very noticeable between the Turkish and American cultures. We mentioned our observation to our Western-culture-savvy hotel manager, who smiled and said it was not a sign of homosexuality ("they're not gay") but that it was part of their customs.

We entered a restaurant, Oz Urfa Kebap, about 7:00 that was deserted, but the staff was setting up salad, soup, water and bread at all the tables. The waiter did not give us a menu, but suggested several dishes. Starting about 7:15 people, again virtually all men, started coming in and sitting down, but no one touched the food or drink. At 7:41, the mosque prayers started and everyone instantly began to eat and drink. It was the end of the daily Ramadan fast. Our dinner was pretty good, my lamb kebobs very tasty. As we walked back to our hotel the streets continued to be largely vacant of women.

The morning breakfast was very good and the manager cooked a superb omelet, but the breakfast room had very few guests. We walked around the town, which now had very few people out. We then tried to drive out of town to the Ishak Pasa Palace. It proved to be a stressful chore, since the streets in the center of town are essentially alleyways and with parked vehicles, only one car can pass at a time. The streets did not seem to be designated as one way and the locals seemed to think that if they flashed their lights when coming down the street, they had the right of way and the other car had to back out or squeeze out of the way. I deferred a few times, but each time another car came into the street and I was not making any progress getting out of there. Finally, I stared down a couple of other cars and began the climb to the Palace.

The Palace was begun in the 17th century and completed a 100 years later by some Kurd chiefs. It sits on a small pleateau overlooking the town below and Mt. Ararat across the plains. It combines Seljuk, Ottoman, Georgian, Persian and Armenian architectural styles. It had two large courtyards, a jail, many ceremonial and dining rooms and very large separate living areas for men and women. The mosque in the palace was well preserved with beautiful ceiling frescos and relief decorations. The kitchen area was well preserved and there was a large servants' quarters on the lower level.

When we left we encountered a young souvenir salesman. His English was very good. He told us he was from an area village, but attended university near Istanbul. He was spending the summer selling goods produced by local Kurdish women and he seemed passionate about improving their lot in life, even bringing out his personal copy of Nicolas Kristof's/Sheryl WuDunn's "Half The Sky." We purchased two small items from him and he directed us to the cooperative's building below.

At the coop we watched the rug-making process and spoke with some of the staff. Purchased two rugs so our house will have multi-cultural flooring.

We drove out of Dogubayazit without getting lost, but way behind schedule. The road south took us into the mountains and again up a steep incline. The countryside was very empty until we reached the northern edge of Lake Van. We drove around the northern shore of the lake which was a pretty and scenic drive, with some stark evidence of ancient volcanic activity from the rocks and boulders strewn about; a nice sunset until darkness descended. We stopped for gasoline at an independent station and were given tissues and invited to stay for tea. The owner spoke limited English, but he was very eager for us to stay and talk. He was interested in our trip and our impression of Turkey.

By about 9 we arrived at our destination, Tatvan, the city at the western end of the lake. It was a bigger town than I anticipated and I was concerned about our ability to find our hotel, the Crater. Directions from a very helpful gas station clerk were very good and we were able to get there without detour, albeit slowly as the Ramadan break fast process was in full swing and the streets were crowded with a solid row of double parked vehicles, pedestrians, and vendors.


   

Auto and Anus Abuse

July 12 - Onward Back to Turkey

I woke up early, refreshed in our Akhaltsikhe guesthouse room. No breakfast was provided, so I went out looking for food. I passed several guest houses, so we probably need not have taken the first option last night, but we were tired. Passing a gasoline station of the same brand where we purchased gas in Tbilisi, which had 92 octane as regular, convinced me that our prior auto problems were caused by the incorrect gasoline. I quickly found a large food market that was open at 7:00 am on Sunday. It had a large selection of unidentified process meats and one meter long bags of spaghetti. I purchased some bananas, orange juice, bread, cheese, apricots, yogurt, a chocolate bar and 6 liters of water.

Back in the room we could look out over the square, the abandoned rail track and the police station. At the latter they were having the morning line up while we ate breakfast. Our hosts, seemingly a mother and three kids, two teenagers, spoke virtually no English, but were very interested in our trip.

After breakfast we walked up to the old town, Rabati. It is on a hill on the north side of the Potskhovi River. It is not a quant or cute area, but a living residential neighborhood. Just about every house has a small vineyard or grapevine. While many of the houses (seemingly most were traditional Georgian, darbazebi) looked sort of run down, virtually all had satellite dishes and many had large expensive European cars parked outside. The streets, most of which are not more than alleys, are not marked and are all unpaved. The rabati is multi-cultural. It has an Armenian and Catholic church, each, and a synagogue. We set out to find the latter and quickly got lost in the tangle of streets.  We saw a large group emerge from an alley and they turned out to be an Israeli group that had just visited the synagogue. As we proceeded up the alley, we were greeted by a couple calling out shalom. They urged us into their yard which had a grapevine, fruit trees and chickens. Outside it had a large pot boiling with some type of fruit in it. They gave us wine and some type of processed fruit with lots of toasts.

We finally found the synagogue, and although an interior door was open, it was locked on the outside and no one came to the door.

We walked back down the hill and took off for the Saphara Monastery. This is one of the most beautiful sites in the region, but the signs to get to its access road were surprisingly difficult to find and follow. The directions said that it was 13 km off the main road and the road leading to it is an unpaved national highway. We went about 1km up a paved road through a small village and then turned onto a dirt road. This was much more a byway than a highway. It was rocky, frequently deeply rutted and oftentimes was carved out of the side of a cliff. At times it was very steep and I spent a large amount of time in 1st gear. I had serious doubts and worries about whether the car would make it up the hill and feared that I would blow out the engine or at least a tire.

However the trip was very scenic and we finally made it there. Georgian monks seem to work really hard to find the most out of the way places to site their monasteries. This one dated to the 9th century and was greatly expanded in the 13th century to include a fortress by the Jakeli family, the same people who built the Akhaltsikhe Castle. The complex contains several churches, the largest of which, St, Saba's has many frescos. It is still a working monastery with a number of monks walking and driving around.

We rolled back down the hill and into town, where we filled up on cheap Georgian gasoline and headed south to Turkey.  We passed through Vale and several very small towns, but did not find a suitable place for our picnic lunch and wine. Just before the border we stopped at a gas station and rest stop. In addition to lots of liquor, it had a picnic table and two attentive dogs, who helped us finish off our bread. Used the restrooms and as we were looking to use up some of our remaining Georgian money, the owner/manager came over and insisted that we have two free cold waters. We ultimately purchased some ice cream sandwiches, a fruit drink and 6 more liters of water.

The border crossing went very smoothly, albeit slowly. This is a rural area and it is a small crossing post. There were not many travelers there. Georgian immigration stared intently at our paperwork for what seemed an eternity, but then stamped us and waved us through. Turkish immigration took a bit longer but there, too, we were ultimately waved through. At Customs there was a bit of shoving and line-cutting. A group of what seemed to be laborers who were traveling in an SUV were all carrying duty-free bags from Georgia. They cut ahead of me, but then had all their liquor confiscated. We had to open up the car, but the inspector made a cursory inspection and gave us a stamp, (unlike when we entered the last time, when a bar code was affixed to our car) to get through the final gate. In total it took about 1.5 hours.

We gained back an hour in time, so rather than stay in one of the smaller towns we were passing through, we set out for Kars, for what I thought would be about  a two hour drive. The highway was usually pretty good and at times excellent. However there were stretches that deterioated to gravel. We also were going through some very empty and rugged country. Twice we climbed to pass over 7500ft. Usually the only signs of civilization we saw were nomad people herding their animals and their tent sites. Then my digestive problem developed again. One time as I was scrambling off the side of the road for an emergency stop, I almost slid down a cliff. Another time when I stopped there was a shepherd who seemed to look at me askance. His cows then started coming over to me as I was relieving myself and I feared that there would be a confrontation; but the cows backed off and the shepherd walked away.

We made it to Kars in the early evening and after unsuccessfully bargaining for a desired price at our first choice, we settled into the Hotel Konak for two nights, where they served us tea and we watched Aljezerra International report on the Greek debt crisis.

You Cannot Drink the Water No Matter How Good it Tastes

July 11 Vardzia

Woke up at the farm guesthouse to the sounds of roosters striking and cows mooing. Got us up early. The breakfast was again farm-sourced and very good. The treat was fresh cream that had been obtained from the prior night's milking and refrigerated overnight. I spread it on just about everything, hard boiled egg, tomato, cucumber and on the fresh baked bread. Good stuff.

The problem was that bottled water was not provided and other than wine the night before, and coffee or tea for breakfast, there was nothing else to drink except the local water. It came from the mountains, it tasted great, so I drank it, with subsequent bad results.

However, before that we checked out and drove the short distance up the valley to the valley's major cave complex. It was created in the 12th century by a Georgian king as a fortification and later expanded by his successor, Queen Tamar, to to include a monastery that grew into a virtual holy city with 50,000 inhabitants and thousands of monks. It became a spiritual heartland for Georgia and the spearpoint of Christianity's eastern frontier. At its peak it had 13 floors, over 400 caves, 13 churches and 25 wine cellars. A subsequent earthquake destroyed some of the complex and in the 16th century the Persians defeated the Georgians in battles that took place in the caves. The victors looted the place and it fell into a long decline. The site was partially restored under Soviet rule and it is now a working monastery. We took a very long and steep walk up to the complex and viewed the caves and churches. The ticket office had a sign that the admission tickets, which were a nice picture of the complex, were holy items and could not be discarded. A nice ploy to minimize litter that seemed to work.

After spending the morning there, we tried to go to another cave complex on the other side of the valley. The road was too steep and rocky for the Twingo, so we rolled back to the main road. Briefly checked out the old slave market -- no indication of who the slaves were -- and returned to the main road to journey up to Akhaltsikhe, about 60 km up the river valley. A very scenic drive. We made it to the town, but could not find the Saphara Monastery that we were seeking. Instead we found the Akhaltsikhe Castle towering over the town so we went there. That was a fortunate switch because the water borne bugs caught up to me, and the castle, unlike the monastery, had great bathrooms. The castle is enormous. It was created in the 12th century, was expanded from the 13th to the 17th century by the local powerful Jakeli family, who got along famously with various invaders so the castle was not conquered until the Ottomans showed up. They took over and converted the castle into a regional center for their empire and installed a mosque.

Throughout our afternoon visit to the castle, I was frequently sprinting to the bathroom. Payback for the water. Now the castle has an upscale hotel, a restaurant and a wine shop. We picked up a bottle for dinner. The castle is beautifully landscaped and restored. It also had a tourist office. We were looking for assistance in getting a guesthouse for the night, but after calling one place that was full, they were of no further assistance. (I thought that they were there to help tourists.) There was a misunderstanding with the tour guide since my tour book indicated that she had made a reservation in a guesthouse in a town far to the north. We stopped at a guesthouse which was full, but they guided us to a neighboring house that had a vacancy.  A small place with no meals, but a large room with a large balcony for $18. Turns out it was perfect since after my bathroom issues, I was exhausted and fell asleep at 7 for 12 hours.  

The Day Our Luck Almost Ran Out

July 10

Our departure from Tbilisi started very auspiciously. We had another good breakfast at the Renaissance Hotel, although there was no mustard for the sausages, and then by accident we met Ketie our former tour guide, there. She was taking out a group of Dutch tourists and came there to meet them at the hotel. We reviewed our travel plans with her that we had discussed the prior day and she thought that she had made guesthouse reservations for us for the next two nights. That was important since in Georgia we had no Internet service on our phone and telephone calls at $6 per minute. (T-Mobile's world wide plan is not so world wide).

We used the hotel's wifi to get directions out of Tbilisi. I have found that getting out of major cities without getting lost has been a problem for me on the trip after we lost the voice directions from the phone (that service does not extend into the former eastern block and further eastward) Even when we get written directions, the street names are often not marked and even when they are, they, understandably are written in the local language which in Georgia has been hard to decipher and impossible to do so while driving. However, this time we made it out without a misstep, in part because we had been in Tbilisi so many days and had some familiarity with it from walking and prior driving. We drove up on a serpentine road that took us high up into the hills over Tbilisi, affording us a wonderful view of the city. Departing the hotel we filled up the tank, as I anticipated few gasoline stations where we were going. I asked (Georgia is like Oregon and New Jersey, no self service) for 95 grade, regular. We even got started on time, so all seemed well.

We stopped at one point to check directions and then the car would not start. I hoped that it was caused by having sat idle for 5 weeks and jumped started it by rolling down the roadway. We proceeded southwest for about 50 km into the Lower Caucasian  mountains and the Samtskhe Javakheti area, a rural and mountainous region. Going up one of the many 10% grades the car started bucking and finally stalled out and died. This time the battery was completely dead. With the assistance of a local driver we got it jump started by rolling backwards. However that only proved to be a temporary solution since after another few km it again stalled out and died.

What to do? We were in a rural, heavily forested area with no internet or phone access. I decided to try to get a ride to the nearest town of any size, Tsalka, which I thought/hoped might have a mechanic. I tried flagging down the infrequent passing motorists. Some passed me by, some stopped but there was complete language disfunction and they declined. Finally using a map and lots of body language one driver agreed to take me to town. Karen stayed with the car. When I arrived at Tsalka my driver just dropped me off. No tourist office in sight so I started going to bank offices hoping I could find an English speaker. At the third bank I got incredibly lucky. Not only was there an English speaker, but a young bank employee, who did not speak much English, agreed to drive back with me with his SUV and some straps to tow the car into town. He drove like a madman up and down the hills and around the potholes. Hooked up our car to his and then began the trip back to town. It was weird and challenging steering my car while being towed. I could not see all the potholes and I had to make sure not to run into the tow car, but also not to brake to hard.

Before we got to town he picked up another person whose car had broken down. When we got close to town he pulled into a mechanic's shop. No one there spoke English so there was a lot of pantomime. The mechanic peered into the engine and revved the carburetor. He seemed to pronounce that there was bad benzine and that the problem was fixed. The car started and I followed the bank employee back into town without a problem. Then they put me on the phone with a mystery someone (I never determined who he was) who spoke English. He told me that while the car was fine, I had to go back to Tbilisi and use the main highway to go to Betumi to get to Turkey since my car could not make it over the mountain passes in the south.

With all the talk about bad benzine, it began to dawn on me that perhaps I had gotten the wrong grade of gasoline in Tbilisi. Again following my tow guy I went to a gas station and filled up with the proper grade of gasoline. I still was not sure what was wrong with the car and nervous that if there was an additional breakdown I would not be so lucky, so I was inclined t return to Tbilisi. However, my tow guy insisted that "problem no" and that we should continue on our journey. So we decided to do that. We thanked our tow guy profusely, but he declined my offer of compensation.

We then headed into an incredibly pretty, but virtually empty region. A few very small, and seemingly poor towns, lots of shepherds and their herds and Lake Paravni, a large inviting lake that strangely seemed devoid of human presence, was mostly all that we saw for over 100 km as we climbed to over 7500 feet. But the car performed without any problem.    

Finally we reached Ninotsminda, a large town that was the most southern point in our trip. It is about 20km from the Armenian border. We turned northwest and followed the roaring Mtkvari River along a twisting road through a very scenic valley. There were several monasteries along the way, but we passed on them, given that we had spent time with the car misadventures. After about 60 km we saw a large fortress that dominated the skyline. The Khertvisi Fortress is at the juncture of two rivers and dominates the passageways east to Armenia and south to Turkey. Fortresses have been at this site since the time of Alexander the Great, who conquered this area. The present structure dates back to the 10th century with subsequent additions. It is a massive structure that contains a tunnel down to the river. We hiked to the top accompanied by a dog, our tour guide. Incredibly commanding views of the rivers and valleys. Hard to imagine that the fortress was conquered, but it was several times by Persians, Mongols, various Turks and Russians.

We then drove south into the Vardzia valley along the Paravani River. We saw several cave complexes in the adjacent cliffs, until we came to the main one in Vardzia that looked like a mini Petra. We continued further south as the road deteriorated to the Cottages guesthouse where our tour guide had tried to book us a room. It was a lovely place with extensive vegetable acreage and flower gardens. The eating area was along the river bank and we saw employees harvesting food for dinner. It has grown beyond the 4 cottages listed in the Lonely Planet book and now also has a two-story building that has another score of rooms. Unfortunately, it was full and since we were out of service our tour guide had not been able to reach us to communicate that or an alternative. After several calls by the people at the Cottages with various translations, we were directed back up the valley to the Old Telari Guesthouse.  

This turned out to be a wonderful experience. The guesthouse required us to drive off the main road up a steep dirt/rock lane through a village. Lots of kids playing, cows being brought home and adults socializing or playing games. It is a working farm with cows, a trout farm, vegetables and fruit. We had a large room with shared common area and bathrooms, but there were no other guests. There was virtually no English spoken and they seemed to indicate that there was no wifi, but they had a computer in the common room. It was in Georgian and I did not want to try to mess up the settings by getting it into English. A son, one of 5 kids, his wife and child, one of 10 grandchildren, lived there along with the hostess and her one-armed husband. After the husband brought the cows back the wife milked them. She got two large buckets of milk (there was still some left for the calves to drink) and then showed us how she made cheese.

The dinner came entirely from food produced on the farm, including the fish and wine. (I assume that she bought the flour, but she made the bread in the outdoor oven.) We had trout, vegetables, cheese and bread. But I drank the local water and later paid for that. Most of the homes have vineyards and we were served homemade white wine. All very good.

No One Has Asked Us - Srinagar

July 3-5

We checked into our houseboat, Peacock on Nagin Lake in the afternoon following a 200 rupee Shikara ride. This houseboat is newer and nicer than the boat we had stayed on the night of the 30th. It is also on a different lake that has fewer boats and is far less commercial. My son and his girlfriend had arrived the prior day and were staying a few boats away. After settling in and catching up on our electronic communications (since we had been off line for three days [that was sort of relaxing] in Sonamarg), we met in our boat for drinks and discussion.

We then took a cab ride to a friend of my son whose home is in Srinagar and who had returned for Ramadan. They live in the old city so we were transported through a maze of narrow streets and alleyways. Before we arrived we drove through what remained of a cloud of tear gas which lead to coughing fits by all of us. First time I had been exposed to tear gas.

This occurred by the Jama Masjid, a very large mosque. We were told by several people that for the last ten years the Indian Army has been entering the mosque (with their shoes, on some noted bitterly) on Fridays to discourage assemblies of what the army deemed to be nationalist and independence meetings. That has lead to riots, stone-throwing, tear gas and occasional shootings almost every Friday. Stones against bullets, our driver noted.

The dinner at my son's friend's house was good and interesting. No women from the host family participated, although I briefly saw one through the curtains. In addition to my son's friend, the other participants were his father (who is an attorney) and a related freelance photo journalist and a rambunctious 18-month old nephew. The latter was half Korean and his parents live in Korea. He was visiting for the summer and I suspect sent off to make space for his new sister. He was a bundle of energy, continuously stomping and running around the room. The photo journalist is in his early twenties. He has had his pictures published locally, but also a few outside the area including a few in the NY Times of the recent earthquake in Nepal. He said a friend in the army got him up there right after the quake. He intends to apply to Columbia University's School of Journalism in NYC.

The father was the most interesting. A tall, articulate man, he is an ardent Kashmiri nationalist. He detailed the many abuses that Kashmir has endured under Indian rule (no one we spoke to in Kashmir made any reference to the fact that Pakistan controls roughly 1/3 of Kashmir, only that they want nothing to do with Pakistan.) and bitterly commented that after he had gone to the UN to attend a conference about Kashmir and spoke with the then US UN representative Madeline Albright, his passport was "confiscated" for 7 years. He said that India censors communications out of Kashmir and that the world had forgotten about the Kashmiri people. He lamented that no one has taken into consideration what the Kashmiri people want or asked them about their views.

Their house, while large, was sparsely furnished. It had Indian toilets, squat, and a large courtyard that contained a garden full of flowers.

The next day we had breakfast on the houseboat with lots of sweet, old style (pits included) watermelon. This is one of many fruits that is sold in abundance on the streets. We were fortunate to be in India during the mango season. It is a delicious fruit when fresh and sells for less than $1 for a kg.

I decided to hire a driver/guide to take us around Srinagar. I prefer to explore on our own, but Srinagar is much bigger than I expected, 3.5 million residents and spread out for miles. There is no public transit other than the auto rickshaws, and even if I could get around on my own, I would almost certainly get lost. Plus, such services are pretty cheap in India.

Our guide turned out to be much better than most of the guides we had in India. His English did not require a lot of concentration to understand, he did not provide a canned commentary that seemed to be right out of an audio guide, he was authenic and engaged, willing to talk about a variety of topics and was aminable to direction.

We first went to a Mughal garden (there are several around the city dating back to the late 16th century after Akbar conquered Kashmir). They are of similar design with terraced lawns, fountain pools, manicured flower beds and pavilions. This one is now owned and operated by Kashmir's largest bank. It had lots of almond trees and a nice city view. The city jail was adjacent to it. We then went to Chetipacha Gurdwara, a large, gleaming, white, marble, Sikh temple. The 16th century Guru cured a woman of blindness on this site (she promptly expired upon viewing the Guru and is entombed in the temple) which gave rise to the temple. We then went to the Makhdoom Sahib Shrine by way of the "short" steps (that were not short, were very hot without shoes and were lined with beggers) which was within the old city walls and adjacent to a ruined 17th century mosque. There were a lot of Muslim pilgrams, particularly older women, there. Then we went to the Jama Masjid, the large mosque that was the scene of the tear-gassing the prior day. It is a very large 17th century structure that forms a quadrangle around a large fountain garden. The four gatehouses are large and each is different. (None of that perfect Mughal symmatry).

Our guide asked if he could attend a service there. We agreed and I went in to observe. I saw thousands of men streaming in (what few women were there were relagated to the far back; most women prayed in another wing of the Mosque). They initially prayed individually, but as 1:30 approached they all moved to the front and formed long straight lines. Lead by an iman they regularly bowed, kneeled and responded to prayer calls in unison. It was all over in about 8 minutes and everyone streamed out, picking up their shoes as they departed.

Outside the mosque, we met a young Australian tourist whom we had met and briefly conversed with in a restaurant in Jaisalmer. He had been traveling in India solo (periodically hooking up with other travelers for brief periods) for 5 months and intended to travel for 2 more. He had come up to Kashmir by shared jeep. He said the trip was tortorus not only due to the poor state of the roads, but also due to the many Indian Army checkpoints. We had met several other young travelers, all of whom seemed to use extended trips through India to find themselves.

Then we drove to the Khanqah Shah I Hamadan. This is a beautiful and very distinctive mosque that was built in the 18th century. It is very colorful and is covered with elaborate paper-mache reliefs. We could not enter, but peering through the windows revealed a colorful interior with chandeliers filled with colorful bulbs. It is on the site of Kashmir's first mosque which was founded by a Persian saint, Mir Sayed Ali Hamadani (Hamadan is an ancient city now in Iraq), who introduced Sufi Islam to Kashmir and converted many of it's inhabitants. Tamerlane's soldiers eventually killed him, but not before he introduced into Kashmir many of the handicrafts, rug-making and weaving, that continue to sustain its inhabitants.

Among many animals, Indians of all religions revere birds. In all the cities we were in there were huge numbers of pigions, in part because it is considered a blessing to feed them. In the mosque's courtyard a man and his two children were throwing out corn, which attracted hundreds of pigeons. Then we saw a cat slowly approaching the pigions. As it approached, the pigeons took flight and the cat leaped at least four feet in an unsuccessful attempt to catch one. The man feeding the pigions was highly annoyed with the cat and chased him away. Unlike virtually all the other countries we have visited, there are virtually no outdoor cats in India. The only explanation we got for this is that there are lots of dogs, most of whom seem to be wild, and they chase away the cats.

I purchased some bananas and a cucumber for 12 rupees from a street vendor. In contrast a liter of water from a tiny store cost 20 rupees.

We then drove to the Badshah Tomb, but could not actually get there due to traffic congestion. Unlike most tombs in Kashmir it has multiple domes. It houses the mother of a 15th century Kashmir king.

We then drove south in an effort to see the silk-weaving factory. Alas, due to the big flood in 2014, this factory complex had been permanently closed. Aside from the showroom, all we got to see was an administrative office which had several large wooden boxes labeled as the property of the British Tax Revenue Service.

The 2014 flood had a devestating impact on Srinagar. Both of our houseboat owners said that it had surged their boats up onto land and our guide pointed out the water marks on many of the buildings that marked the flood's highwater mark. It also has temporarily suspended the floating fruit and vegetable market that was a feature on Dal lake due to a shortage of product. Our guide bitterly complained that the central Indian government prevented other governments (mainly from Muslim countries) and NGOs from providing aid to Kashmir after the floods, instead promising to address the flood-related problems itself. He said that all the Indian government ultimately provided to homeowners was 3800 rupees, about $60. My son said that the Indian government insisted that all external aid go through Delhi, which the external donors, fearful of waste and corruption, were unwilling to do.

Our guide kept up a lively commentary throughout the afternoon. He too is an ardent Kashmiri nationalist and characterized the Indian Army in Kashmir as an occupying force, that since 1990 has killed 130,000 Kashmiris and locked up tens of thousands more without charges or trials. There is a huge and very visible army presence in both places we visited in Kashmir. He traces the problem back to 1987 when a Muslim party defeated the party backed by the Congress Party for the first time. The government, according to him, locked up the Muslim leaders rather than permitting them to take control of the state government and things have gone downhill since.

We also got a piece of his life story. Both his parents are victims of leprosy. The government permitted them to marry as an experiment. He does not have the disease, but was subjected to such torment at school that he dropped out early. He taught himself English, German and Japenese. He lives with his family and parents, whom we met, in government-provided housing, but which he will have to leave when his parents die.

Back on the houseboat we were subjected to a steady stream of sales calls from passing shikaras. Jewelry. We bought some, then paper mache boxes to put them in, then chocolates and then the grocery boat, from which we purchased water. We declined many others. In tourist land in India one is almost constantly subjected to sales efforts or begging. The only guaranteed respite is in the luxury hotels. Had a nice dinner on the boat with my son and his girlfriend and ate the chocolates for dessert.

The next day we hung out on the boat until about 11 and then met the guide again for a trip to Hari Parbat Hill and a 15th century Mughal Fort of the same name. It sits on a large hill in the center of Srinagar, offering 360-degree views of the city and lakes. Hindus believe that the gods Vishnu and Sharika defeated the Kashmir lake demon on this site. This is the only fort we visited that was only a fort, no palaces or royal quarters here. The fort has been closed to the public, but our guide got us a pass. It is still used by the Indian army. There were lots of eagles soaring about and gliding on the wind currents.

We visited a few Mughal gardens, all very nice and well used on a Sunday, thereby engendering many requests for photos with the locals. We also made the usual trip to a local rug workshop and showroom.

That evening we experienced a lengthy lightning and thunder storm accompanied by high winds and rain that bent the trees, knocked out electricity and rocked the boat. It got stuffy with the windows closed and the fans motionless. But that too passed and we got to sleep.

The Himalayas

July 1-3

We awoke on the New Bombay houseboat to a great sunrise over Dal Lake. A good breakfast with lots of fruit (and even home-baked bread in the shape of a fish), followed by a visit from the jeweler accompanied by his moneyman seeking a down payment. He pledged to meet us two days later with the goods up in Sonamarg.

We were given a driver and the owners's son. It took a while to get out of Srinagar as the traffic was snarled and the roads narrow. We drove for a time along the Boulevard that lines Dal Lake and saw some of the over 1000 houseboats that are there. That process got started when a Kashmir Maharaja banned ownership of land by foreigners. In response the British, who liked to come up to Kashmir to escape the summer heat in India, began to build houseboats. Now virtually all are rented out to tourists and their owners live on the adjacent land. Gondala-like boats on the lake are called Shikaras. They ferry people and goods around.

The drive up to Sonamarg took about three hours. We passed many villages, all of whose structures had steeply angled corrogated metal roofs, mostly grey, but a few in red or green.  We were climbing in altitude and the air got cooler and cleaner while the trees got greener and taller.

Sonamarg is set in a beautiful alpine valley. There is not much there in the town. It has two big Army bases and a tourist industry based on hiking (particularly for Indians, most of whom have not seen snow), and Hindu pilgrimages to the nearby Amarnath holy ice site.

We arrived about 1:00pm and immediately there was trouble. I had Indoasia (the Indian tourist agency we had been using) make the booking at the Mountview Hotel since that hotel would not accept international credit cards. Initially the desk clerk claimed that we did not have a reservation. When I showed him the confirming email from the travel agent, he claimed that we had only paid for one night and he wanted 4500 rupees in cash. I had paid for two nights and did not have that much Indian currency. Fortunately the houseboat owner's son who had accompanied us on the drive intervened and straigthened things out. I do not know if it was a mistake or extortion.

After depositing our bags in the hotel room, we started our drive to the trailhead for our hike to the Thajiwas Glacier. We were almost immediately blocked by a departing convoy of a seemingly unending procession of army trucks departing for Ladakh. The Indian Army has a very large and visible presence in Kashmir. Some told us it was a protective force placed there in response to three Pakistani invasions in the 20th century. Other Kashmiris said it was an occupying force placed there in response to Kashmiri desires for independence. (We did not encounter even one Kashmiri who said that they wanted Kashmir to join Pakistan, most denouncing it as a bad country, even though 80% of Kashmiris are Muslims, albeit Sufi and Shia, unlike the Pakistanis who are mostly Sunni.)

Not even the Indian drivers felt it advisable to challenge the army trucks, so we waited for about 20 minutes. At the trailhead we picked up a guide. It proved to be unnecessary, but for 900 rupees we got to talk with a 21-year-old Kashmiri. The altitude, 8950 ft, and steep climb caused Karen to switch to a pony (that cost 800 rupees, even though we later found out that the official rate was 500). Even though the weather was mild I was sweating and huffing and puffing during the climb. The guide asked if I smoked and after I replied no, he asked why I was huffing, which was the first in a series of inquires of whether I, too, wanted a pony. He smoked and seemingly like most Indians, had no qualmes about discarding the empty pack on the trail.

We climbed about 1100 ft over 7km (sorry for the mixed measurements). There were a lot of other hikers, many also on ponies and mostly Indian, on the well-marked trail. The air was clear and almost sweet-tasting and the views were beautiful. Sharp and steep mountain peaks in many places covered by tall, very green trees. The open spaces were largely covered by snow. Lots of waterfalls from the melting snow. I wonder why I do not engage in similar activity in the US when I could hike in California.

We reached the glaicer in about 2 hours. Sled rides -- they even pulled you up -- and refreshments were offered. Declined and just drank my water. Many Indians were reveling in the rides and snow in what was obviously their first snow experience.

It began to rain so we commenced our descent. I was pretty tired and staggered down the mountain well behind Karen, who was holding court with a lot of the pony guys in a hut.

Due to Ramahdan, dinner at the hotel did not begin until 8:30. At that time it seemed that all the Indian tourists from the two buses filled the dining room. We waited until the rush receded. It was a mystery dinner. A buffet with lots of dishes, all labeled in Hindi (I assume it was Hindi for the tourists; the locals spoke Kashmiri.). The food and the sauces were too much for me and I paid for it that evening.

The following day, July 2, I met up with the guide, negotiated a price and destination and again rejected his offers of a pony. We left about 9:30 and cut through the pony field. We passed a small village where he lived. His father is a potato farmer and they have a pretty big house, although he said it only had 4 rooms. He has 5 siblings. We crossed the river on an old bridge no longer used by vehicles (there were several large holes in the roadway through which one could see the river), and began our upward climb to the Tracking Station. On this trail we met no other hikers. The only people we met were soldiers and nomad people. I did a little better than the prior day, perhaps because I was not attempting to keep up with a pony. The nomad people speak no English and according to the guide, do not even send their children to school. The guide plans to attend college, but says that most of his peers leave school early to work the ponies.

When we encountered the soldiers, they requested my visa and passport. They seemed to be impressed that I was from California, but rejected my request to take their picture. However, several took my picture and one put his arm around me over the barbed wire fence.

The nomad people follow the climate up and down the mountains, selling off an occasional goat to get some money. The guide said that I could not get too close to their bunker-like homes due to "wild dogs". I did not see any dogs let alone wild ones, but I kept my distance. Continued hiking past some more nomad communities to the Tracking Station. That place did not appear to have any significance.

On the way down we encountered a couple holding a small child who asked me for stomach medication for the child. All I had was diarrhea pills, so I passed. I got back about 1:00 and my legs were pretty wobbily, so I took a brief nap before walking to the main part of Sonamarg to meet Karen. She had already done some shopping.

The main part of town is a single street that is lined on one side with about a 1/2 mile long row of old ramshackle buildings that look as if they will topple over in the first big storm. In fact, this part of town has been around for hundreds of years. It consists of restaurants, shops and hotels, We were offered rooms for as little as 1400 rupees (about $25).  It closes down completely for about 6 months due to large amounts of snow. My guide told me that he and all the other families havewinter homes further down the valley. We purchased some small handmade bags, an army raincoat, an Indian army hat, a shepard's hat and a luggage bag to haul all the purchased stuff back. Dinner again at the hotel, this time in moderation and no resulting side effects.

The next day we found the jeweler and his moneyman waiting for us outside the hotel as he had promised. He gave Karen the jewelry, but there was no signal for the credit card. That was not a surprise since we had no Internet connection throughout our stay. We took an unguided hike after breakfast and then met our driver about noon. He stopped on the way back to Srinagar at the jeweler's town where we made the final payment.

We got back to Srinagar about 3 and checked into a different houseboat, Peacock, on a different lake Nageen. Out of the big mountains.

The train

June 28 Sunday

We awoke early again from the Ranthambhore hotel, this time to catch an early morning train. We saw other bleary-eyed people in the hotel lobby waiting for their jungle safari ride as we has done the prior day. The hotel staff, who were great, called our room three times to make sure we were awake, prepared us a box breakfast and we were driven to the Sawai Madhopur train station. We arrived almost an hour early. The tour company staff always wants to ensure that nothing goes wrong and its very earnest young representative in this case was extra cautious.

The train station was large and to my surprise very busy on an early Sunday morning. Train travel is by far the most favored method of intercity travel among Indians, and the Indian National train network is one of the largest enterprises in the country. It employees 1.5 million people.

We had a reservation in the second tier (air conditioned with two seats abreast in a reserved, but open seating arrangement), but the representative insisted on getting our tickets. He also had to purchsse a pass to go on the platform with us to ensure that we got on the right train. The porters' union has a monopoly on baggage movement in train stations, so I had to pay to accompany them as they rolled our luggage.

The monkeys are all over the train station in huge numbers. Passengers feed them (I saw a monkey peel a banana) and there is lots of garbage to feed on. They scamper around the tracks, but always seem to get out of the way of the trains.

There were lots of trains with corresponding deafening announcements of their arrivals and departures, also accompanied by loud chimes. The train station is also the site of a culinary circus. Even before 7:00am there were vendors on the platform selling food primarily to passengers in the train and passing the money and food through the window grills. This activity was even more intense when we exited the train 2.5 hours later. I was amazed at the wide variety of food being sold and that the vendors were even pouring sauces on the food through the windows.

We had reserved seats on the train that were occupied by a family with whom we switched seats. Early Sunday morning and the train was full. In the second class compartment it was jammed. It reminded me of a great snow day at Snowbird when the tram is packed to capacity. Passangers hanging out of doors and protruding out of windows. At each station groups of passengers held back from getting into second class, I assume to avoid getting jammed in the middle, and so as the train was pulling out of the station there was a mad dash by this group to jump on.

There are also lots of orange clad official food vendors on the train and even a mopping and cleanup crew that periodically came through. We arrived at Bharatpur about 10 minutes late and emerged into the heat and more culinary frenzy.

We were picked up by the tour company guide and drove to Fatehpur Sirki. This is a fortified ancient city that was briefly the capital of the Mughal empire. Supposedly Emperor Akbar, for all his magnificence, and his three primary wives (he was very ecumenical, as the wives were Hindu, Muslim and Christian), and perhaps because of his hundreds of concubines, had not produced a legitimate heir. Akbar visited with a local Muslim saint and shortly thereafter he had a son with his Hindu wife (according to a Bollywood 4-hour epic, she was the true love of his life). So Akbar got an heir and in honor of that, Akbar built this new fort and moved his capital here. The saint got a tomb in the fort.

The fort is a mixture of Hindu, Muslim, Mughal, Persian and Gothic architecture. It has the usual public and private assembly areas, a large mosque with the same name, Jama Masjid, as in Delhi, and grandeose emperor's quarters. It has three wives's palaces, one for each of the primary wives, built in the shape of the hand carriages that they were transported in. The British stripped the gold roofs off these structures and replaced it with brass. There was also a large courtyard which had a parchessi board laid out on it, in which the emperor played the game with scantily idressed dancing girls.

After Akbar died the capital was moved to Agra because of poor water supplies.

We then drove to Agra. Due to the heat we postponed the Agra activities to the next day. Our hotel, the Mansingh Palace, had a good location and pool, but otherwise it was a bland, modern hotel with no character that charged for everything and even imposed an hourly Internet charge.

We ate dinner at a rooftop restaurant on the Saniya Palace Hotel. We got a great view of the Taj Mahal and monkeys having sex on the roof. They lay out exhausted after the activity. The food was good too.