Thirteen years ago, despite our parents’ advice, my sister and I travelled to Kashmir. It was truly a place of incredible beauty, yet the ongoing boundary dispute between India and Pakistan seemed to have turned it into a kind of hell masquerading as a paradise.
Upon arrival in Delhi, we were immediately sweet-talked into getting on a bus and heading north. The ride would supposedly take 15 hours. Twenty-five hours later, and after we had befriended each and every one of the goats, chickens, screaming infants and toothless pickpockets that made up the passengers on a route paved with military checkpoints, we arrived in Kashmir.
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The houseboat we rented was clean and the landscape breathtaking, so we were able to momentarily relax. Chai was served, hash was smoked. Things got perceptively better before turning nasty. Once we settled in, we asked if we could go into town and check the internet. I wanted to let my parents know that we had arrived safely but we were advised to avoid the town because violence had erupted between the Indian and Pakistani armies. A local politician had, in fact, been assassinated by a zealot a few days before and as a result, there had been a surge in Indian forces.
As you might imagine, being stoned and told that you can’t contact your family while on vacation, can scare the shit out of you, especially when you look around and start noticing the danger in the details: men with guns. No women anywhere. Sketchy-looking Germans with scars on their faces, thinning ponytails and bad tattoos. I immediately began to regret our decision but my sister seemed oblivious to it all, relishing the attention she was getting from all the men around us, being less cynical in nature than me, still assuming that everyone’s intentions were pure.
Our hosts tried to calm us down by saying that perhaps it would be “safer tomorrow”; a phrase that ended up becoming the theme of our stay. We had no choice but to settle into the rhythm of Kashmir, which included hash for breakfast, hash for lunch and hash for dinner, punctuated by the occasional dose of opium. There were other highlights too, though: excursions on smaller boats through the tributaries of Lake Nagin, visiting the Summer Palace, making friends with criminals residing in neighbouring boats and attending an Indian wedding.
Anyway. We don’t die. Thirteen years later I get married. She is the woman of my dreams, except for one, tiny detail: She insists on going to India for our honeymoon. I stand my ground, firmly explaining that I will never return to the subcontinent. But she is persistent if nothing else and she hammers me until one night over dinner, in a moment of extreme weakness, I relent.
I’m happy I did. We had an amazing time in India, I took a bunch of great photos and returning offered my some sort of closure.
While there, Maud (my wife) asked me why I had detested it so much the first time around. I felt there would be no better way to explain it than unearthing a segment from my journal, written all those years ago.
10:13 am. Monday 11/06/1999–Kashmir
I’m still here, smoking my mind away, suspended in a cloud of blue smoke. As soon as I woke up and walked outside, the chillum was being based and the didgeridoo humming away.
Last night was bad; I got so high I lost the plot and fell off the edge of the world. I don’t know why this is happening to me all of the sudden, but I’ve started experiencing severe bouts of paranoia. Ever since I found out that they [the owners of the boat] are ripping us off my sense of trust has been shattered and every word out of their mouth sounds like a lie. I feel like I’m never going to get off this fucking houseboat and that the people who run it are planning to torture and kill us. I’m scared and wish my sister and I could pack up and leave but we can’t. What makes it even worse is that Malika [my sister] seems to be having a fucking great time and is surrounded by guys who kiss her ass left and right as she’s the only female on the boat. I’m happy she’s having fun but it’s starting to bug the shit out of me b/c I’m bored of sitting on my ass and smoking hash all day with a bunch of criminals like Aheem, the German who claims he can never return home because of an unnamed crime he committed but refuses to comment on. There’s also a guy called Thomas, who has been attempting to communicate with me telepathically and I’m not sure if it was working or not ’cause, like I said I’ve been so high everything feels like a dream, sometimes good but sometimes not.
The worst part about it is that I feel responsible for my sister and her life and if something bad happens I won’t be able to protect her because people have guns on this boat, and all I have is a small pocket knife that I’ve never used on anything except an apple. Yesterday, as a matter of fact, when we were in the small boat paddling around the tributaries, an unknown assailant fired a shotgun towards us and my heart stopped and I panicked, ducking for cover in the water-laden bottom of the boat. It was the first time I have been shot at and one of the first times I’ve ever feared for my life. I watched as the pellets scattered into the water, less then ten yards from where we were. Benny and I looked at each other, our hearts in our throats, wondering if there would be a second shot. I started freaking out, thinking that no one would know if I was killed here. I haven’t spoken to my family since we touched down in Delhi four days ago, they have no idea we’re in Kashmir and would kill me if they discovered that I had taken my sister into such hostile territory.
Benny and I managed to paddle back to the houseboat without further incident, but later learned that a politician had been killed and that the stores are closed and the tension in town is thicker than normal. If I could just take my sister and get the fuck out of here I would but everyone is so high on hash and opium, there’s just no escaping – at least not yet.
Fuck. All this fighting has made me feel like a greedy bastard from America, who doesn’t respect anything or anyone but it’s hard not to feel that way when you’re getting duped at every transaction. Maybe it’s the drugs, or maybe it’s a combination of the drugs and the hostile environment and the massive sign that reads “SUCKER” on my forehead…
See more of Atisha’s work here.
More places we trevelled to so you don’t have to:
Penetrating Jordan’s Illegal Porn Cinemas
