Because I was hissed at by Kashmiris in 1994, my internal
react-o-meter to world events budges slightly from neutral when I see or hear
news of violence along the Pakistan-India border in that region. As it
happened, back then I was on the road from Leh to Manali to catch a flight to
Delhi.
The stretch where the incident occurred is along one of
the highest highways in the world, and though it was mid-July, the
road—unpaved—was badly cratered with potholes, and the snow on the hillside was
still several feet deep. We came to a stop where a work crew of men, women, and
little children were carrying rocks from the roadbed and tossing them over the
side of the embankment.
My driver got out of our jeep and went over to the crew
chief to negotiate our passage. Though wearing full winter gear, I was easily
spotted as an Other, and all work ceased. Immediately the focus of the
conversation settled on me and ratcheted up in volume several notches. My
driver’s brother, sitting in the front passenger seat, turned and told me to
stay put and to say nothing.
After a few minutes—seemed longer than a few—my driver
returned, and slowly we crept forward between the workers holding stones and
staring at me. Then, it began. Hissing. For about 10 yards, on both sides,
adults and children hissed. Not a word was spoken. I did have that moment of
“So, this is where it ends, a bang and, maybe, whimpering”.
When the crew was well behind us, we stopped. “What was
that about?” I asked. “You are an American.” True enough. “Jimmy Carter did not
help Kashmiris win their independence.” “What?” “Leaders wrote a letter, talked
about Jefferson, and Lincoln, and Martin Luther King. But no response. No
help.”
Well, damn.
By the way, I have never been able to locate any
information about this letter and the alleged snub.
Coincidentally, before the region’s recent news, I was
reminiscing about making the decision to go to the Himalayas in February, ’94. That
25th anniversary thing that we do with markers for past events. We like
our 5s and 10s and a 25th or, egads, much less a 50th.
I concluded that unlike my first several overseas trips,
the Himalayas would happen solely by way of my own impetus. And I decided I
didn’t necessarily want to go to Nepal along with hundreds of other American
summer tourists.
In a stroke of serendipity, that month’s issue of The Atlantic had a small ad for a
company called SnowLion, listing treks in Nepal, Tibet, Bhutan, and Ladakh.
Ladakh? Never heard of it. Turns out it’s an area referred to as “Little Tibet”
for the influx of refugees that fled the Chinese Communists when they invaded
Tibet.
Ladakh is an enclave in the modern Indian state of Jammu
and Kashmir, which is how I crossed paths with disaffected Kashmiris. The
region was and is politically sensitive because of India’s ongoing border
issues with Pakistan and China, and all 3 countries maintain a strong military
presence in those mountains. In fact, India did not begin pushing tourism in
Ladakh until the 1970s, and what reports I could find made it clear that I was
unlikely to be in the company of many Americans.
Regardless, by happenstance on the 4th of
July, 1994, I arrived in Leh, the capital city of the old Kingdom of
Ladakh—elevation, 11,000’. As it turned out, I met two Americans—a mother and
daughter—within 30 minutes of being in Leh. They were headed home that
afternoon. I wouldn’t speak to another American until my flight home from
Bangkok to L.A. two weeks later.
There’s more, of course, but that would be the rest of
the story.
