As It Happened

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 25^th anniversary thing that we do with markers for past events. We like our 5s and 10s and a 25^th or, egads, much less a 50^th.

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 4^th 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.