This shows the front cover of the book. The picture illustrates sunset on Lake Nagin in Kashmir. The real purpose of our journey was to visit a place called Chamba where our father had spent some leave in 1944 whilst he was seconded to the Xth Baloch Regiment of the then Indian Army.
As a graduate of Edinburgh School of Art he was able to keep up an illustrated correspondence with my mother who worked as a children's nurse outside Edinburgh. He would also compile complete albums which he would have bound and sent back to Scotland. One such album was Chamba, where unfortunately he also went down with malaria. We were determined to get to the remote town in the foothills of the Hymalayas and attempt to photo8graph the exact scenes that he had sketched 55 years earlier. Here is the dedication on the front of the album.
Friday 7th August
Set off from Spalding, heading for Cockfosters on the Northern Line courtesy of a lift with my son,Thomas. We board the tube at 5.25 and arrived at Heathrow at 7pm. We are staying overnight at the Quality Hotel which runs a shuttle minibus service to and from the airport. For £27 a head, it is nice and clean and good value for money.
Jonty planning a hotel out of the essential Lonely Planet
Saturday 8th August
Awoke 7.30. England bowled the South Africans out! Coffee, shortbread and shower. Down to catch our minibus at 9.00, arrive Heathrow at 9.20 and join the check-in queue. That takes an hour so we head for the departure lounge for a last English pint.
Board flight GF004, excellent seats, last two by the window with adjoining toilets and emergency exit. All eventualities covered.
Really good catering, g and t aperitifs, tuna salad starter, lamb casserole, Danish pastry, cheese and biscuits, fresh fruit, coffee and a brandy with a beer to wash it all down. Then we discovered there was free beer on demand.
Out of the round window we can see the Northern tip of Turkish Cyprus
East coast of the Mediterranean looking down on Lebanon, south of Beirut
We landed at Muscat Airport at 10.30pmo giving us a few hours in the capital of Oman. I changed £5 into Omani Rials and received 3 of them in exchange, (2024 exchange rate 1 Rial = £2).
Duty free shop in Muscat. Plenty of gold
on sale.
Sunday 9th August
Eventually took off at 1.30 am as we waited for passengers delayed on an interconnecting flight. Flight GF0130 offered us more food and drinks and our first brush with Indian bureaucracy filling in our customs forms.
Above you can see dawn over Delhi. We landed at 6.00am and cleared immigration by 7.00. Now you don't expect your luggage to be the first on the belt but when it is second last the panic has certainly set in but the relief is immense.
The next problem is to find some accommodation so we try to phone some places reccomended by the Lonely Planet. No success, but we get accosted by the inevitable taxi driver who knows (of course) a far better hotel at our price of 600 rupees with A/C and the taxi ride would be 100 r. (100 rupees =£1). The district he takes us to is getting more and more dodgy, the price is rising and quality sinking. After much insistence we get an A/C room for Rs 700. It will do for today but we'll get back on the Lonely Planet trail tomorrow. After a few hours sleep at the Hotel Le Sancy we Awoke to watch the 4th day of England v South Africa cricket test on the satellite TV.
Monday 10 August
I book us into the Palace Heights Hotel and meet a guy in the lobby who offers me a lift to Connaught Place and can find us a better hotel with fridge for Rs 500. He is right and we move again to the Hotel Shaleen. See below and note the TV and fridge
I then spend the next 3 hours with him.
It transpires he owns a travel agency business (surprise, surprise) and I end up booking a rather questionable deal for the next week. Read the details in the diary supplementary later. I get back to Jonty in the late afternoon and we take a taxi to the Red Fort and Gandhi shrine. Traffic hustle, smells, and colours unbelievable, especially in old Delhi. The Red Fort in a quiet moment.
It transpires he owns a travel agency business (surprise, surprise) and I end up booking a rather questionable deal for the next week. Read the details in the diary supplementary later. I get back to Jonty in the late afternoon and we take a taxi to the Red Fort and Gandhi shrine. Traffic hustle, smells, and colours unbelievable, especially in old Delhi. The Red Fort in a quiet moment.
Next back to the Hotel Shaleen for a meal. England win the series against South Africans. There are adverts from the sponsors between every over. Remind me to buy "itchguard" and toilet paper from "Hind Industries"! We have to pack, for tomorrow we fly to Srinagar in the Kashmir Valley. Kashmir has been off the tourist map for nearly 10 years now.
Journal supplementary Monday 10th August
My travel agent friend had, in fact got a recognised business with 3 offices. He was keen to sell me a package deal including flight to Srinagar, staying on a houseboat on Lake Nagin ("My brother owns the boats") and out come the pictures - they look great. He includes the use of a private chigera and boatman to explore the lake. The boat is, of course, full board. The meals being provided by from his brother's house nearby. In addition a day trip to the Moghul Gardens with lunch plus 2 days camping and trekking on horseback in the Himalayan foothills. All transport, gear and food provided. Lastly tickets to visit the remote Ley in Ladakh. The cost £160 per head of which £75 is the flight cost.
One snag is that Kashmir is a dry state. "No problem he says, we'll buy the beer here and you can take it with you ". "And you are very lucky my father's flying tomorrow so he can go with you". I go on a long taxi ride with him to buy the beer stash.
As you can imagine I am extremely suspicious. Every Indian I meet has a brother/uncle/father who can help in some way. It's never, ever, true. This is a really good deal if I can trust this guy, moreover it's really the only way I will get Jonty round the country. The scope for scam, death, arrest or hostage taking is immense. I decided to try to minimise the risk.
1 Pay for the flights only with the credit card so we have some comeback.
2 Agree to pay the balance at the end of the trip.
3 I will keep father Noor's ticket until we meet up at the airport.
Noor senior mutters we must trust each other and looks at me with his dark Kashmir eyes. However I stick to my guns. He agrees, we shake. They will collect us at 7.30 next morning.
Now I just have to try and explain to Jonty what I have done.
I return to the Hotel to report to Jonty. He looks up Kashmir in both the guide books we are carrying. One doesn't include Kashmir at all, the other gives him a serious case of the willies. Meanwhile I have bought and left with our Muslim friends 24 x 66cl bottles of Kingfisher beer and 24 x 66cl cans of an even more potent brew - all to be carted openly into Kashmir tomorrow morning!
Jonty is seriously worried about security so I phone the duty officer at the British Consulate to ask for advice and tell him who I am and what I intend to do, with whom. Somewhat disconcertingly his advice to us was "well you could be run over crossing the road " This was possibly the least helpful advice official advice l have ever been given.
I don't sleep that night with every possible scenario of disaster going through my head. I must be mad.
Tuesday 11 August
I woke Jonty at 7.00, we pack. At 7.30 the phone rings in the bedroom. Noor taxi for Mr Duce. We go down stairs and load the taxi. The beer bottles are all boxed up and the cans in a sack. There was father Noor and driver so off we go to the airport. I gave him his ticket and we checked all the luggage in but carried the two boxes of beer as hand luggage.
We, took off for the one hour flight to Jammu. Internal flights in India have very strict security, you have to re-indentify your luggage as it is loaded. And as people left the plane at dawn we had to re-indentify again to check that nothing was left. Landing at Jammu is quite hairy at the best of times. There is a steep bank in and a narrow gap between the houses. We get within 25 feet off the ground when the plane roared up again. "Birds on the landing strip" explained the pilot over the intercom. The next attempt went smoothly. After a half hour security check and boarding of more passengers (including a 2 star Army general heading for Ladakh in response to the 30 people that were killed yesterday). It transpires that Srinagar airstrip is closed for repairs and we have to land at the the military strip amongst very heavy security. As you leave a plane, the cabin staff always say "thank you for flying with us ". They did but as I stepped out she whispered in my ear "Be careful ". Maybe it was the 24 bottles of beer I was carrying. We met up with our transport, a very beaten up old Ambassador with driver and another member of the family. The 25 kms journey to Lake Nagin was hair-raising in the extreme. The Punjabi lorry drivers with their highly decorated Tata lorries (reminiscent of gypsy or fairground art), whose overtaking technique is to hit the horn and go, irrespective of what is on the road ahead. That continued with Army convoys, packed buses, ox carts, rickshaws, not forgetting the cows wandering or lying in the road. One problem is that the railway doesn't get up here so everything is overland on totally unsuitable roads
We arrive at the houseboat. A splendid example of slightly faded glory. It is very decorative and commanding. It is all built out of cedar so the whole place has a deliberate aromatic reek. It has 6 bedrooms so is designed for 12 people. Plenty of space for the two of us. What an idyllic situation and superb climate after Delhi.
Jonty enjoying the sunshine on the landing stage.
The porch is ideal for catching a few rays whilst reading (or sleeping). So have a look inside which is very sumptuous. Rather a poor quality photo, I am afraid
The next room up the boat after the lounge is the dining room. Very fully equipped. There is a full Staffordshire dinner service in the dresser.
We have the choice of six bedrooms each equipped with a dressing room and en suite toilet and shower. Shot from inside the dressing room and I'm afraid not very good focus
.
We've got a decent wide double bed each. Looking from the head head back up the boat you can see the dressing room which contains the toilet and showering facilities. Note the sumptuous carving on the wall panels.
Back to the lounge where there is also a desk to work at. This picture is somewhat out of sequence as the more observant of you might notice. Why am I dressed in local clothes and isn't that a bottle of Export Gordons on the desk? I will explain later. With such busy days the only chance that I get to write this journal is late at night.
Wednesday 12 August
The day of the chigera.
A chigera is a narrow flat bottomed punt type of vessel with elegantly painted ends. Some are rowed by kneeling at the front and others by sitting cross legged at the stern. Many are used as working boats, carrying produce, travelling salesmen, people who pull up the water weed for animal fodder and the farmers who tend the floating gardens. Lastly you can be rowed around, lounging in a padded double seat and just watch the world slide past. You can see all of these options in the photos that follow.
A delightful shot of the evening reflections on Lake Nagin showing a chigera in silhouette
They had clearly suffered over the last eight years but were being optimistically rebuilt with the hope of better things to come. The work was all being done by hand, the carrying by baskets on the head. This way they could keep up a continuous supply of concrete.
Watching the world slide past.
This chap has just been harvesting a crop from his floating garden. I'm not sure what the vegetable is, some sort of marrow or squash.
Looking straight down Lake Nagin. There appears to be more sky in the lake than in the sky.
The edge of the lake close to our houseboat is devoted to a collection of other houseboats. Some have more pretentions than others. Quite a lot seem not to have been used for some time.
After the Mughal Gardens we rowed on to a carpet workshop, though it is still a cottage industry. They are woven at home and brought to this showroom looking for a buyer. They are magnificent, antiques of the future and well beyond our pockets. London firms like Harrods and Liberty's used to buy them up, but for the last eight years the buyers have been afraid to come.
We were rowed back to a small island where we moored up for lunch. I should explain our personal guide and helper in Kashmir, employed by the Noors was a fellow called Jabor. He had brought our lunch which was contained in those stacking billycans that you see all over the place. On the menu today was vegetable curry, meat curry and rice.
Then an idyllic passage back. We saw plenty of kingfishers, perched, flying with the dazzling blue, hovering like a humming bird, then plunging to fish. There is a huge variety of bird life from from the huge black Kites soaring like eagles to the tiny Moorhen style birds with their matchbox size chicks.
Back home and time to order tonight's food. Meet our cook.
This chap's proud boast is that he used to cook to the British Raj, that must make him at least nearly eighty at the youngest. His cooking was excellent and if you look carefully he has the Duce gap.
I said that I would come back to the gin later, so here it is. You cannot buy alcohol in a dry Muslim state, but there is always a way. People want to sell it and people want to buy it. When the chigera that is selling provisions comes to call at your landing stage, make a few discreet enquires. underneath the floorboards, in the bilges you will find bottles of spirits secreted. The tonic is much easier.
The boat is serviced by a number of travelling tradesmen. A tailor, from whom I commissioned a local cotton suit, Rs1000 about £10, meanwhile Jonty went for a new pair of trousers, Rs500. Next the dhobi wallah arrived with our washing that had been beautifully washed and ironed. I've never had creases in my boxer shorts before! We asked Jabor to exchange some money for us and gave him £100. He returned with Rs10,000. Unfortunately it consisted of Rs100 notes, one hundred of them.
The evening view from our porch.
Dinner then evening recreation. A wonderful day.
Thursday 13 August
Today was billed as Gulmarg. It was an add on to the planned programme and to be frank I was not sure what to expect. Jabor explained it was a highland plateau with various things to do. Put the boots on. As we were leaving at 8.30 he said "You ought to put some long trousers on as it might rain". I think I know what he really meant, Muslim modesty and all that.
Firstly we had to drive through old Srinagar, which was very busy blow horn and more like an Indian village x 2000. We then drove on several kilometres along a flat road with fields lining each side, quite like the fens really. They grow high value crops here, asparagus and saffron, the most expensive spice in the world. Saffron is the dried stamen on the saffron crocus, perhaps we should try growing it in Spalding. Then we start to climb and our "Ambassador Special Taxi", circa 1960 began to struggle more than usual. First stop, put more oil in. Second stop, flat tyre, change the wheel. Third stop boiling radiator, add water from the nearby stream. Next stop was to make a primitive repair to the burst tyre and pick up the mountain guide. All the way along the road there are naïve posters extoling people to, either not become a terrorist, or only have one child. I'm not sure what happens to terrorists who have lots of kids.
The Indian text on this poster reads "Just think"
This is an charming example of the Indian morally improving doggerel that you see all over the place.
We finally arrive at Gulmarg which means meadow of flowers. It is a huge grassy plateau at 10,000 ft. This was "discovered" by the Brits (of course) who built the golf course. The highest 18 hole golf course in the world and was the centre of the fledgling Indian skiing industry. This still functions in winter with both downhill and cross country (over the golf course. There is surely scope for development when things get better.
There is still some local interest, but I'm not sure many golf courses would be happy with the dress code.
The golf course at Gulmarg, the highest in the world. The chap in the foreground is our local guide. Just above his right shoulder (as you look at it) you can see one of the greens. The building above his head is the old English church. It must be a problem in the best of times to maintain the course but with the current state of the tourist industry, it is pretty well ignored.
Time for a pony trek. We ignore the first sellers of trekking ponies, because if you walk the first kilometre the price drops by half.
Jonty and I mount up. Frankly Jonty is very nervous and wants to say no, but he preservers and manages the first pitch which he describes as a white knuckle ride. However with help and increasing confidence he really begins to enjoy himself. I have not ridden much, but as the pony walks this is not too challenging. After all, the nags know where they are going. The trail is quite precipitous, diving down over streams then up 1 in 3 gradients. We reach the end of the tree line, about 12,000 ft, as high as I have ever been in the Alps and heck, getting on for half way up Everest. Next the decent, much the same only don't look down, lean back and thrust your feet forward. Somewhat to my surprise (and I think his) Jonty is really thrilled with the whole experience. "Best day I've had in years". I'm sure that it has helped his confidence.
Back to the car park for a late lunch and then the lurching taxi ride back. Much to my surprise, the vehicle made it but the driver nearly wore out the horn.
Home again to the houseboat and a gin and tonic (you have to write these words quietly in these parts). Plenty of welcome and unwelcome visitors. Of the former my tailor arrives with my Kashmiri suit. Wonderful. I have not taken it off since. All the locals approve "The Maharajah in his Palace", but I do wish they would stop referring to the top as a dress. Also the dhobi wallah again. We had a traditional Kashmiri dinner with several courses including mutton in yoghurt, followed by stewed local prunes in syrup. Early night as we gird up our loins for the big trek.
FRIDAY 14 AUGUST
We wake up brightish early for the trek. We are taking the famous special taxi from Srinagar to Sonamarg which is about 90 kms up the "road" to Leh. The vehicle is heavily laden with two old style ridge tents, a bundle of bedding about 4 ft long, 5 ft circumference. The boot is full of 2 spare tyres and all the cooking equipment.
Off we charge about 9 am. Friday is, of course the Holy day for the Muslims, so the Buddhists clean up the trade today. We stop at the vegetable market and buy a variety of produce, including stuff for friends who live further up the valley. We proceed slowly upwards passing through numerous Army checkpoints. After all we are very close to the Pakistan border. The further we go, the more third world things become. Women in Burkas and most of the men look like black robed, bearded, very dark faced terrorists. In fact when we talk with a number, their faces crack into a white toothed smile, and they look very different. We stop to buy meat at Kangan and Jabor obtains about two kilo kilograms of tobacco, again for friends up the valley. Below you can see the laden taxi at Kangan.
We move on and the going gets much more severe. One army check point puts the sniffer dog through the car. The road is frequently unmetalled, just rocks with huge ruts where the steam washes the surface away. The Ambassador is struggling, boiling every few miles, but you can only tell because it loses all power and comes to a standstill. Always the same procedure, rocks behind the tyres, rad cap off, steam everywhere, then water straight from the river into the rad. We start off again only to repeat the operation all over again 4 to 4 miles later. The driver mutters something about the oil pump, but you mustn't forget that the Ambassador is "the strongest car in India"
Above, the strongest car in India
Eventually we arrive at Sonamarg 3740 metres high. We looked for the horseman who the village people said was up the top. He wasn't, so Jabor walked back to the village to find him On his return we drive off the "road" and up towards the glacier to find Jabor's camping spot. The area is really quite populated with gypsies and shepherds who live in huts or makeshift tents with their families. I wouldn't have believed that that so many people live at this altitude in such primitive conditions. Jabor and the driver plus the horseman, who has now arrived, set up camp and make an excellent lunch.
Our horses arrive with a friendly little local and a lad. We mount up (complete with ponchos) and start the trek up to the glacier up at around 5000 metres We both cope well with the nags, who know exactly where they are going. All the way up the views were spectacular. Pure white mountain tops contrasting with bright blue skies and billowing clouds. On the way down, after we have re-entered the tree line, Jabor and the horse guides collect fallen wood for our evening campfire. Jonty and I sit down for a well earned beer, which we had the foresight to bring with us, meanwhile the others light the fire and cook the meal. We are truly wild camping, so there are no facilities except the stream. No toilets or toilet paper so needs must.
A very convivial night around the campfire and another couple of cans of beer see us ready for bed. Jonty and I sleep in the sahib's tent. Whilst the others shared the kitchen tent.
Inside the cooking and staff sleeping tent. Notice the padding for insulation inside the tent. The people are our driver, examining the beer and the little pony man.
A final shot of the snout of the glacier that we trekked up to. I took this earlier in the day on the way up.
Saturday 15 August Independence Day
The much awaited 15th, fifty years ago to the day India gained Independence. (Actually I got my maths wrong, it was fifty one). Rightly in India they call it Freedom Day. They had, after all been fighting for it, off and on for the last 350 years. This was what all the security was about yesterday. Various militant groups had promised trouble. At the end of the day it was very quiet because it was a national holiday and all the Kashmiris were on strike anyway. Whatever, 8am breakfast, Kashmiri tea, bread, butter and honey, much as usual. The weather was rolling cloud with gaps revealing the huge peaks around us, 6000 metres and higher.
When the sun gets through it is very hot and burns easily, I get "poncho neck". We trek back towards Sonamarg and ride through the village. It is a summer village only. This felt like riding through a high altitude wild west village, except all the all the kids were gathered in the centre singing local songs accompanied by rhythmic hand clapping. Really very moving. I suppose it might have been the school assembly. In the photo above I tried to get the skyline and a flavour of the shops.
Apart from myself and the driver, you can see our whole group here as we take a break from the saddle. Left to right, Pony man's young assistant, Pony man. Jabor and Jonty.
Jonty is very saddle sore! We lunch then strike camp. The journey back, downhill, of course, was relatively uneventful. So back to the houseboat to a wonderful sunny evening. I have a long political discussion with Sahib Noor and we are interrupted by what sounded like gun fire. He consults another local and then reassures me that the army are letting off firecrackers in celebration. I must say I was a little doubtful and next day we read that four terrorists had been shot dead about half a mile away from our houseboat. I enjoyed a shower and then dinner Jabor and Ali join us for after dinner chat, then the electricity fails. We light a propane lantern under which light I have written up these last few days.
SUNDAY 16 AUGUST
Last full day at the houseboat. Main plan is rest. The electricity went off last night and was not back on until mid-morning. The rain had poured monsoon like through the night but the morning dawned bright. The fellah who does the wood carving arrived to collect us in his chigera to take us to visit his workshop. It took about three quarters of an hour through the Venice region of the old city. All the furniture which was carved walnut was too expensive and not really to my taste. Nevertheless he worked very hard at his selling. I was trying to work out a way of leaving, without buying anything when Jonty decided to buy a plain walnut box for Sue. Somewhat relieved I suggest that the kitty should help out with the purchase. Back for lunch and a pleasant sit out on the balcony, in the hot afternoon sun.
Later Mr Noor (Mr Shining) comes to take us on a guided tour to the city in his car. Very interesting, he takes us down the equivalent of the Falls Road, Belfast, only here it is where the Pakistani extremists live. We visit the main Mosque On arriving Mr Noor explains to the doorkeeper/shoe attendant that Jonty is very "Veek". So the man offers to pray to Allah to cure him. Personally I think that Allah might be Jonty's best bet! The picture below shows Jonty and Mr Noor with the Dal Lake in the background.
The two brothers taken by Mr Noor.
A panorama of Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir.
Back to the houseboat and we finish the beer before dinner. All the settling up needs doing and I arrange for further transport on from Jammu to Dalhousie by jeep for an extra £30 per head. This is much to Jonty's relief who seems very keen to leave J and K. We need to be up at 4.30 am to catch the 6 am jeep to Jammu. I complete the immersive visitors book for the Houseboat Kansor. Incidentally I pay off the dhobi wallah tonight and he says "when you come back again will you bring me a tee shirt?" i.e. he would like one now. I explain we have none with us, he has, after all seen all our washing. We pay off the other staff Rs300 for cook and 100 for his commis and then dear Jabor £20. This should pay for his son's education for 3 months. Then he asks "have you got a tee shirt?" No, but I take his home address from his identity card (He is illiterate, nonetheless wise in his way), and promise to send him a couple of Coupe du Monde tops (Football World Cup in Paris), when we get back. He goes away delighted.
MONDAY 16 AUGUST
Up at 5 am, ablutions and breakfast, then leave at 5.40 to catch the "6 am Sumo. We were the first passengers there..... for some time. The Sumo can't leave because the others have already paid. So we wait, meanwhile the market place begins to awaken and the place is becoming increasingly busy. Finally at 7.30 everyone arrives and we are ready to depart.
A Sumo is an Indian copy of the Land Rover made by TATA (who make all the buses and lorries) . It seats nine people plus the driver. Two in the front bench seat Jonty and me. Then three across the back seats, then two and two facing each other in what would be the luggage compartment. All the luggage goes on the large roof rack.
The journey to Jammu used to take two days, but since the Jawahar tunnel opened in 1956 it has been reduced to 12 hours. To quote the guide book," During the winter months Srinagar was completely cut off from the rest of India until this tunnel was completed. The 2.8 kms tunnel is 200 kms from Jammu and93 from Srinagar. It has two separate passageways and is extremely rough and damp inside." It didn't disappoint.
The mountainous road varies from bad to appalling, to no road at all. The area is prone to "land slips" and "shooting stones". Frequently half or more of the road had slipped away 1000 ft. to the valley bottom. At one point we only got through after a bulldozer gouged a new route past a slip whilst we waited.
The view down to the valley bottom. It is hard to perceive the distance, but it is about 1000 ft below.
This is typical of a TATA Punjabi lorry. We were stuck behind it at a road slip. Note all the attachments, cans and bells dangling from chains etc. I really took this because of the enigmatic artwork and eccentric spelling.
That bulldozer I referred to was one of the very few pieces of heavy equipment that we saw, nearly all the work was being done by hand. The views were spectacular, if very hair-raising. Our Sumo which was considered as soft travel was the fastest vehicle on the road but at times we scarcely averaged 20 km/hour. The journey was 288 kms and it took 8 hours to complete, average speed 36 km/hour. Try driving at 36 kms/hour! Largely through Jonty's insistence we decided to book the Sumo on to Dalhousie via Pathankot (cost £35 each). We thought we had a solo ride, but no, down they went to the bus station to recruit some passengers for Pathankot.
I looked over a wall and said to Jonty "Oh look a scrapyard for buses!". It was, in fact Jammu bus station. See below.
When we arrived at Pathankot, we were handed over to a local taxi firm for the final leg to Dalhousie. Not really what we were expecting and, I think a bit of a rip off. First the taxi (an Indian Suzuki van with windows) filled up with fuel, then had a flat tyre repaired. So after a wait of about half an hour, we were off again. But not on the Dalhousie road, we turned off left and headed up country. I tried to explain that we wanted to go to Dalhousie, but with no response from the driver or his mate, other than a smile. In some desperation I tried Anglo Saxon "Where the fuck are we?" That gained another smile. As time went on we became more and more alarmed. The road was very rural with virtually no traffic. At least by the setting sun we appeared to be heading north which was right. It was a bizarre and quite frightening trip. We passed through a major HEP Dam project on totally unmade roads and through (now in the dark) shanty villages in the middle of the forest. At one police checkpoint tried to ask the officer if this was the road to Dalhousie, but he didn't understand. I was trying to estimate time, distance and speed to calculate where the hell we were. Eventually we spotted an advert in English for a Dalhousie Hotel (all the other information was in Urdu script). We stopped in an isolated village where we were offered panni's. I walked back 40 ms to an "English wine shop" where I spotted and bought 4 cold beers. This cheered up Jonty no end. The distance from Pathankot to Dalhousie is 88 kms by the quickest road and should take about two and a half hours.
If you have ever tried to get to a high level skiing resort in the dark, then you can share our experience. The destination seems round every corner, then you see lights another 500 ft up and that must be it,.....but .of course, it isn't. You go up and up with many false dawns. When you are really convinced that next cluster of lights is the place, another 1000 ft. mountain looms in the dark, At long last we reach the very top and have arrived in Dalhousie. My selected hotel is closed, so in some desperation we look for another. At about 10.15 pm we book into the Hotel Shangrila at Rs 1100 for a twin (35% off because it is the off season). We are just grateful for a bed after 18 hours of continuous and arduous travelling. We order sandwiches and beer and crash out.
TUESDAY 18 AUGUST
As we arrived after dark last night, we were not sure what was outside the window. This place was obviously built for the climate and the views. I was woken in the night by heavy rain which has frequently occurred, but in the morning I rush to the window the see the famous views. All I saw was cloud. This was largely to be the story of our Dalhousie visit. The occasional lifting cloud gave us an inkling of what things might of been. Here is some of the view from our hotel balcony.
We spent the day walking round the "town" but this is not really an apt description. There are many large old houses stacked one above another around the steep hills. There are three main areas, Gandhi Chowk, which used to be called GPO Square. This is the highest of the three and is at the end of The Mall, a level road carved round the hillside. The second centre is the Subhash Chowk, the other end of the Mall and finally the Bus Station Square. At this latter we visited The Dalhousie Army Officers Club. It has a bar and games room which is full of silver trophies from the Raj era. The whole place is rather like a time capsule. We negotiated a taxi to take us to Chamba in the morning, it is just over 40 kms, so shouldn't take longer than two hours. In evening was spent in the hotel room allowing me to catch up with this writing. There was only one event of note. Jonty shouted me out of the loo as a large creature had crawled under the door and evaded his attempts to exterminate it. When I encountered it, it was sitting on the tongue of his boot. It was about 4 cm wide and about 10 cm long. In fact it reminded me of one of Andrew Oldham's hissing cockroaches. Maybe it was one. I gathered it up in my shirt and liberated it, much to it's reluctance, over the balcony. A clearer view down the valley is shown below. You can see why these places were called "hill stations".
There was a huge population of monkeys at Dalhousie who could be aptly described as a nuisance of monkeys.
WEDNESDAY 19 AUGUST
We took our taxi to Chamba at 11.00 am and followed the lower winter road round through some spectacular scenery. When Father travelled from Dalhousie to Chamba in 1944 he took the route over the top and travelled by pony. The river that flows through Chamba is the Ravi. It has been dammed a few miles below the town so a large lake has formed for the production of HEP. See the project below.
Upstream from the dam looking towards Chamba.
I directed the taxi to the Hotel Iravati to check out our chances of a room. They showed my a large room with a generous space given over to both sitting and sleeping. It boasted a satellite TV and an inner and outer balcony. Definitely better than the last hotel. The charge was Rs450 a night, but as it is the low season we could have it for Rs250 (about £1.25 each per night). This will do for our stay in Chamba. It has a restaurant but no bar.
Having booked in we begin to explore the town, armed with father's sketch book and the camera. The first sketch of the Palace from across the grassy park known as the "Chaugan" is easy to spot. We even get the tree in the foreground. The Chaugan was originally the Maharajah's polo ground.
As soon as I start lining up the sketch and get my camera out, people start to gather and look over my shoulder at the sketchbook. Shades of things to come.
Below, typical interest in the sketchbook, I have produced an in depth account of the whole Chamba experience, so for more detail please consult this. (You can find it as a blog at nigelduce.blogspot.com)
The next picture I try to photograph is the old bazaar with the temples in the background. A crowd again developed .I have to go through the whole book with a very appreciative audience, who draw more and more folk in.
Next easy view to find is the road up to the old temple.
I meet a young dentist who also has a shop on the road and wants to see the book. He shows me where the valley view is for the path to Dalhousie. He also pointed out some old temple buildings that appear in several drawings. I start to realise that the drawings are not one offs, but a series of clusters of drawings that were either in very close proximity, or even link one to the other. Meanwhile Jonty meets a young travel agent who is also very keen and we will meet again. The next visit is to the town museum, called Bhuri Singh Museum after the Maharajah who commissioned it in the 1920s although the building itself was not completed until 1984. Both Jonty and I felt the design of exterior and interior fittings are influenced by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. I ask to speak to the Curator and we are directed to the top floor, where his office is located.
We encounter him with another gent about the same age, mid fifties. I introduce ourselves and explain about the book. He immediately showed great interest and he and his mate start postulating on the various locations. He enquires about the original drawings, where are they? Who owns them? He concludes that the book ought to be in the museum. He will give me a receipt! I can write to the State Museum boss for Himachal Pradesh for a receipt to prove that he is not keeping it for himself. He wants this book badly! The meeting lasts for two hours. He has done 20 minutes overtime and the museum cannot close at the usual time, though the armed soldier, complete with bayonet now stands in the doorway rather than at the gate.
We arrange to meet the Curator at 10.30 tomorrow morning when he will show us where all these drawings were done. He reckons he can locate all except four or five but will need help from other people.
What an excellent day. Jonty and I discovered the Olive Green Restaurant on the way back. The first place that actually has a bar since we have been in India.
We return to the hotel in good spirits to toast Father. We agreed he would definitely be smiling tonight.
I go to bed with eager anticipation of tomorrow which ought to prove to be the climax of the mission. The real reason that I undertook this entire journey.
THURSDAY 20 AUGUST
The focus of the entire holiday. We wake up, breakfast in the hotel and walk along the Chaugan to the museum for 10.30. The Curator is not there so we walk around the museum until he arrives about 10.50 (cushy job this). He is to devote the entire day to us and our search which has now clearly become his search as well.
He explains that the drawings have done in two separate areas of the town. One group to the left of the Palace in the oldest part of the town and the other to the right of the Palace as you look from the Chaugan. The morning will be devoted to finding the sights in the old town. Firstly we go down a lane behind the hospital. "I'm sure that this was where this sketch was done". I was a little sceptical, then gradually it all falls into place. This was exactly where the sketch was done from. There is no doubt. There are further clues in the text, "The Dak bungalow I am staying at is off to the right at the top of this lane (GRD)". That we will find later. Below is the hospital where Father was almost certainly admitted when his malaria broke out.
We walked uphill to the next site. The Curator is spot on. I photograph the lane leading down towards the temple complex (not in view). Then Father's favourite, the only one that he signed, dated and identified. He had it framed in Edinburgh after he came back home. (Incidentally this was the only picture he took out of any sketchbook, apart from one of Abdul, his bearer). Ironically, he gave me the picture nearly 25 years ago. It links in with the previous sketch and was obviously done immediately after it. Compare the light source. Next we walked up the hill to another alley and here again we had the exact view. This process has taken at least two hours as every time we stop a crowd gathers who want to look at the entire album and all have opinions about the whereabouts of the views. Those people are largely older, though there are some youngsters. We get comments like "This is a very noble cause", "You do your father great respect", "You are following a fine mission".
Jonty and I really start to feel this is true. A mission and a treasure hunt. We keep finding the treasure that has been buried for 50+ years. The feeling of standing exactly where he stood, often leaning on a pillar, probably standing on one leg is both very moving and quite uncanny.
We break for lunch and arrange to meet up at the museum at 2.30. As it happened the Curator found us at 1.45 and was keen to introduce us to an old friend of his who will accompany us on the afternoon treasure hunt.
During lunch we visit the Hindu temple complex.
As we walk across town, he tells me this book is now famous in Chamba. Many people are talking about it. Many people would offer a lot of money for it. I explain that I think it should belong to the people of Chamba and should be kept in the museum. He seems delighted.
We meet with the friend, a distinguished looking academic type wia goatee beard and long white curly hair. We start with panni and chai in a local cafe and discuss the plan of action. There is much discussion (all afternoon) between the two in Urdu about what was what. As the afternoon unfolds we discovered the gems one by one. Firstly a sketch with a road joining a "main road" turned out to be right by the bus station. The building to the left of the drawing has been demolished to make way for the bus station, but there are the outbuildings of to Mr Slattery's residence. (The British Resident in 1944). Again the sketch is spot on. We then walk up the hill, for Father must have had a busy day that day. He completed two more drawings in quick succession. Incredibly, these views are still almost identical. It is a real credit to the accuracy of his draughtsmanship skills, every detail is still there to be seen fifty odd years on.
The next two sketches pose real problems and much debate. Both views seem easy to find, one looking up to the Palace and one of the old harem. Both of these landmarks are still plain to see, but Father's view is totally obscured by new development. We recognised and photograph some of the surviving structures, but failed to get the original perspective. We continued along the lane and the Curator says "This building is in the sketch". He is right again, though everything else has changed.
Without the help of many locals, we could not possibly have located many of these sights. As it is we have found to date, all except the Dak bungalow garden view and one other sketch in which all the buildings may now have disappeared. We arrange to meet again next day to complete the job if possible, but first we go to the Curator's sister's house for panni and chai and of course to pour over the book again.
Jonty and I go back to the Hotel via the Ravi View Cafe, which serves powerful, strong cold beer ("Thunderbolt"!). What a wonderful day and a real climax to the holiday/mission. Jonty suggests we should ask the Curator to write to Mum acknowledging the album from her late husband, thanking her for it and explaining that it will now become the property of the citizens of Chamba for posterity. I draft out a letter to this effect, and also note the style influence of Charles Rennie Mackintosh in his museum's design.
And so to bed, money is getting a bit thin so we invest in a bottle of Indian gin for Rs200. Not bad with plenty of Limca (a sort of bitter lemon).
FRIDAY 21 AUGUST
We have quite a busy day planned. We have to meet the Curator at 12.45, also have the chappals made up from the previously collected feet sizes. Moreover I have to plan our return to Delhi, preferably using a narrow gauge "toy train" and visiting other hill stations. I will consult our travel agent friend (who is desperate to a photocopy of one of the sketches that include his shop.)
Below is an overview of Chamba looking down on the Chaugan from the Hindu Temple on the hill. Incidentally this view coincides with Father's sketch looking down the valley.
After breakfast in the Ravi View cafe, tea and toast, we make our way back to the museum. The Curator welcomes us with open arms and we have a long chat over panni and chai. It transpires he is obsessed with sexual behaviour. He wants to know all about the procedures with western prostitutes. (I'm hardly an expert, but tell him what I know with some imaginative embellishments.). He is fascinated and tells me all about the Indian sexual trade. He wants to know all about my divorce. How can I manage with work and all the cooking, homemaking and washing. "This is women's work".I try to enlighten him about western attitudes, but I think the concept is too large for him to understand.
Now off we go to see the Dak bungalow sketch. It is now occupied by the former wife of the Maharajah. Apparently she is now an old lady aged about mid seventies although we don't meet her. Incidentally the Maharajah that Father referred to as "not yet of age", died on a train returning from Delhi to Pathankot after attending the wedding in 1971 of one of his sons. The cause was a massive heart attack. This is the train route we will be taking to return to Delhi.
We walk into the garden and again the view is just right. Trees have grown to conceal much of the views down the valley, but there is no doubt whatsoever that as I press the shutter under the veranda of the bungalow, this is exactly where Father did the sketch. I take some more pictures of the bungalow itself. This is a building Father never drew, but I feel a great affinity, realising this was his residence in 1944.
The Dak bungalow. Father did the drawing from the steps just in front of the double doors.
We still cannot trace the last sketch, but I am very happy with about 95%. We head back to the museum where we formally present the book with attendant photograph. I give him a suggested draft of the letter to Mum and we leave after suitable good byes and thanks.
Below shows Jonty, the Curator and me and records the presentation of the replica sketchbook.
Next on to the chappal (sandal) maker. We fixed up Sam OK from his shoe outline. I chose a similar style for Sarah, but he doesn't have one in stock to fit her foot size. No matter, he will make a pair which will be ready by Sunday morning. Unfortunately he will be shut then, but he will lodge them with the barber's shop next door. Now me,same problem, never mind, he will also make these in time for Sunday morning. Jonty managed to get a pair "off the shelf".
Now time for shopping and advice from the travel agent. Jonty gets quite an old cast of the Hindu god Ganesh (elephant head with human body). This god is the "opener of doors" and the bringer of prosperity. There is quite a story as to why he ended up with an elephant's head and what he seems to be holding in his left hand! Jonty is very pleased with the purchase. I buy some local pickles.
After talking with the travel agent, we decide to catch the Sunday evening bus to Shimla. Leaves at 5pm and arrives between 7-8 am the next day. No more "soft travel". We plan to overnight in Shimla and take the narrow gauge "toy train" to Kalka. A six hour ride but conditions in first class sound good. Probably overnight then in Kalka and bus or train back to Delhi for Wednesday night. Time is getting tight if we are to fit in Agra and then get to Delhi Airport for 6am Friday morning to say nothing of the White Horse, Spalding by 10pm Friday.
But time will tell.
SATURDAY 22 AUGUST
We allow ourselves a little lie in this morning as nothing is really pressing. Firstly a trip to the dhobi wallah who promises our clothes back by 6pm as they will be closed tomorrow, a public holiday. Next book our bus tickets from the bus station. It was computerised! We reserve two tickets for Shimla. The ticket price is Rs198 plus Rs4 seat reservation charge.
Very well worth it for the buses get extremely packed. We have just to plan our overnight case. The rest of the day is devoted to "tourist" type photos of Chamba. We walk up to the Hindu temple on the hill that overlooks the town. A hot and arduous climb. Jonty finds the going very demanding. Below the bells of the Hindu temple.
This town is a bit like Spalding in that you keep bumping into people that you have met. They are all interested in how the project is going. Back to the Ravi View cafe by mid afternoon for a beer and a break, then back to the Hotel. I have one last duty to perform, meet the Curator again to check if he has any news on the last picture. I meet him as he and the deputy finish work and we go to a restaurant for the usual panni and chai. We talk sex again! It's either culture, history, architecture or sex. This time we discuss President Clinton and his bombing of Afghanistan and Sudan and, of course his sexual peccadilloes. I mention that Clinton did not consider oral sex to be an adulterous act. "What is oral sex?" The deputy intervenes and explains "gobble gobble". The conversation goes on for for about an hour. It transpires that the Curator has a mission for me. He says that I am an important person with influence, especially with the connections with my Father. He wants me to write to the Prime Minister of India, the Chief Minister of Himachal Pradesh (state) and the District Commissioner of Chamba. This must be type written and properly laid out, preferably on important looking notepaper. Iam to complain about the state of Chamba town. He reels out a whole lot of grievances about which I am to complain. To be fair, he really loves the place as a local and thinks (sadly), the authorities will listen to me.
- His observations are as follows:
- the temples are being restored with inappropriate modem materials and paint
- the town is filthy with with garbage for which there is no system of collecting
- the Palace (now a government college) is going to wrack and ruin and the students
- are deserting it
- the old open drain system (ahead of its time when it was built in 1904) is now becoming a malodorous disgrace with sewage being fed into it
- the new sewage system has been installed underground, but the houses have not been connected to it. This should be compulsory
- although Chamba has been declared a Heritage Area, it should have Conservation Status to prevent the unauthorised and inappropriate development and encroachment on the open spaces. There is, for example no tradition of flat roofs in the town.
- the Chaugan, a really unique feature of the town, is being increasingly encroached by unplanned commercial development and, what ought to be an open grassy space has become in some parts a dust bowl
- the town of Chamba ought to be one of the jewels of the tourist crown of HP but it is deteriorating fast. Unless some action is taken soon, the whole charm and value of the place will be lost
- if my father were to return now and compare it with the Chamba of 1944, he would be a very disappointed man
- I entreat you to take the appropriate action and invest in the town. Such investment will surely pay dividends for the future.
And so to bed.
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