SONAMARG

The route from Srinagar to Sonamarg follows the course of the Sindh river. As you climb into the mountains the snowcaps begin to shine through. Even the most jaded of travellers is liable to be impressed by the fearfulness and majesty of the Himalayas.

The road itself is one of the world’s more dangerous, even if dangerous roads is something India specialises in. There’s a complex, coded pecking order. Large lorries and cows can do what they like. Dogs respond to horns. Humans have lesser rights, also some remain unaware of this, chatting in the middle of a suicide bend. Weddings and cricket have special dispensation. In the middle ground, motorbikes, jeeps, buses, rickshaws, tuk tuks, tractors and cars fight it out with hair raising intensity. The authorities have erected signs with helpful information along the way: ‘Life is a journey. Complete it.’; ‘Don’t be rash or else/You will crash’; and lastly, with a poetic simplicity that gives an old cliché more weight than it normally carries: ‘Better Late/ Than Never.’

The road was until recently shelled by Pakistan on a regular basis. The number of soldiers and military installations along the route gives the impression of being in an occupied territory. Our driver, John, said that the government still claimed there was ongoing terrorist activity in the mountains. Whilst he was critical of the Indian government, he had no sympathy for Pakistan either, suggesting its activity in Kashmir only served to cause more trouble.

Sonamarg itself is a small village, 3500 metres high. We were invited into a bare home, moved from one room to another, with green walls, no furniture, and thick blankets for warmth, beneath which was placed the ubiquitous Kashmiri earthenware charcoal pot. A distinguished looking man unhurriedly prepared Kashmiri tea, and then started taking underwater gulps from his hash pipe. When I asked him about it he smiled, mischievously and said it was very strong. When we left, John the driver stayed behind, and on the way back his even more erratic driving and edginess gave the impression that he’d made the most of the time to sample the mountain fare himself.

Another guide took us on a short trek up a pass. The mountains are a hive of activity, with localpeople foraging for wood, and chopping it up. We passed gypsy huts, left deserted for the Winter, low, flat sheds which seemed incredibly dark and unwelcoming on the inside. At one point a lone tourist descended from higher up on horseback, lead by a local guide. Our own guide instantly and dismissively labelled him as a ‘buffalo tourist’; the type who rides a horse through the mountains rather than walking, and thinks he’s indulging in the real thing.

I had momentary, shadowy fears of being kidnapped by a group of AK 47 wielding warriors, who’d spirit us deep into the mountains, beyond the range of satellites or drones. However, the friendly smiles of the locals as we made our way back through the village belied any fears. The greatest danger we faced was the road back ahead of us.At the furthest edge of our trek, it crossed my mind that this is Osama country, part of the vast range which stretches from Afghanistan to China, within which Bin Laden is supposedly hiding out. The futility of trying to police this vast region are quickly apparent. One hour away from the main road and you’re already immersed in one of the most forbidding wildernesses left on the planet.