There is something very unnerving about waiting at a checkpoint bristling with soldiers.
We were piled into a four-wheel drive on our way up to Sonnamarg. Sonnamarg is a resort town in Kashmir. When I say it is a resort town, I mean it is an Indian-style one. It has a main street with a number of shops, some hotels, a taxi-stand, a pony-stand, and a couple of barracks for the Indian Army. If you thought the wild west was a thing of the past, think again. It’s just moved to Kashmir.
Getting to Sonnamarg takes four hours of windy roads through mountain passes, often behind, or sandwiched between convoys of trucks full of troops with their loaded assault rifles pointed casually at our windscreen. Every so often we pass through roadblocks. They are often attached to military barracks and we are stopped and checked for security reasons.
Hostile eyes under berets peer into the vehicle. They see a group of belligerent Kashmiris and a Western tourist. They wave us on. One soldier even says that they are here for our protection. I wonder who is meant to protect us from them.
Wadud, the poncho-clad older brother of Haaziz is clearly the boss. “Don’t speak to the soldiers. They will come to your camp. Ignore them. Go inside the tent if you see them.”
“They are fuckers!” Haaziz chimes in.
Kareem the chef senses my disquiet. “They just come around in groups and talk shit. Once they come it takes forever to get rid of them. Then you have to give them tea. I’m not making tea for twenty soldiers.”
“Will they search our tents?” I ask.
“Oh no”, says Wadud. “They will just come around because they are curious. . .”
“Of me?”
“. . .yes. They will stare and say things. . .” says Wadud with obvious distaste.
“Don’t worry. I’m used to people staring at me.” I say as I nuzzle into Tariq's shoulder to have a nap.
Later I awake to see Gurkhas perched on hills. They have distinctive helmets modelled on asiatic turbans. Every inch of them is camoflauged, and some even have tufts of vegetation poking out of their headgear. It reminds me of Dad’s Army, and would be funny, until I remember that the Gurkhas have a reputation of being one of the world’s most feared fighting force.
This military buildup is the result of the Kargil war which was fought in 1999 between India and Pakistan. Pakistani troops and Kashmiri militants from the Pakistani administered areas of Kashmir crossed the Line of Control into Indian administered territory. India’s superior airforce and army eventually pushed the Pakistanis back over the Line of Control. The very road I was traveling on now, National Highway Number One was a supply line for the Indians and a vantage point for the Pakistanis to defend their positions. The rest of the world waited nervously for hostilities to cease, fearing that the two old enemies would nuke each other.
The Indian battalions have stayed there ever since. Now their job is to stop militants crossing the border and to ensure the safety of Indian tourists.
There are reports that they are far more busy up there taking bribes and operating a black market trade in contraband. Women have been reporting harassment and rapes and men have been tortured and killed.
The next morning I am en-route to the toilet, which is a large boulder that hides my derriere from the prying eyes of endless pony riding pilgrims. I espy a snaking company of soldiers working their way down the valley to our tent site. I crouch down and wait for them to pass as I don’t fancy an audience for my ablutions.
They congregate around the tent. I consider not going back to the tent until they leave, but then it occurs to me that they won’t leave until I go back. They have already spotted me as I emerge from the boulder.
As I approach the campsite a Sergeant approaches and introduces himself to me. I give him and his troops Namastes and he quizzes me on how long I am staying. He is trying to make conversation rather than being nosey. The troops gather around. There are faces belonging to regions all over the sub-continent. A Nepali gurkha flashes me a big grin. A giant be-turbanned Sikh shyly glances away. Some of the men talk amongst themselves making jokes. Others lay around on rocks smoking. Suddenly the Sergeant gathers them all up and amid much shouting and slinging of rifles they depart.
“They weren’t so bad”, I observe.
Kareem stretches out in the tent to commence his morning nap. “No they weren’t. Thank God I didn’t have to make them tea.”
Copyright Leah Cornish-Ward 2008
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