Gulmarg
Many of you are probably curious about the town of Gulmarg and my living conditions. Gulmarg is a cup-shaped plateau about 1 square mile in size. It sits at the base of the mountain, which towers 4,000 feet above. As the sun rises, the mountain face catches its rays and holds direct sunlight until around 3:00 pm when the sun is obscured by the main ridge. The town below is separated into three areas. My hotel is located right near the base of the gondola. There are maybe half a dozen hotel buildings somewhat nearby. “Town” is a fifteen-minute walk down the road covered in ice and crazy, honking cars that will run you off the road.
Ok, I need to vent a little about the drivers here… I’ll be walking on the side of the road with plenty of room for the car to pass. I’ll even make a very visual move to the side, as if to say to the driver, I see you coming, but I’ll keep walking. But no, the driver always insists on laying on the horn starting from a hundred yards away and continues to blast his horn (yes, his. Women don’t drive here at all) until he has passed by be. So now, when they honk I just wave really hard and jump up and down, smiling. This seems to confuse them a little. Good.
So in town there are another half-dozen seedy hotels scattered amidst some shops and restaurants that keep very loose hours. Most hotels have a restaurant underneath, and we’ve eaten at the majority of them so far. Buying alcohol here is a very interesting process. Being a predominantly Muslim nation, Kashmir looks down on alcohol like it were a deadly sin. It is rare to find places that sell alcohol, and I’ve been told they are a hot spot for terrorists to hit first. Gulmarg has had enough western influence that they have a little more encompassing views. So some man has started selling liquor out of the side of his house. The first time I went to buy some beer, it was at night. Wes and I walked behind some restaurants. The slick mud was starting to freeze and make a crust on the surface. Then we came across a three-foot wall that we had to jump off onto the ice below. There are no streetlights back here. This seemed like a place to buy a lot more than just some beer. A small, flickering light illuminates a caged window. Behind the cage there is a man standing there surrounded by various beers and spirits. The transaction takes place through a little hole cut into the cage. He made an exception for us when we ordered an entire case of beer, and opened a small door to the right so he could fit the case out.
I am staying in a very interesting place called the Hotel Green Heights. It cost about $20 a night for a room. It’s a little more than I wanted to spend so that’s why I am rooming with Sam and Alan at the moment. The staff here is always a source of amusement. Down in the restaurant-lobby-media room there is always a minimum of five workers sitting around the wood stove, sipping tea, and warming their hands. These are the higher-ups. Indians love their promotions. One of these guys, a clean-shaven man in this thirties wearing ear muffs, always stands up when we enter in case we want to order food.
Of an estimated seven or so men who work here, really only about three actually do the work. Abzel is the main go-to guy. He’s got yellow teeth sticking about of his large gums, and is always wearing a smile. He often just walks into our room and stands there for a while. At first this was a bit strange, but now we’re just used to it. Sometimes we entertain him for a while, but sometimes if we’re just chilling he’ll eventually just leave. I’m pretty sure he’s an alcoholic. Maybe it’s because he’ll point to our small booze supply with such yearning eyes, or maybe it’s the fact that he’ll finish off any old stale beer left over from the night before in a single, satisfying gulp at 9 am. Abzel has worn the same thing since I got here: jeans, a sweatshirt that looks like it is straight fro the 80’s, and a blue vest.
Jar Jar is the other main worker. He must be one level above Abzel, because he is always yelling for Abzel and barking him orders. If the bacari is getting cold, these guys will bring up more wood and stoke the fire. If the water tank is running low in the bathroom, these guys will haul a big hose in and fill it up. That’s pretty much all we need to ask them for. Both men are in their fifties and are very interesting characters. Jar Jar is no taller than 5’4”, and wears the typical knee-length robe. He’s got a long, white-grey beard and wears a much-too-small, pointed beanie cap that makes him look a bit like a garden gnome.
The hotel itself is anything but safe. I’m quite surprised this place hasn’t burned down in its thirty years of operation. Besides having a non-insulated wood stove burning in the middle of the room, which constantly spills red-hot coals onto the carpet, the electrical wiring is enough for any fire code inspector to cringe. Lately we’ve been smelling a burning plastic small at night and we are pretty sure its something electrical being overloaded.
When the electricity is down in Gulmarg, the hotel uses a diesel generator located on the first floor. Inside. No exhaust pipe running outside. When the generator is on, it smells like someone has been running a lawn mower right in the hallway. We have tried to tell them to not use the generator, we can use candles (another huge fire hazard), but they insist on the generator.
The walls and ceiling are made of three-inch wide tongue and groove wood that have been shellacked the color of maple syrup. Smoke from the bacari has stained much of the ceiling black.
The bathrooms have no running water. You just fill up a bucket and pour it in the toilet to flush. Showers consist of a bucket bath on the bathroom floor. Today I hand-washed some clothes. It’s not uncomfortable living here and I actually enjoy it most the time, but there are some who would absolutely hate this place.
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