Istanbul to India by Bus
Peshawar, the first city past the Khyber Pass, is a thriving market town where people with rifles slung over their shoulders collect fees from buses for "safe passage."
The Hotel Houseboats of Kashmir — the promised paradise on a budget.
From a Kashmir houseboat, plush and exotic glimpses of local life glide by.
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We were moving out of the parched Arab side of South Asia and into the wet Indian sub-continent. From now on we would feel muggy but enjoy a lush countryside. Our bus ticket had a "safe passage supplement" which we all paid. This was collected by a rifle-toting guard positioned just over this semi-autonomous pass. We were in Waziristan — an autonomous district, not governable by Pakistan...notorious for its independent spirit.
We pulled into Peshawar — claimed, if not ruled, by Pakistan. The humidity — novel after Turkey, Iran, and Afghanistan — seemed to connect us with the powerful magnet of India. We caught the first train east. Twelve hours of first class for $1.50 extra seemed like a good investment, as we got padded seats and less crowds (which, we were to learn, came with a downside: less flesh to spread around for the bugs).
Hot muggy air carried soot from the steam engine through the open window. Bugs came out with the stars. The lights on the train worked like on my old bike; the slower you go the dimmer they glow. It was a dim train. The only thing fast about it was the clouds of bugs that seemed right at home. Like a horse swatting flies in his sleep, I spent the night rolling bugs through my sooty hairs until they disappeared.
We awoke energized by the last sprint to the Indian border. There's something weirdly home-like about India, even if you've never been there. We both felt strangely and strongly that we were going home. Words can't explain the joy we felt stepping across that happy tree-lined border. For years, enchanted India had commanded prime time in my travel dreams. Two years in a row, I found excuses to go elsewhere instead. Finally, and thankfully, I had the nerve to make this happen.
Strolling past turbaned Sikhs, wallowing water buffalo and lush green fields, I felt great. I had opened a new world and rekindled the travel flame that Europe alone could no longer fuel.
But Kashmir, the promised end of our rainbow, was still a two day train bus trek away. A powerful current pulls travelers north from India's mucky heat to the blissful Vale of Kashmir. The last stretch is 300 kilometers of narrow switch-backs spiced with dreadful cliffs, huge falling boulders, lots of top-heavy trucks and military vehicles, and constant signs reminding divers (as only Indian signs can) to be careful, with cheerful slogans such as "Drive carefully, your family needs you" or "Better late than dead." The terrain became almost tropical as we worked up to a scenic climax. Finally, we went through a long dark one-lane tunnel. When we popped out, we were greeted by a cheery sign announcing "Welcome to Kashmir. You are now in Paradise."
The treacherous road became a garden drive through a Mona Lisa landscape. By the time we settled into our decaying Victorian houseboat, we understood what the sign was saying. Climbing to the rooftop, we sank deep into wicker chairs for tea and surveyed our promised land. Below us families sliced silently by in dug-out canoes. The thin air made me feel like breaking my biscuits on the cut glass Himalayan peaks that surrounded us. Sipping Kashmiri tea from chipped but still elegant old cups, Gene and I rested...happily on the cusp of India.
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