CHAPTER II
TRAVEL IN KASHMIR
I have known Kashmir for twenty-one years, and ever since I have known it people have said it is getting spoilt. "It is not now what it used to be" is so often said. When the cart-road was being built every one said it would be spoilt. And now, when the construction of a railway is in contemplation, exactly the same remark is made. The impression conveyed is that the pleasures of travel in Kashmir are surely and steadily deteriorating. And this, no doubt, is true in certain aspects. Supplies are dearer. Coolies demand higher wages. The visitor disposed to solitude more frequently encounters his fellow Britisher. These are decided drawbacks, and the visitor who telegraphs to Danjhibhoy for a tonga, to Nedou's for a room in the hotel, and to Cockburn's for a house-boat, and has simply to pay his fare and his hotel bill, no doubt pines for the virgin time of Kashmir travel before the rattle of the tongas or the tooting of the motor car was heard in the valley.
Yet I doubt if all was bliss in those "good old days." Certainly Moorcroft, the first Englishman to visit Kashmir, had no very comfortable time, and must often in his turn have pined for a good hotel, a clean room, and a decent dinner—and, who knows, for a game of golf? Moorcroft visited Kashmir in 1823, and first had enormous difficulty in obtaining from Ranjit Singh, the ruler of the Punjab, to whom Kashmir was then subject, leave to come to Kashmir at all. He arrived there from the north in the autumn, and had fresh difficulty in obtaining permission to remain there for the winter. At the quarters he occupied he was "beset by crowds of people who not only filled the garden, but also came in boats." He was pursued wherever he went by inquisitive crowds, by importunate beggars, and by suspicious officials. When he wished to make short excursions from Srinagar objections were at once raised. When he was at length allowed to leave for the Lolab, officials were appointed to accompany him "to watch his proceedings and check inquisitiveness." And when he finally left Kashmir for the Punjab by the Jhelum valley he was stopped by a small semi-independent chief near Uri, who demanded Rs. 15,000 as customs duty on his caravan, and as Moorcroft refused to pay more than Rs. 500 he was compelled to return to Srinagar and reach the Punjab by another route.
These certainly were not the halcyon days of Kashmir travel. But I suppose there must have been an intermediate time between then and now when travelling in Kashmir was perfection to those who had time enough at their disposal to "march" in. In those delightful times the traveller pitched his little camp wherever he wished. Grain was ridiculously cheap. Fowls were considered dear at twopence each. Coolies were thankful enough to get any payment at all. There were no game laws or game licences, so that the sportsman could shoot to his heart's content. The number of visitors for the year was restricted to 100, so that each had 700 or 800 square miles to himself, and there was no need of dress clothes, white shirts, or Ascot dresses.
When I first visited Kashmir in the autumn of 1887 its glory had already begun to depart, though as regards simplicity of travelling my methods were of the simplest. I had no other clothes but what I stood in, and only the under portion of these were of European origin. All my outer clothes, including my boots, were worn out long before I reached Kashmir, and I was accordingly clothed in a long Central Asian robe and high native boots, for I was at the end of a journey of nearly four thousand miles from Peking. I had crossed—and was the first European to accomplish the feat—the Mustagh Pass, 19,000 feet high, into Baltistan; and the "Pass" being nothing else than a hard ice slope and a rocky precipice, down which I and my five servants and coolies had to let ourselves by means of turbans and waist-clothes tied together, I had been able to carry with me little even of the scanty baggage I had brought up to the other side of the Pass. I had indeed only a roll of bedding, which was thrown down the precipice, and a big kettle. I had no tent and no money! I had slept in the open from one side of the Himalayas to the other, and my funds were entirely exhausted, so that when I landed in Kashmir territory I had to borrow money from the Governor of Baltistan, Pandit Rada Kishen Kol, a very popular and respected official who is still in the Maharaja's service, and is now Chief Judge.
Simplicity of travel was, then, at least possible twenty years ago, and I managed, after crossing the Pass, to get along with only one servant who cooked, performed every function of the numerous servants we employ in India, and carried a load himself in emergency. But he was the most faithful, and my favourite of all the servants I have ever had. His name was Shukar Ali, and I must ask my reader's indulgence for a digression to describe him. I picked him up in Yarkand, in Chinese Turkestan, but he was a native of Ladak. He was the most cheery, happy-go-lucky, easy-going man, who ever proved a good servant in spite of his carelessness. Always laughing, always chaffing with the pony-men or coolies, always losing something vitally necessary, but always ready to do the hardest and most dangerous piece of work when the crucial moment arrived, he was the only Ladaki who dared to cross the Mustagh Pass with me, and but for one incident I would have a most grateful recollection of his services then. That incident I have often since reminded him of. After crossing the Pass we had to cross a very full and rapid stream flowing straight out of a glacier. Immense blocks of ice were breaking off the glacier and floating down the stream. The bottom was also partly ice and partly boulder. Shukar Ali, with his usual readiness, volunteered to carry me across this stream on his back. But in mid-stream he slipped. I was precipitated into the icy water, while Shukar Ali, in his frantic efforts to regain his own footing, unknowingly kept pressing me under water. We both eventually gained the opposite bank all right. But I had no change of clothes, and every stitch I had on was wringing wet with ice-cold water.
When, two years later, Government sent me to explore all the northern frontier of Kashmir from Ladak and the Karakoram Pass to the Pamirs and Hunza, I again sought out Shukar Ali; and yet a third time, when I was sent on a political mission to Chinese Turkestan and the Pamirs in 1890-91. On each of these occasions he rendered unfailing service, and once both he and I were nearly drowned in an avalanche. We had been hewing our way up the steep slopes of an ice pass in a snowstorm, when suddenly out of the snow-clouds above us we heard a roar like thunder approaching nearer and nearer. We could not run if we would, for we were on an ice slope. We could only await our doom, for we knew it was an avalanche. But with a mighty rush it crashed past a few paces in front of us, and we were safe.
A LADAKI IN SUMMER COSTUME
After 1891 I did not see Shukar Ali for seventeen years, for my travels never took me to that frontier again. But I heard of him from Dr. Sven Hedin who employed him in Tibet, and who told me of the wonderful tales which the imaginative Shukar Ali related of the journeys we had made together. And last summer the dear old man suddenly appeared at the Residency. He had heard that I was now Resident, and had walked 240 miles across the mountains to see me, and he presented himself wearing the identical coat I had given him seventeen years ago. He kept jumping up and down, first kissing my feet, then touching my coat, then salaaming, and all the time ejaculating an unceasing flow of speech, calling me by every affectionate term. Then from under numerous folds of his clothing he produced a wooden bowl, a bag full of sweets, a pair of goat horns for my wife and myself, and a marvellous collection of showy-looking stones which he had picked up in Tibet for my little girl.
He remained with me for a few weeks. I gave him something to keep him comfortable at home, but which I am sure in his good nature he will let his relations squeeze out of him, and then I sent him off back to Ladak. But before he left I asked the Maharaja to give him an order exempting him from service in his village. His Highness, with his usual kindness, readily acceded. An order was made out with the Maharaja's own signature attached, and at a garden-party at the Residency Shukar Ali was had up and presented with the order. His Highness addressed him in a most kindly manner, and on the following day presented him in Durbar with a shawl of honour.
Poor Shukar Ali left with many tearful farewell expressions, and a few weeks later I received from him the following letter:—
Sir—I reached very well home, with very felt happy and found all my poor family very well and showed the all kindly of your they got very glad, and we all family thankfully to you to remember us so much, to little people and my all friends got very glad too, they said thank you, and hope you would not be angry with this English written, please you pardon for this, and could not write myself and could not get other munshi write you, because and found Rassul, he was my old friend and let him write this letter. please give my salaam to Mem Sahib and Baby Baby Sahib.—Your obedient servant Shukar Ali
from poor Rassul plenty salaam,
the mark of Shukar Ali O.
All this, however, is a digression, and I have to describe the normal modes of travel of the present day. Srinagar is 196 miles distant from the railway at Rawal Pindi, and is connected with it by a good cart-road—good, that is in its normal condition, but excessively bad after heavy rain, when at places the whole mountain-side slides down with the road into the river. The usual mode of conveyance is a tonga, a very common form of vehicle in the Indian "hills." It has two wheels, is drawn by a pair of ponies, has four seats back to back, and carries a mountain of luggage piled up on the splash-boards and on the roof. The ponies, when the season is not crowded and the road is good, gallop at full speed, and are changed every five or six miles. In the full part of the season, which generally coincides with the heaviest fall of rain, with much beating, pulling, and shouting they can scarcely be induced to reach a trot, and may think themselves lucky if they find a change at the end of their stage.
Other means of conveyance for which extra charge is made are landaus and victorias. These, though more comfortable, are heavier for the ponies, and are more difficult to manipulate over bad places in the rainy season.
Spare baggage and servants can be brought up in the ordinary Indian ckka which, with one pony without changes, takes six to eight days to reach Srinagar; or in bullock carts which take fourteen days.
Tongas will take two, three, four or more days according to the length of the day, the nature of the road, and the disposition of the traveller. The tonga carrying the English mail, travelling almost continuously, covers the distance in thirty-six hours. In the long summer days travellers, starting early, can accomplish the journey in two days.
Every fourteen miles or so is a dak bungalow, where for the payment of one rupee a furnished room is provided, and on further payment meals may be obtained at any time, but "bedding" must always be taken, as nothing but the bare bed is provided.
The stages from Rawal Pindi (1790 feet) at which these bungalows may be found, are:—
| Tret | 25½ miles | 25½ miles |
| Sunnybank (6000 feet) (for Murree, 2 miles distant) | 11¼ " | 36¾ " |
| Kohala (2000 feet) | 27½ " | 64¼ " |
| Dulai (2180 feet) | 12 " | 76¼ " |
| Domel (2320 feet) | 9 " | 85¼ " |
| Garhi (2750 feet) | 13½ " | 98¾ " |
| Chakoti (3780 feet) | 21 " | 119¾ " |
| Uri (4425 feet) | 13½ " | 133¼ " |
| Rampur (4825 feet) | 13 " | 146¼ " |
| Baramula (5150 feet) | 16 " | 162¼ " |
| Patan (5200 feet) | 16½ " | 178¾ " |
| Srinagar (5250 feet) | 17½ " | 196¼ " |
The road is usually open all the year round except in January, February, and part of March, when it is liable to be blocked by snow over the Murree hill and between Rampur and Baramula. In such emergencies the alternative route by Abbotabad may be used, and the traveller must make up his mind to walk the few miles of bad road near Rampur.
Instead of going all the way by road, boat may be taken at Baramula for Srinagar. This, though longer, is much more comfortable and enjoyable. The time occupied is from two to three days.
At Srinagar there is no dak bungalow, but an hotel—Nedou's—which is open the whole year round. Srinagar is the central starting-point for all expeditions. Here house-boats, dunga-boats, camp equipage, and all the paraphernalia of Kashmir travel may be obtained, and shikaris and servants engaged. House-boats are not indigenous to Kashmir. They were introduced by Mr. M. T. Kennard some twenty years ago, but now they may be numbered by hundreds. Some are permanently occupied by Europeans, who live in them nearly the whole year round for years together, but most are let out at from Rs. 70 to Rs. 100 per mensem for the season. In midsummer they are hot abodes, but they form a most convenient and luxurious mode of travel. Each would contain, probably, a couple of sitting-rooms with fireplaces, bedrooms, and bath-rooms, and with a cook-boat attached for cooking and servants, the traveller launches forth complete, and either drifts lazily down the river to the many attractive spots along its banks, and to the Wular Lake, or else is towed upwards to Islamabad. The house-boat likewise forms a very convenient base from which short expeditions into the mountains can be made.
Dungas and dunga house-boats are not so luxurious and commodious as the fully developed house-boat; but they are lighter, they travel quicker, and they go up shallow tributaries where the larger boat would stick. They are also less expensive. The former have only loose matting for walls; the walls of the latter are wooden.
For getting about the river in Srinagar itself the still lighter shikara or ordinary paddle-boat is used, paddled by two to eight men according to the size. House-boats and dunga house-boats require a crew of six to twelve men. Dungas carry a family in the stern who work the boat. Paddles, poling, and hauling are the means of progression.
Quite good shops for European stores and articles are now springing up in Srinagar. Cox & Co. and the Punjab Banking Co. have branches there, and Cockburn's Agency do every kind of agency work, engage boats and servants, and let out tents, camp furniture, etc. There are also many respectable native firms who do the same—of whom, perhaps, the best is Mohamed Jan, because he does not pester and importune the visitor in the way that most others do, and really render life in Srinagar intolerable.
There is a large choice of expeditions from Srinagar to points of interest, which will be described in detail in a later chapter. First in the immediate vicinity there are picnics to be made to the Dal Lake, to the two Moghal gardens,—the Nishat Bagh and the Shalimar Bagh,—and to the beautiful camping ground of the Nasim Bagh. These are expeditions which can be made in a single afternoon if necessary.
Of more remote tours the favourites are:—up the river to Islamabad and the beautiful Achibal spring and garden; to the clear crystal springs of Vernag, one of the many sources of the Jhelum; to the famous ruins of Martand which occupy the grandest site for a temple of any in the world; to the Lidar valley, Pahlgam, the Kolahoi glacier, and the caves of Amar Nath. Islamabad is the starting-point for both the Lidar valley and Martand, and here the house-boat may be left. Islamabad, thirty-four miles distant, may also be reached by a road which, though unmetalled, is in dry weather quite good. I have left Srinagar in a motor car at 8.45, have spent over an hour going round Islamabad, have eaten lunch under the glorious chenar trees at Bijbehara, and have been home again at Srinagar by 3.15 the same afternoon.
Down the river are equally delightful tours to be made. At Shadipur, at the junction of the Sind River with the Jhelum River, there is a charming grassy camping-ground under chenar trees. Ganderbal is a few miles higher up the Sind River, and forms the base for expeditions to (1) the Wangat ruins and the Gangarbal Lake, an exquisite torquoise-coloured sheet of water reposing immediately beneath the great cliff and glaciers of the Haramokh mountain; and (2) the beautiful Sind valley with its grand mountain scenery, and the charming camping-ground of Sonamarg (the golden meadow) also under towering mountain masses and close to glaciers. Up this valley also lies the road to the Zoji-La Pass on the far side of which branch off roads to Baltistan, on the one hand, with its fine ibex-shooting ground, immense glacier region, and K2, the second highest mountain in the world; and on the other to Ladak with its Buddhist monasteries perched on any inaccessible rocky pinnacle that can be found, and Leh, the meeting-place of caravans from Lhasa and from Central Asia—a most quaint and picturesque little town embedded among bare, sun-baked mountains which has been the starting-point of two journeys I have made across the dreary, lofty Karakoram Pass (18,500 feet) to Turkestan and to the Pamirs.
From Shadipur, at the junction of the Sind with the Jhelum, the next expedition to be made is to the Wular Lake and Bandipur, from whence ascends immediately the long and numerous zigzags to Tragbal, a favourite camping-ground amid the pines, and to the Tragbal Pass (12,600 feet), from whence a magnificent view of Nanga Parbat (26,600 feet) may be seen, though I am bound to say that I have never seen it myself in spite of having crossed the Pass six times on the way to, or returning from, Gilgit and the Hunza frontier which lies in this direction. It is by this route, too, that sportsmen proceeding to shoot markhor in Astor, or ibex and bear in Tilail and Gurais, make their way, as also the few who obtain permission to shoot Ovis Poli on the Pamirs. For myself the Tragbal and Bandipur have many welcome associations, for it is here that I have finished two great exploring expeditions, and on a third occasion returned there after a stay of two and a half years hard service on the Hunza and Chitral frontier. It is impossible to convey the delicious sense of relief the traveller feels in descending from the Pass, in leaving behind all the rigors of severe mountain travel and intense cold, and with each easy step downward feeling the air growing warmer and warmer, and at length reaching the lake throwing himself into an armchair in a comfortable house-boat, and then gliding smoothly over the placid lake with the evening sunlight flooding the beautiful valley, and a soothing sense suffusing him at difficulties surmounted, at hardships past, and at present relaxation of body, mind, and purpose.
THE VALLEY OF GURAIS