As the sun dropped over the mountains, a cool calm shadow spread across the lake. We sat smoking cigarettes on the beautifully crafted wooden veranda of our houseboat and enjoyed the chill. Signs of life on the lake were gone and across the flat water, on the street, we could see the soldiers leaving their bunker and heading off into the streets of Srinagar.
Surrounded by the exceptional natural beauty and the tension of occasional gunfire and rasps of smoke coming from distant rooftops I felt a sense of confused stupidity. Why had I come here? Only weeks previously a tourist had been found decapitated by Islamic guerrillas and I felt somehow things had gotten out of my control.
I had had to make a decision a week earlier, the lesser of two fears. To get out of Ladakh I would have to return the way I had come, across the second highest road in the world, wonderful, but a journey that I still have nightmares about, or follow the road to Kashmir. I chose the latter.
Feeling annoyed at my lack of control, we were to stay on our houseboat until the bus came in five days time, I decided that it was time to go for a drink. Being an Islamic state this is not the easiest thing to do but we knew of some characters hanging around on the street opposite us.
As the darkness spread we got permission to borrow a little rowing boat from the somewhat disturbingly red eyed son who looked after the boat. We pushed off and feeling the water underneath was a pleasure. The lake was warm and smelt as the surrounding scenery looked, an impossibly beautiful scent. As we covered the 500 metres to the road I began to notice that my feet were splashing about in water, the boat was extremely low and some little waves were splashing over the sides every time my companion pulled on the oars.
Eventually we reached the other bank and my friend, Terry, jumped out of the boat allowing more water in. I pushed off and watched him walk along the street, under the dim spotlights to where the most remarkably seedy characters mulled about. As I drifted in the darkness just away from the shore I felt like a smuggler tossing in the waves off Southern England, waiting for a sign. Looking back now it seems like a crazy thing to be doing but, as anyone who has been abroad knows, things change in your head, it’s quite a schizophrenic thing.
Terry’s whistle brought me out of my dreams. He was walking into the darkness down the steps to the dock and as he became shrouded by the dark I saw to my horror a policeman with a gun rushing towards the other men. I reached the bank and Terry, who had not noticed this event, calmly climbed into the boat. I pushed hard on the bank and in no time we were out in the darkness.
We watched amused as much as scared as the policeman walked back along the road. Terry proudly lifted the bottle of rum to his lips and sighed his appreciation. Before I could try it I noticed that my feet were completely underwater. I tried to scoop it out but it kept splashing in. In one long smooth movement we felt the boat drop underneath us and it dropped completely underwater stood up and had the pleasure of watching each drop slowly into lake.
As our rum, a pair of sandals and a packet of cigarettes sank to the bottom of Dal Lake, we smiled and a feeling of complete awe came over us. We were bobbing around in the middle of a lake of darkness. The stars were as sharp as I have ever seen them and the end of the dusk was silhouetting the mountains. A wonderful scene.
Eventually the boat popped up and we dragged it slowly back to the houseboat. We were greeted by whoops and cheers from the family owners, except Ibrahim, the father, who looked like he wanted to tear our heads off.
“You stupid boys!” he cried, “I told you, you must ask permission to use the rowing boat.”
The red eyed son grinned next to him. I climbed out onto the dock. “This is not the boat for two people. It is for one.”
“Cheers,” I thought as I smoothed my sopping wet rupee notes onto the ground.
