Text: Karin-Marijke Vis
photography: Coen Wubbels
Blow Horn & Use dipper at Night
One of the first places we visit in India is the Golden Temple of the Sikhs. This mesmerizing place of pilgrimage awakens a deep feeling of curiosity in us, an eagerness to learn more about religions and their intriguing places of worship. Obviously we have arrived in the right country, where a multitude of religions coexist peacefully. From the holy temple of the Sikhs we move northward, to a pilgrimage of Hindus amidst Muslim territory.
At the Indian border Coen fills in both our entry forms, signs them and hands them back to the customs official who answers with a questioning look. "Oh yes, I always sign for my wife," Coen says. Whether the official finds this strange as seen from his own culture or because he is not used to this coming from Westerners, we don't know. After traveling through Iran and Pakistan, we have grown so used to Coen’s taking care of paperwork that we don't give it a second thought.
Who is the last to lower his flag?
Meanwhile large crowds flock to the border gate and take a seat in the stands - as do the Pakistanis on their side of the Wagah border. Pakistan and India are ethnically of the same stock but after independence from England in 1947 the rift between the two seems beyond repair. Feelings of nationalism are fed daily at the opening and closing ceremonies of the one and only border between the two countries. Both sides wave flags while Indians shout: "Hindustan, Hindustan!" and Pakistanis yell: "Pakistan, Pakistan!" Part of this madhouse are officers with towering headdresses swaggering towards the flagpoles, in a Monty Python’s 'Ministry of Silly Walks' manner - turning the ceremony into a somewhat comical performance - until they stand next to their rival of the other side. A daily battle ensues: who can lower the flag slowest - it is a matter of pride that one flag should not be lower than the other. It seems that the only reason the flags are lowered at all is the international custom that flags have to be down by sunset.
The thirty kilometres over a smooth, freshly tarred road bring us to Amritsar - the seat of Darbar Sahib - the most sacred temple of the Sikhs. We leave our shoes at the entrance, walk through a footbath and enter the temple. In the darkness of the evening we stand transfixed by an awe-inspiring sight: amidst the Pool of Immortality, surrounded by a snow-white marble concourse, stands a temple with a sparkling, gold-covered dome and marble-inlaid walls. The Golden Temple, as it is called in English, receives up to thirty thousand pilgrims a day and all are offered food and lodgings free of charge. The temple is run by volunteers; each pilgrim or devotee is free to participate in the cleaning of the site, doing dishes or distributing food. During nineteen hours a day the chanting of the Holy Scriptures by the priests echoes across the serene lake; it is pleasant to the ear and induces a sublime feeling of peacefulness. It is a place to linger but we are on a schedule: the pilgrimage of Amarnath is reaching its end so we pack up and head north.
The turbulent province of Kashmir
The road to Srinagar, along the cease-fire line between Pakistan and India, weaves on excellent tarmac - thanks to the political conflict of Jammu & Kashmir which demands mobility, speed and year-round readiness on the part of the military. Kashmir has long been a bone of contention between the two countries. It is a complicated conflict, the origin of which goes back as far as the first Anglo-Sikh War in 1846. Nowadays the Muslims, supported by Pakistan, strive for an independent Kashmir, which regularly leads to insurgencies and bombings.
While the tarmac makes for smooth driving we wonder about the safety of the twisting mountain roads, as we read the ominous signboards: "Live for today, drive for tomorrow", "Speed is a knife that cuts your life", "Give your blood to the blood-bank, not to the road", and more suggestive ones like "Be gentle on my curves". The rear of the trucks gives instructions as well: "Blow Horn" and "Use dipper at Night" - the proper means to overtake them. The roadsides are lively and colorful with temples, monkeys, water buffaloes, wild boars and holy cows acting holy.
We enter Kashmir on August 15: India's day of Independence. While the rest of India celebrates, Kashmir feels sinister and eerie; everything is closed down and the military are omnipresent. It turns the journey into a tedious one, with military posts checking our papers every few kilometres. When we approach the three-kilometre long Jawahr tunnel, the chaos is complete: the road widens but is crammed with a disarray of cars, soldiers and trucks. Where do we have to go? One soldier signs "Stop", his colleague next to him indicates "Go on" while a third seems to be practising a tune on his whistle - his function escapes us all together. At the entrance of the tunnel stands a menacing looking soldier with a machine-gun at the ready. Slowly we proceed towards the tunnel, looking around for indications to stop but no, it seems that we are allowed to continue. But when exiting the tunnel we hear a concert of whistling, it appears to be addressed to us and we halt. A man accosts us: "Go back!"
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Wil je meer lezen, of ben je geïnteresseerd in één van onze andere reisverhalen, laat het ons weten.
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