The last few months have been unequivocally intense. As my experiences pile up, I feel more and more the weight upon me — the stories screaming to be written, much like the feeling of waking up to your cat staring you in the face, politely demanding to be fed. There is simply so much to write, so I’m going to break this one up into three parts. It’s a little intense and at times negative, so bear with me until the end for the big picture.

Part I

In preparation of a very premium search (of myself.)

July, 2010 — Srinigar:

G. and I flew up to the Kashmir region, landing in Srinigar to spend a few days relaxing on a houseboat on the Daal lake. We had heard that the area was prone to conflict, with the Kashmir region a point of contention ever since the British forces left in 1948 — part of the territory drawn to Pakistan, the other to India in a way that to this day leaves the Kashmiri people irascible. These tempers can flare with simply a few ill spoken words and as we arrived, we learned that the police had dragged a young boy out of a house and beat him to death only the day before, thereby igniting the Kashmiri people into a state of fury and wrath. As our driver took us through the winding outskirts of the city, the visible nervousness of his demeanor did not go unnoticed. As we made ready to drive across a local bridge, he suddenly came to a screeching halt as a loud “BAM” resounded.

A military truck came into view — a police officer with an automatic weapon crouched behind it, poking his head around the corner to see what he was up against. We watched this moment in rapt silence, the music in our car seeming to come to a complete stop as time slowed and bent. For what seemed like ages, we watched locals throwing large rocks up the hill at the police man, hitting the vehicle with a voracious ”BAM BAM BAM.” For a moment we did nothing (from the “safety” of our vehicle) but as the cop raised his gun to point at the crowd, our driver got the idea, beelined back down the bridge and sped off into the city via alternate routes, rendering us safe for the moment.

It was in that moment — as I snapped off a quick picture — that I realized that I could never be a photojournalist (this theme would continue as we get on to Leh.) The fear that crept up in me — the visceral feeling that snaps you into the present and forces you to realize that someone’s (maybe your) life could end in the next few moments is… intense. To pick up your camera and take a picture — to constantly put yourself in those situations… not for me. I actually think that the movie that came out this year, “The Hurt Locker,” does a great job of getting in the head of people who enjoy these types of adrenaline based pursuits, but I know now that it’s simply not for me.

So as we made our way through the city, I could do nothing but watch and experience. It seemed like there were sandbags and barbed wire everywhere. Bunkers with mounted weaponry, convoys of armed soldiers and various fighting vehicles met us at just about every corner — this city was militarized. I slowly put my camera back in my bag, afraid that if I pointed it out the window I stood the chance of it being mistaken for a weapon. The tension in the city was palpable; raw. All I wanted to do was get out of there.

And then, all of a sudden, Daal lake came into view — beautiful, tranquil, serene. The clouds hung down low, enshrouding the nearby mountains, and the willow trees blew softly in the wind. This oasis, this beauty, it all just seemed paradoxical. It was like this little Zion that was being protected from the outside world, the people inside living a life of protection and blissful ignorance of the violence and terror around them — except that they weren’t. The Kasmiri people were fully aware of their struggle. On our one journey into the city (with a guard) the people we met engaged us freely and quizzically as to exactly why we were here, as Americans. The entire city was in a state of 24 hour curfew, with passes needed to go anywhere and travel outside completely forbidden after dark. We had left the comfort of our houseboat for supplies on the first and only day we were there, and I can only imagine that the locals thought we were out of our fucking minds to have come there in the first place. They spoke about the absurdity of their situation, their desire for independence and the futility of succession from India, as it would mean that Pakistan would soon come and swoop them up for themselves. Independence was an unlikely hope, yet they continued to fight despite their situation. They would never give up, they told us. They believed in protecting their heritage. I respect that. I wanted to draw on the parallels of our enslaving and eradication of our own indigenous people, but it didn’t seem the time or the place.

So we left as soon as we could. The idea of relaxing on a beautiful lake while others were suffering weighed too heavily on our minds. Oh, and we were scared.

One fifteen hour bus ride later and we were in Leh. The trip sent us zigzagging and dovetailing up to 3,529m (11,578ft) of the Zoji La peaks, where a precarious one “lane” mountain road lent spectacular views, with the added excitement of finding space to accommodate passing trucks and vehicles. This often meant stopping for long periods, parked dangerously close to the edge while caravans snaked by, creeping their way through pass after pass in meandering, serpentine fashion. The good news was: if we were to go over the side, we stood no chance of survival… so that was nice. That thought went along nicely with the first few hours of our trip, where we saw two cars flipped over — one of them with people climbing out frantically as their car went into the river. I cursed myself for not acquiring a few horse pills of Valium, embraced my fate, and resigned myself to snapping off pictures.

Fortunately, the scenery was positively staggering. As the sun rose, we climbed thousands of meters, chasing the clouds as the heat slowly pulled them upwards and out of the valley. I found that as we rose upwards and downwards through treacherous mountain passes, my jaw would be hanging completely agape — not from the imminent death that lay in wait, but from the breathtaking scenery that filled every part of my vision: the tents of nomads and shepherds that littered the lush green valleys, adding a dash of humanity to a seemingly empty space of wonder; the swiftly sinuous rivers, steeply rising granite edifices and snow capped peaks leaving me stunned at the scope of it all; how — compared to the millions of years of erosion, glaciation and geothermic uplift it took to carve these valleys and mountains — we humans were but a drop of rain on a mountainside, not even enough for a striation — yet somehow managing to achieve a disproportionate amount of damage in our lifespan. These mountains that had been here for so long before us would likely outlive us by an equally great amount of time.

As the time went by, the views never ceased to fill me with a sense of wonder. Every new corner brought about a new permutation of geology — different rivers, different rock formations, different mountains — but the results were all the same; me left awe struck, trying to snap photos out of my dirty back seat windows — having only about a second to frame a shot as we quickly burst around corners. I think I could have stopped at every corner and taken a top rate picture — the weather giving us a perfect mash-up of blue skies and puffy white cumulus clouds, matched with astounding geology and roadside signs from the BRO, offering up words of encouragement, philosophy and tips for safe driving.

And as I tried to focus on the visceral beauty of it all, the driver cranked up his deep-based electro India pop music and careened sharply around a corner, narrowly passing a truck. Luckily we had the inside of the turn — this time.