Very Fine Batsman!
D
Mike Ferris discovers a universal language!
eepest darkest Kashmir, July 2004. My
soon-to-be-wife had not yet acquired her
own bike licence and was therefore on the
back seat of my Enfield for her first trip
across the Himalaya.
Our group had been delayed, yet again,
by interminable roadworks and impenetrable Indian bu-
reaucracy, resulting in the less than desirable position
of having to ride in the dark. The Enfield headlight is far
from spectacular, and there was little light from the moon.
There had been recent unrest in the Vale of Kashmir; an
almost perennial event to which I was quite accustomed,
but which was inevitably unnerving to any newcomer.
We were riding through a remote mountainous region
on our way to crossing the Zoji La, the mountain pass
leading down to Srinagar. This region of several hundred
square kilometers is a military zone and we had already
run the gauntlet of passing through several checkposts,
where inspection of our passports had elicited a range of
reactions, from arrogant disinterest to almost hostile sus-
picion.
With ten bikes behind us we swooped along a dark
valley full of shadows and swung through a corner to ar-
rive at an iron bridge, and out of the darkness appeared
two bright torchlights and we heard a shrill whistle. I
heaved the Enfield to a halt as two soldiers aggressively
approached, and I could feel Denise’s body language regis-
tering no small discomfort behind me, at the sight of their
AK-47 machine guns being held in prominent display.
"Stop!" commanded a rough voice. I had already
stopped.
"Where are you going?" We couldn’t see the owner of
the voice because the bright torch was being shone direct-
ly into our faces.
"Srinagar sir!" I replied in a relaxed voice. I had played
this game before, but Denise’s grip on my waist was far
from relaxed.
"What purpose!?" the voice demanded.
"Tourism sir. We happen to be tourists." I made a point
of putting my hand up to deflect the light from the interro-
gation beacon in our eyes.
I was expecting a demand for our passports but instead
he lowered his torch a little and simply asked, less aggres-
sively, "Your country?"
"Australia sir."
"Australia?" he queried, with an eyebrow. We could at
last see his face.
"Australia!" I confirmed.
His dark face broke into a wide, white grin.
"Ah, Ricky Ponting very fine batsman! Please proceed."
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