The second in a seven-part series. Read with Part 1 here.

To enter the Kashmir Valley from the south you must pass through the Jawarhal Tunnel, a rugged 1.77-mile hole between Banih?l and Qazigund that looks carved out by hammers and picks.

The one-lane tunnel is damp and feebly lit and a little frightening, especially on a motorcycle with bats flying overhead and vehicles with one headlight honking past in the bleary darkness, but these hazards make the journey all the more refreshing when the Kashmir Valley washes over you on the other side, with its cool air, valleys full of gleaming rice paddies and snow-capped mountains.

The ascent into the valley is gorgeous and relaxing, and as we pass through the first small town the initial signs of Kashmiri culture begin to appear.

The first thing I notice are the beards, the long, straight, black beards that announce an Islamosphere, accompanied by a sudden scarcity of women and large wooden houses full of broken windows and rain-warped planks, whose balconies are draped with drying burqas and kurtas and Angry Birds t-shirts.

The aroma of mutton and burning plastic assails us as we ride through the bazaar.

Soon we are back in the countryside, with the delicious air washing over me as I ride, air far cooler and fresher and sweeter than the dusty Punjabi heat we’d been experiencing the past two days.

This appreciation of the climate does not last long – my attention must return to the highway and the endless task of overtaking giant trucks around hairpin curves.

Cars and motorcycles will sometimes line up behind these giant trucks for half a kilometer, right wheels in the opposing lane as they peek around the side, choking in their clouds of black smoke. Then, the moment the road straightens enough to see a long stretch of empty highway, the drivers will all accelerate wildly, expanding across the highway and racing forward, overtaking one another until a car appears in the distance, at which point the line recedes back into its lane to await the next opportunity.

And then there are the traffic jams, sometimes hours-long, which we always manage to squeeze past, bumping through ditches over stones and sliding between stalled cars to the front of the jam, where often the cause will be a dozing cow or some man banging on his truck with a wrench.

Shortly before Srinagar it begins to rain, a light drizzle that escorts us into the city. At the first intersection a man rolls up beside us on a scooter and suggests that we follow him to his hotel.

We ignore him, but quickly realize we know nothing of Srinagar and have no idea where to go or stay. I turn to the man, who has been repeating the line “Nice room. Good price. Come.” for minutes now, and negotiate a room for 400 rupees.

“Follow me,” he shouts as he takes off across the intersection.

When the light turns green we follow him along a channel towards Dal Lake, where he leads us to a shoreline neighborhood across the street from a row of dilapidated houseboats.

The promised room is, of course, non-existent – but he does offer an overpriced room on one of the houseboats.

We put our helmets back on and kickstart the engines, only to realize we haven’t the slightest clue of where to go.

We remove our helmets and threaten to leave. The man begins discounting the price, cringing each time we demand something more economical. When the price is finally agreed he leads M- off to have a look at the room while I wait by the bikes.

I light a cigarette and watch the houseboats sway and creak against their moorings. They are far larger than I imagined. Some are over 40 meters, but many of those in my line of vision are so old and busted up that they’ve already half-sunk into the water. Some consist only of a wooden roof sticking out of the water.

I wait, leaning against my motorcycle, smoking.

A few old men in white skullcaps amble by, staring at me like those paintings with eyes that follow you around a room.

The call to prayer suddenly fills the air, scaring bats into the sky and inspiring every dog in Srinagar to begin howling.

As I light another cigarette the power suddenly returns and the lake bursts into light; radios that had been left running hours ago suddenly join the maddening symphony of dogs and muezzins.

M- appears on the dock, waving for me to come down.

I hop over the missing dock planks and onto deck to find that the dilapidated exterior was highly misleading: within is an impressive display of ostentatious luxury, with ornately-woven pashmina carpets, creamy silk curtains that sway over the doorways and a grand dining room filled with chairs upholstered in velvet.

It is an environment that makes me feel suddenly filthy and impoverished. I drop my luggage in the room, remove my wet, stinky motorcycle clothes and blacken the sink washing the oil and road grime from my hands.

I turn on the shower spout. It coughs out cold dirty water. I decide to delay my shower yet another day.

Instead I put on some okay-smelling clothes and stroll out onto the balcony at the back of the boat, where cushions have been laid out for lakeside idleness. The balustrades overlooking the lake have flowers, leaping fish and storks carved into them, and the water, now still as a mirror, reflects the night sky and the thousand little lights that twinkle from the other houseboats.

We order cinnamon and cardamom tea.

Two ducks race across the lake and take flight into the darkness.

A shikari rows our way. The boatman draws up his heart-shaped oar and calls, “Chocolate? Apple juice? Orchid seeds? Saffron?” and drifts back into the darkness.

To the left and right, neighboring vessels extend out alongside ours, with balconies like ours that reach out over the dark water like ramparts over an abyss. They are full of large Indian families, all sprawled out over the cushions in their pajamas, miniature battery-powered disco lights twirling above them as they snap flash-blinding photographs of themselves with smartphones.

A crane swoops down and lands on the black sky, wavering it into ripples.

I sip my tea.

It is the perfect conclusion to a long day of riding.