Raised in a parochial environment, where bomb sites, economic austerity, and disintegrating industries were omnipresent; low working-class aspiration prevailed on my happy childhood.
The early 1960s were my primary school years, when dreams were nurtured. Exotic adventures only existed in libraries, where I would be ‘The Man Who Would Be King’, and I would spend my ‘Seven Years in Tibet’, enthralled in its medieval magic. The Philips Modern School Atlas would become my constant companion. With just a hunger to know what the world was like, my sights were set on the vast expanse of the romantic Himalaya. And why shouldn’t they be?
Soon, Combi vans and Magic Buses would ply the route from London to Kathmandu. My time would come. The exotic, contained within the far-flung Karakorum range of mountains, was a firm ambition.
In the winter of 1981 the reveries became reality.
The time was ripe, but wars were breaking out. The USSR invaded Afghanistan, and Iran and Iraq fought out their battle for supremacy. My overland dream had taken its first hit; the route was blocked.
Unthwarted, I flew from Turkey; then bussed and trained, trucked and rickshawed, walked, carted and hitch-hiked my way to the north west of Pakistan.
The time had arrived. My assault on the Karakorums was set to resume on a wet February morning in Peshawar, near to the Pakistan-Afghanistan border.
It was an unwelcoming dawn. There was sleet in the air, and a sharp, cold wind blew.
I got up earlier than intended that day, as the prospect of walking around outside was more appealing than lying on a hard bed in a stone-cold cell of a room; besides, I was restless. My concerned mind was filled with anticipation, for on this day, my dreams were at stake. With some determination to get things going, I unravelled my way through a complex network of quiet streets. I disturbed puddles and skipped over rubbish, as I considered what fate might bring me today.
Thrilled with the numinous sound of the calls to prayer, I came across a welcoming café, whose spicy dal soup and hot nans brought some warmth back to my body and soul, I thought it a good sign that perhaps things might just turn out my way today. There was still a cutting chill in the air as the 06.10 Khyber Mail pulled out of Peshawar Cantonment on time, and soon returned me to Rawalpindi for Islamabad.
One week earlier I had applied for a government permit to visit the northern town of Gilgit and the villages of the Hunza valley in Baltistan. They lay deep within the Karakorum mountains, and it was now time to see if my wish would be granted, or if I were to be refused by falling foul of any recent government policy that might bring it crashing down?
I disembarked at Rawalpindi. This change to cold, wet weather was to my liking, as I transferred to an onward bus, which soon entered the new capital city of nearby Islamabad. I was in search of block F 1/27 which housed the Tourist Office where I had applied for the permit. I was in the hands of government officials, on edge at the uncertain outcome, but my distrust of meetings with authority proved to be unfounded, because I was well received at F1/27 by two Pakistani bureaucrats. They asked me to be seated, as they were in the middle of discussing the whereabouts of a missing German girl, with her distraught male compatriot. After half an hour of tea and earnest conversation, the German chap left the building still looking troubled, and the complaints officer turned his attention to me. He was charm personified, and well-presented too, but he surprised me with his opening line.
‘Have you read any Harold Robbins?’ he asked. I told him that I had not.
He continued, saying that he had read several and had enjoyed all of them, but was writing a letter to his superior to recommend that they be banned from Pakistan.
‘This is because of sex details’, he said, and to illustrate how well informed he was, he went on to quote examples.
“With a gleam in his eye”, he said, “He inserted her like a hot knife through butter”.
He looked over the top of his glasses towards me, and after a short pause he continued with, “She straddled him, with her pubes touching his stomach”. He winced at this, with a
wry half-smile on his face.
He told me that in spite of having enjoyed them, he thought that they should be banned, as they were a bad influence on teenagers’ moral education.
I wasn’t sure if he was testing me with an affront to Western values, but he seemed happy that I hadn’t read any Harold Robbins. Why else might this have had anything do with me? Bewildered, I was pleased when we changed tack and got down to attending to the permit application. The formalities were completed without further distraction, he handed me a copy of the paperwork and stamped my passport. Becalmed, I duly collected my permit without hitch. With the first obstacle hurdled, I cleared the second later that day, by securing a ticket for the Ford Transit mini bus that would take me along the recently opened Karakorum Highway to Gilgit.
It left at 3am the following morning.
I slept only intermittently that night, reflecting on the kind of accounts I had read as a child, of gentle lands of peace and wisdom; stories about isolated valleys supporting human life spans of over 100 years, of plants with magical healing properties, and of fabled, rarely-seen animals.
I walked to the place where the bus was due to depart, and overlooked a messy scene of confusion. I had always thought that boarding a bus to be simple; you put your bag in place, (in this case on the roof), get into your seat, and wait for the vehicle to start. But not across Asia, and Pakistan is no different. There are buckets, pots and pans and pressure cookers to be loaded, television sets and sewing machines, suitcases and boxes and hessian sacks. Everybody gets into, and then out of the bus 3 or 4 times, moving up and down the aisle changing seats, and waving goodbye to family as if they were setting off to war. This resulted in a delayed departure of 45 minutes. I had become resigned to this, and sank back in my seat to sleep until the inevitable disorder quietened down.
In the pitch dark of another cold but clear early morning, the settled transit van set off along the empty boulevards of modern Islamabad. For the next 3 hours, I tried to sleep amongst 24 other male passengers, 21 of whom were snoring.
At the first signs of dawn we pulled off the main road, and the bus went into a nervous breakdown, throwing passengers up and down and from side to side. There was a shocking noise of gravel and stones pitting the undercarriage. Everyone was now awake as we sped ‘off-piste’, and I wondered what was going on. Nobody had yet spoken. There was no sign of life on either side of this rough track.
I had wanted an adventure, and wondered if I was about to get one earlier than expected. A kidnapping? A mugging? Some retribution for taking off so selfishly like this?
These fleeting thoughts were but a contradiction, as my underlying feeling was of not being overly consumed by concern, and I soon began to look forward to how this might pan out. We were definitely not on the Karakorum Highway.
A speck of distant light grew larger until a small farmhouse around it became more distinct. What had been a silhouette of mountains was now taking on some form, flanking the wide, but steep-sided, mysterious valley. We came to a halt just by the farmhouse, where all the passengers disembarked and began constructing a Stonehenge of benches with bricks and planks of wood, circled around a soot-black 45-gallon drum. They picked up bits of kindling and threw them into the cylinder and started a fire. Everyone sat huddled in blankets, many were drawing on cigarettes as if hunched over a chillum, waiting for the fire to catch alight.
Fully alert, I sat and watched and wondered.
Two of the farmhouse’s residents rushed into action, the first handed each of us a metal plate. The second served a tasty hot nan bread straight from the tandoor, it was brushed with lashings of butter ghee. Later came a third resident, handing out metal bowls of the morning’s thick and creamy buffalo curd. The steam rose from the nan as pieces were torn off to scoop up the rich curd. I closed my eyes in ecstasy as I gorged, pausing to allow every mouthful to nourish every part of my ravenous body. I entered another plane of existence when a glass of sweet, spicy tea was offered. I am convinced to this day, that I had eaten the best ever meal of my life.
For the next few hours I drifted in a state between fantasy and reality, unsure if I was watching a movie, or being in one. Exchanging fresh oranges, with my revived companions, I looked out of the window. There was a man by the side of the road, standing on the meat-stripped carcass of a water buffalo, he was wielding an axe to decapitate it, blood stains covered his hands and his long kurta. Although the beast was long dead, I still looked away before the hefty blow.
We gained height and I looked down the side of the bus. In the absence of crash barriers, its wheels rotated within inches of falling nearly 1000 feet into the river Indus. Amongst the rocks at the bottom of the valley lay another carcass, one of a gaudily painted truck, lying on its side, and like the buffalo, it too had been stripped of anything useful.
At this point in the valley the land looked fertile and its south-facing side was showing the first green shoots of the season. Every inch of productive land had been cultivated by centuries of hard and clever work, into tight terraces. It was well cared for, and in excellent shape; a thing of great beauty.
The next reprieve from sitting concertinaed in stale air, came at the wooden shack of a roadside café. Now warm enough to sit outside, I relished every moment of the crisp, refined air and sharp mountain light – another new thrill to me.
I wondered from how far away people had come to this small, but crucial group of buildings, amongst which were valuable suppliers of practical goods, this café, and the well-stocked munitions store.
Looking towards my fellow passengers, there seemed little chance of conversation. I sensed no feeling of excitement or adventure amongst them: the journey was a means to an end, all they desired was a safe passage. Their body language clearly expressed this, as we all clambered back into the minibus.
The Transit resumed, leaving behind a cloud of dust and grit. As we progressed along NH-35, the Karakorum Highway, the landscape became bleaker, more dramatic, more exciting. Green turned to brown, cows less common than goats, new crops of barley more evident. The valley sides were steeper, and way down below, the River Indus was an icy streak of jade green, roaring through the landscape like injected dye. The road was even more hazardous and each lorry we passed was an edgy moment, but nobody blinked. This was my road to Damascus, it was my time to become a fatalist.
We crawled along the tarmacked mountain ledge. I was becoming claustrophobic, as we were now 16 hours into the journey along the foreboding and narrowing valley. The mountains, like huge monoliths of hashish hemmed us in. My patience began to show its first cracks.
Darkness had cast a veil amidst the highly spiritual sound of far distant calls to prayer. There was no horizon, all the passengers silent as we were exhausted by our own restlessness. I could no longer tell where we were, the dim lights of the bus revealing very little, everyone wanted relief from this journey, myself included.
Without notice, the topography flattened out and there were silhouettes of trees on the side of the road, and when a few street lights appeared I prayed to God that we might finally be in Gilgit.
All passengers were now wide awake. With an air of expectancy, everyone was beginning to collect themselves. The imminent release from confinement, and the hope that we had reached our terminus, replenished my energy levels. The bus came to a halt and everyone calmly disembarked in a state of relief and exhaustion. We were indeed in Gilgit.
Last off the bus, I untangled my feet from loose rope on the ground, and collected my rucksack from the pile of bags and belongings that had been swiftly unloaded from the roof. I made a few relieving stretches and filled my lungs, before I was directed past a grim line of single-storey breeze-block buildings that looked like lock-up garages, their cold metal roller-blind facades were brushed by a strong and biting wind. All of the other 24 passengers, and their bags, had disappeared in the blink of an eye, and by the time I had completed a short walk within this ghost town, I found myself isolated outside the entrance to a small guest house. It was burning an intimate light at the window. I entered the low wicker gate and walked through a small garden, ducking under an almond tree, to the front door. I asked if there was a room available, to find that I was the only guest.
I signed in, writing my details into the large and orderly guest book, which revealed that nobody had stayed there for over one month. I liked it, there was a pre-partition feel to the place and I was looking forward to a hot shower, but my liking for my new home diminished a little when I was told that the water supply was off, and I was shown a freezing cold bathroom, where a bucket of icy water sat in the middle of the floor.
I slept well in my down sleeping bag, but on waking, my protruding nose identified the unmistakable smell of a sub-zero temperature in the room. Splashing the exhilarating cold water over my warm body, I was beside myself with excitement to explore what I hadn’t been able to see in the dark the night before, so I stepped outside into that same sharp light. The air had such a cleansing freshness about it, but my condensing breath reminded me of its bite.
Here I was – in Baltistan! I turned my head, like an owl, to take it in. Initially I was confused by the absence of those bleak garage units. Where had they all gone? They too, had been sleeping, but they awoke before I had, and had been transformed into a vibrant market, becoming shops displaying their wares on the road outside. They begged a close inspection.
I slalomed through and around, hessian sacks of rice and pulses, dried fruits and seeds, spices and fine-looking vegetables I had not seen the like of. There was a hardware store, an herbalist, a saddler’s shop, a sweet shop, a pharmacy next to a shop selling an unidentifiable array of roots, bones, dried skins, feet, ears, horns and leaves. There was a shop stacked with beautiful old tins and a set of ancient scales, and a shop selling nothing other than the ubiquitous fresh juicy oranges of the region. Then there was Mr. Shah’s souvenir handicraft shop.
Over the road was a small café, its steamed-up windows drew me inside, and I waited for the mutton and chick pea curry to cook, warming my hands on a glass of hot gowah chai in the meantime. People with drops on the end of red noses came in to do the same.
A boy of the establishment, holding a dirty damp rag, came up to my table and told me that I was the first tourist this year – it was early February. I sat there with a feeling of great contentment, wondering who the previous person was.
It was cosy, and after the warming late breakfast, I returned to the street where Mr. Shah was keen to introduce himself. He invited me in, and I feigned a lack of interest and said that I would politely take a cursory look. I could tell from his display of goods on the pavement, and from my initial glance inside, that I would be captivated by his stock, which I suspected hadn’t moved too much since the tourist from last year was here. I warned him that I would not be buying anything, but he knew differently.
A boy soon arrived with a glass of tea, then presented me with a rough wooden stool to sit upon. My eyes were overworked as I was enchanted by the eclectic display before me. I looked at mannequins supporting Kashmiri woollen gowns embroidered with silver thread, scarves and heavy sweaters of local Hunza wool, goatskins, and Pashmina shawls of the finest wool known to mankind. On the floor there was some serious second-hand mountaineering equipment – coils of coloured rope, boots of all sizes, crampons, ice axes, helmets, harnesses, backpacks and sleeping bags, pulleys and slings, and carabiners – locking and non-locking. On a shelf in the corner of the shop a stuffed Himalayan buzzard stretched its wings over a tiny red-whiskered bulbul bird. There was a loose pile of the distinct Hunza caps, and heavy, rough scarves from Afghanistan, as well as long Johns of all sizes displayed alongside silk robes from Japan. He held a fine collection of books, new and second-hand, they were mostly photographic and in English, as well as folding maps at all scales. What I had perceived the night before as a bleak garage unit, was now a 20th century, pre-Ming dynasty Silk Road trading post, packed with exotic riches.
Mr. Shah was a quiet and composed man, and after we had spent nearly an hour together, I thanked him and told him that I would return. He could clearly tell by the look in my eyes, that I meant it, so he let me go easily.
At an amble, I set off westwards from Mr. Shah’s shop in the direction of the Chitral valley. The path took me along a jeep track through suburban Gilgit. The low-rise houses were hardly noticeable, being built of the same stone and mud that dominated the enveloping landscape, only the minarets of the mosque rose above them.
I slowed down from my amble, sitting on rocks, closely observing each colour and texture. Sustaining myself on the intense flavours of dried apricot, cherry, green and black raisin, moist almond, date and crunchy pumpkin seed. I absorbed new scents of mountain grasses and cool water fuelling the air with ozone. I still possessed the same senses and nervous system that was comatose in the last couple of hours of my journey, yet here I was pulsating with life – much like the row of shops, I had become transformed.
Sharply alert to everything, including danger, I tremulously crossed a swaying rope suspension bridge, into a valley that was contained by towering snow-covered mountains.
They became menacing. My concern for the fading light, the returning chill and the thickening cloud, turned me around. Unprepared to “walk into the valley of the shadow of death”, I headed back in the direction of Gilgit town.
On the return journey, I met a small group of children who were in a playful mood, and they gathered around me. They practiced a few elementary English phrases and grew in confidence. The oldest one, who looked about 10 years old, stepped forward, opened a small polythene bag, and offered me some of the contents. I looked inside at the minced green leaves. I thought, ’Could this be what I think it is? Surely not, not at his age’.
I took a pinch between my fingers, placed it in my mouth, and began to chew it. My naivety sent them into uncontrollable giggles.
He returned to the polythene bag, wiped his hand on his dirty djellaba, and took two fingers full of the green substance, and packed it under his bottom lip to illustrate how it should be used. None of them made any attempt to contain their mirth.
I was still wondering as I left them behind, but after walking away, I knew for certain what it was. It suddenly hit me. I was stoned, absolutely stoned.
I zig-zagged along the straight path, trailing my feet and tripping over stones, thinking what a wonderful life this was. Feeling like a feather thrown from the top of Mount Nanga Parbat, I looked back, intrigued by this disquieting situation, but the children had gone, they had disappeared, scarpered like hobbits, into their camouflaged homes.
No longer pulsating with life, I rested in the last sunny spot, gleaning the meagre remains of its warmth. I became ensconced on a large rock on the edge of town, and sat in peace, absorbing the tail end of the day as careless as a small child. I collected myself and floated along the same path that I had found difficult to negotiate only a few hours previously. On entering the town, I looked differently into the eyes and faces of every male I passed. I looked to the ground and noticed amongst the litter, a few small, empty polythene packets, green-stained and carelessly discarded.
I loitered in Gilgit until I felt steady enough to return to Mr. Shah’s souvenir shop, where he welcomed me with more tea. He told me I was the first tourist since November. He seemed to like me, and he liked also that I showed an interest in everything he proudly displayed in his shop. I could feel his respect, and his reaction suggested that he was not only honoured by my visit, he was also satisfied with my purchase of two warm Afghani scarves, a woollen waistcoat and two woollen Hunza caps. I was also satisfied with the purchase, but was concerned that the added bulk to my rucksack would be a hindrance, once I returned south.
So, trusting him to offer an honest answer, I asked him what would be the most reliable way of sending them back home to the UK, after I had left the cold climate.
At first, he said nothing, then with a summary backward nod of the head, indicating that I should follow him as he stepped outside of the shop, he placed an arm over my shoulder. Although there was nobody within earshot, he stretched up to whisper into my ear, ‘Oh, you see, we Pakistani people, we Pakistanis, have a reputation for being a dishonest…’, he leant back and spat into the gutter, ‘…for being a dishonest nation’, he continued. ‘I think you might not receive it, if you post it here’.
I was surprised by his reply, but I heeded his warning with a short nod, and a sorry smile. I collected up my package and returned to the guest house. Soon awaiting me was a bucket of hot water in the freezing cold bathroom. I washed my hair, and feeling hungry, I walked the dark street to the Jubilee Hotel café with steam rising from my head.
Condensation on the windows suggested that it would be warm inside, and that was a good enough reason in itself to enter, so I stepped in to find it full of men, wearing heavy djellabas, leaning over their food. Chicken and lentil curry soon came with rice and roti.
I was enjoying the warmth, and after eating, I sat wondering what all these men might be talking about. I consumed 7 glasses of delicious gowah tea with cardamom, in order to seek refuge from the biting wind that had got up outside. I thawed my toes on the kerosene heater, placed amongst the discarded mutton and chicken bones under the table, and was determined to stay inside this restaurant until it closed at 9.45pm.
With half an hour to go I was disturbed from my diary by a man wearing a black PVC jacket, and military-issue khaki trousers, his name was Mr. Mohammed Ali Shah.
He introduced himself as the District liaison officer, and I could best describe him as being jerky. He darted from one thing to another and spoke so fast that his language was unintelligible. As he spoke to me in cryptic English, he carried on conversing with others at the table, in Urdu. He was also eating his meal, and adjusting the buckle on his waist belt, all at the same time, and all at twice the necessary pace. He appeared to be in a constant hurry, and I was beginning to wonder what a small polythene bag might do for him.
He resembled a meerkat with bulging eyes, and was wearing a white Hunza cap, the local hat that looks like the top of a GPO pillar-box.
His demeanour was too intense for me to feel relaxed in his company, and as I bid him goodnight, he earnestly expressed that as I was the guest here, it was his duty to serve me as a subordinate.
I left with the feeling that that would not be the last I would see of Mr. Mohammed Ali Shah. He was staying at the Jubilee Hotel, and would be travelling to Karimabad the following morning.
Gilgit was not intended to be my ultimate destination on this adventure, and although Mr. Shah’s souvenir shop went a long way to convincing me that I had reached the faraway paradise I had dreamed of as a child, I wanted to go further into the Karakorum range and was lured by the name of the district of Hunza. It sounded exotic, it sounded romantic, and it was furthest away from anything I had ever experienced.
It was only 3 hours by road, and I needed to find out how to get there.
The following morning, I packed up my things and took them along to the Jubilee hotel, where I had breakfast. Avoiding another onslaught from the liaison officer was on my mind, but he was already there, and he soon latched on to me. I quickly excused myself from his company explaining that I had to complete some business with his namesake, the gentle souvenir shop proprietor. It was a relief to share a relaxing tea in the company of Mr. Shah in his repository of riches. His presence threw oil on troubled waters, but sadly not for long, as I was spotted from the street by the liaison officer.
Knowing that I wanted to visit Hunza, his duty compelled him to jostle me into a nearby waggon, functioning as a minibus service. It was bound for Karimabad, just a few miles short of my destination, and as it turned out, I should have been very grateful for his presence and his protection.
I was privileged to be given a front seat, next to Mohammed Ali Shah so that I could take photographs, as he had informed me that that was what tourists did.
More by demand than request, I was further informed that I should take a photograph of all of the passengers, grouped at a stone hut where we stopped for tea on the way.
The position of each passenger was organised by Mohammed Ali Shah; he set everyone up like you would a football squad having their end-of-season team photo taken, with him taking up the captain’s position of front row, centre. He was clearly an expert in all matters photographic.
I was plied with fresh oranges and dried fruits and nuts of the highest quality, and given royal treatment all the way.
I turned my gaze to the side window, hoping for peace, and I marvelled at this valley taking us deep into Baltistan. We turned east into the valley of the Hunza river, which was emitting a thunderous echo hundreds of feet below. I was astounded how Chinese and Pakistani engineers had managed to build a road through it.
The Karakorum Highway had only been open for two years, and part of me felt guilty to be travelling along it, and being an early part of such a disturbance to a rich culture that had remained so tight for centuries. This new highway was about to change all that, and I regretted not coming here earlier as part of the trickle of the more eccentric, intrepid and focussed travellers to the region. Another part of me felt so humbled to be amongst these people. What had I done to receive their respect? I thought that I was the one who should feel subordinate at the home of such generous people, but I told myself that I should accept this attitude to guests graciously, because that was how things were done here.
The scale of the mountains only increased that feeling of humility, I was a nanoparticle on the face of the earth, which was becoming more beautiful by the mile.
There was a jolt in our journey. We came to a pile of rocks that had obviously been placed in the middle of the road to stop our progress, a bus ahead of us had got through, but was now attempting a U-turn on the narrow surface. My first thoughts were of a landslide just around the bend, and as the bus somehow completed the tight manoeuvre and passed us by, our captain took control and ordered us to get out and clear a pathway by rolling some of the rocks over the mountainside. We slowly progressed to inspect the situation. On reaching the brow of the hill just ahead of the bend, the problem became clear.
Mohammed Ali Shah was agitated, he ordered, ‘Put the camera out, it am being very danger here, hide it completely’. There were several hundred people gathered across the road, some 200 yards ahead. A lorry was pulling away from them, and back towards us.
My first reaction was one of catastrophic disappointment that I might not fulfil my long-held dream.
The lorry passed with its windscreen smashed, a boy in the passenger seat was bailing out lethal rocks. I felt very excited, my heart beating rapidly, but it became becalmed as my thoughts turned to my family. I sensed serious danger here.
‘What is it?’ I asked Mohammed Ali Shah.
‘A gathering of the people’, he replied.
‘Yes, I can see it’s a gathering of the people, but why are they gathering?’ I asked further.
‘They are gathering’, was the next unsatisfactory reply.
‘Yes, but what do they want?’, I tried again, before trying several other different ways of asking the same question. All I could glean was that they were a delegation taking their appeal to the Divisional Officer.
‘Appeal for what?’ I asked. Again, my questioning got me nowhere. Mohammed Ali Shah was not liaising very well with me.
The liaison officer and two passengers walked the 200 yards into the dip that lay beyond the bend, and I looked on, in anticipation, anxious that I might be attacked or kidnapped, and consequently fail to reach Hunza.
As the two sides met, our driver slowly moved the vehicle forwards. I dropped the blanket from my shoulders and clutched it over my knees, ready to hold it up to cushion the blow of any rocks that might come crashing through our windscreen.
As we approached, I covered my head with the blanket. Some of the faces peering into the waggon displayed a mental imbalance as they brandished heavy sticks. Had “the lunatics taken over the asylum”? We were allowed to pass and I muttered a thanks to God for putting me in touch with Mohammed Ali Shah, liaison officer extraordinaire.
We penetrated further into Baltistan, and shortly after passing through Karimabad, I disembarked at the roadside, where I was met by a young boy, who pointed up into the sky and said, ‘Hunza Inn’. My guest house was a climb of several hundred feet, up the terraced hillside in the rarefied air.
My host at the inn was a beast of a man with a thick black beard and a filthy kurta. He was friendly and projected a shy, gentle manner; neither of us had a word of the other’s language. He watched me crouching. I was doubled over with my hands on my knees, drawing breath before I could co-ordinate myself well enough to tip the boy.
The Hunza Inn became my home for the next three days. There are hotels all over the world situated to command stunningly beautiful views; the Hunza Inn must be very high on that list, and at a pittance per night, it must be the cheapest, and at this time of year, one of the coldest.
The building, painted green and white, was of stone and timber, with a mud floor that was covered in dust, and the odd dhurrie. My room consisted of a single bed with blankets, a table and chair, a bare ceiling light, a nail on the back of the door on which to hang clothes, and if you were lucky, you could rent the one and only kerosene heater by the hour. I liked this place very much.
From the shuttered window there was a panorama of the snow-covered peaks of the Karakorum mountain range.
Government regulations decree that all hotel guests must register. As I complied, I looked through the previous pages. In two years, it only had had a matter of a few dozen guests. Under the column marked ‘Profession’ were listed painters, writers, geologists, an ecologist, an acupuncturist from Delhi, an anthropologist, mining students and ski instructors. A British traveller named John Murphy listed himself as a bricklayer. I wondered if, in his childhood, he might have held similar dreams to my own. I would have liked to have met him.
I sat in my room with the kerosene heater pumping out it’s fumes, but this only attracted the liaison officer who had later followed me up from the roadside. I told him that I wanted to write my diary, and needed silence. He said he would be quiet. I said I needed solitude, so he said I could have it – he would sit in the corner out of the way. I started to write my diary, so he started writing too. He was recording the journey from Gilgit to Hunza for a magazine, and mumbled the words aloud, as he wrote them down on paper. Even when he didn’t mumble, his lips still moved.
He was disturbing my thoughts, so I gave up and listened to what he was writing. When he had finished he showed me the article. It read:
‘A GOLDEN SHINING DAY OF HUNZA TOUR VISIT TO KARIMABAD 10TH OF FEB – 1981 DAY OF TUESDAY BY VAGEUN GLT 1445’.
‘It is the central iedia of the theory of visit at Daineur Gilgit to Hunza Karimabad between the journey maney places town and village and city. HQ meet to us behind of Shahrah-e-Rashim. Mataling Road, the road is truckable and usable and clean and clear long road from Gilgit to Gunjial Hunza, China bondray. In the journey 14 the persons passengers are load and sitting seats in the waggon 1445/GLT Blue Light Motor Model 68. Mr Lall being driver were drive the waggon. My friend Steve Empson Tourist and traveller for NAS and world traveller with me, as liason officer Mr Mohammed Ali Shah MC, OSD Tehsildar were in visit and tour at Karimabad the maney town: 1). Skinderabad village. 2). Nilet village, Ghulmit town and Yall, Pesun towns. Nasirabad, where Rakha Poshi stands as a bodyguard, Muhafiz as Hunza bondry and sub Division District Gilgit. The Rakha Poshi is stand between Peson village and Nasirabad Minapen of the area of Karimabad of deleacius peace of Hunza NAWO Rest home and T and T SCO Building are here for fasilities of the local people’.
Mr. Mohammed Ali Shah looked at me, with a slightly smug expression on his face, and asked ‘How is it?’ He clearly only wanted to hear one answer, and I saw no point in offering anything other than the one he was hoping for, so I told him that it was fine. I felt the burden should fall on his poor sub-editor to break the news that some amendments may be necessary. He felt satisfied enough by my reply to take an early night, and I was left in peace.
I awoke early to the sound of his voice at the entrance to the inn, and I feared another day of incessant gobbledegook. I breathed a sigh of relief as Mohammed Ali Shah did his best to announce that he was leaving for Karimabad that morning; he was finding it difficult to enunciate due to something lodged behind his bottom lip, but I was becalmed by the good news and I needed no further detail.
Outside, the crystalline air thrilled once again, its chill caught the back of my throat. My introduction to Baltistan was to walk the terraces overlooking the Hunza valley. They were a marvel to me, lying hundreds of feet above the river, and many thousands of feet below the surrounding mountains, yet after several miles of walking this topography, I had neither climbed nor fallen any more than a few feet. They followed the contour beautifully, with just the slightest gradient to accommodate and direct, the fresh water supply that trickled alongside the footpath to irrigate the fields.
It was easy walking. I slowed to absorb the view. In the distance I spotted a bobbing movement just above ground level. I paused, held my breath, and moved stealthily towards it. It continued to bob up and down on the spot. Moving in, I rubbed my eyes, it looked like a human head topped with a local Hunza cap.
Preparing for something macabre to unfold, I sighed, as I got close enough to take in the whole picture.
An old man was sitting in a hole in the ground, working away at a simple loom. Protected from biting winds, he sat contentedly in his bivouac and wove yards of fine woollen cloth used in the manufacture of caps, like the one he was wearing. He smiled, then surprised me by asking for a photo, and then for a baksheesh, actions that revealed the effect of the Karakorum highway, and the part I was playing in it, which determined my indifference to his demands.
Nearby was a small settlement of houses and farm buildings, where I approached two women fully draped in black cloth, carrying large bundles of Poplar twigs, on their heads, for kindling. In due course they noticed me, and with an uneasy jerk in their movements, they hurriedly covered their faces with a black veil, I was quite startled to observe the severe looking cotton grille across their eyes. They quickly turned their bodies to the wall, and placed their covered noses close to it. I had never seen anything like this before, and I felt a natural inclination to apologize, but their actions were not pejorative, so I passed quietly by, very unsure of myself, and feeling something of an intruder.
I trekked in the direction of Skardu, hoping for a view of K2, the world’s second highest peak, but it proved elusive, and after another long hike, I returned along the footpath to the Hunza Inn. I arrived exhausted in the fading light. With the power supply again cut off, I fell asleep alongside my rented kerosene heater.
The following morning, Mr. Mohammed Ali Shah had still not returned, and after a breakfast of cold porridge, I hung around until the icy chill was replaced by a warming sun.
With no plan for the day ahead, I consulted the map I had bought from Mr. Shah, to see that there was a village named Altit nearby, so with renewed motivation, and the prospect of adventuring without either expectation nor a liaison officer, I set off.
I skipped alongside the same high drystone wall that I had passed alone, four times previously. This time I encountered a middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face, walking in the opposite direction. He stopped me to ask where I was going, so I told him, then he took me by the arm and led me back a short distance to point out a gap in the wall I had just passed, without noticing, for the fifth time. It was my wardrobe into Narnia, and I took a deep breath to take in the beauty of the majestic view of the valley that was laid before me.
The hairpin nature of the track turned me around, and the configuration of bare rock, vegetation and drystone walling framed the staggering outlook onto a fertile, but dormant valley. Its terraces were lined with tall, white-stemmed Poplars, some still holding onto a few of last season’s leaves, flickering grey and white as they turned in the breeze. Almond, cherry, and apricot trees awaited the warmth of spring to flood the valley with pink blossom. The land was bathed in a light that revealed each tone of its dominating ochres, out of which soared the near-vertical dark mountains of purples and greys, capped white beneath the cool, clear blue of a thin sky.
My fleeting guide left me, and I stood alone, unable to take it all in, so I stopped trying, and I breathed. I closed my eyes to take in the sound of the wind, and the shrill call of birds high in the sky. I took in smells I couldn’t identify, except for the scent of the drying earth, leaves, and the grasses I was crushing underfoot. I breathed again and let it slowly fill me up, as I opened my eyes and looked to the horizon. I don’t know how long I stayed there but I felt elated to the core of my being. This landscape had a tangible spirit, and I began to understand the strength of its residents’ devotion to God.
In my slow walk along the undulating footpath, I dropped through the terraces, some 500 feet further towards the valley bottom, until I came upon the outskirts of the village. There was no sudden change to the eye, as small stone buildings of unknown function, emerged amongst the retaining walls of the same stone. In the near distance there rose a rocky outcrop, so dominant a landmark, that it must have had a local epithet, but I didn’t know what it was.
The village lay before it, climbing like a ramshackle ziggurat, one flat-roof dwelling stepped above the next as it climbed the rocky outcrop. Every building was constructed from the same mud and stone that they stood upon. Windows and doors, lintels and joists were all crafted from the poplars and walnut trees that still grew only yards away. There was a sense of complete harmony in its organic growth up to the vertical outcrop of naked rock, upon which sat the austere and utilitarian fort of Altit.
Defence and survival were the predominant deliberations here, that, along with the sensibilities of its creators, resulted in a pragmatic and congruous settlement of great beauty.
This medieval world received me unnoticed; the unseen voyeur, I saw women in homespun cloth holding pots, pans and babies; children playing with sticks in the dirt, an old man with a bail of hay roped to his back. There was a tethered goat, a gawping buffalo, and a few chickens ran around back-heeling dust and wheat husks from the ground.
Children were the first to spot me; they gawped like the buffalo. Then women, noticing the change in their children’s play, looked across and modestly adjusted their hijabs to shield their identity from me.
The first to overcome shyness was a middle-aged man. He assumed that I had come to visit the fort, so I would therefore need to be escorted. He offered his services. I would have preferred to visit alone, but it seemed inappropriate to refuse an act of kindness.
We walked too quickly. With something of a command of the English language he informed me that the fort was over 1000 years old, and used to be the home of the Mir of Hunza. I felt less of an intrusion with him by my side, and we began the treacherous climb up to this remarkable building. The staircases of stone were on the verge of collapse, it might have been a good idea to have invested in some of the second-hand climbing equipment from Mr. Shah’s souvenir shop. Within the fort, warped doors tilted on their broken hinges. Centuries before, craftsmen had carved their fine filigree details from that plentiful supply of walnut trees outside. Rooms were littered with rubble and rubbish, but held the surprise of beautiful old vessels, once used to store wine – they were vulnerable, and thick with dust and grime; all was in an engaging state of disrepair, yet it felt alive.
My newfound guide was not keen on me lingering, he was becoming impatient. He lit a cigarette and leant against one of the solid walnut pillars by the mantlepiece, so I took the opportunity to climb onto the roof alone.
The strategic position of the fort became absolutely clear as I looked out on my new horizon. High above the river I could see up and down the valley for miles, commanding a clear view of the confluence of routes from China, India, Russia and Afghanistan. It was imperative in giving Hunza the upper hand in defence and trade. The contour map in the Philip’s Modern School Atlas was limited in how it could convey what lay before me – it was the most exotic place I had ever visited.
My hazardous tour of the fort was over, and I felt blessed by whatever force it was that led me here. My guide had given little away about himself, so in a bid to show my gratitude and to get to know something of the people around Altit, I offered to buy him some tea.
He led me to a simple hotel where we were served gowah.
We sat on cushions at a low table, that had seen little care. I looked around me, looking for clues as to how people socialised in this distant land, only to be reminded of just how far-reaching the British Empire had been. In the corner of the room I noticed a colourful cardboard box, revealing that the former power had brought the game of Ludo to the outer reaches of the Indian sub-Continent.
Soon enough, 6 or 7 enthusiastic men gathered around, and the board was set up.
The game began. Basic rules came back to me, competitors got excited. Amongst the coloured plastic counters of a simple children’s game, I was no longer the uncomfortable voyeur. I joined in whole-heartedly, and those watching became more confident in the presence of a foreigner.
In spite of my being the guest of honour, an observer sitting opposite me, began picking up my piece and presumed to move it for me, showing off his English by announcing the result of my throw of the dice, followed by a ‘thank you’.
The initial humour became tedious. I was merely throwing the dice without being allowed to decide which piece to move, and all the injustices I felt playing this game when I was a child, and things weren’t going my way, flooded back involuntarily. This usurper was irritating, forcing his guest into a position of subordination. A change of tactic was required; I collected up my piece, ready to move it, before the dice had landed. I had foiled him, ensuring that my goodwill towards these warm people was left intact. I came last, which added to the fun. Having already forgiven my annoying supporter, I added further to the merriment by shaking hands with everyone in the British way.
I prepared to return to the inn, but my guide had other plans. In the absence of a lead-lined room, he took me aside in the open air and whispered close to my ear that he had personally mined some rubies of the highest quality, and implied that I would be a fool not to buy them at the very good price he was offering.
The ruby market was strictly controlled by the government, with severe penalties imposed upon those involved in illegal mining and sales. I came down hard telling him that I definitely wasn’t interested, and that even if the trade had been legal, I would not have been interested, because rubies did not impress me; doing business did nothing to interest me, and being caught at the border with contraband most definitely did nothing to interest me. I appealed to him to let me peacefully return as looking at rubies was the last thing I wanted to do.
He took me to his friend’s house to see the rubies. We climbed the rungs of the ladder to the first floor, where there was an old man sitting in a chair next to a bed. A few words of Burushaki were spoken and he got up. I was feeling quite uncomfortable, as I adjusted my new woollen waistcoat and doffed my Hunza cap. Under the bed linen lay an old woman taking rest. She was turned over as her matrass was lifted up on one side. From underneath, my guide pulled out a parcel wrapped in cloth and paper, and slowly peeled back the coverings. He expected me to swoon, but I didn’t, I was flatly irresponsive and said nothing. I was altogether displeased with the situation, but kept my silence.
‘Best quality, good business’, was the sales pitch, but after an awkward few minutes I remained resolute and was allowed to leave empty-handed, and the old lady was left to sleep in peace.
I returned to the Hunza Inn, and did my best to overlook the denouement of what had been a great adventure. I looked forward to my quiet room, but I was greeted by the man I had put out of my mind all day – the first-class magistrate, Mr. Mohammed Ali Shah CSO Martial Law Enquiry Officer.
He shattered my inner peace in an instant. He spoke to me in his usual way; 30-odd syllables, followed by a breath, regardless of whether he was in the middle of a word or not. He strangely found time to show me his martial law license allowing him to shoot anybody at his discretion. Fortunately, he couldn’t stay around long enough to discuss the matter, as he had urgent business in nearby Aliabad.
I spent the evening playing cribbage with an eleven-year-old boy, thus closing out what had been a day to remember.
It felt right to move on the following morning, and after an improved breakfast of hot porridge, I settled my bill at the Hunza Inn. A waggon was waiting in the valley deep below us, and after the climb down, when I settled into my seat, I was joined by Mohammed Ali Shah, licenced to kill. He greeted me with the news that he had written a poem whilst he had been away, and that he wished to read it to me.
‘POEM THE HUNZA BEAUTY’ ‘HISTORICAL’ ‘STRUCTURE’
‘When saw I a place of Danur
I cannot has seen before
In my life I am a passenger
I have no gun, no friend and danger
The historical structure will not forget in future
I was a geust of Hunza bondry
I also a geust with tourist passenger, hungry
Wen the passenger see they are angry
Beacuas we are forn country
The historical structure couldn’t forgeten in future
This the long wayTehsil Gujial
From the Gilgit in the north Punyal
A beautiful upside seanar at Thowl
Near the Karimabad channel
When all the tourist Hunza Inn future
The historical structure couldn’t forget in future
The beautiful a house of Mir
Behind stand a Gilishar Panur
Here standing Steve Empson
Seeing and choise scenery Dianur
Beautiful dealicios resthouse
But we have in this time any house
We are passenger by God
See to me always why not?
We always seeing Aliabad
We are a gest of Karimabad
Why do not Hassanabad
It also handsome Hassanabad
Road are a town and country
We are like Gupis, Yasin, Bundary
Beginning the area Skindar
Is Rakha Poshi boundary
Sub division Hunza haidary
This beauty Hunza, Nigary
Hert and eyes of country’
MA Shah Tabassum Kazim
Tehsildar, Peot of SkD
(NAS PAKISTAN)
Once more the writer was anticipating adulation, and although I couldn’t go so far as to say that I had just witnessed the living Wordsworth of Hunza, my generous nod and my smile were enough to boost his self-esteem even further.
The constant use of letters after his name ensured that we were all reminded of where Mr. Mohammed Ali Shah stood in the social hierarchy. He explained to me that he simply categorised people into two groups: qualified and unqualified, and ‘Once one grew into a beautiful qualified butterfly from an unqualified grub, one ceased to be an ignorant peasant whose comments were not worth listening to’.
I was travelling the return journey to Gilgit, but I felt no sense of deflation, my spirits remained high as I wondered what the Karakorum Highway and my travelling companions might conjure up for the next 3 hours.
I was grateful to our liaison officer for his curiosity. Because he kept his finger on the pulse of local affairs, it meant that we slowed down when something interesting was happening. On such an occasion, where there was a small gathering of the people at the roadside, we crawled along to watch the sale of meat. The crowd that had gathered was one of unqualified grubs, and they were standing around a wooden dais overhung by the large bough of a poplar tree, which had a set of metal scales hanging from it. The central figure in this crowd of men was weighing and selling the cuts of fresh meat, whilst only a few yards away from the dais, lay evidence of its source. A bloodstained buffalo hide was stretched out beside a pool of blood, soaking its nutrients into the soil. One of the animal’s large testicles hung from a nearby tree, like a speciality set aside for a privileged customer.
To my surprise, we continued without stopping, so upon arrival in Gilgit I had become desperate for refreshment, and stepped straight into a teashop. I had just sat down, when a local man approached. He was keen to get to know me, and to take the opportunity to practice his English. I was taken aback by the peremptory nature of his initial questions; ‘Where do you come from?’, ‘What is your profession?’, ‘Have you marriage?’ But he calmed down to hold more of a conversation.
He asked me, ‘Britain, I hear is a much-civilised place, more than Pakistan’.
After the hospitality I had received here, I was saddened by this tone of self-effacement.
I thought back to an article I had read in an English newspaper in the British Council library in Peshawar. It reported skinheads rampaging a London suburb on a ‘Paki-bashing’ spree, leaving two or three of them with severe brain damage. There was little likelihood that they would ever be able to lead a normal life.
How was I supposed to answer his question?
I felt like these events shamed me as I sat amongst such humble and respectful company, but each has to deal with its own atrocities.
I was feeling feeble after the journey, and I found it difficult to explain, but felt a duty to at least inform in the best way I could. I did not want to upset or mislead my companion, so I left him with the reply, ‘Just like Pakistan – in some ways it is, but not always’, which I admit was being vague, so I added that, ‘Most Englishmen have no idea what your country and its population, are like.’
As we left, he paid for my tea, and I hoped that he might read between my lines.
After the high of visiting Altit, it was back to scrubbing my clothes with a bar of carbolic soap on the bathroom floor as I prepared myself for the return journey along the Karakorum Highway to Islamabad.
‘For my protection’, Mohammed Ali Shah had insisted that we share a twin room at the Jubilee Hotel, and as I reluctantly checked-in, I wondered if he knew something I didn’t.
I went to bed early. With my back to MA Shah’s bed. I was about to nod-off, when my room-mate suddenly stood to attention on his straw mat, and began his evening prayers towards Mecca. Moments later, two military policemen burst in and started earnest discussions with him, as he sat on the side of his bed in his pyjama.
It was exciting but I was not to become privy to what was discussed. None-the-wiser, I eventually fell into a sound sleep. In the early hours I was awoken by the sound of a stick making a sharp rapping noise on the door of our room. It could not have been for me.
The rap was followed by the sound of a thumping fist, and I looked over to MA Shah, who was fast asleep.
It must be for him. The knock came again and I hoped it might go away, but after each knock, I was coming further round, whereas MA Shah was still snoring. After yet another thumping knock, I decided that I couldn’t ignore it any longer. It was cold and the room wasas dark as pitch. I stumbled on discarded shoes, clutching at my lunghi, before managing to open the door. There stood a military policeman in a heavy overcoat with a rifle slung over his shoulder. I stepped back in alarm, but he immediately apologised and made signs that suggested he had got the wrong room. I asked him, ‘MA Shah?’ and pointed to a heap of blankets.
The policeman entered and sat down. MA Shah got up and washed, whilst his colleague knelt to pray. MA Shah started singing, then tea arrived.
At 5am, I gave up any attempt at sleeping. A fire was lit, and four more military policemen arrived, and so began the party to welcome the sunrise. Breakfast was brought to the door, and MA Shah switched from Urdu to his particular brand of English and tried to explain the 72 branches of Islam to me, but he might as well have continued speaking Urdu, as I could not follow a word he was saying.
I tucked into my breakfast, feeling the stark contrast between this lively ‘Nissen hut’ of a room shared by myself, 5 military police and a martial law enquiry officer, all licenced to kill, and the silent and peaceful isolation of walking the Hunza valley alone. I was enjoying myself immensely.
The cause of the disturbance to my sleep remained a mystery, and by 9am, my thoughts turned to a view of the famous Karakorum peak of Rakha Poshi. I was ready for another adventure whilst my laundry thawed out. With a skip in my stride I set off from the town.
I had worked up a profuse sweat as I scrambled the narrowing valley, pausing as I realised that nothing had ever caused me to feel so physically insignificant. I gazed into the rich veins of colour in the immense strata of those mountains. The ground beneath me was only 6,000 feet above sea-level, and when I caught a glimpse of the fabled Rakha Poshi, standing at 25,551 feet, hence it’s claim to be the world’s steepest mountain.
Nineteen thousand feet of sheer snow and ice-clad rock rose vertically into the sky, and I wondered why anybody should ever wish to climb it, and commit such an act of sacrilege.
The valley narrowed further, and the ambience surely turned to one of foreboding. There was only deep shadow in this part of the valley and the sharp chill returned to my bones. The river displayed the coldest of colours I have ever witnessed, its waters were rushing with such a ferocity that the icy green turquoise, was being continually folded into dashing streaks of crystal white, and as I stared, I began to fear falling in from the wet rocks.
That could only mean certain death. I quickly turned, as a sudden fear struck me. My heart rate doubled. I thought I might be swallowed up by this landscape like an innocent insect in the jaws of a hungry reptile, so I clambered back onto the footpath. I pulled on my thick
jumper over my sweating body and sat down on a rock. I stretched to watch an eagle circling overhead, until it finally disappeared into the cloud, just below the peak of the adjacent mountain.
Now my legs ached, so I returned. Nearing Gilgit, I hitched a ride on a tractor, which was more uncomfortable than walking, so I jumped off two miles short of my destination. Any pain was irrelevant as I crawled into the Jubilee hotel, having seen the steepest mountain in the world.
Mr. Mohammed Ali Shah was again called away on important business. Before he left, he gave me all the reliable information I needed for my return journey along the Karakorum Highway the following day. He assured me that the waggon would leave at 2am, and there would be no need to reserve a seat, as there would be plenty of room.
In the still of the night, not long before 2am, I awoke in a panic, and hurriedly packed my rucksack with clean clothes. I was out wandering the streets just 10 minutes later, rather dazed and looking for a waggon. The streets were eerily deserted, and there was not a waggon to be seen. After a while I found a policeman shining a torch, and he explained to me that the waggon did not leave until 4am. I unpacked my sleeping bag, returned to my bed and laid awake until I went out again at 3.30am.
This waggon was smaller than the transit van that brought me here, and I was surprised at how much activity the departure of a 12-seater waggon could generate at 4 o’clock in the morning. Along with the activity came commotion, it was commotion in a language I didn’t understand, and during the ensuing palaver I was informed that the waggon was full, and that I should have booked a ticket in advance.
I felt dejected at the thought of spending another day in Gilgit, when my mind was prepared for another epic journey on the highway.
Being an Englishman, I looked around for a soothing cup of tea, but unlike in England I found a teashop open at 4am. I sat down amongst a group of military policemen. It was clear that I was known to them, and one of them sidled over to me, and in perfect English he asked me the situation. I explained. His response was to re-assure me that there would be no problem getting me on that vehicle.
The teashop emptied and the departure of the Islamabad-bound waggon was slightly delayed, as adjustments were made to fit, what was a fifteenth passenger, into a twelve-seater waggon, bound for a 16-hour journey. In his absence, MA Shah was still able to pull the strings and atone for his error, by ensuring my safe return from his territory.
My compromised seat consisted of an upended wooden toolbox, on which was placed an oily pillow. It was squeezed between the door and another seat. Consequently, I faced the other passengers’ empty faces. A moment of sadness filled me up, as I reflected on leaving behind this mystical land of the Karakorum Mountains, its devotion to God, its ancient way of life, its non-intrusive settlements, its shy but hospitable people and its overwhelming topography.
Putting the early morning difficulties behind me, I was very relieved to be travelling at all, and reminded myself that I was privileged to be still on this romantic highway.
I was seated knee-to-knee, facing a rather pallid young Pakistani boy. In the darkness I soon nodded off, with my head vibrating against the side window. Twenty minutes into the darkness of the journey, I was severely jolted outwards, and an icy gust of wind blew in my face. I was confused. I lost my bearings. I was inches away from falling out of the waggon. The young boy had opened the door to be sick.
I regained my position and held it for the rest of the journey, as he proceeded to vomit every 20 minutes or so. My interest in travel was waning as I looked for antidotes to his breath of garlic and vomit, and urged him to stop eating oranges. A little musk oil would not have gone amiss.
After daybreak the waggon stopped, pulling over onto a patch of rough ground where the road widened. I was the first to get out, welcoming the opportunity to take rapid gulps of fresh air, and I crossed the road to walk down the hillside to view the gorge.
Everyone else was walking in the opposite direction, shinning up the hillside on the other flank of the road. I looked back to see the men stripping down and washing in a small stream. I climbed up to join them, thinking that the icy waters would revive me from the stench I had been enduring. I clambered up, to notice a fine mist of steam rising from all the activity; there was too much of it to suggest that they were urinating, and so I wandered over to investigate. The water was piping hot, cooling as it flowed down the mountainside, and probably only lukewarm as it dropped into the torrent of icy water below, that was the river Indus. In a landscape that appeared to be very similar, over many miles, to the uninitiated, these regular commuters knew the exact spot to tap into a free and constant hot water supply.
I felt refreshed, but returned to the waggon to face the breath of the poor travel-sick Pakistani boy, who tested my reserves of sympathy – I took that as my challenge, as he was having a far more wretched time than I was.
On this return journey south, I did feel a little safer in the knowledge that Pakistan drove on the left side of the road, but I still tried not to doze. I didn’t want to end up falling into the mountainside above me, or find myself under a layer of vomit, but the drone of the engine was soporific and I was anaesthetized once more, only to be abruptly roused once again.
The waggon swerved sharply, it skidded on the gravelled surface of the road. Everything became still. I was witnessing space and silence; time was no longer constant. My mind slowly filled with remembered images of the waggon’s bald tyres, the dents and scratches down its flanks, the lack of crash barriers on the side of the road, and the carcass of the lorry lying in the valley bottom from the journey in the opposite direction.
We approached the edge, more of the valley bottom was revealed, the drop became clearer. Panic amongst the passengers was only noticeable by its absence. I felt the driver’s foot ease off the brake, and the waggon straightened, followed by a controlled swerve towards the face of the mountain. Nothing collided, not even the wing mirrors.
The driver had swerved to avoid a bus coming too quickly around the bend. Both vehicles had been moving too fast, but we were spared the fatal drop. Nobody uttered a word or cast reprimanding looks towards either driver. This pervading attitude was very calming, so I re-adjusted the sweater that was my pillow against the vibrations of the window, and we all got on with the journey.
A desire for adventure is to invite risk, but there were occasions where, after the beads of sweat dried up, I needed a break – for a while, at least. I now prayed for no further such incident on this particular trip, but those prayers were not heard.
Around a projecting spur in the mountain, we took a sharp bend, and the brakes were abruptly applied once more. Beyond it lay a recently deposited landslide, the road was without doubt, impassable.
My first reaction was to wonder where we might spend the night. We were cut adrift in a very exposed position, not a Hilton nor a Sheraton, not even a shepherd’s hut, in sight.
I was grateful to this highway for offering so much incident, but being uninitiated in its ways, I was heavily reliant on my fellow passengers, in whom I had developed such trust.
We all got out of the vehicle. Some passengers stroked their beards as they cast their eyes over the landslide, some strolled away matter-of-factly, to light a cigarette. The young boy took the opportunity to vomit in the long grass.
The driver made a swift assessment. He decreed that he would drive the waggon over the top of the landslide, so that we may continue our journey. I was stunned.
My hopes of us all spending the night together after a trek to a distant farmhouse were diminishing, as a couple of experienced passengers climbed onto the pile of mud and rock in order to strategically place large stones, so that the wheels of the waggon may grip them.
In first gear the driver gently revved-up the engine, and my heartbeat. The waggon churned up, and spat out, clods of earth and small stones into the air. It began to tilt. Then it straightened. Then it tilted again. This driver was expert, and not about to lead our transport and himself, into the valley below. He had faith in God, or nerves of steel, more likely both.
Whilst the screaming abdabs may well have afflicted those of lesser faith, my travelling companions remained placid, and I was mightily impressed.
The waggon gently rocked towards the surface of the road on the other side of the landslide, all that remained was for the 15 passengers to clamber over the same pile of mud and rock, clean off their boots, finish their cigarettes, and get back into the waggon. Nobody requested three cheers for the driver.
We put in the remaining miles safely, but tediously, and without further risk, we quietly rolled into a darkened Islamabad.
Late that night, sitting on the edge of my bed at the Al Mehr Hotel in nearby Rawalpindi, I exhaled a deep breath, and reflected briefly on an overwhelming time.
I had seen the world’s steepest mountain, witnessed another way of living, and suffered a heavy defeat at Ludo. Cherished experiences all.
But that time had been spent, never to return. The journey now had its place in my life and I wanted nothing to disturb or dislodge it. Only for that reason, I had no wish to re-visit highway NH-35.