"Smoke hashish ?" Looking like some
renegade freedom fighter, the thickly bearded Afghani we'd just
picked up offered me the chewed-up butt end of his re-filled cigarette.
The cab was awash with intoxicating fumes. The carbon monoxide
alone was sufficient to make an already oxygen-deprived backpacker
feel queasy - I certainly didn't need any herbal remedies at this
point. I grinned in mock gratitude and hid my relief as our
driver also declined, his eyes firmly fixed on the road as he fumbled
with the dial on the stereo. Peering out of the window, I
followed the headlamps' crosseyed beams as they flirted with the
edges of the highway; the valley walls sloped away into the blackness,
and far below the Indus thundered on. To survey the area through
the eagle-eye of a satellite would reveal a silvery vein, source
of some of the continent's greatest civilisations, wending it's
sinuous way through a brutal and desolate landscape. I was
travelling along the middle section of the Karakoram Highway, or
the KKH as it is locally known. Cursed by landslide and breakdown
our fifteen seater minibus finally crawled into the outskirts of
Gilgit, capital of Pakistan's Northern Areas and a town once described
as the fulcrum of Asia.
This area of Pakistan, little known until the latter part of the
nineteenth century, harbours the Karakoram mountains, some of the
world's highest and mightiest. It is here that nineteen of the thirty
highest peaks, some exceeding eight kilometres in height, jostle
for space at a junction in Central Asia where China, Uzbekistan,
Afghanistan, Pakistan and India, literally collide. These snowy
giants, long regarded as impenetrable, guard legendary wonders heralded
in print from the time of Marco Polo. The region also harnesses
the most extensive glaciers outside of Polar regions, a smorgasbord
of ethnic populations, excellent trekking and few crowds.
Uncomfortably, and somewhat improbably sandwiched between the river
valley and the mountains is the KKH, a transmontaine descendant
of a branch of the ancient silk road linking Pakistan and the neighbouring
Chinese province of Xinjiang. As little trade has ever passed
through this route, it has been argued that the highway was built
for political rather than economic reasons, and perceived by some
as a way of China injecting military aid into Pakistan. Open only
to tourists since 1986, constructing the highway took more than
a decade, an astonishing eight million kilograms of TNT, and an
estimated fatality for every mile of its length. It also came close
to sparking a fourth war between Pakistan and India. Traversing
a mountain range of such epic proportions makes this one of the
most inspirational road journeys on the planet, and yet the ultimate
goal for many travellers lies at the end of the road, in Kashgar,
home to one of the world's great bazaars. This was my destination,
although after my blistering overland adventure to Gilgit, I was
not reluctant to bide my time.
Towards the end of the Victorian era, the British and Russians played
out what became known as the 'Great Game' (or 'Tournament of Shadows'
as the Russians preferred to call it.) Each others’ spies posed
as explorers, merchants, scholars, and even preachers, intent on
mapping the region, courting local leaders, and laying claim to
swathes of barely chartered territory. In 1877 in an attempt to
impose an influence on the area, the British granted Gilgit the
administrative status it retains to this day. Since the opening
of the KKH, the town has swelled in size, but retains an agreeable
ambience; the clear mountain air and broad streets are a welcome
relief from the oppressive heat and stifling humidity of the plain
of Peshawar. Arriving in August, and elevated high above the steaming
cauldron of Rawalpindi where I embarked on my sixteen hour journey
north, the temperature hovered around a far more agreeable thirty
degrees Celsius. Although a major tourist Centre, there is little
to see in Gilgit itself. The town hosts a variety of teahouses
/ restaurants and a number of trekking and mountaineering outfits
specialising in excursions to surrounding peaks. Situated
in a bowl, close to the confluence of the Indus and Gilgit rivers,
the town is an ancient trading post whose bustling marketplace has
been a caravanserai for silk road traders both past and present.
Rugs from Afghanistan, ikat fabrics from Uzbekistan, padlocks
and tin torches from China and piles and piles of apricots compete
for space with shalwar camise vendors, tobacco traders and elderly,
shoeless cobblers.
Women are much more in evidence here, on the streets, shopping in
the bazaar and working in the outlying fields. The use of
the burkah covering a woman from head-to-toe like some oversized
shuttlecock is less apparent than elsewhere in Pakistan where purdah
is observed more strictly. Gilgit appears as a tranquil place,
the pace of life is slow and there are few motor vehicles. Yet
this peacefulness is deceptive. Historically, the area would
have seen it's share of bloodshed - the Chinese, Tibetans, Mongols
and Kashmiries all fought each other up and down the Indus valley.
About three hours by minibus, and eighty kilometres north of Gilgit,
is the land of Hunza. Somewhat contrary to World Health Organisation
statistics, the Hunzakuts are fabled to live longer than any other
race of people on earth and it is not uncommon to meet wrinkled
folk claiming to be more than one hundred years old. The Hunzakuts
contend that their water contains traces of gold in addition to
a high iron content and ascribe their longevity to a combination
of the water, a frugal diet and clean mountain air. Hunza is thought
to have inspired James Hilton's 1930s image of Shangri La. Travelling
up the highway, past the towering Rakaposhi massif (7787m), I headed
for the town of Karimabad, centrepiece of the local tourist industry
and site of the UNESCO funded restoration of Baltit Fort, home of
the Mir who once ruled over the valley. In recent years, a small
travelling scene has developed here, fuelled by a selection of cheap
guesthouses and excellent trekking. Most travellers choose
to stay in the town itself, perched high on the Western side of
the Hunza valley and rendered almost insignificant to the eye by
the towering peaks behind. Ultar Peak is one of the lowest,
(and at 7388m actually the 73rd highest), unclimbed peaks in the
world. Not inclined to attempt to scale the unscaleable I
spent an idyllic few days here, walking the trails in the warm summer
sunshine.
Hiking beyond the town towards the glaciers takes one past
a unique mixture of flat-roofed, mud-plastered houses, terraced
fields and orchards fed by a network of streams. It is not rainclouds,
but rather ironically clear skies that bring the bounty of moisture.
As the bright rays of sunshine melt the glaciers, they yield
the water that flows to the fields via an ingenious maze of irrigation
canals. Each family is responsible for the maintenance of the system
as it channels down through their land. Grown all around Karimabad,
together with cereals, mulberries and garden vegetables, apricots
form an essential part of the local diet. There are said to be over
twenty varieties that are picked ripe and consumed fresh in summer
or dried for use at other times. The fruit and seeds are exported
and made into jam and fruit juice, whereas the kernels are crushed
and their oil used for cooking.
I have always loved apricots, but I felt awkward struggling to peel
the skins from those handed to me by the local children as they
scrambled around in the boughs. Watching me carefully skin the apricots
must have seemed truly ridiculous. I have learnt through experience
that it is advisable when travelling to peel all fruit. Nevertheless,
I remember my own surprised reaction upon learning that many
Japanese take the time to peel apples. In this instance the kids
chased me around in hysterics.
A steep two kilometre trail to the east of Karimabad led me to the
captivating village of Altit, site of a dramatically positioned,
eleventh century fort. Older than its more famous and recently restored
cousin at Baltit, Altit Fort is a confusing network of corridors
and rooms connected by intricately carved, paisley patterned doorways
and ladders. The fort itself is perched high above the Hunza
River on a 300m vertical cliff face and is approached from the village
through an orchard of apricot trees. I spent a couple of peaceful
afternoons here, watching the fruit being harvested and sliced,
stoned and scattered into flat, circular plaited baskets then laid
out to dry on the rocks surrounding the fort. The rich colour of
the sun baked fruit breathed fire into the otherwise barren landscape.
Only thirty years ago this part of Hunza was so isolated that it
took ten days to reach the nearest telephone. It raises questions
about the impact the highway has had on the people and their culture.
Fortunately for us this is still an isolated corner of the world.
Gilgit airport only accommodates small planes with unpredictable
schedules, and it takes over twenty hours to reach Hunza from Lahore,
so there are no day-tripping Pakistanis and European package tourists.
The road has at least brought electricity, food and fuel in winter,
and a steady stream of dollars, pounds, deutschmarks and yen from
a growing number of independent travellers and small tour groups.
One of the highlights of travelling the KKH is using the excellent
bus service. The buses, and even the trucks, that operate up and
down the highway are decorated from bumper to bumper, inside and
out with gaudy stickers, jangling chains, flashing bulbs and tacky
paintings. On the driver's window expect a glorious assortment of
stickers from Madonna to Allah. Anyone with any sense of adventure
takes the roof; cushioned by their rucksack, soaking up the sun,
enjoying the fresh mountain air and some of the best views in the
world.
The upper part of Hunza is referred to as Gojal and carries the
KKH through to the Chinese border.
Springing up in the midst of grey rock and stone on an alluvial
fan to the east of the highway, and just north of the glacier of
the same name lies the small village of Passu. The village
sits pretty in an oasis of green with houses scattered amidst irrigated
fields and sunflowers lining the narrow paths that join them. Yet
more apricot trees, few people and mind-bogglingly beautiful scenery.
Passu is a base for some excellent hiking and a few small
guesthouses cater to the small influx of visitors. Like something
out of a Tolkien novel the jagged spires of the Tupopdan (6106m)
dominate the scenery to the north. Etched into the mountain
side below is a huge sign welcoming the Aga Khan, the spiritual
leader of the Ishmaili Muslim sect that most Hunzakuts adhere to.
This enlightened leader has funded hundreds of schools, numerous
health and development programmes, and encouraged his people to
learn English. He once suggested that if a couple have a son and
a daughter and can only afford to educate one, they should choose
the daughter as the son should be able to look after himself.
I met and befriended a couple of fellow travellers and spent
the next few days exploring the surroundings with them. We made
an early start - the sun was already up, and the air was soft, fresh
and bright. We reached the river as the first rays of sun
started biting into the tips of the granite spires. The cool early
light quickly gave way to the rich glow of the day. We followed
the path to the river. The Hunza ran fast and shallow, and the only
way to cross was by way of one of the few suspension bridges spanning
the valley. If the first bridge was an initiation, the second bridge
was the test.
Viewed
from the approaching path it hung in the shadow of its dilapidated
predecessor, inconceivably spanning the valley and easily 500m from
one end to the other. Indiana Jones probably wouldn't
have winced, but the fact that the narrow slats of the walkway were
fewer than the spaces separating them, was hardly reassuring. At
least the steel cable that wove them together appeared strong. Not
one to suffer from vertigo and rarely one to give up on an adventure
I pressed ahead. The bridge swayed unnervingly in the
breeze. I stared at my feet but could only seem to focus on
the water rushing below them - the whole bridge seemed to float
downstream with the river. I could feel myself turning green
and as I gripped the guide cable and stepped forward the most intense
sensation overcame me. Blood ran from a gash in my palm sliced
open on a loose strand of steel wire. Without any trepidation
I edged myself across to the amazement of my companions still prevaricating
on the far side. Luckily, the cut was not deep - as I sat
and tended to the wound a boy passed me carrying a load on his back
- without hesitation he stepped up and started to trot across the
bridge; to my amazement his bundle yelled - he was carrying
his sister !
We hit the road again, surveying the high alpine wonderland from
the comfort of our roof top position on the magic bus. Every corner
of the highway opened up a new perspective. Houses were few now,
and the road apart, there was little evidence of the impact of people,
just a brutal and beautiful starkness. I was content and
by now an expert at peeling sun baked apricots I munched away while
admiring the views.
