{"id":63,"date":"2012-03-16T23:46:00","date_gmt":"2012-03-16T23:46:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/?p=63"},"modified":"2021-02-20T08:02:32","modified_gmt":"2021-02-20T08:02:32","slug":"pakistans-spectacular-northern-areas","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/?p=63","title":{"rendered":"Pakistan’s spectacular northern areas"},"content":{"rendered":"

Pakistan<\/span>\u2019s tourist infrastructure may be crude, but some of the sights are nothing less than breathtaking. Some of its people may appear uncouth, but they can\u2019t be beaten for hospitality.\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I<\/strong><\/p>\n

Over Babusar Top<\/strong>\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Pakistan\u2019s tourist infrastructure may be crude, but some of the sights are nothing less than breathtaking. Some of its people may appear uncouth, but they can\u2019t be beaten for hospitality.<\/p>\n

My first experience of Pakistan\u2019s beautiful north was in September of 1977.\u00a0 How can I forget the year? It was not only my first trip up north, full of excitement and anticipation, but also the year one of the Islamisation of the Islamic Republic.<\/p>\n

Having spent a night in Balakot, courtesy of a kind divisional forest officer whom I had only just met in the bus, I proceeded to Shogran, about 34 kilometres away.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Balakot (reduced to rubble in the recent earthquake) is the zero point of the well-known Kaghan valley which stretches almost exactly 100 kilometres to <\/span>Babusar <\/span>Pass<\/span> in the north.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Kaghan, like Swat, is very popular with Pakistani tourists, although most go only as far as Naran (exactly halfway between Balakot and the end of the valley at <\/span>Babusar <\/span>Pass<\/span>), whence they make a routine dash to the famous Lake Saiful Mulk, ten kilometres away.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Shogran was merely a cluster of three rest houses on a surreally beautiful mountain top, 33 kilometres from Balakot, surrounded by pine forests and with absolutely glorious views of the surrounding peaks, including Malika Parbat (5,291m) and Makra peak (3,885m). Having admired the natural beauty for an hour or so, I didn\u2019t quite know what to do, for there was nothing to do.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

And nothing to eat either, except for rice and potatoes. The rest-house <\/span>chowkidar<\/span><\/em> (caretaker) told me that he could arrange for a chicken, which would be available for dinner if I ordered it at breakfast!<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Perhaps to boost my morale, he let me know that his was no ordinary place, for no less a person than Field Marshall President Ayub Khan had spent a couple of nights in the same rest house where I was now privileged to stay.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The <\/span>chowkidar<\/span><\/em> did add a thing or two about the company the president kept. For me, however, there was the less romantic company of a western couple who had arrived after spending many months traveling on their Land Rover, mostly in <\/span>India<\/span>.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The man, obviously an expert mechanic, made good use of the lack of activity in Shogran to fix up the wear and tear on his vehicle.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Shogran at once fascinated and bored me.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>I now realized that tourism was as much about activities as about sight-seeing.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Nevertheless, awe-struck by the splendid scenery, I resolved to go further north during my next trip.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Which I did the following year, in the company of a nephew.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>We hitched a ride to Shogran from Kawai in a jeep loaded with supplies, I hanging out the left door, my nephew precariously perched on the front bumper.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Resuming our journey, from Kawai we literally rode a bus to Naran, squatting on its roof for a better view. Even if we had been lucky enough to find ourselves seats, which we did not, the bus windows blocked the views almost totally. <\/span><\/p>\n

It was the fasting month of Ramadan and we were soon joined on the bus roof by the conductor and a couple of passengers who wanted to smoke beyond sight of fellow passengers. If God was watching, he was surely more forgiving than fellow-Muslims. <\/span><\/p>\n

We arrived in Naran coated in many layers of dust. The rest house we checked in served no food on account of Ramadan.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>There was no hot water either, because the caretaker chose pious inactivity over the worldly chore of heating water. We had, therefore, to make do with a bath in ice-cold water.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The only way to go beyond Naran was by hiring a jeep. We were lucky, however, for two days later we sighted a jeep from the other side of <\/span>Babusar <\/span>Pass.<\/span> Its occupants, three men from Chilas, were kind enough to offer us a ride on their way back.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

In the meantime, we went on the obligatory trip to Lake Saiful Mulk, a small lake with crystal clear waters reflecting Malika Parbat.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Like Shogran, there was nothing to do except stare in the distance. There was but one unattended wooden boat. If we had been lucky, the boatman would have told us tales about Prince Saiful Mulk drowning here together with his beloved fairy princess, thanks to her jealous demon lover.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

A photo by the lake is an absolute must for Pakistanis who venture north.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>In a land where love is taboo, is Lake Saiful Mulk\u2019s attraction to be explained by its association with a legend of love?<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The journey beyond Naran on the old road to Gilgit is nothing if not spectacular. We passed Battakundi, Burawai, Gittidas and Besal, the last two little more than a few hutments of stone, now empty because of the approaching winter.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The <\/span>bakarwals<\/span><\/em> and <\/span>Gujjars<\/span><\/em> who bring their herds of goats to the pastures here during the summer had withdrawn to the south.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

We passed the over two kilometers-long <\/span>Lulusar <\/span>Lake<\/span> (altitude of 3,350 m), the main source of the Kunhar river which meanders through the valley and is rich in trout.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The road climbs gradually to <\/span>Babusar<\/span>Pass<\/span> at the far end of the Kaghan valley, where Babusar Top (4,529 metres) offers a spectacular view of <\/span>Nanga Parbat<\/span> (8,125 metres), ninth highest peak in the world.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>It suddenly comes into full view, straight ahead, separated by nothing but a deep precipice, a sight to behold.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The descent from the top to Babusar village on the other side is through dramatic hairpin turns.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>One such, \u201c<\/span>Rasool Morh,<\/span><\/em>\u201d was named after the driver who had recently lost his life attempting a turn.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Our lives hung in the balance as our jeep attempted the turn in a couple of installments, without the aid of a handbrake.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Poor Rasool had attempted it once too often!<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

With his handbrake long out of order, the driver put up an extraordinary display of driving skill and reckless bravado that made this part of the journey look like a death-wish.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>With his left foot on the clutch, he would use the heel of his right foot to press the brake and gradually release it while simultaneously pressing on the accelerator with his toes to reverse and forward the jeep over the bends in fractional forward and backward movements.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

After a night in Chilas, we caught a bus for Gilgit via the Karakorum Highway (KKH).<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The newly-constructed KKH was a treat.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Built with Chinese technical assistance as well as manpower, it is not just a highway and a feat of engineering, but also a testament to good aesthetic sense.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Its bridges were ornately carved in Chinese style with dragons and all.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

A cemetery across the <\/span>Indus<\/span>River<\/span> a few kilometers from Gilgit holds the mortal remains of the 600 or so Chinese workers who perished in accidents during construction.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The remains of the more numerous Pakistanis who died constructing the KKH are probably scattered throughout the country.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

This was to be the first of my four trips to Gilgit, each from a different direction.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The following three were via Chitral (and <\/span>Shandur<\/span>Pass<\/span>), <\/span>Neelum <\/span>Valley<\/span> (and <\/span>Burzil <\/span>Pass<\/span>), and Skardu.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Gilgit, then, was a tourist cross-road, not the focal point of sectarian strife which thirty years of Islamization have now reduced it to.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

(Published in Daily Times, 27 April 2006)<\/span><\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

II<\/strong><\/p>\n

Across Lowari & Shandur<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/strong>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Many months ago, I reminisced for readers my trip to Gilgit over Babusar Pass, the first of my four trips to the little town that lies at the crossroads of the Karakorum, Hindukush, Pamir and Himalayas, the four formidable mountain ranges of Asia, before which all other mountain ranges of the world look small. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

That was the most exciting of the four trips, for it was my first to <\/span>Pakistan<\/span>\u2019s northern regions. It was also my first experience of the newly-built Karakorum Highway (KKH).<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>But the second trip, described here, was the most challenging, for I crossed the <\/span>Lowari <\/span>Pass<\/span> and the <\/span>Shandur <\/span>Pass<\/span> to reach Gilgit from the west, traveling over rough mountain roads for nearly 400 kilometers at the average speed of 10 kilometers per hour.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I had set off with a friend from <\/span>Islamabad<\/span> for Nowshera, from where we caught a bus to Dir.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>At Batkhela there is a fork on the road, one going to Swat in the east, while the one to Dir and beyond heads in a north-westerly direction.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Dir is now a stronghold of Islamic fundamentalists, but at that time it was a just a small frontier town, totally Muslim and very conservative, but quietly minding its own business.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Next morning, when I boarded the little Fiat bus which would take me over the <\/span>Lowari<\/span>Pass<\/span>, the excitement on my face must have evident, for a fellow-passenger volunteered to be my travel guide.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Not far from Dir, as the bus began its slow climb over the mountains, he showed me the entrance to the Lowari tunnel, which was never completed.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>A standing monument to poor planning, it was abandoned after much expenditure of capital and physical resources, reportedly because of problems in the original design.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The only way to Chitral and beyond, therefore, is by road over <\/span>Lowari<\/span>Pass.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>At 3118 meters, it is not the highest of the road passes, but it is definitely the most formidable.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Lowari Top is snow-covered for more than half of the year, from November to May, when all traffic remains suspended.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The entire population of the Chitral region remains locked in and unable to travel south by road.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The only way to travel south is either by flying, weather permitting, or a detour through <\/span>Afghanistan<\/span>, depending on political and military conditions.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Lowari Top has an ethereal, other-worldly touch, wind-swept, cold and barren.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The descent on the north slope is hair-raising with numerous hair-pin turns.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Leaving the bus at Ayun, about two hours short of Chitral, we rode a jeep to Bamburat in the famed Kalash valley or Kafiristan.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>It was a very scary ride, remarkable for the dare-devilry of the driver.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>There were times when the jeep seemed to be air-borne. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Bamburat was one dusty street, a couple of kilometers from end to end, mired in poverty.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The Kalash men are hardly distinguishable from their Muslim neighbours by their dress, but the women stand out in their traditional black dress and extraordinary head-dresses decorated with cowrie shells and buttons and necklaces of red beads around their necks. Quite good-looking in their teens, they seem to age very quickly, given the poor diet and harsh conditions.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Now numbering about 3,000, the Kalash or Kafirs live in about 20 villages in three valleys.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The survival of their animist beliefs and culture in spite of the Muslim onslaught spearheaded by the religious parties is nothing short of a miracle.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>During my very short stay in the valley we were met by a group of Tableeghis from <\/span>Peshawar<\/span> determined to \u201creconvert\u201d us to Islam.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The Kalash on the Afghan side of the border caved in to the pressure long ago.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I had read that Kalash women are secluded in communal out-houses during their menstruation period.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>One such was clearly visible from my hotel, with many women hanging around, with nothing to do.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>It was also obvious that Kalash girls had gotten used to cash handouts from visitors, for our photo-opportunity with a group of pretty girls crashed under the weight of some hard bargaining, with the prettiest of the girls demanding an amount we thought was too high.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chitral was a fairly large town, not far from <\/span>Tirich Mir<\/span>, which towers over the whole region.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>At 7708 metres, it is the 33rd highest peak in the world.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>In Chitral we booked a jeep for Mastuj, 115 kilometers away, the northern-most town, where the road ends.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The jeep failed to appear at the appointed hour. At a hefty price we found another jeep willing to take us to Mastuj.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

At Buni, well short of Mastuj, the driver abandoned us after announcing that his jeep had developed mechanical problems.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>We were able, however, to latch on to another jeep heading to Mastuj the next morning.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>This turned out to the scariest ride of my life.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The rough road, barely wide enough for one jeep, had been cut through the side of a mountain, with sheer cliffs on one side and a precipitous fall on the other.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Mastuj river flowed like a torrent to the left, while the jeep moved precariously, with its side almost scraping the rocky side of the mountain to the right as it wobbled over the rough surface.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Mastuj was a little town, quite literally the end of the road.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>About 50 kilometres north is the thin Wakhan corridor of <\/span>Afghanistan<\/span>, beyond which lies <\/span>Tajikistan<\/span> (then a part of the mighty <\/span>Soviet Union<\/span>).<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Our sights, however, were on Gilgit to the east, across the famous <\/span>Shandur<\/span>Pass.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Our host in Mastuj was the manager of the local branch of the National Bank of <\/span>Pakistan<\/span>, posted there as a punishment for falling out of favour of one of his big bosses.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

In my many travels, I have had the opportunity of using many kinds of toilets, but the one in Mastuj stands out in my memory.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>What passed for a toilet there was a circular pit, a meter deep and about 20 meters in diameter.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>One stepped into it with a can of water (or toilet paper if one pleased), carefully navigated a path avoiding human excrement, some freshly deposited, and selected for oneself a suitable place to answer the call of nature.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Needless to say, female travelers had to consider other options!<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Traffic on the road to Gilgit, over 200 kilometers away, was very scarce, but luckily we did not have to wait long.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>After a couple of hours on the jeep, we were over Shandur Pass, 3,734 meters above sea level, the venue for the famous annual polo contest between Chitral and Gilgit.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Shandur is less spectacular than either Lowari or Babusar, but a pass it certainly is in the full meaning of the word, a passage through a flat surface with hills on either side.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>What it lacks in grandeur and magnificence compared to Lowari and Babusar, it more than makes up through fame, courtesy of the polo rivalry between Gilgit and Chitral.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Phander, with a beautiful lake with clear blue water, is a sublime spot between Shandur and Gilgit. We spent the night in Gupis, from where a path leads north to Ishkoman valley.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>After another day\u2019s journey, we arrived in Gilgit.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>It was a trip to remember, an experience to cherish.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>A quarter century has elapsed, but I remember the trip as vividly as if it were yesterday.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

(Published in Daily Times, 7 Sept 2006)<\/span><\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

III<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Neelum valley and beyond <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

My third trip to Gilgit was perhaps the most ambitious and certainly the most adventurous.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>I proposed to reach Gilgit from the southeast, via <\/span>Neelum<\/span>Valley<\/span> (Azad Kashmir) and Astore (Northern Areas).<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The trip was difficult enough in its conception, but it turned out to be extremely arduous in its execution.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The first hurdle was to find a companion for the trip, and that wasn\u2019t easy.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>After a number of potential companions excused themselves for one reason or another, a retired soldier-turned-academic came to my rescue.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>I had casually mentioned to him that my dream trip was on the verge of collapse for lack of a traveling companion, when unexpectedly he offered himself as one.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

We set off for Muzaffarabad, from where we caught a bus to Sharda, passing Athmuqam, the zero point of Neelum valley.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Our bus crossed the Neelum river, keeping to its western bank, hugging the Line of Control (LOC), with the Indian part of <\/span>Kashmir<\/span> clearly in view on the eastern bank. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Somewhere along, I could see a large stable of the <\/span>Pakistan<\/span> army.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Presumably, the hundreds of horses and mules lined up there ferry supplies to the hilltop bunkers along what is the world\u2019s most heavily militarized border after the demarcation line dividing North and South Korea. This was 1988, just before all hell broke loose on the <\/span>Kashmir<\/span> front and the road became impassable because of constant artillery fire.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Our first stop was Sharda, a beautiful Himalayan village with lush green mountains, pine trees and torrents of clear blue water. From here, the road deteriorated. We hopped on a timber truck for the next stop, Kel, a major military garrison close to the LOC, where the road practically terminated.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>This is where the Neelum river, which starts its journey in Indian Kashmir as Kishenganga, enters the Pakistani side by making a u-turn and disgorges itself further to the south into the mighty <\/span>Jhelum<\/span>, which also originates on the Indian side.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

If it wasn\u2019t for the division of Kashmir, the route from Kel to Astore would have passed through what is now <\/span>Indian territory<\/span> by following the course of the river, as is the rule in mountainous areas. But the legacy of history and the dictates of geo-politics now force a very difficult detour.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The only way to proceed beyond is a two-day trek, through rough terrain, from the northern-most village in Azad Kashmir, Tao Bat, which is about 20 kilometers from Kel. <\/span>\u00a0<\/span>It takes one to Qamri Gali, the southern-most point in the Northern Areas, close to the LOC.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The best we could expect was to latch on to a jeep passing through Kel, carrying supplies to Tao Bat.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Such jeeps were few and far between, and usually full with goods and passengers when they arrived from Muzaffarabad.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>From Tao Bat we might be able to join a group of men returning to Qamri carrying their winter provisions on horseback.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

It is said that fortune favours the brave. Brave or not, I was certainly lucky. Within a couple of days, we found a jeep willing to take us on board for the trip to Tao Bat.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Hired by the village <\/span>numberdar <\/span><\/em>of Tao Bat, the jeep was bringing supplies from Muzaffarabad for his shop, the only source of provisions for the village<\/span>.<\/span><\/em>\u00a0 <\/span>Actually, we had more than our fair share of good luck, for we not only got a free ride but the <\/span>numberdar<\/span><\/em> was kind enough to offer us free bed and breakfast at his home for the night.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>And, best of all, we found a group of men from Qamri whom we could join the next day at Tao Bat on their return trip.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The road from Kel to Tao Bat was very rough and the gradients on some stretches so sharp that the load fastened to the front bumper of the jeep probably prevented it from toppling over.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>We passed Nekru, then the <\/span>village<\/span> of <\/span>Halmat<\/span>.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The people of these villages, I was told, speak different languages, namely, Gujjar, Kashmiri and Shina. The ride was difficult, but the scenery spectacular \u2013 waterfalls and torrents amid lush green mountains draped in mist.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

After a night in Tao Bat, we joined the group of about 20 men from Qamri on their trip back.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The trek was difficult, but the company gracious. These sturdy men of the mountains unhesitatingly and generously shared their food with us.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The food itself was nothing to salivate on, consisting merely of <\/span>roti <\/span><\/em>and <\/span>chai<\/span><\/em>, but they sure tasted better than ever before!<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

A day-long trek, frequently within sight of military posts of both sides, brought us close to Dudgai Top. On the way, we passed a couple of encampments of the nomadic <\/span>bakarwals<\/span><\/em>, taking their herds of goats and sheep to their summer pastures.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Their camps and livestock are guarded by fierce-looking dogs.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The grass over the meadow was to be our bed and a beautiful moonlit sky filled with stars our roof for the night.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>It began to rain before daybreak, which not only caused discomfort but also threatened to delay our journey.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Concerned about the plight of their two uninvited guests of honour, our kind hosts deposited us in the nearby tent of a <\/span>bakarwal<\/span><\/em>.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>To our astonishment, the <\/span>bakarwal <\/span><\/em>revealed that his wife, who sat not far from us, had given birth only a couple of days ago, with himself acting as the midwife, if I may use the term.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Fortunately, the rain didn\u2019t last long.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>On our request, our hosts hired two horses for us for the remaining journey to Qamri.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Traveling all day over ridges and precipices, we enjoyed some fantastic views from the relative comfort of horseback, while their owners walked along.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>To be accurate, I was transported by a mule and he seemed a lot smarter, if less handsome, than the horse which transported my friend.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>It was nearly dark when we arrived at the military post at Qamri Gali.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Heading for the military post, we asked the first soldier we saw to be taken to an officer.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Soon a very genial captain made us comfortable in the officers\u2019 mess in the best tradition of military hospitality. Before long we were enjoying a fine three-course dinner with the captain and his boss, the major.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>When told that we were headed north towards Astore, the major advised us to turn back, warning about the perils ahead, such as avalanches and frostbite. His words fell on deaf ears as far as I was concerned, but they sounded dire enough to dissuade my friend from proceeding further. He whispered into my ear to heed the major\u2019s advice and turn back, but I declared that I had no intention to abandon the trip after coming this far.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The gloom lifted as soon as the major was gone.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The captain was more positive and he volunteered to hire for us two horses and loan us snowsuits for the trek across the snowbound and treacherous Burzil Pass (4,280 metres).<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>A little shaken by the major\u2019s warning, my traveling companion accused me of obduracy but had little choice other than to join me on the journey north.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

(Published in Daily Times, 28 Sept 2006)<\/span><\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

IV<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

To Gigit via Burzil Pass and back over KKH<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/strong>\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

Happily on the road again, resuming our journey from Qamri on horseback, we passed the beautiful Himalayan township of Minimarg, after which the climb to Burzil Pass (4280 metres) commenced.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>It was June, but our horses found the going hard through a foot or more of snow.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Burzil has been a deathtrap for many a traveler and wanderer over the years. The army now maintains a little hut there to provide free tea and biscuits and temporary refuge from blizzards for all passers-by.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Then we descended to Chilam Chowki, from where our horses turned back with their minders and we returned the snowsuits to the army post as arranged. From here it was a short road trip to Astore, 112 kilometers from Gilgit.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>From Chilam another road leads to Skardu through the Deosai Plains, which was still snowbound and impassable.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Arriving in Astore, one could have been excused for thinking that the most difficult part of the journey was behind. But there was bad news for us.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The road to Jaglot on the Karakorum Highway (KKH), 50 kilometres away, was being upgraded and was closed for vehicular traffic for 27 days every month.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>As bad luck would have it, we had just missed the three-day window of opportunity for vehicular traffic to ply on the road. What should have been a short road trip turned out to be a harrowing experience.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

There was no alternative for us but to walk to the point where the road was open again. Next morning we joined a group of men, some of them soldiers going on home leave, for the day-long trek.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>This is an extremely arid and inhospitable region with not a tree or plant in sight, just rocky mountains as far as the eye can see.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The Astore river flowed menacingly a hundred or so metres below on our right. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Towards late afternoon, we reached a virtual dead-end.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The blasting of rocks had caused a landslide, releasing a huge pile of rubble which completely blocked our path.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The only way to go across was to climb over the huge rubble of fragmented rocks, stones and dust sloping towards the river below.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Our spirits were not lifted by the knowledge that, earlier that day, someone had almost slipped to his death.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The thought crossed my mind that I had probably been too adventurous once too often.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>My companion, who had been inclined to heed the warning of the major and turn back from Qamri Gali, now blamed me for his woes.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>My heart nearly sank as I climbed over the pile, with nothing to cling to except hope. Slowly and anxiously, we all made it to the other side one by one.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Soon we arrived at a little teahouse from where we could catch a minibus to Jaglot or Gilgit.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Over a cup of tea, I asked the owner-manager the name of the place.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>He replied: \u201c<\/span>Shaitan-da-Khoo<\/span><\/em>\u201d (The Devil\u2019s Pit).<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Thinking he was joking \u2013 or being from somewhere else, just venting his dislike of the place \u2013 I asked him to be serious.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>He insisted he knew the place well as this was his home and explained that the name was well-deserved for the devil was born there.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I did not pursue the discussion any further but recalled that some of our fellow-travellers, soldiers from other parts of the Northern Areas, had also expressed rather uncomplimentary views about the people of this region.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Owing to the harshness and inhospitability of the region, perhaps its inhabitants have been prone to a life of violence and brigandage.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Determined to make our stay in The Devil\u2019s Pit as brief as possible \u2013 and refreshed by a cup of tea and the sight of a metalled road \u2013 we soon caught a minibus for the trip to Gilgit.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>But fate had reserved yet more adventure for me.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>A few kilometers down, the road was blocked by the rising water from melting snow.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>What would have been a shallow stream earlier in the day was a gushing river by evening, thanks to the summer sun.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

We, therefore, had to walk again, carrying our bags on our backs, in near darkness through knee-deep, ice-cold water pushing us downstream with great force.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>My heart pounded when I got separated from my friend and from the rest of our group. We finally emerged at the other side, relieved, alive and well.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

It was a comfortable ride from here to Gilgit.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Next morning, we walked to the booking office to book our seats on the bus to <\/span>Islamabad<\/span>.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>My friend was keen to catch the first available bus. When I made enquiries about subsequent departures, he snapped, accusing me of dragging him into this mess by my obduracy and wanting to prolong the \u201cmisery\u201d.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

On the journey back over the KKH, seated next to the bus driver, I noticed that he was driving slower than usual, used the low gears to reduce speed and avoided applying the brakes.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>When I asked the driver whether his brakes were in order, he divulged his little secret: the brakes had given way on the way to Gilgit and he had had no time to get them fixed, for the bus had to be on its return journey almost immediately after arrival.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>But, Allah willing, we would be OK, he assured me.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

It is said that knowledge is power, but this little piece of knowledge turned the rest of the trip into a nightmare for me.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>It was to be a long night, and in the middle of it, when we reached a small township (Besham?), the driver announced that because of mechanical troubles he would go no further.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Finding a seat on another bus wasn\u2019t easy, for all incoming buses were full with passengers.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>When I finally got going on the last leg of a long journey, the bus ride turned out to be a rendezvous with death.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>The driver of my bus was determined to overtake the bus in front, whose driver was equally adamant to prevent this.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>As for the possibility of fatal consequences resulting from this race, it was assumed that nothing could happen against the will of Allah!<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Every time my bus was positioned to overtake the bus in front, the other driver would veer to the right, blocking our passage.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Since overtake he must, rather than lose face, our driver now devised a strategy.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>At a bend on the mountainous road on a dark night, he suddenly slowed down as if abandoning the race, then switched off all the lights so as to become invisible to the other driver.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Creeping up from behind in total darkness, our dare-devil driver gradually caught up with the other bus.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>When well-positioned to overtake from the right, he suddenly switched on the lights and accelerated as fast as he could. When the other driver realized what had happened, he too accelerated, but just a trifle late.<\/span>\u00a0 <\/span>Our driver had won the race to a thunderous round of applause from the very people whose lives he had imperiled for fun.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I had endured a long march through mountains, snow and landslide, escaped from The Devil\u2019s Pit and survived a bus ride without brakes and another with a lunatic at the wheels. The trip was more than I had bargained for, and in more ways than one!<\/span><\/span><\/h3>\n

(Published in Daily Times, 5 October 2006)<\/span><\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

V<\/h3>\n

Flight to Skardu<\/h3>\n\n\n

My fourth and last trip to Gilgit in 1994 went smoothly. And so I had planned and hoped, for I was with my wife and two boys, 13 and 6 years old at the time. We flew to Skardu from Islamabad. The Airbus flight was spectacular but also scary, soaring through towering mountains enveloped in fog and cloud. At one point our plane banked to the right so sharply that it seemed the tip of its wing would scrape the side of the mountain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But it was something of an anti-climax when I saw sand dunes as the plane touched down at the airport, for we normally associate sand dunes with deserts rather than such majestic mountains. At the time, Skardu was a small town with a frontier ambience, not particularly attractive. On the main street, I saw but one foreign tourist, a young Japanese who said he was headed for a location, a few days trek away, for a view of K-2, the second highest peak in the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

About 15 minutes\u2019 walk from the main bazar, then up a steep ascent on loose gravel, is the Kharpocho Fort. The climb looks very daunting from below, but is really not so difficult. But it is certainly worth the effort, for it provides a very panoramic view of Skardu. About 20 kilometres from Skardu, on the Lower Kachura Lake, is the fantastic Shangri-La Resort, set in a very beautiful surrounding. One interesting feature of this resort is the coffee shop in a retired Orient Airways DC-3 aircraft with a history. Within minutes of take-off from Skardu, bound for Rawalpindi on October 13, 1954, this aircraft had made a forced landing on the Indus River bed following engine failure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All 3 crew members and 11 passengers survived. Written off by its owners, it was purchased by Shangrila Resort reportedly for a paltry 150 Pakistani rupees. But buying was the easy part, transporting the aircraft over mountainous terrain to its new site was a lot harder. It took over three months on rollers, with the help of hardy local men and beasts of burden.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From Skardu we took a bus to Khaplu, about one hundred kilometres to the east, on the bank of Shyok river, which flows from Ladakh on the Indian side. It is a splendid part of the world, where nature displays its raw beauty, awesome dimensions and fierce power. The road from Skardu to Khaplu hugs the right bank of the Shyok River for most of the later part of the trip. The major attraction here is the Khaplu Palace, now renovated into a hotel. Originally built in the mid-19th century, it served as a royal residence for the Raja of Khaplu. Both Skardu and Khaplu are in Baltistan, historically referred to as \u201cLittle Tibet\u201d (Tibet-e-Khurd).<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the opposite direction from Skardu are the extraordinary Deosai (\u201cland of giants\u201d) Plains. At an average elevation of a bit over four thousand metres, the 3,000 square kilometre National Park is the second highest alpine plateau in the world after the Changtang Plateau in Tibet. Notable sights along the way, within the designated National Park, are Bara Pani over Shigar River, which our jeep crossed over a flimsy-looking and very wobbly bridge, followed by Chotta Pani and Sheosar Lake. Bamboo poles along the route, I was told, were to guide travellers during winter. Without these markers, they would be clueless on the vast sea of snow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In spring Deosai is covered with wildflowers with butterflies. It is home to the Himalayan ibex, red fox, golden marmot, gray wolf, Ladakh urial, snow leopard and over 124 types of resident and migratory birds. In our short visit we only saw marmots scurrying in and out of their burrows. Deosai may be conveniently done as a day-trip from Skardu, but to fully absorb its breathtaking beauty it is better to slowly make one\u2019s way to Astore, about 150 kilometres to the southwest, taking about five hours on a rough road. My trip had to be cut short as our 6-year-old son began to scream from earache, probably caused by high altitude.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From Skardu, we took a bus to Gilgit, about 200 kilometres on a fairly good road. For the first half or so of the trip the road hugs the north bank of the Indus River, then joins up with the KKH north of Jaglot. An hour or so into the journey, noticing a large number of people staring down at the river, our bus stopped. We joined them and were told that a few days earlier a bus had skidded off the road and fell into the river, killing many passengers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This was my fourth entry into Gilgit, each from a different direction. From here we went to Hunza for a night and then made two day-trips to Naltar and Kargah. About 40 km north of Gilgit, at an altitude of nearly 3,000 metres, Naltar was Pakistan\u2019s only ski resort at the time, but restricted to the military and some elite alpine clubs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thankfully, now there is the Malam Jabba ski resort in Swat, open to the general public for winter sports. First proposed in 1962 by the Austrian ambassador, it took many years to untangle the Pakistani bureaucratic logjam for work to commence on this project with Austrian aid. It was completed in 1988 but again fell victim to bureaucratic and legal wranglings, which were resolved in 1999. But just when the first ski resort, in a country with some of the world\u2019s loftiest mountains was finally, finally ready to open for the public, the Taliban seized Swat and blew up the facilty, proclaiming that it is better to spend time in prayer and devotion to god than in winter sports! But god be thanked that they were driven out at a great cost in human lives and suffering, and the facilities were reconstructed and finally opened in 2014. Situated about ten kilometres from Gilgit, Kargah is famous for an image of a large standing Buddha carved on a cliff-face, about 15 metres tall. Discovered in 1938-39, it is believed to date to the 7th century. Travelling in Pakistan\u2019s north and in Afghanistan, one now wonders how a scenic region that once was a bastion of Buddhism is now steeped in such militant and extremist Islam. Buddhism has not only been wiped out, but there is scant tolerance for any other religion, sect or creed in these regions, on both sides of the Durand Line.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Pakistan\u2019s tourist infrastructure may be crude, but some of the sights are nothing less than breathtaking. Some of its people may appear uncouth, but they can\u2019t be beaten for hospitality.\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[3],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/63"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=63"}],"version-history":[{"count":16,"href":"https:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/63\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1236,"href":"https:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/63\/revisions\/1236"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=63"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=63"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.raziazmi.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=63"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}