Pakistan: The North [part 2]

So where did we leave off? Oh yes, Jaan Sahib and the omelets. The eggs were served in a generous buffet, complete with toast, jam and imported apple juice. The breakfast congregation was the first time the group was able to consolidate and mingle without the anxiety of flight delays and first-time awkwardness. The Argentinean ambassador’s wife, however, insisted, without the burden of politeness, that we “get out of this place now,” leaving Jaan Sahib our host, who had been busy hosting, struggling to finish his omelet. The wife’s frustration was compounded when Mobina (somebody else’s wife who I forgot to mention earlier) sauntered outside for a mid-morning-post-breakfast cigarette, which, a Benson & Hedges 100, was smoked at what seemed to be a calculatedly leisured pace, foreshadowing more serious tensions between the two as the journey progressed. At the other end of the room, Zubair, who hadn’t yet contributed much, was feverously combing the newspaper for conversational ammunition, while Naeem, ever armed with his cell phone, was busy with the thankless task of working out hotel logistics. My parents tried unsuccessfully to penetrate the Spanish and Argentinean delegation, but they were too busy being unimpressed with the omelets and arbitrary nature of the breakfast in general.

First impressions not holding much promise I decided to let the mountains to do the entertaining on the trip. Breakfast was about an hour and a half, despite the best efforts of the Argentinean wife, and we finally made it on to the two coasters that would be our transports for the rest of the journey. The coasters provided a perfect platform for the polarization of the group, as the Spaniards and Argentineans piled into one bus, while us Pakistanis and the Canadian, rekindling colonial ties, settled for bus 2. Kajra mohabat wala and shahbaz kalander singing, we set off into the Hunza hills, past Karimabad and to our hotel in Gulmit.

The drive was through the mountains reminded me of the route through the Austrian Alps to Salzburg: pretty but not imposing. Along side the rail-less single lane road ran the newly assertive Gilgit River. Across the river on the other side of the valley wall were messages written into the mountainside using white rock. “Welcome our Hazir Imam!,” they yelled, “Welcome Agha Khan.” One thing we found during our trip was that the writ of the federal government runs thinner and thinner the further north you go, and, as a result, public works projects have been undertaken not by the Pakistani authorities, but through the generous donations of the Agha Khan. The Agha Khan is the ideological leader of the Ismaili sect, itself an offshoot of Shi’te Islam. We found, the deeper into Gilgit we went, that the Agha Khan is revered not only as a religious leader, but as an administrator, executive and patron. On our immediate left rose the sheer rock that had been partially disturbed for the construction of the road. Enormous boulders and gushing waterfalls hung precariously above us, reminding us that we would soon be at the inhospitable mercy of nature.

Around mid-afternoon we finally arrived at our hotel in Gulmit, a comfortable place, but lacking, for the most part, electricity and running water. However, before we got a chance to enjoy these luxuries, Naeem insisted that we keep moving as evening would soon be upon us. My parents and a few others, Mobina and her cigarettes included, decided to stay behind, leaving me in the midst of Spaniards and Argentineans. Spaniards and Argentineans had coalesced into a single unit by this point, and proceeded to dominate the next leg of the journey. We went onwards only 5km, but the trip took about 45 minutes as we wove our way through ever-higher peaks and less accommodating roads. I honestly had no idea where we were going, but Naeem, Jaan and Spaniards and Argentineans were happy with whatever was going on so I thought it awkward to ask. Quite suddenly, the coasters stopped half way up a dirt road on the side of a mountain quite a way away from the main road. We pushed and shoved our way out of the coasters and Spaniards and Argentineans proceeded to follow one of the many guides that had begun to swarm around the entourage. Curious, I of course followed. A little way up the mountain, over a somewhat inauspicious ridge, lay, majestically, the Gulmit glacier: 10 miles of flowing ice meandering and cascading over mountain ridges, scintillating in the afternoon sun. “Now there’s something you don’t see everyday,” Naeem confirmed. Spaniards and Arentineans furiously conferenced, trying to decide whose camera had higher resolution. Jaan Sahib, who had seen all this before, lit a cigarette and spoke about the glacier with haughty familiarity, as if he himself had created the ice from the sediment of mountain. We were on a foot-wide pathway well above the glacier that ran along its eastern bank. Naeem, infected by Jaan Sahib’s disinterest, decided to stay back. A Spaniard and Argentinean had managed to produce a camera from the bus and had begun sprawling on the ground for more unnecessarily incredible angles. Onwards up the pathway they scurried, stopping every now and again for photo opportunity and obnoxiously loud Spanish conversation. The glacier, ancient, serene, grew larger, longer with every corner we turned; the ice took on more unbelievable configurations. Letting Spaniards and Argentineans proceed further, and with Naeem and Jaan acceptably occupied by the confused Canadian, I stopped and took stock.

Dear rearders, it is difficult to describe the feeling that the grandeur of nature can inspire in a person. Cliché or not, I felt small, insignificant, powerless. In my mind, I pictured the shores of the of the sub-continent crash into the shores of Asia, creating, by geological coincidence, some of the most beautiful and awe-inspiring phenomenon man will ever witness. The process is still happening as South Asia continues to push into the mainland (as evidenced by the tragic 2005 Kashmir earthquake). This means, I ruminated, the very earth we tread on here in India and Pakistan, trembles with kinetic energy. There is a lot of energy here a lot of good happening and a lot our people have to offer. I encourage you, dear readers, to pay a visit.

Pakistan: The North [part 1]

(Disclaimer: dear readers, I have bored you already with my perennial inability to procure a camera. You will not be surprised then to know that my incompetence in unfailing. The following pictures are not of mine but have been taken from the internet. However, I picked the photos because they're not particularly creative and, therefore, do not inflate reality. As you can see, however, there is really no need for inflation.)

Our hotel, aptly named Eagle’s nest, was at 8000 feet. From our window we could see the clouds that hid Rakaposhi’s snowy peak at 25000 feet. The Passu cone hills were twenty kilometers up the Karakurum highway, jaggedly standing at 18000 feet. I’m about 5”10.
The Karakurum mountain range is an offshoot of the Himalayas and, along with the Hindu Kush to the West, forms the roof of the world. Eight of the ten highest peaks on Earth reside in these mountains, stretching out a further 5mm each year as the Indian sub-continent continues to plough its way into Asia. Too cold most of the year for anything to grow, the area is distinct in its abundance of water and lack of vegetation. However, shrubs and small trees have braved the hostile climate and provide food for the astonishingly diverse fauna, including ibex, yak and snow leopard, that form the region’s vibrant ecosystem. The mountains themselves rest on an equally varied array of geology, yellow sandstone and black volcanic rock jutting from every crevice, crater and canyon.
Welcome, dear readers, to the officially titled Northern Areas of Pakistan. I had only been in the country for a few days and already I found myself gallivanting around the plains of the Punjab and the rivers of the Indus, making my way north via the capital Islamabad, and eventually settling in the greater Kashmiri province of Gilgit. From here, I went up to Karimabad, a picture post card of a village built on the fertile soils of an extinct glacier, and nestled cozily between the Rakaposhi heights. From there, on a clear day, you can see the limestone peaks of Sost, beyond which lies the Khunjrab Pass, the ancient Silk Route passage through the bowels of the mountain leading onwards to Xingjian and the Chinese mainland. It was all a bit much, really, for kid coming from 43015 Delaware, OH, but I managed, water in bottle, pack on back, to sever ties from the world down below, and, for a brief moment, be close to heaven.
Our entourage was colorful, if not engaging. The Spanish, Argentinean and, the odd one out, Canadian ambassadors to Pakistan, accompanied by wives, children and miscellaneous. Among the locals were Naeem Sarfaraz of New York, and, later, Gujrawalan fame; Zubair (last name unknown), former cabinet member under the caretaker government of the late 90s; Mohammed Jaan, SP of Gilgit (the acronym SP still under investigation), lone law enforcement crusader against sectarian tensions in the region, which, in their zenith, claimed the life of the Inspector General of Police for the Northern Areas. Last, but certainly not least, were the Naqvis, complete with mother, father and (yours truly) third and final son. Along the way were guides, drivers, locals and that one guy from the hotel who said he was the first person to scale K2.
We finally flew into Gilgit airport after an anxious weather delay and two hours of sleep. I’m told the flight in was breathtaking, but, being barely conscious, I couldn’t tell you much more. However, once on the tarmac, the cool mountain air smelling distinctly of cherry roused me to the sight of the River Gilgit flowing out of summits Hunza.
The plane dumped passengers and luggage alike on the tarmac for the two to try to find each other. No sooner had it landed that it took off again, the last of any sort of technological luxury we were to have in the north. We immediately felt isolated, the vagaries and viscidities of civilization silenced by sheer altitude. The town of Gilgit is a rudimentary affair, with goat and chicken treated with as much curtsey and security as their evolutionary superiors. Phones don’t work, and electricity is fleeting. The roads, I was told, were better than most, but the markets were, to put it lightly, dead. It wasn’t much cooler than Islamabad, but there was a perceptible purity in the air.
We met up with Jaan Sahib at a non-descript guesthouse where we were served omelets and paratha. He's a portly young man with a Cambridge accent and unnecessarily boisterous laugh. Jaan Sahib had organized the rest of our trip, and, resultantly, it was difficult to be an ass to him despite his inflated sense of self-worth and annoying pessimism.