by Don George
Afghanistan! It reminded me of stories I had heard of people in the days before China was open to visitors, driving to the New Territories and peering off toward the misty fields of Canton. Those far mountains were in fact no different from the very mountain on which I stood—except that at some point in the minuscule moment of human history someone had decided to lay an imaginary line between them and call it a border. What chaos that caused, I mused, and the pickup trucks with their riflemen bouncing in the back sped by, bound for—I didn’t know where.
And the scrape and trudge of all the feet that had raised dust on this inhospitable path—Aryan feet, Greek feet, Mughal feet, British feet—echoed in my mind.
On the drive back to Peshawar, Asad pointed to plastic packets that were hanging along with cigarettes, oranges, and other everyday goods from just about every streetside stall. “See those packets?” he said. “They contain opium. Drug-selling is another very big business here. The tribal chiefs are very clever, and very wealthy and well protected. They sell just about everything,” he added.
“Even people?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, people too,” he said.
In a distant field children were flying white paper kites, and women in white robes trailed by children in red and purple shalwar kameez walked through waving grasses from one mud settlement to another. Eucalyptus trees and poplars—strange that I hadn’t noticed them before—lined the road, sighing in the breeze.
Part Two: High Road to Hunza
April 5 dawned dark and drizzly, and we splashed through the muddy, puddling streets of Peshawar bound for the Swat Valley and the city of Saidu Sharif, ancient capital of the Kingdom of Swat. As we wound north, roadside images revealed the presence of the past in this slowly developing land: cultivated fields crisscrossed by rough-dug irrigation trenches, occasionally punctuated by walled compounds of mud and straw; children gathering branches and twigs in the rain; yoked oxen snorting through the mud; carcasses hanging in a market; men huddled around a makeshift fire in a shop.
It was not propitious weather for touring the Buddhist ruins and Alexander the Great-related sites of Swat, so instead we spent our day and a half there shopping. I dutifully but dispiritedly hefted melons, admired earrings and necklaces, and trailed fine rainbow-colored scarves through my hands—until we stopped at the village of Khwazakhela.
There, in a dark, dingy closet of a shop, maybe eight feet deep by five feet wide, we discovered a wooden and leather arrow quiver, with the arrows still inside, that both the shop owner and Asad said was at least 100 years old. Then in a grimy corner, among lanterns and coins and cooking utensils, I found a 100-year-old drum and a 350-year-old leather shield.
I twirled an arrow and felt the prick of its cool metal tip. Then I turned the drum in my hands, studying how the leather had been stretched over the beautifully worked brass, running my fingers over the creases where the leather had been stretched, smelling the dust and sweat and age of it. I beat it—dust dancing into the air—and imagined tribal palms beating that same worn spot a century ago; the dull thonk, thonk and tum, tum echoed in my ears just as—I imagined—they had echoed in tribal ears through the years.
Then I took the rough shield and imagined a Pathan warrior 300 years ago gripping those same thongs, that musty, pocked, leathery disc—about as big as a woman’s floppy Sunday hat—the only thing between him and death.
The shop owner picked an old, rusted, curving sword off the wall and playfully swung it at me. I parried his thrust with my shield. His eyes were suddenly electric with mirth and interaction—understanding that spanned cultures, connections that spanned time.
The next day mists shrouded the Himalayan peaks that Asad said loomed majestic and snowcapped in the distance, but patches of clearing revealed an entirely different Pakistan from the dusty plains of Peshawar: hillsides terraced with row upon row of lush green plots (wheat at that time of year) bright with yellow mustard plants and white-blossoming pear trees.
When we reached 6,300 feet, snow and pine trees unexpectedly appeared, along with patches of pink mountain tulips. And as the countryside and climate changed, so did the inhabitants’ lifestyle: Now hillside clusters of brick and rock houses with tin roofs replaced the sprawling mud and straw settlements of the lowlands; and as the slopes grew increasingly steep, tiny terraces folded down them like the ribs of an emerald fan.
At a fraying, frontier-feeling truck stop called Besham, Tom Cole announced that we were at one of the most significant points of passage on our trip. From there on, we would be traveling along the legendary Karakoram Highway, or KKH, “one of man’s most magnificent and stupefying feats of engineering and endurance.”
Undertaken jointly by Pakistan and China, the two-lane, 730-mile highway took twenty years to complete, with 15,000 Pakistanis and from 9,000 to 20,000 Chinese working on the project at any one time.
The KKH was dynamited and dug out of the mountains, connecting Islamabad all the way to the Chinese border and beyond to Kashgar in the wastes of Chinese Turkestan. In some places the builders followed ancient trade routes that predated even the Silk Route; in other places, because of unresolvable property disputes, they simply blasted a way through virgin territory.
The landscape through which we now wound was as wild and uncompromising as any I had ever seen. The peaks rose steep and sheer—ragged in some places, sandpapered by colossal landslides in others—from the side of the road into the clouds. In all this immensity, the highway was a filament, a puny patch of pavement that nature could reclaim at any moment through any of the elements at its command: snow or mud, rock or flood.
When we saw nomads with sheep and cows walking by the side of the Indus River far below, they looked about as big as the period at the end of this sentence. In my journal I wrote: “This is a landscape for gods, not men.”
Nature’s raw power was manifest in much more mundane—and mortal—ways as well: The rains of the previous days had washed many parts of the road away. Whenever we reached one of these, our driver, Ali Muhammad, would gingerly prod and caress the van over the muddy, slippery, rock-strewn stretches—air whistling beneath our windows all the way to the gray-green squiggle of the Indus.
Asad and Ali kept a constant watch on the mountainside: Tumbling streams of small rocks, Asad said, often precede huge, highway-demolishing rockslides. Whole regiments of soldiers are maintained in camps along the highway just to keep it clear, Asad said.
Eventually we passed so many mudslides and rockslides—and soldiers in bulldozers and backhoes—that I lost count and stopped scanning the mountainsides. Instead I gave myself up to the sumi-e serenity of peak and cloud, the occasional apparitions of umbrella-toting villagers, and the throat-tightening sight of a narrow dirt track, perhaps as old as human settlement here, ribboning along a far mountainside.
Asad and Tom Cole used this time to present some background information: From the beginning of human habitation in the region, northern Pakistan had been composed of fiercely independent valley kingdoms. The leaders of these kingdoms, who went by various titles—rajah, mir, wali—subsisted for centuries in their mountain fastnesses, raising their own food and preying on passing caravans for ceramics, silks, spices, and slaves; at the same time, they used promises of allegiance to gain bounty and maintain independence from the emperors of China and the maharajahs of Kashmir.
This political balancing act reached its climax in the Great Game of the late 19th century, when Russia and England vied through emissaries and outposts—and, finally, armies—for the favor of the local rulers and the control of these remote but strategically alluring territories.
The rulers eventually relinquished their independence, but in essence they remained semiautonomous well after Partition and the creation of Pakistan in 1947. The wali of Swat gave up rule in 1969; the mirs of Hunza and Nagar surrendered their sovereignty only in 1974. (In fact, the current mir of Hunza, who was in power at that time, is the last of the forme
r rulers allowed to use his royal title.)
Today in many ways these areas are still hardly part of Pakistan, Asad said. They don’t belong to any of the country’s four full-fledged provinces, but rather to an anomalous entity called the Northern Areas. The inhabitants prefer local dialects to Urdu, the national language. And the dominant branch of religious belief is not Sunni or Shia Islam—which prevail in other parts of Pakistan—but Ismaili, a somewhat mystic and less fundamentalist, more eclectic strain.
We reached Karimabad, the “capital” of the Hunza Valley, just before sunset. Of all the exotic stops on our itinerary, it was Hunza, famed for its apricot orchards, the longevity of its inhabitants, and its fairy tale setting of a verdant valley encircled by snowcapped peaks, that had most attracted me to this tour. In the far-off United States, I had felt that something was waiting for me in Hunza, that something would be revealed to me there.
No burst of epiphanic light or even partial parting of the clouds greeted my arrival, but my first impressions were still favorable: The people were healthy-looking, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes and sturdy, colorful clothes; the cold, clear mountain air rang with the cries of children at play; and the setting was indeed spectacular, a lush bowl surrounded by peaks, some jagged and distinct against the sky, others obscured by clouds.
We spent the following day touring the highlights of Hunza, starting with Baltit Fort. Built 550 years ago and inhabited by the mirs of Hunza until the present residence was built in the 1920s, this white, high-perched palace is a stirring sight, especially when viewed from a distance against a backdrop of cloud-piercing peaks. Close up, however, it seemed a dusty, neglected, mud-plastered place. Still, looking closely and imaginatively at its massive wooden beams and intricately carved doorways and columns, we could get some sense of its former magnificence.
We were told that UNESCO has been negotiating with the mir to take over the management and restoration of the fort. If an agreement is reached, the palace will probably be sealed off, or at least partly restricted to visitors, until the restoration is completed—but it was heartening to think that this precious, poignant symbol of Hunza’s history and culture might be preserved.
Altit Fort, Baltit’s predecessor, was in a similar state of disrepair, but presented from its tower an enchanting tapestry of rooftop life in the surrounding hamlet: Here was a woman doing the breakfast dishes; there another doing laundry. Three women chatted and crafted masterful crochetwork almost directly below us; another group sat sorting twigs. A mother appeared with a basin under one arm and a squirming naked child under the other, and proceeded to scrub him clean, much to his displeasure. Another adjusted a wooden carrier on her back before setting out for the fields.
In all, our wanderings revealed an underlying sense of prosperity and serenity in Hunza. Solid rock houses sat beside fertile green plots irrigated by an ingenious, extensive network of canals; and everywhere thin spring willows spired into the sky, and pear, apple, and apricot trees burst into brilliant pink and white bloom. Dusty, litter-free paths interlaced the hamlets of the valley, and I noticed an aural interlacing as well: Because of the area’s acoustics, a child’s cry or the clanging of a cowbell at one end could be heard clearly at the other. It was as if everyone was everyone else’s neighbor.
Contentment seemed to spring naturally from Hunza’s idyllic and isolated setting: The valley bowl imbued the place with a stabilizing sense of community, and the peaks, even when invisible, conferred a kind of high mountain peace. How could one not be happy here? I thought.
Such romantic speculations obscured the harsh realities of the situation, however—the inhabitants’ situation and, indeed, our own. We were staying at the guest house of the mir, on the grounds of the present palace, about as prestigious an address as one could hope for. But despite the name, there was intermittent electricity, little hot water, even less heat—and no mir, alas. (He was still at his winter residence in Islamabad.) Even more important, the clouds that had first appeared in Swat had steadfastly followed us up the KKH, clouding the mountains and our minds. It was cold, many in our group were sniffling and coughing, the food was mediocre and the pretty pictures the tour brochure had innocently painted began to seem malevolent mockery.
At an uneasy dinner, various discomforts were brought up, and the consensus was to cut short our stay in Hunza by a day and continue up the KKH a few hours to Gulmit. Some travelers who had just come from there had spoken glowingly of a lodge with abundant hot water, blankets, heat, and good food. So we revised the itinerary once more: The following day, we would tour the Nagar Valley, across the Hunza Gorge, and then leave for Gulmit the morning after.
I decided I would forgo the excursion to Nagar and wander Hunza’s dusty lanes, hoping they would reveal whatever it was I had come to see.
The next day dawned auspiciously clear, and at 5:30 Karimabad was surrounded by a spectacular panorama of peaks, each one glistening golden snow against the sky: Rakaposhi, Pari, The Throne, Ultar.
At 6:30 I walked alone down the main street, exulting at the invigorating air, the head-clearing silence, and the aloof but somehow encouraging solitude, serenity, and strength of the mountains. The entire valley seemed a soul-lightening composition of bold, basic colors: green fields, pink blossoms, white peaks, blue sky.
The day passed in a kind of counterpoint of reflective solitude and entwining encounter. Wherever I wandered, I was met with smiles and waves, but I was also left free to simply roam and reflect.
At one point a man strode up to me and said, “How do you do? I am very happy to welcome you to Hunza. Would you like to see my house?”
He gently took my arm and led me to a plot of land that had been leveled, where a cinderblock dwelling was sitting in stately half-completion. “This,” he said proudly, “is my house.”
He took me through it room by room, pointing out the electrical outlets, the living room’s airy view, and the kitchen with its fancy new fireplace.
At another point I saw two old men sitting by the side of the road, in toothless tranquility. A young boy was standing near them, and I asked him how old they were. He asked them, and they replied, “Eh?” He asked more loudly. Same response. He walked closer and asked in an even bigger voice. Same response. Finally, he walked up so close that he was shouting almost directly into one old man’s nose. “Ah,” they responded, and then sang out some sentences.
“They are not sure,” the boy translated. “Maybe eighty, maybe ninety.” They smiled great toothless grins, and I asked if I could take their picture. I don’t know what their answer was, but it sounded like, “Yes, of course, what took you so long? We have been waiting for you to ask us!”
Much later, after the others on our tour had returned from Nagar, three musicians bearing a horn and two drums arrived at the mir’s palace and began to play on the lawn. Asad had arranged a dance for us, and as the primitive, pulsing music floated through the village’s natural amphitheater, children began to gather from all corners; then grizzled men with canes and younger men carrying their work tools appeared as well.
First three elders in elaborate costumes presented a tale of some long-ago pilgrimage. Then two younger men with shields and swords enacted an epic battle. In the lull between performances, the children pushed and cajoled each other onto the grassy stage and danced.
Just as I was exclaiming at the wonder of witnessing this storytelling tradition that went back perhaps 2,000 years, a young man raced into the dancing area, his eyes bulging, and violently pushed away an old man who had been dancing. The children screamed and scattered.
This youth tore wildly around the grass a half-dozen times, then suddenly stopped and bent over the central drum, sweat streaming off his face, and began to call out words in a husky, disembodied voice.
“This one is a shaman,” Asad said. “He has been possessed by the spirit of the fairies, and is predicting the future.”
But the encounter that moved me m
ost of all occurred earlier in the afternoon. I was returning to the mir’s palace when I saw a man in his backyard crafting a beautiful wooden door. He was working slowly and carefully, and seemed so entirely absorbed that there was no separation between him and the wood he was shaping.
Suddenly he noticed me admiring his work and beckoned me to join him. I slid down a small hill to his home. He grinned. I grinned. I gestured that the door was very beautiful. He called out something, and presently a gorgeous young girl shyly walked up to me bearing a plate of apricots.
The apricots were sweet and delicious and I tried to say so. Then I pulled out some postcards of San Francisco and tried to communicate that it was where I came from. Finally I pulled out some pictures of my family and asked if I could take a picture of his family to bring home to show to my family.
His eyes lit up, and he called out something, and presently his family appeared—wife, teenage daughter, one baby, second baby, mother-in-law—peering out from inside the house. I asked if I could take their picture—not being able to take pictures of women had been one of the great frustrations of the trip—and he enthusiastically motioned me into the house.
It was too dark and I didn’t have a flash, but I did have a chance to see the inside of a traditional Hunza house: We entered into the living room, which had a carpet and window at one end, a door leading into what I took to be a bedroom in another wall, a fireplace in the wall opposite the carpet and a hole in the ceiling above the fireplace, the perimeter of which had been blackened by smoke. Curtains of some rough cloth framed the window, but otherwise there was almost no ornamentation, nothing on the walls and no furniture save for one low chair.
After I had taken a photo inside, I asked if I might take their picture outside as well. They posed patiently and sweetly—the babies taking turns crying, drooling, and cooing—and when we had finished, the carpenter said something, and after a few minutes his elder daughter brought a plastic bag bulging with dried apricots and kernels.