Timeless World
Pakistan’s great northern areas

Hamsafar Magazine (2002)

On a hot May night, we moved through the Karakoram mountains, racing towards Gilgit. Our powerful beams cut a path through the rocks and the long black ribbon that stretched ahead endlessly was the fabled KKH – the impossible highway built years earlier through seemingly impossible terrain. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The valleys stretched on either side, dark shadowy sentinels, motionless and silent, almost bemusedly observing our puny four-wheeler as it traveled on, against elements where all comparisons of scale eventually become meaningless. Beyond the immediate mountains stretched the distant ranges - miles and miles away and in the pale light of the May moon, the white snows glowed with an unearthly light. For a swift second, we brought the vehicle to a stop and cut out the lights and stood in the middle of the dark and deserted road. The silence enveloped us in seconds. When we stepped out, the sound of the doors slamming rang like exploding bombs. We stepped on the road and heard the silence descend in a silent, motionless wave. It was as if we were in a completely soundless world, but as our ears, unaccustomed as they were, began to adjust, the sound of the wind started to come through and we began to discern the shapeless shadows that watched us. In the light of the pale moon, the ageless vista lay all around us. Other than the 20th century jeep that panted hot and silent besides us, there was every reason to believe that we were the only living beings in that valley at that moment in time. And we may well have been. Time, the great traveler seemed to have stopped. It was as if the centuries tired of traveling had finally stopped and now stood still. For all it mattered, the valleys that surrounded us were not centuries old, but still in their first few moments on earth.

The Karakorams leave a profound effect on those who come into contact with them. It is impossible to see them and not feel a complete sense of awe, of being in the company of gods, of nature at its most spectacular. The magnitude of the scale of this world leaves you feeling very insignificant and humble. And it is not simply a matter of scale, because scale in itself is meaningless. It was Jonathan Swift who observed that nothing was big or small except by comparison, yet in the northern areas of Pakistan, just a few hundred kilometers from beef burgers, mobile phones and central air-conditioning, the daily trappings of existence fall away like stones down an incline and you are face to face with a power that is beyond belief. The Karakorams, one of the three mighty ranges that make their home in these areas are staggering to see; yet it is the continuity of the scale that humbles you. Years ago, Barbara Streisand sang eloquently, ‘On a clear day, you can see forever,’ and it is so true. Here, you can see forever, as valleys blend into valleys and more valleys, stretching into one another until the very horizon blends into the valleys. On a more immediate level, you sit on a boulder and cast a sweeping look, past the road, past the stretching gravelly valley, past the sheer drop of the cliff face, past the great river that plunges below it, past its mighty banks, past the valleys that lie on the other side and the cliff faces that rise at the other extremity and past fields and streams and boulders and cliffs and valleys into infinity. On this field of the gods, it is not uncommon to see a few hundred specks, not more than the size of a grain of sand, move antlike across the panoramic sweep of rocks and glaciers, only to understand that these are flocks tended by shepherds, much the same way today as they must have been centuries earlier. It is a humbling thought.

Our journey that moonlit May night had begun two days earlier in a melting Lahore, where we expired slowly in the midday heat until we lifted off. Having finished a meeting with minutes to spare before dashing to the airport, the sense of adventure had not yet set in and it wasn’t hours later when we were in Abbotabad, dining in the cool gardens of the hotel that the excitement of the journey ahead began to materialize. Next morning, we were on the road at 7 am, passing through the quaint and picturesque Hazara valleys and forking left to gain access to the KKH. As we weaved our way up the gentle slopes, terraced hillsides and poplar trees standing guard along the road that brought us closer and closer to the walls of granite and the first sounds of the mighty Indus, the magic of the mountains began to cast its effect. At every turn we turned and peered at the hazy distance hoping to catch our first glimpses of the snows glinting on the high mountains where we were headed, but it was to be quite a while before that particular dream came true. Past Besham, Dassu, Sazin and Chilas, we were sucked into the great gorge of the Indus, cut through the rocks over centuries, a deadly fight to capture the right of way. The road tantalizes the traveler - sometimes sweeping low and running alongside the furious Indus as it plunges downstream, sometimes climbing high till the Indus is reduced to a sparkling stream that moves sluggishly and without a sound. But perceptions change rapidly for the second you near the river, the power and the majesty of its roaring, pristine waters thundering over glazed and polished rocks makes all conversations come to a stop. The Indus commands respect and silence. It has the sole right to toss and turn, send up white sprays of water and maintain its thundering musical roar. It is as if the river reaches out and throws a challenge to the elements, to come forward and tame it. There are no takers because in this gorge, no one takes on the Indus.

Our journey on the KKH was full of surprises since our common perception, as first time travelers, was of a winding and bumpy highway, yet there were long open stretches where the road lay before us like a stainless steel ribbon, placed as if my some meticulous and gigantic hand. On either side of it, the valleys opened out, sweeping away from the road with the landscape deserted except for the occasional shepherd or traveler. It was easy to travel swiftly towards our destination. Almost a dozen hours after Abbotabad, past Jaglot, we began to approach the town of Gilgit that lay on the left of the Gilgit River in a valley surrounded by peaks. All day long we had played hide and seek with the Indus, sometimes keeping it to the right of us and sometimes to our left as we snaked our way ahead, but now we had made it to our second stop and the welcome modern world luxuries of the Serena. Refreshed after a good night’s sleep and an inspiring breakfast in the airy high-terraced dining room of the hotel with stunning views from every large window, we re-traced our journey, crossed the Gilgit River again, heading towards Hunza.

Lush orchards swung low on either side of the road as gurgling brooks cascaded down from unknown secret caverns. The water was cold and refreshing and the green mossy landscape, a contrast to yesterday’s awesome but largely bleak moonscape terrain. The road continued to amaze, cutting along mountainsides and opening stunning new worlds at every turn. It was amazing that every approaching turn raised the level of anticipation only to meet it and then offer some more. We sped on; gaining height all the time and suddenly the beautiful Rakaposhi came into view – its pristine snows and its stunning peaks just as beautiful as its name. Each twist and turn revealed a new angle and so it continued till we stopped at the most strategic point and sipped hot tea basking in the sun and looking up at the mountain that stood in solitary splendour against a fiercely cobalt sky. It was the view of a lifetime.

By early afternoon, we had driven through forests of apricot and apple trees that sweep over most of Karimabad and now stood, drinking in the cold air, at our rest house for the next three days. The view defied description. It was only a matter of minutes before the adjectives ran out and open-mouthed gaping became the only ineffective way to deal with nature’s unending spectacle. Before us, on one side opened valleys curving almost 300 degrees from end to end. At that vantage height, the eye could plummet down thousands of feet in seconds, criss-crossing valley after valley. Some lay in tawny colours, bathed in the sunny afternoon light of gold, some in dark recesses. Some shone blindingly in verdant green, some lay in moods of brown. Terraced fields of emerald dazzled on the horizon, with the occasional pools of water in radiant silver where the sun touched the water. In the distance, stood Rakaposhi, shifting constantly in the dance of light and shadow that the sky played on and on. The clouds continued to float, sometimes shimmering and blindingly white, sometimes dark and threatening and the sun played its eternal game. Behind us, rising almost from our footsteps, Ultar looked down, the mountain that observes in granite silence the valley of Hunza, and guards it, almost jealously, crowding it with its stunning rock face and its blinding snows. It is a magical, timeless setting.

Our journey next morning swept us through this enchanted valley and onto the Khunjrab Pass, the highest road pass in the world - the gateway to China. As we traveled on, marveling at the KKH, the land continued to present its eternal show of changing vistas. As we crossed the Shishkot Bridge, we rounded a bend and silently slid to a stop. Before us lay the valley of Gulmit, nestling under an enormous range with the valley opening out to showcase the sleepy Hunza river. In front of this pretty hamlet, stood an armada of mountains, sharp and steely, the spires rising into the skies like the open mouth of a gigantic shark. It was simply impossible to absorb this landscape without losing your voice. We stood riveted, unable to move, unable to speak, as words, thoughts, phrases tumbled through our heads but were so inadequate that they were best left unspoken. As the afternoon flowed on, it was impossible to walk away from a scene so stunning and so peaceful. We tore ourselves away reluctantly and reached Pirali, the last post before the snows of Khunjrab make all existence impossible. Climbing up the gorge, we were treated to the rare sight of Markhor Sheep, now growing in numbers in the Khunjrab Reserve, but so artfully had nature blended them with the terrain that it was hard to tell where the rocks or the Markhor stood. With the air thinning we continued climbing, hairpin after hairpin till we began to see the straight road that spans the two check posts of Pakistan and China. This was another unique experience. Having all one’s life, looked up to mountains, in Khunjrab it was strange to see them almost at eye level, until one realized that at 16,000 feet the peaks were only marginally higher! We stood on the road and saw the deserted check post. Even in May, it was uninhabitable. To look ahead and comprehend that ahead was a name one had heard from childhood – China, was hard to describe. Thirty minutes later, we were descending to Karimabad, secure that we had seen the great pass, but beginning to get the feeling of depression often associated when reducing altitude.

Two days later we traveled back towards Gilgit, made a left turn along the Astore River and began the most arduous part of our journey towards Rama. Used to the KKH, the road track here became increasingly difficult and precarious, with landslides reducing the ‘road’ to nothing but a goat track at a 45-degree angle. Between that and the raging, angry river, foaming and frothing some hundreds of feet below, stood nothing except providence. Slipping and sliding and relying solely on conflicting directions from locals, four wheel prowess and experience, we traveled on to Astore. A last minute sheer climb up a gradient that cannot be described and the narrow Astore valley lay before us, drunk on the exotic and wonderful aroma of cumin seed, which grows in abundance here. Our jeeps took us past Astore up towards Lake Rama and a rest house which was deserted at this time of the year, but four miles up the ten mile journey – no roads here, we abandoned the jeeps and began the long climb up through increasing snows. When we sighted the rest house, it was ensconced in a complete winter-white landscape. And there wasn’t a soul in sight. We huddled in the freezing cold, sleeping bags, wood fires and hot food notwithstanding and woke up at a little before 4 am to sit outside and catch the first light of dawn hitting the peak of Nanga Parbat at 8125 meters. The lightest of pink rays eventually pierced the gloom and lit up, on cue, the top of that great mountain. It was the vision of a lifetime and no amount of pictures hastily shot, did it justice. It was to be our only view of the fabled peak because thereafter, the clouds rolled in and never left. We trudged through ten feet of snow to reach Lake Rama, but gave up after some hours. The two days in this silent valley were nevertheless absolutely beautiful and we left, vowing to return.

What is it about the north that pulls you so hard, that you may not physically experience for some time and yet, it is never far from your thoughts? It is hard to give a straight and correct answer. Is it the scale that puts things in perspective, that takes your very existence and places it in the larger scheme of things? Is it the stunning combination of wild rivers, towering peaks, verdant orchards and infinite valleys that enchants the soul? Is it the simple way of life, that timeless cycle of birth and death that is so fundamentally evident in the north that binds you to it? Is it the sheer departure from our daily lives of noise, commotion and commerce into a world totally unlike ours? Or is it that in our world of transitory values and fleeting relationships, the great northern regions stand as they must have thousands of years ago, unchanging and eternal, where mountains maintain their cold aloofness and rivers their raging tempers? Who can tell? Everyone who travels to this enchanted land must seek the answers from within themselves because, like all things, that is where the answers actually lie.