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Published: August 16th 2006
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20 June 2006
On the way to Gilgit at last. Karim had to come by road because two “confirmed” flights were canceled due to weather. So this morning at 0400 I set off in the FPAP Land Cruiser with the driver and 4 other passengers for the journey of less than 630 km (378 miles) that will take us 14 hours or more. As we left the city of Islamabad and traveled toward Rawalpindi we were enveloped in one ravine by cloud of noxious, foul-smelling smog. There is incredible pollution here, with thousands upon thousands of vehicles of all sorts, none of which have anything approaching a pollution control device.
On the plains turning north from the Islamabad - Peshawar road, the highway is covered for long stretches by a canopy of green tees planted along the roadside which must provide welcome relief from the unbearably hot temperatures of summer here. It’s been 38 - 45 degrees (C (100 - 110) every day in Islamabad. Yesterday was 36 or so (high 90s) so this am at 6, we can comfortably drive with just the windows open for air.
It is green in the plains north of Islamabad but
Earthquake refugee camp
Earthquake refugee camp somewhat dry. We cross two large river beds, each at least 50 feet across, and neither of which has a drop of water in it. I’m told one of the large lakes in Punjab has completely dried up (for those who have not yet seen the movie “An Inconvenient Truth” about global warming, I highly recommend it.) There is dismay that the rains should be starting and they haven’t. There have been a number of storms with hours of thunder and lightning followed by two minutes of rain. Still hopeful of the monsoons, though.
In at least three areas along the highway, the landscaped is scarred by what appear to be very large open pit mines (or in one case, likely a rock and gravel quarry). As in most developing countries, the need for either the resource itself or the capital generated by the resource leads to ignoring any long-term environmental consequences of the gathering of it.
At Abbottabad, we stopped for a breakfast of sweet, strong tea with milk, and a greasy fried egg and greasy parata, the traditional Pakistani circular wheat bread. It reminded me of the fried bread of the Yakama Indian Nation in eastern
Earthquake rubble
Earthquake rubble Washington State.
We arrive in Manshera, which was hit by the earthquake, with evidence everywhere of rebuilding. Piles of new bricks and concrete blocks, canvas “fences” marked 'UNHCR' (United Nations High Commission for Refugees) surrounding a middle school, a roadside billboard with the names and contact information for the aid agencies at work here - Oxfam, IRC (international Rescue Committee), International Red Crescent Society and others. Where cement blocks are used, new construction is now being done with rebar, but many houses are still being roofed with cement. The earthquake killed 72,000 people in 40 seconds; most of them were crushed by falling walls and roofs. That’s nearly the entire population of Yakima, Washington, for those of you familiar with Yakima and wanting something to relate it to. Islamabad, which sits on a fault, still is not requiring any earthquake-proofing in its construction, apparently laboring under the illusion that “it will never happen here”.
The market in Manshera is full to overflowing with fruits and vegetables of every color. There seems to be fierce competition for customers, with merchants periodically picking up their wheelbarrows of mangos or tomatoes and moving them to a site with greater potential, and
09 - Manshera market - no women
Men do the shopping in Manshera some distributing thin multi-hued Mylar strips among their neatly stacked rows of produce in hopes of drawing the eyes of the would-be buyer. Of most interest is that there are no women in sight. All the shopping in this conservative enclave in Pakistan is done by the men.
High on the plateau above Manshera, I was amazed to find acre upon acre of tobacco! Surprising to see in a country where I have only seen a total of 3 Pakistani men smoking in public (and an obnoxious American actually smoking a cigar INSIDE a store).
As we climb yet higher into the mountains, terraced fields can be seen for miles, carved out of rolling hills and steep, steep mountainsides. Their appearance reminds me of the Peruvian terraces around Ollantaytambo. Up close, the walls almost all are banked with soil and native grass. A few have rock wall retainers, and the rock walls are ubiquitous by the time we have climbed another 1000 feet in elevation. The “fields” at this point are precarious, each only a few meters wide and stepping down the mountainsides one below the next in a picturesque freeform artistic pattern. Each field is almost perfectly
Mountain terraces
Mountain terraces horizontal, a testament to the respect accorded the power of the monsoon rains to wash away what little soil is available.
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