Mountenous Pakistan

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11 October 2007

Today I reached the Chinese border at the Khunjerab pass. The last couple of km I was accompanied by a member of the park security force. From about 4000m we climbed rather fast to 4750m over a distance of 18 km. Getting out of the car was OK, but once on my feet I felt rather dizzy. It was not as cold as I expected, but that was partly because of the sun. The reflection on the ice was dazzling. We were about to turn back when, from the Chinese side, a car rocketed up with a load of Chinese tourists. Of course pictures had to be taken and a few pleasantries exchanged, and then we started the short distance back to the security base, situated at the Chinese side of the Khunjerab game reserve. When arriving here on my way to the border, I found a couple of people waving at me and, assuming they were just saying hallo, I did not see the barrier boom and promptly demolished it.
There was some grumbling and muttering but soon the Pakistani mentality of “so what” took over and a security guard was appointed to accompany me to the border.
It was getting late so I camped in the yard of the security force on the Sost side of the reserve. It was very cold that night.
The night before, after a fairly long drive from Gilgit over a narrow and winding mountain road often badly damaged by falling rocks, I had camped in the yard of a hotel in Pattu. This place, about 30 km from Sost, is marked by the absence of any building accept for a few one-story two-room hotels, catering mainly for back-packers. Sost on the other hand is a lively border post with traders and smugglers, taxis and grocery shops. Import and export businesses galore. I stopped to buy some provisions and inhaled the atmosphere. Nice.
The distance from Sost to Gilgit is 180 Km, mostly going down hill. Not withstanding the bad patches in the road I felt I could do this in one day. Moreover because I wasn’t planning to stop at Karimabad where, on my way up, I had met Walter, a German guy who had been camping in Islamabad as well.
It must be said that the vista’s are magnificent. The mountains are so wild and imposing, so incredible powerful. On the other hand the erosion is astonishing with a promise the few workers there can continue to shovel gravel until they get buried in the stuff. Or buried under a 500-ton rock, because as sure as lightning, they will come tumbling down, rather sooner then later.
The place we stay at in Gilgit, the Tourist Cottage Hotel and Restaurant, is restful and clean. Ann has a room and I stay in the camper, parked in their small yard. Apparently it hardly ever rains here but there is plenty of greenery, due to a pretty high water table. As in other Pakistani places the scene in town is completely dominated by men who run shops and a variety of other businesses.
You get the feeling that girls, as soon as small bulges start to appear on their chest, are whisked away never to return to public life again. Nothing to do with Islam, more with custom. But how said! Talk about human rights! Once they are around twenty, the parents select a “suitable” partner for them. If she likes him and he likes here at that first meeting, a series of family gatherings are arranged until the day of the wedding. After that she is expected to do her husbands bidding, give him sex and children, look after the house and never, NEVER, show her face to any other male that is not close family. And that is normal.

Friday 19 November.
In a few days, on the 22nd, Ann celebrates her 60th birthday. I must try not to forget this event.
I left Gilgit on Wednesday and started the long and winding road, mostly with a river either on my left or on my right, to Chitral. To say that this road is
picturesque is an understatement. It winds through a seemingly never ending gorge where the river cascades, sometimes gently flows or rushes through narrow gabs between towering rock formations, always nearby, sometimes level with the road, sometimes almost hidden in deep ravines. In certain ways this road shows more and more breathtaking vista’s than the road to Khunjerab. From a touristic point of view it’s a no-miss experience. Together with the golden leaves of the poplars (It is end November), the warm brown colors of shrubs and all the rainbow colors in the range from pale yellow to full red, with the dark hulks of massive mountains towering majestically behind them, it’s a wonder world of drama and splendor. About 30 km before Gupis I find a nice spot next to the river where I camp for a day. It’s not entirely quiet here. A herder lives opposite my spot and teachers from nearby schools come to visit me and have a look at the camper. They are not shy, these people. If you don’t stand in the door, they are quick to come up the stairs to have a look inside.
I do some shooting here, realizing the spring of the air rifle is not powerful the way it should be, but we will tend to this later, when I can.
After the second night, with still a mild temperature, I decide to pack up and go on.
One of the things that caught my attention is the fact that orange, although not prominent, is more popular here than in other places I’ve been. I wonder if that’s a left-over from the days Buddhism was the main religion in this area until Islam took over.
The tar ends somewhere near Phumdar.
From than on, the journey gets a different character. In the beginning the road is a gravel road, but later it changes into a mountain track. The scenery is magnificent but a lot of attention is needed to avoid the big boulders in the track. Another thing that caused a lot of confusion is the assumed distance traveled between one point and he next, only to realize later that not even half the distance was covered.
Reaching just another checkpoint where my particulars must be entered in “the book”, I am advised by the policemen here who camp near a river to stay the night at their camp. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon so I was a little hesitant. But I’m glad I stayed. And here at least I have a reference point: it was at the border post of the Northern Area and the North Western Border Province.
It was bitterly cold that night and in the morning my “jeep” will not start. (every 4-wheel drive is called a jeep, mainly Toyota’s that look like Chrysler jeeps)
We wait until a tractor appears, because pushing the car proves unsuccessful.
I must add that the people here, like everywhere else in Pakistan, are very friendly and helpful With the help of the tractor my “jeep” gets going again and then it’s back to the track.
At half past 3 I decide I’ve done enough for the day. With all that twisting and climbing, than descending, avoiding bad patches and going slow, slow, slow . . . , I am really getting tired much sooner then normal. I think I’ve only covered about 60 or 70 km sofar. And this appears to be a fabulous spot.
A little later I’m sitting, all alone, in the most desolated but beautiful spot we’ve ever camped. No goats here or a wandering shepherd, barely any noise from passing cars or trucks or anything else for that matter. The road is nearby but I’m shielded by a large rock, preventing me from being seen altogether. Still in North Pakistan, on the track to Mustuj and still a long way from Chitral. Snowy peaks nearby but surprising mild temperature during the night. Yesterday morning the car wouldn’t start after I slept under three blankets and still wasn’t all that warm. After sleeping under two blankets as this night, starting is no problem.
It’s half past nine, the dishes are clean and put away. A quick cup-o-coffee and we’re under way. Soon the track will end and there will be tar again.
But it wasn’t that easy. The 20 odd km that followed are possibly the most energy-sapping kilometers I’ve ever done. The track is narrow, sometimes dangerously so. And all the time, at a pace of mostly less then 10 km/hr in 1st gear, I barely clear rocks in the track, almost touch the rock wall, scrape by huge boulders fallen on the track which make passing all but impossible and negotiate oncoming jeeps where that is even more ridiculous and all the time the car is rocketing like a tug- boat on rough seas. Crossing a river over a cable bridge with creaking wood and little snapping noises doesn’t make for carefree driving either. Turning off that bridge I must maneuver the car in a 90 degree turn without enough space and with a jeep impatiently waiting to get on the bridge from the other side trying to push past me, I almost loose my cool. But I manage.
Two hours after I started that morning I reach the tar.

Its 8 am and the day has started in Chitral. Shops open with the sound of rattling roll-up shutters. Jeeps, trucks and private vehicles worm their way through a dense crowd of pedestrians. Chickens are going . . .going . . . chop! to their end and goats let blood after the butcher cut their throat. Friends shake hands and hug each other and the dust is everywhere. I don’t think I ever felt more at ease as in Pakistan. And that in a society where there is no laugh or exclamation heard from a female. In fact, three ladies are hidden in the courtyard until transport can be arranged for them.
I’m staying in the yard of the official PDTC-motel, not like the “unofficial” tourist cottage in Gilgit. Here in Chitral I have also power and the use of a tiled bathroom with hot shower and WC for 200 rupees. In Gilgit I had the same, although not a tiled bathroom, but there I paid 50 rupees after offering to pay something for my stay.
After a cup of coffee I’m going to find a gun smith to try and sort out two problems I have: my little baby Bernadelli needs a stronger spring and the Gamo air rifle needs a longer one. It doesn’t take long for me to find him, a boy with all the tools he needs: a vice, a variety of hand tools and an electric drill. Amazing what he can do with those things, sitting on his haunches and working at a low table. It gets a little scary when he hammers primers into the back of used shotgun shells. Surely that’s not the safest way to do it? But apart from that, he has the springs I need, so my problems are solved, for the grand total of 500 rupees (50 bucks) (South African Rand - about $7 US).
Later that day I see if my Visa card will stir the ATM into some response, but no. No response. And the money situation gets a little less relaxed.
During the following two or three days I wander along the main street of Chitral, find an internet cafe and register a new internet address with Yahoo. I also start to advertise for a travel partner because I feel when I travel alone, without the option of sharing experiences and emotions, an important element of traveling is missing. I should know.
And then, with a new spring in my Gamo, I’m dieing to try it out. No trouble. When there are only a few people I know in the garden, I bring out the gun and within a few minutes we all have fun.
Tomorrow I move on. That will be the 25th, after a meal of chicken, spinach and bread, specially prepared for me tonight in the restaurant by Mr. Aftab.

It’s still no highway to Peshawar and especially not when we come to the Lowari pass just before Dir. It’s only 3000 odd m high but the gravel road climbs dramatically, twists upwards with numerous blind needle bends, slippery with water that drips from the steep mountainside, often with broken-up surface or patches where boulders obstruct passage. At one stage I help a Mazda truck to get out and over a deep culvert, where my four-wheel drive in high gear and dif-lock come in very handy. In fact, I use the tools of the car pretty often in order to get to the top. Once there, I feel pretty good about myself, but the real unsung hero’s of the pass are the truck drivers who inch their 25 and 30 year old Bedford’s and Toyota’s to the top and over. They can only do that with a combination of enormous skill, bravery and nerves of steel.
Peshawar is a city where the military and the police are very nervous. There seems to be a lot of unrest and it soon becomes clear that parking for the night inside the city on any place is not permitted. By now it’s dark, so what to do.
After yet another attempt to find something fails, two boys suggest I try the parking area of the mosque. After some deliberation I do get permission to stay there but the next morning, Sunday, it appears it’s not the mosque I stay, but the parking lot of St John’s Cathedral!
I spend the day scouting in the old city and spend my last rupees, quite unnecessarily, on fuel. I still have 80 l in jerry cans but fail to realize it. That means that the next morning, I get waved through most of the 4 or 5 toll plaza’s on my way to Islamabad, where I offer to pay with a one Dollar note and where eventually the Dollar is accepted as payment for the largest charge: 45 rupees.
When finally moving through the gate of the camping place for foreigners I just hope Ann will be here soon with her Master card so I can “fill up” with lovely printed paper.



11 November.

Since my arrival here I’ve been loafing. Aapbara shopping centre, where the camp site is situated nearby, has little to offer in terms of recreation (hollow laugh). The rest of the Islamic world has little either, so that comes as no surprise. In fact, Islamabad can hardly be called a town. It’s more like an area divided, by the British, in sections. Each section has a shopping centre and various other facilities while the diplomatic area with all the consulates (except the Dutch one and very few others), are in a secure area with very limited access.
To get the gas bottle filled you have to go to an area pretty far from here by taxi. It can not be filled at an other place. And so it is with many other items: some are concentrated here and others somewhere else. Quite frustrating but, of course, eventually it all becomes clear.
One of the more interesting things I have done is shopping for a new camera and where I eventually found an identical replacement for the one stolen in Karachi (initially priced at 475 US Dollar and eventually offered for 400 US Dollar) I decided on an other one, a compact Sony with 6x optical zoom and a host of software that solves an important issue: when was it taken. This software selects the pics by date so, even if I make thousands of pics on my 4 Gig memory stick, I will still be able to see when was taken what. Very handy!
I’ve also been looking for pellets for the Gamo, but without success. Together with Joseph Everts, a Hollander I met here, also traveling solo with a 110 Landy, I’ve done quite a lot of shooting. For him it’s the first time but he learns very fast and enjoys the sport. He is a quiet guy of 67 with 7 sisters and 5 brothers who, in his spare time, makes musical instruments.

Next time a few words about Pakistan.

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