Thursday, May 25, 2006

Tea at 4647m Above Sea

So I be written in the Book of Love,
Do not care for the Book above,
Erase my name or write it as you will,
So I be written in the Book of Love. - Persian poet Omar Khayyam (1048 -1131)

So we find ourselves on the Karakorum Highway, the highest road in the world at 4647m. It is snowing heavily at Khunjerab Pass, the mountainous border between China and Pakistan. Freezing, desolate, and not a single soul in sight. Then, in the howling wind, an imposing Pakistani soldier emerges from the guardhouse. He reaches into his pocket, and offers us dried apricot from a crumpled plastic bag.
He invites us into the guardhouse for tea. A small, spartan brick hut coated at the bottom with thick ice. So the four of us - me, Boy, Momin and Asif - drink steaming milk tea with the pair of grinning soldiers at what must be the loneliest border crossing in the world.
As we chat over the steaming tea, a pair of loaded Kalashnikovs lie on their beds close by. Such an unreal moment.
Such human warmth, in one of the harshest, most god-forsaken places on earth.
We had ended up here after days of travel along the famed Karakorum Silk Route, one of a network of ancient trade routes between China, Central Asia and the Middle East. Forget romantic notions of camels in the desert sunset.
It is a land where tap water is visibly murky, you spend your nights analysing which dish was it that is now giving you the runs, and some of the public transport feeds on grass.
No mobile reception. No credit card. And (horror of horrors) no decent coffee for love or money. And - ta-daah! You live.
You will be surprised how cold turkey cures you of your urban addictions. In fact, instead of feeling miserable, we feel warm and contented.
The road from Islamabad to Khunjerab Pass took us from the urban summer cauldron to the freezing mountain peaks, across lush green river valleys to rocky, lifeless canyons. We passed by Greek archeological sites, Buddhist pilgrims' routes, Islamic tribal strongholds and pockets of tiny Central Asian kingdoms whose ways still survive but for their sovereignty. The country is now, of course, 97 per cent Muslim.
The most scary part was the highway journey from Besham to Chilas. Actually, "highway" is too strong a word for the narrow road that hugs the craggy, treacherous terrain through which the Indus River cuts. There, the river is an opaque, stomache-turning grey - laced with silt. Unsurprisingly, there is no sign of habitation - man, animal or plant - here at all.
With most of the road unfenced, the only thing that stands between us and the deep plunge into the precipitous canyons are Asif's driving skills. Don't get me wrong, I did not go looking for danger. I don't get people who spend good money seeking life-threatening challenges. Normal life is tough enough. I am more of a Unesco-heritage-site junkie who signed up for this trip only half-knowing what I was in for.
What made it more Indiana Jonesy: hiding behind the hills are ultra-conservative tribal militia who carry guns like Singaporeans carry mobiles.
In the middle of such inhospitable terrain, we spent the night at a rundown hellhole called the Shangrila ( no relation to the luxury hotel chain). Its rooms were dark, bedlinen dirty and there is a huge hole in the wall where they've installed a fan and through its blades you can see bits of the carpark outside.
It's slogan? "Heaven on earth".
The rest of our holiday digs, thank goodness, were clean, charming little lodges with breathtaking mountain views. The best of them is the Baltit Inn, in the legendary Hunza Valley. An isolated little kingdom surrounded by snowy peaks, it is like paradise lost.
It is thought to be where some of Alexander the Great's soldiers stayed behind. The people have brown hair and green/blue eyes, and speak a mysterious language that no one can yet trace.
They are also the warmest, kindest people we have met on this trip. Momin is one of them. While most villagers live the way they have lived for centuries, planting cash crops such as potatoes and rearing goats, they have (for better or worse) welcomed bits of modern life. The luckier ones attend universities and have satellite TV.
We got invited into their small, carpet-lined homes for tea and more tea. It is also the only place with an espresso cafe (Joy!). I remember walking down the ancient stone alleys, flanked by handicraft shops and seeing the mountains in front and thinking, like the soldiers: This is utopia. Hey, I could stay here forever.

2 Comments:

Blogger Helga said...

So you found the real Shagrila afterall? The Hunza Valley does sound like utopia on earth! What a wonderful trip

10:39 AM  
Blogger Helga said...

So you found the real Shangrila afterall? The Hunza Valley does sound like utopia on earth! What a wonderful trip

10:39 AM  

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