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L I F E
DECEMBER 1999

Highway Through Paradise

Passing through the Taklimakan Desert outside Kashgar, the Karakoram Highway precipitously winds its way south, surrounded by some of the world's highest mountains, reaching its final destination in Islamabad, Pakistan.

Text and photos by Eva Harnik

Karakul Lake and the surrounding Pamir Mountains rise as a mirage on the horizon. After all the hours of barren vistas there is life and beauty on the Karakoram Highway. One hundred forty miles out of Kashgar, at an elevation of eleven thousand feet, the lake's mirrorlike surface offers perfect reflection of the peaks at its edge. Soon the relentless Taklimakan Desert will reassert itself.

* Balit Fort, perched high above the Hunza River, is an 800-year-old engineering marvel.

        We stop for a snack and tea, then bargain with Tajik nomads, who sell carved yak bone beads, wooden figures, and woven fabrics. China is nowhere in evidence.
        The next stop, for the night, is Tashkorgan--a real contrast. The one-street town, although inhabited by Tajiks, bears a heavy stamp of Chinese rule. Ten-foot iron railings fence off every building, even the elementary school. Heavily armed soldiers patrol the street.
        Do you remember the story of the princess and the pea? In the hotel, a feather duvet covers my bed, and the single pillow, beautifully embroidered, is filled with rice husks. At the slightest movement, sharp, tusklike darts afflict me. I spread out my hair for insulation, put a wad of Kleenex in the crook of my neck, and wrap the pillow in a towel. All to no avail. I put away the pillow and use my parka instead. But the coverlet is very pretty.
        We are now two hundred miles from Kashgar. At Pirali, we meet the Chinese customs and passport control. Everything is X-rayed, apart from the daypacks. We transfer into Pakistani buses.
        As one approaches the Kunjerab Pass from the western corner of the Taklimakan Desert, the sand-colored, rounded tops of the Pamirs gradually blend into the jagged, dark-hued Karakoram Mountains. Then, at nearly sixteen thousand feet, we arrive at the Kunjerab Pass. Everybody staggers out of the bus and moves around gingerly in the thin air. The biting cold does not help, either. Between gasps for air, I marvel at the beauty of the range. The word karakoram comes from Turkish and means "crumbly rock." For the next few hours I am glued to the window, waiting with trepidation for the mountainside to engulf me.

        Before the precipitous descent into the Hunza River gorge, eight thousand feet below, we stop at Sust, the Pakistani checkpoint. The tour operator takes care of all formalities--very smoothly--while we lunch on chicken, a curried vegetable, fresh fruit, and good, strong tea.
        The road now enters its most dangerous course. Countless hairpin turns lead down to the Hunza valley. Blasted into the mountainside, the road sometimes runs five hundred feet above the roiling Hunza River. At other times, it nearly touches the foaming waters.
        The Karakoram Highway (KKH) was built in the 1960s and '70s and replaced a branch of the old Silk Road. It originates in Kashgar, in western China, and ends its tortuous,760-mile course in the capital of Pakistan, Islamabad. Building this joint Chinese-Pakistani venture reputedly took a thousand lives. It remains one of the world's greatest engineering achievements.
        Geologically speaking, the KKH is an ongoing nightmare. The Karakoram range is a brittle piece of the Creation. The steep mountainsides consist of loose rocks and shale, so frequent avalanches of debris and mudslides add to the ever-present danger of earthquakes. The highway requires constant, vigilant maintenance that occupies several hundred workers daily. The Pakistani government maintains the KKH.
        Some of the world's largest glaciers originate in and around these peaks. One, the Batura glacier, reaches right down to the edge of the KKH in northern Hunza. The Ultar glacier looms over the beautiful central Hunza village of Karimabad. Meltwater from these glaciers plays a major role in the economy of the many villages.
        I am quite overwhelmed as I look up at the narrow, often needle-shaped peaks and the steep slopes hanging over the torrent of the Hunza River. The scale alone is daunting. After a hundred-mile journey from the Kunjerab Pass, the road descends to 7,800 feet, and the Hunza valley unfolds like an emerald jewel.
        The scenery is breathtaking, as if one has entered an earthly paradise. The Karakoram peaks surround the valley: the 25,500-foot Rakaposhi complex, the Golden Peak, the Ultars, and my particular favorite: the Princess Boboli, a narrow, missile-shaped rock, arching up toward the sky. I look at it from my hotel window and, later, close up and personal, too.

* The Hunza Valley

        The hotel sits on a separate peaklet in the middle of Karimabad, offering panoramic views. From the garden, looking up and down at the village, I see terraced cultivation, orchards, and flat-topped houses. The roof is an extension of the living space, used for eating, sleeping in the open, and drying chilies, apricots, and the laundry. There is alluvial water everywhere. The meltwater from the glacier is diverted to irrigate Karimabad by three channel systems.
        In the Hotel Karimabad, the rooms are tasteful, clean, and comfortable, with Western-style bathrooms. Local weavings and embroidery decorate the public rooms. On arrival, the management serves us wild thyme tea, which possesses miraculous properties: It cures mountain sickness, diarrhea, coughs and colds, and anything else one cares to mention. Both strong and sweet, it tastes very good.
        Meals are tasty, too, particularly the rice and vegetable dishes. I believe the local chicken population is enrolled en masse in aerobics classes. They are lean and tough, a dubious advantage at the dinner table. As for mutton, local belief holds that the older and fatter the animal, the better.

The Hunzakuts are a gentle, peaceable people whose origin is veiled in mystery. Alexander the Great and his army--so the locals claim--contributed to the gene pool.

        Getting around the village and neighborhood is another challenge. The remnant of the old Silk Road can accommodate a jeep, although this means a bumpy, dusty, stomach-churning ride, compared to the relative comfort of the KKH. Whenever possible, it is best to walk. This can be very pleasant along the water channels and in any case may be the only choice. Karimabad extends two thousand feet up from the River Hunza to the Ultar glacier, and there is only foot traffic in the upper reaches of the village.
        Hunza, Nagar, and Baltistan, the Northern Territories of Pakistan, were ruled for centuries by mirs, rulers of Persian origin. During the British Raj, most of the area came under the jurisdiction of the maharajah of Kashmir, to whom the locals owed taxes, if these could be collected. Hostility prevailed toward Kashmir and anybody who dared cross the few Karakoram passes. For a long time, the mir of Hunza was nothing more than a glorified highwayman. Rampaging down from the hilltop forts surrounding the valley, his henchmen exacted bribes, robbed caravans, and, in the best tradition of Central Asia, practiced a little slave trading on the side.

Altit and baltit

        Two forts flank Karimabad and stand witness to this past. Altit, a real brigand's lair, sits on a rocky promontory. It is a narrow plaster, stone, and wood tower, with intricately carved portal and window frames. A lovely wooden gallery runs around the outside. The fort overlooks houses stretching 500 to 900 feet below, all the way down to the Hunza River. Inside are a few bare rooms and "the toilet," which is a hole in the stone floor. Using this bathroom must have been the longest crap shoot in the world! Pity the poor villager who happened to walk by.
        Baltit Fort sits above Karimabad, built on the loose rock, sand, and clay ground up by the glacier above. Architects and engineers have looked at this edifice and marveled. How did it survive eight hundred years on this unstable ground?
        The fort was the residence of the last mir of Hunza until 1960. Built in Tibetan style with much intricate carving, it contains a dungeon, food storage area, reception gallery, and music rooms. Another room with stained glass windows served for winter entertaining. Locally woven rugs cover the stone floors. A minuscule museum displays clothing worn by the mir and his rana, a few flintlocks stolen from caravans, and a black velvet cover for the throne. It is almost unbelievable, that a wealthy and powerful man lived here until recently without warmth, running water, or electricity.
        The mir held audiences on the main terrace, seated on a dais covered with velvet and embroidered in gold. One of the carved columns is embellished with a yak head, an earlier, Buddhist symbol of protection. The terrace overlooks the village, the Rakaposhi range, the Ultar glacier, and the trail leading to the adjacent Ultar Meadows. The view gave me goosebumps. I wanted to hike up there.
        After the establishment of Pakistan, these territories were in limbo until 1974, when Pakistan incorporated them. The mir lost his role as ruler but adapted quickly: He became a successful businessman and entered local politics.

Mixed-up genetics

        The Hunzakuts are a gentle, peaceable people whose origin is veiled in mystery. Many have blue or green eyes, blond or reddish hair, and light complexions. Others look "Mogul" or Pakistani. Alexander the Great and his army--so the locals claim--contributed to the gene pool.
        They are Ismaili Muslims, a liberal branch of Islam. The women wear colorful saris, and some don't cover their heads, or only with embroidered pillbox caps. Others use their shawls to cover their faces when a camera threatens. The men are dressed uniformly in a knee-length shirt and baggy pants, called a shalwar and kamiz, and wear the ubiquitous wool cap with tightly rolled-up edges.
        The people are famous for longevity, which they attribute to a diet of apricots, including the kernel. I was not aware of the life-enhancing quality of cyanide, concentrated in the seed!

        Land is scarce, and every possible inch is terraced up the slopes. Before the advent of the KKH, the available land was insufficient to sustain the population during the winter, when the snow blocked the passes. It was not uncommon to survive on a handful of dried fruit a day. Only twenty-odd years ago, the somewhat eccentric Irish-born Dervla Murphy wrote about this eloquently, and her testimony was borne out by others.
        Two factors contributed to lifting these people out of abject poverty. The KKH brought food and tourism to the valley, which led to the construction of hotels and a selection of bazaars, full of quality goods.
        The late Aga Khan discovered the Hunzakuts were fellow Ismaili Muslims and established foundations for education, health care, and clinics for women. He initiated irrigation schemes and introduced the potato as a cash crop. The latter became a major boon to the area. During my visit, I saw everywhere young men guarding sacks of potatoes, waiting for incredible, colorfully painted trucks, each an artistic masterpiece.

On my own

        Before I left for this group trip, I had decided to stay an extra week in Karimabad. The local outfitter arranged for a private guide and a jeep. I wanted to become better acquainted with the valley, using my own feet whenever possible. It was one of the best decisions in my hiking career.
        After my more personal jaunts begin, my earlier doubts about walking around with a man in a Muslim community are quickly dispelled. My guide, Noor Hayat, is 45 years old, a local man with a large family. He knows or is related to everybody under the sky. As we ramble about, the only question people ask is why an old woman like me wants to traipse up and down the mountains.

* The author and her guide, Noor Hayat

        We walk over to his home village, Aliabad, a lazy, five-mile route along the water channels. He proudly shows me his orchards and the house he built recently. The couple has five children; his wife does not have to work in the fields as other women do. She is a lovely, shy woman in her late twenties. She serves chicken (aerobic), rice, mountain teas, and delicious fresh peaches. Noor rents his land in return for produce.
        I learn a great deal from this bright, kindly man. Monogamy is now the custom, but if a woman is barren, the man can take a second wife. Divorce is still simple, but if the man leaves his wife, her entire property reverts to her. If she wants the divorce, she must give up her own fortune.
        Girls go to school and women give birth at the clinic. There is a doctor in the valley and several midwives. I notice an Institute of Computer Technology in one of the villages.
        During my walks I see a strange plant. Noor assures me that it is only hashish. The seeds are ground and cooked with vegetables to make soup. Later he admits that some people smoke it, including his good-for-nothing nephew. As for those who grow grapes to make wine, may the Prophet rest in peace.
        When my special tour is over, we drive to Gilgit, where I stay at the beautiful Serena Baltit Inn. My most vivid recollection is the display on the buffet table. Molded jellos and puddings called "blancmanges" in various shapes and rainbow colors are a sight to behold. The total absence of flavor reminds me of the gastronomic insipidity so characteristic of British culinary art--another leftover from the Raj.
        Gilgit was once an important player between czarist Russia and the British. Each considered the town a gateway to the barely known Karakoram passes and Central Asia. It was also a great meeting place for spies.
        From Gilgit to Islamabad is another twenty-hour journey on the KKH, which follows the Indus River gorge. The major feature is the view of Nanga Parbat, the world's third-highest peak. In good weather, it is better to catch a flight to Islamabad. The plane takes all of ten minutes to pass around this massif, and K2 is visible on the horizon.
        I cannot leave the Hunza without describing my hike up to the Ultar Meadows, adjacent to the glacier. I am not sure I can do this 3,000-foot, five-hour climb over rushing water, rocks, and shale. Noor is very supportive: We should try, and if it is too much, we can turn back and no need to feel bad about it.
        The day we start, I have a sore throat and slight fever. The trail begins gently behind Baltit Fort, then abruptly becomes very steep. The gorge narrows, the fort disappears, and Rakaposhi looms over the horizon. Torrents of water are everywhere, so hiking boots must come off, and wading in the icy water is unavoidable. There are boulders the size of a three-story building. Our options are crawl under the ledges or climb over the boulders.
        "We are nearly there, just one more tiny ridge [actually three and all loose shale] and you've made it." Noor gets me to the meadows. They are a lustrous green platform 5,500 feet above the Hunza River, stretching over to the Ultar glacier at an elevation of 12,500 feet. Princess Boboli is right in front of me, partly shrouded in mist, looking lovelier than ever. I forget about the sore throat. I rub a little wild thyme into my boots, which leaves them smelling "delicious." We drink a gallon of cure-all tea. An hour later, bodily and spiritually refreshed, we make our way back to the village. It has been one of the best days of my life.n
        All international flights leave Islamabad in the middle of the night. Hence, it is possible to fly in from Gilgit, or take the bus directly to the airport and fly out without staying overnight in Islamabad. While there has been some sporadic violence against tourists in some major Pakistani cities, the rural Hunza valley remains a safe and friendly haven.

Additional reading

John Keay, When Men and Mountains Meet: The Explorers of the Western Himalayas, 1820-75, Archon Books, Hamden, Conn., 1982.
        ------, The Gilgit Game: The Explorers of the Western Himalayas, 1865-95, Archon Books, Hamden, Conn., 1979.
        John King, Karakoram Highway, Lonely Planet Publications, Berkeley, Calif., 1998.
        Dervla Murphy, Full Tilt: Ireland to India With a Bicycle, Overlook Press, Woodstock, N.Y., 1986 (reprint).

Eva Harnik, a former anesthesiologist and landscape designer, turned to freelance journalism to chronicle her world travels.