To Hunza

Islamabad to Chilas

December, 2000. The turkey feast is behind us and the groaning tables of Eid lies before the rest of the country. It is a cold Islamabad morning but Hamid, the guide, is on time.
“Eid Mubarak!” I pipe hoping to warm my nose. He is non-plussed; for an Ismaili Eid is not such a big deal. We load the mini bus with our variously packed preparedness: Max has a Canadian sub zero sleeping bag and Nepali mountain gear, I have layers, Jac believes in little more than sandals and socks. We’ve been warned about the Hunza in winter. Still, we are adventurous, especially Max who has been longing for the Karakorams ever since his hikes in the Himalayas.
There is not another vehicle on the road! One of the reasons for hiring a driver in Pakistan is because negotiating the traffic is so exhausting for Westerners. But on this Eid morning we could easily have driven ourselves. We soon leave Islamabad behind, heading north. It will take two days to get to Karimabad. But we like long drives; it is a way to immerse oneself in the changing landscape, to observe the way of life, the agriculture, the structures, the people.
The only people visible on this frosty early morning are those in the cemeteries paying the traditional Eid respect to the dead. The graves, at other times austere, are gaily decorated in tinsel. A whiff of incense floats into the mini bus!  Incense? In Pakistan? More than just a dietary respite after the severities of Ramzan, it seems. There is more evidence of this later in the morning: while huge numbers of men crowd the mosques, women in shiny veils stroll by the roadside in new Nikes and covered girls skip along in spanky Adidas.
Past fallow rice paddies we continue, soon we will join the Indus but first we must show Max the stone tablets with Ashoka’s edicts in Mansehra. On this day there is nobody interested in staring at tourists staring at these amazing 3rd Century BC prescriptions for dharma.  King Ashoka commands his subjects to follow an essentially Buddhist way of life: root out the envy, anger, cruelty, hate, indifference, laziness and tiredness within and replace these with patience and non-anger. Staring at the characters on the tablets, my eyes are dyslexic but my soul embraces the spirit of their meaning. The recent history of Partition seems dwarfed by the knowledge that once compassion was compulsory. I wonder about those times, long before the Curtain of Purity dropped between Pak and Hindostan, when people lived by a code of behaviour which cultivated virtue from within. I wonder if memory of this lingers in the subconscious of those who are now subjected to Shari’a Law.  Those who are compelled to follow Islam’s code for living, to follow the a narrow path to the watering hole of salvation, live according to strict prescription or face public flogging, amputations or stoning, do they sometimes dream of a time when the spontaneous imperatives of the heart were a way of life? Of a time when the vast expanse of the subcontinent was united by fellow feeling in stead of hatred and suspicion? I have a momentary romantic vision of a time in this very place when the fierce rays of Shari’a Law did not penetrate every corner, when humane laws sheltered society like trees along the roadside. A once upon a time when generosity and compassion replenished the human spirit like the crystal clear water of the Indus. A flash of cynicism tempers this reverie when I remind myself of the dark side of human nature: surely in the good old Ashoka days did the greedy and power hungry seek out ways to evade kindness; there would have been no need for edicts otherwise!
The river is wide and relaxed when the road first begins to follow it through a lunar landscape of barrenness and bald hills. But even here we visit petroglyphs left by early Buddhist pilgrims: stupas and flowers, fertility signs and characters, all, leaving the stamp of ‘I was here’. It makes the place human; one can imagine the pilgrims camping here on the banks of the river: baking biscuits, washing clothes, laughing, singing in overtones, making love before the trek continues through the hostile land.
Hamid points me to a collection of boulders opposite the petroglyph site. “Toilet”, he says confidently as though this announcement has produced pleasing results before. I investigate. Not an urchin in sight.  It is an al fresco pit stop, alright, and obviously much used.  Western women forced to squat but otherwise free to follow normal procedure have littered the place with tissues from many countries.
We reach the Serena Hotel in Chilas where we will spend the night. The manager is proud to offer us accommodation in a brand new annex to his hotel. “It is village style”, he says, “specially designed for foreign tourists.” One senses the confusion at the retrogressive taste of potential customers. After all, the manager is a modern man who counts himself to have escaped village life. But business is business; if foreigners want to pay to be primitive, so be it. The annex aims at generic authenticity: The entrance is impressive, a carved wooden door from Swat or is it Kohistan? The rooms have regulation urban ceilings and floors but the walls are plastered in real mud. No need for aerosol here; the smell of earth (with a touch of manure?) replaces attar of roses. Wicker and brass abound; someone must have a cousin in the markets of Rawalpindi. In a country of cotton, the interior designer chose polyblend woven covers on the beds; perhaps another cousin in the export business. Western fussiness about bathrooms have been taken into ample consideration: The basin and tiles come from Italy, the toilet flushes happily and the shower is hot. Full marks for trying, Serena!
The only other guests are Japanese, a busload of them. They crowd the hotel gift shop which is well stocked with anything from lapis necklaces to shatush shawls. The latter is priced at an astonishing USD 3000. I know about shatush: it is an aristocrat of fabrics made of the softest chin hair of a rare Himalayan mountain goat. Before the global village got wind of it, these shawls were a precious part of the dowries of mountain brides. Lately the world has been alerted to the fact that these goats have become an endangered species. Global market pressures have motivated hunters to turn to quick methods by killing the animals to obtain the wool. Traditionally the wool was gathered by agile tribesmen roaming the rocky mountain slopes, luring the goats with tricks and whistles, catching them and holding them down to pluck the precious down from under their chins. I like to think of them thanking the goats for their gift, setting them free, instructing them to roam safely for another year. But shooting is easier than trapping, careless killing a quick way to a greedy market.
A salesman approaches. His name tag says Asif. He watches me as I caress the incredibly soft, amazingly delicate natural beige of the fabric. If it’s real one should be able to draw it through a ring. I have only seen it done once; maybe I can persuade the salesman to perform this trick again. For me and the thirty Japanese women in the small shop.
“Is this real shatush?” I ask sceptically.
He recognizes my bazaar manner: contempt disguises real interest; it is essential to the bargaining process.
“Of course, Madam!”
Fifteen pairs of oriental eyes are already turning.
“Can you pull it through a ring? If it’s real you should be able to pull it through a ring!”
Asif hesitates showing the bazaar reluctance of the trader who is just dying to make a sale. We need a bigger audience. I smile and wait until another six pairs of eyes turn towards us. We have a quorum. Let the show begin!
Asif takes a large silver ring from the display case. It sports a huge carnelian carbuncle; the kind of ring, I imagine, worn by an Afghan warlord. It is a worthy tool with which to prove the authenticity of the shawl. With a dramatic swoop he removes the shawl from its perch below the USD 3000. He now has the full attention of all the customers; they sense magic is about to happen. Asif’s charming moustache curls as he brings a point of the shawl to the ring held in his left hand above his head. His perfect white teeth gleam, his black marble eyes roll upwards. He tucks a point of the shawl into the left side of the ring, brings his hand to the right and with thumb and index finger pulls vigorously at the fabric. Like butter, it slips through the ring. A collective gasp confirms the success of the demonstration; there is no difference between occidental and oriental amazement. We are all convinced but who will be able to afford it? While the women around me confer in Japanese I ask Asif:
“Is it really USD 3000?”
He motions me to a side counter. He wants to bargain quietly.
“What is your country, Madam?”
It is a way to guesstimate my buying power, my ability to perhaps in a friendly way to facilitate a visa. Both will influence the price. Experiences of similar situations have enabled me to refine my answer.
“Canada. I live in Islamabad. Five years. But I’m only a poor teacher. I have to work four months before I can pay for that shawl.”
Asif’s face falls as he sees the sale drift away but he musters his resources. He fumbles for a business card.
“I have my shop in Rawalpindi,” he confesses. The card indicates a carpet dealership. “I can get you a shawl too much better.”
“I still can’t afford USD 3000 for something I wear!” Backing off in the bazaar is cowardly, must be discouraged.
“You pay USD 600”
My astonishment delights him.
“Really?” I say conspiratorially. “Such a big discount?”
He smiles a liquid, reassuring smile. Goodwill oozes from eyes and moustache. He waves dismissively at the shawl and its price tag on the other side of the shop.
“That,” he says laughingly, “is Japanese price.”
I never did take him up on his offer. Keen textile collector as I am, a shatush shawl would weigh heavily on my green conscience.

In Chilas, the shut down of all generators at 9pm imposes a natural curfew on the town. Suddenly, complete silence, total darkness prevails. Stars have never been so bright. By the dim lamplight of our village style rooms all urban thoughts begin to fade. Our sentiments are inexorably being pulled up the river towards the wild mountains of the Hunza.

Chilas to Karimabad

Mist is still rising from the river as we leave Chilas. The road is busier as drivers abandon the fleshpots of Eid and embark on the necessary transportation of goods and chattel along the Karakoram Highway.
As the landscape becomes more mountainous the driver stops. There is nothing spectacular ahead of us and we speculate on a possible flat tire but Hamid is smiling like a man about to reveal a big surprise:
“Come out!” he commands, “we are lucky!”
We pile out of the minibus and follow his arm pointing to the rear.
“Nanga Parbat!” he announces triumphantly.
And there it is: the famous Naked Mountain, so often hiding behind clouds, clearly visible in all its snow covered glory. Max is excited and gives statistics: 26,658 feet high, the ninth highest and westernmost mountain of the Himalayas. He dreams about climbing Nanga Parbat in this life or another.
We linger to take full advantage of the magnificent sight and challenge the capacity of our telephoto lenses. Out of nowhere two little boys appear. They have that entrepreneurial look about them as they size us up. Hamid does not chase them so they produce their goods: rocks and fossils. There is quartz and amethyst looking real enough but the ‘fossils’ are confections of simulation bordering on the surreal. One in particular attracts my attention: embedded in the rock is some kind of fossil like fish form. It sports a bright waxy blue eye. The vendor is proud of this creative touch.
“Nil,” he says authoritatively as though imparting scientific information.
“Yes, I can see it’s blue. Is it crayon or soap?” I ask, pointing to the eye. My sarcasm wounds but doesn’t discourage him.
“Ten US dollar,” he says, “Cheap cheap!”
I laugh dismissively. We turn our attention back to the mountain for a few more minutes while the scorned hawker continues to chirp.
Now the Indus begins to narrow. The road begins to wind between mountainside and ravine. It is not traffic that slows our progress; it is frequent encounters of rock falls partially blocking the road or landslides cutting away big chunks of tarmac. The driver needs to be constantly alert; there is potential danger around every corner.
We pass through towns terraced into the gorge above the river. Sometimes the town is connected with the Highway (and the outside world) by ‘cable car’, a wooden contraption that in the West would be regarded as a death trap. But this morning we see many Eid holiday makers happily crossing the river, the cable car packed to capacity. Hamid is scornful of our Western squeamishness; he can’t remember anybody ever getting killed. We are polite guests and keep our peace but not even brave Max asks to go for a ride.
Soon we reach the confluence of the Indus and Gilgit rivers. We will follow the latter into the Hunza. We pass the town of Gilgit, knowing that we will visit it on our way back when we are supposed to catch a plane from its small airport back to Islamabad.
Late that afternoon we reach Karimabad, the capital of Hunza. Our hotel comes with good credentials; Jac stayed here the previous summer with his son, Joseph. They both spoke highly of the magnificent mountain views from the luxury rooms of the top floor. We occupy one of these again. Windows to the north and east afford views of Rakaposhi and the lesser peaks of Nagar across the river. Yes, the panorama is stunning but the room is like a morgue. The bell boy turns on an electric heater; only two of the four bars work. Later this is explained: the Norwegians helped build a small power station in the Hunza. There is enough electricity to provide every Hunza home with a light bulb but not enough to provide the luxury of heating for tourists. We are silenced into stoicism, try the ‘hot shower’ only to find the water rapidly transformed from hot to cold as escapes into the frozen atmosphere of the bathroom.
There is no evidence of a fireplace anywhere in the hotel. I remind myself that fireplaces were a British idea brought to the Hill Stations of the Empire. Karimabad never was a Hill Station. From our frozen perch on the top floor we look down on the town trying to pinpoint Baltit and Altit forts, our sightseeing destinations for the next day. I shiver as I put on all the clothes I brought thinking I might die from hypothermia first!
Before sunrise the next morning there is a knock on the door. It is Max.
“Come up on the roof!” he urges, “It’s stunning!”
Max is not given to gushing so I decide to make the effort to stir my frozen bones. As I climb the precarious ladder to the roof all thought of personal discomfort is obliterated by the beauty of the panorama surrounding us. All is clear, all is still, every mountain peak starkly outlined, waiting to receive the sun already painting the East. Only Rakaposhi, the highest mountain, wears a little cap of down but this soon disappears as the rays of the sun illuminate its snowy peak. In order of elevation the peaks begin to shimmer. Lady Finger fascinates me: as the name suggests the narrow formation of this peak juts out like a finger with a long, sharp nail, jabbing at the sky. Like an angry mother she becomes increasingly menacing as she gains light, turning first pink and, then, icy white. In contrast, eternal calm seems to emanate from broad Ultar peak as he wakes up beside her.
I get that speck in the universe feeling usually induced by the sight of the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere. But this time it is different: it is not the floating feeling of drifting spirit, upward, forever; it is a grounding, a ballast, a sense of belonging to the earth. I am fused to the majesty of the mountains and my soul sings: god lives here!

Baltit Fort perches high above the commercial centre of Karimabad. Seven hundred years ago the Mir of Hunza married a Balti princess. As part of her dowry, she brought three hundred builders to build a fort. They worked for three years. Many centuries later the Aga Khah Foundation worked equally hard to restore the fort to its former glory.
The Hunzakuts are Nizari Ismailis, followers of the Aga Khan. In the Hunza the name of the leader is invariably linked to social projects and progressive ideas. Aga Khan schools and medical centres dot the valley. One only has to look at the website of the Aga Khan Foundation to see its involvement all over the developing world. We are told that the high standard of education and female literacy rates in the Hunza are due to the influence and funding of the Aga Khan. And, indeed, the people of Karimabad walk tall: the men in their long-sleeved coats and rolled mountain hats, the women in their skirts and veils hanging from finely cross stitched caps and the children bouncy and smiling. They all seem more optimistic than any other Pakistanis in my experience. Hamid points out that the people from the Northern Territories, Azad Kashmir and Tribal Areas are treated like illegitimate children; they are ruled by Pakistan but have far fewer civil rights and privileges than those in Punjab, Sindh and Balochistan. It is not surprising that the Hunzakuts gratefully embrace any uplifting their religious leader has to offer.
Baltit Fort is part of Hunza civic pride: a restoration equal to any of its European counterparts,completely gentrified with souvenir mugs and T-shirts.
Not so Altit Fort. We park outside the gate of what seems to be a public park, pay our entrance fee and walk into an orchard of ancient apricot trees. Gnarled and twisted the branches seem reconciled to their winter sleep as they point us to the fort. It is small, compared to Baltit but then it is a hundred years older. We enter the ancient wooden portal and head for the edge of the lookout platform at the fort’s ground level. I look over the low wall and automatically back away; there is a sheer drop, a long way down to the river. On the other side rise the wild cliffs of Nagar. Even on this quiet day one is nudged by a chilly breeze. The thought of being an enemy here curdles the blood. I imagine the wrath of god to reach its true meaning here as enemies are pitched over the cliff in a howling blizzard. Max and I decide in principle to film our version of Beowulf here. The place is the set.
The fort itself is small, its stairs steep and narrow. We climb up to the living quarters. The Aga Khan Foundation’s restoration here is a work in progress and much imagination is needed for the interior but the views from the windows are breathtaking. How could one not feel superior and invincible, living so high above all other humans?
From an upstairs window there is an excellent view of the village adjoining the fort: the dwellings huddle together as they must have done for eight centuries. Narrow walkways wind their way around the houses. On the rooftops, where the apricots dry in summer, the winter harvest of onions and pumpkins catch the attention of the sun. Dogs bark and roosters crow. A closer look at the rooftops shatters the romantic reverie. Is it possible? Television dishes? Like pacifiers they lie ready to draw the world of the twenty first century into the mental and physical interiors of those mud huts: soap operas to replace the dreams of girls, action for the passive enjoyment of boys, news to form the opinions of husbands and movies for the escape of wives.
“When we make our movie, those dishes will have to go”, says Max.
I agree.

Excursion to Nagar

On the last day of the year 2000 I get to see my first glacier. Hopper glacier is about 25km from Karimabad but we have to make an early start as it takes three hours to get there. We are taken in an ex-army Jeep with bald tires and a canvas hood that offers little protection against the frozen morning air. The confident smile of the driver takes the place of plush seating. There is no snow on the ground Hunza side but we are told that there is plenty over in Nagar. I bless my boots and worry about Jac’s sandaled feet. Up, up into the mountains of Nagar we crawl. Soon we leave the villages on the lower slopes behind, the track narrows, the bends are sharp and slippery, the precipice precarious. Concentrate on the beauty of the landscape, I tell myself, and pray the driver does not lose his on the road.
We reach the glacier parking lot without incident. We discover there is still a way to walk to the lookout point. It is a surprisingly well developed tourist sight with western style toilets, a souvenir shop and a tea room. Many attendants are about giving directions and instructions. There is about four inches of snow on the trail to the glacier. The attendants shake their heads at Jac’s sandaled feet. Max only looks at them scornfully and marches up the trail leaving large prints for Jac to step in.
The glaciers on TV never prepared me for what I see from the lookout point: the rippled expanse of a frozen river that seems to have split a mountain apart as it forced its way into the valley. Motionless, sullen, it stretches below us, an angry giant with its furrowed brow glistening in the morning sun emitting a faint and eerie crackling. Tuck it away as a metaphor for passive aggression thinks the poet in me.
It appears the tea room is al fresco, the sun is watery but the tea comes served in a china pot with pretty pink flowers and gold trim. As I pick up the pot to pour the tea a surreal thing happens: the teapot begins to sing! It is an Alpine hiking song. Waldiree, Walderaa! The waiter grins broadly, pleased to provide such a surprising diversion on such a mid-winter’s day. Before the second cup he winds the clockwork again to make sure we double our pleasure.

On to Passu

Hamid is a Tajik from the Upper Hunza. He was born in Passu and his whole extended family still lives there. He announces at the outset that we will lunch with his family since there are no restaurants open in Passu at this time of the year. He shows us a supply of apricot oil he is taking for a special dish his mother will prepare. The day is turning into a gift; we are invited to an authentic occasion. Tourists are essentially cultural voyeurs; the quality of the experience depends heavily on interpretation. There is marginal contact with the ‘people’ in the marketplace, observing the landscape, architecture and agriculture, sampling ‘ethnic’ menus specially prepared for foreigners, examining crafts, visiting historical sites. All these make up the touristic understanding of peoples and places but one can not help feeling the superficiality of being on the periphery. Of course, travelling to real places is better than watching National Geographic or visiting theme parks but the experience often leaves one with the same sense of hyper-reality. So the thought of eating real Hunza food in a real Hunza house is a thrilling prospect.
We drive for several hours before spotting the village of Passu way down in the valley as we round a corner on the pass above it. All the way down Hamid regales us with tales of disasters that have plagued Passu through the centuries. Flooding, mudslides, erosion, all these have forced the village to shift its parameters and find new ways to sustain its agriculture.
As we drive into the village, Hamid seems suddenly bigger. His pride and confidence is obvious. He takes us first to the Aga Khan school. The building is octagonal with classroom leading off the main courtyard. There is a large bell at the entrance. The children are on holiday but the teachers are preparing for the new term. They enthusiastically shake hands and welcome us in broken English. Hamid demands Max be shown the school’s only computer. His rapid conversation with the teachers produce sounds of happy interest as they eye Max.
“I’m telling them if they get more computers for the school, maybe Max will come and be the teacher.” he explains.
Hamid is a sharp observer. In three days he has seen how Max loves the mountains, how his simple lifestyle would make it easy to accommodate him in a rural community. Max smiles graciously; the thought is tempting.
“Let me know when you have the computers.”

It is a short walk from the school to Hamid’s house. Word has gone out that we are in town; Hamid is warmly greeted by everyone we pass. He is obviously liked and respected. As we mount the rise to his home several little children come running to meet us. He laughs and scoops them up in his arms in turn, first the two little girls and toddling behind them, a baby with a runny nose.
“My children,” he says proudly. Narrow eyes narrow in friendliness as they beam at us. These are mountain children; their high cheeks glowing like rosy, ripe apricots
He laughs and lifts the baby high into the air. He is a proud father, exhibiting a trophy.
“My son,” he announces to the world.
Hamid’s family lives in a traditional Hunza house built of mudbricks. It is square with a special roof construction that has several layers of beams overlapping each other in a star shape. The beams are decorated with squiggles in whitewash. These are part of an annual ritual to bless the house. There are no windows but plenty of light comes in through a central chimney. We are announced and asked to sit on the low cushion covered platform on the right. Opposite us is the platform for women and children and facing the kitchen is the platform for men. Not only is this the best position from which to keep an eye on the activities of the household but it is also the best place to be to guard the door in case of intruders.
We are not intruders; by the collective body language of smiles and bows we are made to feel like honoured guests as we are introduced to the company. The custom here is gentlemen first: Sitting with an air of senior ownership, there is Hamid’s father, a compact little man with twinkling eyes an a wrinkled leathered face. He has made a living as a mountain guide to climbers. He says little but nods vigorously as Hamid proudly lists the peaks he has climbed and the different European expeditions he has accompanied. We realize there is a treasure trove of stories before us.
Next to the old man is Hamid’s brother, Ahktar. He is on holiday from Karachi where, it seems, all the young adult males in the family are sent to complete their education and work for a while before they return to the village to marry. Many, like, Hamid continue to work ‘outside’ but return regularly to maintain their paternal and uxorial bonds. Ahktar has been apprenticed to his father since childhood and will become a mountain guide after he finishes school in Karachi. He speaks some English and invites Max to a walk on the Passu Glacier. In the course of the lunch hour we will be regaled with stories of the danger of Passu Glacier and the numbers of imprudent Japanese and Italians who have died there in recent years because they thought it was ‘just walking on ice’ and they did not need a guide.
Hamid’s mother greets us from the kitchen where she is busily preparing what looks like a cake made of layers of pre-baked pancakes (crêpes). Before she stacks it, she rubs each pancake with apricot oil. She is dressed in the traditional long skirted dress and pantaloons, her head scarf held in place by a finely embroidered pillbox hat. She moves about the kitchen with surprising agility, squatting to do most of her work.
The prettiest of the three younger women is Hamid’s wife, Samira. Even before the introduction I suspected this to be the case because of the electricity of love and lust flashing between the man and woman. I suspect that a rendevouz between hushand and wife might account for Hamid’s absence the night before. Her body holds itself with the confidence of recent pleasure and Hamid smiles like the proverbial cat that got the cream. Samira is a modern woman: her head is uncovered and her kameez hugs her excellent figure. She naturally shakes hands and welcomes us in English. Then she gets busy at stove. The fire is already burning vigorously, warming the whole house, but Samira stokes it through the only round opening on the top side of the stove. She adds wood and soon the fire is roaring. The cooking pot fit exactly into the hole and within three minutes a pot full of water is boiling. To this is added fermented grain, herbs and spices to make a delicious soup cum porridge.
While the two women prepare the meal, the children gather with Hamid’s sister-in-law on the platform opposite us. Her husband is away working in Karachi and she has clearly been assigned the role of child minder. She does this with a touching sweetness as she comforts Hamid’s fussy son and heir, cuddles her own baby and adjusts butterfly hairclips on the heads of the two little girls.
While Ahktar runs to the store to buy a bottle of mineral water, Hamid decides to make his children give a pre-luncheon show for the visitors. The eldest girl is shy and thoughtful as she bravely attempts to count in English. She is quickly overtaken by her bouncy younger sister who pushes her aside and recites numbers up to twenty with flashing eyes and a brilliant smile. Max and I smile at each other.
“Just like Betty,” says Max momentarily flooding our thoughts with memories of his sister at that age. Funny, playful Betty, where are you?
The older girl waits her turn and proves her superiority be reciting the alphabet while her sister watches in awe.
The water arrives. The meal is served on china plates with pretty flowers. We are presented with spoons but a command from Hamid’s father produces a scurry in the kitchen and out comes the cultural concession: three forks. The apricot oil crêpe cake is cut in wedges and served with large dollops of fermented wheat porridge. It is delicious and filling. We congratulate the cooks, thank the host and take our leave, Max to walk the glacier and Jac and I to stroll around the village with Hamid.
There has not been a pitstop since we left Karimabad. My older bladder is beginning to feel this as we proceed towards the river. I hesitantly raise the point with Hamid. He looks a little embarrassed and then lights up:
“I know a place,” he says as we change course.
Soon he shouts something. A reply comes from a house down the street. A young girl comes out with a bucket, disappears around the back of the house, returns with a full bucket. This happens about four or five times as Hamid slows us down. We wait. There is a shout from inside. Hamid smiles and explains:
“This is Emma Bergmeister’s house. Her bathroom is now ready”
We know about Emma Bergmeister, the New Zealander who owns the tour company by whose courtesy we are travelling. She is a legend in Islamabad: married to a man from Passu she organizes esoteric tours to
destinations all along the Silk Route. It is said that her guides know the road to Kashgar and beyond like the palm of their hands. What we did not know is that Emma owns a house in Passu and, more importantly, a house with the bathroom we are about to discover. I go first.
Straight to bathroom as indicated by the little water carrier. I am met with an extraordinary sight: here in Passu, in the upper Hunza where squatting alfresco is standard and bathing takes place in the river, is Emma Bergmeister’s western bathroom. Glossy, green tile, the color of chlorophil toothpaste, stretches fromceiling to floor. The shower is equally tiled and furnished with co-ordinated plastic shower curtain. The matching green wash basin features imported shiny chrome taps and a fresh bar of soap. There is a jug of water on a shelf. The toilet is almost camouflaged and comes with heavy, imported lid. There is a fresh toilet roll in the holder. I relieve myself as though in a dream. The toilet flushes with super efficiency but as I turn the tap to wash my hands I realize why the jug, why the wait: There is no running water! Every time a westerner comes to use the facilities, the cistern of the toilet is filled. The rest of the bathroom, in the meantime, waits patiently, but ready for the time in the future when water may be connected to the house. At that very moment Emma Bergmeister’s bathroom will be functional, its aspiration to comfort and progress fulfilled.
Our stroll through the village is leisurely. We walk towards the river and listen to the natural history of the village: the landslides, frequent floods caused by the glacier, the loss of arable land as the river changed its course, the irrigation system that waters new fields further down the river. I wonder at the tenacity of a community that keeps on living in a place so much at the mercy of capricious nature.
Hamid stops frequently to talk to villagers, most of them part of his extended family. We are included in their respect and affection for him. There are many yaks pulling at whatever stubble they can find on the fallow winter fields.
“That is where they stay in winter,” says Hamid pointing to the snow covered slopes across the river, “but now there is snow and nothing to eat. Here we must feed them.”
He stops to talk to a yak, confidently ruffling the fur on its forehead. The docile animal rewards him with a few friendly grunts.
Turning back to find the car, we stop at an ancient carved wooden gate. The buildings in the compound beyond are modern but the trees in the courtyard match the age of the gate. Hamid’s face is grave as he tells us a tale of the human mudslide that overcame the village no too long ago:
“Here was our mosque,” he says sadly, stroking the wooden gate, “but it broke.”
“How?” I ask, thinking of flood or tornado.
“It was when the Pakistani Army came to help the Chinese build the Karakoram Highway. They were Punjabi’s, all Sunni, they came to our mosque, took it over. They insulted our religion and our women. They wanted our village for themselves. We had a meeting and decided to break down the mosque. Then there was no need for them to come here from the camp. Now we have our Health Center here.”
“And where do you pray?”
“In our homes. Religion does not always need a mosque.”