Gilgit
to Kashgar: Najeeb & the Darlingtons
But
I can only be absorbed and fascinated so many hours a day before I need to
retreat to a safe space and make sense of everything. Remember the Holly Hunter character
in Broadcast News? She scheduled time every day to have a good cry, then got on
with her busy schedule. If only I'd been so sophisticated… but I was new to this kind
of traveling and didn't know my rhythms. And, really, it's hard to convey
the sheer stress of going day after day after day amid such awesome and impenetrable
surroundings, on a road so full of surprises. Once you're in that kind of environment, you
also forget how abnormal it is to communicate without a common language, to make all your
needs known through gestures and minimal barely-Berlitz phrases. I have to laugh: I went
surfing the Net for some Karakoram Highway references and found a couple of personal web
pages describing people who biked the KKH. Biked it??!! And all they could say
was how beautiful it was. Who are these insensitive goat-legged people? Are they actually
following a well-arranged itinerary and able to collapse at the end of each day into beds
reserved weeks in advance? Or are they so self-contained, with their tents and their cook
stoves, that they don't need to depend on the kindness of strangers? Jim and I were simply way too
exposed in this stark, strange world — way too alone. It was time for a
guardian angel to appear. My everlasting memory of Najeeb
is seeing him on top of the landslide — in his fluttering white salwar kamiz
— gesturing to us. Come with me. He was a vision: a tall compassionate angel
promising to take care of us. Did we even think of Rawalpindi and Dr. Alam? No. We paid
off the puzzled Mr. Sayad, strapped on our backpacks, and clambered over the landslide
rubble to follow our angel Najeeb. Of course, it wasn't quite as mythic as
that. We actually met Najeeb at breakfast where he and Jim engaged in earnest
conversation (in English!) about the landslide and lack of a local communication system
about road conditions. Even though Najeeb wound up giving some instructions to Mr. Sayad
about going back up to the site of the landslide, we were both still in a fog about who
Najeeb really was. We had no idea he meant for us to continue our journey with him. Turns out Najeeb was a tour
guide escorting an English couple — the Darlingtons — to the border. He'd
arranged for a van to come pick them up on the other side of the landslide. He invited us
along. And an Italian couple who'd contracted with the same tourist agency also got on
board. Our whole outlook suddenly brightened.
We were with English-speakers — companions. The Darlingtons were not going all the
way to the border at Sust that day, but only as far as Karimabad. Karimabad is in
the heart of Hunza territory, an ancient mountain kingdom that was the model for the
fictional Shangri-La. We went along with their plan, not having much other choice and
thrilled to have a plan at all. No, wait. That's not quite
right. We went along, period. We weren't ever really clear about the plan. We were only
thrilled with the sudden companionship and euphoric with the attention of Najeeb. But let me tell you about the
Darlingtons. While we weren't so different superficially — he was in
computers, she was a teacher — we were worlds apart in our approach to this journey.
While we were letting it all happen to us, they had left nothing to chance. They were
paying top dollar to be properly escorted and billeted through Pakistan and then through
China. Where we wound up being grateful every night we had a vermin-free pillow under our
heads, they whined and complained whenever anything wasn't to their specifications. In
fact, they were often demanding just for the sport of it. They had an itinerary and
expectations. It was in their company that we
realized all we had was our charm. They had their requirements
and their fat sheaf of vouchers, but in that part of the world no one is truly in charge
of his own destiny. The Darlingtons planned a cozy package for two and suddenly had to
make room for four extra. The first day it was fun — jolly good show, all pulling
together in a crisis. In Karimabad, they moved into
their quarters at the preferred hotel while we were told (déjà vu) that there
was no room for the likes of us. Najeeb helped us get a room at a new place up the road
and, the next morning, got a jeep and driver for us. We followed the Darlington's jeep to
the border, but — oh-oh — the bus through the 16,000-foot Kunjerab Pass and into
China had already left for the day. We must have asked about hiring a car because suddenly
the guy in charge had a brilliant idea: go with the Darlingtons! They had a great
big Toyota Land Cruiser all to themselves. The Darlingtons were polite
about having their luxury car commandeered as transport for stray travelers. But we all
assumed that we'd only be imposing on them through the Khunjerab Pass and would be
transferring to a public conveyance in Pirali, the Chinese counterpart to Sust on the
other side of the pass. But at Pirali, the situation was much
the same. You have to realize (which we had not) that we're talking about a
border post hundreds of miles from anywhere. Apart from a few barracks for the militia who
staff the crossing, it's not a town. Transportation — apart from the long gone daily
bus — had to be arranged in advance. Once again, a pompous official was in
charge of getting folks into their duly pre-arranged vehicles. Once again, we
were looking befuddled and helpless… but smiling, always with the big Yankee smiles,
because by then we knew they were our only asset. Border officials have no use for
scowlers. The Darlingtons were scowling.
There was some kind of dust-up over their new vehicle … bags were flying and voices
raised as small groups jockeyed for better cars. The couple was also scowling because
their new guide hadn't shown up to help them through the melee.
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I'm not coming across as a very
stalwart traveler. It's looking like I can't get through the day without
crumbling. I don't want to give the impression that I was miserable, because I was really
absorbed and fascinated. 
As the pandemonium sorted itself out,
the pompous official did what pompous officials do: punished the scowling Brits by
assigning the smiling Yanks to their car — a smaller version of the Land Cruiser. The
Darlingtons were a bit less gracious than before. With the driver and guide, we were
cramped and one of the Darlingtons wound up sitting on the transmission hump.