 Karimabad, continued
For
two full days and a morning we explored the Hunza Valley on foot. It was
leisurely but physically taxing. Leaving the cultivated village to walk along the
Karakoram Highway we saw up close the dizzying geology of the Karakoram Mountains. You
could believe that here was where the Indian subcontinent was ramming itself into Asia
— or at least that some incredible tumult created this place. We saw solid basalt
from deep in the earth, splintered chunks of granite sparking with black or gold mica,
tumbled-smooth stones of all varieties oozing from the glacial moraine layer. I'd say it
was a snapshot of chaos except that "snapshot" implies something static and this
is all still happening, only too slow to see (except when it suddenly breaks apart and
crashes down all over the place).
We visited another village (where the more
religious Shiite Muslims lived) and then found the Sacred Rocks, where passing travelers
(as long ago as 200 AD) inscribed magical figures. (The one depicted here shows a guy
herding ibexes.) We spent too much time exploring and taking pictures in the relentless
sun. Fortunately, by the time we faced the steep climb back up into Karimabad a Jeep came
along and let us hitch a ride.
That was the only time the water was really welcome
— on our burning feet. The water in our bathroom came straight from the glacier,
unfiltered. Outside in the sun, the water in the irrigation ditches sparkled with swirling
mica particles. In the bathroom, out of the faucet, it was simply an alarming gray. God
knows what polar-bear souls ever stand under the shower, but we figured out that the big
bucket in the bathroom was meant to be filled with water and allowed to sit overnight. By
morning most of the mica would have settled to the bottom and the water would have warmed
from fresh-thawed-glacier to maybe 50F — passable for sponging off the smelly parts.
We also walked deep into the agricultural terraces of
Karimabad. A surprise: as we walked above the high valley one afternoon, I
realized there was no one around, yet my ears were full of voices, like being in a huge
hockey arena before a game starts. It was the acoustics of the place, voices echoing off
mountains and stone terraces and stone houses. We were hearing… everyone!
Amazing.
Walking among the houses along the high terraces
we finally got to see the women as they went about their chores. They smiled at us and
prompted their toddlers to say "hello" and "bye-bye." Little girls
asked, "What is your name?" Little boys asked, "Where are you going?"
(future guides).
Finally Najeeb — that worrying angel of ours
— sat us down to plan the rest of our trip. From my notes, his plan was this:
- Saturday: A Jeep to Gilgit and a "VIP
suite" at the Park Hotel (24-hour hot water!)
- Sunday: Pick up a sleeping bag and go spend the
night at the Nanga Parbat base camp
- Monday: Jeep back to Gilgit
- Tuesday: catch the popular airplane flight from
Gilgit to Islamabad (popular because it flies past the 26,000-foot peak of Nanga Parbat);
pick up a car and head for Peshawar, where we could do a variety of day trips during our
last week in Pakistan
 Najeeb would have it all arranged. Unlike our con-artist
friend in Rawalpindi, Najeeb's style (and that of Travel Waljis, the agency he worked for)
was that you didn't pay till after you received the service. From the day he
rescued our butts in Gilgit, Najeeb hadn't ever seemed to expect anything for himself and
we didn't quite know how to express our gratitude. He seemed to be helping us out of pure
friendship (gotta love those Yankee smiles)… but, by his own admission, he was a man
who'd rather be climbing mountains than babysitting tourists. So we decided to give him
$US100 and it felt right.
The next day at 1:30 our Jeep was there, ready to whisk us away from Shangri-La and
back to Gilgit. |