All Pain and All Joy

Vaqar Ahmed

As I followed a track left by shepherds, I was treated to a sight that will remain forever etched in my memory. Below the pass, the lush green slopes of a verdant valley plunged down as far as the eyes could see.

The American essayist and philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) famously said, “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey”. This adage applies perfectly to travelling to the mountains of Pakistan; something that I learnt from my ambitious travels to the Karakorams and the Kashmir Himalayas undertaken at various points in my life.

My first and most memorable trip to the mountains was in the early 70s as a college student. The journey began when four friends and I trooped out from my home in Rawalpindi early in the morning, sporting smart backpacks. Mind you, in those days in Pakistan only foreign climbers were seen with backpacks and sleeping bags. We hailed a taxi to take us to the bus terminal from where the buses to the northern areas originated. The taxi driver looked knowingly at our luggage and said to his sidekick, who was also present in the taxi. “Do you know what these are? These are amreeki bistar bund!” (American bedding holders). He loaded our luggage on the roof of the taxi, with the five of us and the sidekick somehow squeezing into the seats. Hearing us conversing mainly in English, the taxi driver, looking quite impressed, said to his friend, “These guys seem very well-educated. They are speaking rapid English”.

At the bus station, we bought tickets for a Northern Areas Transport Company bus for a nearly 12-hour journey to Naran, a town in the footsteps of the Kashmir Himalaya. The bus seemed to be a yellow school bus painted red and white. It was rickety and noisy, but it moved. On the way, a wide variety of humans and animals boarded the bus. The most bothersome were two frisky goats who cut off whatever leg room we had and then insisted on tasting whatever we tried to eat or drink. The first major stop was Balakot, about the three-fourths the way to Naran. Having left home early and the goats thwarting any attempt to eat the meagre snacks we carried, we were famished. On inquiring about what was available, we were crestfallen when told that it was either bhindi (okra) or eggs. We opted for eggs. A frying pan that had recently contained bhindi was quickly swished with water, and in went some oil and eggs. Everything tastes good when hungry, so we ate the eggs with some bread. Now it was time for the most essential item: A cup of hot, sweet milk tea! To our horror, the cook swished a little water in the same frying pan that had been used to make the eggs, poured some water in it and set it to boil to make tea! We immediately cancelled the order and disappeared like drug addicts denied their fix.

We reached Naran late evening. Signboards on the route promised “Deluxe Hotel with flash sistme and brand new crackery”. Since we were travellers of frugal means, we had to settle for a street restaurant that provided bedding laid out on stone slabs. We ordered chicken curry which turned out to be pieces of rubbery flesh designed mainly for strengthening jaw muscles. But at least the tea was great; smoky, robust, hot and sweet. Unfortunately, the bedding was infested with a pest known as ‘pissoo’, nasty fleas found abundantly in the colder climates of Pakistan. In the morning, we found our backs dotted with red and itchy sores. Clearly, it was not a promising first night of the trip.

The next day, we slung our backpacks and headed out for the town of Batakundi located about five miles further up in the mountains. There are walking routes that start from Batakundi and cross into the Neelum river valley in Kashmir through mountain passes. We had decided to take the Jalkhad Naar pass that crossed into Kashmir at about 3400 m. After resting for a night in Batakundi and sleeping under a billion stars, we set out for the great crossing. This route was mainly used by shepherds who drove their cattle from the higher pastures for sale to the larger towns down below. No tourists were spotted during our trek. Our maps (no GPS in those days!) told us that there was a village halfway called ‘Abdullah Ki Basti’ (Abdullah’s Village). We were hoping to stop at the village for a night and continue the following day. The trek was arduous as it was a constant climb. We were woefully unprepared for the lack of food along the way and had to drink rationed water and eat some channa and dates. We had walked for over five hours, and there was no sign of any village. An hour later, we heard the barking of dogs. These mountain dogs have a reputation for taking no prisoners. We armed ourselves with lethal weapons like flimsy sticks and some stones. We entered the war zone as a pack of vicious-looking, barking canines came running towards us. As we were about to enter a defensive battle, we saw a man running towards us, calling the dogs to calm down.

As our messiah approached, we thanked him profusely. We asked him the whereabouts of Abdullah ki Basti. The man broke into a merry laughter, pointed to a small cluster of stone-built shells and said, “This is Abdullah ki Basti, and I am Abdullah!”. It turned out that Abdullah and his three sons were the sole residents of the village. Abdullah graciously offered to host us for the night. He made some thick bread on a wood fire and some warm goat’s milk, in which he dipped a piece of rock salt. This was to be our dinner, as there was nothing else to eat in the humble village. We did have a can of cooked meat that we opened and shared with our hosts.

Dinner completed, we were shown to our sleeping quarters which turned out to be stone huts that were the goats’ living quarters. Abdullah’s son shooed out the poor goats to make room for the esteemed guests from the big city. We jammed into the dwelling like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, got into our sleeping bags and went off to sleep to the sounds of the goats bleating and dogs barking at a safe distance. Sometime during the night, I felt something move on my chest. We had been warned of the mountain bears in the area that were not very people-friendly. I froze and then screamed. My friends woke up, and one of them got a torch. In the light, I found myself staring into the eyes of a poor goat with tears running down her eyes and sneezing away due to the cold outside. Much as I felt sorry for it, it was us vs them in the battle to sleep. So we drove the intruder outside and barricaded the hole that was the door to the ‘room’ with a pile of sleeping bags and a stick stuck behind them to reinforce the barricade.

The next morning, no sooner had I settled at a comfortable spot, I heard an ominous growl of the dogs. Clearly, I was compromised so I hitched up my pants and ran to safety.

Breakfast consisted of the leftover bread from the night and more of the goat milk mixed with salt (according to Abdulah, salt aided the digestion of goat milk). Some nutrition came in the form of water mixed with glucose and some dates. Saying goodbye to our gracious host, we set out into the unknown again.

The going got more brutal as we neared the pass, and the gradient increased sharply. We were exhausted and hungry, and every step was hard. There was a desire to stop after every few minutes, but we had a tough, seasoned trekker with us nicknamed The Mountain Goat, who was a hard taskmaster. He had a whistle that signalled the start and end of any rest. Then suddenly, a miracle happened. We found ourselves in a small snow-filled bowl formed by snowcovered mountains on all sides. This was the famous Jalkhad pass. As I followed a track left by shepherds, I was treated to a sight that will remain forever etched in my memory. Below the pass, the lush green slopes of a verdant valley plunged down as far as the eyes could see. In an instant, all the pain, hunger and fatigue dissolved, and we literally screamed with joy. We were in Kashmir now.

We ran down the slopes and headed out towards the Neelum river. We passed through a heavily wooded area known as Surgun. On our way, we saw the most beautiful children we had ever seen, with blue eyes, lovely features and flawless skin. The famous beauty of Kashmir was abundantly on display. We were starving, as we had been marching for a good eight hours with little to eat. Finally, we reached the Surgun village. Much to our disappointment, there were no food shops or place to stay. A good samaritan informed us that the tailor shop was our only hope. He led us to the shop where a kindly man sat stitching clothes. We explained our situation to him, and he agreed to cook a meal for us and let us sleep on the verandah of the shop. The man lit up an oil stove and cooked a massive amount of rice and an equally huge amount of lentils. This royal meal was augmented by chopped raw onion as ‘salad’. Even today, I can say with total certainty that it was the greatest meal I had in my life. We ate with our hands; ate as if it was the last supper. Thus sated, we went off to sleep undisturbed by sneezing goats or howling dogs.

The next morning we took off for the main Neelum valley, which was a further few hours walk. As we walked, the weather turned nasty, with pouring rain. We arrived soaked at the town of Sharda situated along the Neelum river. Taking shelter in a restaurant that had a hearth going, we treated ourselves to parathas, more lentils, eggs and some kind of mountain spinach known as kurum. I must have dozed off as I held my socks to dry at the fire because I was woken up by the smell of burning wool. My faithful socks had met their maker. It was not a big problem as plentiful but rather crude socks were available in the well-stocked bazaar. From where we sat along the river, we could see the Indian army posts with machine gun barrels peeping out across the river. The Neelum river forms the line of control between the Pakistan and India-held Kashmir.

Recharged after more lentils, some parathas and eggs, we set off for Kel, which is the last outpost on the Pakistani side of Kashmir. Kel was often in the news due to the routine cross-border firing with India. A downpour made sure that misery followed us with large pools of water and muddied tracks. Thus caked with mud, we arrived in the tiny bazaar of Kel and took shelter in a tea shop. We noticed that all eyes were on us as if we had arrived from the other side of the disputed border. Finally, two burly men with short haircuts approached us and greeted us with disingenuous smiles. They sat down beside us and started their inquisition. Why were we here, who were we, did we have a permit to travel to this area? The questions went on. Apparently, a permit was required and moreover ‘normal’ tourists did not travel on foot to this sensitive area. The men told us that we would be held in a lockup pending further investigation. As we were marched to the lockup, one of our captors went away to return with an officer. As the young officer came closer, he suddenly rushed towards me and hugged me! He shouted. “Vaqar, if donkeys had horns, you would be an antler!” I recognized the officer as a school friend who was now a lieutenant. He was totally shocked at our miserable condition. Our fortunes turned in the blink of an eye, and our status changed from possible Indian spies to honoured guests. We were fed excellent food and provided comfortable living quarters that we immensely enjoyed after our series of adventures.

We were planning to continue up the mountain to the Shounter pass. This pass is 4500 m from sea level and connects Azad Kashmir to Gilgit Baltistan. Crossing this pass, you can reach the Astore valley, which has the eastern face of the Nanga Parbat (8125 m). Our hosts strongly dissuaded us as the pass was knee-deep in snow, and the weather conditions were uncertain. Discretion being the better part of valour, we decided to turn back. In retrospect, it turned out to be a good decision.

We trudged back along the Neelum valley to Sharda and beyond. Our destination was Athmuqam, a relatively larger town and the district headquarters of the valley, from where we planned to take a bus back to Rawalpindi. Alas, that was not to be. Along the way, one of our team, a professor who had led a relatively sedentary life, collapsed from exhaustion and refused to budge an inch. His condition was worrying and so we found ourselves, guests of the Pakistan army once again in a small army camp, as our friend lay in a field hospital with a glucose drip attached to his veins. Our friend recovered enough in a day for us to resume our journey. We decided against any further walking.

The only transport plying along the valley were flatbed trucks carrying logged wood. We clambered onto one, and since there was no room in the cab, we seated ourselves on the top of the logs tied together with ropes and hoped that the ropes would hold up. They did, and we reached Athmuqam safely. At the town bus stop, a rickety-looking bus was waiting to depart for Rawalpindi. The name of the bus company somehow sounded familiar. We watched with concern as the driver’s sidekick (known as Cleaner or Cleander in Pakistan) swapped the inner and the outer rear tire. Apparently, the outer tire had worn out to such an extent that it had a surface like glass, but the inner tire was in a relatively better shape. We entered the bus through a door that had the following advice written on it. “Please say your Kalma before you enter the bus, as it may be your last journey”. The Kalma is a verse from the Quran that ensures that you are blessed with the name of Allah and his Prophet at the time of your death.

The barely road-worthy bus left at breakneck speed, rattling and groaning. The coachwork of the buses in Pakistan is locally made, and there is far greater emphasis on the artwork and glitz than robustness. Thus the metalwork is paper thin, and the windows are regular thin glass. In short, these are death traps. The sight of a vertical three hundred feet or so drop into the Neelum river prompted me to turn away from the window. And then the vague feeling I had of seeing the name of our bus company exploded into full recollection! I had recently read the story of a bus plunging into the Neelum river with high casualties. The name of the bus company was none other than our Chaudhary Transport!

Well, I lived to tell this story, so the bus did not fall into the river. Along the way, one of our very carnivore companions, having lived on salted goat milk, a few dates, Kurum, lentils and eggs, suddenly had severe withdrawal symptoms for meat. He complained that he did not feel like a man anymore. He tried his best to persuade a boy on the bus who was carrying a goat to sell it to him so that he could cook it as soon as he arrived in Rawalpindi. Even after the boy repeatedly told our friend that the goat was not for sale, he did not take no for an answer and kept negotiating. His eyes had a wild look as he kept looking at the goat hungrily. Luckily we arrived in Rawalpindi soon, and the goat lived. Our carnivore friend immediately left for the famous meat eatery ‘Jahangir Tikka’ to revive his manhood, while the rest of us headed to my home to eat my mother’s vegetarian food.

Summary

A tongue-in-cheek acount of an adventure in Pakistan occupied Kashmir. It is delightful in its similarity in style, humour and turn of language to an account by an adventurer on this side of the border. Goes to prove how futile hostilities are!

Author Vaqar Ahmed is an engineer who has morphed into a freelance journalist, photographer, and short story writer. His articles have been published in Pakistan in The Newsline, The Friday Times, The Daily Times, and Dawn.com. He lives in Karachi, Pakistan.

 

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