Tahereh Sheerazie

2011-02-22T20:11:00.001-08:00

Feb 22 2011
Pasadena Ca

so what do i make of a year in Los Angeles
much has happened
yet nothing concrete --lots in the pipe line -sometimes clogged sometimes running smoothly!

Mahera's 'Garden in Shigar' documentary was entered in the WVN film festival in Nov last year.
got tons of viewers and lots of recognition
plenty of good will so far
but no concrete hard cold cash to sponsor the work, get it started, and see it continue.

It has made it to the final round and in a few weeks ill know if it wins an award or not. Irrespective, it gets screened at the Los Angeles film school on March 19, and i sit on a post screening panel discussion with Catinca Tabaracu the CEO of WVN and other panelists.
That in itself is a long long way from Shigar and its reality, from the reasons Mahera filmed, or i taught, from the simple quiet months of engagement with the five girls and practically all of Shigar proper.

China building road to disaster in Gilgit-Baltistan February 17, 2011 - Pamir Times By Syed Iqbal Hasnain

2011-02-16T22:11:00.000-08:00

http://pamirtimes.net/2011/02/17/china-building-road-to-disaster-in-gilgit-baltistan/

sadpara lake skardu baltistan - july 2005

off roaders camping trip Jan 2010

2011-01-08T23:20:00.001-08:00

Off Roaders Camping trip Jan 2010 from rozadaar on Vimeo.

2010-11-29T19:45:00.001-08:00

A Garden in Shigar from Mahera Omar on Vimeo.

(2010) Nusrat, Khezran, Zakia, Asiya and Sajida are five young women from the scenic Shigar Valley in the mountainous northern areas of Pakistan. As interns with the Aga Khan Cultural Service Pakistan (AKCSP), their project is to landscape the Abruzzi secondary school’s garden in the village of Sainkhor, Shigar, Baltistan. Tahereh, their guide and mentor, has come all the way from Los Angeles, California, to teach the women the principles of design and landscaping. In learning these skills to transform a rubble strewn field into a one-of-a-kind teaching garden, these women sow the seeds for their own transformation.

aloe majesty

2010-09-22T16:14:00.000-07:00

2010-03-22T21:32:00.000-07:00

the sessions have been intense
packed with information
classes running two or three hours straight
sometimes i am wide awake through the whole session, sometimes its hard not to snooze.
the mornings begin early, around 6am.
i play shujaat husain or villayat khan or bismillah khan... while Alexa and sometimes a few others who trickle in, do their yoga, drink their teas and connect on their laptops. they enjoy this music:-) and find it the best way to wake up every morning. all these new people.... all of them in the realm of my own reality. the world that i like to inhabit and haven't all these years. meeting like minded people - to whom all my ways are not strange or different but easily understood. and conversely their 'alternative' life styles are no surprise.

Alexa is 8 weeks pregnant and not only glows with love on her face but does her yoga as if her body is made of rubber bending and turning into all shapes and forms.

at 7.30 am - a tasty breakfast of organic eggs - several cereal options, sometimes pancakes or blueberry muffins freshly baked and a few varieties of whole wheat breads, muffins and bagels. a few jams. organic butter. several organic yoghurt's and the thickest creamiest organic milk that comes in an old fashioned glass bottle that if you're the first to pour you get a dollop of malaai as well.

adeebeh packed me a bag of barbari and some paneer and walnuts. i toast my babari and spread the butter, feta, mint, cilantro and walnut, make a roll and eat it with my own cardamom flavoured 'sadaf' chai:-) sweet. they love that as well. who ever comes to sit next to me gets a bite.
by 9 am we're in our morning sessions....id imagined a lot of outdoor work, but so far most of it has been indoor sessions. we've only had one bed prepping session and have a swale and berm building lesson for this week.

all the rest is class room instruction. classroom is a long narrow meeting room with a wood burning fireplace to one end. my spot is a two seater sofa right by the instructors nose..others sit on the floor or on chairs. all very casual and comfortable. we listen mostly, some take copious notes, others already know alot of this but are getting some reinforcement, some new ideas, but mostly a chance to discuss and refresh all these ideas of sustainability in the garden and in our personal life choices. when were outside, i draw the scene as best i can. when were back in i color it all in. it keeps me focused and not falling asleep. since my camera lens doesn't open i figured this will be the old fashioned way of recording place and time:-)

the whether is cool and very spring and lovely. sometimes the coastal fog stays in for a few hours in the morning, when it clears the day becomes a perfect combination of green blue white and wet!

old pear in full bloom

pear blossom

7.30am

meal gong - sebastian

time to go -breakfast calls

2010-03-20T17:03:00.000-07:00

March 19 2010 - 2pm

its spring
nourooz infact
I'm in Occidental California
first day at school of arts and ecology.
hoping to learn to garden perma culture way....
plum and pear trees awash in white blooms, daffodils springing out from different places, willow trees a light green fuzz, mustard plants yellow and fresh. the drive up from Santa Rosa through somewhat rough back country roads is half an hour of green rolling hills wine country. winery after winery all neatly stacked rows of short grape vines.. not a bud in sight yet.

Emily and Milt dropped me off, gingerly left me in this hill billy looking place...'call us if you change your mind, we'll come get you'. they were going to walk the grounds and see the 'gardens' one look and milt decided he'd rather be playing poker with his retirement home buddies...retired executives, doctors, engineers..than take a tour of this garden like nature meant it to be. she relented and went right back home..though i suspect she wasn't too happy. made me think how unfortunate that you have to tow the line even at 88.....

my camera lens wont open...who knows why - so no pictures for now. my descriptions will have to do.
the course mates..they're all trickling in. in fact are in. from el Salvador, France, all of northern California, Virginia, Connecticut, Vermont and ofcourse some of us form southern California. the youngest is 18 - with a guitar. wants to grow everything on his property and be self sufficient and not have to buy anything ..starting real young. mom dropped him off.
from Virginia - Dona - only eats raw food. extremely helpful..carried all my stuff down to the camp ground while sarah and i schlepped my roll on suitcase. lady from San Jose suburbia - came with blow dried hair and red lipstick. Sebastian from France is here with his chinese american fiance.
the guys - three or four all decided to camp in the back country..i took the campsite closer to the showers and bathroom ..don't want to brush my teeth in the pond!
theres a guy with long hair tied up in a bun on top..Sikh style, no turban..small goatee.

pond can be swum in
bathing suits optional
wood fired sauna takes an hour or so to heat up...
clothing also optional

you get the picture:-)

from raggedy hippies to upscale suburbans, from South America to Pakistan to west and east coasters of this country - were all here!

Shujaat Husain Khan, Herrick Chapel, Occidental College, Los Angeles

2010-02-08T19:25:00.000-08:00

Sat Feb 06 2010
an evening organized by the Music Circle, Pasadena
Shujaat Husain Khan enthralling us with his sitar performance

2009-12-05T11:01:00.000-08:00

farrokhs wedding
dec 04 2009
karachi

it was april. sunny, blue sky, spring at its best at mesa verde...i took her call on my cell phone. she said she had news for me. "walking in the virginia woods one afternoon, I asked for a sign from Him, something, anything, to reassure me that life will be lived with dignity and peacefully into old age. my eyes were shut, it had been a cloudy day, but when i looked up and saw a silver lining behind rain clouds i knew all of life would fall right into place. where it belongs - in the cradle of love..i met Robert soon after, fell in love and weve decided to marry." no she didnt say any of this in this dry fashion, but thats how i can relate it as simply as i can. she went on to describe him, many little details about his personality, that made for a perfect partner in life. one that is so worth waiting for and going through so many hurdles to get to....she was so very happy, so much at peace. in a very different way so was i ....both of us feeling how blessed we are.

i came to karachi a little after my landscaping/teaching assignment ended in Shigar. Moniyas mehfil was a few days later. it was also the night that nargis arrived from bangkok, with an ulcerated eye. salmaan and robert met us at the AKU hospital, straight from the airport. deposited nargis at home, tucked in bed to rest and got to the ganay ki mehfil at its tail end.

2009-09-30T19:10:00.000-07:00

so why deal with khatmaals and pissus..bed bugs in every form. why squat to cook, to wash clothes, dishes, to bathe. why boil water for the thrice a week bath, and one to boil the bug ridden clothes and sheets every few days. why lay the mattress and all else out in the sun while i bike to school so i can teach landscape design to a bunch of girls who dont have a clue what that means. east west north south what does that matter??? teach by planting
a teaching garden???
take interviews of school children
and teachers
and principals
what for??
poke around every garden in Shigar
poke around some more
we're understanding balance and perspective and rhythms and line and ....here in the wilderness, in this village, from this spot, looking at the mountain here in this field, from this garden.?

none of it makes sense to them ...its only barely making sense to me...who knew teaching meant so many things all at once.....................

2009-08-29T15:58:00.000-07:00

Aug 29

Walking past the local lumber yard and small downtown area, Ashiq and Mushtaq guided me to the town's bicycle shop. together wed assembled my mountain bike ...id had it shipped from LA, so 'madam' didn't have to walk to work. too much effort for a 52 year old trekker after all. the local cycle wala pumped back the deflated tires. The villagers watched on, surprised that this madam was planning on biking this very fancy contraption, meant only for hard core men from foreign lands or for visitors at the shigar fort, but 'madam' garden designer??? hmmm????

3 pm......... later we visited Wazir Fida Ali,

the head of the Shigar town management committee. Another pleasant intelligent man. We discussed modalities, got some straight forward information, regarding the ground rules of what is possible and what is not. i told him what i was here to do, and how i would go about it. There were no surprises except he said, that a portion of the donated garden area was sort of off bounds for a garden.

The donor wanted the actual school building to be built on that portion, a play ground or simply garden was not what he had donated land for...what education do you get from playing out doors, and what sadaqa jariyah does God bestow on creating school yards??? I didn't go into the philosophy of such tunnel vision ideas with the chief, but reassured him id keep that in mind as i designed.. so that our trees don't get pulled out years from now, for a structure to be built, or that the children don't waste time playing basket ball or badminton right where they should really be cramming science and math and English and Urdu lessons....no , not that. ill surely keep Gods continuous blessings coming through. Some day said donor and i will discuss 'sadaqa jariyah at length..that would have to wait till all the trees and all the shrubs and all the grass and every inch of play yard is safely in place.

2009-08-26T10:16:00.000-07:00

Dec 2009
many months since the brief visit to China last Dec..my long road still winds its way through the mountains of Pakistan..

except i got to do something different this year - no hikes, no travel adventure.

Islamabad Aug 26 2009
our flight to Skardu got cancelled ofcourse - no surprise at all, only this time i wasn't on trek schedule so i could wait it out to catch that elusive jumbo. we left on a clear crisp morning Aug 27. in line for the flight, a highly distraught lady simply wouldn't alight. scared to death of flying. no cajoling, no convincing, no promises of arriving safely, we were with her, in it together, sit in first class....nothing. i tried my two bits, shed quiet down for half a second and then loose it. yelling at her by now beyond embarrassed brother to get her off or shed murder him herself. the high brow first class passengers - which is where all this drama was unfolding by this time, wanted none of it. the pilot was loosing patience and time..so off they went brother and sister, to sit on the 22 hour bus journey on the KKH. imagine 'choosing' to do so.

my flight was spectacular, most of it in the cockpit, with views of every mountain top and K2 from here to the heavens. sticking out like a pyramid of such grandeur that all else paled in comparison. what a ride ...what a great way to begin my work. with clarity as crisp as the clear mountain scape in front of me, yet with equal layer upon layer of complex snow covered ridges that would reflect the difficulty of getting so much accomplished in such a short time, in a community i had not known before. all seemed possible that august morning.

at the sleepy little Skardu airport, i was received by AKCSP staff, Ashiq and his driver, who had a card with my name, to receive me. both men recognize me before i do. polite pleasant men. Ashiq is based in Khaplu where they are working on the palace.
the drive to Shigar takes me back to the same wonder and excitement of seeing these mountain scapes every time ive been up north.
Once in town and right after showing me the two house options, introducing 5 of the 6 interns, we headed to the Abruzzi school sight. impressive building with a small 1 acre piece of land for the garden. his chief architect, Mubashir, met us there. Personable, confident, knowledgeable young man. theres plenty of building work still going on, so it wont be till next spring when the school will actually be functional. everyone I've met so far is excited that I'm here and happy that ill be putting together a professional planned garden. it will be the first they tell me, besides the Shigar fort gardens. so many hopes are pinned on me. i too was feeling the same excitment of finally being here, and meeting the people ill be working with.

deciding where i would stay for the next two months...i picked the more picturesque of the two options.. my home of choice was a small two room idyllic guest house with an attached bathroom with a geyser, and small kitchen. surrounded by a wild little fruit and vegetable garden. the trees are laden with apples, pears, peaches, almonds, plums and some apricot. the cherries are done. so are the apricots actually. A low wooden gate to enter the grounds, low stone walls in traditional mountain style wrapped around the property. it belongs to the family of one of my students. i was given new sheets, new pillows, for the only piece of furniture in the cottage, one wooden bed with a mattress and blanket. foolishly i laid them over a very old mattress infested with every imaginable bug ...invisible to this foreign eye. i discovered within a day of living the cute green cottage life, how unequipped i was for creepy crawly creatures that like sucking on fresh city bred blood all night, all day. but then theres running water in the bathroom, filtered, so it can be drunk. theres electricity from 6pm to 2pm. every four days theres load shedding so no bijlee that day. the weather is balmy 23C by day, may be 15C by night. what more could i ask for.

My hosts are kind and gentle people. the father is a school teacher. the wife illiterate. Sajidah the daughter is petite and full of spunk. very sharp and clear features. lovely face. is in 2nd year of college. his two sons are in cadet schools down country and the 10 year old lives with him. he says he has a very small family at home these days, only four people . i was tempted to say mine is even smaller, but figured hell find out sooner or later himself. the husband and wife showed me around the tiny place and then sat in my (bed)room for a while, with no signs of leaving, the typical way of villagers, who think its rude to say hello and scram. they've all asked me if ill be ok sleeping alone, and I've reassured them that ill be fine.

Aug 27
The lady of the house Hamida is plucking fresh cilantro for the pakoras and fresh lettuce for salad, as i sit writing. its the lovely evening light, only the snow covered tips of the mountains have sunlight left, the crock crows, the water channel runs behind me, the sound a constant. I've opened up my few belongings and fed my new telenor sim card into my phone. jazz doesn't work here. Fida Husain my landlord and host, has brought me over to his house for iftar. they're making pakoras, so i brought my garlic chili sauce bottle to share. some shrivelled up dates. home made cake and french toast. quite a feast for a simple home. for dinner they've cooked potato curry to be eaten with wheat roasted noodles. "fur fur" which they consider as 'shahi khana' served to guests on special occasions like ramazan. im sitting on his roof top socializing with the neighbours on the other roof tops. such sweet and simple living. everyones curious, one after another, the ladies peep from windows or the little galli below to smile and ask who i am etc. tomorrow ill bring my camera and recorder. so ill have pictures of these encounters. the neighbours son is Sajid, his sister Abida and the youngest Aquib. so many names to remember.

its 10.15 pm when i crawl into my down comforter, which i would soon regret laying over this ticking bed. Fida Husain will be serving sehri at 4.30am. did i mention that their own home is a two minute walk from my cottage....ive never had to walk to my sehri in pitch darkness from one house to another...nor have i stayed awake half the night scratching my body thinking these shigar mosquitoes are bloody pests.
,
my students greeted me in the orchard next morning, all fresh and expectant and excited to be meeting 'madam' who was here to teach them something about gardens. who knows what exactly, but it sounded exciting and fun. we were all equally excited i think, me about my new and unimaginably beautiful surroundings, teaching something i loved doing best, they about the fact that i was a woman come from so far just to teach them something basic like gardening. must be a mad woman. or at least somewhat nuts.
we didnt waste too much time......that day or any day thereafter...it was, lets get this going, lets get us this garden imagined, planned, drawn, built and blooming.

2008-12-31T16:24:00.000-08:00

Dec 31 2008
Gulmit

I had met Yasmin and Merry on the packed bus ride from Gilgit to Sost. They sat on the seat behind me with Razia, a young Chinese girl on her way back home.
Both friendly 22 year old boarders at the girls college in Gilgit, they were going back home to Gulmit for winter break.
On the way, we stopped for lunch at Aliabad..they know all the ropes. Dumpy old 'restaurant' with a back room for the ladies. Razia (the Chinese woman) and i followed along. Was cold as hell and dingy to boot - so decided to get back to the bus and wait for every one in my comfy seat.. instead ended up talking to the young boys out front, all college kids going back home to one village or another. Pleasantly surprising was Merry and Yasmin's interactions with them. Laughing, talking, like any urban youngsters, totally comfortable and at ease. The girls neither shy nor awkward, the boys neither lewd nor cheezy. They all knew each other and mingled with ease.
Yasmin had invited me to stay with them that night, so i dont freeze in Sost. I scribbled her name and her fathers name down, but declined- thought if i stayed id get tempted to simply hang around in Gulmit and surely miss the next bus out to China as well. But i promised to visit another year. So now, on the way back, i thought, I have a standing invitation and whats the rush anyway!
Got off the bus right where wed dropped the girls off 5 days back..asked around and someone led me to her brother. He runs a general store right on the main road. Didnt bat an eyelid when i announced im a friend of Yasmins, and have come to stay the night! sure! big hand shake and broad handsome smile. Give me a minute, let me wrap things up in the store. its really busy being that its new years eve. Do you want everything from your duffle - no - then take what you need - leave the duffel here. Lets go surprise Yasmin, her friend has arrived after all.

1.30pm - sitti ng around the bukhari at Yasmins home with all her family gathered. Another older brother isn't feeling too well - buried under a heavy quilt, tires to ignore all the excitement and talk around him. Except for his mother, no one pays too much attention to him. He's got a splitting headache. I offer him some tylenol, which he gladly takes. I find out much later, hes suffering from a nasty hunza water hangover!
Yasmins telling me about what they do for new years eve - March 31 is a bigger day than Jan 01 for them. That's their new year. They celebrate 'Nourooz'. On both occasions they cook chicken biryani, maleeda (bread pieces in lassi) Garaal a type of bread, Baat made in milk (milk, wheat flour, sugar and butter) all day they visit each other, wear new clothes, put mehendi, get eidi - then at 5pm go to the Jamaat Khana for programs and duas, and shows the children put up. Two hours later they're back home eating together. Nourooz is considered a religious festival and therefore of much greater significance than Jan 01. Qurban Ali, Yasmins dad, joins us - they're all friendly and welcoming, not at all perturbed by my dropping in unannounced. An older sister comes by, as does another, who is furiously using the hand operated sewing machine..churning out shalwar kamizes at such speed i wondered how she kept a straight line going. Makes her money this way, and new years eve is big money making day! While all the rest of us chatted and socialized she kept at the machine, well into the evening.

Dads curious and asks me what im writing.

Merry is here as well, with her younger sister Nazia. Quiet and little dour faced, compared to her bubbly outgoing sister. Im to visit their home next. For now, im waiting for the family to finish lunch and wash the dishes, so we can head out shopping - to buy some music and seabuckthorn jam. Yes shopping is possible on Dec 31 even on the rooftops of the world.

Im told Wazir Aman, of Ghulkin, is the authority on Seabuckthorn. I had eaten the jam at Gilgit Serena a couple of years back and loved the sour, a little bitter taste. Have been craving for it since.

Wazir makes and sells the jam and juice. Been at it for 6 years. Lives in a small cabin right off the KKh in the next village - Ghulkin. Ofcourse i want to go visit. The girls will take me once the cleaning up etc is done..so i wait for an hour or so, then decide ill go myself, why drag them from their chores on new years eve, when they have stuff to do - get organized for the evening.. whatever that might be. I walk out in the late afternoon. Find my music store and buy a load of Wakhi and Gojali music. Then follow my nose to Wazir Amans place, down the road towards Ghulkin. I find the cabin, scruffy looking - stuffed with all sorts of things, a few chairs and a table..men sitting around chatting. Shelves behind them with rows of empty glass jam bottles and orange looking juice in one liter plastic bottles - small gas stove on another counter.. tins of sugar and oil and who knows what else under the counter. the whole place messy as hell..a -D L.A. county rating!!! but then this aint L.A. county!
He introduces himself. Im surprised to find Wazir Aman to be a strapping young 33 year old handsome fellow..but then whos not handsome or beautiful in these parts???? duh!

Ghulam Nabi Shigri sells him the berries he tells me. Abundantly found in Baltistan and Shimshal, the juice of this berry is great for lowering sugar and cholesterol. He gives me some crushed dry berries to taste - a little bitter, nothing great, orange in color.

Wazir is a sculptor, graduated in 1995 from Karachi's North city school of Arts in KDA - ran out of money so came back to work as a cook at PC Burbhan for 1 1/4 years - then spent 8 years in tourism as cook and guide. Hes been to ghondoghoro la, chitral, rakaposhi, batura, passu glaciers etc. Now its 3 years since he started his jam and juice business. He tells me crows eat the berry and live a long life - that research lead to it being used for humans. He not only has a fascination with the healing qualities of seabuckthorn but a wealth of knowledge about it. Selling jams and juices hes been paying off a 4 lakh loan. Has a lakh and a half left. A son was born to him yesterday, even so hes promised to make me three fresh bottles of jam and one litre of juice, and deliver it to Gulmit before the nights out. I promise to hook him up with fellows at Hashoo Foundation who encourage this kind of unique home grown industry.

One of the men chatting in Wazir Amans cabin/kitchen with me is Mehraban Karim, brother of Nigehban Shah who died on K2 in Aug. We met this brother at our campsite in Arbabpurin when we were coming back from Shimshal Pass. He recognized me - all the rest of these guys also recognized me - they had seen all of us, Tahir, Nafeesah, Mohi and myself in Passu when we got here on Dec 12- they remember the shinny tokras we were carrying for the wedding. What a small world.

I walked back at sunset from Ghulkin, the crescent moon shining in the dusk sky, the pristine white expanse of the semi frozen Hunza river running along the KKH. I walked slowly, pulling my phone/song book and glasses out, in the dusk of Dec 31, singing 'tum ayey ho na shabe intezaar guzri' as loud as i wanted, no one around, not a soul. By the time i got to Gulmit it was dark. I stopped to buy 5 plates of the famous Gulmit biryani - from the Gulmit Biryani House - a must stop lunch break on all our previous trips up here - pulled a few gifts for the girls, out of my duffle (from Arman Alis shop, which was still buzzing with customers buying sugar and butter and sevian for the evenings fare) and walked back to Yasmins home for dinner. She and Merry by now extremely worried for me - id dissapeared for 3 hours. There were a few other visitors, we all had dinner together and then on to Merrys for a taste of Baat which shed cooked herself. From there, along with Merry's two sisters, we joined a bunch of young boy scouts in another home nearby. All drinking tea, singing and dancing Wakhi song and dance, having a grand new years eve stag party of their own. 8 to 18 year old boys all making merry. We had broken tradition and gate crashed.. though i dont think any of them minded the 20 to 50 something female company. It was pitch dark outside, freezing cold and crystal clear sky.. a million stars.. the moon just having finished its eclipse. Inside warm and friendly, the little boys as curious as the older ones.. who are you? how do you speak such good urdu? what are you doing here? learning chinese? going to a wedding? in SHIMSHAL?all the way from L.A. USA? yes yes yes..and who are you? what are your names? what grades? why only boys? why dont the girls join you? where are the parents? tell me -----we interview each other, all dance, me and the boys, slowly Merry, Yasmin and the sisters join. The two curious mothers who'd followed us and stayed out, peer from the window for the longest time. They've frozen themselves solid, eventually they decide to join the fun...forget tradition..its bloody cold, what stag party....theyre bachaas.

Last Dec i would'nt have dreamed of celebrating new years eve with complete strangers in Gulmit! but here i am, after some good old fashioned song and dance, now sitting with a family of Gojalis, as they chat amongst themselves and with me, Geo tv on in the background, patiently waiting for the momentous new year. They brought a plate of sevian, we are all sharing for the occasion and another large plate of apples from their orchard, washed in hot water so they thaw a little.

Its almost midnight and Im so sleepy, all i want to do is crawl into bed - there will be communal sleeping tonight in one large family room around the wood burning bukhari. Ma and Pa have slipped under their heavy lahafs and called it a night - sometimes peering form under to see if its midnight yet. So have the 4 youngest children. The brother with the hangover is finally up and chatting..heads cleared.
Midnight at last - Arman says a short dua - blesses all in the room, and the new year. we smile and wish each other. i finally crawl into the welcome warm bed. no fire crackers and kissing everyone in the room, no confetti and other paraphanelia to make a total mess of the place. no loud noises, forced or induced cheer...just simple affection and good wishes for each other.
A quiet acceptance of one end and another beginning; a prayer to the almighty.

i wonder what everyone is doing? Nargis, i know shes in SFO with her school friends probably having a good time, Syed Mohd..no idea...in Karachi or Edmonton or Dubai or Doha even Islamabad..what is everyone doing at this moment....i drift into a tired sleep under three lahafs and my down coat on top!

2008-12-30T22:08:00.000-08:00

Deeh Pakistan - 5pm dec 30

early evening we get to the first Pakistani check post and everyone rushes out, some making a bee line for the woods, trudging through snow, to take a leak, some yelling at the policeman to hurry up and open the the barrier, couple of fellows in the bus yelling at the driver to get going, forget the fellows in the woods- complete hangama - the same people had hung around patiently for 3 hours at Chinese immigration, don't have an ounce of patience for their own people. the driver decided to teach them all a lesson and drive off to the next barrier. they came running, including the sole bearded fellow (who they derisively call 'Taliban' on the bus.)
besides the deportees, hes the only other Punjabi on the bus. 'Taliban' jumped off the bus the second we stopped, and began saying his asar prayers at the police chowki!!! he runs into the moving bus mad as hell for not waiting, theyre all yelling back at him...abhi kiya namaz parhney ka waqt hai? haan qaza ho jati warna..pagal insaan.....ghar ja kay parhna. bewaqoof, is ko namaz ki pari hai!
the whole scene unfolds like a comedy. the devout, praying on time, following the rules to the tee, dogmatic, bearded Punjabi trader, amidst a bus load of easy going Ismaili and Shia travelers not pushed about dogma or rules, holding his ground as much as they were theirs. the good thing is that these northern area folks conduct themselves with a sense of humor and ease...no getting riled up over technicalities, conversations don't become personal battles.....a sense of camaraderie with each other, and live and let live attitude for everyone else.
the next gate has a Khunjerab national forest ranger come in asking for the manifest, for forest entrance fees - they shoo him off like hes out of his mind. earlier they had collected Rs.20 per Pakistani, me included, and basically tell him to get lost, that's enough money for this bus-- hes reading the manifest and yelling back , 'theres an American' they're Koreans, they have to pay $10.00 each' they say 'no no no the American never made it from Tashkorgan (moi) the Koreans are Chinese, they've got it wrong on the manifest' (the Chinese don't pay a toll - they built the road!!) they practically push the poor fellow out and yell at the driver to hit the peddle -
we've barely driven 1/2 an hour and two narcotics officers stop us - they check all the Pakistanis with border passes (Northern Area residents travel to China's Xinjiang only on this pass) they're looking for a fellow who slipped out earlier with drugs. no luck. the guy wasn't returning on our bus! all the while there are three or four fellows sitting in front with me, some standing in the door way, all talking - i sat on the bus engine next to the driver all the way from Taskhkorgan even though butt was toasted by now - about what they do, how to get to America, how come i speak such good Urdu, my husband, my children, suggestions to come in the summer and spend a few months up north. better still rent an apartment in Kashgar for 6 months - ill surely save money and learn the language - which is a brilliant idea i might add - continually offering each other whatever meagre snacks we were each carrying, while i take pictures in a shaky bus, rolling along on solid icy KKH. the scenery after the pass becomes more and more dramatic and stunning, but by now i was so tired, just sat and talked with these fellows and quit taking pictures. enjoying the surreal scenery, the intersting easy going company in this bus journey. i figured all the pictures would be shaky anyways. suddenly i spotted the new crescent moon in the pink dusk light - 2nd moharram - what a beautiful sight. mummy had taught us to read one alhamd three quls and 7 salwats with our eyes shut, when we saw the new moon, along with a sweet farsi couplet - which I've forgotten - but basically says 'o new moon take away the worries the old moon gave me and bring with you happiness and glad tidings' then open your eyes and see something or someone beautiful first thing, so that the whole month would be blessed with that beauty. aga jan used to look at mummy's face, hold her delicate chin and give her a tight kiss on her cheeks - shed always be shy about it and say 'mat karain' in that sweet way of hers - and hed do it even more - shed have a smile at the corners of her lips -

i silently prayed that prayer, here in the Khunjerab valley and opened my minds eye to my loved ones.

2008-12-30T20:02:00.000-08:00

7.40 am dec 30 Tashkorgan
in all fairness to last nights lodgings, the sheets, the pillows, and duvet cover were clean, the room warm. i could have slept well, but for that heavy garlic laced Chinese dinner. kept me awake till 2am. drifted in and out of sleep, afraid it would be morning and the bus would leave without me. concierge -- scruffy man and woman behind the front counter window - didn't wake me up at 7am as promised. glad i was awake at 6am myself, woke the woman, sound asleep behind the window, gave her my keys and walked into the freezing temperatures once again. the first stirrings of morning... all the little restaurants lighting their wood fires, kneading the dough, chopping the meat and veggies, boiling the soup, mopping the floors--while its -30c outside, and i walk in and out of each place that has an open door, so i can warm my face and hands.
bus wala had said he'd leave for customs check by 8am - not sure if they'll all be there....so i get myself half a naan and a cup of green tea in a big hurry. tastes like heaven--anything hot! the swine wants 5rmb for it...no Pakistani hosts these...money talks here.. the more the better.
kids walking to school -- i wonder why so many girls have premature white hair--who wants caps, its only dec! its their hair frozen in the morning air. my own snot is frozen solid, as are those hands and feet that just don't want to get even close to warm.
back to the bus - not a soul - what? they're not here? they've gone to breakfast. a haha- where? come ill take you... drops me off in front of another seedy looking joint -- they're all crammed in there - every Pakistani in town.. its noisy and welcoming..im the only woman in my now grimy down coat, cap, gloves, boots and still freezing... come baaji come -- sit -- where did you disappear last night? that other place right ? no good right? too much money. come what will you eat.. get her two fried eggs and paratha and tea....baaji eats with relish, downs the tea, the greasy paratha, the tasty over fried very yellow yolked eggs. the jhelum deportees huddle around the bukhari -- i ask if they've had breakfast --yes yes they'll get to eat, don't worry -- we've been feeding these buggers all this while haven't we?... i insist i pay for them--eggs and paratha and tea on me this morning....god bless you baaji all the way from china to jhelum to Karachi, god bless you, whoever you are, traveling in this god forsaken place in this god forsaken weather .. see you in the bus :-) :-)
god bless you too and keep you safe from whatever it is you're running away from or to!

9.30am tashkorgan - customs still -30c
cleared our personal bags with no hassles, except the loaded bus with all the trader samaan, unloading all that and reloading is going to take another hour or who knows how long..mean while even the hair inside my nose is frozen..
once were done with customs, they don't let us hang around inside the warm building -- so we sit outside in minus something or the other temps, on our bags, on the low wall or just jump from foot to foot to stay warm. too cold to write -- i try to read instead, but its no fun either. I'm using the darn hand warmers -- all they do is keep the hands 'warm' as in 'malool'...

11.30am finally
the most chaotic crazy rush to load the bus. the two chinese ladies at the front of the pushing, shoving, line by the bus door, get almost trampled by 15 men stampeding to get the first seats. its hilarious. all kinds of crooked middlemen, immigration officers, the driver, they're all exchanging money, stuffing more people than the already full bus that we came with from kashgar, or that it can hold. they've sold 5 extra seats when there isn't an inch of space in the bus. the extras argue away, ...those of us that came from kashgar are pushing them out-- no space, go take some other bus .. theres nothing else going -- this is the last day guys give us a break, we paid.. well you got jipped.. there aren't any seats cant you see.. we'll stand .. this goes on and on --till three of them finally get to stay. the other two are simply out of luck!. so the extras sit on top of the piles of bags in the aisles. the driver meanwhile decides to disappear. i think he either has diarrhea or is raking it in somewhere behind the bathroom, where i see him run off to. the immigration guys have stuffed one more fellow to the already packed bus. luckily he comes with us only till the last check post before the Pass.
i sit next to the driver right on the engine - determined not be shoved to the back with the deportees -- I'm taking pictures all the way home, even if I'm toasted solid in the process!
11.35 am hes back from the bathroom visit! were off to Sost!
as one final bribe and goodbye, a bag of apricots got handed to one of the Chinese immigration guys three hundred yards out the customs grounds.
i must learn their language to really figure out whats going on around me...
murdabad china!!
the landscape-- bright clear day, miles of snow on the pamirs- magnificent!

2008-12-29T22:16:00.000-08:00

dec 29 1.10 pm Upal -stopped for lunch at this one street truck stop town. Men playing the ubiquitous billiards outdoors, bread, boiled eggs, fruit, noodles, kababs, rice all being sold by the road side and at the only restaurant. 17 year old cute looking kid, Ali Mo and 28 year old Uz Mahamet - the best shot - - looks alot younger, play with a couple of other boys. me clicking away, asking nosy questions, getting in their way -- they're somewhere between irritated, curious, and showing off their best shots.

2pm off again. after a tasty kabaab naan lunch. this time roghni type naan- more flaky - heated over the bukhari in the crowded restaurant. soft and delicious. tasted great. the men paid - wont let me pick up my paltry tab!

chinese restaurant Tashkorgan

7.40pm dec 29 - tashkorgan
the bus dropped us off in front of a grimy hotel in this one street town, its bloody cold -30c or so - my Gilgiti friends want me to check into this very place. this is where they're staying - costs rmb 25 they tell me...you can imagine the rest. the Chinese group took off, looking for a place for themselves. im sure they found decent lodging - i wasn't planning on walking from hotel to hotel in these temperatures, so i walk a few hundred yards and find my self a place that looks a degree better than the first one. my room in this wonderfully dingy hotel with no hot water, costs rmb 60 - as much as the luxurious Chinibaagh in Kashgar!
I've dumped my back pack in the high ceilinged room, and tried to slip into town without the helpful Gilgitis noticing me. want to find my own dinner, explore the town even though my feet and hands are beyond frozen and i don't know a soul here! those darn foot and hand warmers are for sissies... they don't work on suckers for pain like visitors to tashkorgan in dec!
i see a restaurant sign on a small hole in the wall inviting door- i walk in, past the heavy plastic flap door, right into one happening dinner party in this Chinese eatery. All the men fairly drunk, all the women downing cha and juice. Everyone in a merry mood; welcome me right in - to the only empty table behind them - the place is tiny - one bukhari in the center- ive barely sat down and they've had three toasts to something already. I've taken 6 pictures of them toasting. eating like pigs - smoking like chimneys - the good life in Tashkorgan. -33c outside! they drink, eat, drink, eat. plate after plate of delicious looking Chinese food - no one minds the -F grade looking kitchen where its all being churned out from. the cheerful patrons scream for the waitress every few minutes, more, more, hurry lady we need the grub- shes going back and forth--probably spat in the stuff a hundered times already. here you are, you drunken fools.... theres even a little adorable baby in the midst of all the revelry -Jiang Bi Bing - burst into tears when i carried her - leave me alone you old hag strange face from mars!!! go kiss your own sort.
every few minutes they toast to something. one jolly bunch.
they insist i join their table, and taste their food - as drunk as they are they're careful not to offer me pork or alcohol - i had told them i was Pakistani and Muslim via LA - so they pour me peach drink - what the ladies were drinking - and toasted another half a dozen times to me! for lack of a better idea, i sang 'happy birthday to you' to one of the toasts. they all joined in. i promised to send them photographs of the evening. they promised to look me up in LA.
This has been the liveliest exchange of words and most enjoyable evening in China so far. but then its only been a few days.

my own paid meal

a plate full of garlicky greens
one pot of green dish water to down it

and two hours of friendly lively drunk company.
rmb 10
Im beginning to like this----next year inshallah!

have a dull headache, probably the elevation, 12000 ft, perhaps too much garlic and not enough water. though ive been drinking gallons of insipid green tea for the past 4 days. or more like, all that waitress spit.........mixed with the strain of speaking Chinese with less oxygen in the brain.
looking forward to tomorrows drive over the Khunjerab Pass, to Sost and home.

2008-12-29T22:12:00.000-08:00

8.40 am monday dec 29

the commotion outside woke me up. just as well cause reception never called at 7am as i had asked. it was 7.40am. packed my things and went straight to the check out desk, snowing again. called a taxi. traffic moving gingerly on the slick streets, like the women in their high heeled boots. taxi driver was quick to turn right out of the busy main roads and take the side streets instead. got to the bus station to find that I'm the 30th passenger on a 38 passenger bus. so no front seat for moi this time. hope some considerate Pakistani will allow me to sit by myself. we'll see. meanwhile i sit in the restaurant next door to the bus stop, for a breakfast of the ubiquitous tasteless watery green tea, my favourite - qitiq (yoghurt) - and naan i bought form a street vendor outside the restaurant. they eat a steam bun of sorts, that they break in pieces or bite into, with a plate of soupy looking vegetables and meat. chai of course. some kind of b rated war movie dubbed in Uighur on TV. cant make out which country. the actors or uniforms aren't familiar. strange how watching a movie even for 10 minutes or so transports you right out of where you are, into the other world of the movie. better than sitting in the drab bus station. lesson learned - don't carry so many things- travel light - 2 pants - 2 shirts - 2 socks 2 sets of undergarments, one towel, one sleeping bag, one pair of shoes, minimum toiletries, camera, extra batteries, pens paper/note pads, map, pillow,water bottle, diarrhea, headache and cold medicine (R1 R4), gloves hat sunglasses and money. next time that's all i need.

10.50am snowing - were standing outside - controlled chaos by the bus - the conductor loads up, taking bribes form the Pakistani traders for the excess luggage they're carrying, once hes got all that done, hell load us ordinary folks. hes got everyones passports and tickets, hes raking it in. its bloody freezing, theres a group of Chinese from Beijing, traveling to Pakistan, touring would you believe! some speak a little English, one of them fluently - studies in Chicago, nephews off to Pasadena in a couple of months!!! wants to do his mba. starting at PCC (Pasadena city college) at this rate well be waiting our turn for another hour. they all know the game well, bus conductor and traders. they all speak each others language literally and figuratively. theres much argument and discussion, slowly but surely the samaan is getting loaded on top of the bus. once that's done they'll open the bottom hold for a our luggage. wish i had a movie camera to film all this excitement. the Chinese tourists are pretty calm and pleasant about it - never a shortage of surprises here.

11.40am bus is loaded to the gills. were packed in here like sardines. I'm sitting in the second last row - over the wheels! bags all around me - 4 fellows from jhelum sitting in the last row. (they're deportees) people passing bags in through the windows. my old Gilgiti travel companions have squeezed themselves in right next to me- zulfiqar talks too much - beggars cant be choosers. were sitting 5 in a row even though there are two seats on each side. Aslam, zulfiqars uncle is alot more soft spoken and helpful in a gentle manner. promised to get me a seat up front a little later. doubt very much if anyone is giving up their front seats.

moving out of the bus station 12.10pm! got here at 7.40am

Bus talk

sanawar gateway hotel gilgit

gemstone business

works through Naghma gemstone -

mining in jun july aug sept - village sumayar nagar

mine at chimar bokor 18000ft for

aquamarine pink and red flouride quartz and hepitite

all this form a fellow traveller - one of the add on passengers in tashkorgan - young skinny with long shinny hair - has invited me to come see the mining work up at 18000 ft! hell take me himself. any time you want baaji. come stay with us for a few months

n.y Pakistani fast food restaurant - syed mohd shah, chacha to mohd farooq gilgiti - another chatty travellers info for my records

and so they each go on---i listen mostly, to their own discussions, as they chat with me telling me what they do where theyre from, asking where im from, what i do or rather what am i doing (here)???? trying to learn Chinese by travelling to china.. in 5 days??? in winter??? theres a much easier, better way to do this baaji-- rent your self an apartment in kashgar for 6 months.. go stay in the summer and talk all you want - will cost you alot less and you'll look alot nicer too!!!!(i imagined they were thinking that-- what does she look like under this grimy garb of feathers??)

2008-12-28T20:40:00.000-08:00

11am dec 28

this morning my eyes had opened to snow flakes quietly falling on the window pane.. what a soothing way to wake up to dreary surroundings! decided to walk around town, and ended up with breakfast in a minuscule chai khana by idgah mosque -- i share a table with a family of teachers - he Dulkun, teaches mathematics, she Nisa Gul teaches Uighur literature. they live in Yawagh with a 9 year old son Dili Murat. its sunday, they're enjoying this treat of samsa and a thick flaky paratha filled with lamb, onion and spices . very tasty
the side door to the id gah mosque is slightly ajar.
i walk in and unhurriedly take in the peace and quiet. an old Uighur man or two strolling the snow covered gardens. couple of men sweep the snow flakes and leaves away. they don't take notice of me-at the door leading out the ticket keeper asks for money.. i tell him the other fellow at the other entrance let me go cause im 'musli'...he says no youre not musli..i show him my ya Ali pendant---he smiles and says ...go go yes you musli....

8pm dec 28 - Chinni Baagh hotel restaurant

dinner with the waitresses--

mao shui wong - is what they're eating - this very hot soup

bai kai shui - hot water - is what I'm drinking with 'goosh naan' and shi liu (anaar)

I'm actually eating with the food and beverage manager Li Yi Yen Jun - they call her Yen Jun. she offered me some of her food, some pillau.

if i hang around here for a month or so I'm bound to improve my Chinese not to mention learn some Uighur as well. but not this time----I'm beginning to make friends, beginning to like the people, connect with them,and I'm leaving just as I'm getting familiar with my surroundings. I'm sure it will be easier next time. i wonder where ill land, back here in kashgar or further east. who knows--for now I'm headed back home. this most unaesthetically modern city, this dreary, dull, dusty landscape, this at once old and decrepit yet totally modern new city will have left a profound imprint on my life. for this is the very first time I've travelled by myself in a foreign country with a foreign language - the works, and yet left out wanting to go back for a longer time. i will remember my December in kashgar forever.

2008-12-27T19:21:00.000-08:00

11am dec 27 -
left Kashgar bus station for Yengesar. the roads are wide and well maintained, the scenery flat and uninteresting - so far.
the colors are dreary, everyone is in black, everyone dresses fashionably alike more or less. every woman in knee high boots, black skirts and fitted coats. every man in black suits and brown fur hats. the road to Yengesar flat uninteresting miles of ploughed fields. very rural and old fashioned with plenty of people riding on donkey carts, going past miles and miles of cotton farm land. maybe other crops as well. guide not particularly informative.
Ali was busy and so was his friend Osman so he put me on to the Internet cafe assistant - another friend- Qasim. he was surprised i wanted to take the public bus and not a taxi. this business of travelling in the rmb8 bus from kashgar and sitting in the opens rickshaw type cart isn't for Qasim - he tells me all his other western clients prefer taxi and best buses - well compared to Pakistan the worst Chinese buses are as good as our best! almost - I'm not complaining, hes wondering what kind of pseudo American am i? maybe a hippie - that's exactly the kind he doesn't want as clients - hes looking for yuppies, paying good tips, travelling almost first class.

in Yengesar, quiet sleepy town all the knife makers at the knife factory had gone off to lunch or namaz, don't know which. did get to see one worker pounding on the knife he was making. bought 4 knives for rmb200 - probably got cheated good, but so be it. its bound to be that way no matter what i buy. these fellows bargain too much. i never know the real value of anything.
lunch 1.30pm Yengesar
samsa, qara chai, uzum(grapes) banana and naan.
having lunch with qasim my guide for the day. we had lunch at a street cafe-- extremely delicious samsa - crisp and hot from the tandoor. washed down with piping hot tea with cloves and some other herb that looks like galangal. grapes and naan. we took our time eating as people asked Qasim where i was from etc-- Karachi Pakistan - really she doesn't look Pakistani---walked around the street nibbling on some dry fruit or the other. there is tons of great dry fruit here. specially raisins, walnuts and almonds and jujube's of all sizes.
i hadn't carried all my money with me so after lunch and knife shopping realized i didn't have enough cash for another day at Yarkand. after some back and forth with Ali over the phone with Qasim, trying to arrange for some friend in Yengesar to lend me some, i decided id rather go back. even though Ali says the Sunday market in Yarkand is authentic and not touristy like Kashgar, including village artists who come out and paint scenery's- plain air style work i guess. was looking forward to it but something changed and i just wanted to get back. i wasn't in the mood for another crappy hotel charging too much, another dusty shabby town no matter how old and historic. Qasim who thinks I'm 40, is a little miffed. I've changed my mind and decided to return to kashgar in half a day - hes disappointed i can tell. not making rmb 50 a day off of me.
9.30pm sat dec 27 Chinni Baagh hotel room
some girl getting hysterical. screaming and crying...i can hear the commotion from my room. too cold outside. maybe ill venture out later. its all quiet again. its been a strange day. i thought id enjoy the two day trip south from here to Yengesar and Yarkand. but no sooner had the bus ride began than i felt i didn't want to go further. maybe i got so spoiled in Pakistan these past two weeks that this indifference and foreignness here has put me off. these aren't pleasant welcoming baltis or gilgitis or shimshalis or gulmities - they're hardened by communist rule and suspicious of every one - bargaining incessantly. welcoming once they know you're fellow Muslim. busy - no use for idle chit chat - and this is so far west - cant imagine what the heartland must be like, Beijing and Shanghai specially

2008-12-26T19:15:00.000-08:00

Dec 26 2008
Idgah mosque Kasghar

took a taxi to the idgah mosque right after lunch----started walking around , to realize that it is Friday. everyone rushing into the mosque, ultimately a sea of men dressed in black suits and hats forming row after row, first inside the mosque then the gardens around it, then spilling into the streets.
a string of face covered beggar women sit by the side entrance. i stood by the doorway taking pictures till some of the older men shooed me away. i knew i wasn't doing the kosher thing, but couldn't resist. my foreign looks help me slip through the cracks of resistance and when i say I'm Pakistani makes things even better. 'you musli?' yes 'i musli' 'you don't look Pakistani' 'you speak urdu?' haan mein urdu bolti hun - aap boltay hain? khuda hafez...shukriya, tashakur, so forth. often the eyes fall on my ya Ali pendant--invariably elicits 'you musli' question. i don't think most of them can actually understand its significance, it just looks Arabic and Koranic and that's enough to make me 'musli' and 'meiyman' welcome in their city.
once the prayer finished rows of scarf clad women holding plates of dry fruit, bread, fresh fruit, dates, water etc stood on either side of the front doorway; as the men poured out they'd phooko on the offerings being held out by the women. this went on till the very last man.
ill ask Ali tonight what that was all about. all sorts of Muslims with all kinds of ways of worship.
they've painted the mosque a perfect shade of yellow- painted in all the blue tile work.. . ruined a beautiful old mosque with this white wash--all for the hordes they were expecting after the Olympics, touring this historic outpost of Chinese sovereignty. crying shame ruining a historical building like this.

dap - tambourine like instrument with rings
tambour - 5 string
rawab - also 5 string but harsher sound
ghirjek - like a violin, held over the knee
i walked into a musical instrument store just outside the mosque, ended up spending two hours being serenaded by the dap, tambur and rawab. it was truly lovely. the most beautiful string music. the best part was eating grapes, naan and sipping green tea with the musicians - this was offered to them by the store owner, which they promptly offered me, an i joined in happily. i ended up buying a dap? paid rmb150 after listening to a 2 hour performance - gave the musician rmb 50, he was quite taken aback. such a simple life, just walk into a store, be fed, be entertained and go away buying something with happiness and deep satisfaction
i walk around now slowly taking in the sights and sounds of the heart of this city- life around the idgah mosque. I've stumbled upon a antique selling vendor wed bought some scrolls from last year. i sit outside his old antique stall writing away, while three curious Uighur men peer over me, reading or trying to read what I'm writing.
ended up buying a scrolls for a friend who'd liked mine. one for myself. some oranges, the ubiquitous naan, some raisins, I'm constantly nibbling.
---- now a curious young boy now peers over me deciphering what i write in such a hurry. he got tired standing so hes sitting. now asking me for my pen as 'saughat' ill give it to him in just a minute. Alim Jaan is 8 years old.
4.40pm chinni baagh hotel - back at the hotel I've come to the dining room upstairs to munch on my leftover pilau lunch and hot glass of water. its delicious even cold. they have a Christmas party for 150 people. the waitresses running around putting on last minute touches. the organizers Chinese the workers Uighur. they have some awful blaring Chinese music playing on a large screen TV.

tomorrow to yengesar and yarkand.........

2008-12-26T18:15:00.000-08:00

1.30am Kashgar dec 26

have settled into my sleeping bag in a dingy room at the Chinni Baagh hotel. my Pakistani travel companions wanted me to stay at the same hotel as themselves. its cheaper baaji - rmb 25 a night -- i wasn't impressed. too cheap for mighty me. while they haggled with the taxi driver about the fare they had to dish out, i gave my share, rmb 80 to one of the guys, pulled my bag out from the back of the pickup that had carried our bags and walked across to the Seman hotel. wed stayed there last summer. the place was dead - not a soul stirring, dark reception. i ask a random woman coming out of the hotel where is everyone. she points me to the other end of the building. i drag my bag across to the 'front' desk, call out till a sleepy clerk emerges from a sofa in the lounge -- rmb 280 a night for a Uighur style room he says ! we bargain back and forth till we reach rmb 140 for a regular room - i ask to see it. its ok. clean, warm. then he says hell only take cash, one days deposit and pay up for tonight - no credit cards. he knows he has me by the.... i know what I'm doing! I've lost it with this grouch, and just walk right out. sheepishly across the street to the other joint where the Pakistanis are staying, by now tucked into their warm beds. no rooms say the two receptionists! the place is full sorry -- i insist, there has to be ONE room - he says yes come - walks me up three flights of stairs, the room is musty and damp, smelling of smoke - both beds with crumpled sheets, ashtrays filled with cigarette buts - one look and i say no thanks ill sleep on the sofa in the reception area - nope no can do miss. just for the night? nope. meanwhile a sleepy eyed shawlar kamiz clad Pakistani strolls into the reception area asking for water. over hears our conversation. my nephew snores too much, i cant get any sleep, you can use my bed baaji!!!! if you can ignore his snores, i wont be using the bed, its perfectly ok with me! you can take it. thanks but no thanks! so now Uighur receptionist and Pakistani trader begin to list all the other hotel choices - i decide on the Chinni Baagh - only because ive heard and read about it over the years , the old British consulate from the 1800s.
so Abdul Mohd promptly hails a taxi, loads my bag and escorts me to Chinni Baagh hotel - every ones asleep here as well, except its a large place and the one awake person behind the desk isn't a thieving grouch - i get my second grade room at rmb 60 on the second floor - i pay the one day deposit and the days charge. same rule all over Kashgar they tell me??! - except with a credit card this time - Pakistani pal hauls my suitcase up, gets me a flask of hot water for the night. pays for the taxi, tells me to join them for breakfast next morning. i lock the door to my very warm room. tired, hungry, frustrated and feeling terribly sorry for myself, the hell with Chinese and absorbing the culture and learning the language... i sit on the sleeping bag I've spread over the grey bed cover - crack the window open slightly, to the backs of other rooms, draw the curtains so i can see daylight when it arrives, and just want to catch the next bus back to Gilgit - want to cry! too much hospitality and help in Pakistan -- just another $$ sign here, no one cares - money talks and so does language, which I'm not good at whatsoever!
who knows what surprises tomorrow has in store.

2008-12-25T10:40:00.000-08:00

dec 25 1.31 pm
we're almost at the Khunjerab Pass. two Chinese trucks are stuck in front of us. they're putting on chains while we sit around watching waiting - i take pictures, write my notes.

the passengers have fallen into a heated political discussion, Musharraf, Taliban, Islam, terrorism, politics, America.... all sorts of views. by and large no love for the Taliban, terrorism and extremism or America. but then most of them are from the northern areas, liberal Ismaili's or shias... one guy is form the plains - long black beard, young, serious looking, speaks punjabi - dosent agree with any of them. theyre on his case - he holds his own, says theyre idiots anyway. baaji what do you think? wasnt musharraf good for us? these idiots got him thrown out. now look what we have. baaji only listens, shes foreign. from karachi, what does she know anyway! bearded youngster only glares at baaji - what are you doing here writing your notes - why arent you home with hubby- his thoughts are written all over his face--- he cant fathom mine, or so i hope. youre one man against 20 of these guys. quit arguing, just listen for a change, i think to myself, feeling sorry for him.
moving again.

At the pass 15000 feet 1.54pm dec 25 - Merry Christmas Pakistan - happy birthday Qaid e Azam!
its beautiful - snow everywhere, the road white and icy, driving like we're on rollers. driver wont stop so i can take pictures- click click click, glimpses, hazy, hurried, missed the ibex, once, twice - got them finally. missed the border posts - a snippet - Pakistan- got the whole Chinese post - too large to miss even in a moving bus.

bactrain camels, yaks roaming, grazing --its 2008, feels like 1889 -
meanwhile stomach growls - been chewing on channa, gurh, apricots, bread, cake - were all sharing. the guys give me a large dollop of cream on paratha - its good for the pass they say - height - you need this or you'll be sick, dizzy, nauseated. i eat away - they needn't know I've been there, done that - paratha and cream how can i say no. yes weakling baji needs it badly.
we clear our first immigration check - soldier jumps on board for the one hour ride to takshkorgan, sitting piled up on bags in an already packed bus. not a smile cracks his face - no chatting in broken Chinese with this guy. stomachs growling louder and louder - hey mister got to get off here. they all talk to him at the same time - baji has to go - stop Ali stop. whats he to say except watch me run out of the bus, poofy down coat, cap almost covering my eyes, gloves, boots, plonk plonk all bundled up running across the snow in the middle of miles of surreal Kirghiz grazing land looking for a spot to poop!
i sit behind a shuttered shepard's hut for 10 minutes - or so it seems. tempted to take pictures as i squat, my butt touching the cold snow, my stomach hurling it all out! hands too cold to use a camera - frozen solid cleaning myself with snow, it was a strange mess--i sat there taking it in and out all at once. took the pictures in spite of it all - in case memory fades and or never get to see this again -
by the time we got to tashkorgan and our third immigration check my stomach had gone berserk. we rolled in at 6.30pm, pitch dark already -20C. i ran to the bathroom at the far end of the grounds like a crazy person. locked! ran right back inside the warm immigration hall for help. qing wen qing wen keys keys - la du zhi le!! no one has keys so i dash right out and simply squat outside the bathroom -- few minutes later Razia joins me - we both smile that smile 'relief'! i calmly walk back looking as dignified as i can - they stick a thermometer under my arm right away - no fever guys, just diarrhea.
baaji you ok? yes yes --- only diarrhea. my most fluent sentence in Chinese - " i have diarrhea " got the whole immigration hall paying attention - damn!
every bag thoroughly checked, walked out the other side and piled in with three of the traders for my night ride to kashgar. stopped for dinner in tashkorgan - no food for me --just a glass of ispaghol and water - thanks to my new found protective friends. piled into the shared taxi ride. i ask the guys - please no smokes - baajis allergic - they oblige again, till a few hundred kilometers and several hours of hair raising driving on a dark icy road --- finally, the hell with baaji and her spoiled ways - we're smoking lady, you can roll your window down and breathe in the -30c air all you want. no they dont say this, but i hear it loud and clear as i breathe in their smoke into my frozen body!

2008-12-25T10:03:00.000-08:00

Sost
dec 25 9.45am
got a good nights rest in this warm room and warmer bed - coal burning bukhari stays warm longer, burns more efficiently than the wood - ofcourse they use the coal abundantly for us - we are guests after all, and women and old(er) - imagine having us shiver even for a moment, in this all male world where i have not only invited myself but another female stranger, to use their quarters and accept their hospitality. no cold hearth for us ladies at Mr.Bashir's guest quarters.
Karim served us breakfast exactly at 8.30am as he had promised last night. thick flaky paratha and as many cups of tea as we wanted. i changed into my waterproof trekking pants, silk leg warmers and everything else that could keep me warm and comfortable. we both bought our tashkorgan tickets rs.1800 each. i changed rs.6000 to rmb, and now waiting for customs to open up so we can complete immigration and get going. its another clear sunny day. the town as scruffy a place as can be. i took a little walk thinking id come across something interesting, frost burned cabbage and carrots, men floating around the one street town, dust and exhaust smoke from the cars covering everything that isn't covered by snow, boarded up shops and dead end gallis, is all i found. impatient to leave town now -- though i know ill miss the Mr.Bashirs of the world. we take our own coutry'men' so much for granted - they are the most helpful gracious men I've met - this is true from Pindi to Sost! baggage checked, bodies searched, bus loaded and off we go!
click click click --- write write write, listen, talk, listen, talk, keep clicking - only gets better and better riding on the front seat of this bus to china with 25 Pakistani traders and one chain smoking bus driver - Ali.

2008-12-23T23:14:00.000-08:00

dec 24 08 - noon

my journey to china
it began two weeks back from pindi - with detours to shimshal (for a wedding) then in and out of hunza/gilgit/skardu for some time - today finally ill be off on the kkh to Sost and hopefully Kashgar tomorrow from there.
they tell me the border closes on dec 26 - that i should simply go back to islamabad and take the flight to urumqi - no one can comprehend why i want to bus it in this weather - how can i explain myself - its the same as taking cruises - you either love it or you dont. i dont! i need to walk the walk, feel the earth, see, touch, connect with its people, the elements - no air travel short cuts for me, at least where i can use the roads.

to kashgar ----

2008-12-11T23:24:00.000-08:00

to the wedding
in the summer we got invited to Nadia's (guls sister) and Farman's wedding in dec-- Nafeesah had planned on attending since she was going to be in islamabad for the winter -- my plans to be in pakistan in dec were completely unplanned and unexpected, but since i was going to be here and going to Kashgar i decided to join her - its on the way after all --Tahir the dad, and Mohi the little brother had decided to join us as well.
dec 11 08 5pm
waiting at the pir wadhai bus station in Pindi for the Andrabi clan -Tahir, Mohi and Nafeesah to show up. bus leaves at 6pm. Gul's escorting all of us. needless to say the Gilgit flight they had planned on taking didn't make it this morning. instead Nafeesah and i shopped for the gold and silver covered tokras, wrapping paper, ribbon, tape, rice, sugar,salt, tea...well pack it all up in shimshal---for the bride and grooms families. add the karachi khawaja and habshi halwa methai id had shahla buy for me and voila! shes excited, so am i - imagine on a public bus on the kkh in middle of winter! Gul says its been snowing in Gilgit and Hunza so who knows what the road conditions will be. imagine Shimshal in winter.
45 minutes into our ride and were back at Pir Wadhai bus stop, engine problems driver has to fix. some folks are pissed - we're chilling -- wasn't exactly expecting bus to break down in 45 minutes, but glitches? normal!

our 18 hour bus ride from Pindi to Gilgit turned out to be a 24 hour journey on the kkh , --- Nafeesah aptly threw up all over the already filthy bus floor as soon as we got off in Gilgit. that's it, ive had enough of this bus ride! puke puke-- wed been in that darned bus a whole long day and night - 6 hours of which were spent in a stationary bus in the middle of nowhere on a gorgeous full moon dec night. does that deserve a little puking or what?
noor ali greeted us and took us for a quick snack to his home, greedy souls we all ate while Gul organised the next bus ride and loaded up our bags. must have been 0 deg outside. we drove on to hunza all huddled in the smaller jeep, spending the night at the embassy hotel -- basic, clean, empty, no hot water. but at rs 1000 a night, decent food, and magnificent scenery -- light snow in the beautiful evening light --- we were simply glad to just be some place closer to our destination. the weather and simple arrangements weren't important.
slept a good nights sleep under heavy covers and woke up to light snow fall and a beautiful winter morning -- the hunza river blue, the only color in this all brown and white landscape. Mohi excited beyond words. us three as well, except excitement gets diluted with age. no jumping on ice puddles, no pointing to every bird, screaming out to dad for every new thing in sight. o well there were other ways ----the constant smiling faces , the always feeling happy, inspite of runny noses, cold feet, cold hands, not to mention cold water, the joy of sipping tea around a small gas stove, the relief of kicking off boots and warming those frozen toes on the same stove that hands were being toasted and tea cups warmed.

dec 13 08 2pm
arrived at Passu, waiting for Gul to arrange our jeeps to Shimshal. we're impatient waiting in the cold afternoon, meanwhile the whole village seems asleep - no ones around. turns out its the Imams birthday so everyones at the jamaat khana celebrating. what a contrast from the summer, barely anyone on the streets, snow covering everything, the scenery even more spectacular and grander than the summer. Mohis getting antsy as hell, hes been talking non stop, asking a gazillion questions, making observations (aloud) writing in his journal all the way so far. you want to give him a huge hug and strangle him all at the same time - shut up already you adorable boy. Nafeesahs still a little under the weather - stomachs acting up. Tahirs blown away with the scenery -wasn't expecting it to be this spectacular. this is even before getting to the Shimshal gorge. me - I've lost my voice almost completely. a little frustrating cause cant talk or sing, but gives me quiet time to absorb, observe and ponder over my own thoughts and feelings without constant interruption of conversation. so while i hug and cuddle Mohi in silence, Tahir answers his every question and nafeesah patiently humors her brother nursing her cramps all the while.

NY Times pictures - nov 04 2008

2008-11-07T17:25:00.000-08:00

Samira emailed me this NY Times post - mushtaq, kamila and myself had picked a random restaurant in the heart of black La to dine and usher in the new president - turned out we were in an historic place at a historic time - id figured we need to be with Obama's community whether he won or lost the night - most telling was that besides the reporters we were the only non black people in the entire neighbourhood, making merry and reveling with our fellow black brothers and sisters! realised for the first time how large the divide, how gaping the mistrust, how baseless the fear.
Leimert park here we come!
http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2008/11/05/us/politics/20081105-REACTIONS_2.html

2008-11-05T19:36:00.000-08:00

Nov 05 08
election night - Leimert Park - creole restaurant - celebrating with jubilant black folks -
such a sense of happiness and relief - such a dignified humble speech.
never expected to feel this connection with American politics and politicians - but for Barrack Hussein Obama. finally a man of integrity and leadership, drawn each lazy, lackadaisical, who cares type person into the thick of must care and even more must do now.
here's to finally knowing why this country has been a beacon to so many for so long.

india pakistan via china

2008-10-23T07:47:00.001-07:00

india pakistan via china
Originally uploaded by tsheerazie

and the rest of my time

aloe majesty

2008-10-23T07:45:00.001-07:00

aloe majesty
Originally uploaded by tsheerazie

what i do the rest of the time

boesum pass

2008-08-08T21:02:00.000-07:00

it seemed to be taking forever for Gul to get the porters under way and start walking. right after a quick breakfast with his parents, i moved on to the grounds of the hotel from where all walks begin essentially. for a while i chatted with the Pakistani visitor - Sa'ad - he himself was setting out for ice axe lessons on Yazghill glacier. an hour had passed. still no signs of Gul so i decided to begin walking - it was a straight forward route, i didn't necessarily need to be guided any more.
i began to retrace my steps of previous days - past the apricot and apple orchards, past berry bushes, the same vast pebbly river bed going through the village, across the bridge over Shimshal river and onto the mountains.

Imran's father happened to be walking to his home, which was in the same direction as my walk. so he kept me company and insisted on showing me to Zardgurbens trail head. i kept saying no that's a long detour from your own home. but he wouldn't hear of it- there was no way i was to walk by myself, i needed company so my mind could be distracted from the boredom of walking! he was so right. having walked with a group all these days, all by myself it felt lonely and pointless, i was already beginning to brood. his talking helped distract my mind and cheered me up, moreover he led me up a longer but much easier route towards Zardgurben.
the Shimshalis don't ignore anyone - everyone was always attentive and conscious of each others needs. i was an obviously lonely guest - I'm sure my childish crying the previous day hadn't gone unnoticed, - so there he was, the consummate mountaineer keeping this ordinary trekker company so she didn't feel alone and without friends. attitude was a large part of the walk. he was going to not just make my physical walk as easy as possible but also keep my mind alert and cheerful so i would make it up that mountain to Boesum pass. it was all done so subtly, so gently, i almost didn't notice. its only in retrospect that i can recognize and appreciate every ones graciousness. from the young Samina, to Guls father and uncle everyone was as kind to me as if i were a little girl myself. yet without being condescending or overbearing. they treated me as a mother would a 50 year old child.
once Gul caught up, Imrans father took off and we began our ascent into the Zardgurben gorge.

an incredibly beautiful place - rock walls and water is all it is - ascending about 7 or 800 meters straight up. looking back the giant Shimshal white horn looming so large it seemed it was right there.
the going was slow, so slow that i kept thinking i would turn back. i was never going to make it up to Zardgurben leave alone Boesum. even before we got to our lunch spot, i felt heavy as lead and completely exhausted. it was a very hot day, the elevation gain quick and relentless. even though Gul was around, walking by myself wasn't helping. whatever it was, by mid day i was drained. by the time i got to the lunch spot the men had been sitting playing cards for an hour already. i got my hot cup of soup, ate the usual crackers, cheese, sardines and a big bowl of fruit salad, then lay under a huge shady rock and took a long nap - the men continued to play, no one was in any hurry to get anywhere. i woke up refreshed and began to think i could walk after all. i needed the food and the rest i guess. perhaps coming up id used up too much energy too quickly, i don't know what it was but i hadn't felt so awful so quickly anywhere on the trek so far.

after what seemed like an endless uphill we came to the gate to Zardgurbens pasture. en route wed met a large group of LUMS college students on their way to Chafchingol and Sonia peak. when Gul and i walked in at almost sunset, they were already at camp, some attempting to rock climb others getting dinner going.
Zardgurben is a huge meadow with reddish lichen covered rocks scattered everywhere, high jagged edged mountains all around, scree slopes perfect for skiing, rock walls screaming to be climbed and the ever present Shimshal white horn dominating the scenery. when i got to camp i was exhausted, so i put off photography - i regret that now because the next three days were hazy and i never really got a good shot of any of those incredibly beautiful campsites enroute to Boesum. Zardgurben was as stunning as Gul had described it. i missed my companions even more, specially since nadir, Nafeesah and Nargis would have had some young company for a change.
next morning we moved on to Shpodeen - more incredible mountain vistas on the way to another beautiful camp site.
Aug 11 - finally it was the morning for Boesum pass - i was feeling better and better every day - the walk up Zardgurbens gorge a thing of the past. Gul and i started out for the pass at 7.30 am, telling the others wed be back by 4 or 5 pm. three hours, four river crossings, and a steady slow clip with no breaks later, we were at the pass.
we debated whether to go down to the two turquoise blue lakes and cross the pass to the other end - an hours walk each way - but decided against it since the river was rising and the return crossings would become more difficult. instead we ate a simple lunch, took a few pictures, marvelled at the scenery all around, and the ease with which i had walked up to 5000 meter Boesum pass. two weeks of acclimatization had payed off real well. no headaches, no nausea.
we got back to camp at 2pm! no one believed we had made it to the pass till they saw my pictures. Khusdil cooked us a fabulous vegetable pullao that night - it was called 'the Shirazie pullao' in my honor!
next morning we walked it all the way from Shpodeen to Shimshal village - everyone got back much before i did. once we could see the village in the distance even Gul left me to myself . my sprained ankle had begun to bother me pretty seriously by now, so i walked really slowly - no more yak rides to be pampered with! by the time i got back to Shimshal it was 3pm - hot and aching many times i wanted to just sit down, but id learnt to keep walking no matter how slowly - do i did, till almost at the village, Zulfiqar cheerfully caught up with me taking my back pack and leading me back to his home via a short cut through shady farm land. a group of little kids were enjoying a swim in the irrigation canals - i would have given anything to be in their shoes!

next morning i wished everyone goodbye. Imran, Farman, Khushdil and all of Guls family. Guls mother put on a traditional hand embroidered pill box hat on my head, covered it with my dupatta and bid me farewell. i wore it all the way to Gilgit and on the bus ride to Pindi.
done at last and with such ease - i now wished i had walked it to Chafchingol afterall. one more lesson i learnt - dont second guess yourself, just follow your gut instinct.

looking back, some things are left unfinished for a reason ----perhaps there are many more trails to be hiked before Chafchingol, perhaps i was meant to do it with friends, not alone, perhaps my ankle would have not held up to Chafchingols treacherous river crossings----i don't know what the reason is, but like mt. Whitney, Chafchingol pass has eluded me a few times and i feel it will keep doing that. like Whitney, this incomplete dream too shall become irrelevant - after all its the journey not the destination that captures the soul and enlightens the spirit. it was dreams of Whitney that got me hiking every weekend, got me ready for bigger and better hikes. it was dreams of Chafchingol that led me to the road to Shimshal and onto a wonderfully enriching journey to connect with these far flung, remote, mountain people.
and so these incomplete mountain dreams will continue, each one bringing me closer to a place within my soul that will enrich and enlighten my life's journey...............of that i am certain.

the parting

2008-08-06T09:25:00.000-07:00

a very emotional parting it was - Aug 06 2008
i didn't want them to leave - Kamila and Nafeesah didn't want to go yet, Nafeesha wanted to trek to boesum with me, - Nargis was ready to leave, her feet were done, but wanted me to travel with everyone, nadir was somewhere between all of this. Mirzaw was escorting them to Islamabad.
we all hugged and kissed and parted. as the loaded car pulled out, it was as if they were leaving me behind on the moon. i kept waving till i could see them no more, and then began to cry. i suddenly felt so alone, like a child left behind when the parents take off.
the villagers began dispersing, going off to their homes and other chores. the circus had left town -

i couldn't possibly let the villagers see this, actually i couldn't believe i was so distraught. it was what i had decided to do - no one had coerced me, on the contrary they would have all been happier if i had gone with them, yet it didn't feel good, or exciting, or important to get to Boesum or any other pass any more.
for a long while i sat in the dinning room of our hotel glad to be chatting with another visitor - a young Pakistani from Islamabad on his way to yazghill sar - all the mountain talk, peaks, passes, routes, people, previous treks, future plans, took my mind off the loneliness for a while. but at some point i had to get going - as in, leave for Guls family home - which was a two minute walk from the hotel - and stay with them for a day to rest up and reorganize for the next leg. zulfiqar, Guls younger brother, walked me into a quiet house, just his parents and Zarar in his cot. Maha, Guls wife, made us all some tea and stayed for a while, then she too took off for some chore or the other - i awkwardly just sat not knowing what to say, except miss every one. i began to cry again - making it even more awkward. the parents consoling me - "it was ok, they too would feel like this when their kids would leave, ill be with my own family soon, this was my home, just have some tea, sit with us you'll be OK" - i felt so foolish - 50 year old adult behaving like a child, this tough mountain trekker in tears because she was going to be by herself for a few days. but i just couldn't stop the tears, and the poor parents felt more and more uncomfortable not knowing how to console me other than make me sit there and give me more tea.

after an hour, or so it seemed, i excused myself and walked to my room - behind the main house. a kettle of warm water was waiting for me to bathe with - it felt good to have that bath and somehow wash all the emotions away. i had laundry to do, so once Samina, Guls sister showed up, we set out. she insisted on helping me wash my clothes - in fact washing them all herself, except i wouldn't hear of it. we both took off for a section of the stream closer to the bridge that goes over the Shimshal river. in the mid afternoon sun on a wonderfully clear day we both sat down to washing clothes. it was extremely relaxing, as if Samina and i were two old friends who did this all the time. there isn't an activity that gets done in solitude, there is always someone to share everything with - when you're lonely and depressed there's nothing better than that. it turned out that most people were doing just that - keeping the newly bereaved families of the two porters who'd died on K2. company. that's why the place suddenly seemed so empty.
yet once we were done washing i couldn't go back to sitting in the family house till dinner time - i needed to be alone. i walked about the fields and finally settled under the two apricot trees where wed been given a rock climbing 101 lesson by Gul when we had first arrived. i lay down and read some, then decided to take a nap under the filtered late afternoon light. i just covered myself head to toe so no one would talk to me - i was in no mood for conversation with anyone - and lay there for a long while. i was awakened by gentle girlish laughter, sounds of things falling from the sky. i peeked from under my chadar - it was two young girls shaking the apricot trees, eating apricots, laughing and joking about who knows what, perhaps this strange woman lying on the ground all covered up like a corpse - their entertainment for the afternoon. that soft gentle innocent laughter somehow lifted my spirits - i poked my head out from under the chadar and began to chat with them - one of them turned out to be Imrans younger sister. it was 6 pm by now - Gul and his uncle - Imrans father- were walking towards me - they had borrowed a satellite phone (ours had gone kaput again) from a pair of Italian mountaineers who were in town, so i could call home if i wanted. i called Syed Mohd in LA. waking him up at 6 am on Aug 7, our 23 wedding anniversary- I'm no phone person, but that day it was the best, albeit short phone conversation I've had with Sayed Mohd in many a years. i finally snapped out of the depression and loneliness, and was ready to sit with and talk to whomever.

Boesum began to feel like a good idea after all.

the 4 go home

2008-08-05T00:21:00.000-07:00

my dream of crossing 5100m chafchingol pass was what got us here in the first place. since all the others had other commitments and couldn't trek longer than two weeks, the initial plan was for me to do the extra 9 days to chafchingol and back by myself.
those plans got nixed on arrival - there was so much pressure from all sides - its not safe to go alone, the KKH is a murderous road, you cant come back alone on it, don't break the group, always stay together, this is Pakistan, things are 'bad' ------the objections were endless and i began to buy into them. i finally succumbed to them in Karachi and Islamabad, so much so that i told Gul at the get go that chafchingol was history, i was going only as far as the others. but somewhere in my gut i knew none of this was true - it was not only safe it would be the best thing i would ever do.
the last few days i kept mulling over what i should do - i was here, as far north as i would be in Pakistan, i had taken the time out, spent the money but most importantly the energy to get this far - to let it go when i was probably as fit and acclimatized as id ever be would be total foolishness. yet i didn't want to leave the group, i wanted to spend time with nargis in Karachi instead of meeting her next in LA, i wanted us all to experience chafchingol together -
finally on the very last day in shimshal i decided id do something shorter than 9 days - Gul suggested crossing the first pass en route to chafchingol - it would take 4 days to do the trek, id get to 5000m Boesum pass, camp at an incredibly beautiful place called 'Zardgurben', get back to Karachi to spend some time with nargis and most importantly feel i hadn't wasted this opportunity.

our farewell dinner at guls home was lively as always, yet there was an underlyng sadness as we were all parting ways next morning. the girls stayed up as late as their eyes stayed open, playing endless ludo and bullshit, just to soak in as much of this euphoria as possible.

but as all good things, this brief journey to shimshal also came to an end - we had thoroughly enjoyed each others company, that of our guide, his men, his family, the daily walk, the villagers in shimshal and shuwerth, the odd foreign visitor along the way, but most of all the insight wed each gained and the relationships wed developed with all the above. i don't have enough words to fully describe the many layers of such a journey - i can only express it by what i feel, my body language, my demeanor, my face, my looks, my attitude - it is the same way every time I've come back from a trek in Pakistan.
describing all its little and larger details becomes difficult, sometimes meaningless - those who know me can tell a large part of the story just by looking at me, but for those of you who haven't seen/met me i hope you can tell by the pictures and this first attempt at a blog, writing which, I've tried filling in the blanks for myself, so i don't forget in time, and for those of you who always ask me 'how was the trek, tell us all about it?'

Chafchingol awaits--------

back track

2008-08-02T17:04:00.000-07:00

walking out of Goz Khon, Nargis and i were loaded on the yaks along with our duffel bags and other samaan. Kamila decided to walk the flat parts and change places with Nargis when the trail would begin to climb back up. Nargis could climb uphill without too much trouble, it was the down hill that was exacerbating the blister problem. so we set off - atuned to yak riding by now, so much so that it was actually enjoyable. i began to recognize the gentle sure footed nature of the animal - it was no wonder that they used such polite language with their yaks. every time it would step on some huge boulder you'd think both yak and rider would go flying, not a chance. you could even just leave the yak alone and he'd find his way home. along the way i learned how to handle the reins - if you can call a rope strung through its nose that - and all the accompanying noises that got it moving. my yaks sudden impulse to stop in its tracks and drink or eat something wasn't a nuisance any more. in fact i was willing to humor the beast, but some one or the other would come and shush it into action again.
by the time we spotted Kamila she had already walked up the most difficult parts of the trail, several hundred meters up, and much to her own surprise wasn't winded. she didn't want to ride the yak even now. nor did Nargis any more - so they both took off while i slowly plod along the trail soaking in the scenery and enjoying the ride so much more than i had at Woolio. Nadir and Nafeesha were long gone - much ahead of the rest as always. they have their own stories to tell - i wasn't privy to much of their trail walking or talking - i couldn't keep pace even if i tried.
i met up with Kamila and Imran at some point, Nargis had moved on to join the other two. Kamila was getting winded now and a little tired. so yak it was for her all the way to the Woolio river bed which she crossed on the yaks back, Nadir walked it across, Nargis and myself got carried across one (human) back or the other - Nafeesah was at the village socializing already.
the village wasn't far from the water crossing and i was way done yak riding. aches, pains and all, we all reentered Shuwerth on our own two feet.

being received by the villagers with more chilpindoq and loads of tea, lots of delicious yogurt which we kept asking refills for, felt like we had really come from a 'journey'. we hung around for a while soaking in the hospitality of Farmans home, and just letting the body rest. towards the evening Kamila and i saddled up on the yaks one last time and got to our Shimshal pass campsite.

that evening playing around at camp, Imran and Khusdil accidentally threw a tea cup which landed squarely on Guls forehead - he cut himself and was bleeding. Nafeesah cleaned it up with a pink hello kitty band aid that she insisted he wear all the way back home. which he happily did.
this little accidental mishap left Imran and Khusdil mortified that they'd injured their 'boss'. too embarrassed to face all of us to return to the kitchen tent, they stayed out, no where to be found. the rest of us finally ate dinner and began one of the usual bullshit games. a little later Gul felt a hand behind him, trying to sneak a sleeping bag from the tent. he ran out to find Khushdil all huddled up outside in the cold. with much difficulty he convinced him to come in and join the rest. Imran was no where to be found - Khushdil was practically in tears with shame and embarrassment - we had to all reassure him that no one was judging or blaming, it was a game and Guls head just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time! it was a small incident none of us would have even bothered with, besides a simple 'I'm sorry'. but these folks looked at mistakes differently, they cared too much for each other, respected each others hierarchical positions, hurting someone even accidentally wasn't acceptable. Gul tried hard to convince them otherwise - they weren't - Imran never returned for the night, sleeping at a distance from the campground without a sleeping bag, while Khushdil reluctantly joined in with the card game. barely laughing, but putting on his best face.

the next two days of long dreary walks to Arbab Purin and past Furzin didn't feel so long and dreary any more. perhaps because we were loosing elevation so the going was faster, or perhaps looking at the scenery again and from the opposite direction made you notice things you'd missed out the first time. walking up the scree slopes was another matter! its one thing running down a scree slope and a whole other going up the same way. the kids made it seem so easy - they just took right off. Kamila and i had Imran and Gul to hold our hands from time to time and in parts almost drag us up. it was not fun, but great once we reached a ridge and looked down to see what wed accomplished. ALOT.
return journeys have a different feel - a different perspective, no more the "the same excitement mixed with trepidation and a mild sense of insecurity mixed with a steely determination to get there - no matter what". but almost the opposite, step by step feeling you had accomplished what you had set out to do, yet step by step getting closer to the end of an incredible experience. wanting to hold on for as long as possible yet beginning to tire of the ins and outs of the same campsites - a mixed bag of emotions.

Arbab Purin was our second last stop - by the time we got there the dutch ambassador and his crew were camped at our old spot. we were curious to chat with them - they were playing the aloof game. i coaxed Nargis and Nafeesah to go get the scoop on them. as young and full of beans as they are, they were both shy and awkward. i had quiet a time pushing them to just go and start chatting! they did eventually, and came back with boring reports - no need to befriend these folks!
earlier as i walked into camp i caught sight of a familiar face - i couldn't believe my eyes- it was the homely Shimshali i had mistaken Gul for - the man i thought id been in correspondence with for 6 months. i was so excited i barely stopped short of giving him a hug.
Gul hadn't stopped probing us for details of our mix up. who was the other guy we had mistaken him for, what was the village wed dropped him off at, didn't we remember his name? - but mostly why had we nixed Gul in the first place. ofcourse by this time we had told him all - no more polite excuses were necessary. so when i saw 'Gul' i took his arm and walked him straight up to where Gul, Kamila and the others were chatting. this is him, the other 'Gul'
- Gul was mortified - me walking arm in arm with his direct competition, excitedly introducing him to everyone. of course they knew each other - and well - so they exchanged polite 'ya ali madadts'. 'Gul' wondering what the hell was going on. no Pakistani woman grabs a strange mans arm and merrily walks him right up to her friends to introduce him with such gusto. he had a surprised smile on his face. no one was enlightening him either.
it didn't matter - i was just excited to be able to find him again and show Gul and the rest who the mystery man was.

our satellite phone hadn't worked even once so far - which was frustrating, specially since we wanted to get word home that all was good and we were doing well, and Gul wanted to check on his sick two week old baby he'd left behind in Gilgit.
as we were waiting around for dinner we suddenly heard a gut wrenching wailing from outside the porters hut - in the distance we could see the man crying and almost keeling over, everyone gathered around him propping him up and taking him into the hut - the wailing didn't stop. it was the only sound echoing from the red rock walls of Arbab Purin. it turned out that the man had lost his brother on K2 - there had been a huge accident and 11 people had died - the only Pakistanis amongst them were two high altitude porters from Shimshal, one had died on his way down from the peak, rescuing an Italian climber - the wailing mans brother. the other a nephew to another porter. this was shocking news - a somber, sad pall befell the campground.
miraculously our phone finally began to work - several calls were made to get as much accurate news as possible. the news of the deaths were no rumors - Guls son on the other hand was fine and back in Shimshal.
after a little while all the Shimshalis gathered outside the hut, while the dutch folks and all of us looked on from our campsites. the mukhi - also a porter - began to read sura - e - Noor, followed by the Al-hamd and finally salwat. so much happiness suddenly tempered with great sorrow. listening to the familiar Quranic suras echoing from this remote desolate mountain enclave, was at once a calming and sobering experience. a simple gathering of men had swiftly and efficiently organized to begin the process of mourning, reminding all present that death lies as close as your jugular vein.
a short Farsi prayer completed the service.
we finished up with dinner by ourselves and then waited for Gul and Mirzaw to come back to camp so we could also go across and condole. it was a short emotional condolence - everyone got up to wish us, i read the fateha aloud - shia style, one Al-hamd, three Quls and 7 salwats - for the two dead men - the guide in this group talked about both the men, their accomplishments and contributions to Shimshali society, then thanked us for coming and condoling with them and finally we all shook hands and wished every one in the room - the young man who had lost his brother was crying like a baby - we just hugged him in silence - he hugged back and cried some more. there were no words to be exchanged.
Kamila and i stayed up for Gul, who came back to camp with a splitting headache, as I'm sure others must have had - - none of our men had eaten dinner. the two young men were not only Guls friends, one was also a cousin to one of our porters. Gul had sent him back to Shimshal along with a few others. the customary thing to do would have been to feed dinner to everyone who was present - all we had to offer were two platefuls of left over nuts from our snack mixes. we sent that across as our small token of sympathy.
it was a long somber night - the sadness of the death of these two young shinning stars of Shimshal befell the whole camp ground. these were highly accomplished mountaineers. well loved by everyone in the village. they were famous not just for their mountaineering skills but highly respected for their social service to all. each had left behind a young wife and three young kids. everyone present was a friend or relative.
Past Furzin - long as the walk was from Arbab Purin, it didn't compare with two weeks back when we had walked to this first campsite - we were all spent.
two weeks later we were leaner, darker, puffier, dirtier but alot more cheerful and alot less tired.
we bathed again - our second river bath this entire time - and felt refreshed and ready to get walking next day - to our luck it was an overcast morning and later began to rain - it rained all day - Nafeesha, Nadir and Nargis arrived in Shimshal soaked to the bone - Kamila and i had dried up pretty much, cause the rain had stopped by the time we hit the rocky river bed. it was a loooong walk back on that plain - Gul walked with us for a quite a while then both him and Imran went ahead so they could get our bath water ready - we had to go condoling to both homes, it was the day of the soyem. Shimshali tradition dictates that you only visit the homes of the bereaved before sunset, preferably in the afternoon.
we got back in time for the warm bath, changed into our shalwar kamizes and walked another half an hour to the next village to condole with the families of these two young heros. as tired as we were from walking all day, and as much as we would have simply liked to sleep before dinner, we felt compelled to visit the two families. the whole village was in mourning, it was a palpable sadness that had over come the Shimshalis. there was no way of expressing the sorrow except that it hung thick in the late summer air and somehow gripped each one of us in its pall. ironically the walk to the next village was so soothing and beautiful, going past farm lands, meeting people on the way, everyone knows each other, it was as if we were regulars in Shimshal. nothing seemed foreign or new. it all looked familiar, as if we were walking towards a relatives house. the village sits under the shadow of Shimshal white horn - a magnificent mountain, one that had just claimed a young 27 year old englishman three weeks back. even as tragedy occurs and always looms in the back of every mountaineer, even trekkers mind, you continue to feel the pull, the awe, the respect for every mountains strength and beauty. walking back in the dusky evening light the dry tears of the two wailing mothers continued to ring loud and clear in my head.
i keep going back to the beauty of the village and thinking how fortunate these young men were to have been loved by so many, to have lived and died in a place they loved, in an act they loved.

ill wrap up tomorrow..........................

still at goz khon.....

2008-08-01T12:20:00.000-07:00

that evening our song and dance was at its very best - the star singer amongst the men sang some wonderful Wakhi songs -
expressive face, soft melodious voice, most romantic. many of them had good singing voices, everyone joined in solo or chorus, alternating between Urdu and Wakhi. dancing always followed, dancing in pairs or four somes, Nargis, Nafeesah, Kamila and of course Nadir weren't sitting back either. i couldn't possibly manage dancing on one foot, so taking over the drums and pounding away with the hands where the feet couldn't go, happily provided the constant background music instead.... mirzaw wrapped up the evening with his love poem - banafsheh - Gul translated, we all ooed and aahed.
then came the 'sleeping under the stars' part of the Goz Khon legend. seemed pretty uncomfortable - poky stubble for grass is what the campsite was. unless you found a rock or a sandy bench along the river the rest didn't look too inviting - we all debated the nights sleeping arrangements - Nargis and Nafeesha opted to sleep in the shepherds hut with the porters, Kamila wanted her tent, my dilemma was the usual claustrophobia of sleepless tent nights opposed to poky grass but star laden skies and beautiful weather. nadir started out in his tent but decided to sleep out at some point. then Gul spread out his mattress pad and made it look so comfortable i figured id try it outdoors myself - nothing to loose except more sleep - i was used to that anyway.
so outdoors it was. at first the stars - a million or gizillion - were very distracting, once i was over staring endlessly at the sky, trying not to slip off the narrow mattress pad on to the brushy undergrowth kept me awake, then the temperature began to drop and id layer up some more to keep warm, except that would make me feel really stuffy ------- at some point finally i stopped fidgeting and began to ignore the little discomforts, enjoy the starry night and fell asleep - i was the last one up next morning, in no hurry to crawl out of the comfortable sleeping bag - the sun was already pounding at 8 am, so there was no choice but to start the day.
breakfast, then fishing, then bathing, then lazing, napping, reading, writing, rock climbing, playing cards, drinking tea, eating pakoras and fish for snacks, finally dinner and dance.

fishing --- Kamila's voile dupatta was used for fishing net, two guys held it at the far end of a side stream, while two people ran the fish right into the waiting duppatta. the meagre fish that were caught got tossed onto the pebbly river bank - this went on for a long while - for us, mostly just fun getting all wet chasing the fish to their deaths - for Gul and his men, a matter of pride. so much had been made of our 'fishing side trip' there was no way they were going to make do with a handful of tiny fish. together we caught at least 30 something skinny little baby catfish, as delicate looking as their captors! fried lightly with just salt, the bony little creatures tasted sublime. Gul kept telling me not to run in the river, the cold water wasn't good for my swollen ankle, but i could be his mother, so there wasn't much bullying he could do - twisted ankle or not i wasn't missing this for anything.

bathing---- once all the (Wakhi) fishermen dispersed we were left to pick our bathing holes. some sections of the meandering river had warm pools of water we used as tubs. the whole place was camouflaged by shrubbery, some bull rushes, some pink blooming bushes. all with channels of water running out towards the main Braldu river. we bathed ourselves and each other, washed all our clothes, hung around till they somewhat dried, sun bathed, took more pictures and just relaxed in this gigantic spa for which we had walked so far and so hard.

Nargis missed out on the fishing and bathing - Gul insisted she not wet her feet, she herself wasn't going to make it worse. so i helped her wash her hair and bathe behind one of the many giant boulders close to camp.
by late afternoon porters and all, we had all bathed somewhere or the other - every ones hair looking clean, every ones faces looking fresh and rested. all those layers of sweat and grime washed away, showed off each of our very tanned, very burned skins beautifully!
after some more rock climbing, ruckus games of bullshit, Kamila showing us her tai chi moves, Gul showing us some of his prowess - effortlessly lifting the giant mamas on his back, stick dancing under a starry sky, a noisy game of tug of war, a good hearty dinner and finally jam session in the hut, we all opted for the out doors - Nafeesah and Kamila shared a queen sized rock bed, nadir, Nargis, myself and Gul spread out on the stubbly brush, a few men slept in the hut, the rest scattered all over the campsite.
the magic of goz khon had enveloped us all. on a balmy star laden night, breathing in the soft smells of the herby underbrush, this would be my only complete restful night.

it was the equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion, between walking towards a goal, yet finding it in every step we took, a place that gave strength and joy to body and soul alike.
to leave so quickly was to end a perfect experience, but as all perfect moments in time, experiencing it meant letting it go, making it vanish!

to goz khon

2008-07-30T11:17:00.000-07:00

wed had a pretty long day, so us mamas called it a night fairly early - Nafeesahs migraine was escalating, walking back to camp she mentioned not having peripheral vision - she could just look straight ahead or her head really hurt. she had developed migraines of late - no worries it would go away she said. shed had some Tylenol but it wasn't helping much.
next day we were to walk to Goz Khon at the headwaters of the Braldu, a days walk from Shuwerth, for a two day fishing side trip - Gul had described the place endlessly, both in his emails to me earlier in the year as well as during the trek. very close to the Chinese border, it was a place few tourists visit. famed for its abundant fishing, and unparalleled scenery, it was a grassy oasis, alot warmer than all our campsites so far. wed get to fish, bathe in the river, sleep out doors under starry skies, rock climb, ofcourse eat and make merry. we had imagined heaven. the drop down was a good 3000 feet. which was fine, except that meant 3000 feet back up! with Nafeeshas huge headache, Nargis' deteriorating feet, and most importantly Kamila's hyper thyroid condition, i was beginning to get seriously worried.
it was a toss up between nadir and Nafeesah climbing 6000m Mingalik Sar, while Kamila Nargis and i hung around at Shuwerth for two days, or going down to Goz Khon.
with Nafeesahs headache and nadirs escalating cold, Mingalik Sar was looking very dicey, going back with out seeing the fabled Goz Khon would feel wed been cheated - we discussed this at length - Kamila and i - and finally decided that night, Goz Khon it would be. wed give it a try - if it was too strenuous for any one, wed hire two yaks for the trip.
even so, i stayed awake for the longest time - mulling over all the negatives in my head all night. what if Nafeesahs headache got much worse, what if Kamila's heart condition got out of hand, what if Nargis simply couldn't walk any more - what if, what if, what if--- kept me awake till 3am. finally after the usual out to pee walk, under a bright shinning moon and clear crisp cold morning air, i crawled back into my sleeping bag and called it a night, too exhausted to worry for anyone anymore.
next morning Nargis refused to use a yak, up or down any trail.
Kamila barely used one for most of the walk.
Nafeesah perked up - headache a thing of the past.
on the return journey, it was me who ended up making most use of the one yak - while the second one got used sporadically between Nargis and Kamila during the two day journey.

our walk covered a huge rocky expanse of dry river bed, till we came to our first river crossing. Nargis wasn't allowed to wet her feet, so was forced to cross on the back of one of the yaks - one look at that undertaking and the rest of us opted right out of yak crossings!

with the help of our spindly legged guide and porters, all of whom proved to be a lot stronger than their looks implied, we walked across the rocky surface of the river bed, water moving at fantastic speed. we each crossed with a couple of them holding on tight on either side, guiding us through the rough spots.
once wed crossed, all of us were showered with flower petals and given some to stick in our caps - proverbial feathers for crossing so smoothly! after the endless walk on rocky plains this woke us all up and energized us for the rest of the fairly monotonous trek over more rocky expanses. we had at least two more river crossings - off came the shoes and socks and got slung across shoulders, up went the pants and right into the water with one man or two if you wanted it, right across a cold rocky fast moving river. it became easier with each crossing.

by mid day we got to Chikar - descending down a steep scree slope to this small pasture, our lunch break. a small green oasis in the middle of this arid, monochromatic landscape - the sun shinning bright and clear all day.
after a long and well deserved break we continued further to our fabled camp site Goz Khon - one more river had to be crossed, and one more large expanse of rocks had to be walked across - it seemed this drudgery simply wouldn't end. by now i was in no mood to keep pace with anyone. if Gul was getting bored out of his mind having to walk at 0 miles an hour so i wouldn't walk alone, he was out of luck - i wasn't going to be bothered by it. i simply walked as slowly as i wanted, the sun was too strong and the walk too long - finally after having sung and re sung all those telephone book songs - even taught Gul 'akay wabasta' , talked about everything i could possibly talk about, kept quiet and walked in silence for ever, we spotted Kamila, Nargis, Nadir and Imran sprawled across soft green grass - i felt like a drunk, (whatever that feels like) disoriented, malang, finding his lost tribe in the dessert. we both plonked ourselves on the welcome grass and just lay there for a while - all 6 of us relieved not to be walking on rocks or scree or at all for that matter!
we had no idea how far Goz Khon was from this junction - seemed never to materialize - but this was almost 'it'. another 5 minutes and we were there----

this ???
puny little patch of greenery??
this poky grass and shrubs with rocks all over is where we're going to sleep out doors?
wheres the river were going to bathe in? and the tons of fish were going to catch?
no wonder tourists don't bother!
'this is it everyone - this is Goz Khon the most beautiful place on earth', Gul was announcing.
(remember you 'didn't choose me?' well here's my revenge!!- is what i was hearing him say.)
once again i was only looking and not seeing - jumping to conclusions and forming opinions without scratching beneath the surface.
as we continued to walk around this small camp ground, i began to see it for the magical place that it was - the beauty whose songs Gul had been singing for months -
the jagged snow clad edges of the Karakorum's made an amphitheater right around the camp site, in the distance the wide silvery expanse of the Braldu river glistened in the late afternoon sun, the walk to which was through a long marshy expanse, interspersed with a soft hue of pink (some shrubbery that was in full bloom), huge boulders broke up the flat landscape, some so inviting you'd want to sleep on them.
a small shepard's hut sat on one side, a large boulder on another marking the boundary of the actual campsite.
Nafeesha had already been in camp for a bit - re energized she, Nargis and Nadir were off to the river with the men - already getting a head start on the fishing expedition! the others began to set up our tents and the evenings dinner got cooking.
Gul gave us a rock climbing lesson - nimble Nafeesah the first to follow him up and try it out. Nadir was next, as i watched on, debating whether i wanted to be bouldering after a long day of walking - it was too tempting to ignore - so up i went - trying to remember some of the pointers from many a moon back. felt like a piece of lead sprawled across this huge rock. i got up somehow - Kamila followed next. everyone got down, my turn came around and impatient me decided to jump the last section instead of finding foot holds and hand holds - why bother when there were short cuts.
that was it - my ticket to yak riding on the way back! i landed squarely, only to twist my right ankle nice and good. more salt and warm water wraps for Gul to deliver, even slower pace for me to walk! bummer bummer bummer bummer - i was sooooo pissed at myself!

the rest day that ensued took my mind off the twisted ankle for a bit - but the ever present pain wasn't about to let up any time soon ---

more on heavenly Goz Khon later..........

woolio - the festival

2008-07-29T18:40:00.000-07:00

July 29 '08

none of us had had a very rest full night - Nafeesha had begun to sport a serious migraine, nadirs cold was in full flow, Nargis' blistered toes were getting steadily worse, i was well, expect for the usual sleep deprived night - an hour or two was all i could muster. even though i make a hell of a tent mate - constantly shifting sides, opening the tent door a few times in the middle of the night for those pesky leaks, blowing my dry as wood nose, getting up for a sip of water, anything but quiet no movement sleep, Kamila slept through most of it and was fine next morning.
so once again under clear blue skies, puffy white clouds, and all the excitement of what was to unfold, we cheerfully headed down to Shuwerth, looking on at a quiet village, seemingly unfazed by the all important day ahead.

we visited Farmans home - were offered yak milk tea and chilpindoq - wheat chapati with layers of yak cheese and butter - pretty delicious stuff once you got to like the taste. no doesn't take too long.
in their customary laid back fashion everyone present then gathered at the village square, men squatting in rows, facing each other, women next to them in a similar fashion, everyone dressed in Sunday best, mostly brilliant reds.
several little boys dragged that evenings congregational dinner to the center - six or seven fatted goats, each given by different families for this auspicious meal - customary prayers were read on the heads of these unsuspecting creatures, before being dragged off to the chopping board and the communal kitchen where the women cooked every part of the animal all day long.
the taste - pure goat!
the mukhi - head priest - then stepped forward - i guess red must be an auspicious color cause even he was wearing a red jacket with a traditional white woolen cap. he started with the first chapter of the Quran, followed by some other suras, then by salutations in Arabic to God, Muhammad, Ali and his family and finally their own imam - perhaps the head of their order - i assume this cause i didn't recognise the last name as one of the imams names that i am familiar with. the surprise element was that to end of the ceremony he began to beseech God for good health, prosperity, protection etc. etc. all in very eloquent poetic Farsi! under this clear blue sky, it was so wonderful to suddenly hear duas being read in your mother tongue, albeit by a vastly different group of people, living in the remotest part of Pakistan, as far from Iran proper as can be! after listening to them speak Wakhi to each other, and having picked a word or phrase or two here and there, it was exciting to suddenly understand an entire little speech!
language - what a unifier of disparate souls.

we then set off to the plains just below the village. women stood in rows, again by order of seniority. men gathered their yaks and began mounting them - some alone, others with a rider, everyone anxious to be on a yak and ride it to Woolio. not everyone had a yak to ride, so many accompanied the whole bunch by foot, an hours walk from where we began. each one of us got to ride behind one of our men. this time saddled - but not much more comfortable than the saddle less ride of the previous day. except the shock factor was alot less severe, and we'd figured out how to adjust our buts to the yak and our riders back in as seamless a fashion as was kosher!
Farman and Nafeesha set out the quickest - theirs was a sprightly yak, and Farman was determined to be the first to reach Woolio.

a few details I've missed mentioning -
this is a community of 200 Wakhi families - speaking an ancient dialect of Farsi called Wakhi.
all Ismaili Muslims - 'shia imamis' as they call themselves.
the standard greeting in wakhi - chez holi - as in 'che haal daari' (in Farsi).
another standard greeting all over the village and all over Ismaili areas " Ya Ali Madaat" the response to which is "Mowla Ali Madaat".
seating order is based on seniority - guests get to sit at the head of the row.
every one stands up to great any new person who enters a room or gathering.
the newcomers kiss the hand of each person who has stood up to greet him/her and the kiss is reciprocated.
applies to men and women alike.
women kiss the hands of male relatives only.
all younger people do this when meeting an elder, whatever the relationship.
younger women don't necessarily cover their hair - but are modestly dressed.
older mamma's wear a cross stitch embroidered pill box hat covered with a duppatta - not sure where the 'older' age sets in - some looked a 100 years old, but were no more than a year or two older or younger than Kamila and myself!

Woolio - a pre-Islamic yak racing festival - a coming of age race for young men and boys who are beginning to master the art of riding/racing a yak. the festival named after a large rock called Woolio, to which everyone is headed and from where the race begins back to the village, aside from the customary prayers to the rock and the Almighty, also entails song, dance and communal eating. a dry bread - I've already forgotten its name - is shared amongst all present, washed down by yak milk tea.
an oily substance has been oozing out from under this rock for as long as any one can tell. the year more oil oozes, their yaks give more milk - it is a very special year. offerings of home grown wheat, and home made yak butter are made to the rock. prayer flags flap around its periphery, and wishes of all sorts are made to the heavens above - if the rock can ooze oil, then surely any ones most outrageous wish can be granted by the same power that gives this rock its miraculously unending supply of oil!

more on the festival later-------------

woolio - continues......

2008-07-29T01:08:00.000-07:00

did i mention the locks? yes the older pill box hat wearing women also sport long black ringlet's that fall on both sides of their weathered faces. interesting thing is that no one has any visible white hair - even the 100 (50 something) year olds. must be that chilpindooq!

the festival..............
the whole village took off all saddled up on the yaks or just walking - it was a surreal sight, riding a yak on this wide open expanse in and out of a wide river bed - part dry, part gushing glacier melt, tall snow clad mountains all around. the scenery so magnificent that after a while the discomfort was forgotten - from time to time Gul would break into a faster pace (i was his passenger) - that's when id be jerked into 'oooooooo ffffff ' except i wasn't about to make a beep. at one point our yak decided it didn't want to walk in the river any more - he just started straight up the mountain - this was one time i thought id surely land back wards and crack my skull.
Gul seemed completely oblivious to any perils that might befall his rider. i simply held on tight, kept my eyes and mouth shut, and figured best not to think too much. there was nothing to it but to begin to trust Guls ability to steer him forward instead of backwards, take some pictures and just enjoy this unreal experience.

once we reached the 'rock' everyone made a large ring around its periphery - the flour and butter offerings were made to it, another prayer was read, both Quranic and Farsi.. then began song and dance. various groups of men would stand up in pairs of twos or fours and do their folk dance to the wakhi songs the crowd was singing. a poet or two were asked to give renditions of their work, poetry describing the beauty of the land. all related to Woolio, the Pamirs, gardens, the special mountain flower 'banafsheh', or love of some imaginary woman. the shimshalis have soft singing voices so it all sounded really gentle and soothing. just wonderful, even though i could only catch a Farsi word here and there.
i was asked to come bless the day with my own singing - they thought i was a 'goolukara' from Karachi!!! ofcourse i don't need any coaxing to burst into song myself, so i sat right among a bunch of shimshali men - mukhi and all, and sang every song in my telephone book. it was great - they were so easy to mingle with, no one was uncomfortable with a woman right in their midst, nor did they make me uncomfortable, it was as if this was the most common place thing to be doing here at the Pamirs!
Nadir, Farman and Gul did a dance of their own. seemed so effortless for these men - Nadir later told us he was breathless by the end of it. in the excitement it was easy to forget you were above 4000 meters - i would realise this from time to time myself, specially when walking and singing at full throttle. what was amazing though was that my voice had a whole different quality to it - a sharp clarity - you could hear every note, every high and low, as clear as the blue sky. id never heard my own voice so clearly before - the down side was that every wrong note was loud and clear as well!

and that pretty much was it - this whole 'festival'. we saddled back up - but this time the men began to race back to shuwerth. there was much noise and excitement. every yak being hushed and shushed into getting ahead of the others. Gul the ever competitive person was itching to just ride as fast and rough as he could to get there first - but would break into a run for a few minutes and realise my dead silence meant i wasn't having too much fun landing on the yaks spine every jump it took, so he'd slow down and just cantor along - then he'd itch again - how could he - the leader of this group of 'guests' be the last one in! so wed break into another painful run - this went on all the way to the village. once you got there the women greeted you by harassing the yak, hit it and tease it so that the riders fall off , this is part of the fun and games of the race. farmans sister was one such ferocious player. greeting the riders with her stick on the yaks butt. the rider who gets there first and manages to stay on his yak wins the day.
farman and nafeesh were one of the early arrivals, but it was Gul's father in law - the oldest person riding a yak, who won the days race!
the rest of the day involved cleaning up the slaughtered goats, not an inch of the animal was wasted. watch the women bring all the goats and sheep back to their large pens. milk the animals - bringing the yaks down to the pens...............will continue tomorrow just too sleepy now.
Nargis played a long game of cricket - something shes never done any other time in her life - blistered toes and all. this is another favourite woolio day activity . i took a long nap right beside Farmans three family yaks. the most wonderful late afternoon sleep.
then came the feast of the day - communal eating at its very best - just plain old somewhat tough mountain goat, stewed all afternoon with the barest of masalas, wheat chappati for dipping in the quickly congealing fatty gravy. looked most unappetizing - till we dipped right in, it was delicious. the most unadulterated taste of pure meat I've ever had.
by now none of us had the energy for goat sheering or more late night song and dance - Farmans mother gave us a few delicious helpings of goat milk tea and then off we went to the comfort of our tents - and my usual sleepless nights!!!

shuwerth

2008-07-28T23:23:00.000-07:00

shimshal pass to shuwerth-----

we still had some walking to do to get to our campsite - but by the time we got to the two turquoise lakes that had elicited 'where are these lakes?' and got us here in the first place, Kamila and i had had enough of the endless walking. all the rest were long gone. we had come along at our usual leisurely pace, by now were pretty tired. Gul had read our minds - rather seen our pace - and brought two yaks to greet us just by the lakes. it was our 'surprise' initiation to tomorrows yak riding to Woolio.
at first it was a welcome sight - just had to sit behind the rider and be carried right across the plain - no more expending energy. well surprise it was alright. the yak is one benign looking and feeling animal, except it has a pretty wide back - sitting on which stretches those thigh muscles to places it has never been - at least not mine. as for riding doubles - if you don't 'stick' to the front rider, every step the yak takes is a hard bump up your you know where, not to mention if you don't hold on tight, you find yourself gliding backwards in slow bumpy increments - turned out to be a pretty miserable one hour on the back of a saddle less animal that just did its own thing - walking when he pleased, eating and drinking along the way, in no rush to get anywhere. no amount of 'hushing' and kicking would do it either. the shimshalis talk to their yaks in gentle wakhi phrases. never using harsh language, nor do they get rough and kick or hit hard, (unless its a race) this yak was simply spoilt rotten!
Kamila's yak and rider had somehow managed to move faster, which left our yak by himself - this the yaks dislike immensely, we were told later - so ours decided it just wont move. this was great for a while, enjoying the gorgeous scenery at crawl pace on the back of a yak - but an hour later those thigh muscles were screaming for relief.
off and on the yak Gul would get, to try and coax it to move. a few steps forward, then back to eating and drinking is all the yak did. finally after what seemed like eternity the other rider showed up to help us out of this 'impasse.' together they literally pulled and pushed, did all their hush hushing and shouted their wakhi sweet somethings, while i coaxed with every term of Farsi endearment i knew, thinking perhaps it was bored with the wakhi babble! by now it was two stubborn creatures testing each others metal - i wasn't getting off even if the gods came calling, and the yak wasn't moving even if i were to call it God.
poor beast - one stubborn yak got to camp at last, and i kissed its face with relief - i was finally off his back!!

it was a sweet feeling - a break from the daily walking - we had come to our first rest day and of course the much awaited festival at Woolio. after some well deserved rest and general lolling we headed out to the edge of the pass from where we could see the village of shuwerth below.
this is the summer settlement at shimshal pass where most families maintain a home, where their women bring the animals to graze all summer, make yak butter , yak cheese (Qurut) for the winter and weave carpets from their wool. in Oct women, children, goats and sheep all come down to the valley and the men and yaks take over for the winter. its a harsh life, but it is lived with such zest and joy you would think there was nothing more comfortable and enjoyable than herding animals at 4700 meters year after year!
this is where we were headed next morning for the start of the festival we had walked so far to attend. many of our porters had family homes at the village. their mothers, sisters,wives happily waiting to greet them.
Farman, Gul's brother in law to be, had his home down at the village. Kamila and i had met his sister and her friends sitting above the lakes while we were taking our leisurely walk to camp earlier on.

shimshal pass 4735 m

2008-07-27T20:56:00.000-07:00

July 27

4500 m Shujerab - our next campsite was just below Shimshal pass at 'Shujerab'. a small rest stop by the river, where the yaks are gathered every evening after they'd finished grazing higher up. even though the pass was now a few hundered meters above us, we were happy to have camped just below it.
Nafeesah always the most energetic, climbed up a distance in the late evening, helping the porters herd the yaks back into their pens, even got to ride one briefly.

Jul 28 - next morning, in spite of nadirs worsening cold, Nargis' blistered toes, and the general slowing of everyones bodies, as we were getting higher into the mountains, yaks, porters, us - all were anxious to get to the top. there is an excitement the day you get to climb a pass. it is hard for me to describe. its a sort of butterflies in the stomach feeling, the kind you get when you're a kid sitting for exams - no matter how much you've studied and how sure you are of the subject, never 100% sure if you'll get it all right. its the same excitement mixed with trepidation and a mild sense of insecurity mixed with a steely determination to get there - no matter what. ofcourse this was a very short walk to the top - but it still felt like all the other times I've climbed higher more difficult passes. the same tense excitement that makes you burst into song or cry with happiness when you get to the ' top' as the locals call it.

under a clear blue sky, puffy white clouds, perfect gods are smiling on us weather, we started out for the pass from Shujerab.
as always the three young ones got up there much before Kamila and myself, even Nargis with her quickly deteriorating blistered toes was up there to receive the mamas.

there was much clapping and jubilation on our arrival - most of the men weren't too sure if we would really make it up to Shimshal pass - the porters burst into Wakhi song and of course dance ensued. i tried my foot at it - gave up quickly - dancing gracefully was too much effort - out came the phone book instead and 'dil kay afsane' and all the other songs followed.

Shimshal pass - after three days of endless up and down walks on rock and scree with lunch breaks at rivers, we had finally arrived at the 'Pamirs'.

one and all would ask us 'kaisay laga aap ko 'hamra' pamir?' and of course the answer was always in the affirmative 'buhawt acha'. every one was in high spirits - no one was in a rush to get anywhere any more - we just soaked in the snow covered mountains all around this vast plateau , yaks grazing along its green slopes, the Shujerab river shining brilliant in the morning sun. it was heaven - wed all died and arrived at its door smiling for no particular reason. if Tahir were to describe the moment and Hafez were to speak my mind, it would be
'agar aan turk e shirazi bedast aarad dil e mara,
be aan yek khaal e hinduyash bebakhsam samarkand o bukhara raa'

Arbab Purin 4150 m

2008-07-26T23:11:00.000-07:00

july 26 '08

as always not sleeping through the night, tossing and turning most of the time in the tent i was sharing with Kamila, while she blissfully falls in and out of sleep - i know this by her snoring patterns. she meanwhile has mastered how to ignore my constant movement. the next day arrives - we set out thinking wed figured out the long walk method - not quite! another tiring up and down day, except it ends at 5pm this time. wed done slightly better - im talking 'the mamas' only.
i found singing took my mind off the drudgery and the monotony - so song after song - every Urdu song i could remember, some Farsi as in 'mara beboos' and 'baroon baroon e' thrown in for good measure.
our porters joined in whole heartedly. all good singers, familiar with the Indian oldies i was singing, sharing some of their own Farsi songs as well - ancient wakhi folk music.
we got to 'arbab purin' campsite exhilarated by the whole days walk - specially getting past its gates and finally descending into a hidden valley of red rock walls and rhubarb.

Our first evening of being treated to local Wakhi song and dance in all its mountain glory by Noor Khan and his chorous with their melodious voices --- "Woozdakh Amravan", "Yemtikmai Tikmai Zem", "Dem Ishiqe Biyaban", "Rang Rang Supreg" all wonderful Wakhi folk songs of love of 'zan o zameen' ! we treated them back with the Urdu songs id written in my phone book and was carrying with me. an instant hit was noor jahans 'dil kay afsaneh'. it stayed on the lips of everyone who walked with us including the three kids who don't exactly sing Urdu songs, or had ever heard 'dil kay afsaneh'! by the end of it, this became the signature song of this trek along with another noor jahan favourite of mine ' aa kay wabasta'.
if i figure out how to insert music, ill add it here.

from here on it was a breeze, all the way to the pass and woolio - no more looooong exhausting days, just long days. my sleepless nights were getting better as well. from no sleep, to two hours, then three, increasing steadily every day. i couldn't have been happier. nargis' ankle improving day by day as well. shed sprained it in march and it had never healed. Gul was applying a simple mixture of salt and warm water every night. it worked like magic. took care of the problem almost instantly. nadir was sporting a cold - the rest were fine - by and large everyone was well and eagerly walking towards shimshal pass

camp life

2008-07-25T09:18:00.000-07:00

i guess i haven't mentioned all the dance, music, laughter and silliness that was the hall mark of our walks to and in camp.
every morning wed start fresh and energized after a solid breakfast of oatmeal or corn flakes, garlic omelet and chapatti, paratha and honey, or pancakes and blueberry jam, all washed down with milk tea.
a few men had transistor radios, Imran was one of them . slung across his chest it either made for some great Indian oldies from radio Srinagar or some annoying static also from radio Srinagar! on our walk into Arbab Purin he tuned it to a Chinese station and slung it across my chest for a listen to mandarin in the Karakorum's. between static and not enough listening skills, two words in every sentence is all i could make out - made me feel great though - less guilt about not bringing some books along for practice. though i did carry a small note book of characters id written over these two semesters - never once got to open it and actually refresh my memory.
another time he tuned into a Farsi station for my listening pleasure! if it wasn't the sometimes muffled sometimes clear radio music, it was me singing my hand full of telephone book songs, or the men singing their cornucopia of Indian, wakhi and farsi songs - all in all my batteries would die down mid way to wherever we were headed. then id perk up as wed come closer to the campsite - i think just the excitement of knowing it was coming to a temporary end brought a fresh burst of energy with it. our men ofcourse had energy all the way - no one ever tired of talking or singing.
we were so different in our walking styles - they never walked in silence - there was always a conversation or singing. their language is soft sounding with many 'sh' sounds to it, at times it almost sounded like they were whispering something to each other. wed talk to each other and to our men, but they'd also be long silent hours behind, or in front of one or the other of them.
we needed quiet - they needed company - we needed privacy - nothing was private for them - we retreated into our shells and 'private spaces', reading our books and writing our diaries - they shared every thing, from thoughts, skills, time and most importantly cheerful dispositions, to physical presence. humor and lightheartedness always present.
no matter how long a day, they made time for a nightly rollicking after dinner game of cards . wed laugh and be silly over the simplest of these card games. a particular favourite was 'bullshit' - everyone knew it well. much good cheer always came from these 'bullshit' sessions that went on for a few hours every night. it was a new game for imran, he'd learnt it quickly and well, and would usually come out ahead.
i was always providing back ground music for the evenings entertainment, which the ever present chorus would jump into. Kamila would join the games on occasion - but mostly wed both look over whoever's shoulder wed be sitting next to, and fall into the melee of cheating, noise and laughter -
all this would ensue huddled together under various sleeping bags in the middle of the kitchen tent - we were meant to use the fancy mess tent - but probably did that no more than twice or thrice through our entire two week trek. the three kids would go straight to the kitchen tent, either helping, or learning to cook or just keeping the two cooks company - so ofcourse Kamila and i had no desire to sit by ourselves in the formal mess tent. wed all pile into a space meant for two or three people, instead packed tight with 9 or 10 people, all laughing, talking, singing while the meals were cooked and the constant tea was served.
no one was ever bothered by the clutter, the mess, the tight squeeze, the nose blowing (every ones dry as chalk noses) the constant "close the tent flap" shouts the instant someone came in or out, or nargis' nightly salt rub massage, foot stretched out for Gul to massage, wrap her ankle and bandage her toes.
don't know how the two cooks - khusdil (didil) or ali shaw managed to whip up delicious meal after meal with all of us sitting practically on their heads! they were never fazed by our not so subtle, over bearing, demanding, in your face American ways - or the Ali Gesque humor that nadir is so good at or the flow of American vernacular that they barely understood, or nargis' attempts at urdu - 'sharaab hai' for 'kharab hai' ----- i could go on endlessly. it was just pure unadulterated fun that no one was in a hurry to end.

the shimshalis

2008-07-22T16:10:00.000-07:00

so back to the essence - was it,
besides our own personalities, the unique ways in which we were all friends, some new, some old.
or was it the Shimshalis and their land, that made this such a special journey? obviously nothing is possible in and off of itself - so it had to be a combination. i haven't done much of a job describing ourselves, so I'm not sure how much more effective this description of the Shimshalis will be.
they are from the same general Gojal region of northern Pakistan, same Ismaili religion as the rest of the area, same polite mild tempered ways, living in some drop dead gorgeous parts of the country, but something distinctly sets them apart from their brethren west of the KKH.
we saw this in Gul, the first time we met him last year.
we took his self assured assertiveness and his pride in the land and its people as cockiness. that could not have been further from the reality - which was more about pride in real accomplishment, in the happiness and contentment which stems from having lived productively in a harsh remote environment, as against false pride or bravado.

cut off from the rest of the country up until the road was completed in 2003, this was no place for insecurity - everyone seemed to make the very most of what they had - or more what they didn't have - and make that work to their advantage. a sense of calm pride, quiet love of land and each other, was a common thread that ran across the board.
perhaps that is the life of most remote mountain communities, i wouldn't know cause i haven't lived in such places, but this was a group of people who exuded a sense of calm equilibrium within themselves, with each other, and the land they inhabit. there were obvious hardships to endure, obvious desire for a better more progressive life, obvious human tensions - vagaries of living a life, whichever kind it may be - but every one seemed to deal with it all without aggression or resentment for those who had more or better, nor were they fatalistic, cynical or beggarly. what was theirs they would take care of, what they wanted to make of their lives they would do by the dint of their will and effort, what was not possible didn't always have to be forced into possibility.
this came through not just in Gul's way of dealing with all of us and his crew, but in the brief interactions that wed had with others in the village. most remarkable was the lack of resentment and rancor in their inter personal relationships. a smile and laughter came easily to most people, eye contact was always made - with the exceptional odd ball, no one was shy or reclusive. of course it is a traditional patriarchal society and there is a hierarchical order to every thing but no one we met, not even the women, came across seeming inferior or subjugated. everyone was comfortable in their skins -------so it was inevitable that we too would react similarly to the harsh environment into which wed thrown ourselves - we too took our first misstep (mixing up the guls) in stride. with the dint of our will and effort we too did what was needed to make this an enjoyable experience. for Kamila and myself our dreams of chafchingol had to wait, she didn't have enough time, i was unsure of my own ability to go it alone with a bunch of shimshalis for company, nadir and nafeesah had to scrap ideas of climbing Mingalik Sar and nargis had to enjoy every excruciating blister ridden step she took. we too had to let go where it was not possible to go further, no false pride or bravado, just calm equilibrium - ultimately a real sense of pleasure and accomplishment for the 18 to 50 somethings alike.

Time to hit the KKH

2008-07-21T04:37:00.000-07:00

July 21 '08

between the two days that we stayed in Islamabad and our arrival in karimabad via the KKH - much had transpired to make the journey happen (that's a story in and off of itself, which i wont get into here).

By now Gul, and his brother Mirzaw, who was accompanying us on the journey, knew all about our mix up. however over very tasty local dinner at 'hidden paradise hotel' in Karimabad, my response to his very direct 'why did you not choose me?' was almost blurting out the truth, but for nadirs nudge and scowling face and everyone else's gaping mouths and 'NO DON'T' looks - i gave him a muddled bullshit answer. he didn't buy it of course - there would still be some explaining to do.

July 23 '08

we rode into Shimshal village in full style - two jeep loads of 'samaan', three overly cheerful youngsters and two very satisfied mamas for having even gotten this far!

July 24 '08
a day to acclimatize, get to know our Shimshali surroundings, meet its people, eat its food, and just absorb our beautiful surroundings.

sadly that rest day we came upon a fast failing rescue operation. a 27 year old British climber hadn't made it back down from Shimshal white horn. much against the advice of his two fellow climbers he'd attempted to go solo. before heading to the mountain by foot, the two of them (Bruce and Peter)were now waiting for a helicopter rescue to see if they could spot his whereabouts from up above. by this time he was 7 days overdue. an earlier team hadn't found any trace of him. two weeks later we were to find out that two helicopter rescue attempts were made, including his team mates attempts to walk in, but ----- was never to be found - shimshal's white horn had claimed him as one of its own.

we also met a very pleasant Scotsman, Simon, in the village - traveling in full Scottish gear to boot - whom we met up with later at Shimshal pass, and at the Woolio festival. i invited him to visit us in Pasadena, which he said someday he might do. This was his first trip to Pakistan.

July 25 - 8am to 8pm day
our first days walk to 'past furzins' campsite was one grueling day for each and everyone of us. the trail endless, loosing and gaining elevation all the time. we all got to camp at different times, nafeesah making it much before anyone else, nadir not too far behind her, nargis next and finally Kamila and myself trailing in a couple of hours later!!! the very last section was 'dry skiing' just running down scree all the way to camp! so physically exhausting but mentally exhilarating. wed had our first day under our belts, now prepared well for long tiring walks in the days to come. each day the terrain would be similar yet very different. each day wed marvel at how the villagers had built these trails themselves, each section dedicated by a different family to one of its own. all to make it easier for their women, children and men to walk up to the high pastures of shimshal pass and beyond every year. no cranes, no dynamite, no fancy equipment - just sheer 'man power' and good engineering sense mixed with love and respect for not just family but the land they inhabit and revere.

cant seem to get the pictures where i want them - will figure it out by the time i end this story I'm sure - more to come----------

the personalities

2008-07-20T13:15:00.000-07:00

i could go on describing the mundane details of the trek - from point a to b, one long day after another, this camp ground and that one, on and on. but its the essence of the whole experience that i really want to capture not just the fluff.

so what was it? the 5 of us? each one of our unique yet similar personalities?
the terrain? all the way from Islamabad on the kkh, to passu and on the shimshal road to shimshal?
the shimshalis themselves? their lean good looks, their easy going, gentle yet confident personalities, their intense love and pride of their land?
or the interaction with cheerful happy as larks people, mostly women, enjoying their summer of lolling and toiling at 4700m?

or perhaps the land itself - the parts we traversed so briefly, and began to recognize with every step we took. by the end in tune with every difficult bend, every scree slope that had to be ascended or descended, every endless rocky expanse to be crossed, till walking became an effortless rhythm. the present physical pain just not important - only the end in constant sight.

kamila - dear friend and fellow lover of mountains in all their forms. 8 years my senior, with a zest for life and spirit for adventure many a younger woman don't posses. creative, restless, impatient, infinitely compassionate and kind, heart larger than she can manage, and so many more qualities good bad and everything in between, that a short paragraph wont do justice - no not buttering you up, its one of the subjects PCC doesn't offer, or id sign up!

her 28 year old son nadir - always ready for adventure, games, laughter, belieying a serious sober mind, grappling with complicated issues of physics and mathematics for fun!. unassuming and easy going never a dull moment in his life. kind, caring and sharp as a whip, with feet solidly on the ground, was the man who could make you laugh at any time.

nargis - my 21 year old daughter, easy going, laid back, generous and kind hearted, seemingly disinterested in the outdoors or adventure, but sporting a huge appetite for both. her girlish princess ways a cover for a tough as nails, no nonsense, intelligent soul. able to sort a confusing complicated situation with such ease and clarity you wonder how you missed it yourself. another grounded young adult able to laugh at life even when the going was tough as nails.
-

nafeesah -
the eldest of the andrabi kids ,
having known her intimately for just three weeks i can only say this about this exceptional 18 year old. you couldn't tell she was a teenager. cheerful, full of beans and silliness, never too serious yet a sound, secure, intelligent girl with her head screwed on right. able to tolerate not just the harshest of surroundings but the ways of the 50 somethings, to those of 5 year olds. another generous kind hearted young woman.

don't know why everything is underlined - ive pressed a button i don't know how to undo. sounds like a familiar pattern??!!

and me..................

what did we all have in common?
i think our shared sense of adventure - each one of us, no nonsense, feet on the ground, with an ability to laugh and not take everything personally and too seriously type of person. each of us very different in our approach to dealing with people and each other, yet all on exactly the same page. too many words weren't needed to hash out any situation. for the most part we were all thinking alike, and when we didn't, the world didn't come apart.

its funny, but the order in which I've listed everyone is exactly how i would do it if i were Chinese and introducing myself and my family to someone - from the oldest, to the older male, older female, youngest female and myself at the very end. i guess a year of Chinese has rubbed off after all!

Shimshal Dreams

2008-07-19T15:00:00.000-07:00

my niece spurred me on to write about Shimshal, and our trek to its high pastures this summer - who'd care, i thought, or why would it matter to any one when there's so much out there on the web already?
but a few weeks later back in L.A i feel the need to write about it, not because anyone cares but because its a good way to hold on to great memories - store it in space forever!

id been dreaming of Shimshal for a whole year - 2006 to summer 2007 - and got there with Kamila in August 2007, all geared up to trek to Chafchingol pass.
We didn't go too far - 8 kilometers into the 53 km Shimshal road we had to turn back due to a huge rock slide. so we trekked on the east side of the KKH instead - to little known, little visited, 5100m Werthum Pass. it was beautiful, but a short one week.
Since we still had time on our hands we decided to try visiting at least Shimshal village - a week later the road had been fixed and we drove through this incredible gorge that is the entry to Shimshal. the road itself a marvel, with 8 bridges across stunning ravines, stark rocky surroundings and finally the oasis that is Shimshal - three villages in all, Aliabad, Shimshal central and Khizarabad. each as beautiful as the other, fields of wheat and potato with apricot, apple and poplar surrounding most fields.
on the way up we gave a ride to a husband wife couple, not far from their village and got a taste of what Shimshalis are like. friendly, soft spoken and polite, very sure and proud of themselves and their land. at the village we were taken to its only 'posh' hotel for lunch. there we got chatting with some more locals one of whom was a guide himself and chattier than the rest. he began telling us about the place and its history. a poster on the wall prompted the question 'where is that lake?' its was Shimshal pass. our new found self appointed guide decided not only to tell us all about Shimshali history,the pass, all the festivals that take place but also walk us right around the entire village to a high point they call "view point". here he pointed out the routes to the various treks including Chafchingol, which we'd missed, and all the peaks around us, Yazghil sar, Dastagil sar and Shimshal White Horn - not quite visible from here. this was atop his own village of Khizarabad where he hoped to build a mountaineering school some day. we had had a long day and were exhausted, in no real mood to walk much more but he kept us going through hill and dale - we figured he was testing our metal - two 50 somethings boasting about trekking to Ghondogoro la, Mazeno la, Burgi la, and now Werthum pass - we asked him a million questions ourselves, especially about the festival at Shimshal pass - planning on coming to it some year but not using his services for sure - knowledgeable and forthcoming but too cocky for our liking! he gave us his contact details, which Kamila very politely took down - no intentions of ever using it.
meanwhile we had taken contact info from the first couple we had given a ride to. he said he could organize our treks if we ever came back to do Chafchingol etc. we liked him, a little older more homely. on our way back to Passu, where wed taken the jeep to Shimshal from, our self appointed guide asked us to give a ride to another fellow. another true to form friendly Shimshali, whose contact details we took down happily. he'd worked as a crew member on a hunting expedition with one of our LA friends a few years back. such a small world we thought. that he'd meet two ladies from LA who happen to know someone he'd worked with! as far north in Pakistan as you can get, as remote a habitation, and yet we both knew a common person!

i turned 50 last Dec. many things struck me all at once - one of which was that i wasn't postponing Chafcingol pass or the Woolio festival on Shimshal pass or any other endeavour for 'a few years from now' - i would go this summer even if it meant going it alone. i took the contact details Kamila had and emailed two fellows, one whom wed given a ride to on our way in, and the other whom wed given a ride to out of town. the first person i heard back from 'Gul' almost a month later, turned out to be the cheaper and more excited of the two about my interest in coming to Shimshal. i thought this was our first rider. i go back and forth for months, fine tuning my trip with him. from going it alone, to my niece joining me, to Nargis and her friends and on and on, to finally by April or so there were 4 of us. Kamila, Nargis, Nadir, and myself. at the very end one other person, Nafeesah jumped on board. Gul very excited that we were coming and also very patient with all the changes in numbers, adding deleting every few weeks! i was to do the festival with the group and then part ways in Shimshal. they would go back to Islamabad and id continue to Chafchingol. this was the plan but of course much a distance between the cup and the lip.

4 of us land in Islamabad on July 19 2008 - Gul and two other guys receive us at the airport - one look at the hand that was being extended for a warm welcome and both Kamila and i miss a heart beat. he introduces us to his brother Mirza and his cousin Sahib and then goes on to 'I'm Gul'. at this point we look at each other and just smile a smile of horror - Nargis and Nadir oblivious to whats happening. Gul catches that smile, as do the others - Gul turns out to be not the homely rider i thought id been conversing with for 6 months, but the very person wed decided never to use - our self appointed, over confident, cocky guide from Shimshal village! there was nothing to it but to put our best foot (and face) forward and hope it would be as pleasant a trip as this Gul could give us. she had mixed up the contacts, i had mixed up the names and faces, between the two of us wed hired a man wed scratched out of our heads and lists a year back.

I'm blogging a month after the treks over and much has passed between the cup and the lip - Gul couldn't have been a better choice. his whole crew, his family and above all himself turned out to be super people. ill have to write about the trek itself - the festival at Shimshal pass, my attempt at Chafchingol and all the rest in my next blog - for now this is all you get Shaz!!