The face looking down at me had the hardest expression I'd yet seen in Pakistan. The eyes were blank, featureless. One hand was held in front of him signifying, in my culture at least, stop, proceed no further.
But in the east, the meaning of the Kargah Buddha's hand is "show no fear." This little reassurance was most welcome, as the area was known to be a little rough. This grand Buddha though had somehow survived thirteen centuries in a land of harsh weather and even harsher ideas about stone idols. But the quiet valley over which the Buddha presides was quiet and peaceful, but for a handful of small children yelling "Money, money" at us, probably the only English they knew.
We'd left the KKH to detour briefly up the Gilgit River, broad and flat after its journey through the Hindu Kush. The town that shares its name is one of heard often in tales of the Raj. And it had always been a tough place, to judge from the stories inscribed on headstones in the English Cemetery, walled in and shaggy with uncut grass. Here was the final resting place for a number of Great Gamers, namely George W. Hayward, found dead and headless in the higher passes above town in 1870 (and subject of the poem 'He Fell Among Thieves'), and Claye Ross, whose stone resonates with the non-PC subtext that was Victorian Britain, in mentioning the "45 brave Sikhs who were killed at the same time," though nary a name.
Our own little party looked quite conspicuous as we passed before a large polo mural and into the town marketplace. The streets were filled with men whose look would scare the pants off the average middle American. The stares here were harder than even that of the Buddha outside town. This trip to Pakistan had worried me somewhat, not sure about what greeting I'd be given as an American. But the Hunza had surprised with its welcome, and with its smiles. I never saw a single one in Gilgit.
It can't be helped I suppose. The town is a crossroads of sorts for various Muslim sects, split nearly into thirds between Sunni, Shi'a, and Ismail. Thus religious tensions are high, and sectarian violence does flare from time to time. Politically too, the town is considered part of Pakistani Kashmir, torn from its eastern half when militants from the area invaded Kashmir proper in 1947 and forced its indecisive ruler Hari Singh to become part of India, rather than maintain its existence as an independent kingdom as it had throughout Partition. As such, Gilgit remains an administrative territory rather than a proper province, in a sort of limbo, and I'd imagine then it gets less assistance from the central government, with the usual results of poor education, insufficient health services, and economic destitution. I'd scowl too.
We were given some free time, but not enough to get a haircut as I'd hoped. I've recently become taken with the idea of getting haircuts in exotic places, and the thought of a disgruntled local holding a razor to my white throat had a perverse appeal. As it was, we only had time to walk out across the bridge and back. Even here I felt a bit cheated, as I knew that there was a rich collection of ancient petroglyphs in the hills just above.
The Serena Hotel was an oasis, with modern amenities that were most welcome after a week of somewhat rough digs. The compound had a splendid garden, well watered by the glaciers that hung just above. Yet another breathtaking place. The walls around us were high, as was the level of security, and one of our group postulated that it was only natural that we'd stay here, well away from the tense and unwelcome vibe back in town.
But the real fear and discomfort would come the following day.
On the turntable: Grateful Dead, "Fillmore West 1970-02-06 "
On the nighttable: James Clavell, "Noble House"
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