Though well-known for its apples, we gave the town of Khyber a pass. We still had a couple hours to go before our stop for the night, extenuated by multiple stops to view the trio of glaciers. Apparently Northern Pakistan has the largest glaciers outside of the Polar regions. Batura was the most massive, and the most impressive, like a swoop of oil paint dried thickly on the canvas of the high Pamirs, the range sending a strong farewell with this magnificent display. We climbed above the road for a better view, as a couple of smaller glaciers clung to the cliffs high above the road. The bend of the Hunza River below was broad enough to host neat rows of orderly ruins, which looked ancient, but were actually the housing for the workers who built the Karakorum Highway (KKH) about thirty years before. We'd pass a good number of these during the journey, which never failed to instill in the romantic mind thoughts of antiquity, of long-vanished peoples carving a life out of a rough landscape, ever threatened by the next group of invaders who'd eventually supplant them.
The light was leaving us, the clock having returned to familiar regularity after Xinjiang's schizophrenic approach to time zones. (One always had to confirm whether a quoted time was local or Beijing time, a three-hour difference.) The low rays of the sun lit up the messages scriven in stone high up the hillsides, commemorating the 1987 visit of the Aga Khan, spiritual leader for the Ismaili who inhabit the region. Our final stop was above Passu, where villagers collected hay and potatoes to dry atop their low houses. Of late, younger villagers have taken on the role of porters, as trekkers have recently discovered the wonders of the Cathedral peaks, like shards of broken glass that help frame this picturesque village. With the added feature of the microcosmic figures of people crossing the suspension bridge up the valley, it is near impossible to get a bad photo.
Some of us were lucky to have these same views from the balcony of our Silk Route Lodge. The lobby was showing the India-Pakistan cricket match, and it was safe to assume that for the moment, the country would be at a standstill. I was tempted to join the distracted staff in viewing until the end, but I don't really understand the rules, and besides, back in my room, there was paint that I needed to watch dry.
Dinner was taken beneath a trio of animal heads, including one with the amazing twists of the Marco Polo sheep, which being protected, now costs one hundred thousand dollars to shoot legally . The curry served was a refreshing change from four days of pilaf and kababs, though little did I know then that I'd be seeing dal and chapatti three times a day for the next two weeks. Our guide Irfan had met us at immigration, but it was at this meal that he began to reveal himself as an amazing source of knowledge, as he discussed issues in contemporary Pakistan. Historically caught between the intrigues of Russia and the British, it now found itself squeezed by China and the US. The Great Game carries on.
In the morning, we strolled the narrow lanes of Gulmit, dwarfed by a half dozen 7000 meter peaks. People seemed relaxed and humored us as we took photos of a look and clothing that was new to us all. Around one labyrinthian lane near the polo grounds, we sat atop an overlapping pile of carpets to watch the inevitable display of weaving. I'd half expected this, but I give the tour company Wild Frontiers a lot of credit for not pushing this upon us, or to fill the itinerary with too much of it.
The KKH led onward, through a desertified landscape high above the snaking Hunza River. A 2010 landslide blocked the river, whose the waters backed up to completely engulf one village and create the broad Attabad Lake. We boarded an oversized rowboat here to get a closer look, jetting off in a big burst of black smoke, across a lake cradled in the palm of a hand whose fingers rose upward into jagged spires. An immense meadow cut into the sloping side of one of these mounts would be the world's ultimate campsite. As we puttered across we were encircled by a small flotilla of jet skis, whose daredevil guides would stand behind the riders to keep things under control. I believe I made a joke about them being the Pakistani navy.
The last stop of the day was more sublime. The Sacred Rocks of Hunza have served as the Karakorum's guest register since the 1st Century, recording in dozens of languages the passage of dozens of cultures. Besides the hundreds of carvings of ibexes, there are also Chinese kings, Buddhist temples, and the names of the lesser important who are now indefinitely linked with time. There is a timelessness to these types of places, where the centuries overlap. Yet the internal human clock too does keep moving forward, and the gradual decline in blood sugar dated events to a time just before lunch.
On the turntable: Grateful Dead, "Birth of the Dead"
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