Twenty-one hours later
It would be fair to say that the 600 km journey from Rawalpindi to Gilgit took a while. Leaving ‘Pindi just after seven, we were on the Karakorum Highway and heading north within the hour. Progress seemed good at our first stop in Mansehra; it was only the air conditioning that had gone awry. Soon, however the bus had second thoughts: Heat stroke? Radiator? Transmission? Only better Urdu than mine could tell. The fact remained – we had to turn back.
Back in Mansehra again, the mechanics slipped under chassis, shooing a cockerel. The bus’ modern shell clearly concealed something far simpler and we were soon off. Gaining altitude the bus began to feel at home. The driver was soon weaving past the elephant-like, glammed-up, Bedford trucks trudging their way to China and serenading every goat, van, and child with the claxon in preference to applying brakes.
After a lunch, the route joined the valley of the Indus river. The peaks, still clad with trees, plummeting, near shear, to the vast, glacier-fed, raging waters below. Wherever the gradient gave the slightest license, hamlets had sprung - flat-roved mud brick houses amid terraced paddy fields. At intervals, tributaries joined; rushing white or smudging pure icy blue with the brown bulk.
Trees began to dwindle as the rocky outcrops caught the evening light. We revved on – still weaving, still honking – at aeroplane altitude above the darkened valley floor.
What had, by day, been a peaceful, if not a slightly hairy drive became, by night the stuff of real frontier territory. The bus crept through the moonlit debris of landslide zones. At the regional border we were directed under full darkness to a small tent hiding two afghan raider types holding books within which we were to write our name and passport, please. We woke to find the bus stopped awaiting the collection of a robbery-safe military police convoy.
This morning, stiff and weary, we were left 5 km outside Gilgit to await a taxi and the dawn.
The guesthouse is giving Andy flashbacks of India - full of affected long-termers who just hum and discuss bowl movements. It’s more of a trekkers’ sanctuary, with the first western faces we’ve seen since arrival, within the police-heavy outpost that is Gilgit. One of the three guards outside the new polo ground admitted, “Current conditions aren’t right for playing.”
We’ve ventured out under full heat among other mad dog Lonely-Planet-Wielders in search of the digital world and now it’s time to get back to the real one.
We now have a five-day trek to sort out and complete, before crossing the Chinese border. It may be some time before the next blog.
Back in Mansehra again, the mechanics slipped under chassis, shooing a cockerel. The bus’ modern shell clearly concealed something far simpler and we were soon off. Gaining altitude the bus began to feel at home. The driver was soon weaving past the elephant-like, glammed-up, Bedford trucks trudging their way to China and serenading every goat, van, and child with the claxon in preference to applying brakes.
After a lunch, the route joined the valley of the Indus river. The peaks, still clad with trees, plummeting, near shear, to the vast, glacier-fed, raging waters below. Wherever the gradient gave the slightest license, hamlets had sprung - flat-roved mud brick houses amid terraced paddy fields. At intervals, tributaries joined; rushing white or smudging pure icy blue with the brown bulk.
Trees began to dwindle as the rocky outcrops caught the evening light. We revved on – still weaving, still honking – at aeroplane altitude above the darkened valley floor.
What had, by day, been a peaceful, if not a slightly hairy drive became, by night the stuff of real frontier territory. The bus crept through the moonlit debris of landslide zones. At the regional border we were directed under full darkness to a small tent hiding two afghan raider types holding books within which we were to write our name and passport, please. We woke to find the bus stopped awaiting the collection of a robbery-safe military police convoy.
This morning, stiff and weary, we were left 5 km outside Gilgit to await a taxi and the dawn.
The guesthouse is giving Andy flashbacks of India - full of affected long-termers who just hum and discuss bowl movements. It’s more of a trekkers’ sanctuary, with the first western faces we’ve seen since arrival, within the police-heavy outpost that is Gilgit. One of the three guards outside the new polo ground admitted, “Current conditions aren’t right for playing.”
We’ve ventured out under full heat among other mad dog Lonely-Planet-Wielders in search of the digital world and now it’s time to get back to the real one.
We now have a five-day trek to sort out and complete, before crossing the Chinese border. It may be some time before the next blog.
posted by Pete @ 12:06 pm
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