Pakistan

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

SAMEENA:

Our entrance into the small dusty boarder post of Taftan was to say the least dramatic. In Iran on the other side, the morning started early. After 4 hard stressful days on the baking roadside and in noisy, dusty tyre repair shops, Luca leaves at 5 in the morning. We have no more spare tires and the back 2 are ready to give out on us any minute; we hope that the cool morning air will help us hobble over the boarder to Pakistan, where we are told we can finally replace them. The air is still cool and I wake with two undressed children slipping into my bed.The truck stops and I imagine Luca ,extra cautious ,checking the tires..but no, a knock on the door. Lusira checks through a small crack in the curtain, and to my horror tells me it’s the Iranian customs officer. In my panic I rather irrationally dart out of bed and grab the violet scarf that has accompanied me over the last 6 weeks, and in one hurried leap am back deep under the covers, I adjust the scarf to modestly cover my head disguising my nudity, as Lusira and Giulio titter uncontrollably beside me with unbelieving eyes when the customs officer climbs in and strides over over to us unperturbed….Yes that’s the fridge, I force a polite smile, those are the clothes cupboards …and no we have nothing to declare! Over the boarder the atmosphere is relaxed, in a small brick room on a rickety bench a soldier smiles “you’re in Pakistan now , you don’t have to cover your head” I free my sweaty hair relieved and smile back. Chai is offered at the customs office, neatly arranged around a plate of biscuits. The customs officers brother lives in Italy and he’s happy to exchange a few words, he’s ready to help us, but the police escort wants us to leave immediately. We are told that our tires can be found in Quetta about 600km away from here, we leave reluctantly ,in this case happy for the police escort, at least we won’t rot in the desert… somehow something will happen.One hour passes as the sun heats the single strip of asphalt on this deserted plain, we hear a familiar noise…. another tire. We mount the only other tire we have left , it bulges alarmingly where the bead is already broken, and I pray to an unknown god. We reach Taftan in a mad race against time hurtling recklessly on the scorching road, the tyre has burst and for the last 500m we skid noisily on the rim coming to a dramatic , lopsided halt in the police compound…our new home for the next week. Mr.Yussef Khan the customs officer, is our much needed guardian angel. He feeds us sweet fruit, cold drinks….breakfast, lunch and dinner. This is a great help as we aren’t allowed to leave the police compound without an escort. Mr.Khan has contacts in Quetta and has promised not only to find us three spare tires, but has incredibly also offered them to us as a gift! .With this knowledge the wait, though tense is much easier to bare. Other tourists come and go and it’s a strange feeling not to be able to move, we sweat inside our 3 wheeled home, sitting on the jack waiting for happier days. Lusira is sick, dehydrated and weak and spends most of the time in the hot 40 degrees shade of the truck , whilst Luca and Giulio try to recuperate what is left of our old tires; swapping rims, sticking patches and watching in amazement as tyre ‘wallahs’ show them new tricks, inflating our tires in seconds with gas choreographic explosions. Darkness marks the ominous moment when the police station is besieged by hundreds of illegal immigrants transported from Iran. It’s a strange moment as hoards of men are silently ushered into overcrowded buses that will deliver them back to their relative states. Some are limping and still wear hospital shirts, but as my children point out to me, not all are long faced, some smile and joke. Perhaps this is the end of a long and frightening saga and they are now coming back to their hometown, and in some cases to their loved ones. With our 3 new old tires probably smuggled from military vehicles in Afghanistan, we reach Quetta in 2 days, with our ever changing police escorts. It’s a strange feeling entering; until now despite the kalashnikovs, the atmosphere has been relaxed, now there is a tightening of security. Police wear black t-shirts with ‘certain death’ written on them, sirens ring loud and other vehicles are ushered out of our way. We are escorted into the police compound with an armed bullet proof vehicle with guns pointed. We get fleeting glimpses of an immense sprawling city, hectic, colorful dusty markets, nomad tents, Afghan and Baluchi men walking hand in hand, and pungent plastic burning on every road side .Our police escort changes every 5 minutes in a well synchronized relay,it takes us one hour to reach the compound. We will have to stay for some time, this is perhaps the only place in Pakistan where we can replace our spare tires. We are parked on the dusty roadside inside this safe area reserved for police and their families. Children run around excitedly, and a tall bearded figure emerges from the crowd. It’s Dos Mohammed our new guardian angel, wearing a wide smile beneath his thick beard.We will freshen up and discuss over tea.“I am a Taliban” he is speaking seriously and tells us what to him this signifies “my duty is to help others” He speaks of his family life contrasting, simple but joyful..no doubts, his road is laid out with simple rules.We spend the next week in his company and warm to his vision, so different to ours. He is a sincere and open man with a harsh past .As head of police logistics he is in constant contact with the huge security problems in this area. He speaks of instability created by the warlords, the drug market and daily terroristic attacks,as well as the newer but growing trade in human organs. I shudder at the images he congers up with such compassion.With much time and patience Dos and Luca find the tires. It feels good to roll away with tires blessed by our new friend. 

After the tiring drive in Baluchistan, we spend 4 short but intense days with my family near Islamabad, and with our batteries recharged we head north to Hunza. It is still very hot in this unusual October, and after a week of diarrhea and sickness, we gather our energies to organize a trek in these magnificent mountains. It’s been Luca’s dream for some time,and a good practice ground for our future trek in Nepal next spring. We meet our old friend Bashir and visit his small mine, an inspiring place for the children and intriguing new terrain for the study of things never before considered. After a week of convalescing in the grand field behind the prices residence in Karimabad, we finally head for the snowy peaks. It’s a kind of pilgrimage for us. We revisit the road that collapsed beneath the wheels of our truck 4 years ago. The road is even narrower and just as unsafe, but we pass with ease aboard a small jeep, stopping just for an instance to let the leap in time and spca make its full impact on us. It feels good, I’m ready to create new and different memories for this special place. The first night we battle with thin mattresses anticipating the view over the Passu glacier the next day. Giulio wears his rucksack with pride and races ahead with the three porters we hired to help with carrying food and other provisions. I know secretly he wants to be first and spot a small speck overtaking larger ones in the distance. The porters and Bashir our guide will sleep in the small shepherds huts along the way. As i sleep a tossing kind of sleep, wishing for fatter hips to rest on, i marvel at how delicate i am compared to our new friends snoring soundly just a few meters away. The crossing of the glacier is a truly exhilarating experience.The noise of falling crashing rocks, the shifting ice formations, and cool breath of the glacier make up a fantastic landscape that is hard to navigate. We use no ropes, but Farman, Reza and Habib chip ice steps with ice-hacks and offer steady hands to cross the most critical points. I treat Phaedra with vaseline shoes, but after three hours her puppy feet crack and she is happy to see dry land. To the children’s delight, during the cold night, the tent caves in . It’s snowing and by the morning our summer tent is a strange kind of sprawling igloo. We brush off the ice and wait for the sun with a hot chai’ We have a 5 hour vertical climb to the top of this mountain, one of many in the centre of an amphitheater of towering 7000 to 8000m peaks. The view is obscured in places by new clouds, but i feel privileged to be here, proud of my children and the grueling climb. In the small hut at 4,700m we meet 2 local men and discover to our amazement that one was the owner of the winch that pulled our truck up from our unfortunate fall 4 years ago. Their families were all involved in the rescue operation, and we soon have 2 new friends Murad and Khalid . The last day completes the adventure with a truly awe inspiring scramble up an unsteady slippy slate peak, and a grueling vertical three hour descent on the other side. We feel like true heroes when we reach the hut. It’s time to leave Hunza and move south again. I say farewell to Ramla my new and extraordinary friend with her daughter Sofia, future homeschooler, courageously swimming against the tide in more ways than one. She presents me with a beautiful serpentine bracelet, telling me of its curative properties, I accept the gift with gratitude knowing it will be fixed on my arm for the following years, a nice way to stay connected. Our 3 weeks in the family speeds by in a lazy rush, i enjoy my daily chats with my uncle Shadi, reminiscing of times past, the children play chess, color their hair and learn the many ways of making ‘Parantha’ with sweet Abida. A home away from home that feels good after 7 months of travel. Luca is busy with endless visits to the Indian embassy. Relations between the 2 countries is at an all time low. Embassy staff changes and after a good amount of suspense we receive the much needed visa to carry on our travels. After a last visit to our truck decorators for a new look,we are ready to leave.Pakistan Zindabad! Goodbye. 

LUSIRA:

Finalmente siamo in Pakistan , e’un altro mondo. In Iran c’è l’aria condizionata ed è tutto perfetto, invece in Pakistan c’è solo una capanna, dentro c’è un tavolino e una sedia . Al sud del Pakistan devi avere la scorta armata però può cambiare da un carro armato  a una moto con un anziano con le ciabatte aperte e un fucile che quando si ferma quasi cade .Il giorno che arriviamo alla casa dei parenti miei e di mamma e’ la Eid,  e’una festa religiosa come da noi la pasqua, però ammazzano una capra. Un quarto  della carne e’ per i poveri e metà e’ per i parenti. Stiamo solo tre giorni perché è troppo caldo, scappiamo  in Hunza dove l’altra volta siamo caduti .La abbiamo fatto un trekking di sei giorni nelle montagne . Il  primo giorno abbiamo scordato il sacco a pelo di Giulio , però il nostro amico Bashir  che è di Hunza e veniva con noi , e’ ritornato al camion e ha preso il sacca a pelo di Giulio . Il giorno dopo abbiamo  camminato tutto il giorno e abbiamo dormito in tenda ciò’ e’ i portatori hanno dormito nella capanna e noi abbiamo dormito in tenda . Mi e’ piaciuto del trekking quando  abbiamo attraversato il ghiacciaio , cerano montagne di ghiaccio ed era pieno di piccoli ruscelli. Bashir dice che i piccoli ruscelli sono delle fatine .Mi è’ piaciuto quando ha nevicato . Dormivamo e la nostra tenda è collassata perché era da mare e noi eravamo sotto la neve. La mattina dopo sembrava un altro mondo, sembrava che nella note avevamo volato in un altro mondo. Phaedra, quando ha nevicato, non voleva entrare nella tenda , non voleva entrare perché  ci  voleva proteggere , però quando è entrata ha dormito molto profondamente. Quando Phaedra ha visto la neve è diventata pazza , gli piaceva da matti,era diventata bellissima . Siamo ritornati dai parenti miei  e di mamma, e’ molto più fresco, alla sera devi mettere il maglione. Phaedra e’ stata molto brava nel trekking, ora è diventata molto grande .Noi pensavamo che sarebbe diventata un cane medio invece e diventata un cane grande . Dai parenti di mamma cio’ e’ Shadi, Abida e Zimran ,abbiamo fatto tantissime cose che quasi non ricordo . Abida ha messo l’henne sui miei capelli ,l’henné era del giardino e seccata nel ombra. Ho giocato tanto con i cani di zimran sopratutto Jimmy un cucciolo piccolissimo, ho insegnato a Abida a fare l’uncinetto, e ho anche imparato a fare delle calze con l’uncinetto, e ho anche imparato a fare dell calze con l’uncinetto. Ho giocato tanto a scacchi e ho imparato a fare 4 tipi diversi di ‘Paranta’. Abbiamo tutti mangiati tantissimi ‘gulab jamen’.    Finalmente abbiamo preso il visto per l’India , incontreremo dei amici tedeschi che hanno anche loro un camion, gli abbiamo incontrati quando abbiamo fatto l’altro viaggio, con loro andremo in India.

LUCA:

Pakistan Zindabad…. Grande Pakistan ……. sicuramente grande e’ la bandiera pakistana che sventola immensa nel vento rovente di questo settembre infuocato…..il nastro d’asfalto si interrompe oltre la barriera metallica, un ultimo saluto al gendarme iraniano e siamo in Pakistan. Negli ultimi 7 giorni ho smontato e rimontato le gomme del camion almeno 10 volte tentando di ripararle al meglio incollando pezze su pezze ma la struttura e’ ormai morta e tagli inquietanti si aprono a vista d’occhio, ogni poche centinaia di chilometri costringendoci a ricominciare tutto da capo. La polvere alzata dal vento oscura il sole pallido nel cielo bianco di sabbia e di calore mentre zigzaghiamo tra detriti, carcasse di auto, e mucchi di immondizie, seguendo la motoretta del doganiere che ci scorta alla caserma dell’immigrazione… Il camion si inclina, il sibilo inconfondibile dell’aria che si libera dalla gomma e in pochi secondi siamo sul cerchio, ma le ruote di scorta sono finite e con il rumore metallico del ferro che stride su i pochi resti di un asfalto di altri tempi entriamo nella caserma. Evviva siamo in Pakistan….. e qui resteremo per un pezzo. Siamo su tre ruote e un cric. Comincia una ricerca che si dimostra subito quasi impossibile, qui a Tafatan non c’e quasi niente tanto meno le nostre insolite gomme e in più’, per ragioni imprecisate di sicurezza, non possiamo uscire dalla caserma. Sotto il ventilatore nella stanza dell ‘’Immigration Office’’ un signore molto distinto con la barba bianca curata come il suo immacolato shelvar chemis mi chiama in italiano quasi perfetto. E’ il capo, il grande capo, mi offre il te, mi racconta della sua esperienza italiana negli anni settanta a bordo di una fiat 125 da Lahore a Napoli passando da Kabul e Venezia. Grazie a lui dopo 5 giorni di ricerche e molta apprensione all’ alba sul retro di un pickup sono arrivate in regalo tre meravigliose Michelin XZL gemelle delle nostre defunte gomme. I contatti del nostro Yussef, le hanno scovate a Quetta, città’ di frontiera dove dal Afganistan arriva di tutto, armi, droga, motori, gomme, aeroplani, il grande business del mercato di guerra. Un’altra disavventura che il destino ha trasformato in una esperienza e in un piacevole ricordo….La saga delle gomme si conclude a Quetta, città’ blindata dove la pratica sistematica del terrore sta strangolando la vita civile. Attraversiamo la città’ scortati davanti e dietro da uomini armati di tutto punto con la torretta della mitragliatrice che ruota nervosamente a destra e sinistra. Dost Mohammed responsabile della sicurezza della polizia ci accoglie con un grande sorriso camuffato dalla lunga barba, trova un posto per il nostro camion all interno dell area dove vivono le famiglie dei poliziotti e riempe subito il nostro tavolo di dolciumi per Giulio e Lusira e di piccantissimi samosa per noi. Sorseggiando l’ennesimo te della giornata lo informo della disastrosa situazione delle nostre gomme; ne abbiamo tre buone ma la quarta ha un lungo taglio e scorte niente’, ora so che a Quetta si trovano e ho assoluto bisogno di averne almeno altre due, ma siamo sotto custodia e non posso lasciare questa area cosiddetta protetta. Dost, pensa, sorride mentre ci racconta la sua storia, di mujaidin a 20 anni in Kashmir poi la lunga militanza con i talebani in Afganistan, quelli buoni dice lui, quelli che volevano fermare il traffico d’oppio, e di armi poi l’invasione americana i signori della guerra e del business che hanno trasformato quel paese in un inferno e ricominciato i loro sporchi traffici. Lo ascolto con attenzione , osservo le sue mani che delicatamente fanno girare la tazzina del caffè sul tavolo del camion e provo ad immaginarle serrate all’impugnatura gelida di un mitragliatore pronte ad uccidere un nemico inafferrabile. La sua vita e’ cambiata, il suo credo no, senza esitazione, indifferente al mio ateismo dichiarato, sorride di nuovo, mi da appuntamento per il giorno dopo e si allontana nella notte disturbata dal rombo dei caccia militari che pattugliano il confine Afgano. Nell’aria fresca dell’ alba a bordo del tuk-tuk di Dost, in incognito e contro tutte le regole, attraversiamo la citta’ che lentamente si sveglia e raggiungiamo il vasto quartiere di Kabuli Market. I miei occhi girano vorticosamente tra le cataste di oggetti più svariati, ammucchiati con ordine nei piazzali; enormi turbine di elicottero, generatori elettrici, cannoni di autoblindati, apparati radio, funi e reti , e immensi rotoli di filo spinato, e ovviamente altissime torri di gomme di tutte le misure. Addossati al muro, su un grande tappeto dai colori sbiaditi, sei o sette uomini robusti e barbuti, discutono a gambe incrociate pacatamente, ci fanno sedere e immediato arriva il te bollente e ciambelle freschissime. Accetto, saluto, sorrido e goffamente mi siedo, impaziente di andare a curiosare tra le ruote. Dost racconta la storia di questa anomala e simpatica famiglia che scorrazza per il mondo, io ammicco e con le poche parole di urdu che conosco, ringrazio per l’ospitalità’.Pochi minuti di ricerca e due perfette bridgestone vengono spinte fuori dalla torre di ruote, le controllo con attenzione…. sono perfette….non potevo chiedere di più alla sorte.Un lungo abbraccio con Dost qualche foto e la promessa di mantenerci in contatto sono gli ultimi ricordi di Quetta e del Balucistan dove nonostante la pace sia solo un sogno, la vita scorre normale.Saliamo i lunghi tornanti che conducono a Babusar ben oltre 4000 metri, il caldo di Islamabad e’ un ricordo, qui l’aria dell’Himalaya scende gelida dai canaloni rocciosi, i fiumi sono impetuosi e bianchi di sabbia erosa dal granito. L’orizzonte e’ una corona continua di cime ben oltre i 7500 metri….. il cielo e’ blu intenso e le nuvole avvolgono di tanto in tanto le cime più alte…..Bashir ci aspetta a Karimabad, sono passati oltre quattro anni dall’ultima drammatica volta che ci siamo visti, quando il nostro camion e’ precipitato sul fianco di una di queste montagne. Lo spettro di allora e’ ormai lontano nella memoria, e inaspettatamente ci ritroviamo a salire con Bashir le stesse mulattiere di allora, ma con un altro spirito. Portare Giulio e Luisira su queste montagne solitarie e remote e’ una sorpresa inattesa , siamo solo noi quattro più Bashir e tre portatori, senza di loro sarebbe impossibile. Mentre salgo la ripida morena del ghiacciaio riaffiorano nella mia mente immagini dell’ infanzia, la montagna vissuta a fianco di mio padre, l’odore dello zaino un misto di polvere e di metallo dell’attrezzatura, il sibilo del vento e il silenzio non silenzio delle grandi pareti. Giulio e Lusira avanzano tra eccitazione e timore seguendo la traccia tra i crepacci. Il ghiacciaio vivo e pulsante esplode di tanto in tanto in boati quando i seracchi crollano. Guardo i piedi dei miei figli che ricalcano attenti le impronte e gli scalini tagliati nel ghiaccio verde e ascolto e rispondo alle domande infinite che si accavallano nella loro mente vulcanica. Questo e’ un vero apprendere, una miscela di esperienza e conoscenza che si cementerà’ indelebilmente nella loro mente. Il tempo scorre veloce, i mesi si accavallano ed e’ tempo di lasciare questa valle incantata. Saluto l’amico Bashir con il desiderio forte e determinato di tornare e salire con lui ancora più’ in alto, in cima ad uno dei tanti innominati picchi che fa da sentinella ai tre giganti Nanga Parbat, Rakaposhi e Shispar .

GIULIO:

Noi abbiamo avuto la scorta più’ forte del mondo, era un soldatino di 90 anni con i sandali aperti. Aveva un capellino rotondo e la sua motoretta, e quando si fermava, la motoretta ballava e l’omino di 90 anni quasi cadeva. Si e’ arrabbiato da morire quando dovevamo cambiare scorta, perché’ dormivano tutti e allora doveva continuare lui, ma dopo arrivo’ un altro omino, sulla moto. Pero’ mi e’ piaciuta anche Hunza, e’ un paesaggio bellissimo. A me e’ piaciuto anche il trek, e mi e’ piaciuto scordare il sacco a pelo e mi e’ piaciuto passare il ghiacciaio, sempre tante avventure, ma la cosa che mi e’ piaciuto di più’ delle altre e’ stato quando la tenda e’ collassata. Noi stavamo dormendo e la tenda ci e’ caduta in testa ma noi abbiamo continuato a dormire, la mattina dopo, alle 5 della mattina, a papa’ gli scappava la cacca e allora usci’ e sembrava un paesaggio mai visto. Era pieno di neve, ecco perché’ nella notte la tenda era collassata, per il peso della neve e papa’ usci’ dalla tenda e tolse tutta la neve e poi io mi sono alzato e ho bevuto il te e ho fatto un pupazzo di neve e poi abbiamo iniziato a salire la salita ripida. Il giorno dopo noi siamo passati su un sentiero terribilmente pericoloso e allora io e Lusira ci siamo legati con papa’ . C’erano sassi che pendevano e che potevano cadere in ogni momento, come se c’era un gigante che ci camminava sopra, come dei sassolini che cadevano dai passi del gigante. E poi siamo scesi da una discesa tremenda e siamo arrivati ad una capanna dei pastori e un amico mi ha regalato una testa di ibex e abbiamo fatto dei flauti con delle canne trovati, e la mattina dopo siamo arrivati al camion.

30/11/2016 | Categories: 2016 Pakistan | Leave a comment

Pakistan – Ahead to China

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The pass to China is at 4700 metres and we will need some kind of wind screen to keep out the cold. The first morning Luca drives with goggles. Bashir our faithful friend from Hunza, comes with us. He has been present during the whole operation , rushing to our side over the lake as soon as he heard the news (again thank you) helping both physically and morally . He wants to see us safely out of Pakistan. On the border in the small village of Sost, we find a metal worker specialised in body work. He bangs, burns and solders  the cabin late into the night until it’s a reasonable shape and regular enough to stick on a translucent plastic sheet  that will act as a windscreen. The kids sleep deeply  through the racket. Giulio has stopped wetting his trousers and now includes  ‘the rescue’ in his games, at the same time sticking to Luca like a little shadow. To see both the big solid truck ( he can’t remember much about home now) and his big, solid, father fall and crash in one single act has shaken him, but he’s getting his confidence back, surely and steadily. Lusira meanwhile does pretty paintings to decorate the broken windows, and plans beautiful restoration projects with Luca, for when we get home.

We reach the Chinese boarder in victory, with snowball fights and jubilation. The height has made us all heady and drunk and …I can’t believe my luck!!

There is always a silent message to be heard in strange events, and  perhaps in a perverse kind of way the accident has made the prospect of  coming home , easier…. We are together , healthy and there is still room for our dreams. The simplicity found on our travels and encapsulated symbolically  in our truck, is perhaps also  possible to achieve at home……we are suddenly able to plan and visualise our return , without regret or anxiety. The road ahead is clear, and I hope I will be able to sustain this new optimism until we get home.

24/06/2012 | Categories: 2012 Pakistan | 1 Comment

Pakistan – The Fall

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

A mountain road like many other we have driven, a few tight turns and narrow passages leading to a small lake and a glacier we want to explore. The exhausting  days  on Hunza Lake have taken their toll and we need a distraction. The view is glorious, spring has arrived and apricot trees as large as our oak trees line the road. We are invited to drink a salty tea inside one of the small flat, mud roved houses that make up this small village….a reminder of the Tibetan culture that is not far away. The old couple feed us on dried apricots and apricot stones that taste of almonds. Parked beneath snow capped mountains, we plan an excursion up the glacier. The path is lined with slippery slate and precarious boulders, but  the sight is spectacular. Both Giulio and Lusira walk the two hours it takes to reach the top, a small snack and time to turn back, the weather is changing. I feel exhilarated and fulfilled, this is part of what travelling is about. I plan future excursions with Luca…the children are exhausted but proud devouring the hot soup prepared by Tanja.

It is with these thoughts in mind that we descend to meet the other members of the ‘China group’ and it is perhaps this total tranquillity and sense of satisfaction that makes the next few days seem even more surreal.

Halfway down the slope, as I help Luca keep on track, I see to my horror the road disappear  beneath our wheels. “STOP”  We halt just in time, the gap is from wheel to wheel, 3 metres wide. I jump out  but have no immediate reaction, seconds pass loudly and Lusira is passed out of the window. Harald and Tanja join me quickly, I instinctively try and jam stones under the wheels , where they have fallen away. I quickly realise the road is handmade , and what seemed solid from above, from below is incredibly unstable. The sprinkling of soil on top, hid the telltale signs and the wall is now again crumbling under the weight of the truck. Harald screams to move  away from below, the stones are giving under the right wheel. I see Giulio looking out of the side window ….then in a few split seconds the truck is hurtling forward in a wild attempt to reach onto solid ground. This is the image that will repeat itself many times in my mind in the next few days – frozen by the adrenalin running through me. A mad nine ton truck flying desperately forward, scrambling in search of firm ground. For a few split seconds I think it will make it, but the wall continues to open like a zip as the truck passes. I feel sick  as the inevitable happens. The truck flies over the edge of the road and crashes heavily on its side on the next terrace, stopped by a stone wall from falling down the slope……images of a small crushed body and an unconscious , lifeless husband…I run screaming to the truck. Luca, to my confusion, jumps out vertically like a rabbit, when I reach the cabin… “Giuli?!!  Where’s Giulio??” – but unseen to me, a few seconds before , Giulio had been passed to Harald through the window and is sitting wide eyed on the rock beside Lusira – My family is safe!!

Is my glass half full or half empty? I juggle with this thought all day and all night. Of course it’s half full, but the truck nevertheless looks in bad shape…and I feel despair.

Luca has hit his head and has a large lump on his temple – he is in shock and we try and persuade him to lie down. I prize myself  through the broken window and enter a world of strange perspectives and wild jagged angles. I have to think hard to work out exactly which is the  cupboard with our passports and money. I’m walking on the wall and the floor is the ceiling. Lentils, chilli powder anchovy oil and diesel is somehow spread everywhere. The fridge has hurtled to the other side, smashing the window and tomatoes litter the mattress. We will surely have to abandon  our truck and fly home.

I have long realised that time is a slippery concept that  grows and contracts like an elastic, but now a new thought occurs to me. Solid objects too can change their identity, they are tightly bound to a specific space and context; if you drastically change these elements you no longer know their value or significance. I no longer know what’s important or useful to salvage ….clothes for the night or my travel diary? My head spins and I give up after taking the strictly practical things. Little amulets collected along the way are floating in olive oil along with Lusiras’ paintings and precious shells. The special order  of objects that once gave them their identity has been swept away in a few seconds and anarchy reigns in our much loved nest.

Once we have filled the unimog with what we feel is important, we leave the scene. One kilometre down the road is an empty guest house we can use to store pour belongings…and to sleep. We need to collect our thoughts. Villagers have migrated to the scene of the accident and diligently help us…again the glass is half full. Here in this valley people have seen their homes disappear beneath 50 metres of water. Only two years ago the ‘Hunza Lake’ was an embryonic rain cloud. I feel humbled.

The unimog too is a mess of objects we are all crammed in the back, when to my horror one minute after leaving our truck Luca shouts “NO….EVERYONE OUT!!!”  We clamber desperately over mountains of stuff that is blocking the doorway ,  throwing the children out and scattering like sheep . The road is now giving way beneath Haralds’ truck. Horrified we huddle together with the children. Tanja looks up and sees in a few seconds her truck crashed a few metres beneath ours “ What a terrible picture” she exclaims, but luckily it is not to be. There are many men now to help and the road is quickly stabilised beneath the truck .  I walk down to the guest house with Lusira on my back (shoes lost) together with Tanja in her socks (no time for shoes) feeling as if  we have taken part in some badly scripted,  terrible American movie….

The story is long…much too long, but the outcome is simple (and to my disbelief even today) but happy. We have managed to save the truck in a complex rescue operation. No large machinery would risk the bad road, so with three pulleys , many small jacks and levers and twenty men digging, the truck was pulled back onto its wheels in less than 24 hours after rolling over.

Holes were drilled into the rocks to anchor the pulleys, and the  large heavy  objects were secured inside the truck to minimize damage. The side I imagined caved in and open like a tin of beans, is strangely in tact…even the Pakistani paintings haven’t suffered too much. …but will the engine start?? And what other hidden damage?

After the first night huddled all together in a coldest of beds pushed next to each other, we sleep a deep and easier sleep, again everything is possible. The next day I salvage objects I had irreverently thrown in disgust, and hoard them jealously inside the guest house away from the elements, mentally visualising myself placing them back in to their old place. The engine starts after a few hours of  fiddling. The diesel filter is damaged and needs to be bypassed……but for now all else seems intact.

-we can most probably drive home-

A little dynamite handled with ease in this mining area is used to remove a large boulder awkwardly placed in front of our truck. A new track will have to be cleared to get us back on the road. Luca (very bravely – I was shaking and couldn’t look) drives the truck slowly and carefully down the slope. Men follow with shovels ,strangely silent and  ready to intervene… but it’s not necessary. Our group of ‘China crossing’ travellers, came immediately to help and support us on hearing the news (thank you..) and there is a cheer and emotion as the truck parks in front of the guest house. Only Lusira frowns with a few speckles of unhappy tears marking her face as she spots her poor crooked truck. She wasn’t involved in the rescue and sees it for the first time since it rolled.

But no time- we must drive tomorrow if we are to cross China with our present visas. After lunch there is a hive of activity that touches me. Everyone is doing something to bang our truck into a drivable state and to make our little nest homely again.

Tanja helps me order the anarchy of objects littering the guest house floor, and in four hours I manage to repack everything into the truck. Diesel smell and all, we will sleep in the truck tonight. Giulio is very unsettled and needs to be reassured. This morning he told Luca that he thought he (Luca) was very small and had died. His games in the past two days relive the scene. Lego cars roll over cushions and Giulio eerily echoes the very same words pronounced during the accident. I need now to spend a little time with my kids. 

17/06/2012 | Categories: 2012 Pakistan | 19 Comments

Pakistan – The Hunza valley

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Orchards, cherry trees in blossom, flowers and green green  grass,  mark the start of the Hunza valley- a small paradise surrounded by some of the most challenging mountains for Alpinists, not so much for their height ,but for their acute angles and dangerous conditions. Trekkers walk the narrow paths and ski fanatics take helicopters up to the glaciers and take their chances. Again faces have changed as well as costumes. This is the territory of the Ishmaelite, clear skinned, shorter and more Mediterranean in looks. The women wear round colourfully embroidered hats and look you straight in the eye. It is in this idyllic setting that disaster struck two years ago, in the form of the “Hunza Lake” a lake now 16 km wide created by one enormous land slide during the devastating rains that then led to wide scale  flooding of more southern areas of Pakistan. The valley is very narrow here and intervention in any way is risky for towns below. The mass of water is now so big it is unlikely it will ever be drained away totally. Villages ,trees and roads sit in silence below 50m of crystal blue water whilst the inhabitants could only look on, salvaging only the bare  essentials  and their lives.

Bashir our Hunza friend is at the entrance of Aliabad to greet us, but we are impatient to see the lake and rush ahead promising a meeting and chai in the evening. There are rumours that there will be a big blast in three days leaving little time for making any lake crossing arrangements…..we could have stopped and drunk a tea in retrospect, we discover that there are in fact blasts every day and rumours of a big blast have been circulating for months.  The first view of the lake is stunning, but the descent down is very steep and sandy. Chaos reigns as hundreds of Chinese tyres are unloaded by hand from the brightly coloured boats and loaded into Toyotas and tractors. The dust is incredibly fine and covers us all in a fine coat within a few minutes. Lusira and Giulio slip forward and cover themselves resembling little ghosts by the time we reach the truck again. The problem is immediately obvious, although the boats crossing the river look stable, one would need two leashed together to take the load of our trucks and more importantly,  how to load them on? The road is steep and narrow and there is only a small space for manoeuvre at the bottom, fine for a car but not so for a truck…..but we aren’t yet worried. We know there is a military pontoon that takes the big Pakistani trucks across the lake, we will try and arrange our crossing with them. But this is the start of an oriental saga……we soon discover that yes there is a pontoon, but that it needs two engines to push it and one has a broken injection pump . Four days of long negotiations with various ‘’influential ‘ people, comes to no avail. We have the usual…yes, o.k. no problem, maybe, perhaps no, not possible but I can extend your visa…. before we decide to pluck up courage and face the fact that we will have to load our trucks on to the wooden boats. Half of the group have now left the scenic campsite and are on the other side of the lake, we must be at the Chinese boarder in time to meet up again.

Bashir helps us with long negotiations and we descend from 700 to 200 dollars for each truck crossing. I volunteer for our truck to go first, I can no longer stand the suspense and want to get it over with. The decent down is painless, luckily all the cars usually parked on the narrow road are absent, today is rest day for many. Space is made behind the truck with a little digging and stones are used to prepare a sort of ramp. After one hour we are ready to load….but our boat is still at the other side of the lake!! Luca waits impatiently as the light dwindles. When the boats finally come it’s a rush against darkness. Much shouting and creaking and in one hour we are on, but it is now dark….after all our efforts, no photo, and a dash up to the top of the hill, Giulio has been crying for half an hour looking for his mummy.

I sleep with Giulio and Lusira in the unimog with Tanja, Theo and Nils whilst the men  make the two hour journey across the lake in the dark. Unknown to me the truck is also unloaded the same night, with the help of the local people who work untiringly shifting stones for two hours, a kind of ramp was made, making unloading painless and safe.

The night is wrestles and by the time I fall asleep it’s time to wake up. Wolfgang drives down the slope…his truck worries us most , it is long without power steering…but today we have light and time after four solid hours of preparation ‘Morpheus ‘ is ready to board. To load cheers with dignity she drives up the ramp and  on to  the planks. I will take the children across now, leaving luca to help Harald with our last load. The crossing is fun and yet eerie, the scenery is stark and majestic and we’re in good spirits – but the thought of drowned villages below adds an uneasy feeling to our ‘boat trip’. . I discover from the boat men that the wooden boats are only 18 months old. They were built on the opposite shore with local pine and  fir trees by craftsmen coming from southern Pakistan. Bashir explains that many people from his village no longer visit Hunza…the crossing and the  memory is too painful. The loud blasts remind us again  that this is no ordinary lake.

Our two boatmen head off to collect the last truck, as we run up the hill  to greet ours, happy the ordeal is over. ..But still more surprises, the weather has changed , it is now too windy for Harald to download, they will have to wait for more calm in a bay further up. Luca walks the 200m that separate us, it is again almost night fall but we can’t wait here. Current work on the lake has partially blocked the outlet over the past few days the  level has risen, rapidly covering the road that leads to the next village and up north. At first the task is daunting, some say the level is already one and a half metres high, others say it’s impossible. Then two young high spirited men shout from across the other side, they enter the freezing water with their clothes on to show us the direction of the road and the level of the water. It only reaches their thighs and they are pleased  with the   quick rupees they earn in the few minutes it takes us to cross. Just as I persuade Nils to sleep in Giulios’ bed, I hear the sound of a happy Pakistani horn and  recognise the short melody, it’s the unimog. We are all relieved, Nils returns happily to his own bed and Bashir sleeps, exhausted in our front cabin.

10/06/2012 | Categories: 2012 Pakistan | 2 Comments

Pakistan – Along the Karakorum Highway

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The road itself is not so different from any other roads driven so far, but it begins to weave its spell on you as you enter the north western territories. Here everyone is eager to tell you how unsafe it is, but somehow I feel very safe. The faces are those of honest people, a tall race with clear skin and piercing eyes. We are given a police escort in relay across each small regional boarder; they are friendly young and speak proudly of their own family. The Pashto dialect is totally different to anything heard so far adding to the sense of having crossed an invisible boarder. As we advance the high mountains close in and the Indus River crashes impressively through the valleys. This feat of engineering took 12 years to complete…but in the forty years since its completion the upkeep has never really been possible. The rock face, so steep and fragile continues each year to destroy parts of the road, blocking the passage and discouraging a true route of communication between China and Pakistan. The colourful trucks that so contrast with the grey slate mountains, are more often than not for local transport, supplying Gilgit and surrounding areas.

There is a decisively Afghani feel to the small towns we pass through. Smoky chai shops, wooden ladders leaning on shop fronts leading up to the second floors, typical woollen Pashto caps and not a woman in sight! Chapattis and local mutton spice up the air, and I feel a little in a time capsule. But we cannot stop, the police have planned our night stop further down the valley, and I’m left only with these fleeting impressions, unable to immerse myself fully in this particular reality.

Only three times did we manage to slip through the police net, diving on small tracks into narrow side valleys lined with mulberry trees. A large group of men sit in an orderly circle around Luca posing the few simple questions they are able to pronounce in English, they are aware of their international reputation and are eager to dispel the myth…”So how does it feel to be amongst the bloodthirsty terrorists of Al-Qaida?” jokes an elderly school teacher.

White mulberries are collected with nets and eaten by the hand full, and delegates of women come to meet Tanja and me, and invite us shyly into their domestic space. There is a family living just beside where we are camping, I’m surprised to see how integrated the dwelling is with the surrounding nature. A small stream has been diverted to pass through the property, beds with simple rope mattresses are lined up outside beneath the trees and a smooth stone with a perfect dimple inside acts as a double bed. There is an inflated goat’s skin hanging from the tree to make butter and a small one room hut, presumably for when it rains. All is screened of with simple colourful cloths and woven mats. By evening the word has inevitably spread, and we are assigned two police guards who sleep on string beds in the warm evening outside beside our trucks!

Next we attempt a high pass to test the smaller members of the group in high altitude. It’s cold and we see our first snow from close up. A few villagers light a huge fire and we admire the perfect stone walls and cultivated terraces that characterise the area (some with special pink poppies!)…but at around midnight our truck ceiling is lit up with a red and blue light. Apparently the police got word of our passage and have been searching for us since three hours, with a puncture on the high pass and only spotting us by chance shining lights on the new cheerful reflective fish that now decorate our trucks.

They want to shift us, but Luca is adamant…we have a problem with our gears and can’t move until we have repaired it in the morning. One policeman says he will sleep in the front of the truck to guard us. Luca gives him our spare sleeping bag and the matter is settled.

The next morning our guard casually passes me his Chinese rifle through the window so he can collect some fire wood. He assures me there is a secure and I place it dubiously on our bed, holding it like an exotic animal that might sting. I want it out before the kids wake….they are getting all to used to seeing fire arms and of course Giulio is attracted to them like a magnet.

Once out of the North western frontier territory, we are again free to circulate alone. There is the meeting point of three of the most inponent mountain ranges in the world: The Himalaya, the Hindu Kush and the Pamir mountains. Directly in front of us is the ‘killer mountain’ Rakaposhi proving us with a good opportunity to set camp and relax for a few days. For the first time in days our phones are active and we speak to the other members of our ‘crossing China’ group who are one day behind us, we arrange to meet up and celebrate the first of May with homemade tagliatelli and breathtaking views.

After many days wondering about the rocks hanging precariously above our heads, our fears are verified. A huge boulder and landslide fallen during the night, blocks the road to Gilgit. We will have to go back and find an alternative route on the other side of the river. We take our chance over a narrow suspended bridge, holding our breath as we cross, the wood creaking and moaning at our passage. A strong coffee is needed when we reach the other side to calm our frayed nerves…we promise each other this is the last such bridge we will cross!

Further down the road as we near Gilgit, we pass six burnt out buses, reminding us of the troubles in this area just a few weeks ago, later learning to our horror that twelve people were executed on this spot in the Sunni Shiite rivalries… …ideas about safety are always relative, depending on who and where you are in which moment.

03/06/2012 | Categories: 2012 Pakistan | Leave a comment

Pakistan – a break with the family

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

We enter in great style, our wheels only a few metres into Pakistani territory when we hear “Mr.Luca?” from the window. A boarder guard approaches us with a questioning face. The tendrils of family connections have already sensed our arrival and prepared the way to Arazi, the natal village of my father. If we want we will be officially escorted from Lahore with a police car. Needles to say we decline the offer. It’s not our style and I have a secret longing to find the way ‘home’ by myself. It’s an image I’ve kept jealously and so close to my goal I will not let it be snatched away at the last moment.

The Waga border between India and Pakistan is perhaps one of the strangest boarders in the world, so much so that film crews come from all over (unknown to me) to record the event. After carefully avoiding photographs as always in sensitive territory and comfortably parking our truck for the night near customs   , we are invited to go and watch the closing ceremony of the boarder. Along with hundreds of other Pakistanis who have come purposely to see the spectacle, we sit in the concrete arena constructed especially for the occasion. The atmosphere is that of a cricket match, with an extra tang of nationalism mixed in, with flags, special male cheer leaders with baseball caps and plenty of applause. After our long travels to get here I let myself go and get into the full spirit, cheering and laughing with everyone else. Lusira and Giulio are given two Pakistani flags and learn to chant “Pakistan Zindaban!”  (long live Pakistan) The guards are truly magnificent, over two metres tall and dressed in full military pomp. They march towards India with a ‘Monty python’ type walk impressive stamping, stomping , inflating of chests and other virile actions that are so exaggerated as to be hilarious and beautiful at the same time. I feel the presence of my father at my side, laughing heartily and nudging me secretly – we have made it!

Of course in ten years many things can change and have changed. My memory of the house gets confused. The two huge Banyan trees that were my reference point are no longer together and two new houses obscure my vision from the road. My family see the truck hurtling past without stopping, but after twenty minutes along small country roads a car appears and blocks our passage…it’s my cousin Zimran, now a young man but still recognisable.

Our arrival is met with relief and emotion…the last time I was here was to bury my father, and I never imagined so many years would have passed before my return.

The month spent here has been both relaxing and hectic, with one funeral (my elder uncle) and two birthdays (mine and Lusiras’) The first two weeks was spent living out actions prepared many times along the way. Lusira and Giulio played with the goats, dogs and chicken much as I had at their very same age. They learnt to make chapattis and were fattened up every morning on sweet milk and parathas. They henna their hair and decorate their hands, revelling in the warm attention of Abida , Shahid and Zimran. On weekends they get to know their little cousins, who also know how to sing “ringaringaroses..”

 Lusira true to our promise, went into the nearby town on her birthday and very bravely got her ears pierced (large man with fat not so clean hands and rough manners, turning her head unceremoniously from side to side and brandishing his tools like a pistol …needless to say I chickened out of my nose piercing) Outside with Lusira proudly wearing her new GOLD earrings, we stop with Abida in the market….up on a pedestal at her eye level is a large chunky man holding a sharp knife between his filthy toes. He cuts the meat expertly pulling it over the knife towards him, swinging agilely left and right to serve his disciples down below. Money is passed to a toothless transvestite on his right…I gape in amazement at this vision and try to picture Luca’s mothers face, I chuckle….just shopping for meat.

For my part attacked my huge mound of laundry, fought a hard battle against the Nepali lice, checking unwilling heads with fervour every morning   and buying all possible poison on the market. I perfected my knitting and often found myself wandering around like a ghost in a landscape belonging to the past, crossing doors that no longer exist opening on to verandas with echoing laughter from past times. It is both strange and good to be here. Shadi is the same as ever and we joke and reminisce about the past. He successfully bribes the children with daily chocolate and soon becomes their favourite ‘uncle’

Luca relaxed for a full week (still drinking his morning coffee in the truck) and then alternated his attention between visa applications and the servicing of the truck. We reconditioned all four springs and even organised a little Pakistani painting, unable to resist the temptation, not realising how much of our time it would have taken up……and how little time we would have to enjoy the final result.

Two weeks before our departure there is news of trouble in Gilgit……fighting, curfews and high jacks of rivalling religious groups in this hitherto calm area. We are again in the hands of destiny and events we have no control over, but ten days later to our relief we hear that the unrest is over, we can head north.

To leave wasn’t easy and goodbyes were emotional. We took a last visit to my fathers’ grave and the children said their goodbyes.  Gulio whispers “why can’t we open the stone and see him?” Lusira solemnly tells him she is sorry he died too soon and she would have liked to meet him, but she sends him kisses and flowers…

In Islamabad we meet up with our travelling friends and after a little last minute preparation head off towards the famed Karakorum Highway.

31/05/2012 | Categories: 2012 Pakistan | 2 Comments