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MOUNTAINS measure time in millennia. The sight of Nanga Parbat’s peak from the plane as we neared Gilgit reminded me that PIA’s aircraft and I had grown older: the Himalayas had not.
On an earlier trip to the northern areas years ago, I had missed a detour to Fairy Meadows. Guidebooks persuaded me that what lies above is “a lovely high plateau with level upon level of meadows and direct view of Nanga Parbat’s north side”. The climb had been described as “the second most dangerous journey in the world”. (The first must be the perilous path to the prime ministership of Pakistan.)
The expedition up to Fairy Meadows took about four hours — two in a rattling jeep over stone-strewn hairpin bends, and then another two straddled on a hairy horse reluctant to plod the narrow, hazardous track of rocks and mud.
The reality of Fairy Meadows today is a soggy uneven field, ringed by an urban sprawl of middle-class hotels, designed for domestic tourists. Perversely, it is to discourage them that locals make the approach so daunting. Locals could improve the road but refuse to, as that would jeopardise the livelihood of over 100 taxi drivers and horse-owners.
The scenery is bliss until one reaches barriers and bureaucracy.
The journey down followed a path edged by precipices. A prayer muttered before and after each life-threatening turning is helpful.
The drive from Gilgit to Hunza is life-affirming. En route, a view of Rakaposhi marred by a highflying cyclist on a wire. Hunza is as one remembers it — crowded certainly, but still soft, silent, serene. The tourist season has yet to start, so shopkeepers are keen to catch the odd visitor as a chameleon does flies, for food.
Fine dining is best at any local eatery. The most famous is run by a matriarch whose dai dao vegetable soup and shapshuro parathas stuffed with yak mince merit a trek up a cobbled hill.
A day trip to Khunjerab is to recall the balmier days of Pak-China friendship. The route takes one past the newly formed Attabad Lake, churned by a flotilla for tourists who want a boat trip this far from Karachi. Four tunnels still boast of Pak-China friendship. The pink and white blossoms on apricot trees, the rugged layered compressed geology, and the breathtaking vistas evoke a soundless homage to nature, and to those who sacrificed their lives to build the Karakoram Highway.
The scenery is bliss until one reaches barriers and bureaucracy. Our driver whispered to the guard that he was escorting ‘official guests’. Other cars with less inventive drivers had to queue.
The drive to Khunjerab Pass I had made earlier had been in the summer. Then, the rolling fields were green and flush with flowers. This time, there was snow everywhere. The mass of whiteness almost dwarfed the massive Chinese gateway.
Khunjerab is a sad example of the clash of civilisations. The Chinese side is patriotism in adversity. It is orderly, sober and designed for its tourists. They are allowed up to no-man’s land, where they stand waving red flags as they would have once Mao’s red book.
Our side is perversity in adversity. An armed guard warns inquisitive tourists against crossing into no-man’s land. Another reminds the first to do his job. They try to close the wire gate. Like a CAA airport trolley, it has a broken wheel.
The journey from Khunjerab down to Hunza is a leisurely descent through indescribable natural beauty. The last of the snows fight for life in deep crevasses. Streams of colourful sediment record earlier flows. God created these northern areas for artists and mobile cameras.
Close to Hunza is the Altit Fort (a sibling to Baltit Fort). The area has been converted with ineffable taste into a tourist attraction with chalet accommodation offering stunning views.
No promontory in Hunza though can match the panorama available from Eagle’s nest at Doikar. Once one had to drive zigzag through potato fields to obtain an eagle-eye view of the valley nestling between soaring mountain peaks. Today, Doikar is a smattering of low-end hostels and fast food eateries.
Should one regret the change that tourism has brought to our northern areas? Fifty years ago, Murree was the place to see, and be seen. It is still a second holiday home to those tired of Oxford Street.
An expert on tourism once advised the government not to expect foreign tourists until our domestic tourism has been developed to acceptable standards. Today, tourist sites like Gilgit and Hunza are experiencing a growing surge of Pakistanis, desperate to escape the cauldrons simmering in the plains between Karachi and Rawalpindi.
PIA may not remain forever PIA. The ancient petroglyphs of Haldekish hopefully will remain for another millennia. Perpetuity though is on the side of our majestic mountains.
The writer is an author.
Published in Dawn, April 24th, 2025
