A Short Drive Through the Karakoram

 Image: Ankur Shah
Khunjerab Pass, Pakistan/china border The newly constructedChinese gatewayat the highest navigable pass in the world( 5000 metre altitude)

In the late 19th Century, when Europeans first began to explore the north, the road was not even a passable trail. John Biddulph, the first European to return alive from Hunza, wrote: “On the occasion of my visit to Hunza in 1876, I suddenly found myself confronted with a more difficult and dangerous piece of ground than I had ever traversed in a tolerably large experience of Himalayan sport.”
A narrow trail, often without footholds, landslides down steep slopes, deadly rivers below, all made the road almost impervious to traffic.

But the British were paranoid about a Russian advance through the high passes of Central Asia, and subsequent invasion of Kashmir and then the plains of India. As the Great Game rose to a crescendo in the 1880s, British soldiers, politicians, and amateur explorers of all stripes attempted to build their careers on securing the Raj’s unknown flanks. The Karakoram proved impassable for infantry or artillery, but “the chance of a scrap” drove desperate and ambitious young men to Gilgit, the last British Agency in the north.

None was more ambitious than Colonel Algernon Durand, brother of the Foreign Secretary of British India (Henry Durand, after whom the Durand Line is named).

In the early 1890s, his Gilgit Agency launched two desperate, under-manned offensives, ostensibly to subjugate local kingdoms. Even as survey officers proclaimed, according to Keay, “We have no reason to fear a Russian advance through the passes,” Durand’s men attacked Chitral in the west. The subsequent mobilisation of the regular army to lift the siege on Durand’s men, and the extreme difficulty in crossing Malakand and Lowarai passes confirmed that the Karakoram would not bear the passage of armies.

As we near the border at Khunjerab Pass, we make way for one Chinese 18-wheeler container truck after another. The jawans at the final Pakistani outpost are delighted to see us. We share a swig of Chinese arak, and I grimace as I swallow, greatly amusing them. Beyond a windswept no-man’s land at the roof of the world, a new gateway to China is under construction: A ghastly replica of the entrance to the Forbidden City. The red flag with its five golden stars flutters above.

On the border, the mud track rises abruptly by two inches and becomes a four-lane tarmac road smooth enough to play carrom on. We are told it is like this all the way to Kashgar, in China’s Xinjiang Province, and will soon be the same to Islamabad, via the new 30-metre road we have seen being built by the Chinese. And onward via rail to Gwadar Port (built by the Chinese) on the Arabian Sea.

The glimpse of the rolling domes of the Pamirs and China’s staggering vision leaves me subdued.

Image: Ankur Shah

DUIKAR, HUNZA VALLEY Light from the setting sun over Distaghil ans Spantik peaks from Eagle Nest, far aboveKarimabad

We spend the night by the Hunza River in Passu, a small village overshadowed by the mouth of a spiny glacier and Tupopdan, a dramatic cathedral of spire-shaped rocks. The cavernous, dimly lit dining space of the Soviet-inspired hotel is not welcoming. The food is oily and unappetising, but the Chinese beer is refreshing, and our host, Ahmed, is worldly and wise. My Indian identity opens a reservoir of goodwill. We talk about social isolation in big cities, where offering a ride to strangers is rare. Growing up in Passu, Ahmed and his friends rolled burning rubber tires down the slopes at night. The mountains create an unbearable urge, he explains, to escape the mental cage imposed by the high horizon and the narrow valley. Pyromania is suddenly understandable. Ahmed refuses payment and the night leaves a lump in my heart as we part with yet another stranger who opened his arms to us.

Two days later, the bus to Rawalpindi, 18 hours down the Karakoram Highway, pulls out of Gilgit without incident. We are in separate seats but our fellow passengers will not hear of it, and make room for us to sit together. At multiple breaks to replace flat tyres or stretch our legs, our companions share food, water, and their lives with us.

The man on my left is a branch manager of the National Bank of Agriculture from Siachen, going to Islamabad for training on a new loan product. He shows us pictures of his daughters on his cellphone, is curious about Lonely Planet’s assessment of his village and its touristic offerings. At Dassu, in lawless Indus Kohistan, he will not hear of us paying for our lunch. For once there are vegetables, and I savour the bhindi and lightly-fried green chillies.

At the Pir Wadhai terminal, Rawalpindi, a college friend has sent his car for us. The car, and the driver who rushes to take our bags, feel alien. We are like country bumpkins: Proud of our innocent adventure, warmed by our bonds with our neighbours, resentful of the big city lights that shine through the smog.

Half-way home, we realise we did not offer our banker friend a ride, or even wish him goodbye.