Mountain Retreat

I'm afraid the previous posts may have painted a picture of the KKH that is a shade bleaker than I actually meant it to be. True, in its current state the KKH is hardly fit for any form of transport, let alone the kind that involves fully-loaded touring bicycles without suspension. Add to that the blood feuds and freakish weather swings that often shake up these parts, and this particular leg of my journey starts to sound like a struggle for survival rather than the highlight I had imagined it to be. More than once have I asked myself why on earth I was so bent on looping around Afghanistan. Nowadays, most cyclists leave Pakistan for what it is and cut straight through Central Asia to get to China. A sensible shortcut, I now realise. At least it allows you to cycle all the way. Besides, the roads there couldn't possibly be worse than the KKH.

Fortunately, the moments of sheer exhilaration easily outnumber the times I'm tempted to gift-wrap my bike and hand it over to the first passer-by. For one, the sense of accomplishment is far greater than anywhere else. But what really makes this stretch worthwhile are the pit stops. Having pushed yourself to the limit the day before, there is nothing like wasting away an entire afternoon in the orchard of a forgotten hotel a few miles off the KKH, book in hand, a stack of snacks within arm's reach. Equally fine was the hike to Rakaposhi Base Camp, which, due to my pathetically underdeveloped navigation skills, turned out to be a wonderful hike to a nameless side valley.

But that wasn't all. Relaxation bordered on bliss in Karimabad, a sleepy village that overlooks the stunning Hunza Valley. Snowy peaks up above, a raging river down below, and in between rows of poplars sprouting up from near-vertical mountainsides. The view from the village is so enchanting that many people end up staying a lot longer than they anticipated, myself included. My neighbour at the Hunza Inn, a US-educated fellow from Karachi, was entering his seventh month in Karimabad when we met. To the horror of his family he gave up a well-paid job in the city—and with that the prospect of marrying a suitable girl—for the uncertainty of a new life in the rugged north. He now devotes his time to grassroot projects in and around the village, one of which revolves around the recording and promotion of local folk music. Sometimes I would wake up to the sound of a quavering voice accompanied by a softly strumming guitar. There was no denying that Hunza was working its charm on me.

All in all, my stay in Pakistan couldn't have ended in a more curious fashion. After the noise and clatter that dominate life in the Indus Valley, the peace and, above all, the fresh mountain air of Hunza came as a huge relief. The splendour of the scenery seems to have a definite effect on the locals, too. The Hunzakuts are a lively people with ruby cheeks and a keen disregard for low-land Pakistanis. Almost all of them are Ismaili Shi'ites, a very laid-back branch of Islam. Rather refreshingly, Ismaili women don't hide behind veils, nor do they stay at home all day. They are very much out and about, working the fields, taking classes, buying groceries, giggling at the sight of a lanky foreigner walking by.

Each day I spent exploring the area or simply drinking in the view from the bench outside my room seemed to contribute to the restoration of something vital. Life regained a sense of normalcy amid surroundings that are among the most outlandish I've ever seen. To me, that could well be the ultimate wonder of northern Pakistan.