Islamabad was planned in sixties as a new capital of Pakistan on the green marsh area under Margalla hills in the centre of the country. It has the form of perfect squares, roads are wide and straight, there is commercial area in the middle of every square, in F-9 the whole square is arranged as Fatima Jinnah Park, no rickshaws are allowed in the surprisingly quiet and clean town. When you pass the line between Islamabad and its twin city, Rawalpindi, the chaos immediately tells you, in which part of metropolis you are.
I exited TCS Visatronix office, where I applied for Indian visa. Because of the complex political situation between the two neighbour countries, I had to present countless documents. Among them were a letter explaining why I apply from Pakistan and not my home country, my planned itinerary with certain hotel reservations in India, bank account details, employer’s statement (I wrote that one by hand and signed myself), polio vaccination evidence (got in 2-minute visit of busy paediatric clinic), official visa forms with my current photo … My original passport was sealed in plastic envelope with all other materials. Standing on the hot sunny street I had no idea how long was going to take to get it back – some of my friends reported on waiting for 2 to 3 weeks!
I had enough time to reach Hindukush mountain range, on the border with Afghanistan. This time I decided to leave my bicycle in Islamabad and travel by hitchhiking or public transport. We were in contact with Nika, my Georgian friend I met for the first time in Istanbul, Turkey. We played basketball there together and had beautiful conversations at the seaside. He had travelled all the way by Jane, his comfortable car and little home, while painting numerous landscapes and portraits of people encountered.
On the way to Mansehra, where Nika was stuck after an illness and where he arranged his studio, I stopped in Taxila first. Ancient city changed its emperors numerous times, with Alexander the Great among them too. Recent excavations revealed Buddhist remains, well preserved stupas and sculptures hidden in surrounding villages and scenic hills, that put archaeological site on UNESCO’s World Heritage list. Suddenly it was late afternoon when I started to hitchhike in front of museum’s gate. Of course, a bunch of young men accompanied me beside the road. We talked and laughed but no car stopped as drivers couldn’t even see me. I had to walk away, jumping on the first local minibus with all feathery decorations hanging around it. My ride ended in the first random town. It was getting dark and I was standing beside the road still 80 km away from the final destination where my friend was waiting for me.
As always on the journey like this there is a mysterious force protecting travellers. It works, if you trust. But very often you don’t have any other option than trust … From the dusk another minibus arrived. Communicating by gestures and smiles while being squeezed on the seats with curious locals, we realised there are two passengers more trying to reach Mansehra. Bus driver decided to take the opportunity and began to shout through the window into the early night: Mansehra, Mansehra! By pure luck I found myself on the direct transport-line. We entered Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KPK) province without police checking me, passed Abbottabad town, where in 2011 Osama bin Laden was discovered and killed, and while listening to car-shaking loud music by amazing Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan that made me feel goose bumps we finally reached Mansehra. A friendly passenger paid for my dinner and invited me to his village. On the dark street of unfamiliar town Nika suddenly hugged me – wearing traditional shalwar kameez, shawl and black beard I couldn’t recognize him in the first moment.
We spent rainy days around the town or in the apartment provided by local school (friendly headmaster is on Couchsurfing). While Nika was sketching in his notebook, I was reading newspapers along local men in spacious library. We went to print some photos I wanted to send to my host family in Gilgit through Nika, who planned to travel there. On the way to printshop he took a photo of a man, sitting behind two cockerels in their cages. We printed this photo too and brought it back to the portrayed man – you can find his reaction two photos back. We were invited to sit down and drink chai.
Every day we were spoiled with meals brought in by house servant, but last evening headmaster kindly invited us for dinner in the restaurant, his teenage son accompanied us too. Our opinions and views collided politely in conversation above the table full of traditional food. In the morning headmaster showed me around the school before I continued to Peshawar.
Big, chaotic and polluted metropolis is home of Pashtuns, also known as Pathans, the second biggest ethnic group in Pakistan. City is an entry point to Afghanistan, you can get Afghan visa in few hours. While I was extending my mobile internet package, friendly shop owner invited me for lunch. I wandered around the old town, through endless labyrinth of busy bazaars set in the ground floors of historical buildings. They are slowly falling apart, while life continues on the streets in simpler form.
Wearing shalwar kameez I could easily blend in the crowds. Children were playing cricket on the streets and in the yards, balls dangerously flying around. Fully covered women in brown burqas, a net in front of their faces, were doing shopping and sit on the street in the evening waiting for fresh bread.
Sethi Street contains rare examples of Central Asian-inspired architecture, constructed by the once prosperous trader family. One of the houses is turned into museum. The intricate woodwork and carvings, along with ornamental interiors and stained-glass windows and ceilings, made me look around fascinated. I finished my day at Namak Mandi, the famous food street, crowded and smoky, just next to my loud and dirty budget hotel.
Peshawar’s tea, influenced by Afghan culture, is called kahwa and very different from prevailing chai, black tea with milk. They put cardamom seeds in delicious jasmine tea. I drunk my first kahwa with men in hat store. Often I ate Kabuli pulao, steamed rice with caramelized carrots, sweet dry raisins and lamb meat – another dish typical for Afghanistan.
Streets were full of surprises and kind invitations for tea, often with mostly gesture communication. Only when a policeman invited me for a tea next to Hindu temple, I felt uncomfortable as he seriously suggested me to ‘read holy Quran, then you will believe.’
In the afternoon I stopped rickshaw on the dusty road to bring me to bus station. I reached Takht-e-Bhai, a thousand years old Buddhist temple-complex under UNESCO’s protection in the early evening. Monk cells, stupas, stone paths and stairways were spread around the green slopes and underground too. The only foreigners, group of tourists from Thailand, were escorted by armed men. Sun was setting and colouring the ancient walls with marvellous light. Where am I going to sleep tonight?
Policemen and guards didn’t allow me to camp in green and spacious front of the temple area. They insisted I have to leave with rickshaw, my driver was still waiting there on their demand and asking for extra money. After a short quarrel (security reasons forever) I decided to leave and find accommodation in the valley. Policeman accompanied me on rickshaw. I ended up in Mardan, in dirty hostel with curious local students. I felt like travelling back in time siting with them in their room, eating melon on the floor, while they told me only one son, usually the eldest, from the family can afford to study. I knew the story from my grandmother’s memories. Only now I was actually meeting my grand uncles in some strange way … They were happy to tell me about their way of dating girls. It mostly consists of texting on the phone, after your friend gets her phone number. A forbidden exchange of looks across the street is often the climax of their affair. At the end families decide about the possibility of marriage.
Heading towards Chitral in the North, police control got heavier again. They don’t use computer systems (lack of electricity?), so I had to fill paper forms and pose for photo on numerous check posts. Recent years in the area were difficult, with Pakistani Talibans taking over the conservative Swat Valley in 2014 and violent army operations following under the pressure of the West. In Timargara, lower Dir, I was brought to police station and escorted by armed men to hotel. I was not allowed to move around independently. Luckily manager of Shelton hotel was helpful and understanding. He even took me for a hike in the dripping rain, while I was waiting for my cyclist friends, Armin and Salome, to arrive.
In the afternoon we were together again, for the 5th (and last) time on the trip! They took over the hotel kitchen to make perfect porridge for breakfast. They continued cycling towards Peshawar and later Afghanistan, escorted by their own police team.
Squeezed in various vehicles I passed serpentine roads over the scenic mountains and into the rain to finally reach Chitral late in the evening. Policeman waited for me on the bus stand. He walked with me to my accommodation. After registration and exchanging phone numbers I was free.
‘Do you know there is a polo game today?’ a man running a food place told me next day at lunch. He made a phone call and a bit later I sat in the big brand-new jeep of healthcare organisation, reaching Dolomutz village 10 km away.
Masses of people were approaching remote stadium. For the first time I could admire riders kicking the white ball in impossible directions while galloping on their horses. They are famous for free-style polo, everything was allowed in the game. If the player gets injured the opposite team has to take one player out too. It can really go wild! The most famous is summer polo festival at near-by Shandur Pass, at the highest polo-ground in the world. Later I watched polo trainings at Chitral polo-ground, squatting among rows of local men following every move and gesture in the field with applause, shouts and laughter. Polo originates from Central Asia, they play it in Afghanistan today too, only later British introduced it in Europe.
Ishak invited me to sit with his friends on the chair in first row. After the game I was invited to join them on the red rug in the orchard, with local prince lying among too. Soon bottles of mulberry and apricot spirits (tara) from near-by Kalash valleys (they practice pre-Islamic belief there) were getting emptied. Stories and black humour were mixed with the smoke and singing along guitar. It turned into wild drinking party under the night sky full of bright stars. Around midnight we were served amazing royal dinner in the hut, with surreal animal trophies quietly watching from the walls. A servant put his cigarette between his two thumbs on the same hand and laughed.
Packed in the small jeep, 7 people on 4 seats – I was literally hanging from the ceiling – we approached Chitral over dusty and winding road in the middle of the night, stopped twice for cigarettes without exiting uncomfortable car and hugged gravestone of a friend on the way. Of course, in my hotel they were worried for me and ready to inform the police! Huh, it was only my first day in Chitral.
Meanwhile women live in their parallel well-hidden universe. Often they feel lonely and depressed. In front of the palace three local girls surprisingly approached me. They asked me discretely to take their portraits and exchange phone numbers. Guard started to shout at us from the distance! It felt like a crime. I respect their courage – these girls are contemporaries of Malala from near-by Swat Valley, who risked her life in the fight for girls’ education rights. For her actions she won Nobel Peace Prize at the age of 17.
In the morning policemen came to hotel to check on me. They told me I needed a guide if I wanted to hike in the surrounding mountains, after I said the truth about my plan. It felt complicated. But luckily I met Imran. Constantly wearing sunglasses over his disabled eye, with amazing energy and speaking English fluently, he explained me the details of the tour to Chitral Gol National Park. He worked as a guide and agreed to take the responsibility for me. He just informed the police – I left on my own over the shortcut through the steep stairs from the main road.
A king had a hunting residence once on the mountain, now there is a wildlife hut. The white cathedral of Tirich Mir, the highest mountain of Hindukush, stood silently in the distance. From the narrow valley I reached high pastures, famous for markhor goat, national animal of Pakistan. Stunning white peaks grew up in all directions like in amphitheatre, with Afghanistan just behind the closest range. Suddenly a big male markhor with curved horns stood in front of me on the path. And as suddenly he disappeared. I turned around and saw the whole herd of markhors running over the vast grassland!
Among the huge deodar trees I reached the wilderness hut. A man with big knife in his hands approached me. Come for chai, he said kindly. We sat around the fireplace in wooden cottage. I continued to the snow-covered ridge further up.
On my way back a family, building in the steep yard of their house, invited me for biscuits and chai. Father was a teacher, curious about life in the West. He explained neighbour’s house was washed away in recent heavy rain and showed me cracks in the wall. They were trying to make the terrace holding their home stronger, with help of neighbours and relatives.
Imran took me to his home in Chitral, he wanted to lend me small gas stove and bottle for trekking, as we couldn’t refill mine. On the way we stopped for bread and talked to friendly bakers working in front of burning tandoori oven. Walking along water channels through dark narrow lanes and steep stairs with people sitting in hidden corners and children playing in the yards, I discovered another Chitral.
I had to spend few days more in the town after I got food poisoned. I could read my book Pakistan, a hard country and watch polo trainings. Finally I was strong enough to pack my bag and squeeze in the public jeep towards Shabronze village at the base of Tirich Mir. TV team made an interview with me in the bazaar with Imran yelling behind: ‘Tell them everything, talk about your bad experience with police escort …’ He knows what means to travel independently as he has travelled out of Pakistan by himself and sincerely wants a change in national tourism agenda.
Long public-jeep ride through the rain to the last village was adventure itself. Subadar, an ex-soldier became my host and guide, recommended by Imran. I brought from Chitral food for two, but we were suddenly four, as guide’s teenage son wanted to join and a friendly young policeman followed me since the last check post. We had only my single-person tent. Rain was falling heavily while we were sitting on the rug, all of us covered with one big blanket.
In the morning before departure policeman asked me if he should pack some extra warm clothes. I said yes, but please leave the heavy rifle under my bed. After some light-hearted arguing he actually did! At start I was annoyed by his presence, but realised he was humble and truly helpful with translation too. My backpack was the heaviest of all!
In the mountains I witnessed their wonderful survival skills. We made three fires: for food, teapot and heating the small cave under the boulder, their place to sleep. They built their mattresses out of bushes too to get some isolation. It was snowing when we reached New ldylls, base camp of Norwegian expedition at their pioneer ascent on Tirich Mir (7708 m).
In the evening dramatic peaks came out of the clouds with sun setting behind to make me stare in amazement. We spent the evening next to the fire in the cave – talking, eating, listening to music and smoking.
Around 4 a. m. I heard sound of an axe. It became too cold in the cave, they were cutting new fire wood. I turned around in my tent and slept a bit more. Later we walked the moraine with Subadar and reached giant crossroad of icefalls and glaciers.
In the walls we could see and hear avalanches constantly sliding down. Surrounded by endless snow I tried to imagine snow leopards living here in this rough wild world.
Meanwhile policeman and guide’s son were lying in the bush trying to shoot a snowbird for our lunch. Unsuccessfully. We improvised a meal from a can of chickpeas and ghee with chapati instead.
Back in Shabronze we were exhausted and hungry. After dinner Subadar brought me a gift – traditional woollen hat with markhor badge. They were truly curious to see the trekking-guide book I carried with me, checking the maps and names of the familiar places. On my phone navigation the area we walked through was just a blank spot.
Last day we walked with my police friend back to the valley, we were too tired to catch the only early-morning public jeep. It was strange to see old man running away from us after seeing an uniform – with unlicensed hunting rifle in hands. We stopped a passing motorbike and put all our luggage on. By foot we reached police check post, collected bags and I jumped on the pick-up going out of the valley. My last police ride, I thought. I felt experienced enough to join their forces, what do you think?
Have you ever tried to hitchhike with policemen? It works pretty easy. They stopped every car on the empty main road and asked drivers to take me. I reached Chitral by small garbage truck. While trying to find Imran to return him unused stove, his friend took me around on motorbike and helped me to find shared taxi to Ayun, the entry village to the three Kalash valleys. In Ayun police helped me in the same manner, they stopped a jeep and I joined local tourists in the dense traffic on the narrow dirt road towards Rumbur valley. Chilam Joshi, spring festival was just going to happen there.
Kalash people still practise their powerful pagan rituals, asking for good harvest. They managed to resist through history and maintain their unique traditions, from all directions surrounded by Muslim world. Just last year Afghan Talibans attacked one of their valleys coming over the mountain pass and Pakistani army had to intervene.
At the top of the village there is a wooden temple and sacred boulder. For hours women were dancing in circles accompanied by drumming and singing, falling in trance. Their colourful clothes and handmade shushuts (headdresses made of wool, beads, shells …) are stunning.
They wear traditional dresses every day – while washing clothes beside the river, walking the cow, girls go to school like this, children play on the street – their hair shaved, but still with few long black braids under shushut. I got a scarf from one of the women, a symbol of being their guest. She told me she was studying in Chitral to become a businesswoman. I was surprised to realise she had never travelled further than Chitral (35 km away).
The peak of the festival was a ritual with walnut leaves. They were moving them rhythmically in hands to the sound of drums and suddenly threw them towards the sacrificial temple upstream. Men went up to the boulder with goat following them on the steep stairs. They offered milk, cheese and bread to the fire and had a feast. Nobody from outside the village was allowed to join.
More dances followed. They formed a human chain, running energetically around the dancefloor. I met interesting travellers there too. Long-haired Freddy from Britain in white shalwar kameez was learning local language and was eager to collect their songs and tales. I stayed at Engineer‘s guesthouse, where we had wonderful evenings in international company. We drank tasty Kalash red wine on the terrace, while sharing stories from all around the world with inspiring people. River murmured in the background, hidden among the greenery. Every day we decided to stay longer!
Engineer, English language teacher with an unusual name and our host, took me and my American friend to Bumburet for a day trip. We entered dark homes and had chai, but visited Kalash museum too. We stopped at the graveyard, wooden coffins were lying above the ground. We found the grave of Jordi Magraner, Spanish zoologist, who lived with Kalash for years and was brutally murdered, accused of homosexuality. Few wooden statues remained in the corner.
One can get also very different experience of the festival. Bumburet valley is the biggest and most famous among local tourists. There are around 70 hotels and I got impression Disneyfication of Kalash culture is happening. Without hesitation visitors (mostly men) admitted, they were coming to see beautiful Kalash women and drink prohibited alcohol. It was sad to see how disrespectful local tourists could be, with their phones constantly taking photos and filming. They approached us, foreigners, in the similar way, not even asking for selfie. Annoying!
Engineer introduced me to his classroom in Rumbur. We had English conversation, students were asking me about my cycling adventure. To my surprise boys and girls were visiting lessons together. Majority were Kalash. In government schools Islamic education is obligatory, they have to study Quran. Often girls cover themselves over traditional Kalash attire. Sometimes Kalash convert into Islam to marry a Muslim.
Traditionally Kalash women have right to decide and change partner without man’s agreement. Every village has bashaleni – maternity home, where women move during their period or to give birth, in that time they are considered impure (in Kalash sense).
Today around 3000 Kalash live in three remote valleys, but with new roads and tunnels built, arrival of new technologies and better education new challenges are set on their way to preserve unique culture. As Bismah, my friend from Islamabad warmly said: Long live Kalash!
Last day of Chilam Joshi, spring festival, an old man died after a long illness. Kalash people from all three valleys were coming to say goodbye. Women were dancing to the sound of drums around dead body resting in the bed in the yard. Men waved red flags, symbol of the clan.
When the guests came, they unveiled dead man’s face, with banknotes around his ears and big feather above forehead. Visitors cried and gave long respectful speeches talking to the dead. I was stunned and my eyes filled with tears. Funeral customs I witnessed reminded me of a theatre ritual. Some scenes were acted but bigger than life.
Mourning took three days, the rain was dripping. Forty goats were slaughtered and cooked in big pots beside the river.
We ate in groups sitting on the ground. Joy became the prevailing feeling, as death is considered just a change of the natural form. On the black & white photos in the museum I recognized the same scenes I took part in during the funeral.
A sound of rifle echoed in the air above the valley in honour of the dead. Men dug the body in the shallow soil and put over the empty bed.
After a week in Rumbur we were last to leave with Diego, my new friend and long-term traveller from Spain. It was difficult to say goodbye to that magic place, one of my favourites on the journey. We walked out of the remote green valley with our backpacks on in hope to catch a ride. At the end we joined into the jeep and got invited by passengers for lunch in Ayun. They even ordered and paid taxi for us to reach bus stand on the main road!
We were drinking fresh and dense apricot juice there while sun was setting. Our night bus was going to arrive any time. Diego continued to Peshawar and Afghanistan, while I got good news – my Indian visa was waiting for me in Islamabad!
And my dear bicycle too.