We had been to the usual tourist destinations in China –the Great Wall, Shanghai, Xian, Guanjo (Canton)–and decided to skip them in order to fly to southwestern China and then drive over the mountains of the Hindu Kush into northern Pakistan. So we were not too concerned when we were told while boarding the non-stop flight from Beijing to Urumqi in western China that we would have one refueling stop in Xian. It did become rather troubling when we were still in Xian three days later. However, this was not totally surprising as were flying China‘s national airline, CAAC (also known then as China Air Always Crashes). Whilst in Xian, we revisited the famous Terra Cotta Warriors, the Banpo Neolithic Village, and other attractions.
When we finally landed in Urumqi, we missed the chance to buy a camel at the Sunday fair. So we had to risk CAAC again and fly to Kashgar. This city, located on the former Silk Road trade route in the southwestern corner of China, is home to several minorities. Recently, the ethnic Uighurs have demonstrated for self-government, but Beijing has violently quashed the disorders and imprisoned many of the protesters. In 1990, there were no rioting Uighurs in China, and Pakistan was supposed to be safe for convoys of vehicles.
Our small group set out from Kashgar in 4 Wheel Drive Toyota Land Cruisers. We were determined to scale the Karakorum Range of the Himalayas, cross the frontier border through the Khunjurab Pass, and then descend from the heights of the Hindu Kush into northern Pakistan. After a full day of driving, we came to a small mountain hamlet. Opening the door to our room in a very basic inn, we were surprised to see a television and a shower. Fran disillusioned me: “The TV won‘t work because there‘s no electricity. Also, there‘s no hot water, and we‘ll have to fill the tank for the toilet to flush.”
The next day we were up early, aiming to make it to the border crossing by noon, so we could reach the first village in Pakistan before nightfall. Sure enough, we made the 17,000 foot high frontier on time. Our tour escort took our passports and told us to expect a wait of a couple of hours while he negotiated with both the Chinese and Pakistani border officials. I decided to walk around to see what this highland area held.
I was accosted by a scruffy, bedraggled woman. She looked to be in her late thirties, possibly a “flower child“left over from the 1970‘s. Her hair was dirty blonde, both in the color and in the unwashed sense. She told me a very strange story:
“My name is Mary Anderson, and I‘m from Concord, New Hampshire. I was traveling around China with some friends a few months ago. They ran out of money so they headed back to Urumqi to fly home. I stayed on my own, just hitching rides around the countryside. But then I was abducted by a local tribal chief and kept prisoner in his village for two months. They made me their slave, and I had to perform both household and sex duties. I managed to escape a week ago and had only enough money to take the bus up here. I need $10 to leave China, get a Pakistani visa, and take the bus. If you loan me the money, I will call my mother when I get to Islamabad, and she will mail you a check.“
This was obviously a trumped up tale from a former druggie hippie designed to get a few bucks out of a soft-heated fellow American. But it was such an intriguing yarn that it was worth even more than she was asking, and I handed her a $20 bill. She thanked me, and ran to try and get across the border in time to catch the local bus. Fran and the rest of the group had a great time making fun of me for being such a sucker. They assured me that Mary probably hung around the area recounting her tale of woe to easy touches like me, and that my generosity had merely helped support her drug habit.
We cleared customs and started the long, slow, downward grade. The road changed from somewhat-paved on the Chinese side to shifting gravel in Pakistan. Occasionally, we passed over small mounds of stones where a landslide had occurred in the last few days. The most frightening moment was when a baseball sized rock bounced off the side window, making a loud cracking noise but not shattering the glass. More than once, we had to wait while our drivers and guide cleared the road from a recent avalanche. We were told to stay in the vehicles for two reasons:
1) another rockslide could occur anytime, and we were more protected inside the vehicles;
2) the blockage in the road could have been put there by local bandits, and again, we were safer within.
Our nerves got even more frazzled when one of our group told us that a car with German tourists had been stopped on this road by brigands, and the visitors’ bodies were found a couple of weeks ago. Although we had signed on for a journey of adventure, neither avalanches nor bandits had been mentioned in the tour brochure.
The Hindu Kush is a magnificent range of mountains. There was snow on many of the summits even though this was not winter. Our new Pakistani guide, Mohammed, pointed out K-2, the second highest peak on earth, towering in the distance. We then asked him the names of a couple of others. He answered:
“We have so many high mountains that we really don‘t give names to more than a few of them.” He laughed and continued: “I have to tell you about a recent group of Japanese tourists. They were photographing every hill and they insisted on knowing the name of each one for their photos. So I gave up on telling them they were unnamed, and just made up titles for each one. In the future, if you ever of Potato Peak, Cabbage Mountain, or Tomato Heights, you‘ll know the name came from me.” Then we wondered what stories Mohammed told the Japanese groups about the American tourists.
Mohammed was an interesting character. Tall for a Pakistani, his long, sorrowful face was an indication of the dilemma he was facing. One day we saw raised red welts on his back, complete with some fresh droplets of blood. Then he explained his predicament: “I am a devout Muslim, and the marks on my back are from the self-flagellation required by Islam during Ramadan. I respect and honor my father and his wishes. But I have met and fallen in love with a French girl. She is not a Muslim, but she is now my fiance. I cannot tell my father as it would dishonor him. He would beat me and banish me, but I also love my fiance. What am I to do?“ Like many questions about life that youth has always posed, it went unanswered. Muhammad is the most popular first name in the world, and there are probably quite a few of them in the same quandary.
We continued snaking down the mountain, hugging the side, with sheer drops of immense height just inches off the road. Barely visible far below was a rapidly running stream, with green bushes growing alongside. But to get there would take quite some time. When we would finally get near the bottom of one Z-shaped track and ford the rivulet, we would immediately start back up another series of crosshatched turns towards the high pass between the next set of peaks. What was totally astounding was the realization that this same tortuous pathway had been used for 2000 years by intrepid travelers and merchants. They walked this same trail to trade with the Chinese living on the other side of the Himalayas; hence the name, the Silk Route.
Eventually we reached the green valley at the base. There were fruit orchards, grain fields, and small huts. This was the beautiful area called Hunza, and some have compared it to Shangri-La in Kashmir. We arrived at the village of Gilgit and piled into the small inn that was to be home for the night. Instead of laying down to rest from the long, bone-rattling journey, Fran checked the Lonely Planet Travel Survival guidebook, and found a listing for a local mini-museum. Yes, we had to go now. We followed the travel writer‘s explicit directions:
“Two blocks down, turn left, then right, then knock on the door of the small building, and after five minutes, knock again.”
Sure enough, after the second rap the door opened, and the museum director showed us in. We eagerly paid the entrance fee, the equivalent of about 25 cents each. Unfortunately, there was very little in the museum, but we felt quite smug for even finding the place and gaining access.
On the way back, Fran and another lady who had accompanied us on the museum walk, went inside a little shop and tried to buy a couple of items. The proprietor, an elderly bearded gentleman, just ignored them. Upon realizing that a local Pakistani man would not deign to carry on business with a woman, even a foreign one, Fran came out and got me. I went in and purchased the desired goods with no problem. A decade later, Greg Mortensen‘s book, Three Cups of Tea, explained to readers the local culture of not educating or doing business with women.
The next day Muhammad promised to take us to the Palace of the Mir of Hunza. Mir is the local name for Emir, or ruler, so we assumed we would be going to the local equivalent of Buckingham Palace, or at least a large fortress. Instead, we were dropped off in front of a small stucco house. Welcomed in, we had to climb a ladder with broken rungs to get to the second floor. There was no furniture, but we were served tea while sitting on the floor. We talked with the Mir himself. It was our first royal reception, and we will treasure the memory, even if it was a not as luxurious as we expected.
We left Gilgit, following the road as it wound through the beautiful green valleys towards Islamabad, the new capital of Pakistan. Suddenly, the vehicles stopped, and Muhammad asked, “Would you like to look around a ruby cave?” Excited by the prospect of becoming wealthy quickly, we answered affirmatively. Muhammad explained that the caves had contained rubies, but there were almost certainly no jewels left. Still, we wanted to explore. I had the foresight to grab our flashlight (this was before cell phones), and Fran led us into the dark cavern. We saw nothing, but suddenly Fran saw a golden glint. It was neither a ruby nor gold. But it was the nastiest set of brass knuckles I have ever seen (and I grew up in New York City during the era of violent teen gangs). There was no one else there; Fran checked with Muhammad that “finders keepers” was true in Pakistan, so we snatched up the brass knuckles and stowed it in our luggage as a souvenir. They would cause me trouble as we left the country.
Arriving in Islamabad, we had a tour of the modern capital city of Pakistan. Our tour escort asked if we‘d like to visit the frontier town of Peshawar. It adjoins the wild Northwest territories and is close to Afghanistan itself. It sounded like the appropriate ending for our journey of adventure, so the next day we found ourselves walking the streets of a very strange city. The shopping “mall” was filled with stores selling every kind of smuggled goods: electronics, parkas, cosmetics, housewares, appliances, military equipment, etc. We wound up sipping tea on the second floor of a big carpet shop listening to the proprietor tell us the virtues of each of the 100 or more rolls of high quality carpets in his inventory. Finally escaping his clutches, we were almost back to our vehicles when we stopped to talk with one of the many armed men in assorted uniforms. It was impossible to tell if this guy was army, police, or just an irregular mercenary posted here for some nefarious purpose. He asked if we‘d like to see him shoot off his AK-47, and without waiting for an answer, began firing rounds in the air. We thanked him for the demonstration, hurried onto our mini-bus, and got the hell out of that now-notorious city.
To head home, Fran and I left the rest of the group and took a domestic aircraft to Karachi, the former capital of Pakistan. Due to airline schedules, we had to spend the night in a small motel near the airport. We couldn‘t lock the door. Fran, who is usually not too concerned about security, was so worried about our safety that we propped the chairs and table against the door. She obviously was prescient about the terrorism of Al Queda and the Taliban that would strike the world 11 years later, with many of its leaders residing here in Pakistan.
Safely surviving the night, we got to the airport for our international flight. But first a problem: while X-raying our luggage, the guard noticed the outline of a metal knife. Yes, I had purchased an ornamental dagger as a souvenir, so I opened the suitcase to show it to him. Lying right next to the knife was the ominous-looking set of brass knuckles. “These are illegal in Pakistan,” said the official as he escorted me into a small room for further interrogation. “What are you doing with these contraband weapons?”
I explained how my wife had found them in the ruby cave in the north. I added, “Besides, I‘m taking them out of the country, so you don‘t have to worry about them anymore.” The inquisitor did not find this amusing. After a lengthy discussion with his supervisor, they finally let me go back to the public area. Fran was happy to see me emerge without handcuffs. Of course, I blamed her for my temporary internment. The brass knuckles now reside in our bedroom as a vivid reminder of our memorable journey through China and Pakistan. I have not had to use them.
Two months later I received a $20 check from a Mrs. Anderson of Concord, New Hampshire, with a note thanking me for helping her daughter Mary.
