We looked like we had been through 9/11, powder coated in layers of fine grey-white dust. Our open sided jeep gave us no protection. Even our eyelashes were dust coated - to say nothing of my nice once white jacket and of course all our luggage, including our precious miniature paintings we had bought in Iran.

The trip from Karimabad to the edge of Lake Attabad would have been no more than 40 kilometers but it took us several hours, travelling through the remains of the 2010 landslide and following floods, and the roughest part of the Karakoram Highway we had met so far. Everything was grey, the massive boulders our brave little jeep battled over, the steep scree sides of the surrounding mountains, the murderous gushing Hunza River - and us. Even the sky was grey and overcast.

Nine people were killed as a result of the Gojal landslide of January 2010 which caused the formation of the huge Lake Attabad and literally separated the north of Gilgit-Baltistan from the south. Many more died or were made homeless after the devastating floods in July of the same year. And now numerous villages are still totally submerged or permanently abandoned. When we saw the massive damage caused to the valley, its villages and roads, it was amazing that more people did not lose their lives as a result of these two horrific natural disasters.

The monsoons have a lot to answer for. While the rain provides the much needed water for survival, they frequently are the cause of the many natural disasters that occur in Pakistan. Just before the January 2010 landslide, local villagers noticed large cracks emerging in the steep mountain sides. They were slow to develop and even the experienced older people thought they may be safe. Fortunately, the people did eventually leave their villages but for some it was too late. They had no idea of the magnitude of the impending landslide.

It was water building up after the monsoon season that infiltrated the cracked earth and finally caused a huge section of the mountainside to literally explode; the resulting rock and debris permanently blocking the Hunza River. Apparently, the lake was slow to form and could have been drained in the beginning. However, as mentioned in a previous entry, the government for safety (floods that would swamp the lower areas if drained) and political reasons (US paranoia of cementing the existing China-Pakistan relationship and subsequent pressure on Pakistan to resist offers by the Chinese government to provide the resources to undertake the drainage work) the lake was allowed to build up and permanently block the highway and hence separate the northern and southern areas of Gojal.   

Following the precarious road along the sides of the Hunza River with our jeep trying to gouge paths around and through the damage and debris, it was the upper side of the road that tended to worry us the most. The massive drops below were frightening enough but we could not help but be on edge looking at the unstable and continually sliding scree and rocks above us. The evidence of the recent landslide and flood was all too evident.

In the middle of what looked like nowhere, the goat track of the Karakoram Highway abruptly disappeared into a knife edge drop down to the Hunza River. We were apparently at Lake Attabad and our jeep could not proceed any further. The site was littered with bagged tent-like shanties, make shift homes of the entrepreneurial porters who carried passenger baggage and huge sacks of foodstuffs up and down the unbelievably steep cliff edge to and from the boats below. The porters had to handle the very large goods at least three times. Jeeps could only proceed so far before the tractors had to take over and then it was conveyed by hand. It was impossible to imagine how people could work and live in such horrible and harsh conditions but we had no time to think about it. Apparently our "ferry" was leaving in a very short time.

We bade Khaja a brief farewell then followed Sadruddin who, with amazing agility and astonishing speed, leapt down the embankment carrying both his gear and despite our protests, some of ours. It was too steep to contemplate walking so we proceeded to skid down on our backsides, stumbling and falling; all the while Alan bravely clutching hold of our precious paintings. 

We had often wondered when we heard the news of third world country's ferries sinking and masses of people drowning, as to why anyone in their right mind would board such grossly overladen vessels. We were soon to find out. We took one look at our "ferry" which resembled an oversized canoe with a canopy hidden by the numerous bodies sitting on top of it, and suggested to Sadruddin that we wait for the next boat. Well, perhaps we would have been waiting for a very long time we were told. There was obviously no option.

There was no wharf, not even a platform to step off the mud covered rocks to board the already overladen boat. Clumsily we lurched onto the rocking vessel, clambering over women and children, and endless bags of round lifeless hard lumps that totally covered the boat floor. A young, fine featured and gentle looking man wearing an elegant woollen "pakol" (Pashtun hat) smiled and beckoned us to sit next to him on the other side of the boat. Well mannered, patient people moved obligingly to provide us somewhat maladroit foreigners with some seating space. A wild looking man in an immaculate cream shalwaar kameez beamed at us. With a very loud voice he greeted us like long lost relatives and kindly assisted us in placing what now seemed like quite a lot of luggage into the boat. Sadruddin sat opposite grinning at us obviously unnerved tourists.

The boat was no more than a hand width above the water as the ancient vessel chugged off toward our destination of Gulmit on the northern side of the lake. I began to count the number of people aboard until I reached 70, and then stopped as I could not see the many people behind the engine room canopy as so many were sitting on top. How the boat master could see out was beyond us. We were soon to find out that he could not see at all.

The boat reminded us of the ones that carry refugee asylum seekers or "Boat People " into Australian waters. It was totally over loaded with people, baggage and goods. The passengers comprised what appeared to be local families, many of whom were women and children. A little boy no older than two years, with a plastered broken leg, sat on his mother's lap opposite us. His brother, an impish and inquisitive little fellow tried hard to make friends with Alan. Veiled women and girls sat passively looking at us. People were calm, polite and friendly. Although we had no idea why the passengers were on board the boat, it was obvious from the large bags of foodstuffs they had to get much of their supplies from the southern side. In fact, when one of the large lifeless bags of lumps was accidentally up-turned, it revealed a cargo of some 20 or so frozen chickens.

Medical facilities are limited in the north and there are no hospitals. We were told that quite frankly, if people living on the northern side became seriously ill, then they either got over it or died. To fly out by helicopter was totally beyond the means of the poor northerners.

The fine featured young man sat next to me. He was from the remote Shimshal Valley in the north, an area that is severely isolated at any time, let alone having the added burden of the lake crossing. We had visited Shimshal in 2009 and witnessed the unbelievable jeep road, the only access for the entire valley to the Karakoram Highway, and the fascinating way of life of the local villagers (refer Travelpod publication "Painted Faces of the Silk Road"). The young man was a university educated accountant and teacher, and was visiting his relatives back at Shimshal. He spoke excellent English and quietly explained about the difficulties and hardships the formation of the lake had caused for his people. The boat felt as if it could sink any time and when I asked about whether the local people could swim, the man replied that no one swam in the north because the waters were far too cold. Furthermore he explained that if anyone did fall overboard, their survival time would be just minutes in the icy snow fed lake waters. 

In the meantime, Alan had befriended the wild looking man in the cream shalwaar kameez. "I am "Wazzi". I am from Waziristan. Do you know where Waziristan is?" he roared. We did. For a second I was fearful that Alan may reply that we were in fact "Aussie" but thankfully he didn't*. Our irrepressible friend went on to explain more to us about Waziristan. "Do you know" he said gazing at us mischievously "We have strange men who wear the very, very looooong beards and have very, very long hair. They (the Taliban) kill people by cutting their throats. Not from the front - but from the back!" he added helpfully, his hands imitating a sawing of the back of his neck - just in case we had missed the gist of things. Thanks Wazzi... Just what we needed to know.
 
By this time, the passengers took matters into their own hands and angrily told our friend to "shut up" and "not to scare us any more than what we were". We must have looked like real nerd wusses. Wazzi immediately made a small speech of apology and went on to tell us more about Waziristan and the horrible situation of the US drone aircraft dropping bombs on suspected Taliban hide-outs killing many of his people, including numerous innocent schoolchildren. It was all rather surreal but shocking. How the ordinary Pakistani people could cope with their lot was beyond our comprehension. If it was not natural disasters that befell them, then it was political nightmares that besieged them. In any instance it seemed that they were totally out of control of their destiny.

Our boat's engine coughed unhealthily and we started to drift dangerously toward the near vertical rock cliffs surrounding the lake. No-one said anything until we were only feet away from a rocky embankment. "Titanic!" roared our Waziristan friend. It would have been quite hilarious had the situation not been so dangerous. If the boat sank and even if we did survive falling into the water, there was no way anyone could climb the steep vertical banks of the flooded mountain walls. The engine coughed violently and the "HMS In'shallah" (god willing) eventually made a massive swing away from the shore. People on top of the canopy shouted navigation directions to the boat master who was totally vision impaired by the bodies on top of his cabin, and we were back in the middle of the lake again. 

Not long after, the engine gave a fatal wheeze and stopped. There was a strong smell of diesel fumes and for what seemed like some considerable time there was dead silence. No one spoke as we once again drifted dangerously toward the perilous rocks.

Thankfully, the passengers again went to the rescue. It was chaotic with people shouting instructions to the boat master and babies screaming. The young boy with the broken leg who was by then crying inconsolably, was handed up to people on top of the canopy. Another child starting crying loudly and was swiftly whacked on the head by his grandmother, which I must say had an immediate effect. It seemed everyone was either providing advice at the top of their voices or placating babies or young children. We sat in amazement wondering if we would in fact ever reach Gulmit. Perhaps we would be another lot of statistics printed in the newspapers, read by people who idly wondered why on earth "European foreigners" would chose to holiday in Pakistan, let alone board such an overloaded boat.

The boat master tried several times to start the motor, and with a final groan the old boat shuddered into action and we were off once again. People relaxed and began to chat. Babies stopped crying. We were just keen to get the frigg'n trip over and done with.

I was also thinking about Alan who was still quite sick with his stomach problem. Although neither of us dared mention it, there were no toilet facilities and goodness knows what you would do if you needed one. Thankfully, he didn't.

When we could relax enough to look around, the lake was in fact quite beautiful - an aqua blue aqueous sheet contrasting starkly against the forbidding grey-brown tree-less mountain peaks. In the distance we could make out the magnificent razor sharp peaks of the stunning Cathedrals, part of the Karakoram range near Passu. The boat stopped to allow some of the passengers to alight at Gulkin, a pretty village once perched high above the township of Gulmit and the home of our 2009 guide Jabbar. 

And soon we reached our final destination of Gulmit. To our amazement and disappointment, we could not spot the very famous Hussaini and Zarabad not-so-slatted suspension bridges that once spanned some 20 meters above the wide yawning Hunza River. They were totally submerged following the formation of the lake. We were fortunate we had seen them on our 2009 trip. We actually alighted at the spot where the bridges once were. Well, alighting may sound a bit too sophisticated. Again, there were no platforms and we had to jump as best we could from the boat onto the rocks. Alan missed the rocks and both of his shoes were submerged in the icy waters, a bit like the bridges.

We stumbled from the lake up a dry dusty hill at Gulmit looking more like refugees than tourists, where we were met by Akhtar our third driver for our Pakistan trip. Our next destination was Passu where we had stayed on our forward journey into Pakistan from China in 2009. As before the scenery coming into Passu was nothing less than stunning. We stopped the Passu Ambassador Hotel for lunch and met once again with the owner. And despite Alan's queasiness, we both enjoyed a very fine lunch of vegetable soup and chicken masala. The views of the Cathedrals from the wonderfully located hotel were as magnificent as ever.

From Passu we made our rocky, spine jarring way to the township of Sost, the last township before the Karakoram Highway ascends up and over the mighty Khunjerab Pass and into far western China.

You could not get too excited about Sost. An uninspiring, rather depressing town with tatty shops and small grotty hovels lining the main street - which was after all the famous Karakoram Highway - and really not a lot to offer. Well, nothing... Sleeting snow began to fall as we made our way through the town. The road turned to mud and the wind was icy. It was not much of a welcome but somehow I was convinced that this town must at least sell some cheap Chinese beer. It didn't. Our walk through the town took no more than fifteen minutes before we had seen all we wanted of down town Sost. It had seemed so much more exciting on our nervous first entry into Pakistan from China in 2009.

The PTDC Hotel at Sost was the best hotel in town. It didn't say a lot for the others. Our room was spartan and dark - well, there was no electricity on and hence no lighting at all - and it was bitterly cold. The carpet was badly stained and the frayed grey towels may have been white once. There was a television in the main foyer but it was broadcast in Urdu which we couldn't understand.

The hotel manager however was very friendly and obliging, boiling us water for some tea and assuring us that the hotel would turn on its generators in the morning to allow us to wash and shower. At least that was a blessing.

There was no electricity at all that night. Dinner was by kerosene lamp and in the soft glowing light we thoroughly enjoyed a surprisingly good meal before retiring early - err, there was not much else we could do. In the candle light we added three extra blankets to our beds. To my horror my dark brown blankets revealed numerous large white stains. "Chinese gollies?" remarked the ever helpful Alan. "Just turn them over" he suggested. To my horror, even in the very dim light the other side looked even worse. I tried in vain to swap our single beds but Alan would not be part of it. Luckily, I subsided into a deep unconscious sleep, oblivious of my snot stained blankets and the icy cold room.


* Alan refutes the notion that he would ever refer to himself as an "Aussie". My apologies but it made for a good story....






More Photos of Our Trip From Karimabad to Sost