We left Kashgar the morning of September 11 (the evening of September 10 on the U.S. east coast), heading for Pakistan. We were driving the Karakoram Highway, clawed from the mountains by China and Pakistan in the '60s and '70s, for some of us the main point of the trip. As the beauty of the scenery sank in we all resolved to send emails telling Todd, who had returned to Canada from Kashgar, that he was missing the best part of the trip. The road itself was variable, sometimes tarmac, sometimes sand and gravel, and sometimes detouring where the rushing grey river had torn out sections of road bed, or even a whole bridge. It was still the G314 we drove all the way back in Gansu province, but it had narrowed. It would narrow further in Pakistan. We would be driving on the other side of the road in Pakistan, but since the drivers on both sides of the border tended to drive down the middle of the road, it would make little difference. We made a brief stop at the village of Upal for the driver to buy his breakfast -- bread, grapes and pears -- and I noticed again how many of the older Chinese had gold teeth -- the dentist offices we saw in old-town Kashgar did not inspire confidence.
As snowcapped mountains started to rise sheer from the grassy plain, we saw the first horsemen since Tian Chi. The coach slowed repeatedly as flocks of sheep parted to make way for us. We stopped for our first police check at Ghez, and resisted the pasties two little girls were selling. We saw camels, yak/cow crosses (dzos) and glaciers as we reached a broad plain ringed by the Pamir mountains and stopped beside Lake Karakul. We were at 14,000 feet (3700 meters ) -- high enough for altitude sickness. I developed a slight but persistent headache, although I was fine crossing the higher Khunjerab Pass later. Although the setting was magnificent, I preferred Tian Chi to Karakul. Karakul was bleaker, with no trees, and tundra-like vegetation, and much colder, with a biting wind that whipped up mini-sandstorms and made trips to the open brick outhouse decidedly chilly. I missed the raised wooden platform and brazier that had graced the yurts at Tian Chi, and even with double quilts I stayed warm only so long as I stayed still. The general consensus was that it was just too cold, and that one night was enough, so we made an unscheduled move on to Tashkurgan. This still left time for a six hour horse or camel trek for the energetic -- I opted for a down day and strolled partway round the lake instead, encountering a small herd of dzo headed down to the road, guarded only by a white sheepdog. There was very little traffic -- a couple of buses, a few jeeps, three pedestrians with a Travelpro (!) and some riders.
Lonely Planet paints a bleak picture of Tashkurgan, the last town before the border, but it turned out to be a pleasant place in a fertile valley. The streets had flowers (cosmos) as well as trees in the medians, and the leaves on the poplar trees in the valley glowed golden in the setting sun. After the yurts at Karakul the hotel was a haven of comfort -- beds covered with duvets and rugs, and hot water in the bathrooms. Thursday morning (Sept. 13) we were up early to clear customs and immigration. A heavily laden truck arrived at the same time, and all its cargo of furry blankets, assorted electronic equipment and 22-piece tea sets had to be put through an airport-type X-ray machine (oriented for incoming, not outgoing, traffic). A French couple and a Swiss woman were in line behind us, and from them we heard about the terrorist attacks in the US for the first time. Cathryn, the tour leader, later confirmed that the rumors had some basis in fact (the first casualty estimate we heard was 60,000). We had seen no radio or television since Kashgar, but some people had cell phones. The vague picture emerging from the rumors sounded like a bad horror movie. Meanwhile, we pressed on towards Pakistan.
The border itself is a good distance from both Tashkurgan and from Sost, where we would clear Pakistani immigration. The Karakoram Highway is closed by snow from November to May, and at its highest point reaches an inhospitable 15,514 feet (4730 meters). There were more checks along the way -- the truck ahead of us yielded three bottles of beer when searched -- contraband in Pakistan! There was one sizable village, Davdar, in the river valley we followed to the pass, with mud-walled compounds enclosing houses and trees, and one white-tiled school building, and we saw occasional Tajik herders. We took the obligatory photos at the pass, admired a family of golden marmots, and saw the scenery change as we started down and left the Pamirs for the Karakoram range. A wonderful steel-blue river ran between steep slopes covered with shale, turning grey when the Ghujerab joined the Khunjerab to form the Gilgit. At Sost all the women except Robyn put on head scarves -- Robyn settled for her large Aussie hat. The immigration people were very friendly, although when they read my entry form they seemed not to know what a software engineer was.
We lunched at a hotel in Sost and instantly realized that we were no longer in China as we ate fried chicken and chips, curry and greens, with knives and forks, and paid in a new currency. We still had no real idea of what had happened in New York, nor how it would affect our time in Pakistan.
Sent from Bangkok airport, Sept 26
Site design and content Copyright 2001 - 2010, Wilhelm's Words
Contact: wilhelmswords.com
Home