It seems a lot longer than 3 weeks ago that we left Gilgit and headed back down the KKH. Our next destination: Astor and then Tarashing. Local directions left a lot to be desired so we we relied heavily on the GPS, and the surprisingly reasonable Lonely Planet maps. Road signs are either non-existent, or in Urdu. We travelled steadily on unsurfaced roads following winding gorges. The only incident of note was when we stopped to help a local guy, whose driver's spare wheel had 7 holes in it. After some time in the heat we managed to get the car drivable again by repairing the holes and pumping the tyre up again. I doubt they made it back to the KKH.
As we wound through a narrow valley the road snaked slowly south, then west towards the mighty Nanga Parbat. This, the western anchor of the Great Himalaya, stands 8125m high. It is, rather dramatically, known here as the 'Killer Mountain' because a large number of climbers apparently die on it each year. We passed an elderly local man trudging along the muddy jeep track. Our conscience persuaded us to reverse back and give him a lift. However we no longer have a spare seat due to the accumulated volume of our souvenirs and gifts, and being Pakistan he certainly could not sit next to a woman. So the old man gets the passenger seat, I get the 4 inch plastic console in the middle, and Amelia drives. Skirting boulders and mud holes we arrive in Tarashing in the early evening. It is the largest village before the south face of Nanga Parbat, which incidentally is the ninth highest mountain in the world.
At the guest-house we put up the roof-tent and had a pot of green tea. We ate very overpriced, but good, mixed vegetable curry with a couple of guys who'd done the trek to the southern Rupal face that day. 'Rupal' means straight/black, the face is so steep no snow sticks to it. Rising 4600m, accordingly it is the world's highest vertical mountain face. They said it took them from 9:30am till about 7pm to do the trek, and they were both very experienced and looked fit. Local police demand all tourists take a guide with them after a Japanese tourist (apparently) died of exposure up there. More likely it is local money making scheme. Our guide said the locals do the walk in 2.5 to 3 hours each way so that was the time to aim for.
We left at 8:30am and were back by 4:30pm with a break only to rest weary legs and to sit and enjoy the stunning views of glaciers, morains, mountains and golden marmots!
We crossed a rocky glacier, steep paths over lateral moraines, and soggy green meadows where farmers (i.e the women) tend their crops.
After six months sitting in the car we are about as fit as a fat London cabbie.
There were lots of children trekking on the same route in the morning, only they were in uniform and on their way to school.
Some of the older girls were quite inquisitive, and the boys as always gave us big smiles and replied to our 'asalaam aleikum' (hello). 3 hours there, 3 hours back, but we paid for it and walking was painful the next day. Trekking always seems to result in pain, I am not sure why it is so popular.
The summit is often hidden by clouds, but we were lucky enough to catch a glimpse. It was pretty impressive.
Equally so was the immense convergence of two huge glaciers at the base of the mountain. We lay around in the grass on a lateral moraine, high above the ice, admiring the view. As we lay there the silence was punctuated by the sound of ice and rocks falling, echoing through the valley.
It's always a bit of a gamble trying to obtain information about whether seasonal roads are open. We were told the rickety bridge on the Deosai Plains is not up yet, and then that it was up but the road was not clear, then we were told it was open and had been for days. The plains comprise an immense, uninhabited grassy plateau, which borders Indian-administered Kashmir. They're only accessible for about 4 months of the year.
We had a bit of fun at the river crossing, where the depth and rocky bottom required 4 wheel drive. On the other side we waited to see if any of the Pakistani tourists got stuck or washed away, one guy forgot to lock his hubbs but he just made it and disappointingly there was no entertainment.
After the river crossing we reached the famous cable bridge that is featured in a poster seen in many guest houses in the area. It looked a little more stable than in the photo, and we were in time to witness a couple of other vehicles cross over the Shyok River. They were smaller local jeeps with no load however, and no-one seemed absolutely sure that our 3.5 tonnes would make it safely across. Official advise was to carry no load heavier than 480kg. In what? Useless.
Opting to leave all our luggage in the car and go for it, the drive over the creaking planks in low range was really very tense. Even the locals all looked on with interest to see if we made it. Thankfully the four supporting wire cables were up the job and we were across and on our way to Skardu.
With many birds, colourful flowers, incredible views and huge golden Marmots, the Deosai jeep track was possibly worth the risk of losing the car in a river.
At six that evening we pulled into a guest house that rivalled any we'd stayed in so far in Pakistan. Satellite TV to watch the Ashes, an extensive menu in a recommended restaurant, and a good nights sleep. We did a spot of shopping at the local bakery in the morning to get supplies for the days drive, and purchased another small gift and a carpet runner for the hallway in the house we don't yet own. We headed north towards the KKH again, along the Indus river. All along the valley apricots were drying on rocks in the sun.
The high road provided excellent views on cliff edges dropping hundreds of feet to the raging brown torrent below. Just this week a bus went over the edge and all 34 people were drowned. No surprise when you see how they drive round blind corners.
We had left it quite late in leaving Skardu, and so we had to stop fairly early about 50km before the KKH at a PTDC (Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation) guest house. Here a hilux dual-cab carrying World Bank people also stopped with a damaged radiator. Shoddy Pakistani construction meant the bad roads had shaken loose the AC heat-exchanger which had holed the radiator in three places. Our tools, a bolt, some plastic tubing and expoxy-resin and they were off, towards Gilgit in the dark. We never found out if they made it or not.
We stayed long enough to get a good nights sleep and headed off bright and early the next day, hoping to make up some kilometers. Back on the potholed bloody awful KKH and disappointingly the weather was starting to get hot again. We needed to reach Islamabad before Thursday as the Iranian embassy is closed Friday-Sunday. Hopefully this would be our last visit there. We were expecting to be allowed to apply for a transit visa with no problems. We also had a few jobs to do at the Toyota garage and a visit to the car market in Rawalpindi (the bustling 'sister city' of Islamabad, 18kms away).
As we wound through a narrow valley the road snaked slowly south, then west towards the mighty Nanga Parbat. This, the western anchor of the Great Himalaya, stands 8125m high. It is, rather dramatically, known here as the 'Killer Mountain' because a large number of climbers apparently die on it each year. We passed an elderly local man trudging along the muddy jeep track. Our conscience persuaded us to reverse back and give him a lift. However we no longer have a spare seat due to the accumulated volume of our souvenirs and gifts, and being Pakistan he certainly could not sit next to a woman. So the old man gets the passenger seat, I get the 4 inch plastic console in the middle, and Amelia drives. Skirting boulders and mud holes we arrive in Tarashing in the early evening. It is the largest village before the south face of Nanga Parbat, which incidentally is the ninth highest mountain in the world.
At the guest-house we put up the roof-tent and had a pot of green tea. We ate very overpriced, but good, mixed vegetable curry with a couple of guys who'd done the trek to the southern Rupal face that day. 'Rupal' means straight/black, the face is so steep no snow sticks to it. Rising 4600m, accordingly it is the world's highest vertical mountain face. They said it took them from 9:30am till about 7pm to do the trek, and they were both very experienced and looked fit. Local police demand all tourists take a guide with them after a Japanese tourist (apparently) died of exposure up there. More likely it is local money making scheme. Our guide said the locals do the walk in 2.5 to 3 hours each way so that was the time to aim for.
We left at 8:30am and were back by 4:30pm with a break only to rest weary legs and to sit and enjoy the stunning views of glaciers, morains, mountains and golden marmots!
We crossed a rocky glacier, steep paths over lateral moraines, and soggy green meadows where farmers (i.e the women) tend their crops.
After six months sitting in the car we are about as fit as a fat London cabbie.
There were lots of children trekking on the same route in the morning, only they were in uniform and on their way to school.
Some of the older girls were quite inquisitive, and the boys as always gave us big smiles and replied to our 'asalaam aleikum' (hello). 3 hours there, 3 hours back, but we paid for it and walking was painful the next day. Trekking always seems to result in pain, I am not sure why it is so popular.
The summit is often hidden by clouds, but we were lucky enough to catch a glimpse. It was pretty impressive.
Equally so was the immense convergence of two huge glaciers at the base of the mountain. We lay around in the grass on a lateral moraine, high above the ice, admiring the view. As we lay there the silence was punctuated by the sound of ice and rocks falling, echoing through the valley.
It's always a bit of a gamble trying to obtain information about whether seasonal roads are open. We were told the rickety bridge on the Deosai Plains is not up yet, and then that it was up but the road was not clear, then we were told it was open and had been for days. The plains comprise an immense, uninhabited grassy plateau, which borders Indian-administered Kashmir. They're only accessible for about 4 months of the year.
We had a bit of fun at the river crossing, where the depth and rocky bottom required 4 wheel drive. On the other side we waited to see if any of the Pakistani tourists got stuck or washed away, one guy forgot to lock his hubbs but he just made it and disappointingly there was no entertainment.
After the river crossing we reached the famous cable bridge that is featured in a poster seen in many guest houses in the area. It looked a little more stable than in the photo, and we were in time to witness a couple of other vehicles cross over the Shyok River. They were smaller local jeeps with no load however, and no-one seemed absolutely sure that our 3.5 tonnes would make it safely across. Official advise was to carry no load heavier than 480kg. In what? Useless.
Opting to leave all our luggage in the car and go for it, the drive over the creaking planks in low range was really very tense. Even the locals all looked on with interest to see if we made it. Thankfully the four supporting wire cables were up the job and we were across and on our way to Skardu.
With many birds, colourful flowers, incredible views and huge golden Marmots, the Deosai jeep track was possibly worth the risk of losing the car in a river.
At six that evening we pulled into a guest house that rivalled any we'd stayed in so far in Pakistan. Satellite TV to watch the Ashes, an extensive menu in a recommended restaurant, and a good nights sleep. We did a spot of shopping at the local bakery in the morning to get supplies for the days drive, and purchased another small gift and a carpet runner for the hallway in the house we don't yet own. We headed north towards the KKH again, along the Indus river. All along the valley apricots were drying on rocks in the sun.
The high road provided excellent views on cliff edges dropping hundreds of feet to the raging brown torrent below. Just this week a bus went over the edge and all 34 people were drowned. No surprise when you see how they drive round blind corners.
We had left it quite late in leaving Skardu, and so we had to stop fairly early about 50km before the KKH at a PTDC (Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation) guest house. Here a hilux dual-cab carrying World Bank people also stopped with a damaged radiator. Shoddy Pakistani construction meant the bad roads had shaken loose the AC heat-exchanger which had holed the radiator in three places. Our tools, a bolt, some plastic tubing and expoxy-resin and they were off, towards Gilgit in the dark. We never found out if they made it or not.
We stayed long enough to get a good nights sleep and headed off bright and early the next day, hoping to make up some kilometers. Back on the potholed bloody awful KKH and disappointingly the weather was starting to get hot again. We needed to reach Islamabad before Thursday as the Iranian embassy is closed Friday-Sunday. Hopefully this would be our last visit there. We were expecting to be allowed to apply for a transit visa with no problems. We also had a few jobs to do at the Toyota garage and a visit to the car market in Rawalpindi (the bustling 'sister city' of Islamabad, 18kms away).
beautiful work done. bless u
ReplyDelete