Political disintegration. Economic turmoil. Domestic terrorism. And let's throw in an extra Level 2 cyclone. These attributes best describe the flailings of a failed state rather than a logical location to take a holiday. In many ways, Pakistan has been the iconic textbook example of everything that could possibly go wrong for a relatively young fledgling nation, yet with all of these misfortunes occurring simultaneously. The decades old power struggle between a haphazard civilian government and a relentless authoritarian military climaxed in April with the sudden arrest of a third complicating entity, ex-prime minister Imran Khan, whose fiery speeches and self-stylized sense of martyrdom shocked the nation with subsequent public revolt, vandalism, and destruction the likes of which had never been seen before in this tightly controlled land. All while inching towards potential civil war, the country continued to fail in negotiating a much needed IMF bailout from defaulting on billions of dollars worth of sovereign debt, with skyrocketing inflation and a currency crash pummeling a population already scraping by. Taking advantage of the discord and destitution, the resurgence of fatal attacks from the Pakistani Taliban, IS, and Balochi rebels only further nibbled away at the fragile sense of security in a nation rocked for decades by terrorism on nearly all of its borders. And still reeling from the catastrophic effects of last year's unprecedented floods that submerged a third of the country, Pakistan's battle with climate change resumed with the arrival of Cyclone Biparjoy tearing through the south.
Into this maelstrom, I semi-unknowingly entered, with nearly all of these crises ironically brewing to a boiling point merely a week after finally being granted a visa and depositing thousands of dollars on nonrefundable travel expenses. Glued to the media for months, I could only anxiously read from afar, plagued by lingering questions as to why I picked such a tumultuous destination and whether or not there would still be a country left to visit upon my arrival. Usually nations collapse after I visit them, certainly never before. Yet Pakistan, as an ancient land of both rich history and astounding natural beauty, has been beckoning to me for decades, with never a "right" time to make the journey. I was determined to witness its rarely publicized wonders, hopefully before being worsened or even lost to such aforementioned calamities. And what better way to explore a vast land than out on the open road?
Independence in Islamabad:
Our arrival in Pakistan was unexpectedly greeted with great fanfare blossoming into banners of green and white, coinciding with the nation's independence day celebrations. Corner stalls at every intersection fluttered with crescent emblazoned flags of all sizes, gobbled up by the masses who patriotically pasted them to the roofs, hoods, and backseat windows of their dusty battered vehicles. Seventy-six years since being liberated from the British crown, Pakistan has been far from free in a political sense, though the ongoing tumult of life here certainly had not inhibited the population in its festive expression. Throughout the day, overloaded vehicles sped down Islamabad Expressway, their occupants precariously hanging out of windows, clutching tightly to open minivan doors, or standing in open truck beds while vigorously waving flags, honking horns, and tooting raucous plastic vuvuzelas. The lane-less highways and boulevards spanning across the vastly spaced capital were free venues for showcasing Pakistan's mastery of illegality, where cars weaved aggressively between multicolored hand-painted trucks as young motorcyclists raced through narrow cracks in the traffic after popping a few wheelies. One young stunt devil sped by on his motorbike while lying completely horizontal on his stomach, a veritable South Asian superman whizzing past my window to the delight of cheering onlookers gathering in growing numbers along the roadsides and overpasses. In the absence of organized holiday entertainment, the people themselves became their parade, as hundreds of thousands clogged the city's main arteries to behold the colorful and chaotic spectacle. Converging around Giga Mall in the hubbub of Rawalpindi, the shrill off-key voices of children singing patriotic songs reverberated through the tiled atrium, clashing with the sounds of food court chatter and female excitement over "azadi" (freedom) sales.
 |
| Flags and patriotic gear for sale on every street corner leading up to Independence Day |
 |
| Massive car parade and traffic jam on the main highway for the holiday |
 |
| Musical and children's performances at Giga Mall in Rawalpindi |
As the newer administrative capital, Islamabad was distinct in its urban planning. Spread out over a grid of large rectangular zones, the capital felt somewhat provincial due to its plethora of forested parks and proximity to the Margalla Hills, the far western foothills to the mighty Himalayan range. Our little unmarked hotel was situated in sector F6, an upper middle class residential area of lush tree-lined streets and lavish enclosed villas interspersed with chain restaurants and Western cafes. It seemed like such a stark contrast to the Pakistani cities seen in most media coverage, of ramshackle structures crammed into impoverished neighborhoods often submerged in floodwaters. Nevertheless, the overall ambience of Islamabad was one of classic subtropical dilapidation, with its public green spaces reverting back into overgrown jungles and its newly constructed facilities quickly molding in the stifling hot moist air. The weather was scorching and balmy throughout the mid-August day, making a simple stroll of a few blocks an exhausting feat. We tried to seek refuge frequently in places with already limited air conditioning, including coffee houses, shopping malls, and grocery stores, where being merely a few degrees cooler than the outside air was welcomed as a blessing. Yet the city's few attractions were visited under the sun's direct touch, including the Pakistan Monument and Faisal Mosque, grand structures whose white stone surfaces further radiated heat. Our spirits were kept high mainly by the constant requests from timid and curious locals to take selfies with us, both bemused and amused by the rare sighting of a couple foreigners in a country completely void of tourists. Men, women, and sometimes even entire families approached us to request photos, practice their English, and generously offer us plates of pulao and meat from their picnic lunches. Our newfound celebrity status became almost too overwhelming to handle, as we had gone from sightseeing to suddenly becoming "sightseen".
 |
| One of countless selfies taken with curious and friendly locals |
 |
| Faisal Mosque located at the foot of the Margalla Hills |
In the evening hours, the city bloomed in the slightly more palatable air, as restaurants and cafes began to bustle with patrons, often dining until past midnight. Even with occasional block-wide electrical outages from a deteriorating and overtaxed power grid, dining and socializing continued unfazed, with the neighborhood coming alive to the wafting smoke of kebab grills and steam from bubbling spiced chai. Our first true taste of Pakistan was taken at Khyber Dodai, an adorable folk-themed restaurant decked out in multicolored lights, tiles, and murals celebrating the hues and flavors of the heavily Afghan influenced Khyber Pakhtunkwa province. For a mere 24 dollars, outrageously expensive by local standards, we gorged on a feast of grilled mutton chops, mixed lamb testicles/kidneys, a delectable vegetable handi, and thick garlic naan. Every adventure should kick off to such a savory start.
 |
| Life Goes On: Dining in a restaurant after the electricity goes out, for the third time |
 |
| One of the amazing meals at Khyber Dodai, specializing in mutton chops and Afghani kebab |
Road-Tripping The Karakorum
The Road to Gilgit:
A middle aged man in his 50s, with the wisdom of a sage and the charisma of a student, greeted us at 6:30 AM in front of a well-packed beige Toyota Land Cruiser. Meet Sadr-ud-Din ("Sadru"), an experienced guide of over three decades, hailing from the Burusho people of remote Hunza Valley. Alongside his timid and soft-spoken Wakhi driver, Ejaz, these two were to become our closest companions for the entire duration of an epic road trip adventure through the remote Pakistan-controlled Kashmir. From the moment we set off at sunrise, l already knew Sadru was going to be an amazing resource for experiencing and understanding the true state of life in Pakistan. No sooner had we departed the urban sprawl of the capital, he already began to sincerely (albeit comically) express his disapproval of Pakistan's corrupt politics, his disdain for growing Islamic conservatism, his lament for the lack of socioeconomic progress, and his disappointment in the "lazy" mentality of his countrymen. It was the first time I had ever encountered a guide who spent the first hour of his tour literally bashing the very country he was supposed to be selling. Yet his openness, honesty, and passion showed that his love for Pakistan was not rooted in superficial nationalism, but rather one of patriotic activism for desperately needed change. As we merged onto the famed Karakorum Highway, Sadru's tone switched to one of praise and nostalgia, describing his life in the mountains as one of pure bliss, free from the dark effects of corruption, urbanization, pollution, and religion. As a single and unmarried man, he spoke with a great love for both the beauty of nature and thrill of adventure, sharing stories of a lifestyle that completely resonated with me. Maybe I, myself, could discover on this trip the secret to a wholesome life.
 |
| Our guide, Sadru of the Burosho people |
 |
| Our driver, Ejaz of the Wakhi people |
 |
| Our Toyota Land Cruiser, as seen off-roading in Deosai National Park |
After passing through Abbottabad, infamously known for being Osama bin Laden's home during his final years in hiding, we branched off onto a small winding road in a narrow valley bordered by soaring emerald foothills following the rapids of the Kunar River. Passing through the scenic town and roadside restaurants of Balakot, the ascent through the Kaghan Valley in Pakistan's Khyber Pakhtunkwa tribal areas began following a mildly nauseating route of twists and turns that clung to the cliffside, often without any barricades to stop one's vehicle from potentially plunging hundreds of meters below. Nearly every vehicle on the road was a Toyota Land Cruiser or a vintage Jeep, often overloaded with passengers hanging from the rear or sitting directly on the roof with luggage. The road meandered through tall pine trees that eventually gave way to open rolling hills of grasslands with clusters of ramshackle tents occupied by nomadic tribal families tending to their herds. After a lunch of kabuli pulao and grilled chicken tikka at the popular Moon Restaurant rest-stop, the ascent turned into extreme switchbacks that climaxed at Babusar Pass (4173m / 13,700ft) where a colorful little "village" of fruit vendors, chai sellers, and pop-up restaurant shacks sprouted on the chilly windy summit. It was here that my breathing began to feel slightly heavier, along with the delightful feeling of dizziness to give a comical wobble to my stride. Coming down off the pass and reconnecting again to the Karakorum Highway, the terrain dramatically changed from lush green to Martian beige, as soaring cliffs of lifeless rock and sand constricted the forceful flow of the mighty Indus River carving its way. A narrow road gradually being swallowed by sand followed the river's course under precarious overhangs of rock, the remnants of regularly occurring landslides visible every couple kilometers. A rock fall from three days earlier that had multiple fatalities was still being cleared away by bulldozers, forcing us to take a brief break from our scheduled arrival in the realm of giants. While the icy peak of Nanga Parbat remained only faintly visible beneath the clouds, the distant summit of Rakaposhi glistened a warm white in the light of the setting sun. We took a rest at Jaglot, a little turn off the highway that was in fact the convergence point of the world's top three highest mountain ranges, upon which an ironically small and unassuming monument marked the radiating branches of the Himalayas, Karakorum, and Hindu Kush. It felt mind-boggling to behold such a significant geographical scene in the complete absence of tourists.
 |
| Naan baker at a market in Kaghan Valley, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province |
 |
| View from the top of Babusar Pass ((4173m / 13,700ft) |
 |
| The mighty Indus River, along whose banks the world's first cities arose nearly 5000 years ago |
 |
| Junction of the world's three highest mountain ranges: Himalaya, Karakorum, Hindu Kush |
Driving rather recklessly, albeit with admittedly close-call precision, Ejaz managed to get us to the town of Gilgit by nightfall, after an exhausting 12 hours and over 500 km (300 mi). Situated along the rapids of a river by the same name, Gilgit was a hot and dry town with an ambience reminiscent of the American Southwest, surrounded by the soaring snow-capped pinnacles of the Karakorum range. Passing through a bustling center of colorful marketplaces, we spent the night at a quaint hotel built on a cliff overlooking the ferocious river, the sound of rushing water perpetually drowning out one's thoughts. The open rooftop terrace covered with string lights was filled with large families gorging on Shinwari style barbecue and sizzling kebabs. The consistent electrical outages affecting the town seemingly went unnoticed in the presence of such high quality dishes, of which I likely experienced the most delectable mutton karahi and palak paneer of my life. Even in the darkness, Pakistani food brought light to my taste buds.
 |
| The most divine mutton karahi and palak paneer curry I've ever had in my life |
 |
| Festive upper terrace of the budget Indus Lodges hotel overlooking the Gilgit River |
The Road to Hunza:
The route from Gilgit to the famed Hunza Valley was as monumental as it was majestic. Megalithic cliffs and peaks soared towards the heavens as the Hunza River carved its course deep below, leaving a narrow strip of green trees and small villages clinging to cliff sides. Towering waterfalls plunged from above, flowing across the winding roads that cut through the cliff sides via Chinese blasted tunnels. We reached another geologically significant point on the border of the Nagar Valley, where the Indian and Eurasian tectonic plates have remained in a millennia-long battle of seismic proportions, clearly marked by the birth of the planet's highest summits. Further down the road, a historical trail of the ancient Silk Road cut its way high around the cliff, originally wide enough only for camels and horses, but later widened in the mid 20th century to accommodate a single Jeep. Since the late 60's, the Karakorum Highway has served as the main passage to China, following not too far from its original ancestral trade route that spread priceless goods and innovative ideas. Along the route, a pair of uniformed "tourist police" approached us, not to inspect any documentation, but rather to politely request mobile phone selfies with us; ironically, the two had never encountered a tourist before. Coming up from the valley floor, our eyes were immediately directed upwards to the imposing white giant hovering over us, the magnificent pyramidal peak of Rakaposhi (7788m / 25,551ft), free from cloud cover on a beautiful sunny morning. As we meandered along the cliff face, the scenery became more dramatic and gargantuan, dwarfing us with a feeling of excitement that left us as breathless as the thinning air.
 |
| Approaching the giant Rakaposhi (7788m/25,551ft) |
 |
| Junction where the Eurasian and Indian tectonic plates collide |
 |
| Remnants of the ancient Silk Road trail zigzagging along the cliffside |
 |
| "Tourist police" who had never seen an actual foreign tourist |
 |
| Roadside cook making chapshuro, Hunza-style flatbreads stuffed with spiced mutton |
Entering the kingdom of Hunza was a crossing through the physical barriers of time. An almost indescribable Shangri-La, the lush green valley of fruit orchards and poplar trees dotted with idyllic stone villages was cradled by jagged pinnacles of mahogany hued stone, which in turn were overshadowed by the white snowy summits of the Karakorum range surpassing 7000m in height. There was a peaceful ambience and rich sense of community amongst the hospitable Burosho people, where both men and women could be seen working alongside each other, in stark contrast to the conservative male-dominated atmosphere throughout the rest of the country. Through the narrow shop-lined alleyways in Karimabad, we slowly climbed to the valley's most visible monument, overlooking the town from its lofty perch on one of the rocky hills. The 800-year-old Baltit Fort looked from afar like a floating Himalayan jewel, its unique architecture containing elements from both a Tibetan monastery and Indian palace, a medieval byproduct of the multiethnic marriage between a Hunza prince and his Balti bride. Though small from the outside, the interior of the residence contained a surprising number of cozy rooms and long passageways, as well as a cavernous dungeon. The spacious rooftop terrace, with its hand carved wooden arches and pavilions afforded 180-degree views of the Hunza Valley and its surrounding peaks, most notably those of Ladyfinger ("Bublimotin", 6000m / 19,685ft) and Hunza Peak (6270m / 20,570ft) hovering directly overhead. After a traditional snack of local walnut cake, we crossed to the village of Altit, where another impressive structure stood on a massive outcrop of solid rock. At 1100 years old, Altit Fort looked far more archaic and brutal, serving as the first residence of the Hunza kings before the later construction of the more delicate Baltit Fort. Its focus was militaristic rather than aesthetic, consisting of raw stone and wooden beams with an imposing central tower from which ancient archers could keep guard over both the village people and caravan routes. In the center of the fort's main reception room, a massive pillar of masonry stood, apparently serving no structural purpose. We were later told that x-ray analysis by archaeologists had verified an ancient local tale of the king's brother being sealed up alive within the pillar following a failed coup attempt.
 |
| The massive Hunza Valley, with the village of Karimabad in the foreground |
 |
| Baltit Fort, former residence of the kings of Hunza |
 |
| Village of Altit as seen from the tower of its fortress |
 |
| Mr. Salahuddin, local celebrity guardian of Baltit Fort since time immemorial |
 |
| Hanging precariously out of an ancient balcony in Altit Fort |
From Altit, we ascended in a series of switchbacks up the cliff, passing scenic traditional stone homes and gardens filled with apricots, apples, and walnuts. Hunza has long been renowned for residents boasting some of the longest average lifespans in the world, even rivaling that of Japan's Okinawans. It became apparent that this veritable fountain of youth derived from the fresh organic foods of their valley, the clean spring water from its glaciers, and pure crisp mountain air. In a remote area with limited vehicles, walking along cliff trails and village roads was often the sole means of navigating the valley. Having returned to his heavenly home, Sadru couldn't walk more than a few minutes without running into a friend or acquaintance, stopping frequently to chat and briefly catch up. At times it felt as if he knew every individual in town, a delightful feeling of true community that unfortunately is but a mere fantasy for most Americans. Finally reaching our hotel just across from the Eagle's Nest viewpoint (2850m / 9350ft), each major peak could be viewed in its radiant mountainous majesty: Rakaposhi (7788m / 25,551ft) , Dirani (7266m / 23,839ft), Spantik (7027m / 23,054ft), Bojohagur Duanasir (7329m / 24,045ft), Ultar Sar (7388m / 24,239ft), and Hunza peak (6270m / 20,570ft). In the golden sunset hour, the peaks transformed from diamond white to rose pink, a fleeting yet breathtaking shimmer viewed for mere minutes before turning grey and cold with heavy cloud cover. Like all aspects of life in the unpredictable north of Pakistan, change is constant and beautiful moments temporal.
 |
| Altit Fort (left) surrounded by Hunza (6270m/20,570ft) and Bojohagur (7329m/24,045ft) |
 |
| Unnamed peaks seen from Eagle's Nest Viewpoint (2850m/9350ft) |
 |
| Hunza Peak(6270m/20,570ft) with the Ladyfinger (Bublimotin) pinnacle |
 |
| View of Spantik (7027m/23,054ft) at dusk |
The Road to China:
From Hunza, the Karakorum Highway followed the rapid river northward, meandering through deep gorges before opening out onto a vast valley at the foot of the bizarre geological formation dubbed the Passu Cones, clustered around its most prominent peak of Tupopdan (4101m / 20,033ft) . Like a crown upon the earth's brow, hundreds of cathedral-like spires in stone pierced the heavens as sharp as knives. Frigid cascades trickled down from the thawing Passu/Batura glacier, a massive sheet of white ice spilling over the rocks in the distance, and one of many in the region in danger of disappearing due to climate change judging from how much of it had retreated back towards the it's source at Passu Sar (7478m / 24,534ft). The last dusty village before entering the uninhabited wilderness was Sost, a one-road frontier outpost completely overrun by multicolored and lavishly decorated freight trucks waiting to transport trade goods to and from China. Internationally famous for their intricate hand painted floral patterns, images, and calligraphy, proud Pakistani truck drivers have made a vibrant tradition out of personalizing their otherwise drab industrial vehicles, turning them into literal mobile galleries of folk art that are a dazzling pleasure to behold on the road. Truckers filled the supply shops and chai houses, often lounging out in the open on hand-strung cots serving as makeshift "trucker hotels".
 |
| Altit Fort as seen from the Karakorum Highway |
 |
| A glimpse of Ultar Sar (7388m/24,239ft) |
 |
| Passu Glacier filling the valley leading from Passu Sar (7478m/24,534ft) |
 |
| A majestic backdrop of the sharp Passu Cones and Tupopdan Peak (4101m / 20,033ft) |
 |
| One of many waterfalls springing from holes in the rock face |
 |
| The iconic Pakistani truck, as seen in the outpost of Sost |
After almost four hours of slowly zigzagging through Khunjerab National Park, passing nameless snow-capped peaks as well as marmots and golden eagles observing from the roadside, the terrain finally climaxed onto a wide plateau of grasslands and wild flowers surrounded by even higher snowy mountains. We had reached the famed Khunjerab Pass (4693m / 15,397ft), where a massive Pakistani flag fluttered alone in the middle of a large green field at the foot of another overflowing glacier. The road followed the valley until it seemed to dead-end at the foot of a massive mountain range, a series of small structures clustered near the base. As we approached the Pakistani customs office, a tiny kiosk boasted on its walls as housing the world's highest ATM. Comically, in true Pakistani fashion, it was closed and nonfunctioning. Yet it still felt like a peculiar achievement to be able to see it after having also visited the world's highest post office box at Everest Base Camp in Tibet (also closed and nonfunctioning). The road terminated at a massive grey modern archway imitating an imperial Chinese style fortress gateway, with neither guards nor civilians in sight. Decked in all sorts of CCTV cameras and road blockades, a massive block of barbed wire branched off in two directions, extending up into the mountains and along the pass towards the horizon. While the Pakistani side of the border contained a few shabby structures with relatively more color, the Chinese side sported cold Soviet-esque infrastructure, an intimidating presence as the dominant political power. A giant freeway sign in three languages quietly stood, seemingly out of place in the middle of nowhere, indicating the distances to major Uyghur cities in China's far western Xinjiang province, many of which I had visited 16 years prior such as Kashgar and Urumqi. Though our breathing was a little heavier and steps more strenuous, Sadru and I couldn't help our excitement and the surreal fulfilment of having reached the world's highest international border crossing in such a remote and unforgiving location. We strolled through the wildflowers around the China Gate, belting out popular Qawwali songs in unison while taking in the phenomenal clear sunny skies, a rarity in an unpredictable place so often blanketed in snow, ice, and fierce below-freezing winds.
 |
| The highest international border crossing in the world: Sign with cities in Xinjiang, China |
 |
| The "Gateway to China" at Khunjerab Pass (4693m/15,397ft) |
 |
| The world's highest (non-functioning) ATM is in Pakistan |
 |
| Scene from the open plateau of the pass near the border line |
 |
| A golden eagle soars above one of countless unnamed peaks |
Making our way back to Gilgit, we made many stops to photograph phenomenal alien landscapes and isolated villages, as well as the unreal turquoise blue waters of Attabad Lake as well as cross one of the region's many precarious suspension bridges. Composed of wooden planks held by cables and spanning a turbid river below, the Hussaini Suspension Bridge had greatly evolved since its days as a rickety rope and wood slat river crossing that Sadru had reminisced, now having become a local attraction for those wanting to test their nerves crossing over the gaps in the planks. We were still on the road by sunset, a long day of driving that caused Ejaz to gradually begin weaving on the narrow road. We stopped at an orchard to take chai and Uyghur dumplings, giving Ejaz a little rest and energy to focus. Up until then, I hadn't thought about just how tedious and stressful his job truly was, driving for days in some of the worst conditions and alongside maniacal drivers, for a measly pay. Living for months on the move as a contractor, saving up for an upcoming arranged marriage, 28 year-old Ejaz was merely one example of Pakistani men of my generation who were struggling to make ends meet in a country without insurance, social security, or welfare programs. Arriving late at night, our day concluded with a five-dollar dinner for two of perfectly spiced chargha chicken and fresh Afghani naan. Yet despite how astonishingly cheap all of our meals have been, I was particularly grateful that evening while considering that people like Ejaz could not even afford to order meat.
 |
| View of the Hunza River snaking past the Passu Cones |
 |
| Passu Cones and Tupopdan (4101m / 20,033ft) |
 |
| The Hussaini Suspension Bridge |
 |
| Roadside tea house with orchard seating |
 |
| Exhausted Ejaz takes a chai break with Uyghur dumplings |
 |
| Perfectly spiced chargha chicken with Afghani naan |
The Road to Baltistan:
In the hazy distance, the glistening white façade of Nanga Parbat (8126m / 26,660ft) loomed above a narrow twisted road slowly snaking its way along the deep gorge of the Indus River, with precarious overhangs of sheer rock providing ominous shade from the scorching sun above. Boulders and piles of stone littered the highway, turning the route into a veritable obstacle course for Ejaz in his efforts to evade them without driving the Land Cruiser right off the cliff. Besides rockfalls and landslides, we battled with many massive freight trucks that barely left enough room for us to recklessly squeeze past without being crushed against the cliff. We passed through one segment of the gorge pockmarked with holes in seemingly impossible locations along the vertical cliff face, local hand-hewn mines for gems including ruby, topaz, and tourmaline. Northern Pakistan's rich geological resources have been evident not only in its diverse rocky landscapes but in its many roadside shops boasting a colorful array of raw and cut minerals. We even managed to purchase a finely polished "star" ruby, casually throwing the gem in with the bottled waters and masala chips while stocking up on supplies at a rest stop.
 |
| Tiny holes dotting the cliffside for local miners to extract precious gems |
 |
| Roadside convenience stores selling snacks and raw gems |
 |
| The Indus River coursing its way through the Skardu Valley |
 |
| Ancient Tibetan Buddha carvings |
Nestled at the intersection of three large valleys, Skardu sat on the ancient trade routes linking Pakistan, India, and China. Large boulders on the edge of town were carved with images of the Buddha, originally roadside shrines to protect Silk Road merchants and pilgrims nearly two thousand years ago when the area was under Buddhist influence from the empire of Tibet. Even today, the local Balti people and their language could both be traced to ancient Tibetan origins, despite having converted to Islam and adopting Pakistani clothing. The rugged Kharpucho fortress towered high above the frontier town, once the seat of the Baltistani kingdom, with its crumbling ramparts and ruined watch towers granting spectacular views of the entire terrain. The town and scenery itself had an almost "Wild West" quality reminiscent of rural Arizona, albeit with a touch of Islamic culture noted by its blue tiled mosque and golden domed dargahs. The central bazaar lining the main street was filled with small one-room store fronts covered in hand-painted signage and electrical poles that looked as if they were constructed in the 30's. The entire marketplace was filled with only men in traditional salwars with shawls and woolen pakol caps, staring deeply with piercing yet curious eyes at us making our way through the crowd. The entire rustic scene seemed to resemble Afghanistan from the news coverage back home, not surprising given the historical and cultural overlap between the two nations for millennia. Though Skardu is known for being the principal town from which mountaineers and climbers organize treks and expeditions to nearby K2, the world's second highest peak, foreign tourists were still an exceptional rarity for the local people to witness. From a beautiful lapis tiled mosque, the Shia call to prayer reverberated off the soaring slopes surrounding the town as men began to file into the courtyard for the evening salat. As the evening grew dark, the town became more alive with the hustle bustle of domestic shopping, street food carts, and the smoke from kebab grills. Beneath a brilliant crescent moon, the distant sound of Sufi singing and drumming wafted in the cool dry air.
 |
| Skardu, the capital of Baltistan and organizational base for K2 trekking |
 |
| View from the top of the Kharpucho fortress looking towards India |
 |
| Gateway to the Kharpucho fortress high above the town of Skardu |
 |
| Skardu Bazaar |
 |
| A beautiful blue tiled mosque in the center of the bazaar |
 |
| Scene from Skardu bazaar at sunset |
 |
| A wood carver from Skardu bazaar |
Off-roading through a deep gorge of crystal spring waterfalls, the narrow rocky trail twisted its way up towards perilous heights. Ejaz slowly and strategically navigated the Land Cruiser along the frightening edge of the barrier-less road, with little more than a few stones separating us from a guaranteed fatal plunge. It seemed like hours had gone by as we slowly meandered in 4-wheel drive over bumps and boulders as well as through ditches and rivers, parts of the road crumbling beneath our tires and trickling down. We finally reached the top of the ridge, which opened up into an unexpectedly vast and empty grassland filled with colorful wildflowers that seemed to extend into infinity under an azure blue sky. At over 4114 m / 13,500ft, the world's second highest plateau of Deosai (after Changtang in Tibet) was like a paradisiacal prairie of rolling meadows in green and yellow, crisscrossed by deep sapphire blue streams of icy water. Far in the distance, plumes of dust arose from other Land Cruisers and vintage Jeeps slowly making their way across the terrain. We pulled up to a small ridge overlooking a river bank where several large white pyramidal tents had been set up with solar powered garden lamps. It was my first experience with the Pakistani attempt at glamping, and though the quality of the amenities still felt like a work in progress, the fantastic location and delicious vegetable soup prepared by young men bundled up in the kitchen tent made us forget any trivial inconveniences. As the sun set and the chill approached freezing temperatures, the heavens were illuminated with the warmth of a million stars and a giant moon straddling the endless horizon.
 |
| The rocky, unbarricaded road leading up to Deosai Plateau |
 |
| A tiny shop and "hotel" on Deosai Top |
 |
| Sadru and Ejaz taking a rest on Deosai Top |
 |
| Deosai: The second highest plateau in the world, at 4114m/13,500ft |
 |
| Father enjoying retirement at the edge of the world |
 |
| Pakistani "glamping" is a work in progress, but the scenery makes up for it |
Awaking at dawn, we took hot chai while watching the soft morning light grow over the dark distant peaks separating Pakistan from India. Our off-road crossing of Deosai National Park witnessed endless fields of wildflowers and plump furry marmots popping their inquisitive heads out from their burrows. Once we had topped the ridge, the elusive white face of Nanga Parbat rose up in the distance, perfectly unobstructed from its usual veil of clouds. As the world's ninth highest peak, my knowledge of this mountain originated solely from Brad Pitt's character attempting to summit it in the classic film "Seven Years in Tibet". As we began our descent into the Astore Valley, we noticed the plethora of military checkpoints that forced us to stop frequently to provide paperwork and receive inspections. Though our entire journey through Pakistan-administered Kashmir had been paused by regional police checkpoints, often with officers simply lounging and gossiping beside the boom barrier, the level of security in Astore seemed exponentially heightened. Being so close to the disputed border with India that has made the entire Kashmir tumultuous for half a century, it was common to see army vehicles traversing the dirt trails and helicopters flying above the mountainous terrain and monitoring the nearby Line of Control. Nevertheless, the Astore Valley still proved to be one of the most scenic and charming regions of the entire trip, with many rustic mud and wood villages perched upon remote hilltops and cliffsides surrounded by forests of tall pines and cone-shaped junipers. As we passed from village to village, hundreds of eyes stared at our presence, fierce gazes that felt ambiguously curious and hostile. The people of this region were phenotypically mind-boggling, resembling a fascinating amalgamation of Eurasian, Persian, and South Asian traits resulting in both men and women that were simply dashing. Even the shoemaker or goat herder with his dark-lined, green crystal eyes and refined facial features could rival the most handsome of Bollywood stars. While women were mostly absent from public life, the girls of the village sported faces as striking and enigmatic as National Geographic's iconic Afghan girl, Sharbat Gula, who herself was discovered in a Pakistan refugee camp in the neighboring province. A walk through the tiny conservative village of Gorikot to buy mangos proved to us that despite our initial uncertainty and feeling out of place, the people were in fact quite welcoming and inquisitive.
 |
| Nanga Parbat (8126m/26,660ft), the 9th highest peak on the planet |
 |
| A traditional village house in the Astore Valley |
 |
| Astore Valley, bordering a section of Kashmir violently disputed between Pakistan and India |
 |
| Village life in Astore Valley |
 |
| Crossing waterfalls rushing over the road is a common encounter |
 |
| Life in the village of Gorikot |
 |
| Pakistanis are masters of transporting both people and objects |
The Road to Naran:
Frantically, Sadru came to the roadside shop where we were buying water and told us we needed to leave immediately. We had finally come off the plateau and rejoined the Karakorum Highway when word spread of sectarian violence between Sunni and Shia Muslims that was stirring up protests in Chilas and quickly spreading over the region. Angry mobs were forcefully closing various parts of the highway, including access to Babusar Pass. The pass granted us an hour-long shortcut through the mountains to Naran; with access denied, the journey could delay anywhere from 8 hours to over one day via alternative mountain routes filled with physical obstacles and occasional banditry. Arriving at the Zero Point police checkpoint, Sadru quickly had our paperwork and car registration ready, pleading with the officer to let one more car through the already closing gate. Thankfully, the guard consented and told us to hurry through. Later, Sadru informed me that the police had inquired about his religious affiliation, and that hailing from the pacifist Ismaili sect was an influencing factor in getting us through the blockades. Such is travel throughout Pakistan, where any moment can turn sour at the hands of unpredictable weather, infrastructure failure, political unrest, or religious strife.
 |
| The Pakistani military has a heavy presence near the Kashmiri Line of Control |
 |
| Sectarian violence leads to the blocking of Babusar Pass |
 |
| Nomad children on the road to Naran |
 |
| Waiting out the blockade at the popular Moon Restaurant |
After getting through a few more blockades from Babusar, causing massive traffic jams of trucks, microbuses, and family cars, we took another lunch at the even more crowded Moon Restaurant, now reminiscent of a small refugee camp for people trapped on the pass. By evening time, we had reached Naran, where we spent a relaxing evening strolling through the colorful and lively bazaar, the highlight of the main road through town being its array of delectable street foods. Smoke and steam wafted through the air as hot coals sizzled with the juices of chicken sajji and beef boti kebabs. In open air kitchens, chefs stirred large pans of mutton karahi and various curries, while bakers bent over large pit-like tandoor ovens to retrieve hot pillowy naan. As the evening call to prayer echoed through the town, we took cups of Quetta style chai and green tea from a chaikhana operated by a jolly elder chaiwallah from Afghanistan, pouring his fresh brew from high above his head into large green enamelware jugs to aerate and mix the spiced tea. The air was cool with a light refreshing sprinkle as families began to fill the colorfully lit outdoor tables. Our last night in the north was exceptionally tranquil after more than a week of early mornings and seemingly endless offroad driving. It was also filled with melancholy knowing that our adventures with Sadru and Ejaz would conclude. Nevertheless, this was a land without farewells; we joked that we'd later crash Ejaz's wedding, and Sadru still expects us to return in a couple years to do his K2 trek. In total, our road trip covered more than 1872km (1163mi) through the Gilgit-Baltistan region of Pakistan-administered Greater Kashmir.
 |
| A chef cooks Balochi style chicken sajji at Naran Bazaar |
 |
| An Afghani naan baker beside his tandoor oven |
 |
| Cooking Afghani chapli kebab, a spicy meat patty |
 |
| Brewing a hot cup of Quetta style chai |
 |
| Row of chicken and mutton boti kebabs grilling to perfection |
Lahore: The Prize of the Punjab
Exiting Abdullah Bus Terminal, we were slapped in the face with an absolute maelstrom of pure chaos. In oppressive heat and humidity blanketed with suffocating exhaust, a traffic jam of auto-rickshaws, cars, busses, motorbikes, pedestrians, street vendors, and donkey carts clogged an endless boulevard lined with ramshackle multi-story brick shops, dusty signage, webs of black electrical wiring, and massive piles of garbage. Traveling deeper into an urban decay while tens of thousands were on the move, signal-less intersections converged into mayhem as stunt devils dangerously navigated around obstacles in death-defying feats of vehicular finesse, sometimes driving unabashedly down the wrong lanes and weaving through opposing traffic to conveniently reach their destinations. It was difficult to breathe from the dust and smog, and combined with the scorching heat and nauseating ride, it seemed as if we were being transported into the very bowels of Hell. Yet despite its unparalleled pollution, cacophony, and lawlessness, if only one place could best define the history, culture, and vibe of Pakistan, surely the timeless city of Lahore would claim the title. While the tranquil northern mountains of the country felt more like Afghanistan and was culturally Central Asian, the flat overpopulated plains of the Punjab certainly shared more in common with the vibrant Indian Subcontinent.
 |
| Crowded and chaotic street scene in Lahore |
 |
| A glimpse down a street in Anarkali clothing bazaar |
 |
| Children riding in a pickup, as part of a TV series being filmed in the bazaar |
 |
| A merchant of ladies wedding textiles and salwar kameez |
 |
| There is no shortage of fiery chili in Pakistan |
Like its sister, Delhi, Lahore was a strategic city of great historical significance that had witnessed millennia of invaders, conquerors, and rulers, all leaving their legacies on the city's color, culture, and cuisine. A turn down any narrow alley seemed to yield an edifice or dwelling even older than the one prior, from the crumbling havelis in the old bazaars, to the monumental stone mosques and mausoleums of the Mughals, and even to the European colonial administrative halls of the British Raj. Entering the old walled city through Delhi Gate, the scent of ground spices wafted in the humid air, as merchants cluttered their storefronts with multicolored sacks of cumin, turmeric, cardamom, cinnamon, fenugreek, and endless varieties of red chilies. In a battle of scent, baskets full of pink rose petals and jasmine garlands destined for Sufi shrines released their sweet fragrances. A turn down another alleyway opened into a bazaar filled with elaborate embroidery and sequenced wedding gowns alongside traditional textiles and turbans. Yet even more colorful than the bazaar's wares were the magnificent structures that rose up above the crumbling brick buildings, most notably the jewel-like mosque of Wazir Khan. Built during the reign of Emperor Shah Jahan, known for his construction of India's famed Taj Mahal, the mosque was unsurprisingly spared no expense in its interior ornamentation. Tile mosaics, hand-painted frescoes, carved stucco work, and stone inlays covered every square centimeter of the structure in floral, geometric, and calligraphic patterns that left the viewer simply awestruck. Whereas the Wazir Khan mosque was intricate and quaint, the most famous mosque in the entire nation took architecture, design, and space to a more colossal level. The Badshahi Masjid rose to towering heights over the old city skyline, its three bulbous domes and multitude of red sandstone minarets visible from nearly every rooftop. Visiting the massive space kept one's eyes in a constant state of wonder, as well as one's feet in constant motion to avoid burning them on the searing hot stone floor of the sacred courtyard. In the vaulted halls of the main structure, families gathered in the dark recesses to take rest from the sweltering noonday sun, many sleeping on the cool stone floor beneath domes of intricately carved marble. Across from the Badshahi was the imposing Lahore Fort, a Mughal palace and fortification similar in style and function to the Red Fort in Agra. The enormous walled space contained the remnants of grand audience halls, royal kitchens, military barracks, and hammams. However, the harem and inner living quarters of the famed Sheesh Mahal highlighted the epitome of Mughal opulence, its chambers and pavilions covered in ornate mirror mosaics that shimmered in the light, and walls of painstakingly carved stone lattice screens allowing a breeze of relief to pass through.
 |
| The famed 17th century Badshahi Mosque built by Mughal emperor Aurangzeb |
 |
| Women and children resting from the scorching heat |
 |
| Inside the Lahore Fort, regional residence of the Mughal emperors |
 |
| Jali screens carved from sheets of solid marble |
 |
| The Sheesh Mahal, known for its mirror mosaics |
 |
| Modern-day Mughals |
 |
| The interior of the jewel-like Wazir Khan Mosque |
 |
| The Badshahi Mosque as seen from the walls of the Lahore Fort |
Of the many historical treasures Lahore boasted, the royal mausoleums on the other side of the Ravi River were some of my most cherished places. Surrounded by fortified walls, the vast open gardens of the Akbari Sarai containing the tombs of Emperor Jahangir, his brother-in-law Asif Khan, and his wife Empress Noor Jahan were like islands of tranquility and silence separated from the mayhem beyond the imposing gates. Huge ornate gardens that were once perfectly manicured in the Persian style, now stood as mysterious and semi-forgotten fields of overgrown grass covered by centuries-old banyans and palm groves, occasionally with couples discreetly intermingling in the shade. The massive sandstone arches of the mausoleum glittered with fantastic marble geometrical inlays, its halls leading towards the central crypt where a marble cenotaph inlaid with semiprecious stones marked the resting place of the fourth Mughal emperor. Strolling through the grounds to the melodious sound of the Islamic call to prayer echoing off of the stone walls added a whole other exotic and spiritual dimension to the cathartic visit. Crossing the unbarricaded rail tracks to reach the tomb of Noor Jahan, it felt surreal to be the only foreign tourists, more often the only two people, to have such exquisite historical treasures entirely to ourselves. The dread of re-entering the urban madness beyond the boundary walls made us appreciate the fleeting peace of a city that has witnessed centuries of tumult.
 |
| Gateway to the mausoleum of Emperor Jahangir |
 |
| The mausoleum of Emperor Jahangir |
 |
| Resting upon the bejeweled cenotaph of Emperor Jahangir |
 |
| Cenotaph of Asif Khan, brother of the Mughal empress |
 |
| Mausoleum and gardens of Empress Noor Jahan, wife of Emperor Jahangir |
Lahori cuisine is famous throughout South Asia, deriving from the delicious amalgamation of culinary traditions from Persia, Central Asia, India proper, and even more recent Chinese influences. The streets were filled with the smoke of a medley of kebabs, including chicken malai, beef seekh, and mutton boti. The most popular eateries, usually with large signs proudly emblazoned with their owners' portrait and mottos claiming to be the best, served either biryani with barbecue, fried fish, or a typical breakfast stew like beef nihari or lamb paya. Questionable hygiene practices were easy to overlook when diving into a huge plate of fluffy and colorful biryani with chunks of tender beef. Overlooking the famed Badshahi Mosque and Lahore Fort, many open terraced restaurants on Fort Street served decent dishes for visitors choosing a spectacular view over price and quality. An abundance of chaat snacks and local favorites could be found around the Anarkali food street, where giant iron kadais filled with oil bubbled as men flash fried Punjabi samosas and pakhoras to crispy perfection. Yet despite the exciting bustle of the food streets, the challenge of heat and question of hygiene always lingered when deciding where and how to best enjoy Lahore's many eateries. One unlikely restaurant well away from the chaotic crowds left a truly lasting impression on me - The Mughal Court (formally "The Lakhnawi") at the high-end Avari Hotel. While we don't typically find ourselves at pricey hotel restaurants, The Mughal Court offered us something unique (in addition to AC), specializing in royal court dishes of the Mughal elite and Awadhi nawabs. It gave a classy dining experience in a palatial setting that did more than simply serve refined food, but demonstrated a mastery of the region's cuisine. Over the course of several dinners, we savored the creamy flavors of chicken malai handi, rich Lakhnawi biryani cooked in mutton broth, a tangy vegetable korma, dahi ki pasliyan lamb chops, spicy eggplant mirch baingan salaan, and even a melt-in-the-mouth chicken kundan qaliya with thin sheets of real silver leaf. For less than 40 USD, we feasted like kings, realizing that our experience was merely a fraction of the royal extravagance typically showered upon the maharajas of the past. In an effort to not awkwardly walk into the Avari for a third time, having now well befriended the jovial maitre d'hotel and hosts, we opted for a more local meal of Lahori biryani and various boti kebabs at Master Biryani, a crowded and chaotic street corner joint with a smokey curbside kitchen engulfed in a sea of parked motorbikes. Waiters ran in all directions with sizzling cast iron skillets, piles of skewers, and steaming plates of rice while trying to accommodate the mass of diners. Next door, the brightly-lit Chaman ice cream parlor whipped up an assortment of fruity flavors and shakes to cool the tongue after a spicy meal in the stifling evening temperatures.
 |
| Samosas and pakhoras at Anarkali Food Street |
If the city were not already colorful and energetic enough, Lahore had one more show to perform that could easily be labeled as one of the most unique and exuberating experiences everyone should witness once. Though the events surrounding Pakistan's and India's tragic 1947 partition would always be remembered in history as the source for ongoing enmity between the two nations, one peculiar and unexpected interaction, held nightly on the very line of division, could almost been interpreted as a rare act of camaraderie. Every evening since the late 1950's, the guard units stationed at the nearby Wagah-Attari crossing have performed a series of military style drills to lower their respective national flags and close the border gates. This ceremonial act had grown into a bigger and more flamboyant coordinated ritual, as Pakistani Rangers and Indian Border Security Forces would playfully challenge each other through dance, machismo, and comical peacocking. In due time, the crossing had transformed into a sizable stadium straddling the line, where revelers could come to witness the show and cheer for their respective country. With the intense energy of a football match, thousands of people rallied from the stands, belting out national songs and waving flags as merchants made their rounds selling snacks, soft drinks, and patriotic paraphernalia. The exceptionally tall Pakistani Rangers marched their way to the open gates, performing high kicks while aggressively raising their arms and puffing their chests, awaiting India's mutually animalistic response from across the divide. To rally the audience, "mascots" danced and screamed out, most notably a one legged Sufi dervish and flag-waving Balochi wielding a large dhol drum. The display was all in good fun and exceptionally entertaining, giving the populace an ironic sense of unity and respite from the ongoing politically-driven tension.
 |
| The Gateway to India |
 |
| Pakistani Rangers beginning the border closing ceremony |
 |
| The one-legged dervish, a popular mascot at the border closing ceremony |
 |
| Punjabi and Balochi dhol drummers bringing in the rhythm |
 |
| Pakistan and India mutually retiring their respective flags |
 |
| A competitive display of machismo between the Pakistani and Indian border guards |
 |
| Posing with the towering Pakistani Rangers |
Demystifying Pakistan:
Over a phenomenal feast of Afghan dishes at Islamabad's popular Kabul Restaurant, I couldn't help but reflect over how invigorating, awe-inspiring, colorful, and delicious my journey had been, and how greatly the world has long misunderstood a nation like Pakistan. An ethnically, linguistically, culturally, and historically diverse land, Pakistan has been anything but the monocultural "failed state" tainted with hatred towards the West, which is so often attributed to it. While religious conservatism still possesses growing influences on the psyche of the population, it still did not prevent anyone we met from warmly and playfully expressing their hospitality and generosity towards us, most often the only foreigners to be found anywhere in the area. Amusingly, the people we encountered found us to be as fascinating and refreshing as we had likewise found them to be, a modern cross-cultural meeting along ancient silk routes that did wonders to debunk any previously held misconceptions. Beneath the surface level dominated by corrupt politics and rebel insurgencies are merely a people struggling to live normal, peaceful lives. In light of constant media demonization and exaggerated State Department travel warnings, I never once felt under threat, something I surely couldn't claim while wandering the streets of Los Angeles or New York after dark. Nevertheless, Pakistan is still a wild elephant in the room that must be addressed. It is far from being freed of its social, political, economic, and security problems, with much needing to be overhauled and rejuvenated if its people wish to see success, safety, and sustainability in the future. Yet, none of those factors should deter anyone seeking to experience firsthand the wonders that this land has to offer and the compassion its people anxiously wish to share.
 |
| An Afghanistan feast at the popular Kabul Restaurant |
 |
| Friendly locals in the back of a crammed autorickshaw |
 |
| An adorable mini Qawwali group performing outside of Lok Virsa, Islamabad |
 |
| Nomad girls in Khyber Pakhtunkwa province |
