On
the border of vast vistas
In
this concluding article chronicling recent travels through Pakistan's
ancient Silk Road routes, Nishy Wijewardane enters the high Khunjerab
Pass, the final border pass between Pakistan and China, and starts
on the ancient road to Kashgar in former Chinese
Turkestan.
The
Khunjerab Pass, a national reserve of Pakistan spanning 2270 sq
km, forms a bleak but scenic 'No Man's Land' (more aptly one feels
it is more a nomads' land) of sorts as it straddles Pakistan and
China. Originally the Pass was under the control of the Mirs of
Hunza who controlled all hunting and grazing rights; more recently,
since the 1970s, it has been administered by the central government.
Having
left Pakistan's border checkpoint town of Sost, my wife and I boarded
a creaky old Toyota Land Cruiser managed by NATCO, the public transport
service that operated quite smoothly in Pakistan's northern areas.
Indeed the manner in which the NATCO deputy manager in Gilgit, Arifkamal
Rathore, shrugged off expectant private drivers and ensured that
we travelled on modest rates was exemplary of the roadside hospitality
we encountered for travellers on this mountainous route.
Packed
in with six other passengers, local and foreign, and a considerable
amount of luggage, the Land Cruiser creaked off. Some hours later,
I was to learn to my great interest that the two jovial apricot-chewing
Pakistani businessmen (with briefcases, a slightly odd corporate
accessory in this environment) on the front seat were veteran, modern
Silk Road traders, making this journey each month, weather permitting,
in a yearly $300,000 silk purchasing venture. The silk bales that
they purchased from buying centres across Xinjiang are sold in Pakistani
cities to eager local markets. Nothing, it seemed to me, had changed
much. Moreover, it was interesting to also learn that both Pakistani
and Chinese customs apparently allowed barter trades in lorry cargos
to be done on this route, keeping no doubt to the spirit of the
past.
From
Sost (at about 3100m or 10,200 feet), the road ascends and the temperature
drops, as the air gets increasingly chillier. From the narrower
V-shaped confines of most valleys along the central Karakoram, the
Khunjerab valleys soon opened up in 'steppe' fashion in many parts
of the Pass, rendering us with vast vistas of the surrounding landscape
unlike any scale visible in Sri Lanka. Small objects gradually took
shape on closer approach: a solitary black blip in the far distance
gradually transformed into a yak, grazing peacefully in an isolated
and silent landscape, interrupted only by the irregular howl of
winds sweeping the plateaus and nipping at my ears. The animal was
soon joined further on with a few more fellow yaks, their long shaggy
manes bristling in the wind and making them impervious to the cold
air. Later, my gaze was distracted by a sudden blur in an otherwise
perfectly still scene: the head of golden marmot, a small cat sized
rodent akin to a beaver or rock hyrax, popped up from its burrows
on the plains and it darted across the plain, disturbed by our presence.
The
area is also home to the rarer snow leopard of whom several thousands
are said to exist across the remote ranges according to World Wildlife
Fund (WWF) officials I met on the route (and further confirmed by
conversations with fur sellers in Kashgar who appear not to be short
of their pelts and regard them as pests). The Khunjerab is also
renowned for its large, curly horned Marco Polo sheep, of which
a few hundred survive, as well as Himalayan ibex -the most popular
icon of ancient graffiti, which I have seen etched in the rocks
from the lower Karakorams to central Kyrgyzstan-and wolves.
After
several hours of breathtaking scenery, the land began to level out
and the steppe grasslands, increasingly snow covered since we left
Sost, now gave way to sheetlike ice plains. The Land Cruiser, somewhat
amazingly, carried on regardless of the thinning air. I sensed we
were nearing the head of the Khunjerab Pass, at least at road level.
Finally, in broad sunshine, cloudless blue skies and blinding reflected
light from the white landscape, we began to see in the distance
a strange man-made feature, a long fence, which symbolized the official
Chinese line of control on its westernmost lands. We arrived at
the border at midday on the world's highest metalled 'public' road
and one crossing a border, at almost 4800 m (16,000 feet), over
thrice the height of Nuwara Eliya.
The
ride up to this point although a gradual one, suddenly made one
aware of the elevation as a mild but persistent headache took over.
Getting down from the cramped jeep after numerous bends, my head,
more accustomed to coastal elevations (although it has ascended
Mt. Kenya to a similar elevation), suddenly swam dizzily in the
thin air, losing its sense of balance, and this made walking on
the icy road bordered by thick snow a precarious experience. However,
I could soon stop and rest easily: the approaching Chinese border
police, consisting of young boys in smart green and red capped uniforms
and a brisk air about them, kept travellers waiting a good two hours
while formalities were completed, traveller by traveller. Luggage
was inspected and poked and passports checked courteously and formally.
My wife and I apparently were the first (perhaps at least amongst
the very few historically) Sri Lankans to cross over according to
the interested authorities in Colombo and here on this bleak border.
Warmly welcomed, but still in snow covered terrain, we had crossed
over into the vast desert province of Xinjiang! Ahead of us, much
lower down in elevation, lay a more visible fusion of culture and
ethnic groups than seen in a more uniform Pakistan, and a distinctly
different kind of landscape.
Descending
into Xinjiang
Still remaining in our public transport jeeps (a two jeep
convoy for safety), we drove towards the first Chinese town of Tashkurgan,
several hours away. The road was smooth, as in the Pakistan sector,
and endlessly pursued mountains and spring-flowered plains, but
it ran noticeably in more steppe country than in the former V-shaped
Hunza region. This was essentially Tajik country in all but name,
with Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and its peoples exerting distinct influences
and a reminder that modern boundaries are only pencil deep. Nomadic
horse-backed herders appeared in the distances, rustling small dots
that are livestock, yaks or dzu (yak/cow), a scene unchanged for
centuries. Here and there but across vast distances, yurts (circular
tents made of heavy felts and cloth draped on a rib of cross-hatched
roped sticks) could be seen with wisps of smoke emanating from the
circular chimney holes in the middle. On closer approach, small
children could be glimpsed, playing with rudimentary toys often
homemade wheeled toys made of sticks, wheels and planks and almost
unchanged from some ancient toys I had seen in the Taxila Museum.
Despite
the good road conditions, our jeep twice experienced flat tyres,
which said more for the poor condition of the tyres rather than
the road. We were stranded each time in beautiful, isolated landscapes
without a spare tyre in the first instance, an unbelievable and
then unnerving fact considering the remote terrain we had been covering,
and, in the second instance, without a jack! On the second flat
tyre, to the consternation of all, a sudden fist fight arose between
the driver and the hitherto jovial Pakistani silk traders - it seemed
to me that the latter were irate and indignant at having been asked
to help once more due to the lack of accessories, seen as the driver's
negligence.
In
the ensuing road fight set against such a tranquil landscape, I
intervened, albeit helplessly in English, to try to pacify the warring
parties, taking care not to be assaulted myself in the middle, but
not before the poor driver had been beaten up. Concentrating attention
on the deflated and rim-damaged tyre, I finally managed to rally
around all manpower (in the discriminated sense of the word) to
lift the vehicle while the driver quickly sought refuge under the
jeep and proceeded to pile up stones to prop up the rear axle. A
little while later, thanks to the Chinese Police escort that curiously
chaperoned us throughout our journey between the Chinese border
at the Khunjerab Pass and Tashkurgan, we soon had some company -
moral support in this crisis - and were on our way without too much
delay (nightfall would bring a sudden subzero drop in temperature
and a dangerous exposure in this region).
Tashkurgan
(or "Stone Tower") is a border town at 3600 m (11,900
feet) boasting more modern infrastructure than those villages or
hamlets on the Pakistan side. For reasons unfamiliar, although our
passports were checked in the Khunjerab Pass Chinese Customs point,
and perhaps once more subsequently, we were to undergo a rigid airport
style passport and baggage check again in Tashkurgan. Thereafter,
perhaps, one was truly "free" to travel in China. Though
functionally equivalent to Sost, the Chinese authorities seem to
have, almost vindictively, established two storey formal buildings
and wide modern roads in this town, which sits in a pleasant valley.
For
all its modernity, the town is ancient; it is referred to often
as far back as 140 AD by Ptolemy, the Alexandrian geographer, and
his references are based in turn on earlier merchants' accounts.
Interestingly, according to a modern scholar (J.Tucker), Ptolemy's
accounts mention that the journey between modern day Xian (a source
of silk) in middle China and Syria was about 11,000 kms in length.
A mid point in this crossing between China and the West was Tashkurgan's
Stone Tower, at the edge of the Pamir mountain range; historical
records suggest the journey between the Tower and Xian (through
the Taklamakan rim, and one which I was to follow in large part)
took about seven months.This would suggest to me that the ancient
caravans could average around 26 km a day in often-hostile terrain,
or a modest 2 km per hour night-time or daytime travel, depending
on the climatic conditions of the day as it affected animals, humans
and access to water. Today, one could probably do the same in about
11 days by road, in haste and weather permitting.
Tashkurgan
is also home to a historic tale of a Persian king (date unknown)
who took a Han Chinese princess from the east as a bride; the prospective
bride in the course of her journey to meet her husband had taken
refuge from bandits in the region by staying at a mountain peak
in Tashkurgan. Finding herself embarrassingly pregnant, purportedly
by the Sun God according to her, she resorted to taking up residence
in a castle subsequently built for her by her frightened retinue.
(Modern day Tashkurgan offers an enticing citadel, "The Princess
Castle", although archaeologists date this to 1279-1368 AD).
Her son was to reign over the lands here and his remains, undecomposed
in this dry atmosphere, are said to have been seen at a cave by
the great Chinese pilgrim, Xuanzang, in 644AD. Xuanzang himself
was accosted by bandits and at the nearby Tangitar Gorge, his white
elephant (given as a gift by an Indian King, Harsha, to carry Buddhist
relics from India back to China) was drowned. One might speculate
hopefully that in this dry atmosphere, the elephant bones may still
be intact, somewhere, but no finds have yet been reported.
Just
before Tashkurgan, the Karakoram Highway deviates into the Wakhan
Corridor to Afghanistan, another reminder of the extraordinary crossroads
nature of this region.
The ancient road
to Kashgar
After our evening arrival into Tashkurgan from Sost, and clearance
from Customs, we were faced with the difficult task of finding accommodation.
It necessitated walking about 2-3 km into town at midnight, with
heavy rucksacks and in the safety of a few foreigners, but fortunately
under an unusually light night sky and on broad town roads devoid
of vehicles. A surprising amount of human activity was visible at
such a late hour, from gossiping rural elders to young couples on
scooters. After much deliberation, and no English whatsoever, I
managed to find a local room - the landlady promptly evicted the
poor occupant (a visiting salesman?) in our favour for RMB 30 ($3.5).
After a memorable night in one of the dirtiest accommodations ever
experienced, we fled at first light to board a local Chinese bus
for the 300 km winding journey down to Kashgar, which follows the
ancient Silk Road. Later, we learnt that we had been a stone's throw
from better accommodation but in our exhaustion, further exploration
was impossible.
The
scenery was finally to change as we traversed from highland steppes,
home to massive Pamir peaks such as Mount Kongur and Muztagh Ata
("the ice mountain", with iced sides glistening in the
sunlight), each towering over 7500 m (25,000 ft), gradually past
the Karakol Lake (3800 m (12,500 ft), known to freeze over even
in summer) and lush pasture lands, through to the Ghez Canyon surrounded
by vast bleak sand dunes. The views at times were so vast that peering
from my bus window along on a mountainside ridge, the feeling (and
perspective) was precisely one of an airborne view looking down
at earth. The structure and ambience of the villages en route also
changed from the upper Karakoram reaches; the fresh greenness gave
way as dust began to predominate, and poplar lined Muslim roadways,
complete with the typical Central Asian donkey carts seen more in
Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan, took shape.
We
thus entered Chinese Turkestan or as it is known today, Xinjiang
Autonomous Region of China, a vast 1.6 million square kilometre
province dominated by one of the world's harshest deserts, the forbidding
Taklamakan Desert and home to the distinctive Chinese Muslim Uighur
ethnic group. This marked the beginning of the second half of my
journey from Peshawar to Dunhuang, and a different one from that
experienced up to this point from Peshawar, as revealed in the forthcoming
articles from the rim of the Taklamakan Desert, circled southwards
by the Tibetan plateau. |