Pakistan3

INDIEN 2000

Expedition

Länder-/Routeninfo

Indien2000@bigfoot.com

The Road to Health – or: How we stalked the Killer Mountain

A sort of mental malaise and physical unfitness had befallen the group.This comes from weeks of endless travel on the road, in the car. To get rid of this, and also the general abdominal affliction that each one of us was suffering from to varying degrees, we decided to climb into our hiking boots and do a trek in Northern Pakistan.

The opportunity practically fell in our lap in Gilgit, where we met an experienced trekking guide, who also happened to be the owner of our guest house. And really a nice chap he turned out to be, named Abdul Bari.

After showing us some detailed routes on maps in his office, some photos taken on previous treks (smiling travellers in the snow) and agreeing on a price per person, not of course without some amicable bargaining, we were set to go the next day. Abdul Bari started all the organizing at 19h00, this included food for six days, Jeep transport to the start of our trek and a few odds like warm clothing and rain gear. All we had to do was pack our stuff into rucksacks and bags. This we did with feverish anticipation. The trek to be was from Astor valley towards Rupal and Leila Peaks, rounding Nanga Parbat, the socalled “Killer Mountain“, due to the many climbers who gave their lives on His icy slopes and treacherous rock faces. At 8125 meters it is the second highest peak in Pakistan after K2, but more difficult to climb than the latter or Everest. We were going to stay safely in the valley however, possibly reaching an altitude of 5000m, depending on fitness.

Day 1 started off with a cool morning rain shower, but the sun soon broke through to swelter Gilgit, high humidity adding to the discomfort. Luckily the two Jeeps into which we were piled and onto which our luggage was strapped, were air conditioned, ie. no windows, with just a tarpaulin overhead: the faster you go the more the aircon. Short stops were made on the Karakorum “ Highway“, the winding track from China in the North to Islamabad in the South, once to view the confluence of the Gilgit and Indus rivers, which divide the surrounding high mountains into Himalaya, Karakorum and Hindu Kush ranges, and a few times for the obligatory road blocks (manned by police, army or clan warriors).

Soon after the turn-off to Skardu, we left the Karakorum Highway and followed a winding track, that led us into Astor Valley. The entry point over the hanging bridge crossing the rushing muddy river looks gloomy enough, between sheer rocky cliffs, but as the road clings along ever so many steep turns, the valley becomes canyon-like, so that the sunlight hardly seems to touch its floor. The Jeeps rattled and bumped along admirably, living up to their name “mountain tigers“. But more about the Jeeps later.

A lunch stop was made at a roadside hovel for Nan and vegetable stew and glacier water, then further on we rattled. Further up, the valley suddenly opens up into wide slopes dotted with potato ,wheat and maize fields, as well as blossoming summer meadows and grazing cows, the natural stone houses of small villages completing the picture of idyllic country life. At Churit, Abdul Bari’s home village, the Jeeps unloaded us for the night at his guest house, still in the process of being built, seemingly by most village men. A wholesome dinner was followed by stories of Yetis and mountain spirits, and even one about a villager who had married a fairy. Unfortunately not everyone was upto story telling – Ute and Frieder were severely afflicted along their digestive tracts, from one end to the other, so to speak, and retired early with various pharmaceuticals on board.

Strange how prediction sometimes turns into prophecy. We remembered at this time the words of two fellow travellers/ prophets we met in Iran who said: “In Northern Pakistan ye shall be hit hard by abdominal cramps, nausea, flatulence and the most foul, horrid stools. But hark, there is a cure. Ye shall find at most corner shops the magic cure for this affliction in the form of Flagyl, which will devastate the evil stomach bugs. So mind ye not Northern Pakistan, for the perils that await ye in India shall be a hundred times worse.“ So we were dutifully consuming Flagyl pellets and faintly wondering about what was to befall us in India.

Luckily the next morning smiled upon us with somewhat better feeling patients and cool weather, ideal for walking. The porters and cooks (!) for our trek were hired locally from the village by Abdul Bari. Our party consisted finally of Abdul Bari as guide, his father as cook and assistant guide, his uncle as assistant cook and porter, another four porters and two donkeys (equivalent in carrying capacity to two porters each), bringing the total to fourteen, excluding the two animals.

The Jeeps brought us to our starting point, the village of Tarishing, another twenty minutes up the valley. A few houses were passed as the last village was left behind, the track climbing steeply towards the first glacier and moraine crossing which consisted chiefly of loose rubble, trickling rivulets and brown ice sheets. Walking was not easy at this altitude of 3000 m, but watering stops at a clear mountain spring and a small shop in the village of Lower Rupal for Mango juice kept us going. Upper Rupal was completely deserted, the villagers having moved up with their cows to the high summer pastures. Here the porters and donkeys caught up with us for lunch. Frieder was dead tired and lay ashen-faced on the grass, flat on his back like a baron (Von Und Zu Lehmann Waldau) laid out on his last rest All he could manage was a dry biscuit. Ute wasn’t feeling too bright either. The rest of us dug into what was to become a daily opulent lunch stop consisting of two types of cheese (Happy Cow), various biscuits, Nan, sardines, tuna etc.

Then the ascent beckoned once more through meadows in psychedelic green, ablaze with white, yellow and purple patches of flowers. We passed by a small glacier lake and reached Herrligkoffer basecamp, named after one of the early German mountain climbers, who started his Nanga Parbat expeditions from here. At last the first ice fields became visible, but Nanga Parbat was not to reveal himself to us fully yet, the steep slopes soon vanishing in lowlying clouds. A short respite was needed, even one of the fully-laden donkeys slipped and had to be helped up by the tail.

The next hurdle was a more formidable glacier crossing, the Bazhin glacier, along a narrow path, up and down over heaps of rocky rubble, between collections of icy water in dirty ponds, the sound of tumbling rocks and rushing water under the dirty ice not far away. Even the usually surefooted donkeys seemed to struggle on narrow ledges. Finally a slippery descent from the glacier moraine brought us to a wide plain with an icy river, where we were to camp for the night. The tents stood not a moment too soon as an icy shower descended on the plain, drenching everything within minutes.

Even as we huddled in our tents, soup, Samoosas and stew were beind prepared for us under a leaking tarpaulin. When the rain turned into a drizzle, we warmed ourselves around a campfire in the dusk, sang songs, played harmonica and listened intently to Abdul Bari’s tale about Yusup and Suleila, an ancient love story. This must have inspired Nanga Parbat to cast off the veils of cloud and show his pale face, an awesome sight illuminated by the rising moon.

Frieder slept through all of this soundly, or rather sank into oblivion until the following morning.

Breakfasts were equally opulent, including toast, Nan, porridge and eggs. Word had travelled fast among the Upper Rupalese camping on this alpine plain, that there were doctors around, since I had helped Abdul Bari remove a foreign body out of his eye the previous night. And so a mini clinic had gathered together for attention after breakfast: a kid with diarrhoea, an infected eye and of course grandmom with a headache. A bit of translated advice and a few multivitamins for the headache, and they were off to their herds. A group of women wanted to inspect Ute’s ring, but didn’t want to give it back, so Abdul Bari and father had to step in to sort things out. Hastily we were on our way, before more patients or kleptomaniacs arrived.

The plain was dotted with grazing “Zoos“, a mixture of cattle and Yak, well suited to high altitude and cold weather. They are apparently found grazing on slopes of up to 5000 m. Longhaired creatures they are with rather large horns, so we kept a respectful distance. The raging whitewater of the river had to be crossed by rickety wooden bridges without rails, something that looked more scary than it turned out to be. We passed by below a glacier lake to another plain, where meat in the form of freshly slaughtered sheep was purchased from the locals. Then on and up to Shaigiri, another basecamp from where Nanga Parbat can be conquered and where we would spend the night. What makes Nanga Parbat such a difficult climb is that the basecamps like Shagiri lie beneath 4000m. Further ascent from the basecamps has to bridge 4200 to 4500 m, and involves ice and rock climbing, while the four camps en route are rather exposed unfriendly habitats, suspended precariously on what few level patches of rock are available. Everest and K2 have high basecamps at 5000 to 5500 m, with less actual climbing to be done thereafter.

After lunch some afternoon walks were held to explore the surroundings. Sibylle and Christoph crossed the stream further down and continued upstream on the other side to a valley with glacier dividing Rupal and Shaigiri peaks in the South. Bernhard and I scaled some hilly terrain between Nanga Parbat and the camp up to an altitude of about 4300 m, reaching the top of a rather steep moraine, from where we had some tremendous views all around. However, as rain began to pour down, we made our way rather hastily to the camp. No sooner had we reached it, than the rain stopped and Ute, who had been napping, wanted to get her share of promised exercise. Well, I had to keep my promise, so off we went again to the same spot on the moraine, for lack of any other easily reachable vantage point. We were rewarded with an amazing sight, as the killer mountain suddenly stepped forward out of his veil and showed his face in the afternoon sun. When we strolled back into the camp Frieder, who spent the whole afternoon in camp to rest, alleged that we had been doing “secret high altitude training“. This probably did make a difference in retrospect the following day, as you will see.

Day 3 of the trek, and we were off early with great goals to accomplish and altitudes to conquer. The camp was to be left intact, and we were to return that evening after a dayhike to a spur of Nanga Parbat at 5500 m. We walked as light-footed as ever, burdened only with daypacks, while Ibrahim “the Skewnose“, one of the porters, accompanied us with a rucksack full of lunch, and of course Abdul Bari, ever cheerful and energetic.

Frieder and Ute were topfit, whether from the past two day’s exercise, or whether through the wonderful chemistry of Flagyl, may only be guessed. The track climbed up to the Northern side of the glacier lying at the foot of Mazeno Pass, through an open forest of gnarled, grotesque old fir trees and across two streams that caused a few wet icy feet among the group. Then came the mother of all ascents, and the strain of altitude and collective unfitness took its toll. Marzena experienced a headache, pressure on the ears and nausea, but was not to be pursuaded to turn back. One of those people who continue until they either die or collapse. As we climbed ever higher, more of the surrounding peaks and ridges came to view, and of course the Mazeno Glacier. Finally we reached a wasteland of boulders that had to be scaled to reach our goal, the spur of 5500m height. Marzena collapsed on a flat rock surface and declared that she was going to die here. Even Frieder’s brand of motivational psychology could not move her an inch. So “Skewnose“ Ibrahim remained behind with her, while the rest of us pressed on, drawing in the thin air, two breaths per step, airways burning. The Swiss showed us all that they came from a country with a few mountains around, Christoph and Sibylle frankly unstoppable and up first, Bernhard holding his own not far behind. Frieder was ambling on behind at his own pace and never quite reached the top, but for the rest of us there was a view, a cry of victory and a photo. The “secret altitude training“ must have made the difference in the end.

And then the rain came down, icy driving rain, intermingled with hail. The only way to keep warm was to keep moving down the slope, across the field of now slippery boulders and down the steep ridges. Bernhard was using his ski-without-skis-technique, jumping down rubble slopes, both feet together, turning in midair.

At last the rain subsided, the sun came out, and Marzena was feeling much better with the loss in altitude, so lunch could be enjoyed in favorable conditions. Thereafter Ute, Bernhard and I wanted to explore Mazeno glacier, while the rest went off back to the camp. Ute and Bernhard were not in the mood to descend from the moraine to the glacier proper, but I had to follow the call of this beautiful white glacier. It was an exciting experience walking on the ice between rocks suspended on ice pedicles like so many mushrooms, jumping over deep cracks and streams of meltwater.

Needless to say, dinner was absolutely superb, helped on by our ravishing hunger. And another of Abdul Bari’s ancient love stories about Leila and Mashuloom was not able to keep us awake for long. Only thing I remember is it ended rather tragically, Romeo-and-Juliettesque. The night became crystal clear, with the mountains in pearly beauty all around us, bright in the full moon.

Day 4 and we felt even fitter and healthier. Our cooks outdid themselves with breakfast, loads were distributed and off we went with giant steps, breathing hardly at all after all the previous day’s altitude. One breath for every twenty steps. A short detour was made to a glacier lake a hundred meters or so above the valley. Then we crossed over to the other side of the stream and made our way down the South side of Bazhin glacier with a stop on the way for tea and Lassi, a type of thinnish yoghurt drink, obtained from a tiny summer village of Upper Rupalese herders. The path presented some hair-raising drop-offs but also some superb views of Bazhin and Nanga Parbat vanishing in the clouds. We passed by the deserted houses of Upper Rupal, repeated the experience of mango juice in Lower Rupal and reached Tarishing early afternoonish, in time to watch a cricketmatch between Tarishing and Churit, carried out with great enthusiasm, esp. by the spectators. Once again evidence that cricket in Pakistan is well and truly THE national sport.

We spent the evening in Abdul Bari’s house, healthier and in better spirits than a few days before.

Our trek ended with another exciting ride in the “mountain tigers“ back to Gilgit the following day. I must still give you an impression of these: They are mostly old ex-army issue, redone locally, fitted with the ever reliable Toyota four or six cylinder diesel B-series engines, resprayed and decorated in bawdy colours. A dagger or the moon-and-star of Pakistan mounted proudly on the bonnet, gives every Jeep its finnishing touch.Our driver coped well with oncoming trucks and overtaking slower vehicles (which means most others on the road) without flinching, and this inspite of not having a hooter. In fact none of the gages on the dashboard were working either. The speedometer always showed 60 mph regardless, the fuel gage was firmly lodged on “empty“, even after refuelling along the way, the temperature gage was stuck at “cold“, and not a single mile was added to the 41758 displayed on the odometer. Also, the charging current for the battery remained soothingly bang-smack in middle of range. One does need a few minutes after the ride to calm down of course.

Can I recommend a trek? Definitely, esp. as a road to mental and abdominal health. (In case you wondered – the Lassi didn’t affect us in any major way.)

zurück | neuerer | älterer | Top