Himalayas and I have a relationship beyond a single lifetime. These mountains talk to me....
travelogue
Himalayas and I have a relationship beyond a single lifetime. These mountains talk to me. Whether in Galiyat or Naran situated in the upper Kaghan Valley, the green slopes carry a conversation, they giggle with lively streams, show attitude with snow covered tops, but they always talk.
An evening chat with two of my phuppos (Immo and Paro) translated into an opportunity to say hello to my mountain friends.
They had never been to Naran/Kaghan, and we planned for the last week of July to get the advantage of slight drizzle and avoid extreme temperatures.
Landing in Islamabad is always a pleasure and an overnight stay at any of the good hotels or rest houses is advised for you to start the north bound journey early morning next day. A timely start includes a good breakfast and enough time for seniors to be adequately addressed in their need for facilities.
Leaving bigger pieces of luggage in the hotel hold is also a good idea for you to keep the baggage weight easy, unless you have Immo with you, who keeps reminding you of everything that you do not have now, for it was in the big case.
Water bottle, snacks, and engaging conversations are necessary for these drives, whether about the scenic Hazara motorway, or vistas of Hawelian, Abbottabad, Haripur, Balakot, that pass you by, or movies and songs. With reference to landscapes, Immo was most upset with the concrete patterns of the reinforced roadsides and demanded the Chinese to be notified for their poor aesthetics - my continuous pleading for her to understand the science of it, fell on deaf years. Thank God she approved the tunnels.
Paro proved to be the more adventurous one and fell in love with the fresh green of the walnut trees along the way. She wanted to see raw walnuts and made sure that we collected a sample of inedible tough green raw walnuts from every bend, in addition to photographs that had these green friends forming the background or canopies.
Laden with tough unchewable, bitter walnuts, and poor aesthetics of the Chinese, we went off the motorway (for the short-cut through new Balakot) into tears and prayers for rough narrow tracks to reconnect to M15 for Naran/Kaghan soon. This is a short patch but a rough one and if not timed you can get stuck in a jam. To keep the two girls distracted, I mentioned all the tomato and maize farms that I had discovered on this route, and how we must look for them. As a result, I now had Paro looking for tomatoes while, Immo utilised the break for a discussion on all that the government needs to do to ensure this connecting patch to be as good as the motorway. The young gentleman driving our vehicle, continued his commentary of the failed launch of the New Balakot. With every bump or sharp turn, I had to select drifting words from the verbal montage, and respond to all-in-one coherent sentence.
Paro’s sim was our source of updates, as no other worked, her updates however, would need a second piece so I will move to us missing our hotel and overshooting into Naran. My narrative on Suki Kinari (Dam), Himalayas, got illustrated by the lone glacier outside Naran, now dirty to hilt, and understanding of the fact, that we were lost. Fearing the next update on the group to be “Shaha has lost our hotel,” I stepped down to talk to three (different) hotel managers, Paro (and I) managed to get the right location and we drove 40 minutes back to find our beautifully located resort next to swift Kunar, surrounded by pine rich green slopes. A signboard at the turn mentioned another establishment, no wonder I had missed the turn to this paradise.
Now, that we were in Naran, the bigger question was the execution of the itinerary. Batta Kundi with its throttling river and zip lining, was at the top. I was excited to be back on the bridge that gets sloshed by the not so gentle river, but to my dismay found a newly constructed one way above the river, all chai pakora stalls removed and most of the slopes denuded. The colourful roofs and buildings still gave it a Lego land look but it was nowhere close to what I had in my head. We climbed upwards to the bazaar and the restaurants. Parked next to one and decided to take a stroll. Found a quaint trinket shop and a few others. Immo was keen to buy everything and had to be stopped and shopkeepers told to buzzed off. We had no room to carry the entire Naran valley back to Karachi. Food was good and we shared ours with young children trying to fly kites. The zip lining platform was vacant as only the lower points were functional. The lines seemed exceedingly high also and I could not think of me, Immo or Paro hanging from them, unless for life.
My choice of selecting a resort outside Naran proved to be the best decision. It gave us two connected rooms with a balcony, sloping gardens, and a riverbank. Our time back in the resort was either playing cards on the balcony or finding people to talk to in the garden or going down to the river for a stroll. I highly recommend these establishments instead of getting locked in the hotels in the city centre. Paro had her reservations when it came to connecting with new people, but Immo had no qualms. She struck friendships with everyone staying at the facility, and we would often find her in deep conversations with families regarding all issues that may comprise an entertaining drama script. But what we really earned were evenings where you could see the fading sunlight, the green slopes going dark, and then one after the other, the hamlets lighting up presenting a twinkling vista in front of your eyes, to match the one above your head. Add the continuous roar of the river to this picture to find a perfect night to just sit in the balcony, read a book, enjoy your 20th cup of tea, knowing that your two loving aunts are exhausted asleep, and you have a chapter to finish of an interesting book on Islamic civilisations. Perfect!
Drive towards Babusar top was next on the cards. Do note that driving up Saif-ul-Muluk, Lalazar, Sharan Forest, were out of question. My aunts could not have taken the jolts of the jeeps and sharp upward climbs; therefore, my trip was planned with geriatric perspective. But you do make that time whenever you plan Naran. How can you not sit on the banks of Saif-ul-Muluk and see the dancing fairies and mesmerised prince, the giant chasing them into the forlorn cave and be trapped there forever. You must also listen to Mian Muhammad Baksh’s Saif-ul-Muluk to be able to genuinely appreciate the mirror like beauty of the lake beyond the surrounding trash and pakora stalls. Sit in the meadows on Lalazar and walk through the wolf free Sharan Forest in a red cape. I ensured the stories/legends to be conversational content in our balcony/garden time to make up for the loss.
Babusar, named for being the epic passageway for the famed Mughal emperor who came, saw, and conquered the Hindustan, is dotted with glaciers frozen in time, lemon-coloured flowers in full bloom, pastures, meadows, and terraced farms, Babusar drive is iconic. The winding bends make you peer down to swinging river, moulded lakes, and glacier fed valleys, on one end and obstinate green, sky grazing, mountain tops on the other. The road is mettled and without a bump, and we made many stops to drench ourselves in the cascading waterfalls, buy drinks from the glacier refrigerators or just to gaze down into the magic unfolding.
I wanted to go all the way up to the restaurant just before the climb to the summit but did not wish to risk the impact of the altitude and made that my signal to turn around. To compensate for the shorter drive, we went out to Kaghan bazaar for a trout dinner and feasted on fried and grilled trout with masala and lemon and hot nans.
Stepping into the farms, buying more walnuts (ripe ones this time), shawls (only Immo), trinkets, scarves (only Immo), card games, chatting up with strangers (Immo mostly), listening to the river, and talking to the mountains kept us occupied. We woke up to the most glorious morning on our final day, with clouds descending into the valley, and the entire space getting enveloped in the white mist. The heavy rains, and floods followed our exit, and took away our connector bridge that we had crossed a day earlier.
What the mountains, the river, and the trees shared in my whisperings is content for another piece. A sad piece, for the mountains yearn for their lost leaved friends, the river gasps, for it is strangled by the new dams, and irritated by the direct release of sewage, and to top it all, the melting glaciers cry uncontrollably for their inability to maintain their proud stance.
The author is a seasoned educationist, corporate host, and regular contributor to various publications. She can be reached at shaha.jamshed@gmail.com.
