The jeep option was too expensive for me, and the men with the jeeps had a monopoly, so the price wasn’t going to come down. But the bus/truck option, while much cheaper, was an iffy proposition, and it could be hours, or perhaps even days, given the poor shape of the roads, before one with room would stop for me.
But since I couldn’t find anyone to share the expense of the jeep, by eight o’clock I was standing by the side of the road with Max, Robbie and Hanna, and the other three Germans. We were hoping that one of the more comfortable, twenty-seat Toyota Cruisers would happen by, rather than the huge, and usually crammed-to-the-gills NATCO buses. But after an hour in the sun, not a single vehicle had appeared.
The men with the jeeps eyed us gleefully, knowing that before long we’d break down and hire them, and since cramming six people into a jeep was asking for a very uncomfortable ride, they’d probably end up with two hired jeeps, and a fat payday.
At about nine-thirty, however, an empty jeep happened by, and we flagged it down. It was only going as far as Karimabad, about 20 miles away, so it was of little use to me. But that happened to be Max and Robbie’s destination, and they negotiated a price with the driver, and after a quick good-bye, were off.
We sat and waited, but the traffic on the broken road was practically non-existent. Buses couldn’t make it more than about ten miles down river from us, so they were all waiting up in Sost for the road to be repaired. And what few jeeps and trucks could make it through, and there weren’t many, were usually full or reserved.
We tried to negotiate with the villagers again, but their price stayed the same. So we caved in. But then it turned out that their jeeps were all up in Sost, and they’d have to call up there to summon them. And the fly in that ointment was that the rains hadn’t just washed out the roads; they had taken the phone lines out as well. So after all that, we were back to sitting by the side of the road and waiting.
Things were beginning to get desperate about an hour later, when finally a jeep drove by, and we managed to wave it down. It was returning empty from dropping off passengers at Sost, but was going only as far as Karimabad, where it was supposed to pick up a passenger and take him to Islamabad. We were willing to settle for anything at this point, and pleaded to be taken to Karimabad, where we hoped the pickings would be much richer. The driver and guide agreed to take us that far for 50 rupees ($1.20) each. There was no need to discuss this windfall, and we piled in, wedging all five of us and our bags into the back. We drove off past the Passu jeep boys, who could only watch balefully as their 4000 rupees rolled on down the road.
As luck would have it, the guide was quite knowledgeable and fluent in English, and as we rode down the valley past massive landslides and washouts, he filled us with local lore. He also told us that the recent rains had caused the worst damage he had seen in 15 years of driving the road. We asked him when they might be able to repair all of it, and he only half-jokingly replied, “Oh it vill be dis vay for many years, I tink. Maybe dey vill fix it sooner if de President or Prime Minister come up here. But I doubt it.”
One of the Germans, a girl who looked to be about 20, had been having stomach problems, and about five minutes after we started, she asked the driver to pull over so she could go squat behind some rocks. After she had gotten out, I asked her companions if they had any medicine, because I still had plenty, and my intestines were firing on all cylinders these days. They said that she had been taking Immodium for days, and now she was no longer having problems with diarrhea, but was so clogged up that her stomach was cramping. She was in some pain, but couldn’t get anything to come out. On top of that, she had eaten two eggs for breakfast, which wasn’t helping matters any. When she came back to the jeep she was in tears, and I heard her tell her companions that she was just feeling worse.
So we started up again, but she was doubled over in her seat most of the way, and was obviously not enjoying the ride. The guide kept suggesting different medications to her friends, but it seemed pretty obvious that what she really needed was to rest somewhere and eat a bland, clean diet, not ingest any more medication. I remembered my bumpy ride to Bishkek, and knew what she was going through. But the fact that she had eaten eggs that morning led me to believe that she didn’t really have any idea what was good for her, and that she’d be going through this sort of thing a lot more before she got home.
I had been constantly amazed at some of the things I saw my fellow travelers put in their mouths. It’s as if they had no idea that the level of hygiene in Central Asia isn’t quite what they’re used to at home, and they feel no compunction about eating and drinking just about anything that comes their way. I’ve seen them sampling the most disgusting flyblown fruits and food and drink, which have been sitting outside for at least several hours. I wonder if they think that they’re somehow immune from cholera, typhoid fever, hepatitis, or any of the other water-borne diseases that are so easy to catch here. And I seriously doubt many of them had given any thought to vaccinating themselves. Instead, they carry a pile of Immodium pills with them, and then try to weather the frequent storms which pass their way. Not a recipe for a good time, if you ask me.
But I kept my advice to myself. This poor girl was going to have to learn her lessons the hard way, I guess.
Karimabad Truck
Within an hour, we arrived at Karimabad, and there the girl and one of her companions decided to stay. Her other friend, whose name I learned was Martin, was eager to continue to Gilgit with Hanna and me. So we parked ourselves on the main street and tried to flag down a ride. Several cars and jeeps stopped, but none were interested in going as far as Gilgit. However, the number of vehicles stopping for us made us think that we’d have much better luck here than we had in Passu.
After about an hour in the hot sun, an old man with an extra-cab pickup truck drove by and said that for 200 rupees each, he’d be willing to take us to Gilgit. Martin thought that was way too high, but I wasn’t interested in waiting anymore, and told him that I was going to go for it. Hanna also was game, and so Martin gave in and decided to go as well. For some reason I got to sit up front with the old man, while a Japanese couple huddled behind me, and Hanna and Martin stayed in the truck bed.
The road below Karimabad wasn’t in any better shape that what we’d been on, and twice we stopped for ten or fifteen minutes while bulldozers pushed rubble off the side of the road. I could see now why no buses were moving, as even our four-wheel-drive truck was having fits negotiating some of the worst stretches. But once we had been traveling for about two hours, the worst was behind us, and the Hunza valley began to broaden. Here the road straightened a bit, and I actually nodded off once or twice in the heat of the afternoon.
At dusk we pulled into Gilgit, and our driver, apparently thinking we were wealthy Westerners (after all, we had paid him five bucks each to drive us from Karimabad) pulled up at a very nice, and expensive-looking hotel down by the river. We told him that it looked a little rich for our blood, and the Japanese couple directed him to a guesthouse near the center of town. Martin and Hanna also decided to stay there, but I was looking for a hot shower and a private bathroom, so after consulting my Lonely Planet guide, told him to take me to one of the mid-range hotels, the Hunza Tourist Hotel. They had a single room, and claimed to have hot showers (something I always take with a grain of salt here), so I took a room there for $11.50 for the night. Exorbitant for this part of the world, but well within my budget.
I dropped my bags in my room, and took off for the Pakistan Airways office downtown, where I hoped to secure a ticket to Islamabad the next day. But the office was closed, and wouldn’t reopen until 9 the next morning. So I walked back to the hotel to get a light dinner, and hopefully, a good night’s sleep.
Well, the power in town went out just as I arrived back, and the ceiling fan in my room spun slowly to a stop. But this hotel, being one of the finer establishments in town, had it’s own generator, and with the sound of a sickly VW bug, I heard it cough and sputter to life, and my ceiling fan began its slow, groaning whirl back up to speed.
After washing the dust off of my face and hands, I strolled across the garden to the tiny dining room, and no sooner had I sat down, but the lights went out. The generator sputtered a few more times, and then thrummed back up to speed, and the lights blinked back on again. This was to happen several more times during dinner, and well into the night, as I was awoken at least four or five times to hear the ceiling fan rumble back to life.
Each time, I groaned and turned over in the tiny bed, hoping for sleep to return. And each time, thankfully, it did.