In these days of high inflation, it’s not surprising to see excessive prices, but I think this takes the cake: about $10 for a cup of coffee at Xian airport. We actually saw some customers in the store–they must either be stupid or spending someone else’s money.
In Xian we tried biang biang mian, a local noodle speciality famous not only for being tasty but for the convoluted characters with which the name of the noodles is written.
I asked a friend of mine to do some research for me on the origin of the noodles’ written name. Her findings:
One day, Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of the Qin dynasty of terracotta warriors fame, was sick and lost his appetite for all of the delicate food available in his palace. One of his servants got him a bowl of biang biang noodles, which were sold by vendors in the streets of Xianyang, the capital of Qin dynasty near present-day Xian. Qin Shi Huang liked the noodles so much that he designated the dish as a must-have food in the palace.
After Qin Shi Huang recovered, he went to the street to examine how the food vendors prepared the noodles. After he saw the whole process, he proclaimed, “People in Qin are great, Qin will unify the whole country, and the Qin people will be united and bravely ride horses to win battles to protect the land of Qin. May the Qin people have biang biang noodles every day and visit Xianyang every month.” Qin Shi Huang took a brush and ink and created a character for “biang” including parts of all of the words in his statement.
Riding the rails is truly one of the joys of traveling in China, a fast and affordable way of covering the country’s great distances. Understanding the efficiency of overnight travel, the train system offers many of the most common routes as nighttime runs, with your choice of dirt cheap hard seat, economic hard sleeper (which is not so hard) or comfortable soft sleeper. A long ride also gives you the opportunity to, in effect, live with a group of locals, a microcosm of Chinese customs and habits on display. Some photographs, showing life on Chinese trains.
A vendor on a train station platform. Train stations in China actually have very few platform vendors, and the selection is no greater than that available on the train, somewhat less fun than, say, their Indian counterparts. It may be that the authorities have cracked down on vendors to reduce clutter on the platform (and facilitate the most efficient flow of passengers), while increasing their own onboard profits.
Train K592 from Dunhuang to Xian. The “K” stands for “kwai,” or fast. Other letter designations include “T” for special (“tebie”) tourist routes, “Z” for exclusively soft-sleeper runs such as those from Beijing to Shanghai and “D” for the new high-speed/bullet trains.
All aboard!
Hard seat. Hard seat is the cheapest mode of long-distance travel in China, and you can buy a hard seat ticket even if the train is full, on a “no seat” basis. We’ve met tourists who take hard seat almost exclusively, but given that seats don’t recline and legroom can be quite limited (picture your knees in the crotch of the guy across from you), most opt against hard seat for all but the shortest rides.
Hard sleeper, the most common choice of backpackers and budget travelers in China, including us. The beds themselves are pretty cushy, with clean and comfortable bedding, and there are two jumpseats along the window providing additional seating during the day. On the other hand, the beds themselves are somewhat narrower than bunks on Indian trains, and there is no “conversion” to daytime seating–the bunks are fixed. The lower bunk is the most expensive, and for us the least preferred because the space is shared during the day. The top bunk is cheapest and most private, but offers the least room.
In the middle, a small table, a garbage can and a thermos for hot water.
Soft sleeper. I’ve never actually traveled on soft sleeper, but the biggest difference seems to be that the bunks (four to a set) are in an enclosed, lockable compartment. If traveling in a group of three or four, it’d be great fun; otherwise, it’s hard to justify the somewhat considerable expense (not much less than a discounted airplane ticket).
Dining car. The food is fairly mediocre and somewhat pricey–much worse standards than the average restaurant in China–but for me eating in a dining car is one of the greatest joys of train travel, perhaps one of the greatest joys of travel, period!
Less expensive box meals and snacks are sold on carts that travel throughout the train.
In addition to food, attendants try to sell the strangest things, from lighters and keychains to strange gold commemorative plates.
Bathroom
In each car (as in every Chinese hotel room) is boiling water, for tea and instant noodles.
How do the Chinese pass the time on the long train journeys?
Chinese pasttime #1: gambling. Well, these people probably aren’t gambling, but you certainly do see a lot of people playing cards.
Chinese people love to snack (like anyone, I guess), and especially on sunflower seeds. Thankfully manners have improved such that the husks are not just spat out on the floor.
Corn on the cob
Smoking is near the doors, the passengers areas being strictly no-smoking (although occasionally this rule requires some policing).
Napping
We’ve long complained about Chinese admission fees, but our most recent experiences have raised our objections to the level of a post on the blog as a warning to travelers. China’s admission fees are high and seemingly increasing out of control.
I am writing this from Dunhuang, where a visit to the Mogao Caves costs RMB 160 ($24), plus RMB 20 ($3) additional if you need a foreign language guide. For two English language tours this adds up to around $54, or for a family for four Chinese, about $100. What does this equal in the local economy? A good hotel room in Dunhuang for two costs RMB 120 ($18). A terrific and satisfying bowl of noodles at a restaurant costs RMB 10 ($1.50), a more substantial meal for two perhaps RMB 50 ($7.50). This means that room and board for two adds up to perhaps RMB 180 a day–the same price as one entry ticket to the Mogao Caves. Where else in the world does one admission ticket for the local attraction add up to the cost of lodging and meals for two?
Some may applaud China for at least having a flat admission scheme, unlike many poorer countries that have dual/foreigner pricing, for example in India where admission fees for foreigners can cost up to 25 times the admission fee for locals. But, at Chinese fee levels, I wonder whether that’s really a virtue. A low-level Chinese worker makes perhaps RMB 1000 ($150) per month. Could such a person ever hope to see any of China’s principal attractions? I often think of the hypothetical rural Chinese worker on a trip to Beijing, who can’t afford to see the Forbidden City (admission likely around RMB 100, or $15, these days), because the ticket costs the equivalent of several days’ pay. Clearly, a place such as the Mogao Caves is totally out of reach of working class Chinese. Is there any other country in the world where the poor live without any hope of seeing the country’s greatest natural and historical treasures, because they will never be able to afford a ticket?
Well, so it’s sad for the Chinese poor, but how about for the (relatively) rich first world tourists? Chinese admission fees are now at such high levels that not only will a lot of younger travelers, such as students, skip key sites to save on admissions (after all, one ticket could eat up more than a whole day’s budget), but even many older, moneyed tourists will skip sites out of principle and because they are such poor value. The Mogao Caves are a UNESCO World Heritage Site and rewarding on many levels–after all, people come all the way to Dunhuang just to see them–and they are undeniably “worth” RMB 180. But “Grape Valley Scenic Are” in Turpan–could it really be worth RMB 60 ($9)? We will never know, since we thought it extremely unlikely. And all of the other secondary sites around Turpan that cost from RMB 20-50 ($3-7.50) each?
Schedule of admissions fees in Turpan
Some cases rise to the level of stupidity. Outside Turpan is a range of mountains called the Flaming Mountains, and famous not only for their unusual structure but also for the notice that they have received historically. It is in any case a pleasant drive outside of town. But, unbelievably, the Chinese (it is never clear to me which of these are set up by the government directly or by some sort of person who has bought development rights) have set up a fence in front of the “best” part, enclosing an area of perhaps a square kilometer, put up some stupid bronze statues and labeled it “Flaming Mountains Scenic Area,” with a RMB 40 ($6) per person admission fee. Further income for the project is derived from the camel, hanggliding, ultralight, etc., rides that are offered inside. Who would pay this admission, given that a view of the mountains is available from just outside the fence? (The answer is, hundreds of thousands of Chinese.)
Other cases seem almost immoral, or at least grotesquely greedy. Near Dunhuang are some giant sand dunes, rising hundreds of meters high. They are indeed an impressive site, especially seen from a distance against the city itself. But, believe it or not, the admission to these sand dunes is RMB 120 ($18), again with much additional income derived from camel rides (RMB 60, or $9) and such. What justifies such a fee to a natural site? [As with the Flaming Mountains, it is impracticable to “fence” the entire dunes, and so energetic and frugal travelers (or just plain stubborn ones like ourselves) can just walk into the dunes a couple kilometers west–although the famous lake is located in the fee area, it can be seen quite well from above by climbing one of the “free” dunes.] A few hours outside of Kashgar, in the middle of nowhere though on the Karakoram Highway, is a famous lake named Karakul. [See my post of 7.11.] While there is no fence or anything of the sort, tourists are hounded persistently to purchase tickets of RMB 50 ($7.50) each, and we were told that this fee is payable if you are within 10 kilometers of the lake. The only development that could justify such a fee is a rather ugly, obtrusive hotel and the framework of another that they are building–it is sad and a bit sadistic that those seeking to enjoy the pristine beauty of the lake are in fact paying for the marring of it. “National Parks” in China cost up to RMB 200 ($30) per person, along with additional fees for cable cars (RMB 80, or $12) and such. One New York Times article noted that a trip for four to a Chinese national park could very easily consume a month’s salary for a working class Chinese family. Should natural sites really turn into such huge cash cows? Or do such things really belong to the public, and not just for people who can pay?
Going past the fence at the Dunhuang dunes
Dunhuang brought to mind how admission fees in China have risen such that they are, now, expensive in absolute and not only in relative, local terms. The caves for $27, the dunes for $18. Do tickets for comparable sites anywhere else in the world cost as much? India, even with its foreigner pricing, charges 250 rupees ($6) for the Ajanta Caves, which are similar to and in many ways even more impressive than Mogao. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, which I imagine has a budget many many times that of the Mogao Caves, charges $20 (which is actually “optional” as it is a donation). U.S. National Parks charge $20 per entry for a carload of people, a ticket valid for a week. Exactly what multiple of that is China charging for its national parks?
We’ve heard Chinese admissions justified on account of shortage and crowding. The theory is that there are just so many Chinese people that admission fees have to be high to keep crowds to manageable levels. Of course, there are many other ways to control crowds than high ticket prices, and in many cases (such as Karakul) the attractions couldn’t possibly get crowded even if there were no admission charge. And to limit crowds at places by allowing access only to the rich? Isn’t that rather perverse for a nominally communist country?
At the time that the most recent Lonely Planet (published in 2007) was written, the Dunhuang caves cost RMB 120 and the Dunhuang dunes RMB 80. They now cost RMB 180 and RMB 120, a 50% increase in a bit more than a year. This 50% increase is of course enhanced by the rise in the Renminbi, resulting in an even greater increase in dollar terms. Ticket prices will soon be, if they are not already, at levels which foreign tourists will find simply shocking. I predict that it will be, soon, a significant deterrent for many from coming to China at all. Of course, this doesn’t matter to the ticket sellers, since domestic tourists far outnumber foreign ones and for whatever reason many Chinese people seem to have no problem paying outrageous sums for sometimes half-baked attractions. But what kind of message does it send to v
isitors about China, about how it apportions cultural and recreational activities for its people? What about the accessibility of such sites for travelers who have in fact come a long way, even if no-one asked them to?
Today we may think of Buddhism as an east Asian or southeast Asian religion, but of course Buddhism originated in now India, where Siddhartha Gautama received enlightenment in the 6th century BC. Buddhism spread relatively rapidly in India and became a dominant religion by the time of the Mauryan Empire of Ashoka, who reigned from 273 to 232 BC. Starting from around the time of Christ to the seventh century, Buddhism followed the Silk Road through Central Asia into China. While Buddhism has largely receded from the Indian subcontinent itself, it remains the dominant religious force in much of the rest of Asia, from the Himalayas to Japan, and from Sri Lanka to Taiwan.
The principal theme of our trip is the Islamic world, but by first visiting India and then entering China through the Silk Road we traveled on the same path as Buddhism, and I thought that a post on the marvelous Buddhist caves that we have visited was in order.
Retreat from the everyday, material world is a principal aim of Buddhism, and some of the monks of ancient India sought their refuge in a small river-cut cliff near now Aurangabad. From the second century BC to the sixth century AD, the monks of Ajanta carved small monasteries and shrines into the face of the cliff itself and decorated the rock-cut interiors with monumental sculptures and beautiful murals, creating a masterpiece of sacred art that has not been equaled many times since.
The Ajanta caves, set in a bend in the Waghur River, a day’s travel east of Bombay
The Ajanta caves are cut out of the cliff itself, with rock chiseled away to form spectacular interiors of monasteries and shrines.
Merely creating such structures into a cliff face would have been impressive, but the marvel of Ajanta is the level of ornamentation. Nearly every surface in the caves is decorated either with sculptural relief or painting.
High relief composition at Ajanta
Paintings at Ajanta
The rock-cut cave temples of Ajanta were imitated by later Buddhists as well as Hindus and Jains at a nearby site now called Ellora. The Ellora caves, dating from fifth to tenth centuries AD, are in some ways less impressive than Ajanta, but the art of rock-cut/monolithic construction reached a pinnacle with the Hindu Kailasanatha Temple, which clearly surpasses not only the caves of Ajanta but also the churches of Lalibela in Ethiopia and, although we have not yet seen them in person, the Nabatean structures of Petra in Jordan. Seen from inside the structure or from above, the massive and complex task of carving such a building from one rock is simply awesome.
Ellora Caves
Statuary, Ellora
The idea of the Buddhist cave-temple, along with the styles of art first developed at Ajanta, followed the Buddhist religion into China through the Silk Road. There are numerous such Buddhist cave complexes in China, from the Kizil Caves of Xinjiang to the Longmen Grottoes of Henan, but the most famous are the Mogao Caves of Dunhuang in Gansu Province.
The Mogao Caves were begun in the 4th century AD, well after Ajanta. While as rock-cut structures they are not comparable to the caves of Ajanta or Ellora, Mogao surpasses the Indian caves in scale, with over 400 caves (compared to around 30 at each of Ajanta and Ellora).
Paintings at Mogao. The Mogao Caves were developed into the 14th century, and so represent a wide range of styles, showing the development of Buddhism and Buddhist art in China. The styles of some of the paintings are similar to those found in India, perhaps in part because Indian artists themselves may have been imported to do some of the work.
Buddhism is no longer a significant presence in mainland South Asia, but Sri Lanka remains a majority Buddhist country. The 5th century AD ruins of Sigiriya in central Sri Lanka, which we visited in 2005, preserve a style of painting that is remarkably similar to that at both Ajanta and Mogao.
While in China on a “Silk Road” trip, we thought it obligatory to see some actual silk production, even though we’ve seen the process before in other countries. Around Hotan we were able to visit two different facilities, one, called the Atlas Silk Workship, using traditional methods, and another, the Shatou silk factory, using relatively modern technology.
Unwinding the threads from the silkworm cocoons
Dyeing
Weaving
Shatou silk factory
Looking especially at the last image, it’s no wonder that nowadays so many of us are able to enjoy so many material comforts–the efficiency of the machine age cannot be underestimated.
The Southern Silk Road, as the route along the southern rim of the Taklamakan Desert from Kashgar to Yarkand to Hotan to Cherchen to Charklik to Dunhuang is called, is famous not only for being the most historically significant route into China from the west, but also for its rugged difficulty. Although many travelers consider traveling along the Southern Silk Road, it is an option that few tourists end up choosing, given that there are few major, easily accessible sites en route and that the modern expressways and railway from Kashgar to Dunhuang follow the “northern” route through Kuqa, Korla, Turpan and Hami.
We were also interested in traveling this southern route, and did the route research, including by enlisting a Chinese friend to read through Chinese language websites for transportation/sightseeing options. We were surprised to discover that the route was not only doable but not even very hard, with regular daily transport connecting the key towns. The roads are remote, yes, but arrival in one piece without being stranded or having to pay for expensive private transport seemed guaranteed. We definitely wanted to go from Kashgar as far as Hotan, with its wonderful Sunday market, but hadn’t made up our mind, when we set off from Kashgar, whether we would take the southern route the entire way to Dunhuang.
We decided not to, for many reasons. First, when we found out that it wasn’t so hard, it lost a bit of the appeal–what adventure is there really in getting on a series of long bus rides? Second, while Yarkand is in places quite rustic and Hotan a great place to see a modern Uyghur city in full swing (especially at the Sunday market or nightly food market), the central parts of these towns were, quite surprisingly to us, like “any other Chinese city,” as we had expected of Kashgar. Despite their extremely remote locations, the infrastructure, the economic development, the architecture, etc., made the cities, at least in their central areas, indistinguishable from, say, a poorer part of Shenzhen. I certainly didn’t see the need to “rough it” to see something that looks like Shenzhen. Finally, and perhaps the most important factor, we realized that the guidebooks weren’t kidding when they talked about sandstorms. For almost the whole time we were in Hotan visibility was horrible and fine sand was blowing about, making it unpleasant to be outside. If we could barely bear being outside, and it was impossible to take pictures, we didn’t really see the point in continuing. We took the 20-hour overnight bus ride across the Taklamakan Desert to Urumqi and continued east on the “northern” route.
We really did enjoy Yarkand and Hotan, however, and encourage others to do what we did rather than going more directly between Urumqi and Kashgar. The cross-desert bus ride really isn’t so bad. Or follow the whole “southern silk road,” especially if you are traveling in winter when we are told that the weather is clearer. A few photographs from Hotan:
Jade store, Hotan. Hotan has been famous for jade for thousands of years, and the industry is still going strong, especially as Chinese, growing ever wealthier, are willing to pay higher and higher prices for such luxury goods.
Local men selling discovered jade to dealers, Hotan
Melon for sale at night market, Hotan
It could be Shenzhen!
One of the reasons I wanted to do this post is to promote www.centralasiatraveler.com, a website I found describing the route and the cities of the southern silk road in incredible detail. As things in China are in a constant state of change, some of the information on the site is not totally up-to-date, but it is perhaps one of the most detailed guides to anywhere that I’ve ever seen (and certainly better than the paragraph in Lonely Planet on this route).
The Silk Road city of Yarkand was our first stop out of Kashgar on the “Southern Silk Road” around the southern rim of the Taklamakan Desert. We did not stay long in Yarkand, a surprisingly colorful medium-sized Uyghur town, but did note some items that I thought might be worth a post.
Yarkand is not a major city now, but was historically important as the entry point into China from the Indian subcontinent, via the Karakoram Pass (not to be confused with the highway of the same name) located to the south of Yarkand. The city was in ancient and medieval times filled with Hindu traders and moneychangers.
More recent poor relations between China and India mean that there is no longer a border crossing at the Karakoram Pass, but I was surprised to see nevertheless in my short time in Yarkand what I believe to be residue of this ancient link, in the form of Indian influences not visible in Kashgar just a few hours away.
In both roasted lamb and dumplings in Yarkand a great deal of turmeric is used, giving a result like that of Indian curry.
One of the most famous sites of Yarkand, a 16th century mausoleum for a local princess, seemingly to me built in an Indian style.
Could this Yarkand man’s ancestors be Indian?
Historical continuity in Yarkand is visible in other areas as well. Yarkand, along with some other of the Southern Silk Road towns, was noted from long ago, including by Marco Polo, for gout. We saw on our visit people suffering from this disorder caused by the local water supply, which the Chinese government is trying to remedy with educational programs. Despite much economic and scientific progress, some physical/geographical realities remain from hundreds or even thousands of years ago.
Wandering around the old royal cemetery of Yarkand, we ran into a group of elderly men and women praying. (I’m not sure why these people were praying at royal tombs, but it is a relatively common sight in Islamic countries. Perhaps because in Islamic states rulers are portrayed as particularly pious and holy men?) What struck me was that the vocalization of the prayer–drone chant interrupted by occasional raised inflections/tones–was exactly the same as Buddhist prayer. Islam only arrived in the region in the 15th century; could it be possible that the rhythmic/melodic style of Buddhist worship persisted? After all, I have read that the repeated prostration that Muslims perform during their prayers is actually an ancient Christian form of worship still practiced in some Syrian churches.
While pondering this, I suddenly remembered that my Catholic grandmother prayed the same way–could it be that she was also praying, that most Christian Asians pray, in the way that her/their Buddhist ancestors did? The more things change…
We were in Pakistan fairly briefly, and only in the Northern Areas, but did have a chance to get some photographs of the friendly locals. The photos are in geographical order, from the Chinese border in the north to Gilgit, the capital of the Northern Areas, in the south.
Some photographs taken from Sost. Because Sost is an administrative and transit center, we think that these two individuals may not be true natives of the area, but they do have a typical northern appearance.
Heading south our first stop was Passu, which is located in the Wakhi area of the Northern Areas. Although they often consider themselves Hunza, and share the Ismaili faith (see post of 7.13), the Wakhi are ethnically and linguistically distinct, being from the Wakhan Valley shared by Tajikistan and Afghanistan (see post of 6.23). Their language (and likely their genetic ancestry) is related to that of Tajikistan and Iran, rather than the other languages of the Northern Areas.
A Wakhi boy
A Wakhi woman, in traditional dress quite similar to the Tajik Pamiris
Two Wakhi girls. Note how fair the second girl is, just like other Pamiris (see my posts of 6.23 and 6.29). Indeed, it is startling how different the ethnicities and cultures of the Northern Areas are from the rest of Pakistan.
The “heart” of the Northern Areas is the Hunza Valley, populated by a people that speak Burushaski, a language unrelated to any other in the world. The Hunza Valley is famous for its cultural distinctiveness, as well as for its beautiful mountains and healthy way of life.
Our young “guide” up to the Ultar Meadow
A common summer sight–girls and women carrying baskets for apricots
Women, sometimes with cover but often not, are a common site in the Hunza Valley, which is largely Ismaili. Heading further south into Pakistan, women were essentially nowhere to be seen–less so than anywhere else we have been.
Some pictures from Gilgit. Although Gilgit is in the Northern Areas, that it is a much bigger city and its more southern location mean that many different ethnic groups from Pakistan have settled there. For example, the second man below (who liked to smile but not for the camera) told us that he was a Pashtun from Peshawar. Gilgit was extremely tense, with a huge police/military presence trying to suppress ongoing sectarian violence, but the locals were for the large part very friendly. The most common joke, believe it or not, was men pointing at their bearded friends and telling us that they are Taliban. One man even pointed at another man’s large belly saying that it was actually a bomb and he a suicide bomber!
I believe these guys are Hunza, because they are wearing Hunza hats.
Rather intense eyes, don’t you think?
Plotting out our time in China while in Kyrgyzstan, and trying to put together an itinerary for a couple friends who said that they might join us out in Xinjiang (although in the end they couldn’t make it), we decided on a week-long side trip to northern Pakistan on the Karakoram Highway, or KKH. In this post, I will cover not only our route and some of the highlights of our trip, but also some of our considerations in planning our time in Pakistan.
First, a key question: Is it safe? There have been many bombings in Pakistan recently, and the political situation has been uncertain for some time. Although it is tempting to say that a particular tourist’s odds of being near an explosion are quite low, we actually met a fellow tourist in Kyrgyzstan who said that he was within 100 meters of a bomb in Lahore, and was thrown against a wall by the concussion. While the risk is small, it is certainly greater than in many other destinations. In the end, we felt comfortable proceeding with the trip because we would be visiting only the Northern Areas, which has been safe despite more turbulent conditions to the south. We knew that the religion of most of the areas we would visit was Ismaili Islam, a peaceful and tolerant sect led by the Aga Khan (see post of 7.13), and that there was essentially no recent history of violence in Pakistan north of the city of Gilgit. As it turned out, we ended up spending one night in Gilgit, which was in quite a tense security situation, but as we figured the rest of the Northern Areas was completely at peace and totally safe.
Second, we had to figure out the visa situation. We were planning the Pakistan sidetrip early enough that we could have, if we had to, made a detour to the Pakistan embassy in Bishkek, but we had not really been planning on visiting Bishkek, much less staying the three or four days that would have been required. We learned from the internet that the government of Pakistan had recently started giving visas on arrival at the border with China. For U.S. citizens the fee is pretty steep at USD 150, but visa on arrival saved us a long detour. (The processing at the border ended up being tediously slow, but we imagine that will be resolved soon. I should also note that the Chinese authorities had no problem letting us continue to Pakistan without a Pakistan visa in our passports, a concern that has been expressed in the past.)
Preliminaries aside, our trip on the Karakoram Highway.
We started from Kashgar’s long-distance bus station on a morning bus for Karakul (Lake), a four hour ride, where we spent the night in a Kyrgyz yurt. Given the problems with the yurtstays (see post of 7.11), we would recommend for now that you not stay the night, just staying at the lake long enough to enjoy the view and fresh air and then continuing on to Tashkurgan, the last Chinese city on the Karakoram Highway.
Long-distance bus station, Kashgar
Karakul (Lake)
From Karakul to Tashkurgan, another couple hours, we hitchhiked with a truck driver, although buses pass by occasionally as well. We ended up staying almost 24 hours in Tashkurgan, perhaps longer than ideal, but it is not a city without interest. For one, Tashkurgan is a Tajik-ethnic city, an oddity even in Turkic Xinjiang. Second, Tashkurgan’s namesake “Stone Tower,” a mudbrick fort near the center of the city, is believed by some to be a key point on the Silk Road identified by the likes of Ptolemy, and is set on a beautiful site overlooking a green pasture dotted with Kyrgyz yurts.
To get from Tashkurgan into Pakistan, you need to find the bus that departed from Kashgar for Pakistan, which overnights in Tashkurgan. In our case, a friendly Tajik attendant at the bus station helped us locate the bus. The best place to find this bus is the customs office, which lies on the Karakoram Highway just south of its intersection with Tashkurgan’s “main street.” The bus will likely be at the customs office for an hour or two between 9 and 11, depending on how quickly it passes through all of the formalities.
KKH’s name in Chinese, Tashkurgan
From Tashkurgan up to the 4700 meter Khunjerab Pass is a fairly short drive amidst beautiful Pamiri/high plains scenery. On the Pakistani side, the road abruptly deteriorates but the views get even better, as the peaks sharpen and valleys deepen. After a few hours in no-man’s land, the bus pulled into Sost, where the Pakistani immigration and customs procedures took place. We had no serious problems with visa-on-arrival, although a couple procedural mistakes on the immigration officer’s part, and a poorly-timed power outage, ended up in an hours-long delay (causing us and our bus-mates much anxiety).
The bus from Tashkurgan into Pakistan, run by Pakistani NATCO, goes all the way through to Gilgit, but drops off passengers anywhere en route. Although we had purchased our tickets only to Sost, we ended up staying on the bus until Passu, an hour or two further down the road.
Passu is a very peaceful and quiet village in the shadow of a dramatic set of peaks known as the Cathedral on one side and mountain glaciers on the other. We stayed at the Passu Peak Inn, a basic but comfortable guesthouse run by a very friendly retired Pakistani army officer. The people of Passu are Wakhis, coming originally from the Wakhan Valley in Tajikistan and Afghanistan. Although they speak their own Iranian language of Wakhi, they are Ismaili and to a certain extent consider themselves related to the people of the (also Ismaili) Hunza Valley to the south. We greatly enjoyed the food at the Glacier Breeze Restaurant, run by charismatic but also somewhat puzzling Mr. Khan.
Wakhi woman
The number one “activity” in Passu, and one of the most famous short hikes off of the Karakoram Highway, is the “two bridges walk,” which goes from Passu over a couple of cable suspension bridges to the village of Husseini a bit further south on the KKH. The views while a bit different are perhaps no better than from Passu itself (which, frankly, would be hard to beat), but the bridge crossings are unforgettable.
The planks are so far apart that at times you are forced to walk on one of the cables as on a tightrope. At the bridges’ lowest points you can hear the river crackling below you, and the fast motion of the water creates the uncomfortable and dizzying illusion that the bridge itself is moving in the opposite direction. There are several cables, however, so actually falling through is very unlikely.
Trail created along cliffsides from stacking numerous pieces of flat rocks; we had seen these “overings” earlier along the Wakhan (see post of 6.23).
From Husseini, we hitched a ride (with a group of young men from Karachi and their armed guard) down to Karimabad, where we stayed at the wonderful World Roof Hotel. Karimabad is the quiet and well-touristed capital and heart of Hunza, which was a princely state in British India and has an identity quite independent from the rest of Pakistan. The Hunza are Ismaili, speak a
unique language unrelated to any other and are clearly visually different from their compatriots to the south. Thanks largely to the efforts of the Aga Khan, northern Pakistan enjoys higher levels of education and other social development than most of the rest of Pakistan. In some ways, it is unfortunate that northern Pakistan is suffering a downturn in tourism due to instability in the rest of the country, and some people in the north were quick to point out that we were in “Hunza, not Pakistan,” and totally safe.
Karimabad is located several hundred feet uphill from the Karakoram Highway, and enjoys a commanding view of the Hunza Valley, all the way across to Mt. Rakaposhi. Up “behind” Karimabad are yet more snowy peaks, while Karimabad itself is an Eden of terraced fields and orchards.
Truck driving up downtown Karimabad
View of Karimabad
View from Karimabad, afternoon
We enjoyed the wonderful climate and scenery of Karimabad not only from the perfectly placed balcony of our hotel room but also made a day hike up to Ultar Meadow, where we enjoyed tea with the local herders while hearing the occasional breaking of snow and ice from the nearby glacier. This hike is characterized as “easy” by the Lonely Planet, but we had difficulty finding the way until a very energetic 12 year old offered to act as our guide (for the usual $5 rate). Even if you knew the way, it would be a stretch to call the short hike “easy,” but it does offer incredible views of the nearby peaks, glacier and across the valley.
Glacier, Ultar Meadow
Trail up to Ultar Meadow. This section of the trail follows a man-made water channel, which directs snowmelt from the mountains into the lush irrigated fields of Hunza. But for these channels, the Hunza Valley, with little precipitation, would be a mountain desert.
One night, we hired a jeep up to Eagle’s Nest at Duiker viewpoint for dinner. The Eagle’s Nest is a comfortable hotel with a truly spectacular location that really merits a long stay–just you (and your loved one), the priceless view (like that from Karimabad but higher) and a pile of books. Food was tasy, and great value.
Terraces near Eagle’s Nest
The principal historical site of Hunza is Baltit Fort, beautifully refurbished by the cultural projects wing of the Aga Khan Foundation–perhaps the best such restoration job we’ve ever seen!
Baltit Fort
Old house restoration at Baltit Fort. Note the similarity to Pamiri homes from Tajikistan (see post of 6.23).
It being summer, there were apricots absolutely everywhere in the Hunza Valley, ripe for the picking. Dried apricots and apricot pits are used widely in Hunza cooking, including in the delicious apricot soup.
Ganish Village, downhill from Karimabad, also well-restored with the support of the Aga Khan Foundation. Ganish is Shiite Muslim, and not Ismaili like the rest of Hunza–they did not convert to Ismailism with the rest of Hunza in the nineteenth century.
We decided to catch the Kashgar bus from its origin in Gilgit, and so hired a car to take us down the night before. The couple hours’ drive was memorable for the views of the old vertiginous trails and roads heading southward from Hunza as well as Rakaposhi Viewpoint, where we enjoyed a simple but tasty meal.
Old roads/trails along the way
Rakoposhi Viewpoint
Gilgit itself came as something of a surprise. We were told that there has been some sectarian violence in Gilgit, but did not know that there had also been a very recent assassination attempt. There was extremely heavy police/military presence, including a sort of military bunker set up in the town center and pick-up trucks with armed soldiers cruising down the main road every several minutes. The somewhat rough crowd populating the town was nonetheless friendly, joking with us by pointing to their friends and saying that they were Taliban and suicide bombers. (Indeed, most of the people in Gilgit did fit the western Taliban stereotype, in terms of facial hair and dress.) [To avoid spending a night in Gilgit, you can easily pick up the bus to Kashgar as it passes through Karimabad. Or, if you want to fly into/out of Gilgit to start/finish your trip, it is perfectly possible to have a Karimabad hotel pick you up/drop you off to avoid an overnight stop in the town.]
The bus from Gilgit to Kashgar takes one long day, departing from Gilgit around 6 AM and arriving in Kashgar almost at midnight. Watch out for the Chinese border officials and their x-ray machine!
Our bus had some trouble starting!
