Epictober 2011: Experiencing Pakistan - Post 7 of 8
The truck art in Pakistan is a thriving culture on its own. If we pay close attention to the brush strokes on the metal body of a tanker or truck, we would notice mostly a stream, some green mountain slopes sketched in the back ground, a few trees and houses. A heavy yellow brush stroke often marks the sun, adding light and color to the sketch on the truck. Going through the busy city roads and traffic, that piece of scenery is strongly reminiscent of the art I used to draw back in primary school in my art class. The smiling sun I used to draw signified the nirvana of the perfect setting, a sense of calm and peace where life would look perfect. On the trucks that go through the major metropolitan cities of Pakistan, this art signifies memories of the mostly Pukhtoon migrants who come to work in the cities. The art they carry on their vehicles reminds them of the home, their perfect setting that they have left behind, and choose to carry with them wherever they travel. I never paid much attention to that art, but one needs to visit the mountains in the north to understand their sense of longing and what they left behind to make it to the big cities.
The truck art in Pakistan is a thriving culture on its own. If we pay close attention to the brush strokes on the metal body of a tanker or truck, we would notice mostly a stream, some green mountain slopes sketched in the back ground, a few trees and houses. A heavy yellow brush stroke often marks the sun, adding light and color to the sketch on the truck. Going through the busy city roads and traffic, that piece of scenery is strongly reminiscent of the art I used to draw back in primary school in my art class. The smiling sun I used to draw signified the nirvana of the perfect setting, a sense of calm and peace where life would look perfect. On the trucks that go through the major metropolitan cities of Pakistan, this art signifies memories of the mostly Pukhtoon migrants who come to work in the cities. The art they carry on their vehicles reminds them of the home, their perfect setting that they have left behind, and choose to carry with them wherever they travel. I never paid much attention to that art, but one needs to visit the mountains in the north to understand their sense of longing and what they left behind to make it to the big cities.
The view while descending into the valley |
As our car swerved through a hard bend in the mountain road, and started its descent into a valley, that understanding finally hit me hard in the heart. Those paintings on the trucks, with all their fine details from the little houses, the trees, and the stream flowing far, far below had come to life. The road still turned and swerved with the mountain face we were driving on, but it took us gently down the green slope, closer to the heart of that beautiful valley. The green vegetation on the mountain slopes on both sides gave way to gravel and rocks near the banks of the blue stream. Its flow through the valley was ever so calm and graceful; it seemed to dictate the pace of life around it. Its influence stretched across the vast expanse of the valley, the landscape unadulterated by any signs of major human activity. The stream was below us on the right side of the road, and a point came where there was a good path for us to walk down to the bank.
Nature's true grace in a valley hardly touched by man |
Taking in the sights and sounds |
My three colleagues and I got up to say goodbye to the stream, and had a last look around. My eyes caught sight of three children playing on the bank a little way to our left. It was odd, because the nearest houses we had seen from the road were several kilometers away and they were alone. On our approach, they stopped throwing stones in the water and to my surprise, came to us with hands outstretched, asking for food. Beggars were common in the cities, but out here?
Three little strays playing near the stream |
One of my colleagues noticed my reaction, and ignoring the little, outstretched hands said, “This area was hit hard by the earthquake in 2005. The nearby village of Balakot we are going to right now was nearly destroyed.”
He had built a little bridge out of stones |
“This place has not been the same since the earthquake, and the construction of New Balakot, a town close to the original village has still not been completed,” my colleague said. “These people have merely been making ends meet here, and although things are better now, they are still not the same.”
Another colleague asked the kid what he was building, but he remained silent with a nervous look on his face. We left the kids near the stream and walked back up to the road. It was hard to imagine people not living in happiness in this piece of paradise, and looking back at the children, I realized it was their greatest irony.
We continued on the road to Balakot; we had begun from Mansehra earlier in the afternoon and had driven for more than an hour to get there. This was the same road that led to Naran, Kaghan and on to Lake Saif-ul-Mulook. Looking out the window once more, I could see that the round stones stretched for several meters on either side of the stream. In the summer, the stream would be even wider and the scorched October grass on the mountain slopes would be a bright green.
Livestock on the road as we headed to Balakot |
The market of Balakot warranted our study, the main reason why we had actually traveled so far. Balakot was on the far end of the valley, and its market was on the edge of the village, so we were actually at the end of the valley, and from there, the road started to ascend into the mountains once more. A sign on the straight road had an arrow with the words “Naran”. If only we had more time on our hands, I thought, I could actually explore more of the natural beauty as the scenic wonders grew in beauty exponentially from that point.
A shepherd chases after his sheep in the market of Balakot |
The bridge and the fairy tale village
On the way back, we stopped the car near the bridge which led to the main village, and walked down to it. It was a sturdy, narrow, wooden structure built high over the stream. The village next to the stream, with the bridge leading to it seemed to have been pulled out of a fairy tale. The wooden boards creaked a little as we stepped on the bridge, the foaming blue water visible below. On the far side of the bridge, Balakot’s residents went about their daily lives. The stream’s music played louder here, and the humble village life seemed to sing along with it, going hand in hand; a symphony of romance celebrating the rare harmony between nature and civilization. As women collected water in large pots on the banks below, and children passed by us on the bridge with their goat and cattle, it almost seemed that nature was making up for the death and sorrow caused by the recent disaster. The song of the fast-flowing water drove me into a reverie of my own as I stood above the stream, hands on the bridge rail, just watching the streak of blue going down the green valley. The shelter of the mountains on the other three sides comforted me, with the modest dwellings of Balakot resting on the slopes to my left.
The sudden, heavy reverberations of the bridge jolted me to my senses and I turned to see a 4X4 jeep coming out of the village. We had to squeeze ourselves against the rails to allow it to pass on the narrow bridge. We continued behind the jeep back to the main road and I had one last look at the fairy tale village. The sun was low on the horizon as we resumed the journey back to Abbottabad. I thought that the magic of the fantastic day was at an end, but as we left through the valley pass and come out on the high slopes on the other side, the setting sun’s glare shone through the car windows. The driver was urged to stop the car once more, and we went out for five minutes just to sit on the grassy slope next to the road.
At this view point, the whole world literally spread out in front of us like a large carpet. The last rays of the sun danced on the distant horizon behind the silhouettes of a few peaks. The veil of night slowly enveloped the green mounds and pine trees below us in shadow, rendering my camera futile to capture the true beauty of nature suspended in twilight. The green of the day gave way to hues of violet and purple for miles around, while the horizon shone gold and pink. Directly above me, the sky opened up in stars and the last pink shades on the horizon swept away the violet spirits from the valley. The shift from light to dark was ever so graceful that those few minutes seemed divine, and as we prepared to go, lights from human settlements far below started coming on like shining, scattered dots.
The colors in the mountains after the sunset |
That week of October spent in the mountains was a soul-lifting experience, with so many unexpected treasures that I was left awe-struck, and to think that I had never even gone to Gilgit or Kashmir yet, places labeled as heaven on earth. After Nathia Gali, Abbottabad and Mansehra, the experiences in Balakot provided the last major exploits in the mountains. That sunset was the memory I wanted to keep as the blissful reminder of the adventures in the north before heading out to my final stop of Peshawar over the following weekend.
But alas, the bliss was not meant to last. Those moments of happiness where the soul is elated beyond concern for any kind of worry are too good to have in this world. On our last day in the mountains, tragedy fell upon us at work. I was with another colleague in Mansehra when he received a phone call. With a grave face, he informed me that one of the workers of the agency we were working with had just passed away in a freak accident in Abbottabad. We abandoned everything and rushed to Abbottabad. Despite our best efforts to reach in time to help, we could not do anything. I had to while away the afternoon with a heavy heart as the agency took care of its late employee.
Into the west... |