A Fool's Paradise

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 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

The car stopped, and the moment I stepped out, the sound of flowing water surrounded me. What had seemed like a calm torrent was actually raging fast and strong, raising white spume against the stones that protruded from the bed of the stream. The blue of the water changed to transparent crystal as I went and sat down on a stone on the bank, and even though it was moving fast, my excited reflection gazed back at me as I looked into the water. It was shallow, scattered with smooth, round stones at the bottom which faded from view towards the middle of the stream, where the white foam could be seen moving fast. My gaze went upwards, and beyond the farther bank, littered with more round stones, fields of green stretched upwards to the mountain slopes far away, marked with tall pine trees, all under a deep, blue sky.

Taking in the sights and sounds

As I sat on the large stone surrounded by water, I felt part of the unique audience of a surreal symphony surrounding me. The music started somewhere farther up north on a mountain I knew not, as it spilled its snows into the stream. The sloping relief further carved the tune as it cradled the water down the valley, and the stones and rocks placed at perfect intervals in the water channel weaved the full melody. Nature itself orchestrated the brilliant sound of the roaring stream, so beautiful to the ears that one needs to hear it in order to appreciate it. My front row seat on the stone was perfect, and as I sipped the cold water through my cupped hands, its purity filled my soul with tranquility. Far from the reaches of men and the world, the valley offered a moment of peace so sublime and heavenly; it was as if I had stumbled into paradise itself.

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

As I added one and one, I realized that these children must have grown in a world after the disaster took place, getting used to receiving help from the relief teams and outsiders who came here. All three of them seemed less than seven years of age. It was a half-hearted request, and without waiting for any sort of reply from us, the children went back to the stream. We went closer to see exactly what they were up to; one of them had had made his own tiny stream by making a channel in the gravel with a little bridge of stones going over the trickling path.

“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

Soon, more shepherds could be seen on the road with us than passing cars, all taking their livestock with them for grazing. The car had to be stopped on several occasions to allow the sheep and goats to pass without worry. The stream continued to accompany us below on the right, as we drove further north. Soon, small settlements could be seen on the far side of the stream and we passed a large wooden bridge on our right which went over the stream into the village of Balakot. Instead of turning right for the bridge, we continued along the same road to the Balakot market place, which was on the outskirts of the main village.

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 afternoon was spent in the high street, where we went through several shops completing our study. The market continued into the back of a few streets on either side of the high street, which was about a kilometer or so long. The market was more neatly organized than the cramped shops of Mansehra, and seemed like an important trading place. Balakot was frequented by many tourists and backpackers, who stopped on their way to Naran and Kaghan. While passing one of the many shops, I came across a place selling “pakols”, the traditional Pukhtoon caps worn by people in these northern areas. In appreciation of their culture and hospitality, I decided to buy one for myself.

 

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...

 My colleagues paid their due respects to the agency worker before we left that Friday evening. It was a silent journey for me as we traveled into the west along the old Silk Route to the ancient city of Peshawar. The evening sun blinded me as we exited the last of the mountains, their green slopes washed pale in the dazzling sun rays. The great pine trees on the roadside sighed a heavy goodbye as the sun went down over the horizon in front of me, its bright rays shining bright on the grey asphalt, blinding me. Although it carried its own beauty, it was not the sunset I had imagined to take away with me from my stay in the north. Colorful trucks passed in front of me, their rear metal ends crudely painted with green valleys. True nirvana eluded these drivers as they left their homes for their hard journeys. I thought of the playful children by the stream, growing up begging in a blessed land. It was not the sad death of the worker that weighed heavy but the suddenness of how it came that delivered the hard lesson home. To get lost in the pleasures of this fragile life, no matter how pure, is to live in a fool’s paradise.