Fairy Meadows; a jeep crash; and some suicide bombs

Fairy Meadows Campsite
Originally uploaded by rtw2007.

Having sounded smug in our last blog posting about the easy life we were having, things have gone a little down hill since then. We have been stranded overnight on a stretch of road which the British Embassy had told us to steer clear of except in broad daylight; a jeep has crashed into the back of our van and dented the boot panel; I have developed an eye infection; and two suicide bombs have gone off in Rawalpindi, just down the road from where we are now staying. We won’t sound smug again if this is what happens…..

I am writing this whilst sat on the tourist campsite in Islamabad with the wailing tones of the local Mullah drifting through the van, whilst enjoying the cooling effect of the electric fan which we have been forced to buy due to the heat and humidity. The campsite is a strange imitation of the European version, with grass, electric hook ups, but filthy toilets and showers which are only for the brave or foolhardy. Our near neighbours on the site seem to be primarily barmy: a topless German man who has been living here for three months; a crazed, super grumpy Japanese solo cyclist; and, more positively, the really nice Belgian family who we met in Kashgar (who thankfully got around their lack of permits and got through China safely).

We left Skardu and drove the tortuous six hours back to the KKH, heading for the rest house recommended by our guide book in the uninspiring village of Talechi. After the recent troubles, the rest house had been commandeered by the local armed forces and was no longer available for tourists. Unfortunately, we were only told this an hour and a half after we arrived, when the Captain came back from his game of volleyball. By this time it was pitch black and we couldn’t drive any further as the security situation on that stretch of road means that driving at night is strictly off limits (and the next hotel was in any event about two hours away). Unable to park at the rest house or in the village (again, we were told that it wasn’t safe), we ended up parking on the main road by a police check point so that they could keep an eye on us overnight. All rather stressful (and very hot).

Fortunately, morning arrived without any incident and we were able to drive the 15km or so to the abandoned resort of Raikot Bridge, where we nervously left our van in a paid car park under the watchful eye of an Osama look-alike (the nearby lock-ups unfortunately being locked-up and no keys being available). We climbed into a beaten up old jeep for the slightly scary ride up a narrow, winding path to Fairy Meadow. Appropriately, given the sheer drop from the road into the valley below, the registration number of our jeep was “RIP 9868”. The ride was hot and bumpy, not helped by having eight people in one tiny jeep (we had continued our role as a Pakistani taxi service by picking up locals along the way so that they could return to their homes up in the mountain villages). At the top of the jeep track we had a walk of a few kilometres in the heat, up to the beautiful resort of Raikot Serai at Fairy Meadow. We arrived hot and exhausted, but the friendly staff immediately brought out green tea for us to drink whilst admiring the fantastic view of Nanga Parbat. Whilst we waited for a very tasty lunch to be prepared, we pitched our tent in what must be one of the world’s most picturesque spots – a beautiful green meadow under the enormous shadow of Nanga Parbat, which at 8,126m is one of the world’s highest fourteen mountains. This set the tone for the next couple of days, which we spent lazing around Fairy Meadow and wandering up the valley to a viewpoint over the Raikot Glacier.

Unfortunately, when we came back down from Fairy Meadow (on an equally precarious jeep journey), we discovered that whilst we had been in the mountains a different jeep had crashed into the back of our van, denting the boot panel, smashing the tail light and bringing off the paint. What made it worse was that the Osama look-alike tried to cover this up and the locals had the audacity to ask us for their car parking fee despite having failed miserably to actually look after our van. This lead to a rather heated exchange of words. I even did a little bit of shouting, especially at the irritating Steve Birkett look-alike in the black shalwaar kameez who had asked us for the car parking money and seemed to think it was all hilariously funny (until Helen snapped a mug shot of him and told him that she was reporting him to the police for stealing tourists’ cash).

From there it was a two day drive through Indus Kohistan to Islamabad, though more picturesque and changing scenery, becoming greener as we headed south. We pretty much drove straight through the area, though, as this is where much of the recent trouble has been and it is classified by all the embassies as a restricted area. It isn’t a particularly pleasant area in places anyway. Although people were still friendly to us and waved as we drove past, there is a strange atmosphere, not least because women are not really mixed into society on the streets at all. The very few who do make it out (we saw hundreds of men but perhaps only 15 women in two days) either wear full black veils with only a small slit for the eyes, or full burkhas. Very different to Hunza in the north. I have noticed the lack of women much more on this trip than when I was here with Rich and Chris, probably just because having Helen here makes you notice so much more that she is very much in the minority.

We overnighted in Chilas for one night and then in Besham, where the two main incidents of note were discovering that we had lost a second hubcap and meeting perennial Pakistan visitor, “Mystic” Meg from Nuneaton. Meg and her two local guides provided interesting after dinner conversation lubricated with their own fermented grape juice.

Islamabad itself is a strange town. I have seen more of it this time than on my last visit. The highly fortified Diplomatic Enclave (where we had to drop off our passports to get Indian visas) is one example. You cannot drive or walk into the enclave, but instead have to take a special diplomatic shuttle. The whole area was not too dissimilar to Chernobyl: stuck in a time warp of 1960s buildings; completely overgrown; with lots of people, few vehicles; many machine guns; and lots of barbed wire. It was also quite strange in that environment to queue for an ATM behind an American soldier in full desert cammo gear. The city feels like it was chucked up in the 1960s and hasn’t had much development since. It is split into zones (so you go shopping in F-7 or G-9) and everything is really spread out. The whole place feels like a tired cross between Stevenage and Milton Keynes, but with far more shalwaar kameez. We haven’t braved Rawalpindi (the old town just down the road) yet, as two suicide bombs went off there earlier in the week and have made us rather nervous of straying too far. Instead, we have lazed around the campsite and been to a tailor so that Helen could be measured up for some local style clothing, which will hopefully keep her cool and give her enough head covering to keep the locals happy.