Pakistan - Chronicles of the Mountains

(Para versão em Português mudar o idioma na caixa no canto superior direito de EN para PT se estiveres num PC. No telemóvel clica no símbolo com as 3 barras horizontais no canto superior direito e depois muda de EN para PT na caixa no topo da página)

Facts

• 📌Islamic Republic of Pakistan

• 🗺️Área: 881.913 km2

• 🧑‍🤝‍🧑Population: 241.499.431 (numbers of 2023)

• 🚩Capital: Islamabad

• 📖Official Language: Urdu and English (other recognized languages: more than 77, for example Punjabi and Pashto)

• 🏔️Highest Point: 8611 m (K2)

• 🪙Currency: Pakistani Rupee

Sardine in Pakistan

• Time: 20 days

• Places Visited: Lahore, Islamabad, Naran, Hunza, Naltar, Phander Valley, Booni, Chitral, Kalash Valley and Peshawar

• Transportations: Van, Tuk-Tuk and 4x4

• Month: September | Weather:☀️ | Temperature: between 10ºC and 39ºC

Chronicles of the Mountains

Just like in Mauritania, I didn’t go alone nor did I organize the trip by myself. The journey was organized by the incredible Portuguese adventure travel company 100rota and by the Pakistani company Positive Pakistan Tours & Travels 💡 Take a look at their website if you also want to embark on an adventure!

Day 1 – September 14: Lisbon (Portugal) – Doha (Qatar)

When I decided to step out of my bubble, put a backpack on my shoulders and set a foot outside my comfort zone (well… at the time it was only half a foot), I never imagined that Pakistan would one day be on my destination list. Yet life takes its turns, and as we meet people who help us grow and trust that things will work out, here I am. Today, I leave for Pakistan.

For months I heard voices asking: “Are you going for work?”,“Were you forced to go?”,“Vacation in Pakistan?”- Answers: “No,” “No,” and “Why not?”

I boarded in Lisbon on a Sunday and only arrived on Tuesday. On the day of departure someone from another trip asked me when was the last time I had cried. It was today. Because of how lucky I am in life. Luck requires work, that’s true. Effort and dedication, but mostly it’s luck in the birth lottery – the place you draw, the people you get. How lucky I am to be able to go alone when I want, because I want, wherever I want. To live dreams when so many people can’t even survive, let alone dream. I cried today because I am truly grateful for what I have and who I am. I believe the world can be a very beautiful place when we can dream and allow ourselves to go and feel – with an open heart and an open mind.

Day 2 - September 15: Doha (Qatar) - Lahore (Pakistan)

A Portuguese woman, a Polish woman, an American and an Indonesian sit in a café in the old bazaar of Doha. One traveling on vacation, one working, one retired and one on her way to celebrate her sister’s graduation and bring her back home.

The conversation once again turns to luck, work and effort. On the other side of the world, traveling to Europe for the first time, Day (let’s call her that) was going with her husband and mother to celebrate her sister’s graduation in the UK – the first in the family to graduate. The dream and dedication of an entire family, all their bets placed on that moment. I didn’t know the degree, but I knew her sister had made it and that they had gathered everything they could to celebrate with her and bring her home, with a suitcase full of dreams. You know those people who feel like you’ve known them forever? That’s how it was with Day. We talked as if we were old friends. We shared a yogurt, a croissant and our contacts. I told her I hoped to see her one day in Portugal. I got a reality check on how unlikely that would be, but instead of a lecture I received the best smile and a “but I hope to see you in Indonesia and welcome you as a friend.” I drank my tea of humility and stored another memory in my heart.

A new conversation, this time about language education in Portugal, Poland, and the United States. How good it is to learn and to share.We shared a cup of tea and talked about how many languages we learned at school. Another sip of humility. Thank you, Portuguese educational system, for the opportunities you give us for free—opportunities we often aren’t mature enough at the time to fully absorb. You know, I would love to go back to school and take in everything that, at certain moments, was taught to me but that I didn’t make the most of because I lacked the maturity for those subjects. But many things did remain, and many of them important—speaking several languages beyond my mother tongue, Portuguese, was one of them.

Time to board. When I next set foot on solid ground, I will be in Pakistan. Me and my backpack, full of anxiety and thirst for yet another adventure.

Day 3 – Part I – September 16: Lahore – Elevators in Pakistan

I landed. Me and another 1500 people (I counted them one by one, obviously, to get this exact number). Lahore, 1:30 a.m., airport temperature 22ºC, controlled humidity. A cockroach sharing the bathroom with me (it was small, I survived – it did too – and I didn’t pee myself).

Time to unlearn what we know and adapt – hello world. Europe stayed behind. 1500 people (the ones I counted one by one) trying to reach the stamp counters, to arrive at official Pakistan. Lean in and let yourself be carried by the crowd – you’ll get there, because no one stays in no man’s land – you either enter or you go back. We kept moving toward the only counter that served foreigners. Two hours go by and all the Pakistanis have found their way. Another counter opens for foreigners, but only for women. Fingerprints taken, intentions explained, and a stamp in the passport – Welcome to Pakistan!

Luggage is the next step – finding the backpack on the magic carpet. It was number 3. This one doesn’t fly, but there are people moving around on top of it, cardboard boxes, boxes on the floor, suitcases of every color, and a kind of genie placing belongings onto the belt. Some waiting, a spike of adrenaline, and there it is – it appears. I check the tag – confirmed, it’s mine. I now have with me the 20 pairs of underwear to survive the next 18 days, plus two extras because intestinal problems are unpredictable.

Airport door, 4 a.m., outside temperature 30ºC, humidity like a Turkish bath. Blindeness from the strike of fog on my glasses. Hundreds of eyes (or are they thousands? I didn’t have time to count here) searching for those arriving. Other hundreds searching for those waiting. I search for Bilal’s eyes, the one who was picking me up. I look. I look again. The glasses fog up once more. That drop of sweat starts running from my "mustache". The police tell me to move along – and why on earth is a short-sighted girl with a backpack squinting to read dozens of signs with names and symbols in the arrivals line?

I leave the trench behind the railing and step into the world. Well done, Ana, now you’ll have to find Bilal from behind. Considering that finding him from the front was a failed mission, from behind we’re just leveling up in this game of hide and seek. I lean under the green sign next to the door, try to connect – network… zero. My phone is still in Portugal. Ok… open Wi-Fi – here we go. IT people, stay calm. I know you’re not supposed to do this, but 30ºC, 100% humidity, 26 hours of travel – we enter technological survival mode. The internet connects, WhatsApp beeps – “Ana, where are you?” I call back before losing that tiny magical bar that connects us to the world. Bilal finds me. I receive my first smile, the first hug, and the first “Welcome to Pakistan”.

We head to the hotel. I’m greeted with something I didn’t understand at the time but that became a constant throughout the trip – Pakistani hospitality. They call the elevator; my room is on the 6th floor. I remember the power cuts, but what can you do – better to go and trust. I reach the 6th floor alone in the elevator, without any mishaps. In the other elevator comes the welcoming committee: five people – one with the backpack, another with the suitcase, another with the key, the boss at the front, and Bilal. They deliver me safely. Finally, I’ll be able to sleep stretched out on a bed. I’ve arrived in Pakistan.

Day 3 – Part II – September 16: Lahore – Tuk-Tuks Without Doors

The alarm goes off so I don’t miss breakfast. I feel like I’ve been run over. I consciously know what time it is, but my body doesn’t (or doesn’t want to). Let’s go, we’re hungry. I go down the stairs – going down isn’t so bad, and we’re not going to push our luck in Pakistan’s electricity roulette. I reach the buffet ready to attack some toast and fruit, maybe even scrambled eggs. I find… curry. Well, we’re hungry, we have probiotics, and we have other medication in case things get seriously complicated. It’s the first official day and we’re going to have to eat, so better start now. I gather my courage and dive into a full plate of rice and curry (if we’re going in, we’re going all in – in for a penny, in for a pound). The lights go out. First power cut. Life goes on as if nothing happened. Meanwhile I made that shocked face with curry-yellow teeth like I’d never experienced a blackout before. Come on, Ana, keep eating. I finished the curry and went back upstairs using the stairs again. I went to sleep the rest I still needed, but now with a full stomach and with the bathroom nearby in case things crossed the intestinal border suddenly and without a stamp in the passport. All under control.

I woke up – I don’t know what time it was – but I already felt less run over. While I watch the falcons from the window – pigeons are a European thing… here there are falcons in the city – I get a message. It’s Chico, the Portuguese guide. He had already arrived, already slept, and was ready to go to the bazaar. - “Do you want to go?”; - “Give me 10 minutes.” Let’s see Lahore. We leave the hotel (and the wonderful invention of air conditioning) and here they are in all their glory: Lahore’s 35ºC with Turkish-bath humidity. You deal with it. Better this than cold. Finger up, Tuk-Tuk caught – direction Lahore Bazaar. The colors, the smells, the people, the chaos, the electric wires, the shops, the smiles, the motorcycles (so many motorcycles, all the same), the buzz of a living city. “Now this is life!” shouts Chico. The Tuk-Tuk door falls off. I smile and agree inside: “This is life”.

We stop and he tells me to go up to the terrace of a building. Of course… another elevator. Let it be written here that I’m not afraid of elevators. But elevators with constant power cuts wake up my survival instinct. Well, here we go. At least this time, if it goes wrong, I’m not alone. It didn’t go wrong and we stepped out on a very high floor (by this point I’d already stopped counting), climbed some well-worn wooden stairs, and there it was – the Lahore mosque appearing in the colors of sunset. Silence. How lucky it is to be alive and to be there.

We went back and ate bananas, apples, and bread. We bought them right next to the hotel at a street stall. The bread was offered to us – freshly baked. The drinks were offered at the hotel. We talked, laughed, and swapped stories like Portuguese friends who only meet abroad. Time to go recover a bit more; tomorrow the journey begins with the official route of 100rota (that in portuguese you can read it as "Sem Rota" or "No Route").

Day 4 – September 17: Lahore – Mosques and Bazaars

I wake up with the arrival of my roommate, Helena. She too crossed the border in the early hours and has just arrived for some well-deserved rest. My brain decides that it already had enough sleep – since the day I arrived I must have slept more than in several days at home. I stay awake for hours. The alarm rings. Curry again.

The rest of the intrepid group for this adventure begin to arrive: Bárbara, Joana, and Rui, who join me and Helena. We meet Bilal, that picked me up from the airport and that will be our guide in Lahore, and Chico at the reception. Time to exchange euros for Pakistani rupees. Time also to set off on the first magical van.

We visit Lahore. We start early in the morning at the Badshahi Mosque from the Mughal era, completed in 1673. Early morning so the ground doesn’t burn our feet. Barefoot, we walk through the complex that had already made me admire its beauty the night before. What a place to remind you of the tales of the 1001 Nights. The red stone, the marble – everything fitted together in perfect detail.

With our clothes already sticking to us, we continued our journey through Lahore’s history and climbed the elephant stairs (yes, they really were for elephants – I’m not referring to our soaked bodies weighing a good few extra kilos in sweat) and visited glass palaces and tombs. To cool down… tea, or rather chai. With milk, as it’s made in Pakistan. A stop in the shade of the trees in Lahore Fort Park. Us, birds, and trees that have lived through eras far beyond the span of a human life.

With so much history, it was already time for lunch, and we headed to another… elevator. Everything went well again and we came out into a restaurant on another terrace overlooking the mosque. Several people joined our table, because the best part of food is when we can share it. What I love about traveling is not choosing. What came to the table was what our guides decided to show us from Pakistani cuisine.

Full bellies, time to face the afternoon heat and wander through the bazaar. You don’t know a city until you know its bazaar. If at the end of the day there had been many motorcycles, in the early afternoon they multiplied. Among the many looks, smiles, and waves, one glance crossed from a motorcycle – and that second led to a collision with another bike. Words exchanged, me embarrassed, we all moved on, and the bazaar kept its frantic rhythm because life goes on even when little mishaps happen.

Day 5 – September 18: Lahore – Gardens, Borders and Sufis

A new day, and this time we leave the walled city of Lahore to visit the Shalimar Gardens, also from the Mughal period, completed in 1642 under the idea of paradise. An oasis in the middle of the city’s chaos. It rains, but the rain falls and life goes on because with the heat, water is more than welcome. We imagine princesses, festivals of candles and water flowing through the hundreds of fountains in the garden. We dare to visit the area once reserved for nobility. What a privilege that so many didn’t have in the centuries since its construction. We take a deep breath to enjoy the smell of the jasmine flowers and move on.

The road takes us only 16 km away from the border with India. Several checkpoints, several identity checks, and finally we park. We see the Pakistani flag waving, and India’s flag a little further ahead. We hear music, see a stadium, but we can’t go in until we’re equipped. Pakistani flags, face paint, hats on our heads, ribbons on our arms – it was time for the great battle. We enter the stadium: half Pakistan, half India. The military choreography begins, and so does the choreography of the crowd. The conductor rehearses us with every beat of the drum. We start shyly – “Pakistan Zindabad.” They push us – louder they scream: “PAKISTAN ZINDABAD!” – long live Pakistan, we shout under the watchful eyes of the painting of Jinnah, founder of Pakistan. On the Indian side, with their own conductors, other powerful shouts are heard under the gaze of Gandhi’s portrait. A party, but a serious one. There’s no point resisting. Lungs open, flags ready, hands in the air – Long Live Pakistan! Let the parade begin. Marches, weapons, boots, drums, clapping. The flag unfolds. Salutes are made. The flags are raised, the drums are put away. Party's over. People’s lives continue, half to the Indian side, half to the Pakistani side. A human border that separates lives. But life continues on both sides. Long live Pakistan and long live India. May both move forward peacefully, just as we move toward the sunset of Lahore.

With our bellies full of rice and lentils, we head to a Sufi ceremony of spiritual music and dance. We try to find ourselves in the middle of the rhythm. The beats intensify, men spin to the sound of the music. Heat. The smell of herbs. Sweat. Bare feet and jingling bracelets. I close my eyes – I don’t know if I’m capable of absorbing it all. We leave. I don’t know what happened. But there were hundreds of people and something was happening there. I watched as an outside spectator. I don’t know what I felt. I went to sleep with the beats echoing in my ears.

Day 6 – September 19: Lahore – Islamabad – The Pakistani from Santarém and the Flashes

Day to leave Lahore behind. Day to catch the train to Islamabad. Arriving at the station, we’re guided to the train, we get in and find our seats. The train leaves on time with the doors open for anyone who wants to watch life go by. We see cows bathing in the river. They serve us chicken with fries at 8 in the morning. I wanted to sleep but I still had the beats from the day before in my head. Living Pakistan is living every moment intensely. From the back of the carriage we hear a “Fod**** Car****” in perfect Portuguese. We all turn around – what were the chances of there being another Portuguese person on that train? He wasn’t actually Portuguese, but a Pakistani who lives in Santarém, and what good Portuguese he already spoke – or aren’t swear words the first thing we ourselves teach any foreigner? As with everyone I met in Pakistan, we found another friendly smile. He offered us chai and we swapped stories about Portugal among the tracks on the way to the center of Pakistan. Brakes hard on. We arrive in Rawalpindi. We grab our bags and there’s another smile and another hug waiting for us – Usman. Until now Bilal had been accompanying our group and now Usman joined us too. “Welcome to Pakistan,” as expected. Bags loaded and we head to Islamabad.

If until now the photos and waves had been many, nothing had prepared me for the sunset in Islamabad. We climbed to the monument honoring Pakistan and, after many looks and waves, a brave boy asked to take a photo with me. Of course, I answered – “No problem.” The “problem” came later, because the bravery of one turned into the courage of many others. I laughed. I felt like Cristiano Ronaldo. But after several long dozens of smiles, waves, cameras and phones, discomfort took over and I had to break a few hearts saying enough is enough. I sat near Bilal and pretended not to see the attempts for more photos. Bilal laughed, Chico laughed. I was sweating from my "mustache" again with embarrassment. I stayed watching the sunset, dealing with how awkward I am with these things. If there had been a hole, I would have hidden in it to watch the sunset.

Day 7 – September 20: Islamabad – Naran – Finally the Mountains

It’s been a week since I arrived in Pakistan. The intensity of everything makes it feel like I’ve been here a lifetime. The discomfort has already been put aside. I’ve learned to absorb the Pakistani ways and mannerisms. We meet our third guide – Taimoor – who joins Bilal and Usman. The driver ties our backpacks to the top of the van, each of us settles into a seat. We set off on a long journey with a craving for the mountains. We drive along the highway – and what a highway. Good quality, signage, police and… a fine! Something was missing for our driver. Arguments back and forth, fine paid, and the journey continues. I don’t know what on earth people talk so much about regarding the “incredible roads of Pakistan” – this one seems great to me! Innocence is such a beautiful thing.

The highway ends and the first mountain roads appear – still nothing serious. A bump here and there and we keep going for hours and hours. Our stomachs start telling the time. We stop at a metal shack by the river. Some improvised awnings and rope beds while we wait for lunch – patience is a virtue. Everything worthwhile takes time. There’s no choice, no other stove, no other place, no other menu. So this is, in fact, the best place, the best stove, and the best menu. Fried fish with rice and lentils. It was delicious and nothing went wrong. By “going wrong” I mean needing to stop suddenly so the meal could continue its journey. Here began the saga of rice and lentils. Until then always present at meals but discreet. From now on, they would be daily companions from morning till night.

Sore backsides, crooked backs and, in my case, sleep finally up to date after 12 hours of travel. We park in Naran. The cold makes itself felt. We leave behind the heat of the cities; now comes the cold of the mountains. We buy shawls and pakols (the wool hats typical of northern Pakistan and Afghanistan). We’re ready to sleep wrapped in warm blankets. The mountain views warm our souls.

Day 8 – September 21: Naran – Hunza – Now the Real Mountains

Wake up and get into the van. Pack the bags again, tie the backpacks to the roof again… we always travel with so many material things. Sometimes we leave at home the most important ones – the key to an open mind and open heart.

The mountains – today, yes, the real mountains. Until now we had only glimpsed some hills that, for Portuguese people used to the peak of Serra da Estrela, seemed huge, but which are only the base of the true giants we were going to see. We stop at a lake and reach the first mirror of water. Am I seeing upside down? Maybe it’s the altitude. Lulusar Lake. No photo can do it justice. It’s cold, but nothing compared to what the landscape and temperature must be like in winter. Back to the van, heading toward 4,000 meters.

Curve after curve, we reach Babusar Pass at 4,173 m altitude. There are roasted peanuts. We take the risk. We also risk peeking at the Kaghan Valley – let’s see if the peanuts don’t live up to the valley’s name. We look the other way and there they are: the Himalayas and the first giants. We were lucky – a clear day with great visibility. Stop for a moment and appreciate, because not everyone gets there, and even among those who do, not everyone gets to see it.

Time to go down, more hours on the road… which for me means more hours of sleep. I wake up at our first forced stop and see the “road” for the first time. We left the asphalt and now have packed dirt in a crack stolen from the mountain. Workers, machines, and explosives take on the stone giant, in a battle between Man and rock. I fear to say that the rock tends to win, but Man tends to persist. And so we stay stopped, waiting for another piece of “road” to be cleared so the tiny Man in his wheeled machines can continue his journey through the cracks on the backs of the stone giants.

Night falls, and with great bravery, courage, a bit of madness, and a lot of experience, our driver (and so many others in trucks, jeeps, vans, and motorbikes) takes us to today’s destination: Hunza. The house is welcoming but nothing can be seen. They tell me to climb to the roof the next morning. I keep that note, without knowing what awaits me. Today, another surprise still waits. The Asian Cricket Cup. I go to watch the game with our guides – a room with giant windows and pitch black outside – where on earth are all these windows pointing? A TV, three Pakistanis and two Portuguese. The game begins. I follow the plays and the experts, with endless patience, answer my questions. I realize that having played baseball helps me understand many of cricket’s rules! I start to enjoy it and already shout “CHAR!” and “CHI!” every time Pakistan scores. They come to call us – dinner is ready. I abandon the excitement of cricket and swap it for another excitement: a hot meal on a cold mountain night.

We eat and it’s time to sleep. I walk along the metal balcony of the wooden house. I pass six chairs at tables facing the valley. The only thing visible are the scattered lights of houses, nothing more. The room again has giant windows, all facing the little fireflies of light from the homes. I lie down but always with the thought… tomorrow we really have to climb to the roof.

Day 9: Hunza – Giants in Celebration

No alarm clock was needed. At 5 a.m. I was already awake. I rubbed my eyes, stretched my skeleton, and tried to focus. Well, I tried to focus because I didn’t have my glasses on yet, but even without them I couldn’t believe it. The window to the valley was right in front of my bed. There are no words to describe what the twilight was revealing. I jumped out of bed, put on the warm clothes I had, wrapped myself in a shawl, and fled with my camera. I ran along the metal balcony, passed the chairs, climbed the ladder to the roof and there it was… the incredible Hunza Valley rising in all its splendor. Me, the ant, surrounded by giant peaks over 7,000 meters high with snow all around. It felt like a film. My eyes couldn’t take it all in, and so they cried. I sat there in my insignificance and waited for the first rays of sun behind the snowy peaks.

I recovered and returned to reality – time for breakfast. The table where dinner had been served the night before now had a completely different dimension – every window showed the valley and half of the surrounding mountains. Yes, half. Because to see the peaks we had to press our heads against the glass and look far, far up. Indescribable.

Time for a new adventure – we got into another van, heading to a lake. You know the best thing about this trip to Pakistan? I was very little prepared in advance for what I was going to see, and since it’s such a non-touristy destination there aren’t many photos unless you really go looking. So at every curve and every stop my eyes struggled to absorb everything that appeared in front of me, beside me, behind me. But back to the lake – Attabad Lake was born from a disaster. After a landslide that caused deaths and injuries, Attabad Lake emerged. I feel this trip to Pakistan is making me fear that my vocabulary is too small for the descriptions it deserves. The blue of the lake is not a normal blue – but what is a normal blue? Try harder, Ana. Attabad has a sky-blue of melted glacier. It isn’t transparent; it looks painted. As if someone came there and painted the valley between the mountains in sky blue. The water doesn’t move. Maybe that isn’t even true, but we’re going down to see.

On the lakeshore, I get into a boat. And yes, it’s a boat, and yes, it floats. So it’s true. The sky blue really is water. The mountains swallow us. The boat, full of painted flowers and decorations, contrasts with the blue of the lake. The driver calls me to steer the boat. I’m not hallucinating. I drove the boat on Attabad’s sky-blue painting. We return to the shore and I’m still processing the sunrise mountains, let alone Attabad. Pakistan, let’s take it easy. It’s good for today. It isn’t. Pakistan is like this – intense. It doesn’t ask permission. Either you go with the flow, or it’s better not to go at all.

We continue toward a glacier and the Passu Cones. Thought you had already seen beautiful mountains? Here, have a few more. The traffic is so intense that we take photos lying on the road. How wonderful. You only hear the mountain and our laughter. It feels good to share when we are happy. We will never be there again, with that group, in that moment.

Just when I thought it was enough for today, we headed to an area with a zip line. Without thinking, without weighing anything, as soon as they asked who wanted to go I shouted: ME! Of course, Ana, what a brilliant idea – going on a zip line in Pakistan over the icy waters of a glacier. Note that this entire chain of thoughts only went through my head mid-flight. Harness tight, rope sliding, water passing beneath, everyone waving – and the braking. I lost my neck. That’s it, this is the end. But it wasn’t. I’m here to tell you the story that could have been the end of the story but wasn’t. Moving on – when you go to one side and cross the river, you obviously have to come back. Two options: zip line back or cross a bridge with wooden planks separated by several dozen centimeters each. My neck hurts – "I’ll take the bridge!". Another brilliant idea. With every step the bridge swayed more, with every step the planks were further apart. Damn, this didn’t look so far on the zip line. Keep going – if you turn back, the zip line will be waiting. Better to move forward. It sways but it doesn’t fall. At least it didn’t fall that day. And I reached the side I had started from. With a sore neck, wobbly legs, racing breath but a full heart. There were several “Why not?” in a row. Or maybe there weren’t, because there were plenty of reasons for “Why not?” but – Pakistan Zindabad!

At the end of the day we returned home. They told me to go again to the cricket room. I thought another match was about to start. I couldn’t have been more wrong. A towel spread on the floor and cushions waiting. I sat down. More and more people arrived: Liaqat - the owner of the guesthouse, our guides, the Japanese guy, the Romanian, two Iranians, a Pakistani from the south, and us five Portuguese. What a beautiful table. The food arrived – all typical, homemade food from the Hunza region. Delicious. Hunza water also arrived – a lovely surprise to accompany it. In true Portuguese spirit, is there any more beautiful place to share than around a good table (on the floor in this case)? The meal ended. The table was cleared and then the band arrived. Three men – a big drum, a smaller drum, and a flute. We all fell silent and the music began. In pairs, as if rocked by the sound, people stood up and danced. An almost tribal dance, a dance of challenge – calm but combative. And how lucky I am to live this. The music stopped. Everyone sat again and the discussion began. We talked about everything. Alexander the Great came into the conversation. After many debates, we concluded we are all cousins. All because of Alexander – how great he truly was. We celebrated with more music. The whole ritual repeated, until from dancing in pairs we became everyone dancing – everyone without exception. Each person danced as they knew how and as they felt. This was to be felt, not judged. Jumps, circles, hands in the air, laughter – the music ended. Time to discuss again. Silence.

Hours flew by and it was time to let the musicians rest. Each of us returned to our rooms. I think I still haven’t woken up and it’s now 5 a.m. Maybe none of this happened and I’m just suffering from altitude sickness.

Day 10: Hunza – Blurred Glaciers

I wake up. Well, clearly yesterday did happen and I woke up clinging to the toilet. What a lovely day awaits me. I feel like I’ve been run over by four trucks. We visit one of the preserved villages of Hunza that is still inhabited today. Did you know that before Islam reached Hunza there was a strong Buddhist presence? Many symbols and places are still preserved. I saw everything – but badly. I took photos. I’ll look at them carefully later because right now I’m just trying not to capsize the boat – and I’m not talking about Attabad. My feet are firmly on the ground.

We head to the glacier and I can barely see anything. I had to climb ten steps that felt like Everest. How many meters of altitude are we at? Too many, that’s for sure. I sit quietly admiring the landscape. Time heals. I breathe deeply again; the glacier comes back into focus – the glasses help. Time to return. But before that we stop to watch an incredible sunset. Truly incredible. I’m happy to go back. I have dinner and sleep.

Day 11: Hunza – Naltar – The Cow

The van is over – now it’s jeeps. Oh dear, now it’s going to get serious. I thought I had already been through the cracks in the mountains. I knew nothing. Jump here, bounce there, let the truck pass, oh – is this supposed to be the “road”? It is what it is, because there’s no other way besides the stone wall or the cliff.

The next stop was already in Naltar. A valley in the middle of countless other mountains. You can feel the cold from the sunlight blocked by the stone walls. Several houses scattered through the valley along a dirt avenue full of holes, with children running and waving. We dropped our bags at our house in Naltar after shooing away the cow that was standing in front of the gate. We’re staying here today – and apparently the cow is too, because she belongs to the house.

They asked us to hurry – lunch would still take us to one of the secrets of the Naltar Valley. Now the jeeps were truly put to the test. We crossed a river, drove through muddy areas, bounced from rock to rock. We laughed while I translated the classic Portuguese song “Garagem da Vizinha” (in english "Neighbor's Garage") to Usman. The jeep stopped and we stopped talking. A darker blue lake, a bonfire, two shepherds and several sheep. No one else. What peace. The table was set and lunch was shared with whoever was there. Music was played. Barriers disappeared. There is no language more universal than music. We danced around the fire. Some took photos, others laughed, others smoked. There was a little bit of peace for each of us. How beautiful the world would be if we lived in this communion.

The sun began its farewell, and that’s how we also said goodbye to this magical lake in the mountains of northern Pakistan. We headed back to the house of the cow. On arrival I took a shower crouching down because I couldn’t turn the tap to the overhead shower – patience for my clumsiness. What a lovely tap shower. I shivered with cold until I dressed and went to warm up by the fire. What will the mountains have in store for us tomorrow? I feel like there can’t be anything left to surprise me.

Day 12: Naltar – Phander Valley – Journeys

What a tough journey. I slept a lot and was desperate for a pee. After the desperation there was still another hour of road. We finally stopped for lunch and for me to relieve my despair. Ten pairs of eyes watched as I went in. One pair pointed sideways to a door. I went in. I prayed. I don’t know how to pray – I just peed. I came out. The pairs of eyes no longer cared because they were all having lunch. I went to our “table.” There were carpets on a kind of platform covering the floor and the wooden walls. Several stove burners with gas cylinders in front. And opposite them two windows to the street. Pots were boiling. Tea was served. The street pulsed with cars, motorbikes, people, and chickens. Rice and lentils arrived at the table – actually they never left the kitchen because we were in the kitchen. The rice ended and the tea came. We were ready to continue the journey.

Another hard trip to the Phander Valley. We were bruised from so much bouncing and swerving on the road – when there even was a road, because parts had fallen away. That’s how it is in the mountains of Pakistan: today’s road might not be tomorrow’s. Here nature is in charge. We arrived at our new house. There was hot water and I managed to turn the tap to the overhead shower. What a blessing. The cold made itself felt, but tonight there was a cricket match – Pakistan vs Bangladesh. The last game before the final. We all sat at the same table with the television in the background. Hours passed, the tea warmed us. Pakistan reached the final!

Day 13: Phander Valley – Icy Baths and No Music

I woke up cold. It was time for breakfast and we were already several days into fried eggs or omelets, bread, and tea—tea mainly to warm us up. We set off on a walk through the valley, and once again, when we go without expectations, Pakistan appears to show its charm. We climbed a little, then descended. Gravel underfoot. The walk made the cold disappear. To the right we could see the lake, another mirror of water. The landscape already smelled of autumn. The trees had dressed themselves in yellow, brown, and a stubborn green that still lingered.

We moved along a corridor of trees lined by the lake, an avenue that ended at a house. A man on his tractor greeted us, and of course we stopped for a few words. Some sheep, cows, and chickens roamed freely on the grass by the water. A hand waved near the house and called us over—not everyone, just the women. We went and were invited to see the garden full of flowers that, in the blink of an eye, traded autumn for spring. We took off our shoes and entered the house. The one inviting us was the mother, and two daughters waited inside. We sat in the kitchen. What a familiar atmosphere—after all, isn’t it in the kitchen that the heart of a home beats? Almost no English, and Portuguese and Urdu are hardly alike. But with calm, smiles, and gestures, everything is understood. The mother and daughters showed me their sons—also two. Soldiers, working in the city. They asked my age and, obviously, if I was married. Two more smiles and I might have ended up married right there by the lake. We laughed and drank tea. What a beautiful sharing. We left after three heartfelt hugs, but not before being gifted flowers for our hair and apples for the road. The world can be so beautiful.

We continued along the lake until we reached a bridge. We stayed there and brave Bilal decided to take a dip. The icy mountain water, glacier blue, didn’t lie about its color—or its temperature. The wooden bridge, slightly crooked from life and perhaps storms, looked as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. Yet people crossed, donkeys crossed, cows crossed. Life went on there, even on a slightly bent bridge. One cow decided the bridge was not for her—she jumped into the water and swam to the opposite bank. She fought the current but made it. On our side, women in the distance washed clothes in the river—brightly colored garments later spread in the sun overlooking the lake’s arm. Or is it a river here? And there we sat, simply watching life happen.

Children shyly peeked at us through the trees. A laugh here, a wave there, and soon we were surrounded. One boy decided to fish—an improvised line and hook, and there he was. They asked if we wanted tea. Of course we did—even if only to see where the person would come from and where the tea would come from. It never appeared. We accepted it.

We put on music and danced. Then the life of the lake was interrupted. An older man appeared, shouting at us. We stopped the music and our guides received the proper scolding. We shouldn’t play music or dance like that near the ladies—us—because it could lead the women for bad paths. Who knows, maybe it’s the women who lead others down some path, good or bad. We respected the place and the man. It wasn’t our home, so we decided it was time for lunch. The picnic arrived in a jeep honking for us. Fried fish, rice, and bread. The carpet-table was laid out, big enough for everyone. Pots in the middle—let the feast begin.

When we finished, it was time to return. The pots went back by car, but we walked. We crossed the entire lake the opposite way, received more apples for the journey, and reached our house. The day was already good, but as always another surprise awaited—dinner would be at a family’s home in the valley. In the living room our hostesses waited, and the men brought dinner to the carpet-table of the night. More conversations unfolded around the meal, and how lucky I was to be part of them. The children fell asleep in their mother’s lap and it was time for us to sleep. What a day of sharing and a full heart.

Day 14: Phander Valley – Booni – No More Hugs

Sit on the backpack, force the zipper. Why on earth do we always bring so much stuff? Well, backpack ready, we set off. Today the destination was Booni, but more mountain roads awaited us. I can tell you—today was bad, but it wouldn’t be the worst, because things can always get worse, right?

But “worse” doesn’t have to mean bad. With an adventurous eye, it was a beautiful stretch of mountains. We climbed and climbed until we reached nearly 4,000 meters and the highest polo field in the world—Shandur Pass. We stopped to stretch our legs, drink tea, and take photos with a bride, groom, and wedding guests. The couple waved from the same jeep, conversation followed conversation, and they stepped out to take pictures with us—after all, we were in Pakistan. The groom in a blue suit and white pakol with a peacock feather; the bride in a long dark-blue outfit adorned with stones and a traditional hat. Both wearing Ray-Ban style sunglasses. It felt like a typical Portuguese wedding—pose beside the couple, guests taking turns on each side. Behind us, a green valley at 4,000 meters; in our hands, steaming tea.

Time to continue—but not before the bathroom. I hadn’t yet told any detailed bathroom episode, but this one was a solid 3 out of 5 stars by our new standards. The door? It wouldn’t close, flapping in the wind. The toilet? A typical squat toilet—but no visible biological residues, an important detail. Holes in the wall and window let the mountain breeze air the place. Hand-washing? A container of water meant for flushing. Joana arrived with her faithful soap and not a single hand remained unwashed—even in improvised flush water.

More bouncing in the jeep, windows open despite the cold. We passed prairies—if that’s the right word—green plains with lakes and yaks wandering slowly. It felt like watching National Geographic live from the car window. The roads worsened, cracks in the mountains appeared, a river to cross over a wooden bridge. It looked as sturdy as the one that held people, donkeys, and cows the day before—but this one had to bear jeeps. One vehicle at a time we crossed and reached the border of one of Pakistan’s most conservative regions. They checked the jeeps and waved us on. We arrived in Booni with daylight. The jeeps parked inside the guesthouse garden and suddenly it felt like a fenced enclosure. I had no idea.

After rooms were assigned, I innocently leaned my arm on one of our guides. Eyes widened—“not here.” I slowly removed my arm, nervous smile, apology. They didn’t know who else was staying; some might not like it.

Dinner came and we were hosted by the local police chief while half the station waited outside. Men and women sat on opposite sides. After dinner, that was enough reception for Booni. We slept—us and the armed guard in the garden. Welcome to Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.

Day 15: Booni – Chitral – The Big Final

The suitcase wasn’t even unpacked and the desire to leave was strong. Departure was quick. On the way out we recognized some police faces from the night before—we had dined with the chief. We traveled again—bumpy but without closed roads—toward Chitral, district capital of a region still full of surprises. The jeeps crossed alleys that seemed to shrink at every turn until we reached a guesthouse with a marvelous view over the valley and the polo field.

We went to visit the Palace of the Kings of Chitral. The region had been independent until recently. Up the stairs to an orange-columned veranda, stuffed animals on the walls like the hunting room of Mafra Palace—Pakistani mountain version. The door opened and the dining room appeared, as if just used, crystals shining, photos of the kings with Jinnah. The rooms felt still inhabited. Outside, a mosque—head covered, shoes off—and a boy skating inside. Yes, skating. The smooth floor perfect for the art.

Back to the guesthouse through the bazaar, passing polo players on horseback. We missed the match but prepared for the night: the Asian Cup cricket final—Pakistan vs India. Table set, guides glued to the TV. “Char! Chi!” Pakistan opened magnificently. Hours passed; I became the only woman in the room and quietly left them to their moment, wishing Pakistan luck and waiting for the good news at sunrise.

Day 16: Chitral – Kalash Valley – A Toast to My Kalash Sister

India wins the Asian Cup. A difference of five wickets. It was so close, so close. It felt like Portugal in Euro 2004 – almost, almost. But hope never dies, and there will always be other cups and other matches.

Before setting off, we visited the museum in Chitral and the bazaar. The museums are beautiful, and Pakistan once again surprises me with its history and the way it preserves it. But the bazaars – the bazaars are where I lose myself. Bazaars are life. They are the heart of the city. Sooner or later everyone goes to the bazaar, passes through the bazaar, lingers in the bazaar. Here Chitral shows me its people. Every shop has men selling their goods. Here there are almost no smiles, and my camera is looked at with suspicion. Respect is essential. So the camera goes back in the bag and “photos are taken with the heart,” as Leonor, whom I met on another adventure, once taught me. We stop to buy a Pakistan national team shirt. Of course, among all those shirts I’d dare say there were even more Cristiano Ronaldo jerseys. I don’t care much about football, but the truth is there isn’t a corner of the world that doesn’t know who Cristiano Ronaldo is and that he is from Portugal. In this Portugal–Pakistan exchange, while buying the T-shirt even after last night’s defeat to India in cricket, suddenly the smiles appear! Chitral does have smiles after all – they’re just a little harder to draw out than in the other places I’ve visited.

It was time to leave. The biggest surprises of the day were still ahead, and there was a long road to travel. We waited for the jeeps and ate a samosa. And what a good samosa it was! We got into the car and Taimoor and I played tic-tac-toe on the window. I lost. Taimoor seemed happy celebrating. Losing was worth it. But back to the road – now yes, many hours ahead and now it really is a serious road. Ana… haven’t you said that several days in a row? Yes, but now we really are in the most challenging stretch. Now the road-cracks in the mountains close in from the sides, above and below. What remains is the gorge or the river peeking through the only open side. The jeep fits just fine – the problem is when the jeep, a truck, and a cheeky motorbike in a hurry all have to fit at once. Everything fits… including a wheel half hanging out, clinging to the hope that the ground won’t give way right then. Or shake, since earthquakes in Pakistan are not exactly uncommon.

Another river, another wooden bridge. One jeep at a time. And we cross. The story of a bridge that collapsed in the mountains of Pakistan will stay for another chronicle, not this one. The asphalt ends and dirt road begins. Very beaten dirt. Bless the jeep’s suspension. We reach Bumburet already at sunset. The jeep enters through a gateway, a grassy garden, and a big smile waits for us – “Welcome to the Kalash village.” I had no idea.

We drop our luggage – the non-essential one full of material things – and follow the smile to see one of the Kalash villages. The Kalash are special. And even more special was my chance to be there living that moment with them. They are a pagan/polytheistic people living isolated in three villages in the mountains of the Chitral district in Pakistan. They are few – statistics say around 10.000 – and the tendency, due to the region’s socio-economic and natural difficulties, is for the number to decrease. The Kalash maintain a language, culture, and traditions very different from the mostly Islamic region that surrounds them.

We sit in the square of Bumburet village, watch children playing and women going about their lives. We visit a traditional house where an elderly woman lives – could she be the oldest Kalash woman? She almost pushes us inside. Guests don’t stay at the door. We climb a steep wooden ladder-stair, each step carved one by one. We bow our heads and enter the kitchen. The windowless balcony overlooks the village square. Modest but cared for, it makes me wonder what it must be like to spend winter there.

We move on to another house and this time meet the Kalash mama. Mama is our dinner host, but I’ll get to that story. Mama pulls me closer, takes my measurements, and suddenly slips a Kalash dress over my head. She ties a belt around my waist so tight that breathing becomes only a remote option. The most beautiful part came next – a beaded necklace and the headpiece. Imagine a ring of beads with a beaded rectangle falling down the back like a braid. It looks like a crown and surely weighs like one. They shout, “Now you are Kalash!” Who shouts? Mama, and her daughter-in-law – my Kalash baba (sister). Quickly my baba puts on her huge sunglasses and together we take photos, cosmopolitan glasses with centuries-old traditional clothes. If this sharing isn’t beautiful, I swear I don’t know what is.

We are invited to dinner. We enter one of mama Kalash’s rooms. Cushions all around and the typical tablecloth laid on the floor. Several Kalash women join us. My baba sits beside me. The only men present are our guides and Rui, another traveler in the group like me. Dinner is served by the men, trays coming and going. Drinks are also offered. Yes, the Kalash produce wine and the women drink it without any restriction. My baba tells me about her children and her husband (one of the men serving us). We toast to everyone’s good health. She tells me how she designs the patterns on the dresses and asks them to show some she made. She shows me many photos of the Kalash spring festivals where she proudly displays her wearable works of art.

The band comes in – two men – I only remember the flute. The table is cleared and the dance floor is ready. The Kalash show us and invite us to dance. And why not? I try to imitate the steps and follow the rhythm. Rhythms that after so many days of travel are already getting under my skin, but my muscles still don’t have the memory to dance them. Lots of laughter, lots of dancing – what a night of sharing. Mama gives the order and all the Kalash withdraw. Our guides now take over the dance floor. It was a great night of sharing.

Day 17: Kalash Valley – Traditions

Did last night really happen? The thin mountain air is once again putting me to the test.

A walk to start the day is best, and that’s how we go to explore Bumburet and another village lower down the mountain. Our guide walks so lightly and calmly, and we all seem to stumble clumsily behind him. Every stone is an obstacle for us, for him a foothold. Silence reigns. You can only hear everyday mountain life and an occasional more dramatic chicken. We finish the walk at the Kalash Museum. I have no words. It was the most incredible museum we saw. How is it possible in the middle of the mountains? The museum on the ground floor, a Kalash customs school on the first floor. We are guided through the traditions of this valley with all the pride this people deserves.

If the walk was fast-paced always going down, imagine that in the end it was always uphill. Whoever wanted got a ride. Whoever wanted to train their inner mountain-goat went on foot. Just push the lungs. The fearless goats arrived to find a bonfire already lit. There was dinner, no light (electricity often fails in the mountains), there was fire, there was sharing and there was music. I already feel nostalgic and we are still here.

Day 18: Kalash Valley – Peshawar – The Escort to the WC

There were tears. Hugs and goodbyes done, it was time to leave. It was hard to leave the Kalash Valley, psychologically and physically, because the arrival road is the same as the departure and all that dirt eagerly waits for us again. The journey seemed shorter. Doesn’t it always? Going there we carry expectation and excitement for something new. Returning we come with emotional luggage full and perhaps calmer and more contemplative.

We stop at the end of the valley. After crossing all the dirt, the cracks, the bridges. It looked like a rewind of days ago. We take photos and prepare for Peshawar. The jeeps will no longer be needed, but in exchange we get a police escort. We are near the Afghan border and visitors are required to have police protection. Before swapping jeeps for the van, we still face tunnels several kilometers long, many checkpoints where we all must show passports and intentions, and... a flat tire. Believing that this was the first and only puncture in all these roads is truly something to be thankful for.

Tire fixed, we stop at a service station to say goodbye to the drivers. Many days shared with them. Did I mention I don’t like goodbyes? We get into the van and Operation Portugal–Peshawar begins. A jeep in front with at least four guards. Rifles on their chests, faces covered. The special operation needs to stop because I need the bathroom. Yes you can go, but escorted. I’m glad it’s just a pee. Back to the van and a few kilometers later we stop for lunch. Along the way the escort jeep keeps being replaced without stopping. One stops, another starts. The choreography of this operation is extremely well rehearsed.

It pours rain. We sit on the floor and have more rice with lentils. Back to the van. I’m tired of so many kilometers, tired of goodbyes and we’ve only just started. I feel the nostalgia of the end of the trip falling on me. Even the sky cries. We arrive in Peshawar already at night. The chaos of the city contrasts with the silence of the mountains. Hotel door – “from this point weapons are not allowed.” Right, confirmed, I don’t have any. Before well-deserved sleep, it’s Francisco’s turn to leave. Another goodbye. I go to sleep. Enough for today.

Day 19: Peshawar – The Siege of Colors

We wake up without electricity. How familiar. It comes and goes in a cycle. I take the stairs. Feels like day one of the saga “I’m not afraid of elevators but better safe than sorry.” Our police escort waits and we go by van to the museum and then to the bazaar. Always the bazaars. Police get out and follow us attentively in front, behind, on the sides. No point slowing down for a photo – a policeman immediately sticks to us with that look of “get back to the group.” I try to ignore the pressure because I’m in Peshawar and the city doesn’t deserve to be judged only by the tight security and the 50 km separating it from Afghanistan.

The heat grows, the mountains are behind and we return to the bustle of a big city. We start at the city museum. The first thing is the ballroom. The building was built in honor of Queen Victoria and mixes British, Mughal, Hindu and… Buddhist architecture. This last part surprises me most. The hall and its rooms are full of Buddhist artifacts. Many statues, almost all nude. Considering we are in one of Pakistan’s most conservative provinces I wasn’t expecting it but I’m glad the Buddhist art was preserved. I learned that the extensive collection comes from the Gandhara civilization, an Indo-Aryan culture that existed in northeastern Pakistan and Afghanistan. Upstairs I’m also surprised by much preserved Kalash art. Nostalgia says hello again – but Nostalgia...not your time yet, there’s still a full day ahead.

We continue to the bazaar and stop at Taj Soda. We enter through a camouflaged door leading to a neon interior: “Taj Soda – since 1936.” We choose flavors mostly by color and the refreshment eases the heat. The sugar promises only brief relief – better keep water close.

I can’t sit long. Nostalgia napped but anxiety for the return begins. Going outside isn’t worth it because a policeman follows me instantly. We all finish and continue the visit. Smiles in Peshawar are timid but they exist. I probably wouldn’t smile either seeing tourists surrounded by armed police. All the shops I see have men. Women pass, most in burkas. It’s uncomfortable for me, but I try hard not to judge a society I don’t know.

We leave through a side street and there’s relief. Inside a restored house we can walk freely. Suddenly other police ask to take a photo with me. One photo becomes a whole photoshoot until I say enough – we must move on. We visit a garden and then a surprise: a Pakistani truck-art bus. The guides invite us in – we’ll tour Peshawar in this work of art on wheels!

Every surface painted, the horn a melody. School kids wave, one boy gives me a flower through the window. It can’t be real, can it? We visit a truck-art workshop – true artists painting family histories on vehicles. Indescribable colors and beauty. Another group gathers for photos; nostalgia is now fully in charge.

After rest, packing and check-outs we still have time for fabrics and gifts. At dinner come the hugs. Aren’t we supposed to be more restrained here? Forget it. Speeches done, the longing already hurts. Time to head to the airport.

Day 20: Peshawar – Lisbon – The Farewell

We reach the airport after midnight. Many checkpoints, passports shown again and again. The guides explain they only escort us and have no tickets. Security is tight. Controls passed, the hardest hug arrives. Trips are like this – we arrive as a whole, we leave pieces of ourselves and return with different pieces and a heart full of the people we met. Travel breaks so many prejudices. Pakistan didn’t ask permission – it settled in my heart. What a country and what incredible people. As for the friends we leave behind, it’s hard not to think how many months, years or maybe even an eternity will pass before we meet again. Hope remains. Inshallah.

If you have doubts or want to travel to Pakistan, I’m here to help you get out of your tinny can and explore the world!

Always yours,

Uncanned Sardine