|
|
|||
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|||
 |
|||
|
Newspapers and Magazines written for include: The Observer |
|
The following article was published in The Observer Magazine. In the mountains of northern Pakistan, a medieval fort defies the laws of gravity. There is a rumour, not discouraged by locals, that the Hunza valley in Pakistan’s mountainous Northern Area was the inspiration for Shangri-la, the remote paradise in James Hilton’s Lost Horizon. Certainly, the fertile green terraces that slope down to the valley floor, the striking looks of its children, and the sense of tranquillity as the moon catches the snowy slopes of one of the world’s highest mountains, Rakaposhi, are true to Hilton’s vision of an unspoilt utopia. But change, inevitably, has come to Shangri-La. Once it was accessible only by the treacherous dirt roads that followed the ancient Silk Route from neighbouring China, travelled by Marco Polo and Alexander the Great. Then, in the late 1970s, the Karakoram highway – a modern engineering miracle – opened up the Northern Areas and laid open a culture that had remained inviolated for centuries. But for Hunza generally; and its capital Karimabad in particular, the changes were not welcome. As tourists began to trickle in, a sprinkling of dreary hotels deflowered the lower part of Karimabad. Even among the cluster of historic stone houses leading up to the imposing Baltit Fort – once home to the Mirs (or Princes) of Hunza, and with one of the world’s most spectacular views – the odd modern dwelling was beginning to appear. A few years ago, the fort itself, which has defied the basic logic of structural engineering for over seven centuries, seemed destined to finally vacate its precarious perch overlooking the valley and tumble into the town below. Drastic action was needed, not just to save the fort, but also to protect the town from ravages of tourism while at the same time allowing locals to enjoy its economic benefits and the modern facilities they now craved. ‘We don’t want to live in a museum’ was the Hunzakut cry. Instrumental in the region’s regeneration has been the Aga Khan, spiritual leader of the Ismaili Muslims who predominate in the valley. His organisation, the Aga Khan Network, was already involved in development work in the Northern Areas. Now it embarked on a lengthy restoration of the fort (gifted to public use by the Mir, who had moved down to a more comfortable palace in the 1950s) and the stone houses beneath through its historic cities support programme. The work is now complete. Wandering through the steep, narrowly winding lanes of the old village, it is possible to imagine oneself in a bygone age. Children in colourful tunics call from the flat roofs spread with raffia baskets of drying tomatoes and apricots (the best in the world, say the Hunzakuts). Yet beneath the medieval-looking streets lie new pipes for sanitation and drinking water, demanded by the villagers. The two-storey houses (built around a four-pillared living room with a square cut for ventilation) retain their traditional structure; the animal sheds that provided the entrances – and rudimentary toilets and bathrooms – have been replaced by entrance halls. Electricity lights the rooms. The work of local craftsmen, trained during the restoration of the fort, is evident in the exquisite carvings on the ancient juniper wood window frames, doors and pillars. Towering over the houses, the largely timber Baltit Fort was probably built initially on booty extracted from silk route travellers, Over time, it has expanded in relation to its growing importance to the area. Two storeys were added to the initial one, as were several towers and a wooden Tibetan-style roof mosque. From the high vantage point, one can gaze down on the splendour of Hunza – or, less enjoyably, at the sheer abyss on the other side. Inside the fort, the 55 rooms have been faithfully restored. The lower storeys reflects the lifestyle of medieval times, while on the upper storey one finds the colonial-style apartment (Hunza was a British outpost for many years) built by the last Mir, before his descent into more modern comfort. Swords, shields and guns from its warlike past line the walls, as do photographs of more recent Mirs. Less evident, apart from the metal tie-pins between some rooms, and excavation work glimpsed through a grille, is the underpinning and structural work that prevented this architectural impossibility following its one-time owner downtown. The journey to Hunza is no less spectacular. The more adventurous may favour the 14-hour bus trip from Rawalpindi, up winding roads hewn from the mountain. But if time (not to mention comfort) is a consideration, Pakistan International Airlines runs a regular plane or helicopter flight from Islamabad to Gilgit – the first staging post of the Northern Areas, and its commercial centre. From the air, as the plane flies over the hills that gave way to mountains (including the 26,000ft Nanga Parbat, with a view of K2 in the distance), the flat roofs of stone houses can be seen clinging improbably to cliff edges. Looking down on the emerald-green terraced valleys, one gets an idea of how isolated this area was before the highway was built – at a cost, it is said, of thousands of lives. Gilgit, the birthplace of polo (albeit a more basic form than we know, was once the home of the Gilgit Agency – the most isolated outpost of the British Empire. Today it is a bustling town with 60,000 inhabitants, largely Shia Muslims. Its major attraction is the mile-long bazaar, a dusty main street lined with box-like huts laden with goods: rugs, silk and porcelain from China; baskets of spices; jewellery made from semi-precious stones; colourfully embroidered pill-box hats (as worn by women), and more sober white hats (as worn by men); tables heavy with melons, apples and peaches. For the trekker and mountaineer, Gilgit, like Hunza, is a dream: 27 of the world’s highest mountains are found in the Karakoram range, as well as most of the largest glaciers. Locals are famed as the most agile climbers in the world. On the two-hour jeep ride from Gilgit to Karimabad, there are many villages and tour operators like Sitara have made them a key part of their itinerary. The Silk Route influence is still evident in the faces of the children, some of them Tibetan, some European in their looks. One (albeit unlikely) explanation is that they are the legacy of Alexander the Great’s soldiers, once stationed in Hunza. Sitara, whose guides usually come from the villages, invite their guests to have tea with locals in their own homes. One of the oldest and most picturesque of these villages is Altit, a few kilometres from Karimabad. Here, clusters of stone houses and narrow streets lead to the Altit Fort (not to be confused with the Baltit), an intimidating 900-year old structure that was home to the Mirs of Hunza before their move to the Baltit Fort. Also built on a sheer cliff, it was from here that the unfortunate second-born and subsequent sons of the Mir were cast down into the ravine below to ensure a peaceful succession. The odd satellite dish or TV is occasionally seen in the tearooms of Gilgit, but they have yet to make it to the villages. Nevertheless, there is as a sense of a society in flux, of old practises being re-examined. The contrasts are stark. Purdah, the containment of women in the home, is still practised in some villages; in others, such as those where the Aga Khan’s rural support programme is in operation, women take a more active role. They work in the fields, or even run their own poultry or agricultural businesses, gathering in their baggy trousers and multi-coloured shawls to debate how to spend their organisation’s collective savings. In a society where infant and maternal mortality rates were high, health standards are improving. Literacy, once almost unknown among women, is also on the increase. New expectations are changing the dynamics of many villages, but at the same time there is an almost palpable desire not to lose hold of their culture. In Nasirabad, tourists can visit the House of Skills, where younger women are taught the traditional weaving and sewing that was in danger of disappearing. As locals become aware of the needs of tourism, local crafts are being boosted. Nevertheless, a worrying number of the products seen in the bazaars of Karimabad and Gilgit are from China, Kashmir or even neighbouring Afghanistan. As the demands of tourism grow, the next few years will be a challenge for Hunza and the surrounding area, but particularly for Karimabad. The running of the Baltit Fort (now open as a museum and cultural centre), and the entire future development of the town, is now in the hands of the Town Management Society. Largely composed of representatives of village and tribal organisations, it has no legal power to prevent the proliferation of new and ugly buildings. Its members rely on social pressure and incentives to retain the town’s integrity and charm. Shangri-La or not, one can only hope their efforts will be enough to preserve it. |
 |
||
|
|
|
|
||