I




It was July 15th and in two days our Chinese visa would expire. I couldn't say I was sad about that. In a way, movement itself had become a guilty pleasure. The routine of trains and buses, of guest houses and greasy restaurants, was an intoxicant. In fact, in a Muslim culture of abstinence it was the only intoxicant we had at hand.

In Idries Shah's "Tales of the Dervishes" holy men wander across a desolate landscape. Destitute, dressed only in rags, these Sufis sought a spiritual Ecstasy with God, Allah. Sometimes their movement was circular, trying to attain Union with a centrifugal motion. Other times their motion was just straight and pure, like a dove flying singlemindedly across the desert. I don't mean to confuse their motives with ours, which are worldly and profane. We try to dance the same dance, only our steps are different.

On July 15th the road from Kashgar ran inexorably to the south, a seething metaled road laid across an incandescent desert. Above the waves of heat an illusory image of the snowy Pamirs rose into the sky, higher by far than the clouds. I wondered what the pilgrims and merchants had thought a thousand years back upon seeing this mirage: joy at leaving their home country, or trepidation, fear and regret. Fortunately for us, those thoughts were smoothed by the uneventual running of the sleek Chinese bus. Kirghiz folk songs played over and over again on the DVD player. Behind us a young Kirghiz man quietly sang along.

They are crazy about music, these Kirghiz, so crazy that Islam has adopted itself to them. That night we stayed at Karakul Lake - Black Lake in Kirghiz - and in the morning we stumbled upon a music video being shot amongst the yurts of the village. There was a Romeo in a bright red clown suit sitting on a boulder, badly lip syncing to a tape deck. Behind him was Mustagh Ata - The Father of Snows - a 7500m giant, draped in glaciers and and perpetual wind and snows. Dancing girls, looking like they had just stepped out of "I Dream of Jeannie" posed beside a snowy white yurt. The singer stopped singing and imperatively ordered the videographer to stop also. Slowly he adjusted his tall, white felt hat, stretched out his arms towards the steppe, and let out a bellow of pure song. Beautiful.

The steppe, the beating heart of Central Asia, lies all around Karakul Lake. Every direction leads to a different pass, a different thread of the Silk Road. To the west lies the Wakhan Corridor, Afghanistan, Samarkand, and if you looked hard enough, ancient Rome. To the South, the riches of India and the complexity of a Buddhist world system. Eastward lay the Middle Kingdom, China. With an aging visa, our choice was simple.

To the south, greenery appeared on the mountain sides. First, it was like a mistake, as if the only color in existence was brown. But then the green was crushed velvet, and a gentle rain began to fall. Our bus labored upward through the steppe, with crags unseen in the mist above. Sadly, this ethereal solitude was marred by PSB border police manning the gates of the empire. To the very end the Han appeared rigid and distant; their government, one of control.
A lone mustached Pakistani border guard raised the barricade. He gave us a toothy smile, and with a wave, gestured us onward.

II


From Khunjerab Pass the pot holed road descends a precipitous 2,000m into the heart of a jagged wilderness. While the Pamirs were wide and open here everything was narrow and steep. Enormous dun colored peaks, dripping with ice, lorded above the isolated villages. This is the frontier between Central Asia and the lands of turmeric, cardamon and spice. Although the country is Pakistan, the feel is wholly Central Asia.

At Sust, where we checked in, the streets were crowded with Pashtun Afghans, dark Punjabis from the Sindh, and the curious, blue eyed tribesman that we had met on the roof of the world.
We booked a mini-van for Passu, 60km down the Hunza Valley, and soon we were passing through dusty villages hidden amongst apricot groves.

We had heard that in Pakistan women were sequestered, and when they were allowed to leave their homes looked like something out of a medieval fantasy. Yet here women were not only seen but evidently equal. At every turn men kissed the hands of elderly women who pulled back their shawls with a flourish and blessed them. Everyone seemed to speak English, and when Yasha asked the women sitting next to her in the van who these people might be she simply replied, "We are Wachi". Unwittingly we had stumbled into the land of the Ismaelis.

With the death of Muhammad in the late 7th century CE the Muslim world was riven by the first of a seemingly endless struggle of succession. Muhammad's cousin and son in law, Ali, claimed the right to the Prophet's cloak by right of birth. Others claimed that Muhammad himself had insisted that his successor be elected through a committee of Elders. With Ali's murder the Muslim world descended into a cycle of revenge and retribution: on one side were the Shia, the descendants of Ali, and on the other were the more orthodox Sunni. Each side considered the other to be apostate, a legal term which conferred the immediate blessing of death.

As time passed dissatisfaction with the wealth and status of the Caliphs grew within the more radical sectarian groups, and they called for a return to the purity of Muhammad. One group of Shia, however, took their extremism to new heights. Believing all of creation to be God's work, even down to every rock and tree and blade of grass, the Ismaelis retired to the mountains of Afghanistan. From there they carried out a guerrilla war against their more orthodox brethren. Known as the Assassins, they would allegedly imbibe hashish until they entered a world of unknowingness. From there they stole into the palaces of Caliphs and Wazirs where they practiced their deadly art.

Regrettably for the Ismaelis there was only one man in the world who didn't fear them. In fact that man, Genghis Khan, didn't fear anyone. When he and his horde swept down out of the Northeast in the early twelfth century there was nothing the Assassins could do to even slow his progress. He cracked their fortresses like a strong man cracks a nut. Everyone was put to sword, down to the last man, woman and child. Today, some three million Ismaelis remain scattered throughout the Wakhan Corridor of Afghanistan, through southern Tajikistan and northern Pakistan.

Today the Ismaelis have been transformed. Lead by the Aga Khan, who rules benevolently from a penthouse in Paris, modern Ismaelis follow a liberal doctrine of gender equality, community development and love for all of Allah's creation. In truth their pactices, once considered apostasy, now demand to be considered orthodox. We were astounded.

To the South, in the North Western Frontier, suicide bombers were immolating themselves and innocent bystanders in an orgy of hatred and violence. "Stay here" we were uged by local Ismaelis, "There are no troubles here. This is Shangri La." And they are right.

We hired a local man, Zakir Hussain to guide us on a five day trek along the Batura Glacier. Supposdly there were shepherds along the way, grazing thier flocks in high altitude meadows. Unsure of our reception and relying on our guidebook's advise we thought it simply safer to be accompanied by a local.

Unfortunately, the first two days were hellish. We struggled across the glacial terminus and then along the giant lateral morraine in high 30 degree centigrade heat. There wasn't an inch of shade and even less water. For a respite from the sun we would briefly crouch behind boulders.... but to even stop in this parabolic oven of an environment was a mistake. We lagged badly. By the end of the day we looked like a pair of raisins fresh out of the drying shed.

But the view from Yashpirt was sublime. We stood amidst a brillant green meadow sprinkeled with sheep and goats. Across the glacier to the south was a massif of 7500meter giants - The Batura Wall - glistening in the late afternoon. It was almost too bright to look at. The 1st Ice Floe - an ice fall of enormous proportions - cascaded in one unbroken line from the summit of Batura I to the valley glacier below. Batura I is a killer; five climbers were lost in 1970. Since then, this side has remained unvisited. With further fragmentation of the glacier due to global warming it is unlikely that it will be climbed any time soon.

We spent several days trekking from meadow to meadow in the Yashpirt area. During that time Zakir repeatedly mentioned that a women's group would be ascending to the Yashpirt meadow. Not just any women's group, and difinately not a western women's group, this was delegation of local Ismaeli women from nearby villages who had never gone higher into the mountains then the Karakorom Highway. Returning one afternoon from the Ibex Grass Glacier we found the group picknicking beside a small stream. Instantly the made a place for us and bade us to sit. We ate cheez whiz on chapatis, raisins we had brought from Turfan and apricots from Hunza, all the while eyeing each other hungrily. They wanted to know us just eagerly as we wanted to know them. Some had headscarves, some didn't. Some were young and some were old. Remarkably, they weren't so very different from us.

We walked back to Yashpirt in a gentle rain, the icefalls white and blurry in the distance. Before long, the women and shepherds had an impromptu game of cricket going, men and women mixed. (How this violated my sterile concept of a sequestered, burka clad Pakistani female!). For sure there weren't any leg spinners amongst them, and the women's batting was, if possible, even worse than their bowling. Yet their laughter was so free and unforced it felt like we were observing the Innocents at the dawn of Man. The laughed at everything, from a dropped ball to the wicket - a five gallon plastic jug, and the end I began to feel envious. In the West we rarely laugh, and when we do it is generally at someone else's expense. But here, free from the addictions of the modern world, people can take joy in the simple joys of life.

The cricket match died in the early evening's darkness. But the games weren't over yet. A giant rope was laid out in the now muddy meadow and two women's teams squared up for a match of Tug 'o War. Yasha was dragooned into joining, and before too long she was being dragged through the mud along with the rest of the loosing team. I laughed until I thought I would cry.

Then it was my turn. Quickly, with some trepidation, I found myself gripping the giant hawser slick with moisture. I knew that due to my hernia that I couldn't, or shouldn't pull, but my companions didn't know that. After an ineffective struggle I fell, and then the rest of my teammates followed. Willy nilly we were dragged through a freezing cold mud comprised mainly of sheep shit. Finally I understood why they were laughing...

The following day it was time to return to Passu. The Ismaeli women, dressed in snow white Salwar Kameez and scarves, held hands in a circle and prayed. It was inspiring: the green of the meadow, the circle of Believers, and the icefall, calving with an occasional boom in the back round. We followed the women down the moraine in a fine mist. It was a perfect day for walking despite the reduced visibility. The women ahead of us started singing, first one song then the next. Finally, raising their arms above their heads they sang sing-song like beautiful birds, "We will welcome you, We will welcome you!"

In response I too raised my arms. But instead of singing I simply repeated over and over again to myself "Thank you Lord for we are blessed!"

III

Some six hundred kilometers south of Passu the Indus River finally emerges from the grip of the mountains. Brown and muddy, it carries the weight of both the Himalayas and the Karakorom. In the plains of Punjab the river is corseted again by the concrete channels of irrigation canals that lead it, eventually, to the sea. But foolishly we had left already left the Karakorom Highway in Rawalpindi for a very slow road to Lahore. Our aged bus jerked and wheezed along a roadway crowded with renegade trucks, luxury vehicles and immense oxcarts pilled high with hay. In the bus, we were trapped in seats designed for a midget. But at least we had seats. Above us a wall of sweating Pakistani men swayed towards us with each lurch of the bus. Fleas scampered up our legs in search of greener pastures. In fact, it was only their nipping that kept us awake in somnelent atmosphere of the bus.

At one stop, which lasted more than an hour, a family used the bus for a moving van. Loading all their worldly possessions onto the top of the bus - two beds, cabnets, innulmerable metal boxes of clothing, a dishwasher(!) - was accompanied the usual south asian gamot of arguments, prostrations and tears. It was impossible. At one point an older man sat next to me and inquired how I liked Pakistan. "Oh very much!" I lied, and then proceeded to bable on about the virtues of Pakistan. He regarded my silently for some time before simply saying, "Too much hot!" With that he got up and left.

In Lahore we checked into a squalid little guest house, the Regale Internet Inn, where the beds were so close together that you had to climb across your neighbor to reach your own. Yet the Regale has one thing all the more expensive hotels lack: an owner who will take anyone, for free, to the greatest show in town. Locally, its known as Sufi Night.

I had seen Sufi dancing before, but they were Turkish Sufis of the Mevlana Order. Its generally what you think about when you imagine Sufi dancing. An impeccably dressed dervish, all in white, with white leggings, and a short white skirt, topped off with a red fez, slowly revolves around himself like an independent and self contained cosmos. The Pakistanis, as I was to find out later, would have none of that. They liked their ecstasy sharp and raw, with a wiff of sweat and more than a touch of violence and pain. This was Allah with street credentials.

By evening one of the periodic brown outs that characterize Lahore had settled across the city like a noxious blanket. On the ride to the Sufi shrine we experienced a "sympathy blackout"- every one of the four rickshaws of our group drove without its head lights. At first I thought it was a war zone, but no, its typical for south Asians to drive without lights. They try to extend the life of the light by not using it! It makes sense too when you think about. Needless to say, it gives a night trip through the winding gorges of the Karakorom a whole different feeling...

We arrived at the Shrine of Baba Shah Jamal to find it packed with a throng of young Pakistani men- the only women present were westerners in our group. But already it was plain that this wasn't the place to bring your young Muslim sister. In fact, it had more of the feel of a college fraternity house than a shrine! There wasn't any alcohol- Pakistan is a dry country, Instead, almost everyone, to a man, was either rolling or smoking a hashish cigarette. The air was blue with smoke. I saw may old college friend the carburetor there - a one and a half liter plastic coke bottle, empty, with five joints protruding from its base. For a second I wanted to stand up and shout, "Yo, let me show you how a real man handles that thing!" Then mercifully, sanity returned. In retrospect, the carburetor had only brought me trouble. Plainly, it was going to bring trouble, at least amnesia, to those poor fools who were greedily sucking at its smoking mouth.

An hour quickly passed. Free food was past around, and as we ate, a beatific bearded man dressed in white, evidently a saint in train, wandered amongst the crowd. He carried on his back an industrial three gallon hand pump, the same kind that firefighters or farmers use. Instead his was full of rosewater. When the crowd grew too boisterous, or too hot, he would pump the air full of a heavenly mist.

Finally, space was cleared and two men stepped forward with several large two headed traditional drums, the dhol. The drum is worn around the neck with a strap, and played with a straight stick and a curved wand. It sounds like both a rhythm drum and a tabla taken together. Soon these two guys were just flying along, alternating leads and counters as melodies passed between them without even braking a sweat. Then from out of nowhere a crazy guy jumps up and starts playing slow sweet jazz on a soprana saxaphone. It was like Sufi Night at the Knitting Factory in NYC. The saxaphonist noodled along for an hour, playing a series of solos, while the drummers played hard and fast underneath. It was totally cool.

Eventually the horn player grew tired and left. The crowd was pushed back even further, and six dancers pogoed into the center of the crowd. They were all madly shaking their heads like they were trying to induce a fit.... at first it was a little ludicrous. Then one guy starts hopping up and down; his head was shaking so violently that the whites of his eyes showed. His greasy hair flew around his head and then he raised his hand into the air and cried "Allah!" over and over again. Heartened, one of the other dancers started to whirl. Crouching low, like a twirling bowling ball with extended and clenched fists he would spin until he crashed out of control into the other dancers. Soon they had gathered around him in a senseless brotherhood, holding their hands in the air in praise as they guided his violent meanderings. It was like on old time full contact revival, with greasy hair and white soulless eyes.

Again space was cleared and the two drummers stepped forward. They had been playing without a break for hours and sweating like pigs. So I couldn't believe it when they started twirling, first one and then the other, both keeping time and playing frantically. One of the drummers was huge, a big man; he leaned back as he twirled and his drum flew about him like a giant missile. It was most impressive!

But soon the dancing began to break up. Some people were too high too high to walk, and their stumbling would trigger a pushing and shoving match. And then it would trigger a fist fight. It was time to make a graceful exit while most people's attention was driected else where. We squeezed down the stairs and out into there night. There, below us in the darkened street, was a sea of taxis confined by endless foodstalls, all illuminated by candles. Stoned Pakistanis pushed too and fro. Somewhere amidst this mele were our rickshaws, and hopefully, a way home to our bed....