In the Foothills of the Himalayas

I woke up before dawn (very unlike me) to drive into the foothills of the Himalayas. I don’t think it’s quite fair that anything above 8,000 feet be considered a foothill. In my book, it’s a mountain, no matter how high the peaks surrounding it.

We drove a narrow, winding road littered with fallen rock, distressed motorists, and the occasional road slide down the mountain. It was terrifying. I was certain a jingle truck would butt us off a cliff, though the greater danger was the smaller cars, intent on passing these slow-moving trucks. But we made it the trail head at Ayubia (8,300 ft), had milky chai from a wooden stall just outside the gates. I shivered in the cold, and cursed myself for not bringing along my heavy Afghan shawl. By the time we finished our tea, however, the weather had warmed and the walk was quite pleasant. I’d sound a lot more exciting if I called it a hike, but the path, along the route of a pipeline laid by the British, was completely flat. For those from San Mateo, consider it the Sawyer Camp Trail of Pakistan. We could see Kashmir in the distance and hear the occasional cry of a monkey in the trees above. Village women along the trail gathered firewood and fodder for their animals, wrapping their scarves around their faces at the sight of the men in our company.

Once through the park, we stopped to take photos and C, an American who grew up in Pakistan, bought an ear of grilled corn from an elderly vendor. C didn’t get to eat much of it. We hadn’t gone more than 100 yards when a troop of monkeys spotted us and attacked. C, no innocent when it comes to monkeys, lost no time in hurling the corn cob at them and the monkeys disbursed, triumphant. I hate monkeys.

We bought honey from an old man on a mountaintop then drove to Murree. C had attended an international Christian school there and wanted to revisit his old stomping grounds. If the name sounds vaguely familiar, it’s because in 2002, not long after C left, it was attacked by terrorists. Six Pakistani staff members were shot and killed. By some miracle, none of the children were injured.

The school was architecturally clever, a converted church complete with computer labs and lounges. But it was one of the saddest places I’ve been in a long time. Since the attack, the place had been turned into a veritable fortress of gun turrets and barbed wire. The security was impressive, intelligent, and utterly depressing. A friend of C’s at the school gave us a tour, pointing out where this and that acquaintance of C’s had been killed or shot. Most of the bullet holes had been plastered over, but a few remained.