Monmouth and Caldicot Schools Expedition to Pakistan

30th July to 20th August 1994

Saturday 30th July 1994.

My alarm woke me fairly early and I immediately set about getting ready and checking my equipment (which had all been packed a few days before) for the final time.At 9.00 a.m. Mum, Dad and I set off for Heathrow. The M4 was extremely busy but my Pakistan International Airlines (PIA) flight to Islamabad was not until 4.55 p.m., and so there was plenty of time

Eventually after a long queue and a great deal of stress we loaded all our baggage onto the conveyer belt. After clearing customs and a short wait in the Departure lounge we filed into a Boeing 747 for the flight to Islamabad. There was a fairly long delay before we finally taxied out to the main runway.

Five or ten minutes after take off, I saw the fuel dumping outlet by the wing tip start to spray aviation fuel out into the blue sky. I began to realise that something was probably wrong.

When the announcement came it was impossible to hear it because of the noise of the engines. We managed to get the flight purser to explain. To everyone's dismay he revealed that there was a technical problem with the plane and that we would be dumping the fuel over the sea and heading back to Heathrow.

This was ominous, as the plane circled, fuel streaming from the wing, I tried to guess how severe the fault was. There was no vibration so I doubted that there was anything wrong with the four engines. I also doubted that it was very severe because I guessed we would have been going through some sort of emergency drill if anything was badly amiss. Finally I reasoned that there must have been something like a minor hydraulic failure, not serious but enough to make us retreat to Heathrow. For the rest of the short flight I relaxed and enjoyed the views over the golden fields of Southern England.

The landing at Heathrow sealed our fate in a way no one could have predicted. The pilot brought the 747 in quite high and fast and, probably not wanting to go round again, thumped us down onto the tarmac. There was a terrific bang and the whole fuselage shuddered. As we sat in the then stationary plane the pilot tested the flaps over and over. We found out that just after take off the flaps had refused to retract fully (therefore not allowing us to reach top speed).

All the time we were led to believe that the flaps would soon be fixed and then we would be on our way, and as if to confirm it the stewardesses even served the evening meal which was a very pleasant curry.

However, the scenario of a minor delay was far from reality and we later learnt that during the heavy landing we had burst no less than seven of the sixteen tyres on the undercarriage. The engineers had jacked up the aircraft while we had been sitting there but the airline could not find seven new tyres. One member of our party suggested to the Pakistani steward that they should pinch the tyres from a nearby British Airways 747; which made everyone laugh.

Then the news that no one wanted to hear was broken to us. PIA would transfer us to a nearby hotel for the night.

While we waited for the coach transfer I phoned home to let everyone know what had happened.

A short drive later we came to the Marriot / Slough Hotel, where, after a horrendous wait in the lobby I was given a room to share with Rob Munslow.

The room was comfortable enough but I would have been infinitely happier with an airline seat at thirty thousand feet.

Sunday 31st July.

After a night in which I got little sleep we all spent the day milling around the hotel. We were told that our flight would be in the evening some time.

During the day a PIA representative wandered around and had abuse hurled at him from some of the other passengers.

After that things happened agonisingly slowly. At 4 p.m. we boarded a coach for Windsor Castle, the visit was intended to kill time before we checked in at Heathrow. I spent the visit doing what I had done for most of the day, drifting around wishing I was somewhere else.

At last we got to Heathrow, our flight was at ten p.m. and the wait was quite relaxing.

We boarded the 747 (which already contained our luggage) and found our old seats. As before, when it was time to taxi out a film of blue sky appeared on the entertainment screen and a pre-recorded voice announced, "Ladies and Gentleman let us begin our journey with the Koranic prayer of our holy prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him". As we taxied out the prayer was chanted and a safety demonstration film was shown.

After a long take off roll we gradually rose above the lights of London, I had finally left Europe behind and was on my way to a continent which would be very different.

We found out from a steward that our route would take us over Amsterdam, Germany, Denmark, Moscow and the former Soviet Union, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan and finally into Pakistan. Also, during our stay in the hotel, one of our party talked to the pilot and found out that during the first flight we had dumped 130 tonnes of fuel which cost £50000!

As the sky grew darker, eventually all I could make out were the occasional lights from anonymous cities.

Monday 1st August.

Through my two windows (which were just behind the aircraft's left wing) I could see the sky getting paler in the East.

When dawn broke, I could make out gray-green fields and at one point a large river, which must have been part of the old Soviet Union.

I woke up some time later and the sun was quite strong against the glass so I shut the blind. A while later I opened it, looked down at the ground, and got an incredible shock. The earth below was completely desolate and looked remarkably like the surface of the moon. This gave way to a huge brown desert, scored by irrigation channels which glared in the sunlight. The desert was dotted with villages of small houses and dry, barren fields.

Out of this wasteland rose large mountains which got higher and higher until they were crowned with snow and poked up at us through the clouds.

After we had been flying for about seven hours we started to descend towards the capital of Pakistan, Islamabad. At first we saw dry brown fields and then I saw the Muree hills, green with vegetation, rising above the plain in a sharp ridge.

Meandering through the fields, it's waters brown and chaotic was the River Indus, nature's gift to Pakistan.

As the aircraft approached the runway the vegetation became greener and we skimmed above the trees before making another bumpy landing.

At the bottom of the stairs which had been positioned at the exits of the plane, I took my first steps on the continent of Asia.

It was very hot as we climbed into a bus bound for the terminal building. The terminal was dimly lit with electric fans fixed to the pillars and one flight information monitor. We made our way to the foreign passports desk where we all had to fill in "Form A" which the officials check and then stamp your passport, this gives you permission to stay in Pakistan.

I collected my luggage from the carousel and we all made our way out into the city. By the entrance to the terminal a huge crowd had gathered offering taxis or their services as porters (all in exchange for a healthy amount of money of course).

Moving out through the crowd we came to the car park where our packs were loaded onto two mini-busses and we set off through the streets of Rawalpindi.

The traffic was unbelievable, cyclists wobbled and dodged their way round buses, trucks and horse drawn carts. Before moving anywhere in the road it seemed to be compulsory to beep the horn. I saw one man riding a motorbike with his wife on the back holding a baby, however she was not holding onto the bike! The pavements were bordered by what appeared to be open air sewers and electricity cables were strung haphazardly from pole to pole.

As we moved out of Islamabad along the famous Grand Trunk Road that runs from Delhi to Peshawar, the roadside forests were green and lush. We would constantly overtake brightly painted trucks, chains dangling from their tailgates and belching out thick black smoke. The overtaking was mostly done on blind corners or into oncoming traffic with liberal use of the horn. There were more than several times when we all thought we were going to die.

By the roadside there were occasionally dingy shacks with tyres and dented cans of oil piled high outside. There were also several brick kilns with small round chimneys and we would often see trucks piled high with newly made bricks.

I was enjoying the ride, despite the lethal driving. I was sitting near the front with my window open and I had a good view out over the crop fields, small houses and dark woods.

We stopped for a drink at a dusty roadside shop which sold drinks and sweets. Inside there was a small, dim room with chairs, tables and a ceiling fan. We were brought bottles of Pepsi with rusting caps. The pepsi was refreshing but tasted very strange.

The Muree hills, rocky and covered in small green bushes rose up around us. There were more kilns dotted around the sun bleached feet of these mountains.

We pressed on through the heat until we came to Abbottabad. This is the military heart of the fiercely proud Pakistani army and after passing quickly through the rubbish strewn, crowded streets we passed the outskirts of the army base. Soldiers were parading round the drill field, Kalashnikov rifles slung over their shoulders. In the distance was a small assault course, above which were two signs with the slogans "Sweat saves blood" and "Never give in". A short way up a hillside was our accommodation, the Adventure Foundation bungalow.

On arrival we were shown to our tents (the girls and expedition leaders had rooms inside). The garden also contained a small assault course which threaded it's way through a couple of trees.

We had a late lunch and after that I went out into the gardens to take some photographs. While I was out in the garden my eyes started to water and then sting intensely to the point where I could not open one of them for more than a couple of seconds. I went to the outside toilet block where one of the Pakistanis, Rastaman, helped me clean up my eyes. They continued to flare up occasionally for much of the trip.

Once we had dumped all of our equipment in the tents we set off by bus and Shogun 4WD to the Bazaar. I was in the Shogun because the bus was full.

We stopped by the army church which was a fascinating replica of a traditional English stone type. The grounds were overgrown and near our bus there were a couple of cannabis plants.

Walking down into the bazaar we were greeted with the sight of muddy, rubbish filled streets and children flying small kites from the rooftops. Occasionally a kite would become tangled round one of the hundreds of chaotic telephone or electricity lines.

I joined a group being shown around by Dr.Shaheed of the Adventure Foundation. He had graduated from Kings medical college Lahore; the best in the city.

The main shops in the bazaar sold cloth and bridal dresses, moldy looking fruit and also necklaces festooned with fake rupee notes which a groom traditionally wears on his wedding day.

We became aware of a man following us and when the doctor questioned him he backed off, but kept following. Eventually the doctor explained that the man was a drug addict.

The people were so unused to tourists that everywhere we went they stared at us. Some of the women even spat at the girls in our party because they were not veiled.

As we wandered up an even dirtier street covered in dung and garbage, we passed a series of wooden stalls offering food which was being freshly cooked in large pans.

I mentioned to the doctor that I wanted to buy a shalwar quamiz, the baggy pyjama style suit worn by almost every Pakistani man. The doctor showed me around several shops but unfortunately they either didn't sell the suits off the shelf or they were black (not much use in the fierce sun!).However, when we met up with another group we found we were standing next to a shop which advertised "beautiful shalwar suits".

Once inside, there was much debate as to who should buy what. Eventually I bought a white, medium sized shalwar suit for 545 Pakistani Rupees (£1=Rs45).

With my new suit and a wad of small change, I and the others went back to the bus in the twilight.

Over supper at the hill station we learnt that the next day we would travel to Gilgit, and according to one guide it would be the most uncomfortable journey of our lives.

Retiring to the tent (which had a loud fan and electric lighting) I decided to sleep in my shalwar suit, ready for the early start. There was not really enough room for me in the tent and so I got little sleep.

Tuesday 2nd August.

I woke at 4 a.m. for the bus journey to Gilgit. I left behind a lot of equipment in my small travel bag and gave my tent to the guides. Our packs were tied to the roof racks of the two busses. My trekking party, group A, travelled in one bus with group B in the other.

We left at dawn and after Abbotabad joined the famous Karakoram Highway (KKH).For the first part of the journey we travelled up into the mountains, first through occasional woodland and then along a valley of brown mountains and lush green paddy fields. We passed boys herding goats and men sitting by the roadside.

The second stage was through a seemingly endless valley through which the Indus flows and the KKH follows it, with miles of tortuous bends.

Lunch was at a PTDC (Pakistan Tourist Development Corporation) rest house. However, they didn't want us inside so we ate our packed lunches of chicken sandwiches outside in the oppressive heat.

The highway was in a fairly bad state of repair. We passed over several makeshift bridges (the originals having collapsed) where only one vehicle could pass at any time. On one side of the road was a drop which was practically always sheer and fell some two or three hundred feet down to the churning, grey waters of the Indus. On the other side was a towering cliff face into which the road had been blasted, with such a high cost in human life. The road was mainly metalled although this had occasionally been eroded or cratered so that we would suddenly have to slow right down.

The journey was extraordinarily uncomfortable, we had to keep the windows shut to allow the air conditioning to work (although it often didn't) and liquid refreshment was bottled water, which was understandably very warm.

The discomfort was broken by two stops, one was by a clear fast flowing river for a paddle and the other was at a Buddhist carving site near Chilas, at one of the most desolate places I have ever seen.

Our party stops at the Pakistan Tourist Development Corporation Rest House on the famous Karakoram Highway (KKH).

At Chilas we stopped at the Shangri-La Hotel which is extremely upmarket. We all had a very refreshing bottle of 7 UP each. After that Mr.Rawlings and I wandered over the road to buy some refrigerated bottled water.

On our way to Gilgit we were fortunate enough to see a view of one of the Worlds highest mountains, Nanga Parbat, which is 26,657 feet high! It loomed over us in the twilight, covered in snow and not at all obscured by cloud.

Night fell, and our Pathan driver's road technique was just as lethal as it had been for the whole journey. There were few trucks on the road but we did overtake a couple of petrol tankers in the most dangerous way possible.

As we neared our destination we encountered police checkpoints with increasing frequency. At each stop our driver would have to get out and produce the required papers before the police lifted the barrier and allowed us through. Although annoying, the checks were for our own protection; banditry was possible on this road at night and so it was important that the police knew the whereabouts of all tourists. Reverend Morris recalled an incident from the last expedition where the driver had run out of bits of paper for the police and became impatient. There was a scuffle which ended with him receiving a rifle butt in the face.

After about sixteen hours and having only travelled two hundred and fifty miles, we could see the lights of Gilgit nestled in a bowl shaped valley between huge mountains. A bridge into the town was impassable so we had to go off road, past a taxi doing the same.

The mountains and arid valley, near Chilas, on the KKH.

Motorcyclists darted off the dusty streets into the trees which were alive with the sound of cicadas. In the main part of town shopkeepers stared out from dimly lit stalls, mostly selling everyday essentials.

Arriving at the Park Hotel we unloaded all our equipment in front of a small crowd who were gathered round the hotel fence.

Supper was delicious, the waiters brought as much cold bottled water as we could drink and served up delicious nan bread. The starter was chicken stock soup followed by a buffet of rice, meat and curried vegetables.

The room that Richard and I shared was unbelievably hot, even though it was eleven at night.

I slept in a pair of shorts, but even so I was dripping with sweat, the temperature in our room must have been around 40 degrees centigrade.

That night my eyes watered and stung so badly that opening them was just too painful. I pulled on my boots, staggered out onto the landing and managed to find the doctor. Once she had put a couple of antibiotic drops in each eye, the pain subsided.

Wednesday 3rd August.

I woke at six, checked my trekking pack and took my malaria tablets before wandering across the road to buy some cold water. Unfortunately all they had left were un-refrigerated bottles. I bought two and went back to the hotel for breakfast, which was toast and tea.

Afterwards our packs were tied to the backs of the jeeps. One group were going to Naltar (my group) and the others were heading for Yasin. The two villages are at opposite ends of the same eleven day trek. It was necessary to split because we were such a large group.

In our jeep I was sandwiched between our driver and Reverend Morris. We drove out of Gilgit, over the Gilgit river on a rope suspension bridge and onto an unmetalled road. The countryside around us was semi-desert and it was intensely hot although occasionally trees provided some shade. As we drove past houses, children came out to wave at us. Eventually we reached a broken bridge over a surging, gushing river. This was as far as the jeeps from Gilgit could travel.

Our packs were unloaded and we each carried them over the narrow, semi complete bridge; this was it, the trek had begun!

From there we walked up through the steep valley, walls of unforgiving rock all around. Stopping for lunch by the river, each of us opened the Park Hotel cardboard lunch box that we had been carrying. Inside were chicken sandwiches, a few pieces of toast and a very nice treacle biscuit.

Later, after we had sheltered from a brief shower, the jeeps arrived from Naltar. My pack went in one jeep while I had a white knuckle ride in the back of another.

The jeep track was steep, sheer on one side and extremely bumpy. Along the way we picked up a few passengers who clung onto the back. As we approached Naltar the air cooled and the spots of rain fell more frequently.

Naltar itself was beautiful, our campsite was on a green hillside by a clear, babbling stream. There was a dark forest above us and the hill looked out across the valley to the houses and fields on the other side. All around were colossal mountains, tipped with snow.

Unfortunately I couldn't take any photographs of this idyllic start to our trek because of a nearby Pakistani Air Force winter survival school, which meant that the whole site was a restricted area.

For a while I relaxed by the stream and wrote my diary until a small group and I set off to watch a local polo match.

The scene on arrival was quite incredible, on what must have been the only flat piece of land for miles, there was a melee of about thirty horses. The notably all male audience sat around the perimeter, only looking up from the game to stare at our strange foreign party. The horses were thin and muscular, equipped with only rudimentary saddles.

The game itself was quite a spectacle, as the horses thundered up and down the pitch at breakneck speed. If the ball landed among the spectators, the game continued unbroken and you would suddenly find a large group of horses stampeding in your direction.

I was soon surrounded by a group of Pakistani children, who were fascinated by my digital watch (even though many of them also had digital watches).With a mixture of English, Urdu and sign language I managed to find out their names, tell them mine and explain that I had sunburn. For some reason they thought that my name was absolutely hilarious.

With the match still in progress I went with Rev. Morris and one of the locals to the Prince Hotel in the village, which proved to be quite extraordinary. The hotel was no more than a stone hut with a few chairs and a table outside. On ordering a drink I was brought a refrigerated bottle of Pepsi. To add to our amazement, a colour television was produced, and set down in a hole in the wall. Unbelievably, this hut in a remote village had satellite television! On offer was Rupert Murdoch's Star TV and BBC World Service. The local man informed us that they could watch a lot of international cricket on the TV and the villagers would often gather at the hotel in the evening to watch the cricket over a cup of tea.

This whole episode served to illustrate what an extraordinary place Pakistan is. In the cities horse drawn carts are a common site and the tap water is considered unsafe and yet even some of the remotest villages have electricity and television. The whole country is a curious mix of ancient and modern.

Returning to the camp, Mirzadad our cook served up the supper of soup and noodles. After doing my washing up, I decided it was time to try out my water purifier. This is an ingenious device which slots together and screws onto a military water bottle. River water is poured into the top and as it pours under gravity through the purifier it is filtered and then disinfected by an iodine resin, before accumulating in the bottle. After two minutes in the bottle the water is safe to drink. Although expensive, this proved to be one of the best pieces of equipment that I brought with me.

I retired to my two man tent (which I had all to myself) and climbed into my sleeping bag. It was now that all of the heavy equipment I had brought all the way from Britain started to come into its own. Even though geographically our camp was probably at around 10,000 ft above sea level, it didn't prove to be too cold at night and I slept well enough.

Thursday 4th August.

After a breakfast of porridge, I took down my tent and packed up my equipment. We trekked out of Naltar, past the polo pitch and along a walled track which ran alongside the fields. This gave way to an emerald valley of grass and scattered pine trees, intersected by white fast flowing rivers.

The lower part of the Naltar Valley provided a beautiful and relaxing start to our trek.

The only problem was that these rivers had to be crossed. The first one required an Olympian jump from a small rock onto a huge, angled and wet boulder. The next river was even more of a test with only a thin log perhaps six feet long. Under normal conditions this would have been no problem, but add a huge backpack and an expensive SLR camera (which I had borrowed) and the whole operation ascended to a new level of difficulty. I favoured the quick dash method of negotiating the log and just made it to the other side. The third river crossing was fine but as I gripped an old tree stump to pull myself up the bank I suddenly realised that it was home to a wasps nest. One of the insects clung on to me but fortunately could not sting me through my baggy shalwar trousers!

Having made it over a thin bridge (a fall into the raging river below would almost certainly have meant death) we ascended to the first landmark on our trek, Naltar Lake. The water was given the most fantastic colours by the soil beneath, patches of brilliant green and electric blue shone out from the shallows. Although small, the lake was incredibly beautiful. A short distance from the shore a sign read, "Welcome to Lakeview Hotel and Restaurant".

Behind the sign was a tent and a small stone hut.

Moving on over a ridge, we descended into an area where the river spread out over a small plain as it made it's way down from the mountains. It was here that we decided to camp and after clearing away small stones and lumps of dried dung, I pitched my tent.

A smaller river nearby allowed me to wash my hair and paddle my feet, as well as washing my socks. Later on we had a very welcome supper and afterwards the porters performed traditional dances and chants round the campfire.

Friday 5th August.

Again, breakfast was a small helping of porridge with tea. The tea throughout the trek was delicious, being a much milder brew than we get in Britain it didn't require the addition of milk or sugar (although sugar was available).

The start of the trek was over a very rocky side of the valley with more river crossings. The children in the villages came out to wave as we climbed alongside the river.

After a steep climb we were informed that one of our porters had invited us all for tea outside his mountain hut. There then followed a further steep trek, during which Mansoor (our guide) assured us that both hut and tea were "just over this next ridge". After more than several "next ridges" we all finally sat down and waited for the tea to be brought to us. Meanwhile the local children gathered round and some members of the group handed out sweets, biros and tennis balls. I took some photographs and drank my tea, which was very refreshing.

A couple of porters and some of the locals now carried hunting rifles, and one of them stopped during our ascent to take a pot shot at a bird high up in the crag, but he missed.

The effects of altitude could now be felt, I became short of breath and slightly lightheaded, and many of the girls were affected more badly.

When we at last reached the camp it was on rocky terrain and I was forced to pitch my tent on an exceedingly dusty (but very flat) piece of ground. As I was crouching to put up my tent I found that the backs of my legs were quite badly sunburnt, which made the whole business rather painful.

Lunch was two triangular portions of cheese plus a few digestive biscuits as well as two delicious cups of tea. A couple of people were being sick, either as a result of stomach problems or because of the altitude.

Crawling carefully inside my tent so as not to become covered in dust I decided to take a re-hydration sachet to replace all of the salts I had lost through sweat. After that I stayed inside to shelter from the sun and dust as well as to write my diary.

With brilliant timing I emerged minutes before supper which was noodles and curry. The noodles did not taste particularly good but the curry was quite nice. The important thing on the trek was to try and eat whatever you were given, no matter how unappetizing. If you didn't, there was so little food each day that you could quite easily have made yourself ill.

Throughout the afternoon there were loud rumbling noises which initially I attributed to distant thunder. However, I found out that the cause of the noise was in fact avalanches high up in the mountains of the next valley.

In the evening there was more singing and dancing round the campfire. Returning to my tent after the entertainment had finished, I did not feel at my best. I was sunburnt, extremely tired and the effects of altitude were increasingly unpleasant.

Saturday 6th August.

Just after breakfast we were treated to a view of an avalanche on a glacier across the valley. Large amounts of ice and snow broke off, crashed down over the rest of the glacier and settled in a conical pile at the foot of the crag like so much sugar.

The terrain was rocky at first but then the track wound up over steep green ridges, covered with small bright flowers. The altimeter on my watch now read 11500 ft although its figure was always below the actual value (which was now about 13000 ft).

One of our porters takes a rest with Shani Peak (19309 ft) as a backdrop.

At this height, Emily (from Monmouth Comprehensive, like me) complained of feeling very dizzy, but was eventually encouraged to carry on. She had not gone much further when she passed out completely. Claire (the doctor), Mansoor, Mudassir (another guide) and the porters built a shelter from a shawl and some ice axes and stayed behind to look after her.

As we ascended further and further I began to fall behind the main group. I could only walk for about two minutes at a time before I needed a rest. After a while Mirzadad carried my belt kit and camera for me and eventually took my whole pack. I staggered into the camp a short while later, completely exhausted. I managed to put up my tent and have lunch of biscuits, cheese and four cups of tea.

I then rested for a long time in my tent, once again emerging just before supper, which was rice and baked beans followed by a custardy type pudding. The whole meal was delicious and quite filling.

This camp was our highest of the whole trek at around 15,000 ft, just below Phakor Pass.
Shani Peak can be seen in the background.

As the sun set in a cloudless sky, the stars gradually began to appear. At this altitude (around 14 to 15 thousand feet) and with no light pollution, the night sky was truly magnificent. Occasionally a shooting star would race overhead, past the pale band of the milky way.

Wearing most of my warm clothes, I climbed into my sleeping bag and went to sleep. However, even then the altitude created problems. I would often wake up gasping for air and when I did get to sleep, it was punctuated by strange and vivid dreams.

Sunday 7th August.

During the night Emily's condition had worsened, she now had Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS), a rare and very serious condition caused by the high altitude. It was so serious that she very nearly died and was almost taken down to a lower camp during the night. However, a faster descent was possible on the other side of the pass that we were heading for. It was therefore decided that we would set off early, climb over the 15,400 ft Phakor Pass and descend as quickly and as far down the valley on the other side as possible.

Having rested well, I found that the going was not as tough as yesterday, despite the higher altitude. Our group set off first while, amazingly, one of the porters carried Emily over the pass on his back.

It turned out that the pass was actually only a relatively short walk, although the terrain was rocky and difficult. Near the top we caught a view of Rakaposhi, the regions other giant peak, in the distance.

The view of the Naltar Valley from just below the pass. The mountains Snow Dome (left) and Mehrbani (right)
 can be seen clearly in this photo as well as Rakaposhi (centre) in the far distance.

At the top of the climb was a large glacier which glared white under the azure blue sky. The air was very thin, and as I tried to catch my breath I had increased admiration for mountaineers who climb to the summit of Everest at 29000 ft without oxygen.

Both the Muslim porters and our Christian party honoured an old tradition of saying a prayer of thanks for having negotiated the pass successfully and then the descent began.

For the first part of the glacier Mansoor dug his ice axe into the snow, secured a rope to it and stood by as we held onto the rope and walked backwards down the snow slope. At the bottom of the slope Mansur gathered us together and solemnly informed us that there were big snow crevasses ahead that were extremely dangerous. He said that we must walk in single file and not like "scattered sheep". He lead at the front, Mudassir brought up the rear and they held a rope between them which we all held in our left hands as we walked in single file. Mansoor weaved a route for us between the hidden chasms and down over the smooth, brilliantly clean ice.

At the foot of the glacier was a large moraine which had formed a ridge. This started by a very big red boulder, known locally as Redrock. Nearby was a hollow with a flat floor and although it was a sun-trap it was the best place to stop for lunch.

Moving on we had a long walk down the ridge with the sun burning my skin no matter how much sun cream I put on. This gave way to sparse trees and an annoying set of geological obstacles. As side rivers flowed at right angles to our path, rushing down to join the main river on the valley floor, they had gouged out steep canyons. Of course, each of these, like the river, was directly across our route and the path made its way down each of them and up the other side. On descending one of these canyons Rev. Morris was eager to help Emily, lost his footing and slid all the way down to the bottom on his backpack! He could easily have been badly injured.

After this the going got easier as we walked down hill through a shady forest. Unfortunately the peace was broken when we were followed by about sixty small mountain goats.

When we reached the valley floor we were faced with what can only be described as a climb up a cliff. It was dusty, extraordinarily steep and it was best not to look at the drop on one side. After this exertion however, the camp was only about fifteen minutes away.

Finally we made it into the small village where we were camping, completely exhausted. Again, it was a real struggle to pitch the tent and with the late arrival it was soon dark. The camp was in a small green field which contained a few stone village huts as well as an irrigation channel, and drinking water which flowed out of a spring in the hillside. The hill water was rather smelly and once again I was very glad to have my water purifier handy.

When the supper of rice and beans was over, I retreated into my tent.

Monday 8th August.

I think that today was the hardest part of the entire trek. We walked down an absolutely horrific gorge where the path was often so narrow it could only accommodate one of your feet at a time, while you were perched on the brink of a hundred ft drop down a ravine. The path was not flat either, it was angled in the same direction as the hillside and made entirely of dust, with no obvious footholds. Making your way down required immense concentration, I don't exaggerate when I say that one slip in certain places would have been fatal, with the cliff face sometimes only inches away. Add to this the intense heat of the day and the scarcity of side rivers from which to refill our water bottles and the walk was very difficult.

The canyon stretched for miles but eventually we rounded a mountain side and could see the green fields and trees of the Ishkoman valley ahead.

In a spot by the path that was shaded by trees we stopped for lunch and a few cups of tea. The next stop came when one of our party asked a local where we could find water to refill our bottles. He misunderstood the request and led the entire party into an orchard. Shortly he reappeared with a jug full of water and a tray of metal cups which he handed round. I declined as my bottle was still half full and the others, not wanting to be ill for the rest of the trip, discreetly added iodine tablets to their water. Later still we were brought some apricots to eat, I had one which was very nice.

Leaving the orchard in Phakor we continued along the road towards our destination, the large village called Chatorkhand. A breakaway group set a furious pace- almost a jog, and I later learned that this was because they had heard a rumour that you could buy Pepsi in Chatorkhand!

Here, at a lower altitude of 2000 metres the heat was restrictive and certainly reduced my pace towards the end. When I finally caught up with the front of the group at the government rest houses (where we would camp) they were very depressed. It turned out that there was not a single bottle of Pepsi in the entire village and they were so desperate for the brown liquid that for a while they contemplated hiring a jeep, making the six hour journey to Gilgit, and bringing back as much Pepsi as possible!

Fortunately our thirst was temporarily quenched when Rev. Morris ordered 2 rounds of tea for us all from the local chai wallah. The tea was hot with milk and sugar and tasted fantastic.

Despite the tea, I just had to find a cold drink which didn't taste of iodine and so I set off into the village to find one. In a place which only sees perhaps one hundred tourists a year, everywhere I went I was the focus of attention. I found a shop and asked the owner if he sold anything to drink. He shook his head and gestured down the road to another shop. However, I also had no luck there but I was just walking away when the owner called me back and took me up the road to a small, well made wooden shop. This was the local chemist, and again I asked for a drink but this time I was informed that he was just closing. I was just walking away yet again when the owner called me back and produced a small carton of refrigerated lichee juice and a straw, which only cost Rs10.

As I wandered triumphantly down the road clutching my carton, Mirzadad appeared and ran towards me shouting "juice!". I gave him some of the lichee juice which tasted very nice.

That evening Emily was taken to the hospital in Gilgit by jeep, which turned out to be something like a nine hour journey! By this time we had met up with the other trekking group who also camped in the government compound.

After hearing that supper would not be until midnight, I decided to give it a miss and headed for my tent. We had had no choice but to pitch the tents in very long grass which was absolutely alive with every kind of chirping insect. I was so worried about finding myself trapped in my tent with some winged abomination that I developed a rather unique way of keeping out unwanted creepy crawlies. To get in, I undid the entrance zip, and still wearing my boots, commando rolled inside. In the same action I would zip the door closed behind me. After that I would check every corner of the tent with my torch. Using this method no nasty insect ever managed to get into the inner tent during the entire trip.

As I tried to get to sleep I became aware that I was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, as if I didn't quite have the energy to inflate my lungs. I kept waking up, struggling for air, even though we were well below the height at which the altitude would have been a problem. After some time I decided to go to supper after all, to get some fresh air and clear my head.

Supper was chappati and extremely greasy chicken, and while eating I continually had to dodge the huge may bugs which were hurtling round the electric lights. A massive cricket landed in Kerri's cup of tea and the sound of insects filled the night air.

Diving back into my tent, I eventually found that I could breathe normally and got a good night's sleep.

Tuesday 9th August.

Today was our rest day between the two halves of the trek. It was also a Tuesday which meant I had to take my weekly dose of two chloroquine anti-malaria tablets as well as the daily requirement of two proguanil tablets. The combination of the foul tasting chloroquine and water with a heavy dose of iodine in it very nearly made me throw up.

Yesterday, as we had raced into the village I had caught sight of fantastic views of the Ishkoman valley and river and so after I had washed my hair under the nearby tap, I went back along the road with just my camera to take some photos. The river itself spread out across the flat, rocky valley floor like a silver carpet. On either side atop small cliffs were green and yellow fields and slender trees, and above these rose the dry and barren mountains.

Walking back the way I had come, I reached a shop selling biscuits, and bought a packet. The shopkeeper didn't have any change and so he gave me a packet of glucose powder energy drink instead. Energile, as it was called could be added to drinking water and it's fruity taste eliminated the taint of the iodine.

As I walked through the village some of the locals approached me and shook my hand or offered a friendly "Salaam" as I passed by. On my way back to the compound I stopped off at the chai wallah's shop where a few of the others were already waiting for a cup of tea.

Looking back along the valley towards Phakor.

The inside of the shop was black with dirt. Against one wall were a couple of seats from a truck and a low wooden bench. Stuck to the wall was a poster of Saddam Hussein, palms outstretched to Allah, while Iraqi tanks and troops filed past in the background. The chai wallah sat in the middle on an old tea chest. His table was a larger chest, which was covered with German spaghetti bolognaise packets which had been carefully stuck together to make a table cloth.

Eventually a boy (perhaps his son) emerged from behind a grimy curtain with two flasks of tea. The chai wallah poured us each a cup of sweet, milky tea and just as the day before, it was marvellous. A large group of children had gathered at the wide, open doors to watch us drink.

When it came to paying I found out that the tea cost just two rupees a cup! I bought a loaf of bread, we thanked the chai man and made our way across the road to the compound.

I made for my tent, where I tried to make up for five days of meagre rations by eating as many biscuits and as much bread as possible. In the end there was quite a lot of food left over for later, even though I was full and the whole lot had only cost the equivalent of £1.50.

Sitting on the steps of one of the rest houses, writing my diary, I noticed that someone had got hold of a bucket so that we could wash our clothes. This was not an opportunity to be missed and so I joined the queue and readied my concentrated clothes detergent (which I had also been using to wash my hair).I managed to wash my shalwar suit and a couple of T-shirts with reasonable success (despite the tap water being gray with river sediment) and hung them out to dry on the tree by my tent.

After lunch of chicken and tea I talked to Ali and Dr.Shaheed about Pakistani politics and also about the more lawless south of the country, where travel in rural areas requires an armed escort.

I then set off to the bank where I was greeted in good English by the staff. Someone had told me that it was possible to change travellers cheques but from my conversation with the bank clerk it was clear that they were mistaken.

Following this, Rev. Morris, Mr. Owens and I went for a swim in a river which was a twenty minute walk away. Then it was back to the tent for more food.

Staying in one place for a whole day meant that the tent had become much more messy than usual, with food and equipment all over the place. I was not looking forward to cleaning it all up the next morning.

A view across the Ishkoman Valley from Chatorkhand.
At night, the cultivated valley in the distance was dotted with small camp fires.

Wednesday 10th August.

I got up at first light, cleaned up the tent and packed away all my equipment. By seven I was ready, but Mansoor had gone to make a phone call and so the whole group was kept waiting.

A while later a tractor arrived to take the other group to the start of their next half of the trek (the end of our last one).We waited another half an hour and had some tea brought to us by the chai wallah.

To kill time, a few of the others and I went across the street to a shop which was a kind of general store, selling cloth, biscuits, sweets and sunglasses. I bought a packet of `Nice' biscuits, orange wafers and a small packet of mixed fruit Energile.

When we got back to the compound our packs were being loaded into a large trailer which was attached to a tractor. We all had to sit on top of our packs, crammed in like sardines. The whole arrangement was very dangerous.

We lurched and bumped our way out of Chatorkhand, with every ditch and pothole bringing howls of pain from all of us, as limbs were crushed and bodies contorted. The road took us down to the river, over a rickety wooden suspension bridge and several miles up a steep road in the mountain side. As we went we handed round biscuits and mineral water, sometimes with disastrous results.

Nearing our destination, we hit a heavy rain shower. We had nowhere to hide as the big, cold drops descended on us. This journey was becoming less and less fun by the minute.

The start of the trek was at the foot of a green and occasionally cultivated valley, with a clean and powerful river running through it. The donkeys were loaded up and we set off up a fairly steep track. The walk was strenuous but pleasant, although the mountains above were arid there was nothing dry or barren about the valley floor. As we ascended, the Ishkoman valley below receded until it was just an emerald rhombus of fields between the arms of the mountains.

We came to our campsite at exactly the same time that a violent storm struck. Powerful winds howled down the valley and I had to call for help to put up my tent which was very nearly blown away. I threw all of my equipment into the tent, dived in, and then sat out the ensuing thunder and lightning.

When the rain subsided and we heard Mirzadad call out that supper was ready I raced out of the tent. We were all amazed to discover that Mirzadad had sat outside throughout the storm to cook our supper and he had also set light to a nearby tree in the process!

As we ate, the weather was still grim. The mountains above were shrouded in cloud and it was very dark for the time of day. No one was particularly eager to stay out in these conditions and so we all went back to our tents.

Thinking about all the unforgiving terrain we had crossed, it was hard to believe that two countries had gone to war three times in forty seven years over this land.

Thursday 11th August.

Breakfast was porridge and tea, plus something we all looked forward to, the handing out of the Jubilee chocolate bars.

The trek continued up the valley and involved steep climbs in places as well as frequent river crossings.

A break came when we stopped at a small village of stone huts, where Mirzadad bought a locally grown vegetable, a type of kale. A villager brought out a bowl of natural yoghurt for Mansoor and a couple of people, including me, tried it as well. The yoghurt was very nice and I don't think anyone suffered any after effects!

We stopped again, just on the other side of the village for lunch. This was a small helping of one sardine in tomato sauce, three minute squares of cheese plus as many digestive biscuits as you could lay your hands on without appearing to be greedy.

We carried on for just two hours and arrived at a flat green site. The place was almost perfect but to our dismay the porters insisted that we camp a bit further on over a hill. The second site was short of space for the tents and I think everyone was quietly annoyed that the porters had intervened.

Our camp below the Asambar Pass.

Tired after the days walk, I slept in my tent. When I emerged just before supper I was in for a shock, it was getting very cold. I put on all the warm clothes I had, my fleece jacket and hat, as well as my fingerless gloves and tracksuit bottoms. Despite all this, when night fell and we were still waiting for food, I was bitterly cold.

Supper was definitely worth the wait. Mirzadad had added spices to the kale, heated the whole lot and served it up with chappati, as well as chicken and mushroom soup as a starter. The spicy kale was extremely tasty.

That night was very chilly, despite wearing all my clothes inside my sleeping bag.

Friday 12th August.

The breakfast that Mirzadad prepared this morning rivalled the kale as the most delicious meal on the whole trek. It was an omelette made with onions and spices and although we only had a small piece each, when wrapped in half a chappati the result was both tasty and filling.

Today was the big walk up and over the Asambar pass at 14000 ft. The track was steep, and like the Naltar pass, the green slopes we passed were dotted with tiny flowers. After trudging over a brief snow slope we arrived on the red coloured ridge that is the top of the

pass. Rev. Morris and Richard built a snow hole in some nearby ice, while the others sat by the summit cairn and admired the view.

There were no prayers this time and soon we were making our way down the other side. However, the going ahead was treacherous, large scree slopes and a rocky outcrop which ended in a small precipice. It took a long time to descend only a short distance but after a while the path levelled off to a wide grassy area with a stream. This was where we stopped for lunch.

We passed through a village and a bit further on we came to our camp, on a ridge by a small blue lake. I, like most of the others, went for a swim soon after arriving. The water was quite warm but infested with small red creatures and the lake bottom was squidgy mud. I didn't stay in long and was soon drying off in the sunshine.

It seemed that this half of the trek was a lot easier than the first stage. We weren't walking far each day, we stopped often, water was more plentiful and the campsites were much better. I didn't envy the other group who had to trek up the glacier we had descended using the rope.

After a supper which included three portions of custard type pudding I headed for my sleeping bag. The sun always set at around seven o'clock and after that there wasn't much to do so I always went to bed, ensuring a good night's sleep before the next days trek.

Saturday 13th August.

Unusually, when I got up breakfast was ready immediately. We each got two jubilee bars today which was a very welcome surprise.

As we trekked down the valley I realised that once we had cleared the Asambar pass yesterday, we had reached the beginning of the end of the trip. From now on the walk would be an easy descent to Yasin, the village at the end of our route. After that, a week would be spent travelling back down to Islamabad and seeing some of the cities and towns on the way.

Lots of small trees were growing in the valley and the fragrant aroma of bushes and herbs filled the air. Soon we were walking past fields of wheat.

When we stopped at a small village called Gamas, a bowl of natural yoghurt was again produced for Mansoor and the guides. While they ate, the local children gathered around to see the strange people who had suddenly appeared on their doorsteps.

Further down the track, I was walking behind Rev. Morris when he suddenly leapt into the air with a cry of terror. He had almost trodden on a dead snake, stretched out on the path. Mansoor said that he knew of the snake and had seen one like it before, but he did not know the name of the species. What he did tell us was that it's bite was lethal to humans.

Later on we had lunch under the shade of a tree, just by the river bank. Some of the group took the opportunity to escape from the incredible heat by taking a dip in the river.

A long, hot trek down the valley followed. There was talk of missing out a night in the village of Sandhi and walking straight to Yasin but this plan was abandoned in the end.

The camp at Sandhi looked idyllic, a walled and grassy site, shaded by apricot trees which were heavy with ripe fruit. I joined the others, who were sitting round plates of ripe apricots. I also ate a delicious fruit, the name of which was pronounced as "toot" although someone said that they thought they were mulberries. Whatever they were they tasted superb, especially with a sprinkling of salt. To top off the feast coffee was made. I'm not usually a coffee drinker but like the tea it was more mild than usual and was very good.

A short while later and supper was ready. It was clear that Mirzadad and his assistant cook, Mardansha had excelled again. The starter was chicken and ginger soup and the main meal was a very filling potato curry with chappati. By now it was dark and I made my way out of the compound and down to the river by torchlight, to wash up my cutlery and cookware set (from which I ate all my meals).

Once in my tent and sleeping bag I soon went to sleep.

Sunday 14th August.

This was the last trekking day, and being just a one and a half hour walk to Yasin, it was hardly even that.

For breakfast Mirzadad had made the spicy onion omelette again but this time he had bought enough eggs for us to have half an omelette each!

Early morning sunshine on the mountains, Sandhi.

The walk was down a hot road and across a wooden suspension bridge. As we neared Yasin a group of youths were coming along the road in the opposite direction. As I drew near, one of them approached, shook hands and with good English started on the usual questions such as asking my name and which country I was from. His name was Dedariman and he went on to tell me about his family. One of his uncles was a Colonel in the Navy at Karachi and another was an Engineer in Islamabad, while a third was a Colonel Doctor in the army at Mardan.

Dedariman asked if James and I would like to go to his house when we arrived. He walked with us for the remainder of the route, until we arrived at the government rest houses in Yasin. He waited outside the compound while we rested for a few minutes, then James and I set off into the village. Turning off the main road (a wide stony track) onto a path that ran through the trees and was dissected by irrigation channels, we passed his Grandfather's house. A while later, we came to a small door in a high stone wall, which lead through into a yard and the house.

We were shown into a dimly lit room which was bare except for a small, low shelf covered with books and a hunting rifle and padlocked ammunition box in the corner. The floor was covered in rugs and cloths and small cushions were propped up against the stone walls. We sat down with our backs against the cushions. No sooner had we arrived than we were each given a cup of lumpy goat's milk/yoghurt as well as a plate of delicious apricots each. A water container and basin were produced so that we could wash our hands. We were then given tea as well as a fried egg and thick chappati. These were eaten with the fingers although I was careful to use only my right hand, because in Pakistan the left hand is always considered to be unclean and is not used to bring food to the mouth.

After the meal we were shown a picture of the Navy uncle while he had been studying at Peshawar University and we talked with another uncle who lived in the house. Dedariman explained that they followed the Ismaili faith (a sub-sect of Islam), and a picture of the Aga Khan hung on the wall.

James and I were both stunned by the hospitality and generosity of these people, who had very little to give. What stranger arriving in the average British village would receive such treatment? Having been accorded the honour of an invitation to their house, it was a tradition to give some sort of gift. James gave Dedariman his old watch. I genuinely had nothing on me of any value that I could give and so I promised that my gift would be to post the photographs I had taken of the family to them, once I got back home. Dedariman was clearly pleased by both of our presents.

We then went to see Dedariman's friend's house, whose father was a local policeman. When we arrived an older member of his family (his Grandfather I think) was ill and lying on the porch. He greeted us when we arrived and filed past him into the house. We didn't stay long and soon Dedariman's friend presented us each with an edible necklace of dried apricots and their stones. I took more photographs and then Dedariman showed us the way back to the compound.

Following a short rest, Rev. Morris took us to see the old British fort, a relic of the empire. It had been built as a front line post in case the Russian army came charging down out of the mountains. Only a small central building remains standing, but the ruins around it clearly show that the fort was once quite large. Having seen the fort, we walked back to the compound.

As the evening light faded, the jeeps that would take us to Gilgit arrived.

Just before supper, Dedariman returned with more goat's yoghurt, apples and dried apricots. Mirzadad had been working over a ferocious looking gas stove in one of the buildings. The air smelt slightly of leaking gas and the temperature inside was formidable.

When supper was ready it turned out to be dahl (a lentil dish) and chappati, which I did not like very much but most people seemed to enjoy it.

Today had been Pakistan Independence Day; celebrating the creation of Pakistan on 14th August 1947. If we had been in the cities we would probably have seen some sort of celebration taking place.

Monday 15th August.

I woke up at first light and packed away everything, including my tent, before most of the others were awake.

After a quick breakfast of porridge and tea we loaded the jeeps for the journey to Gilgit, which it was estimated would take nine hours.

We had to push start the jeep before we could finally drive out of Yasin along the main road. From there we bumped our way along, over rocks and irrigation channels until we emerged on the main Gupis to Gilgit road. For most of the journey the track was high above a huge gorge, with a grey river way below. As we passed through small villages there were often police check points where each of us would have to write down our passport number, visa number, profession, destination, nationality, date of arrival and date of departure.

We stopped in a small village for some tea before setting off once more. For the whole journey the driver played his favourite tape over and over. One side featured the current hit song in Pakistan, "I am very very sorry" which was sung part in English and part in Urdu.

The next time we stopped was for the driver to buy some peaches for us from two boys on the roadside. We were given two each and they were very juicy and ripe. He stopped again a while later to wash in a water channel that ran by the roadside.

When we reached the outskirts of Gilgit the road was metalled and free of potholes. As a special treat our driver took us to see the Buddha that is carved in a rock face on the edge of town. The visit didn't take long and was very interesting.

Soon we arrived in the centre of town and passed the hectic Bazaars and the striking main mosque. It was only a short drive after that before we reached the Park Hotel.

I had lunch, dropped off my stuff in Rev. Morris' room and shaved off eleven days worth of stubble. I looked a bit better but I didn't have time to change before setting off into town and my T-shirt was filthy.

Dr.Shaheed had agreed to show me around the town while he searched for a Chinese silk carpet. Gilgit was awash with Chinese goods, which are imported directly over the Khunjerab pass a short distance to the North.

Most of the shops in the bazaars sold cloth, fruit, hats and shawls or cheap short wave radios. A couple of shops were full of bags or bowls piled high with colourful spices. We went into the China Centre, a shop selling Chinese silk carpets and rolls of silk. I tried to buy a ready made silk shirt but the one I picked out was too small, and they didn't have it in a larger size.

Back out on the street I took some more photos as we passed the Moti mosque (the main mosque I had seen earlier). Dr.Shaheed continued his search for carpets but he never did find one in a colour that he liked. He advised me that if I was interested in buying a Pakistani or Afghanistani carpet (which I was) I should wait until we went to Peshawar later in the week. This came as a surprise. Rev. Morris had been continually saying that he would like to go to Peshawar, a city near the legendary Khyber Pass and border with Afghanistan. However it always looked touch and go and most people thought that we would not have time.

At a nearby stall I bought a handmade wool hat, of the type worn a lot in this part of Pakistan, for Rs70. I also bought a bottle of refrigerated Pepsi, which tasted very good after eleven days of water with iodine in it and a few swigs of very warm coke.

Tourists were a fairly common sight in Gilgit and quite a few other Europeans could be seen, either sitting in tour busses or in jeeps. To accommodate them there were a few tourist inns and even a mountaineering shop.

Back at the hotel, I changed into my shalwar suit. After it came to light that there had been a mix up with the rooms I was given a room to myself with a ceiling fan and an air blower! The room had a couple of chairs, candles and matches (to be used during the frequent power cuts) and a very clean bathroom. After the hectic dash round Gilgit with it's traffic, noise, dirt and pollution, I was happy just to relax in my room for a while.

Up in the mountains I had felt that although the scenery was spectacular, I had seen little of the cities and towns and time was running out. However, even the short glimpse of Gilgit had changed that, and if we made it to Peshawar the whole trip would be rounded off very well.

After supper, I went down to reception to try and phone home, unaware that the rest of the family were still on holiday in France. The man at the desk informed me that a phone call was impossible at that time because the exchange at Islamabad was busy and I should come back at eleven. At eleven I tried again and this time the hotel operator dialled the number, but then put the phone down and explained that the lines were now down between Gilgit and Islamabad. There was now no way I could even make the phone call.

Tuesday 16th August.

We had to make an early start, getting up at 4 a.m., breakfast at 4.30 and we were away by 6. This was the start of the Journey back down the Karakoram Highway to Abbottabad. It eventually took 17 hours to cover the same distance as that between Cardiff and Dover and easily surpassed all other journeys I had made in terms of discomfort and inconvenience.

On the outskirts of Gilgit ( which actually means bad mud according to Dr.Shaheed ) we had to stop at our first checkpoint. Unfortunately the bus in front carrying the other group had a flat tyre and so while Mansoor had to fill in everyones details in the police book, the other driver was busy jacking up the other bus. We all had to sign the police book by our names and then wait for the repairs to be carried out. The police checkpoint mainly consisted of a hand operated barrier with several beds positioned by the roadside.

The repairs took a long time, with every minute adding to the hours it would take to reach Abbottabad. At last we moved off, but hadn't gone far up the road before there was a loud hissing sound and we found out that our bus had burst a tyre. We drove on until we came to another police checkpoint where we had to stop. The bus was parked about three quarters of a metre from a sheer drop of about two hundred feet down into the River Indus. Our driver jacked up the bus and replaced the tyre while we signed our names against our details in the police book. We had suffered more delays and the journey was becoming increasingly infuriating.

There were about five police checkpoints in all and at each one Mansoor had to get out and write the details of all thirty of us into the book. It took an absolute age and we all dreaded the sight of a metal pole across the road, signalling another checkpoint.

The next stop was at Jaglot, to repair the old tyre so that we still had a spare. We parked by a ramshackle row of shops and straight in front of the garage, with its grimy interior and bits of machinery.

While I was sitting in my seat, the driver came over, undid the engine hatch in the floor and started revving the engine by hand. The fumes from the low quality petrol made me nauseous and so I decided to take a look at the shops. The fruit and vegetable stall nearby was an interesting array of colour, and the piles of grapes had attracted unbelievably large hornets. These are the insects whose sting has been described as like being punctured by a hot rivet, and can be fatal.

When we arrived at Chilas spots of rain appeared while we drank tea opposite the Shangri-La hotel. The fields behind the shops were full of healthy looking crops.

We had been travelling for hours and the road just seemed to go on forever. The disheartening thing was that one stretch of road looked pretty much like any other, distance markers were a rare sight and so there was an illusion of little or no progress.

The monotony was broken at one point, when an eagle was sighted flying in the gorge at the same level as the bus. As we approached it flew alongside us and because we couldn't see the road, just the sheer drop, it was as if we were flying along with the bird. It had a massive beak, magnificent pale yellow hood and a huge wingspan.

The bus rolled into one of the dirtiest and most grim looking towns I had seen in Pakistan, this was Besham. Dodging a cow standing at the side of the street and stepping over the trash in the gutter, I followed the others into a courtyard and up a flight of stairs. The room that we entered contained a large table and a television on a wall bracket. While we watched Star TV, some tea was brought out for us. It was at this point that I started to feel ill, my stomach was hurting and my head felt as if I had the flu. As I felt worse and worse the stop in Besham just got longer. We had had to stop because the fuel tank in the bus was leaking. When the busses finally returned (and that took a long time), no one could find Mansoor. When he appeared there was some problem with the driver, I never did find out exactly what, but it seems he was demanding to rest or stay longer to talk to his friends. The driver was at last persuaded to return to the cab, but as he climbed in he slammed the door angrily behind him.

As darkness fell, the farcical journey continued. I was not feeling at all well and to add to the gloom, it started to rain.

We then embarked on a colossal climb up into the hills, past woods and fields. The harsh singing of insects was audible even above the noise of the labouring engine. As is often a danger in Northern Pakistan, the rain was now starting to wear away at the road as it streamed across it in fast rivulets. At one point we were held up by a painted truck coming in the opposite direction, which had become lodged in the mixture of mud and water. Luckily for us we got past and were able to continue.

The road continued its climb and very soon the whole valley below was illuminated by extraordinarily bright flashes of lightning. Little sign of habitation could be seen outside.

As we neared Abbottabad we saw a car parked in the road ahead. The boot was open and was being searched by a group of police from the Frontier Constabulary, all armed with Kalashnikovs which glinted in our headlights. For a couple of awful seconds I feared they would flag us down and make us unload all our backpacks for them to be searched. However, our driver paused and was waved on by a policeman.

Reaching the town of Mansehra we knew we were getting close to Abbottabad. The flu type of feeling in my head had started to recede but my stomach was no better and the joints in my knees were actually aching from the seventeen hours of almost total inaction.

We rolled into Abbottabad, and within a few minutes we were turning into the drive of the Adventure Foundation bungalow. Wondering if I could still walk properly, I climbed out of my seat, relieved that the worst journey I had ever undertaken was over.

Mercifully, the baggage was unloaded quickly from the roof and I put all of my things into the long room I was to sleep in. I was soon reunited with my small travel bag, which I collected from a room full of skis. I then remembered with delight that my bag contained two completely clean T-shirts, something I hadn't seen in a long time.

Wednesday 17th August.

Feeling better, I had a good breakfast of cornflakes and warm milk, fried egg and bread and a mango custard pudding.

We all boarded the bus yet again, but this time we were only going down the road to a local public (independent) school, run by the army.

The Army Burn Hall College was a visually unimpressive building, but the gardens were neat and well kept and the whole site was very clean. We were shown through to the reception room, given tea and addressed by an important looking army man who may well have been the headmaster. He gave us a potted history of the school, explained how they catered for both day students and borders and revealed that all pupils eventually studied either medicine or engineering. With a grin, he recalled the visit of a group of teachers from Britain who had thought that the timetable for students was somewhat harsh. He went on to say that borders were expected to get up at 4.30 a.m. every school day and then attend a games class until 8 a.m., when breakfast is served. They then had a whole day of classes and supervised study, which ended at 10 p.m. There was however, no school on a Friday and the pupils had the weekends to themselves, during which they could organise picnics and outings. The whole school was run along very much the same lines as a similar English institution.

We were then taken on a guided tour of the school grounds and shown the competition squash court, the swimming pool and the school mosque. During a stop in the school tuck shop, I bought some polos in the hope of calming my stomach, but I had no success. I had to abandon my bottle of Pepsi because it just made me feel too ill.

Returning to the reception area, presentations and speeches of thanks were made and then we departed in the bus. The visit had been interesting and showed a different side to Pakistan that exists only to those with money. Having said that, it still cost as much to send someone to Monmouth boys school for a week as it did to send him to the Army Burn Hall for a year.

I skipped lunch and also, unusually for me, opted out of travelling to the SOS children's village because I was feeling too ill. I spent the rest of the day uneventfully, playing cricket if I felt up to it and then I watched the star wars movies on the television.

The others arrived back late because the Bhutto government had deliberately organised traffic jams to stop people getting to Islamabad to attend a demonstration. The protest had been organised by the former Prime Minister, Nawaz Sharif on the anniversary of the death of General Zia ul Haq. Zia was the country's last military dictator, and died in a mysterious plane crash in 1988.

During the traffic jam Reverend Morris had got out and assisted the police officer in clearing the road!

Thursday 18th August.

Before leaving for Peshawar, we assembled for group photos on the lawn. I climbed into the bus and found my usual seat, by the window behind the driver, where I knew I would have a good view during a remarkable journey.

From Abbottabad we headed almost directly west along the Grand Trunk Road through the towns of Haripur and Hasan Abdal. Bright busses overtook us regularly, and at one point I saw two camels being lead along the other side of the road. The town of Attock is where the Indus and Kabul Rivers meet. Crossing a wide expanse of water via a bridge, we were treated to a view of the ancient fort built by Akbar the Great.

After the bridge the road passed under a huge arch which announced that we had re-entered the North West Frontier Province. From here mountains could be seen on the horizon.

Gradually the countryside merged with the outskirts of Peshawar. We passed a huge fruit bazaar, teeming with people and edged by the same lines of concrete shops that we had seen everywhere. Soon we were driving down a wide road, the city could be seen ahead through a cloud of exhaust pollution. The road was a sight in itself, it was a river of honking busses, carts and vespers all spewing noxious fumes while they broke every traffic rule in the book.

In Peshawar the hint of danger is not obvious, but is always present to a certain degree. West of the city lies the tribal territories of the fierce Pathans, who were never conquered by the British. In fact, the tribes were so difficult to control that the British left them more or less to their own devices, while the tribes let them hold the Khyber Pass. This arrangement was maintained by the newly formed Pakistani government after independence and therefore, west of the city, tribal law applies and no authority in Pakistan is likely to be able to help the unwary traveller. My travel guide that I brought with me also revealed that now and then, westerners are kidnapped in the suburbs, usually to draw the government into a dispute with the tribes. So far all of them have been released unharmed.

The other major factor in modern day Peshawar are the Afghan refugees. These have poured into Pakistan (and particularly Peshawar) since the Russian invasion and ensuing civil war after their withdrawal. During the occupation, the city was used as a base by large groups of Mujahideen fighters. As we approached the city many jeeps and trucks passed us bearing inscriptions like "Gift of the people of the USA, for Afghan refugees".

We were dropped off near the Jeweller's Bazaar which was an interesting and chaotic sight. It ran through a narrow alley, overlooked by a minaret of the Mahabat Khan Mosque, the city's finest. The mosque was built in 1630 by the governor of Peshawar. All of the stalls here sold jewellery, some made of bright newly cast gold and some were old tribal adornments, such as intricate bracelets. Here all signs were given in the Urdu script.

Kids trying to sell towels, hats and knives continually hindered our progress. Soon our tour of Peshawar degenerated into a disorganized dash around the streets, following Rev.Morris' white sun hat as he disappeared into the crowds. As we wandered around we occasionally came across a leper begging for money outside the bazaar alley ways.

We arrived outside the famous Bala Hisar fort, a striking edifice with large ramparts that looked impenetrable. The fort is now an army base and so unfortunately it is off limits to everyone else.

A jeep was despatched to the restaurant we were to have lunch in so that the food would be ready when we arrived.

A photo of me, taken while we waited for transport opposite the fort. Photo: D. Owens.

The restaurant was situated in the middle of a concentration of shoe shops and reached via a staircase that was hanging at an angle to the wall. Once inside we sat at a long table and watched star TV including a program in Chinese. I wasn't very hungry so for lunch I just had nan bread which was dipped in a bowl of delicious spicy milk / yoghurt.

Continuing our tour, we were driven past Edwardes College, which was built by the British and still run as a secondary school. We then arrived at Peshawar Cathedral. We had to wait for the Chowkidar (caretaker) to open the locked front door and then we filed into the cool, dim interior.

The most interesting thing about the cathedral were the memorial plaques on the walls, which told of soldiers who had died locally, while maintaining the empire. One soldier had been murdered in his tent by a Pathan thief, while another had died of cholera. Quite a few more had been killed in accidents while on duty. The brass bore the names of familiar British

regiments.

We were then driven to a fairly modern looking bazaar so that we could all do some shopping. I looked round the bazaar with Mr. Owens and Mr. Rawlings, since we were all interested in buying an Afghan rug. First we went into a couple of book shops, although only very briefly. We wandered round looking for carpet shops until most of our time had run out and we still hadn't seen so much as a cheap prayer mat. Just as we were about to give up, we spotted two shops right next to each other.

In the first, the carpets were upstairs in a rather dark room. Two Afghan salesmen tried to convince us to buy various carpets. They were all unbelievably expensive and we decided to try next door.

The second shop was more of a success, here the salesman was assisted by his son. The carpets were a lot cheaper than the previous shop. After being shown a couple of carpets that were well out of my price range I explained that I was only willing to spend Rs 3000. The salesman pulled out a fairly large rug which, he said, was worth no less than three thousand. It looked good and was well made, it was also larger than one I had been offered for Rs 4000 in the previous shop. I decided to buy it, although he charged me three hundred rupees more because my travellers cheques were so battered, I very reluctantly agreed.

While Mr. Owens haggled over various carpets I talked to the salesman's son about Afghanistan. They had left Kabul eight years ago during the fighting. He also said that they had returned every year, and during their stays he had killed at least one Russian with a Kalashnikov. I was doubtful about his story, but very young children did fight in Afghanistan

during the occupation, and so he may have been telling the truth. According to him, it only took twelve hours to reach Kabul by road from Peshawar.

When Mr. Owens announced that the carpets were too expensive and that we had to go, things became unpleasant. The carpet wallah hung onto his camera and bag and pleaded with him not to go, and the price of the carpet rapidly fell. However, Mr.Owens stood firm and eventually the man let go.

I was pleased with the rug I had bought, it was hand made using natural dye and, according to the shopkeeper was made in the Herat region of Afghanistan. Mudassir thought I had got a reasonable deal, especially if it did come from Herat, because rugs made there are very popular. My travel guide stated that an export permit was needed to carry carpets out of Pakistan. I had absolutely no idea whether or not I needed a permit for mine, and just had to hope that customs officials at the airport would not search my backpack.

Our backpacks had already been taken in pick up trucks to Islamabad, directly from the bungalow in Abbottabad and now we set off to join them. On the way to Islamabad I had an interesting conversation with Mudassir about Islam, the ongoing tension between Pakistan and India and also about the situation in Afghanistan. We also talked about places of interest, to visit in the south (if I returned to Pakistan) which were mainly old tombs and shrines. The journey took 3 hours before we passed through Taxila and into Islamabad.

We were staying at the Adventure Inn, which compared to all our other accommodation, was luxurious. Almost as soon as I arrived I asked to make a phone call to England. It was late evening here, and with Pakistan 4 hours ahead of British Summer Time (BST) the timing was just right. I was lead out of the hotel to a room in an outbuilding where the telephone was. From here the hotel man was able to direct dial the UK. I talked to Mum and Dad who were amazed and relieved to hear from me, and I gave them the low down on the trek. I managed to say a lot in four minutes, which cost me a fairly reasonable Rs320.

The room I shared with Gareth and Simon was very good. We had our own fridge (with two bottles of mineral water), a broken radio, a writing desk and a very clean bathroom. The room was also cool, thanks to air conditioning and a variable ceiling fan. This was surely paradise.

There was one minor drawback, the floor was crawling with huge black ants, and so was the bathroom.

After supper I returned to the room where I was glad to get a good night's sleep.

Friday 19th August.

When I awoke, I sat on the end of my bed and squashed a cricket that I saw crawling across the carpet. For a few minutes after that I watched the ants find it, and then cut it up into big pieces, which they dragged off somewhere. It was much better than watching television, there was a veritable world of wildlife at the foot of the bed!

At first the water was off, but when it came back on I was quick to get into the shower. I am terrified of spiders and so I wasn't exactly thrilled to find one of the biggest spiders I have ever seen sharing the shower with me. Summoning all my courage, I managed to squash it with my shampoo bottle. While I was congratulating myself on my composure and bravery, a cricket jumped up out of the plug hole, and I simultaneously leapt across the bathroom; swearing loudly. With the ants, spiders and crickets, it was like a jungle in there!

After breakfast, it was time for a drive into the city to see the Shah Faisal mosque - one of the worlds largest.

As we drove along the Shah Faisal Avenue, the tent shaped mosque and its four needle like minarets came into view. The mosque was financed by the late King Faisal of Saudi Arabia to the tune of fifty million dollars. It was designed to look just like a Bedouin tent, which it certainly does.

To enter the mosque we had to follow the custom of removing our boots and the girls had to dress very conservatively. We made our way through the precincts, where the white stone strongly reflected the glare of the sun. Inside (where photography was forbidden) the floor was carpeted but devoid of furnishings. A huge spherical chandelier, made of a lattice of small golden pipes hung over the middle of the floor. On the quibla wall facing Mecca there was an impressive tiled mural which depicted the word of Allah descending from a blue sky onto the green Earth through the prophet Muhammad, although as Islam requires the prophet was not actually depicted.

The Shah Faisal Mosque with the tranquil Murgalla hills in the background.

I bought a few posters and a book about the mosque, before going back out of the precincts and into the grounds to take some photos. After that I wandered over to the small shrine of General Zia, I could see inside but did not actually enter as it was occupied by a large group of people.

We drove up to a vantage point high up in the Murgalla hills which overlook the city and the mosque. On the way up, Mudassir told me that the hills are home to wild leopards, which occasionally stray down into the city.

When we reached the vantage point I took some more photos before joining the others by a man selling Pepsi, Fanta and Sprite from a fridge. The surroundings were covered in thick green vegetation which surrounded tables where people were eating or just sitting enjoying the sun. The whole place was very peaceful and relaxing.

We drove back through Islamabad, along the avenues lined with blossoming trees, past the parliament buildings, and up into the hills once again to a second vantage point. This was where visiting dignitaries came to plant a tree with their name at the foot of it. Wandering round the gardens many familiar names were present, Helmut Kohl, Rafsanjahni of Iran, George Bush and a whole host of Chinese diplomats. After a brief look round, I headed for the nearby refreshment stands and then sat down in the shade.

Back at the Adventure Inn, we had lunch and then I spent some time in the garden photographing the butterflies, a cannabis plant and a painted truck which came down the road. I was killing time until we set off for the Bazaar in the city.

Islamabad was built as a new capital because it was felt that Karachi was too far south and the best existing alternative, Lahore, was thought to be too close to the Indian border. Construction began in the sixties. It is because Islamabad is a new city that it lacks a lot of the atmosphere of Peshawar or even a small town such as Abbottabad.

The Bazaar was quite large, one section devoted to stalls selling cloth, rugs, pots and pans and the other section was full of fruit and vegetables. Towards the edges of the stalls by the main road, the less fortunate residents of Islamabad had gathered. Here were the beggars, diseased, crippled or poverty stricken. One youth came up to me with his diseased hand outstretched, muttering that he had scabies. A man with no legs sat in the middle of the bazaar waiting for contributions.

Our last full day in Pakistan had been very enjoyable, taking in both the tranquility of the Mosque and Murgalla hills as well as the hectic bustle of the bazaar. When we got back to the hotel, the day was rounded off with speeches and presentations after the evening meal. Every day a "mascara award" (mascara is Urdu for clown) was given to the person who did the most stupid thing during the day. After the speeches Mr. Owens gave a summary of the best winners from the entire trip, before awarding the grand mascara to Dr. Shaheed for continually causing all sorts of mayhem.

Well aware that I had to find a way to cram an Afghan rug into my backpack as well as finding room for all my other equipment, I went back to my room to pack.

Saturday 20th August.

I was woken very early in the morning and found I had no time for a shower before I had to get dressed, load my luggage and have some breakfast.

We drove from the hotel to Islamabad International airport (which is actually in Rawalpindi) where we had landed three weeks earlier. Once inside we went through the bureaucracy of customs, passport control and security quite quickly. I was relieved to get through the whole lot without anyone searching my pack and finding my rug. It had turned out that to get an export permit you need to show encashment receipts from your travellers cheques to the value of the purchase. However, I had never changed mine, they had been accepted directly, so I couldn't have got a permit even if I wanted to!

A bus took us out to the 747, past cargo planes of the Pakistani Air Force. Climbing aboard I found I had the worst seat imaginable, right in the middle of a centre section. Luckily, I was asked to swap a couple of times and could then at least see out of the window.

After take off, the pilot described the route we would be taking, over Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey (stopping at Istanbul) before making our way across Europe to Heathrow.

For the first part of the journey the deserts and mountains of Afghanistan and Iran gradually slipped past until they gave way to the more dense ranges of Turkey.

Shortly after this we began to descend and eventually overflew cargo ships negotiating the Bosporus, before we touched down at the airport.

We were allowed off the plane for a short time and I headed for the bar where I had my first drink of lager for four weeks. After that there was little point in hanging around and so I went back on board the 747.

When we finally arrived in the skies over London I had a good view of the Thames, City Airport and Canary Wharf before we landed at Heathrow.

We sped through customs and even reclaiming our baggage didn't take too long, although I discovered that somehow my backpack had become soaking wet. As we walked through into view of the crowd in the arrival hall, I spotted Mum and Dad waving to me. Mum rushed up to me shouting, "You've done it!, you've done it!". I thought, well of course I have, air transport isn't that dangerous! However, when she calmed down a few seconds later, all became clear. I had passed my A-Levels and been accepted at Nottingham University, my first and only choice! Now everything had fallen into place, I had dreaded coming home from such a wonderful trip only to find I had failed and would have to re-sit.

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The expedition to Pakistan has been one of the most demanding, rewarding and exhilarating things I have ever done. I had met some fantastically generous and hospitable people and enjoyed some of the finest mountain scenery on Earth. When I weighed myself back at home I found I had lost just over a stone! However, I had been lucky in that I hadn't suffered anywhere near the same amount of illness as many of the other adventurers. From my point of view the trip had been a total success and I am very glad that I had been able to take part.

Copyright(c) 2002 Rowan Castle. All rights reserved.