Road to Kalam; Part 1- The Way Up

It was heartening to learn about the “international” skiing event held recently at Malam Jabba, in Swat. One may be skeptical about its international flavor, but certainly one noticed a peppering of non-desi faces in pictures which indicates that some level of international was indeed achieved. In Pakistan today, that’s an accomplishment.  

That people travelled from far and wide to participate in a skiing meet in Pakistan was surprising. That the visitors were “stunned by the beauty of Malam Jabba” was not. No doubt, the Swat valley, of which Malam Jabba is a part, is mesmerizing. But sadly over the past decade, it has become heartbreakingly tragic. 

Richard Llewellyn’s poignant words “How green was my valley then, and the valley of them that have gone” may just as well have been written for Swat. 

I am reminded of the last time I visited Malam Jabba. It was a family holiday, one of the last with Abbi, and it was memorable for that and many other reasons.  We travelled to Kalam, 6800 ft above sea level, to experience the wondrous valleys – Usho, Utror, Gabral – and the serene lakes snuggled therein – Mahudand, Pari, Kandol – upwards from Islamabad through the plateau towns along the Swat river up into the mountains. 

Unable to recall dates, I search the internet for concurrent events. At first click, promising stories about a recently revived and renovated resort appear, urging tourists to add it as a must-do on their itineraries. Wikipedia proves absurdly bland on Malam Jabba, offering nothing about the valley’s magnificent history as part of 2000 year-old, pre-Islamic Suvatsu at the foot of the majestic Hindukush.  (I remind myself that most good things Pakistani remain a well-kept secret).  On the page, I notice a misstatement, that Malam Jabba is Pakistan’s only ski resort. It is not. There is Naltar which, although a PAF station, is operational and hosts events. I keep searching for timeline milestones; “Pakistan – Land of the Sufis”, “The Parachute Controversy”, “Gul Makai of the Pashtuns”, “Mullah Radio” and “Malam Jabba resort torched”. To the un-informed, these headlines may seem unrelated but they define the fabric of contemporary Swat; a decade of hostaging of an ancient land, her people, and their centuries old way of life.

Mush’s young culture and tourism Minister, Nilofer Bakhtiar, had undertaken a plan to revive tourism in the country, branding it “Discover Pakistan, Ancient Land of the Sufis”. The well-intentioned initiative was off-time and in denial. The country was blindly snowballing towards religious extremism rendering all such travel risky at best, disastrous at worst. Without a cohesive strategy to support it, the initiative would eventually prove unsustainable. Nevertheless, as do all things Pakistani, the appeal tugged at my heartstrings and I, like Nilofer, ignored the elephant in the room and threw down the gauntlet in favor of my Sufi homeland. 

Memories rush in like timed but gentle tsunamis, waves morphing into threads that are finding each other, interweaving and spinning into an eloquent tale, forming patterns sometimes dark and ominous, other times distressed and uncertain, occasionally resilient and expectant.    

It was the summer of 2006. Razi was gone and Ammi had followed not long after, Abbi’s health was deteriorating but he considered himself able-bodied, the older twosome was at uni in Canada and visiting during holidays, and the younger ones were at home keeping me honest and anxious. Ashi’s boys were still young, a third to arrive in a few months. She was soon going to pop, but until then was not about to miss out on a family adventure. We both knew Abbi had limited time, and we wanted to spend as much of it with him as possible. Thank God we did. 

Our journey started in Islamabad where we stuffed ourselves into a rented van which was modest but in good condition. I scanned the driver’s face and demeanor for charas-induced over-confidence, but he showed himself a sober, thoughtful individual who vibed security and assurance; “Don’t worry, I won’t drive all the people you love most in this world into a crevice”. It was to be a memorable trip, not just because the family was together but because the route up to Kalam and back, pristine and refreshing as it was, also held subtle but powerful messages about bad, savage, intolerable things to come.  

The horror of Talibanization was hidden in plain sight. We saw it, but did not fully recognize it. 

Enjoying the driver’s choice of Attaullah Khan Esakhelvi’s “qameez teri kaali” and other such suggestives, we drove thru Taxila, seat of the oldest university in the world, a city dating back to 6th century BC. The weather was pleasant and the air refreshing, but as we neared Takhtbhai an eerie, sinister gloom added itself as a travelling companion. It was in such contrast to the ethos of the land of many faiths – Buddhism, Hinduism, Zoroastrianism, Islam – that it seemed to taint and soil one’s spirit. Roadside graffiti screamed glory to the Taliban and revenge from the infidel, declared normal acts kufr and average people kafir, a random fatwa for every kilometer we covered.  

On our way to Saidu Sharif, we were stopped at several makeshift check posts, shady joints manned by men openly brandishing weapons. They were positively, collectively angry and I could not understand why. The music had been turned off, the kids were quiet, Ashi and I had covered our heads, and Abbi in the front seat was ready to flash his retired officers’ ID card at anyone who approached as if it would ward off an attack as effectively as a PAF combat aircraft. This was a far cry from the numerous trips we had taken in the past across the length and breadth of the geography, never once being harassed or feeling insecure. They were demanding money, “Toll pay kava” they kept repeating.  We paid once, twice, thrice until I had had enough and told a bunch of Kalashnikov wielding thugs off.  Abbi nearly jumped out of his seat “Be quiet, I’m talking to them” he growled, “They don’t talk to women”. “I don’t care” I scoffed, “You’re paying them money at every stop. These are not government kiosks, why should we pay? Driver, aap chalein, dafa karein in ghundon ko”. I had found myself, bold and confident – until a Kalashnikov butt hit the back of the van followed by a volley of pelted stones. I was stunned, but Abbi came to the rescue; “Chalo chalo!” he urged the driver. There was no stopping now until the next pseudo toll booth.  I never let Abbi forget that he had contributed 2500 rupees to the Taliban’s cause. In return, he reminded me often that, but for his sound situational assessment, we were mouldy peaches at the bottom of a fruit peti being sold along the road to Kalam.        

Ubiquitous, aggressive, self-appointed “road militia” had traumatized us.  What else could they be called, these rough-looking men with hatred in their eyes? These were not the Pashtuns of our world – honorable, hardy people with twinkling eyes, protective of guests and magnanimous with their hospitality. Something was seriously wrong. Our stopover at the scenic Serena hotel in Saidu Sharif was tense. Hardly anyone sat in the garden, no one walked the tree-lined street, patrons seemed to have locked themselves inside their rooms. “Curfew hai Madam” the waiter explained, “shehr mein khatra hai”. He couldn’t explain the nature of it, but he was clear about the danger. Abbi in his protectiveness wanted to return home. Ashi was pensive, having captured the darkening mood of the local population. The kids were naïve enough to remain adventurous. I was confused. Whither “Land of Sufis” to which people of all faiths had travelled over centuries to find shelter? We voted and soldiered on, with the only soldier amongst us – Abbi – casting the dissenting vote! He lost. 

The road to Madyan, and further to Behrain where the rivers Daral and Swat meet and for which the town is named (Beh-rain…two rivers, not to be confused with Bahrain of the Sheikhs), brought relief.  Life seemed to have reverted to normal and except for the odd, kitsch inspired, Christmas-tree like truck hurtling headlong down the slope, nothing untoward presented itself. The crystal clear, trout-rich Swat river flowed musically along, roadside ramblers waved or just stared blankly at the excited tourists at the khokha, cheesy bollywood blared from a car to everyone’s enjoyment, Abbi lay on a manji for a power nap, Ashi and I let the cool breeze flow through our hair, the driver sipped tea and chatted with the khokhawala.

I was in the Pakistan I loved, secure and content.

Photo credit: Wikipedia and zamungswat.com