Here's why you need to experience the cherry blossoms of Hunza Valley in Pakistan

I have been watching time pass for a few hours at Cafe De Hunza, a family run business known for its walnut cake. Things move slowly here, rather at their own pace, not fast, not artificial but as they should be. I feel time has stopped, but I am simply breathing air, without a hurry, with no other motive in mind. Cafe De Hunza is located in Karimabad in Hunza valley, home to some of the world’s tallest mountains amongst the Karakoram range of Gilgit-Baltistan in Pakistan.

The cherry trees have blossomed. The apricots, walnuts too. Hunza is different than I imagined. I think, better. It is not the conventional beauty. Rather ghostly and fairytale-like. Winter has officially ended here and so the stately display of cherry blossoms. Still, before spring sets its pleasantries on us, winter makes sure it leaves its mark before making a final departure. A dense cloud forms a thick trail against the snowy criss-cross peaks, quietly diffusing into them. Safeda trees create barriers, guarding them, claiming ground for the cherry blossoms. I could walk on one of the cherry blossom- laden streets and be married. It could be to the love of my life or it could be marriage to the thought of loving life.

Black birds with white round stomachs and large wings are a regular feature here. I will learn from my 11-year-old niece, a year later, that they’re called magpies. A magpie flies, wings stretched wide. On landing, it stands alert instantly. I see that it’s not just black and white, there are shades of blue and green on its tail. Its head is jet black. These are some of the things I am learning here. That not everything is as it seems first. There are shades to the truth, after all, history is written in perspectives and what we learn are perspectives of the truth. The tradition of believing one-sided perspectives is hereditary, until someone decides to study the fact in the truth, truth freed of all perspectives, truth as it occurred, truth as it is. I am also learning, like the bird’s landing, I must stay alert, on my feet, eyes wide open, mind wildly awake. It’s a different world out here. It’s eerily beautiful, and what is beautiful is not easy. It’s not soft and sweet. It’s harsh, cold, stark and sweaty.

Years before, as a teenager when I was only beginning to savour the wonders of the world and the word, I came across a special place in Pakistan called Hunza on Google. I read all about it on Wikipedia and marvelled at pictures. I didn’t understand the beauty or significance of cherry blossoms at that time, but they certainly influenced my young mind. I wrote a long poem without ever really seeing the place. A place where fairies live. To my surprise, when I finally make it here, a local tells me about the myth of fairies in Hunza. With the influx of tourists, Hunza continues to retain its cultural character. In Karimabad and Aliabad, a town located just below the former (borders move vertically here), people speak Burushaski — a linguistic isolate, not sounding like any of the local languages spoken in the region. It sounds like Russian and after reading up on it, I find out that it’s been linked to Indo-Eastern and North Caucasian languages. There is so much to unpack here, I don’t know where to begin, so I simply enjoy being here.

The universe truly began to conspire in transporting me to Pakistan’s mountains the year I decided to live there. I got connected to Lal Bano through a friend. We spoke over the phone and made tentative plans of spending time in Hunza. On returning from a mountaineering expedition, the moment finally arrives. I meet her outside her home. It’s located away from the main street in Aliabad, facing mighty snow-powdered mountains. The next day I learn that it is the magnificent Rakaposhi peak that regales my vision. Lal Bano, in her fifties, is a true Hunza beauty. Fair skin, new wrinkles forming around her hazel eyes, long black hair loosely tied into a plait. She has a youthful but knowing appearance. I call her Lal Aapa. Aapa is Urdu for older sister. I spend the next five days at Lal Aapa’s home, learning about her, her work, her family and the Hunza way of life.

Lal Aapa was a student when she married her husband. When her first child was a year old, she received an acceptance for an exchange programme from an American university. She decided with her husband that she would pursue this opportunity while he looked after their daughter. Such opportunities were rare for girls living in remote regions, but since education is a high priority amongst the people of Hunza, it was only natural for her to take it. Lal Aapa returned and continued her work for women’s welfare and went on to work for the Gilgit-Baltistan’s government schools. Today, she continues to run her women’s welfare association working with indigenous artisans. Every morning I wake up, Lal Aapa invites me to her kitchen. The warmest place in the household and my favourite. It depicts the hustle bustle of the household and the quieter moments. Breakfast is eggs with Arzooq and chai (tea). Arzooq is a sweet and savoury pastry particular to Gilgit-Baltistan. I learn that I can eat at least five in a single sitting. Gilgit-Baltistan’s chai is the best I’ve ever had. The special ingredients are mountain milk and a fire stove, in this case a traditional Hunza fire stove called Bukhari. There is a spiritual viscosity to the texture of this chai, it keeps you warm and you can drink it like water all day. The first morning Lal Aapa’s husband asks me what kind of eggs I’d like to eat and I humbly say, “Sunny side up”, but also suggest I make it myself. He won’t let me and he doesn’t for all other days.

Mornings entertain the hustle bustle of women’s workshops and meetings in the new workspace Lal Aapa has built in her home, so breakfast duty is on her husband. In the evenings, the couple sit together in this cosy kitchen with the Bukhari heating up the room while keeping the chai hot. He is calm and considerate. She is eager and energetic. It is a match made in heaven and I am already apotheosising this loving and industrious partnership. Perhaps that’s what love is. Where there is industry in the feeling of belonging. You are not just there to claim love, to give love — love and creation come together like the earth and skies. Nourishing each other and making a world that is liveable.

Hunza people are known for their long healthy lives. I feel the difference as I drink glacial water. They are born at a high altitude, so their bodies accommodate to extreme environments at a younger age. One of the evenings, Lal Aapa makes from scratch, a Hunza dish called Dowdo soup, made of Yak meat and strips of boiled dough, its specialty being cooked in fenugreek leaves. A remedial relief in the frigidness of mountains. One night, Lal Aapa’s daughter takes me to a bakery to buy some Arzooq. It is 10pm and I feel no fear of walking alone. I enquire Naseeba about this. She explains that the Hunza people are a close-knit community and everyone knows each other. There is no fear walking amongst one’s own. The next morning I visit a famous roadside restaurant, Hunza Food Pavilion. It only seats about four people at a time. It is known for its Chapshuro, semicircular pies with minced Yak meat or pasty chopped onion filling, oozing out to the bite. It is well worth the wait. Lal Shahzadi, the lady who runs the place, talks about how she got an opportunity to travel to Japan and learn about female enterprise and organic farming, an education she would pass on to other women in her region. You walk in to her tiny restaurant, where she makes each dish meticulously with her own hands, every utensil is boiled for sanitisation, she talks proudly about her achievements and why it is important to keep going on in life even when one makes mistakes. Mistakes are stepping stones.

As my ride drives me out of Hunza, towards the Karakoram Highway, taking a large turn on a road carved out on the edges of Hunza’s mountains, I take a long look at the image of this town nestled in harsh weather and extreme geographical conditions at 2,500 metres. Hundreds of cherry blossoms, blush at me, unperturbed by altitude or humans. They aren’t saying bye. They acknowledge me and offer me a return. I leave with a heart full and soul elevated.

If there is one thing that I take away from Hunza, it is that women are at the forefront of movement, at the forefront of making things happen, at the forefront of turning the wheel and they exhibit true sisterhood and the men equally participate in this sisterhood. Who knew a teenage girl had dreamed up a place in a poem that would become the trajectory of her life?

Siddiqui is a UAE-born Pakistani third-culture kid. She is a writer, poet and mountaineer currently working at the Emirates Literature Foundation

wknd@khaleejtimes.com

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