Visitors have been pouring into India’s Kashmir region for years — and with good reason; Kashmir is one of the more stunning areas of the globe. If it had a drawback, it was that far too many tourists populated the hotels, inns, and houseboats that the lndians promoted. Nowadays, Kashmir is riven by separatists and too embattled to visit. But those who want to see equally spectacular scenery, and without swarms of people, should head across the border to Pakistan’s northern areas. There, a gorgeous district the size of Switzerland has been opened up by the Karakoram Highway, the highest highway in the world, running 798 miles, from the verdant Pakistani town of Abbottabad to Kashgar, China.

The highway represents an incredible feat of engineering: Chinese and Pakistani armies labored a quarter of a century at incredible cost to carve a road into what is for miles a sheer rock canyon wall jutting up from the Indus River. The road follows the fabled silk route, the ancient way that Marco Polo used to bring back to Europe the silks and spices of Cathay. Before that, Alexander the Great swept through this same area from the northwest, and Genghis Khan, from the northeast. It was here, too, that Buddha’s early disciples found serenity. All of these men left their imprint, and a motoring journey through the scenic expanses proves that their heritage endures to this day. The highway ends the isolation of this little-known area, encircled by three forbidding mountain ranges: the Hindu Kush, the Karakoram, and the Himalaya.

The Karakoram Highway

The best way to tour the silk route is with Pakistan Tours Limited, which provides a driver, jeep, and personalized itinerary. (See box.) Though not highly developed, the necessary tourist infrastructure exists: inns are comfortable and clean; Western food is served on request. The hospitable innkeeper, often an offspring of a former local ruler, can help you pursue a number of interests, including archaeology, freestyle polo, fishing, and trekking. My preferred season is late fall, when the air is frosty and the Karakoram Highway (KKH) is all but abandoned. The road itself, cutting through a landscape of such monumental scale, is preternaturally seductive. Like the travelers who once boarded great trains to see Europe without ever getting off, you can experience a fabled corner of the planet from the car.

As a preamble to the highway and a lively cultural and historical orientation to the frontier, I recommend a visit to the city of Lahore, a former capital of the Moghul Empire. It was once the repository of every scrap of wealth — every diamond, emerald, ruby, pearl, and spice jar — the silk road could handle.

LAHORE IN 48 MOGHUL HOURS

“Lahore is the only city with culture; that’s why we’re living here,” explains Ustad Salamat Ali Khan, a famous Pakistani singer in the classical Hindustani tradition. There are really two Lahores: the ancient, walled city and the newer one, of office complexes; revisiting the Moghul era, with its seventeenth century monuments built on an epic scale, involves shuttling between the city’s two faces. The faded elegance, busy bazaars, and amazing variety of Islamic and British architecture make this a city of constant contrasts and surprises.

To begin, book yourself into the comfortable and well-located Avari Ramada Renaissance Hotel (800- 228-9898), and, when there, reserve a car and driver at the car-rental desk. Touring the city will take two full days. Here are some of the top attractions.

*LAHORE FORT (fifteen minutes from the hotel) was built by Emperor Akbar as a palace and harbors hundreds of marbled chambers, staircases, and passageways, as well as a multitude of gardens and pavilions, within its curving, red-stone walls. Inside, make sure to visit the Sheesh Mahal, or hall of mirrors, the gilded quarters for the empress and the harem. (A void going on a Friday, the Muslim day off.)

*BADSHAHI MOSQUE is within walking distance of the fort. This superb example of Moghul architecture is the largest mosque in South Asia, whose courtyard can hold over 100,000 souls. Shoes must be removed at the entrance (the courtyard is swept constantly), and ladies must cover their heads. Badshahi is most interesting after nightfall, when an eerie, bluish electric light floods the long, vaulted passageways, and at Friday-afternoon prayers, when the courtyard becomes a sea of human backs undulating in unison to an exotic, amplified voice chanting the Koran.

*SHALIMAR GARDEN, on the edge of the city, was built as a royal pleasure garden by the emperor Shah Jahan in the mid-seventeenth century. Long pools with fountains (frequently shut off during water shortages) reflect white marble pavilions that are reached by small bridges. Acres of rigidly geometric formal gardens are enclosed by whitewashed walls; inside them, on grassy lawns, boy-girl melodramas unfold as the coupies dare to hold hands — enjoying a freedom not allowed in other public places. Punjabis wear their hearts on their sleeves, and a guy will still hand a girl a rose and read aloud Urdu poetry to woo her.

*The LAHORE CENTRAL MUSEUM presents a more organized and articulate view of the passions overflowing in the chambers, meadows, and gardens of former kingdoms, with a sublime collection of Moghul miniatures. Rudyard Kipling’s father used to curate the contents of this formidable Victorian Gothic structure, which includes a priceless collection of Gandharan sculpture. In front of the museum lies an enormous brass cannon; here Rudyard Kipling first spied the urchin Kim.

*JAHANGHIR’S TOMB was erected by Shah Jahan (who also built the Taj Mahal, in Agra) for his father, Jahanghir. The drive there takes you through bustling neighborhoods of Lahore you would not otherwise see. The mausoleums, which were once exquisitely ornamented with geometric and floral frescoes, are badly damaged, but enough remains to hint at the immensity of the love story betweenJahanghir and his wife, Nur Jehan. The setting, on the peaceful banks of the Ravi River, provides an ideal spot for a picnic; ask the hotel to pack a box lunch.

The Wazir Khan, in old Lahore, is a small mosque of perfect proportions. Its mesmerizing kashi tile work gleams after restoration.

*WAZIR KHAN, one of the most beautiful mosques in Pakistan, was built in 1634 in the old city, Smaller, with proportions more human-size than the other monuments’, the mosque is coated with glazed mosaic tiles of floral patterns that recall the rich designs of William Morris. The tiles, beautifully restored, look almost surreal, so bright are they, particularly in contrast to the ancient, weather-beaten surroundings. To reach Wazir Khan Mosque, which is not on most drivers’ agendas, one has to penetrate the narrow byways of old Lahore, which are lined with bazaar stalls drawing thick crowds.

The hotel desk can provide a list of first-rate shops for carpets, shawls, silks, jewelry, and handicrafts. Gultex, a Pakistani company, manufactures export quality bedspreads and dhurries of natural fabrics, The unique Pakistani folk designs are extremely well-executed and look somewhat postmodern and light, You can spend hours perusing the hypnotic and labyrinthine markets. Try the Shah Alam market, the Anarkali bazaar, and the gold market. If you are new to bargaining, ask the driver to bargain on your behalf.

Eating out is a social event in Lahore, and the restaurants are the best in Pakistan, The Gulberg Kabana and Tabaq, both in Gulberg, a wealthy residential colony, look padded, bland, and modern but serve perfect roasted (or steamed) meats and fish spiced according to your taste. Vegetables that most Manhattan restaurants do not bother to prepare include eggplant, leeks, and okra sautéed or grilled in freshly ground spices. Service at the posh establishments is uniformly poor, but as one friend put it, “For a lot of’ folks here, it’s their best chance to get out of the house, Why rush things?” Pakistanis are the most welcoming people I have met on my travels, and their genuine hospitality almost ensures that the traveler will have adventures.

SEVEN DAYS ON THE ROAD

My journey begins in Islamabad at 10:30 A. M., with an intrepid Baltistani driver installed behind the wheel of a Mitsubishi jeep sporting a little brass flagpole suggesting that the passenger is a VIP. By mid-afternoon the jeep is racing across a bridge in the Swat Valley, which spans the Kabul and Indus rivers. The two streams flow side by side, as if in lanes, one coal black, the other bright blue. “This Swat Valley, very, very old kingdom from before times,” Kachu, the driver, says, adding cryptically, “Buddha lived here.” On the descent after the Malakand Pass, evergreens grow perpendicular to the precipitous, rocky mountain face. The landscape seems magical, and I remember next the road’s turning to wool: a shepherd was guiding his huge, bleating flock across the pavement to a stream fed by the Swat River. The next morning I breakfast alone in a huge hall of the Hotel Royal Palace, in Saidu Sharif, the summer home of the last ruler of the kingdom of Swat. The ceiling is some sixteen feet high, which allows hot air to rise during the torrid summer. Way below it are perhaps twenty tables, set as if in expectation of a sudden flood of visitors. Half a mile away, the dusty center of Saidu Sharif, Swat’s capital, bustles with cars, buses, rickshaws, and crowds of people. Inside, it is calm. The stone columns of the veranda ha ve leafy marble inlays.

Until the 1960s, regions like Swat were feudal places. The rajas protected the culture: they feted, counseled, settled disputes, and tried to live up to people’s expectations of a king and father. When Zulfikar Ali Bhutto rose to power in the 1970s, he confiscated the rajas’ allowances as part of one of many efforts to show he was a socialist, and tried to downgrade the rulers in the eyes of the people. The palaces, which had required enormous upkeep, were vacated, and the male members of the royal families often became managers of inns like this one. Here, too, there is a deeply-rooted hospitality, a poignant melange of humility and aristocracy. It lends intimacy and softens the unfamiliar, often intimidating landscapes.

The next day Kachu and I follow the rocky Swat River into the mountains until we reach the town of Bahrain. I do not remember how long it took — the bobbing motions of the jeep had already become so hypnotic. Bahrain has a timeless air. Veiled or shawl-covered women shuttle over the bridge onto the high street alongside tribesmen with rifles slung over their shoulders-s-rcminders that disputes (invariably over property) are settled the old way: on a village level, or else man-to-man,

On this late-autumn day, the harvest weeks behind them, the Bahraini are idle. A quartet of them sit in a yellow wood teahouse, gossiping, smoking tobacco, and drinking tea from China. Behind them, the bazaar begins. Stalls lining both sides of the street are stocked so fully that their wares spill onto the road, interrupting the flow of pedestrians and donkeys. What is for sale is the stuff of living, not of luxury; the gleaming white refrigerators, console televisions, and VCRs are the exceptions — items of great value that have been smuggled over the silk road, as prized things have always been, throughout history.

Though landslides on portions of the KKH are a common occurrence, the Pakistani army soon opens the road to traffic again. Most travelers ride in brightly painted (and rickety) buses, enjoying the spectacular vistas, if not the unpredictable delays.

Sensing my disappointment at the wares, Kachu leads me to a shop selling pure silk and cotton fabric, much of it decorated with the abstract, heavily geometric Swati embroidery. Some Central Asian antique silver jewelry is laid out as well, but my eye latches on to an indigo-colored shawl with a block pattern that could have been appropriated by Issey Miyake. As if in sport, Kachu, previously docile, starts to bargain on my behalf. Arms flail and judgments are handed down, as the pitch of his earthy Pashto language rises to shame the vendor for charging a guest an inflated price. Showing off further, Kachu yanks out a beautiful swatch of hand-woven cloth and bites into it, announcing in disgust that it is mixed with “plastic.” A few minutes later we leave with our prizes and the Bahraini shopkeeper in tears.

The drive out of the green Swat Valley — the color is strange and metallic — to the bustling mountain town of Gilgit takes two days. The occasional stupa, rising out of a roadside meadow like a stranded flying saucer, serves as a lonely reminder of the valley’s extraordinary past, as a birthplace of Buddhism and the home of Buddhist universities and thousands of monasteries. The Swati hills, swept over by Islam about a thousand years ago, are heavily terraced and sparsely populated; the view, with its rigid patterns, reminds me of electronic circuitry. The geometry of the hills renders the angular shapes on our shawls less abstract.

We spend the next night in the town of Besham, on the banks of the roaring lndus River. After we have driven through rolling hills perforated with evergreens, the scenery changes. Barren, dry earth prevails. My mind shuts off, and Kachu feels forced to call out whenever we are approaching something he thinks I might want to see. Nanga Parbat peak, at 26,660 feet one of the world’s highest mountains, swims into view. Its proximity to the great, glacial Karakorams makes one aware of its scale: it seems to dangle from the clouds above them, like a shard. In the arid town of Chilas, rock carvings, looking like ancient graffiti, bear scripts from the Neolithic and Bronze ages. Some carry Buddhist drawings of stupas, and there are a few hunting scenes from the fifth century A.D. Oddly, nothing reflects the last fifteen hundred years, unless the carving out of the KKH can be classified as a gigantic form of graffiti.

Gilgit, once the main transit center of the silk route, remains the most bustling town of the highway, now mostly because of agriculture. It is here that I meet Sufi Sahib, one of Gilgit’s distinguished elders, who was once a great polo player for Pakistan. India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan are the last places in the world where the original game of polo is still played: freestyle, brutal, unadulterated. The ponies, half wild, charge at breakneck speed, while their riders hang on unencumbered by regulations concerning human or animal welfare. Sufi Sahib, a weathered, sinewy, but still hale septuagenarian, tells me about the matches he played while serving in British army divisions with names like Eskimo Force and Ibex Force. Today the best matches are between the towns of Gilgit and Hunza. My newest friend’s mind seems to nest in a time of old Alexander Korda movies in which the English officers were gallant and bold. As we sip tea with a dash of salt, and pore over dog-eared scrapbooks that reach back fifty years, Sufi Sahib announces, with the stiff pride of a dinosaur, “There’s no one like me now.”

Kachu halts on a plateau. We have crossed a ghostly suspension bridge hardly wider than the jeep. It serves a village called Nagar (we have swapped the Mitsubishi for a smaller, more expendable jeep). Several suspension bridges, including one over the Gilgit River, have reassuringly thick steel cables and great wood planks; it is said to be the longest in Asia. The Nagar bridge, however, looks more than precarious and requires a pioneer spirit that has not been previously called for on the journey. In Nagar some children, barefoot, dusty, and joyous, run to greet us and have their picture taken. Looking through the lens, I am suddenly aware of three sets of mountain ranges looming into view, each with radically different topography. The one in the foreground is rocky; it rises above terraced orchards like a sprawling medieval castle. Behind it languishes a more rounded, wavy range, dressed in khakis and browns. The final tier, the Himalayas, props up the horizon; its jagged glacial shards shine in the sunlight like mammoth chunks of crystal. This confluence of ranges makes a tiny, forgotten village the most beautiful place I have ever seen.

The goats of the frontier town of Skardu use the KKH, too; their milk and meat provide the region's main food staples.

In Nagar, we drop in (unannounced) for tea with the Mir. One of the last mountain rajas, the Mir seems intent on debunking all the myths that have grown up around this part of the frontier, which was, in fact, the model for James Hilton’s Shangri-La, in Lost Horizon. “N0, the people of the Hunza valley do not live to be 120 years old — an Englishman spread that rumor eighty years ago,” he says. A trio of magpies pass over his magnificent orchard, stretched out before us like a garden. “Even the birds leave these places now,” the Mir says, crustily. Apparently, the young people-his children and grandchildren-have all gone with the KKH. “No one wants to stay here anymore; they want to go to Gilgit and make money.”

As we travel farther north, we enter landscapes where nothing can flourish without effort or pain. The road has been blasted out of rock, exposing the earth’s frenzied marbled interior of pinks, grays, and browns, slashed with veins of black and white. Now we cling like a magnet to the walls of a very long, very deep gorge cut by the Indus River, which rushes furiously sixty feet below. Sculpted, pastel-colored slabs appear with increasing frequency. They are memorials to the reported 1,000 shahids, or martyrs, who died in the KKH’s construction. Here, the road can be dangerous, subject to landslides. But we encounter no problems — indeed, the driver of a small covered pickup truck, packed with Pashtoon tribesmen coming down from Baltistan, confirms that the road is passable — and we pull over to a teahouse. From an earthen oven the smell of baking pita bread fills the air. A young man with green eyes, olive skin, black hair, and aquiline nose serves us. His features remind me that Alexander’s army had liaisons with the local women, creating a unique Central Asian bloodline.

As we approach the frontier town of Skardu, from where I am to fly back to Islamabad, the KKH uncoils down a mountain overlooking a large sandy plain with few trees. With the Karakorams rising 18,000 feet above the valley floor, the place reminds me of a St. Exupéry setting, with a lone goatherd as the Little Prince. From Skardu, we walk through some hillside villages. Kachu points out serene, blue-black lakes, the depths of which have never been recorded but whose twelve-pound trout are said to be delicious. The primitive houses and mosques here are made of stone and birch logs. Some black beasts looking like shaggy bulls are grazing in a pasture. In fact, these dzos are a cross between a yak and a cow; they remain an integral part of the local economy.

I catch my flight back to twentieth-century civilization the following morning. From the Boeing, the valleys and glaciered peaks appear serene and jewel-like. The teal-blue ribbon of the Indus and the strip of charcoal beside it — the Karakoram Highway — remain faithful guides. I remember the bobbing motions of the jeep, the effortless hospitality of the Pashtoon tribesmen wherever I met them, the staggering beauty of the scenery. I was virtually alone, privileged to be in such a simple, remote, and as yet unspoiled world.  MG

published May 1990, photography by Ed Grazda and Mark Ginsburg