When describing her experiences while undertaking the ‘Out of Eden Walk project’, 20 days in the Pamir range of Tajikistan, climber and guide Safina Shohaydarova says she learned many things. However one of the first things that she mentioned in an interview for National Geographic was the various questions asked along the way. These included: “How is it possible for a girl?”, “Don’t you want to stop?” and “We can find a guy to replace you. It’s not a girl’s job.” This is painfully familiar to me. Three years of traveling alone to work up north have resulted in me being asked more personal questions than queries about our work. However, although it may seem that traveling alone would be a difficult undertaking for a woman in a country like ours, it has been a very interesting ride (pun intended) so far.
My first solo trip to the Gilgit-Baltistan region was in 2012 on an evaluation field visit of a habitat resource management project. Rather than take the long way around (like we used to while trekking during the undergraduate days) of an almost 24-hour road trip, the development agency booked me on a flight to Gilgit airport instead. Having never flown up before, it seemed simple and convenient – until I was introduced to the unpredictability of flights to the airports in the north of Pakistan. Rumour has it that anything can get your crack-of-dawn flight canceled. Weather conditions, no-fly zones due to security; and some even believe that lack of an appropriate amount of passengers can get it grounded at the last minute.
The first two times I tried to fly out, Gilgit simply wouldn’t have me. For two days I got picked up and dropped at the airport at first light (the only flights that left were at 7 am in the morning) to enjoy a cup of hot strong airport tea and yellow cake while both were mysteriously canceled at the very last minute. Third time lucky – and there I was waiting for my luggage at the local version of a conveyor belt. Luggage was hand-loaded and then hand pulled on a cart from the airplane to the baggage retrieval lounge. When I realised my luggage never showed up, the way to retrieve it was also unique. The attendant ran back to the plane to check in the hull, found it and then lugged it over to me. Grateful to have finally made it and eager to get to work, I then attempted to get it swiftly through the throngs of people crowding the corridor. There I was pulled aside by airport security who insisted I was a foreigner! A woman dragging her backpack along while dressed in old trekking pants is apparently not Pakistani and has to argue for 15 minutes while looking for ID. The fact that this was my first trip home after a decade of being away, my resulting dismal Urdu definitely did not help. Leaving in a huff with as much dignity as I could muster I elegantly tripped over my backpack and sprained my ankle. For the next week, my local facilitators constantly joked that I must have been walking for the 2 days I was delayed. The limp merely proved it!
When I started permanent work connected to the Baltistan region in 2015 I needed to travel at a less ‘Brownian motion’ pace. As flights have a large margin of error I needed a more certain mode of transport. A local solution suggested was to take a ‘private car’ as many of the locals coming from the area tend to carpool. A mobile number was provided by my guide in Skardu which connected me to a reliable driver. He had a family of three already booked into the back seat at PKR 3,000 per head and promptly sold me the front seat ticket for PKR 4,000. I was told to wait for a pickup from my place at around 8 pm, however, my chariot finally creaked around the corner at 11 pm. This Toyota from the late 1990s was now about to take us over Babu-Sar pass and through to Skardu. The father looked at me judgmentally from behind his beard while his very covered up wife and a little girl continued to sleep soundly. The driver willed the car to start and off we went. The plan was to sleep through the night, arrive in Skardu in the morning and get straight to work. Satisfied with how the timing was working out, I settled in and happily nodded off. I was woken minutes later by the lady tugging on my arm. Then to my sheer bewilderment, she proceeded to ask me point blank where my husband was. Annoyed at being woken up more than at the intrusion, I replied that he was in my luggage for safe keeping. Having been asked that atrocious question every time I travel around, I have a list of crazy answers which might not amuse the offender – but I enjoy their reaction every time. She was speechless as I proudly went back to sleep. Within minutes I felt her tug on my arm again, this time to my stupefaction she offered me a banana. I politely declined and settled back in. The next tug had no excuses attached. It turns out that paying for the front seat is a complete sham because you are not allowed to sleep next to the driver – it makes them sleepy too. 24 hours of not sleeping while strangers persistently ask you personal questions is not my idea of a comfortable journey. Needless to say, I never took the front seat again.
On the road to Karimabad, Hunza valley
Last but not least, taking a public van can also be a hilarious mixed bag of events. When traveling on a budget between Skardu and Karimabad this mode was suggested by my local partners. Again my Western attire got me some negative attention but the driver promptly reserved both the front seat and jump seat for ‘Madam’. As I hadn’t been catching many breaks with transport recently, I promptly jumped in and watched the rest of the local travelers pile into the main van like a game of human Tetris. The triumph I felt was short-lived, however, as I stuck out like a sore thumb at every check post. With a van full of bearded men looking on, I would be requested to step out and prove that I am a Pakistani almost every hour. After countless check posts, I had lost my patience and finally demanded to be taken inside so I could talk to the head of the police station. The poor man questioning me had no idea why I was so irate but he hadn’t been my shoes for the last half a day. The conversation that followed could only be described as hilariously ridiculous. I had shown them my National Identity Card and was speaking Urdu – which I exasperatedly pointed out. “Well you can get one of those made and Urdu can be learned!” came the reply. What could I do to prove that I wasn’t a foreigner beyond that I wondered? Then the man behind the desk offered this gem: “Madam, if you are Pakistani, then why aren’t you wearing a duppatta?”
“Why aren’t you?” I retorted (at this stage I had apparently lost all fear as well as common sense it seems). Not to be outdone he smiled and pointed out that he was wearing a hat.
Tensions seemed to be running high till I politely asked him if I could have his hat and fetch him a duppatta since it seemed to be all the same. This could have gone pretty badly in the south but this gentleman from Hunza started laughing. “You must be Pakistani… only my sisters argue like this!” he said through peals of laughter. Now, whenever I cross that checkpoint a couple of times a year I am always greeted with a smile and no interrogations.
So it is indeed ‘possible for a girl’ if you are willing to put up with some persistent intrusive questions and not getting any sleep. One just needs to firmly declare: “No, Madam does not want the front seat”.
