Pakistan prejudiced my impressions long before I visited. I pictured poverty, terrorism, female oppression. Now I think of glaciers, apricots – and love.
After escaping 2024 riots in Bangladesh, I posted: “Rested and relieved to be safely in Pakistan … words I never thought I’d utter.”
Still shaken but reassured by the tour operator, I joined his aunt and three Italians in a 4WD through landslide-prone passes where the Hindu Kush, Himalayas, and Karakoram meet –a world away from traffic on Sydney’s Harbour Bridge –with Shad, my regular driver from Lahore, who once said, “Your skin is white and mine brown, but all our blood is red.”
I’d once declined to speak at a Karachi women’s conference with Benazir Bhutto after the embassy warned me about kidnapping. Bhutto was assassinated months later, like her father before her. I’d heard of acid attacks and of Malala Yousafzai, shot by the Taliban simply for attending school, who at seventeen became the youngest Nobel laureate for her advocacy of girls’ education.
Now here I was in 2024, at ease in the world’s second-most populous Islamic country. The 1947 partition of colonial India into India, Pakistan and Bangladesh sparked a mass migration. Hindus fled one way and Muslims another across a new border determined in six weeks by a Brit with no cartography experience.
Yet on Pakistan’s Independence Day, 14 August 2024, I sensed no animosity towards Britain. Students shouted “Pakistan Zindabad!” (Urdu for “Long live Pakistan!”) and, on learning I was Australian, “Australia Zindabad!” One added, “Down with the USA! They should stay out of other people’s wars.” A British Pakistani woman nearby wisely countered, “Different media tell different stories. Please, we do not want to hear hate narratives.”
It was easy to imagine Bin Laden hiding in these mountains, but harder to verify other student claims: “The rich are hypocrites who studied at Cambridge and drink Scotch disguised in teapots at five-star hotels, but if a woman forgets her scarf, she could be punished.”
I listened without judgement, more focused on the 8,000-metre peaks than any political landscape. These were impassioned youth, not policymakers. During long drives on narrow roads, many closed days earlier by landslides, I admired the bright hand-painted Badfur trucks while listening to audiobooks about alternate histories of Pakistan.
Meanwhile, a real-life love story unfolded. Twenty years earlier, my Italian travel companion had met her Pakistani husband, who led her trek to K2. Now her stepsons and nephew guided us. We visited extended family – including the first wife –and hugged everyone goodbye. My new friend had fallen for the K2 guide. I fell for Upper Hunza, where children smiled and never begged.
We visited many fortresses. One near Karimabad once channelled glacier water into its kitchen but now relied on irrigation, the ice having retreated 6 kilometres away. Its stone walls had cooled wine. Tibetan influence remains strong in the Gojal Valley. Yet nature rules. At Rainbow Bridge, a lake had vanished overnight in a glacier landslide only months earlier; conversely, Attabad Lake was formed in 2019 when another landslide buried a village and now carried tourist boats over lost homes. Malaria, unknown at altitude, now festered in warming pools. Locals planted trees in hope, while I confessed to Red Crescent volunteers a nagging guilt: despite offsets, an EV, no children and a mostly vegetarian life.
At the aptly named Eagles Nest Hotel, I climbed to a 360-degree lookout, gasping at the saw-toothed Karakoram range, which dwarfed even my beloved Rockies. Stark, privileged peace. I teared up, and not from aching joints. Passing marijuana fields, hemp oil eased my knees, but ibuprofen from a young Italian doctor just back from Sudan had me practically sprinting.
Pakistan’s contrasts ran deep – remote mountain life versus sprawling southern cities – but joy was universal during my visit when Arshad Nadeem won the nation’s first Olympic gold in thirty-two years at the 2024 Paris Games. The javelin thrower, who once couldn’t afford equipment, became an overnight hero, awarded tax-free millions and solar energy for life.
Another blackout nudged hotel guests into conversation. With my Italian companions away in Shimshal Valley, I shared non-alcoholic sundowners at Borith Lake with a couple from Peshawar whose sister taught in Canberra, a family from Lahore whose grandfather founded an Islamic school in Sydney, and a Karachi-born Anchorage resident. She was also a writer and we agreed: solo adventure travel often sparks deeper conversations, less likely on a beach holiday.
Even less likely? Riding a motorbike emblazoned with “Never Wrong” and Che Guevara, when our guide’s cousin Farooq – “Mountain Boy” on Instagram – pulled up in a black hoodie. We rode the Karakoram Highway under a brilliant sky, pausing at the majestic jagged Passu Cones. Not a wild biker but a courteous young man, we drew curious stares yet were welcomed everywhere like old friends. On a dusty pitch we dodged a cricket ball – sacred here, where many hoped legend and former prime minister Imran Khan would soon be freed after a year in custody and rising protests.
At Hussaini Suspension Bridge, southern tourists in life jackets queued for Instagram photos but only ventured a few steps onto the swaying rungs. Thanks to Farooq’s cousin, we skipped the queue and crossed without vests, which wouldn’t help if we fell into the muddy, turbulent waters below.
On the far side, three software students approached: “You are old and must be successful to travel so far. Please, ma’am, give us advice.”
“Be honest with yourself. Set goals as high as that mountain. Take one step at a time. Expect setbacks. And don’t go ziplining at nearly seventy-four: it hurts.”
Back at Borith Lake, poplars gleamed gold, a crescent moon kissed the mountains and silence wrapped the valley.
The next day, we hiked Passu Glacier, then visited Farooq’s grandmother. In her one-room home, sunlight streamed over a stove pit, spring water sat in paint tins, and her warm, near toothless smile made me forget my aching legs. Widowed young, she’d raised her children alone. She touched my hair, marvelling at the white streaks, then removed her hat to show roots darkened with natural dye. We giggled like teenagers.
“What’s your secret to long life?” I asked.
“My grandchildren. They give me reason,” she beamed.
We ate fresh apricots from her orchard, her weathered hands flipping others to dry in the sun, like a seasoned croupier.
Further south In Rawalpindi, the heat hung heavy over open-air carcasses; in nearby Islamabad, wide boulevards offered relief. At the Centaurus Mall, guarded by metal detectors, families ate late into the night. Outside, our macho driver – who’d warned against giving to beggars – handed money to a transgender “man-girl”. “Why the exception?” I asked. “They are cast out. No family. I am lucky – mine loves me.”
For the first time, I donned a headscarf to visit the Faisal Mosque. The marble floor, slick with rain, like an ice-skating rink in Canada, reminded me that even a simple walk might be riskier than ziplines, motorbikes or landslides.
Though we’d avoided photos out of respect, locals surprised us with selfie requests. While others toured museums, I slipped away to Islamabad Golf and Country Club, a green oasis behind barbed wire but didn’t play, although women can.
Leaving Islamabad, I watched fellow passengers kneel in a prayer area, silhouetted against an apricot sunset. Pakistan, Land of the Paks, means spiritually pure. It may not always live up to its name, but its kindness shone through.
And I’ll never eat an apricot again without thinking of a toothless grandmother laughing under an August sky in a peaceful mountain valley.
Short code: https://bit.ly/_paki
I listened without judgement, more focused on the 8,000-metre peaks than any political landscape. These were impassioned youth, not policymakers. During long drives on narrow roads, many closed days earlier by landslides, I admired the bright hand-painted Badfur trucks while listening to audiobooks about alternate histories of Pakistan.
Meanwhile, a real-life love story unfolded. Twenty years earlier, my Italian travel companion had met her Pakistani husband, who led her trek to K2. Now her stepsons and nephew guided us. We visited extended family – including the first wife –and hugged everyone goodbye. My new friend had fallen for the K2 guide. I fell for Upper Hunza, where children smiled and never begged.
We visited many fortresses. One near Karimabad once channelled glacier water into its kitchen but now relied on irrigation, the ice having retreated 6 kilometres away. Its stone walls had cooled wine. Tibetan influence remains strong in the Gojal Valley. Yet nature rules. At Rainbow Bridge, a lake had vanished overnight in a glacier landslide only months earlier; conversely, Attabad Lake was formed in 2019 when another landslide buried a village and now carried tourist boats over lost homes. Malaria, unknown at altitude, now festered in warming pools. Locals planted trees in hope, while I confessed to Red Crescent volunteers a nagging guilt: despite offsets, an EV, no children and a mostly vegetarian life.
 |
| Eagles Nest Hotel (Tripadvisor) |
At the aptly named Eagles Nest Hotel, I climbed to a 360-degree lookout, gasping at the saw-toothed Karakoram range, which dwarfed even my beloved Rockies. Stark, privileged peace. I teared up, and not from aching joints. Passing marijuana fields, hemp oil eased my knees, but ibuprofen from a young Italian doctor just back from Sudan had me practically sprinting.
Pakistan’s contrasts ran deep – remote mountain life versus sprawling southern cities – but joy was universal during my visit when Arshad Nadeem won the nation’s first Olympic gold in thirty-two years at the 2024 Paris Games. The javelin thrower, who once couldn’t afford equipment, became an overnight hero, awarded tax-free millions and solar energy for life.
Another blackout nudged hotel guests into conversation. With my Italian companions away in Shimshal Valley, I shared non-alcoholic sundowners at Borith Lake with a couple from Peshawar whose sister taught in Canberra, a family from Lahore whose grandfather founded an Islamic school in Sydney, and a Karachi-born Anchorage resident. She was also a writer and we agreed: solo adventure travel often sparks deeper conversations, less likely on a beach holiday.
Even less likely? Riding a motorbike emblazoned with “Never Wrong” and Che Guevara, when our guide’s cousin Farooq – “Mountain Boy” on Instagram – pulled up in a black hoodie. We rode the Karakoram Highway under a brilliant sky, pausing at the majestic jagged Passu Cones. Not a wild biker but a courteous young man, we drew curious stares yet were welcomed everywhere like old friends. On a dusty pitch we dodged a cricket ball – sacred here, where many hoped legend and former prime minister Imran Khan would soon be freed after a year in custody and rising protests.
 |
| At Passu Glacier with Farooq |
At Hussaini Suspension Bridge, southern tourists in life jackets queued for Instagram photos but only ventured a few steps onto the swaying rungs. Thanks to Farooq’s cousin, we skipped the queue and crossed without vests, which wouldn’t help if we fell into the muddy, turbulent waters below.
On the far side, three software students approached: “You are old and must be successful to travel so far. Please, ma’am, give us advice.”
“Be honest with yourself. Set goals as high as that mountain. Take one step at a time. Expect setbacks. And don’t go ziplining at nearly seventy-four: it hurts.”
Back at Borith Lake, poplars gleamed gold, a crescent moon kissed the mountains and silence wrapped the valley.
The next day, we hiked Passu Glacier, then visited Farooq’s grandmother. In her one-room home, sunlight streamed over a stove pit, spring water sat in paint tins, and her warm, near toothless smile made me forget my aching legs. Widowed young, she’d raised her children alone. She touched my hair, marvelling at the white streaks, then removed her hat to show roots darkened with natural dye. We giggled like teenagers.
“What’s your secret to long life?” I asked.
“My grandchildren. They give me reason,” she beamed.
We ate fresh apricots from her orchard, her weathered hands flipping others to dry in the sun, like a seasoned croupier.
Further south In Rawalpindi, the heat hung heavy over open-air carcasses; in nearby Islamabad, wide boulevards offered relief. At the Centaurus Mall, guarded by metal detectors, families ate late into the night. Outside, our macho driver – who’d warned against giving to beggars – handed money to a transgender “man-girl”. “Why the exception?” I asked. “They are cast out. No family. I am lucky – mine loves me.”
For the first time, I donned a headscarf to visit the Faisal Mosque. The marble floor, slick with rain, like an ice-skating rink in Canada, reminded me that even a simple walk might be riskier than ziplines, motorbikes or landslides.
 |
| Islamabad Museum |
Though we’d avoided photos out of respect, locals surprised us with selfie requests. While others toured museums, I slipped away to Islamabad Golf and Country Club, a green oasis behind barbed wire but didn’t play, although women can.
Leaving Islamabad, I watched fellow passengers kneel in a prayer area, silhouetted against an apricot sunset. Pakistan, Land of the Paks, means spiritually pure. It may not always live up to its name, but its kindness shone through.
And I’ll never eat an apricot again without thinking of a toothless grandmother laughing under an August sky in a peaceful mountain valley.
 |
| Catherine DeVrye's 10th book, Beyond Timbuktu is a rich mosaic of adventures, encounters and insights. If you’ve ever wanted to explore the world – or simply understand it more deeply – here’s your invitation. |
Short code: https://bit.ly/_paki
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