Tom: Karakul Lake (June 23)

Karakul Lake (June 23) · Jun 26, 09:01 AM

There’s a loud argument in the roundabout below — the yelling wakes us up early. Katie and I check out and step outside for a street yoghurt breakfast. After breakfast we take a taxi to the bus station and buy tickets to Karakul Lake on the international bus to Sost in Pakistan. Maybe we went to the train station and bought tickets before breakfast; I don’t remember.

At the bus station passengers slowly assembled for the “10:00” bus to Karakul Lake. We met Toko, veteran world traveler from the outskirts of Tokyo — she plans to attempt a trip into western Tibet from Kashgar. The bus leaves ninety minutes late. To begin with, I don’t think they planned an on-time departure. Then there was red-tape and passports to check. Then there was some electrical problem. We drive out of Kashgar and outlying fields making a couple stops, including a lunch break (pulled noodles and spiced tea) before entering the desert and passing into a wide flat river bed between two fingers of the Pamir mountains. Up and further back the ridges are capped with snow. The river bed — much wider than the flow itself — narrows into the Ghez canyon and we pass through a pull-out-your-passports checkpoint. An hour from Ghez we come to a stop. Mud and rocks are still flowing across the roadway.

We first pull up to the mudslide, but when the driver sees it’s still sliding, we back off about a hundred meters. There’s a truck turned on it’s side about 70m ahead of us near the far side of the slide. A couple of uniformed military men arrive — they’re clambering around with cameras just like us. Buses, trucks, and cars are backing up behind us, and on the other side. Locals arrive with bags of trinkets to sell us and the native tourists. After half an hour, half a dozen Chinese tourists cross from a bus on the far side — maybe they have a train this afternoon, I don’t know where they go to. Orange-vested workers arrive — they’re investigating the upturned truck. Several trucks carrying backpacks and western trekkers pull up; the trekkers abandon the cars and cross on foot to the far side. A bulldozer arrives on our side. I pass the time watching it clear rubble, or chatting on the bus with Katie and the Badboy Pakistani, or not buying rocks from the locals. Two or three hours after traffic was stopped, they let a long string of trucks through from the other side, then we continue up towards the lake. This is fun, or interesting.

On the ride up we’ve made friends with a Pakistani businessman. He has good English and wears a “Bad boy” tee shirt. He works import-export out of Guangzhou. He’s young, and he’s got a sense of humor. On the ride up he was passing out fruit with conversation.

Past the mud slid we continue climbing the canyon road between the high snowy mountains lit in a bright late afternoon sun. As the sun drops below them, we are passing steaming mountain lakes. At dusk we are stopped again.

I’d been drifting in and out of light sleep in the failing light, but wake up fully to see workers building the road at the top of the world. Silhouetted against the clear sky, framed by white peaks, working in a ground around a large, smoking road-building machine, workers scurry, shoveling and tamping asphalt. Roller-machines trail behind, running back and forth over the new road. Progress is measured in feet per minute.

It’s dark before we can continue on our offroad track the parallels the new highway. Not more than ten kilometers past the construction sight we are dropped off up from the shore of Karakul Lake into a swarm of high-pressure touts. Toko, Katie, and I follow a young man who introduced himself on the bus at the construction scene before flying off on a motorbike. His roadside yurt is half a kilometer up the dark road. At the mudslide I had met Davey and two girls who had rented a car, but now — in the blackness — I don’t know where they are.

Our yurt is a fast food convenience yurt, a large round building covered with sheep skins. The couple that lives here during the summer season sells noodles, beer, cigarettes, toothpicks, and probably more to the road workers. They also host tourists like us. We sit down for pulled noodles and tea. Afterwards we step out into the night. It’s cold; it’s beautiful. We are at 3600m and ten thousand stars glitter in the black against the milky way. We stand in silence.

I try not to get lost in the rocky wasteland using the bathroom, and succeed. The couple has laid out bedding — thick blankets covered with bright metallic and colorful fabrics. The five of us — three guests, two hosts — go to sleep after the candle is put out.

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http://tom.spacing-guild.net/2006/06/29/kashgar-june-24

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