Ishkoman, I’m Coming – Day 1: Tick Tock

Touch his heart, lightly grasp forearm, shake hands, touch own heart “as-salaam aleykum, Eid Mubarak! Kya hal heh? Teek tahk.”
The handshake is strange at first, but it becomes quite natural after a few tries. Not all people are completely comfortable with the heart-shake and will just go to give you a standard, western-style shake. Although, even that shake is not as firm and doesn’t have the same stronger-than-thou male machismo intention.
“Teek tahk,” in Urdu means “good” or “I’m good.” When it’s said quickly, it sounds like “tick tock.” My hand pulled away from Murad’s father’s aged heart and wrapped his grizzled hand as he looked me in the eyes and, in a raspy, toothless voice, said “tick tock.” I couldn’t help but smile an unusually wide grin as I thought of this man in some retirement home in America where he, when asked how he was, would only respond with muted clock noises.

I did the handshake an innumerable amount of times over the course of four days. Northwest of Gilgit, in Ghizar county, in Gilgit-Baltistan (formerly known as “Northern Areas,” or “NA”), off of a bumpy tributary road of the KKH, lost in time, sandwiched in the crevasse of the Ishkoman Valley, lie the facing villages of Shonas and Da’in. It is the home of our Pakistani guides and good friends, Murad Khan and Muhammed Raja Ayub Khan (no relation), and their motley band of misfits, friends, cousins, and complete strangers.

We first left to Murad’s house on a four hour bus ride from Gilgit. The bus stopped at the police checkpoint on the Ishkoman border and asked for our identification. In a ratty, old ledger, Matt and I wrote down our names, nationalities and passport numbers. I was pleased to find that these checkpoints were very common along the KKH and were used to keep suspect characters out of legitimately peace-loving towns. At the next stop, we picked up some children and their mother. At another stop, we picked up a large-bearded shepherd with a staff and Chitrali hat who looked like Pakistani Gandalf when he was still called “Gandalf the Decrepit.”
He put his staff in the back while Murad looked at us and beckoned a warning, “He could blow at any second.” This, I would find out, was only the first of many terrorist/Taliban jokes.

Off the dirt road behind the stone wall was Murad’s home. Tired from a day’s travel, we collapsed on the furnitureless floors of his living room. Most residential Pakistani rooms are unfurnished aside from a full carpet and cylindrical pillows to lean on. We were brought tea, chapatti(bread), and homemade cream to snack on before the grand tour. I had had one cup of tea in Sost, and one cup in Alliyabad, but this would be my first of oh-so-many homemade cups of doot-patti milk tea.
Murad had lambs and cows and farmland where he grew wheat, corn, potatoes and other vegetables. Most dairy food we had in his house was homemade and delicious. His property overlooked the Ishkoman river and was situated in a basin of mountains. He pointed out the homes of his childhood friends; some had stayed, had arranged marriages and had 4 to 8 children, while others had moved to Gilgit, Lahore, Karachi, or as far as Dubai to find a life of markets and business, leaving behind the serenity and near-complete isolation of the valley.


The sun was setting as Murad, his friend Jageer, Matt and I sat in the living room playing a life-or-death game of Parcheesi. The images of Mickey Mouse, Goofy, Pikachu, and Cinderella adorned the battleground of the most intense match of a children’s board game in history. A horde of children gathered to stare in through the windows waiting for the Angrezi (foreigner, literally “Englishman”) to do something amazing. They would be disappointed on that front, but truly happy to catch a glimpse of us rare creatures.


I think I was more intrigued by the children than they were of me. Most residents of Gilgit-Baltistan (GB) in no way resemble the Punjabis and Sindhis that make up the majority of the Pakistani population; Murad looks Italian, Skandar looks like a Ukrainian-American immigrant, and Ayub looks like a Polish train conductor. Some of the children have the most stunning golden-brown eyes with locks of dirty-blonde hair. Their facial features are somewhat Aryan. Years of isolation among the valleys has produced a beautifully unique people who derive their appearances from Tajik, Afghan, Turkic, and Persian peoples with some influence of Alexander the Great’s armies as they marched through the territory some 1700 years ago. They are mostly Ismaili Muslims who have the Aga Khan as their spiritual leader. They are forward thinking and uncommonly loving people.
Dinner was served after sundown for Me, Matt, Murad, his cousin Moussa, Jageer, his brother-in-law Hassan, and his elderly parents. Although the Ismailis are very progressive, the absence of women at dinner, aside from Murad’s mother, clearly displays a still mostly male-dominated society. Women receive education, but they are still required to wear non-revealing clothing, headscarves at some times, and typically do not assume occupations other than housewife. However, the Aga Khan Development Network (AKDN) is trying to change this with Female Empowerment programs that set them up with jobs like handicraft production and gem-polishing. Murad’s wife is an English teacher, and she is very well educated.

It was the last night before the last day of Ramadan (“Ramazan” in Urdu) and the beginning of the four-day festival holiday Eid-al Fitr. Exhausted from dinner, we retired to the common room where makeshift beds made from sheets and blankets were already waiting for us.