Ishkoman, I’m Coming – Day 4: Dude Party

We picked up the net and took off our Kimeez shirt which we wrapped around our heads to keep it close and block the sun. Wazir, our friend and close relative to the grizzly bear, looked at my chest and pulled a hair; I think he expected to hear a comical “sproing” sound, but I would give him no such satisfaction. He pointed at his chest and said “this is for real man,” then pointed at mine and said “this is for your wife to play with!”

Mullah, Wazir, cousin

The river following alongside us in our old Japanese jeep was the Ishkoman from which the valley gets its name. The perfect fishing spot eluded us temporarily, but we were sure to find it. At points that seemed impassable on the treacherous mountain road, Jamal would send out his younger cousin to pile rocks and construct makeshift bridges on top of streams and tributaries that blocked our way.

Wazir worked as a gemstone salesman in Dubai but always came back to Shonas for Eid Al-Fitr. He said he knew an old shepherd who lived by the river and collected rocks and that we should pay him a visit to see if he had restocked his wares. The old toothless man that appeared was wearing a vest that looked as though he’d been gnawing on it with his toothless chops and he smelled like the expired milk of his prized goat. The smell of mutton inside the barn was dizzying; it had permeated every fiber of every object including the crystalline structures of the quartz and amethyst that he had stockpiled over the years.

After Wazir affirmed the worthlessness of the man’s petty stones, we followed outside only to be met with the prized goat whose musk clung to every inch of the shepherd’s meager possessions and would cling to us for a while after we left. The goat was resting under the shade of a tree, sprawled on his back, bearing all. Maybe he was intimidated by the overly exhibited manliness of the goat, or maybe he was curious, but whatever the reason Wazir thought it would be best if he (warning: graphic images may remain in your mind days after reading) ran up and flicked the goat’s penis. There was a quick grunt of protest from the goat that could care less about the musings of an immature gem peddler. Wazir turned to me and said “it is huge; this is a lucky shepherd, go touch the goat penis.” Now I will do some unappealing things in the name of cultural sensitivity, but for some reason I presumed that the unceremonious flicking of a goat dick (goat-dick-flick) in no way fell under the umbrella of “traditional Pakistani culture.”

There was a something special in the wind and in the clouds that told us to stop the car and start fishing. Wazir whipped out a bottle of mountain dew before our clamber down the mountainside; Pakistan loves mountain dew. Jamal stayed with the jeep on the dusty mountain path while Wazir, Mullah, cousin, Matt and I all stumbled down to the river carrying two big fishing nets. In our makeshift turbans and rolled up shalwar pants, we watched as Wazir and cousin waded into the frigid river with high spirits. They caught 8 or so adult river trout in less than a few hours.

Wazir loves mountain dew

During our trek along the river looking for a spot for me and Matt to try fishing, Wazir snuck behind a bush to take a leak. I went too and figured that Wazir needn’t be alone while he tried to catch up with the rest of the group. He zipped up, ran out from behind the bushes and, with an outstretched arm, suggested that I take his hand. It wasn’t a tight grip as if he were shaking my hand for the first time and yet it wasn’t tender enough to be an interdigitation shared by lovers. It was an odd but comforting feeling; I hadn’t really held another man’s hand since I was a child holding on to my father’s. It seems that in a society where women are often kept out of the public eye, men have adapted to feel comfortable holding hands just to get that human touch and know that someone is there beside you. I doubt that Wazir felt a revelation similar to my own, but I think he knew that I appreciated the gesture. Matt and I tried our hand at net fishing only to catch a few baby trout that we had to throw back.

Driving back on the opposite side of the valley, we ran into an old friend of theirs who was having car trouble. He hooked a tow cable to the back of our jeep and we drove back together.

Murad was waiting for us back at his house. So was Jageer, Murad’s brother-in-law Hassan, Moussa and others. Murad’s wife and kids would be deep-frying the fish we caught and we would all partake in the biggest dude party this side of the Indus river.

There are a couple of key things at any good dude party that are all owed to Pakistan's unique Muslim-influenced heritage:

1. Women are kept separate from men when many are present; no slimy girls allowed.
2. The dress of both men and women are meant to be humbling, not flattering, and cover up sensitive body areas. This means that all clothes look (and feel) just like pajamas.
3. Many people outside of large cities don't have a television which means that dancing is still a primary form of entertainment.
4. Everyone drinks the aptly-named Doodh Pati Chai (tea); "Doodh Pati" sounds just like "Dude Party" in a Pakistani accent.

To sum it up: you eat a lot, kick the girls out, get in your pjs, dance, and drink dudeparty tea. It's a dude party, dude.

wearing matching pj's prepping for the dudeparty

We had enjoyed a nice gender-segregated meal with 15 other guys when there was a sudden blackout. Murad's wife came in to the pitch black room with a flashlight and a propane tank. The tank was attached to a small lantern bulb and illuminated the room in a dull light that made it feel like camping. Jageer picked up an old gas can to drum on and Wazir found a sitar and the dancing began.

Dancing happens in 2/4 time with the first beat slightly syncopated. Dancers go up one at a time and strut their stuff in the middle, surrounded by friends who are clapping, cheering, and singing. There is no right way to dance, and it seemed as though the more true to yourself you were in your dancing, the better it was. Each person had their own flavor of dance, with hints of Pakistan - shoulder shrugs, wrist flips, staccato leg movements reminiscent of a chicken's mating dance.

The music plays and you do your move, only one move with very slight variation. Then the beat picks up, people shout louder and clap harder and your one move evolves, much like a Pokemon, into a more complex version of your first move. The shrugs get deeper, the flips get quicker, the kicks get stronger. It's quite a sight and a worthy experience to be a part of. If only every day could be a dude party.

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.