As I reflect on my recent adventure through Hunza Valley, I am reminded of the promise on my ticket: "5 magical days." Little did I know that the magic would begin with a test of my lower-back warranty on an overloaded Pakistani bus. My journey was scheduled to start in Wazirabad at 11:00pm but that was put back to 12pm and finally 1:00 am, when I boarded a 20-seater bus that was supposed to be "luxurious." The irony was not lost on me as I watched 29 human beings, two rice sacks, and an ornamental goat already on the bus.
The little blue rocket....whatever work they put into the engine, I just hope they put the equal amount into the brakes!
The demographic of our little group was interesting, to say the least. We had 24 young honeymooners, still learning each other's names, three staff members, the driver, and me – a bearded Australian "VIP" who was given the front seat for fast security gate clearance. The language count was skewed heavily in favour of Urdu, with only one English speaker, and an infinite number of Bollywood lyrics that seemed to play on repeat throughout the journey.
As we set off, the seating plan was a free-for-all, with the early birds getting the best seats and the latecomers relegated to makeshift, homemade seats that blocked the aisle. Our departure was delayed, of course – 1:00am instead of the scheduled 11:00 p.m. In Pakistan, it seems, lateness is not a bug, but a feature. Our driver, resplendent in aviators, blamed the delay on "traffic, electricity, and feelings."
Look at me...so young and full of hopes & dreams.
The first 100 kilometres of our journey were at break-neck speed on the Hazara Motorway, the bus lurching from side-to-side as the driver overtook any vehicle going a smidge less than 100km/hr. I hoped and prayed this display of reckless, high-elbow style driving would not continue….little did I know that he was just getting warmed up. The driver's mixtape of Bollywood heartbreak ballads was played at ear-shattering decibels and the interior of the bus was a riot of colour, with neon LEDs clashing with fairy-light tinsel, making it look like a cross between a disco and a dental drill.
With no shared language, I had to rely on universal mime to communicate with my fellow passengers. Thumbs-up, camera flash, and gravity-defying eyebrow wiggles became my go-to gestures, which led the entire bus to believe that Australians communicate exclusively through facial aerobics.
The first night was a horror highlight reel. At 4:00 a.m., we had our first stop at a roadside restaurant, guarded by four ‘car park attendants’ armed with AK-47’s. I declined the sloppy Dahl and charred chapati, opting instead to protect the integrity of my stomach and going for a large bottle of water and and a couple of packets of Oreo cookies. (Little did I realise the irony of this choice at this early stage). Like any middle of the night, middle of nowhere truck-stop anywhere in the world, this one was not immune to the ‘creatures of the night’ and I clutched my camera and sling close to my body, choosing not to be the first robbery statistic of the trip.
How do you say Oreo Cookies and a large water in Urdu?
Back onto the bus, we sped off into the darkness. No street lighting and the bus easily out-driving the dim lighting of it’s headlights. It was dark darkness. Blackness. Except for the inside of the bus which faded from blue to pink to purple all to the beat of the Bollywood tunes cranked up to 11. Are we having fun yet?
The bus continued to defy the laws of physics (is this thing turbo charged?) as we hurtled towards breakfast at the little town of Besham, although it was more like lunch, coming at 11:30 a.m. The menu consisted of more Dahl, more chapati, and chai that was so sweet my pancreas requested clemency. I pulled out my camera, and the kitchen staff smiled with the obligatory thumbs-up pose, teaching me my first Urdu phrase: "Tasveer acha hai!" (Nice photo). They roared with approval, probably at my pronunciation.
Would you like some bread with that?
Back on the bus and I tried to distract myself from the drawn-out near-death experience by looking out the window at village life as it wizzed by. Poor families and impoverished children doing their utmost to survive another harsh winter under a corrupt government, as a bus full of entitled tourists blew past at warp speed, horn blaring should anyone dare step an inch onto the roadway.
For the love of God...please make it stop! (The 12 hour mark).
At around 2:00pm, with the last of my data connection, I logged onto Google Maps to find that our next stop, Sumar Napa, a delightful little village on the banks of the mighty Indus River was three hours away, and hotel for the night in Chilas, was still five hours away. I figured that with check-in and a quick shower, I could be in bed by 9:00pm. My hopes and dreams would soon be dashed….
The horror highlight reel continued before my eyes in real time. As we climbed higher and higher, the scenery was incredible. The first view of the Indus River gorge was breathtaking. I did my best to take some photos out of the crusty bus window in the setting sun, with very few keepers unfortunately. (In another life, I would be driving this route in a private car with the luxury to stop at will for photos). Then we hit the infamous Karakoram Highway and ground to a halt. It was more like the surface of the moon than a road. Muddy craters, rocks and boulders decorated the landscape. Stopped cars, buses and trucks stretched as far as the eye could see. After about an hour of sitting idle the driver opened the door and everyone got out. In a broken English conversation with another driver, I learnt that there was a landslide about 100km further up the road and we were waiting for it to be cleared. And what laid before us was the beginning of 100km of gridlocked traffic. The friendly stranger relayed tales of twelve hour delays and sleeping by the side of the road while landslides were cleared. We weren’t going anywhere.
The mighty Indus River. Glacier water from the Himalayas in India.
As the sun set an inky blackness enveloped us as we sat and sat…for hours. At about 9:00pm a distant light appeared, then another and another until a long string of distant tail-lights indicated that the landslide was cleared and we would soon be underway.
Finally we began to inch slowly forward in a conga line of trucks, buses and over-loaded cars, crashing through potholes and dodging boulders. The high-elbows, formula-one style driving gave way to dodging rocks as they appeared out of the blackness. No one feared a high speed death anymore. Now we pictured going out in a hail of rocks as they crashed down the mountainside.
At about 11:00pm the little village come truck-stop Sumar Nala appeared out of the darkness. This was to be our dinner stop. But first, a toilet…my kingdom for a toilet! Dinner would consist of a luke-warm, overly sweetened chai and a packet of dry biskets. I did not dare take on the late-night Dahl and chapati truck stop challenge like the others.
Be careful what you wish for....this is your friendly reminder to collect every tissue, serviette and napkin you see, every time you stop somewhere.
The 'delightful little village' of Sumar Napa.
We checked into our hotel at Chillas at 1:00am., which had a rating of three stars if you ignored the plumbing, four if you valued the mountain views, and five if you couldn't feel your spine after 24 hours squished into a tiny bus set. While the outside temperature was around -10 degrees celsius, the shower nozzle produced 50% ice-cold mountain water and 50% optimism; the 10pm curfew had long since passed and the power had gone out, so there was definitely no heating. I would have to settle for a 'wash' with wet wipes...
Simple but clean. I'm just not sure what kind of insects we're swatting at -10 degrees.
As I lay in bed, wrapped in my thermals, down jacket, merino socks and three blankets, I reflected on the first day of our journey. I realised that bus miles in Pakistan are like dog years – you have to multiply them by seven. Bollywood songs have no off-switch; they merely loop into the cosmos. And in Pakistani culture, the eldest in the group earns automatic aunty or uncle status. I was now "Chachu" – uncle in Urdu – and I wasn’t completely sure if I was ready to take on the responsibility of that role.
My jagged bones started to settle as my body temperature slowly rose above freezing and I started to doze off, howver I couldn't help but feel that our journey was only just beginning. Tomorrow, we would attempt the high pass to Hunza, with a forecast of 10 hours, 300 Bollywood tracks, and one rattled beard. Stay tuned; send lumbar support.
Posted By Nathan
Hi there! I'm Nathan Brayshaw, an adventure travel photographer and writer based on Queensland’s Gold Coast in Australia. I've always had a deep love for nature and a yearning to explore the world, which has led me on thrilling expeditions to remote and exotic destinations.
As a photographer, I'm passionate about capturing the raw beauty of our planet, from breathtaking landscapes to awe-inspiring wildlife, and everything in between. My camera is my constant companion as I journey through dense jungles and summit towering peaks, always in search of the perfect shot that tells a story.
In addition to my photography, I'm also passionate about writing, as it allows me to share my experiences and insights with a wider audience. I believe that through my work, I can encourage others to step out of their comfort zones, explore the unknown, and embrace the thrill of adventure.
With my passion for exploration, my camera in hand, and my heart set on discovering the world's wonders, I'm constantly pushing the boundaries of adventure travel photography and writing. Join me on this incredible journey as we uncover the breathtaking beauty and diverse cultures that our planet has to offer.
Updated : 16th May 2025 | Words : 1549 | Views : 150
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