travelogue
My recent trip to the North of Pakistan was as cherishable as my previous visits. I found myself reminiscing about the time I had visited Hunza during a karate competition up in Gilgit, remembering how incredibly green it was. I’ve always loved coming back here.
Perhaps, the most intense experience was a yoga retreat I once attended in this serene region. And now, here I was again in Hunza, this time staying at 2 Magpies. My room had a direct view of Rakaposhi - a breath-taking sight. The beautiful wooden hut was beautiful, built with such care, and the warmth and hospitality of the staff made the stay even more special.
There’s so much to say about this tiny haven, but I have more to share. Zahira’s cottage kitchen experience was amazing too. A kind and talented host, she added local wildflowers to the meals, which completely won me over. I’d give that experience a ten out of ten.
Another highlight was one of my new discoveries in Hunza: a small café nestled by the roadside on the way up to Altit fort. I just had to try it. The humble host, the canopied restaurant, the kitchen farm, and the fresh herbs all made it a wholesome culinary experience.
Of course, Hunza was great - but it was the small discoveries I made between Hunza and my flight from Skardu that gifted me some of the most cherishable moments. Some of the best things I experienced up North were, surprisingly, completely free.
Every time I visited the North, I would often see tiny camps stationed next to the riverbanks - nomadic tribes who have been extracting gold from the deposits carried downstream by the mountain waters. I was always intrigued by the process, and just as we were making our way out of Hunza, I knew I had to stop. I wanted to see it for myself, and maybe even try my luck at finding some gold.
We drove down to the rocky terrain and parked our car close to their tents. As I walked ahead, a young man in a pale blue shalwar kameez approached me. He asked what I wanted, and I told him I was curious about the process. I think he saw the awe and desperation in my eyes, and even though it wasn’t their usual working time, he asked me to follow him down to the water.
That’s where it began. Another young boy was asked to fetch the tools. Soon, I found myself surrounded by some children - some neatly dressed, their hair braided and hands tinted with henna. Just as I started settling into the moment, one boy obstructed the water’s flow by placing two rocks, creating a small dam. The damp sand was then scooped up with a plastic bucket.
The boy who had gone for the tools returned, carrying a large leather board, shaped like a surfboard with a gentle curve. The sand was dumped onto the board and rinsed with water several times. Eventually, only a small amount of sediment remained, which was then transferred to a wooden plate with a shallow, bowl-shaped centre. It was watered down again - gently, carefully and after almost thirty minutes, tiny specks of gold began to shimmer faintly in the sand. “There,” he said, “that’s the gold.” As much as it excited me, I had imagined larger chunks. But this - this was enough for them to carry on. I asked if it was sufficient for their livelihood. He simply replied, “Well, we make do.”
As I turned back, I saw women peeking out from their tents - solar panels set up beside them. At least five tiny hands were resting on me. And while I would have loved to dig deeper into their lives and stories, I knew it was time to bid farewell - at least for this round.
As we were passing through one of the towns around evening time, I caught the most beautiful scent in the air. It grew stronger and more intoxicating, and I asked Muslim bhai, our driver for the tour, to roll the windows down. He did - and with that came a cool gust of wind, carrying the scent even more powerfully into the car. I asked the driver what it was. He told me it came from a local bush called ‘Bursay’ in local Balti language, commonly used by villagers during the winters. They burn it to keep insects away and make the whole place smell good.
I couldn’t believe it was just a roadside bush. I asked, “Wait... they just burn it like that?”
He laughed and asked if I wanted some. Before I knew it, he had pulled the car over and was holding an entire bush in his hands. I was stunned. “No, no,” I said, “I just want a small piece - something I can keep and smell, maybe even use as a bookmark.”
At the time, I was reading ‘The Highly Sensitive Person’ by Elaine Aron, a book borrowed from my sister. She had explicitly told me to take care of it - it was full of her markings and notes. I took a couple of twigs from the bush and held them to my nose for the rest of the ride back. As for the rest of the bush? It went into the trunk... and travelled all the way back with me to Karachi. We’ll decide its fate some other day.
I am a die-hard fan of horses, though I’ve barely been around them. My connection with them was built mostly through movies - I had hardly been acquainted with real horses, apart from the ones you see at Sea View. But my intense longing to bond with them led me to dig deep into the lives of these magnificent creatures.
From the days when they roamed wild across meadows, to being transported across continents, their evolution has been fascinating. So many breeds have emerged - some revered, others imprisoned - sharing deep bonds with humans, only to be discarded when no longer useful. To this day, horses are regarded as prestigious animals: adorning royal forces, pulling carriages, winning races, or simply offering joy through rides and leisurely strolls.
But I didn’t want to just ride a horse. I wanted to truly connect with one - individually. So, I arranged a visit to a stable before my departure from Skardu. That morning, I had the chance to connect not with one, but many. Though afraid at first, I let go of my fears and allowed myself to bond with them.
As the initial surge of excitement settled, I began observing their personalities, their shapes, their energy - all within their stables, their living space. There was a pregnant horse, separated from the rest. Another one, a troublemaker. Then there was the humble kind one, and the youngest - all brought in from different places, though two were local. They were clearly well cared for.
They all had names. The caretaker knew their stories - just like the ones I’d read in ‘The Man Who Listens to Horses’ by Monty Roberts. Horses feel like a universe of their own. As I gently rubbed the snout of one, I sensed a deep longing for freedom. I’m not sure whether it was coming from the horse or a reflection of something within me.
That morning, I held them back from their walk - and in a strange way, they were holding me back from boarding my plane.
Anum Sanaullah is a researcher and creative practitioner who enjoys exploring the world through curious, ever-shifting perspectives. She can be reached at anumnsanaullahgmail.com