A Wurst Case Scenario in pakistan

The backpackers meet and wait on the other side. The rest of the passengers take almost an hour and a half to get through. The bus comes around, and again we rush the bus to get our seats. I am looking forward to seeing the views at the top of the pass.

We begin the climb. The bus drones on, alternating between first and second gear as we wind up a steep road. The motor begins to make funny noises. We stop. Steam pours out of the front of the bus. I hear simultaneous groans and curses in different languages. The bus driver gets a toolbox out and begins to work under the bus. This may take some time.

Mousetraps, by Vance Ikezoye

Bored, I try to sleep, but the altitude makes it hard. We are over 13,000 feet and after spending weeks at sea level, I have a slight headache and feel like I am in slow motion. I soon give up.

I turn my attention to my seatmate and offer him some pistachios that I picked up in Kashgar. He shares some of his bread. For the first time, we try to communicate. He doesn’t speak any English and very little Chinese. He hands me his passport and wants to look at mine. Using a combination of Mandarin, English and mime, I find out that he and his friends are Chinese Tajiks bringing goods to Pakistan for trade. They are fascinated by my guidebook and so I hand it to them.

Four hours go by, we don’t seem to be making any progress. The driver continues to work under the bus. What could he be doing down there? None of the other passengers appear concerned. There are no other vehicles on the road. It is getting cold. I wonder if we’ll be spending the night in the bus.

The driver has packed up his tools. I am optimistic. We all pile back into the bus. The engine starts. We begin to move. We go about 100 yards and stop. It is 6:00 PM. It must be time for plan B, whatever that may be.

A couple of trucks go by without stopping. A Chinese army truck stops and a few soldiers get off. They converse with the bus driver. While one soldier stays behind, the others get back in the truck and continue on.

An empty minibus on its way up to the pass stops. Our bus driver talks to the minibus driver. Everyone starts to rush off our bus. They throw their belongings out the windows. They crowd around the minibus door. The soldier starts screaming at everyone, but few can understand him. He lets a couple of Han Chinese women onto the bus. With empty seats, the minibus leaves. Everyone gets back on our bus.

The driver tells all the men to get off our bus. We all pile out. The bus starts up and begins to move. We walk. The Chinese soldier yells at me to go faster. I feel like a prisoner of war. Plan B must be to walk to Pakistan. It is windy, getting colder, and starting to snow. The bus has stopped. This obviously isn’t working. We all climb back on to the bus. We wait.

Another empty minibus comes and stops. It has seats for 16 people. In a repeat performance, the crowd explodes out of our bus. They are frantically throwing their luggage out of the windows and rushing onto the minibus. Expecting to be disappointed again, I am too casual. I suddenly realize that this is plan B.

We climb up on the roof of the minibus and tie down our bags. Half the seats are taken up with passenger belongings. We ask people to take their stuff out of the minibus to free up seats. They ignore us at first. After a little cooperation, we get over 30 people, blankets, pots, pans, and empty suitcases on the bus. There is no room to move. The passengers are contorted as if we are playing a game of Twister in a phone booth.

The minibus begins to move. In 15 minutes that felt like hours, we arrive at the final checkpoint. The Chinese border officials walk up. I prepare myself for the ritual. Everyone is supposed to get out of the bus. They peer through the windows, quickly decide they don’t want the hassle, and wave us through.

We finally arrive at the pass. It is snowing. It is very dark, but the scenery doesn’t seem to matter to me anymore. A couple of kilometers further, we are greeted by a “Welcome to Pakistan” sign. We are met by a couple of Pakistani border guards with AK-47 rifles. They force themselves onto the bus and look around. Now what?

Karakoram Highway View, by Vance Ikezoye

The answer comes when three other border guards climb on the bus. They want to hitch a ride down. We now have over 34 people in this minibus designed for 15. Two people are sitting in the driver’s seat. It's pitch black and we are headed down some of the steepest parts of the KKH. I try to relax. I remind myself that I have been through worse, although I have a hard time remembering when.

We head down the steep, winding road, picking up speed. As far as I can tell, the road is only a little wider than the bus. If I could stick my arm out the window, I would be able to touch the solid rock wall from which the road was cut. On the other side, I can’t see anything but darkness and assume there is a straight drop-off to the river far below.

The windshield begins to steam up from all of the passengers. The guy sharing the driver’s seat tries to use his hand to clean the window. He’s bumping the driver. He’s making the window worse. The driver continues on unfazed, but there is no way he can see the road. The backpackers yell at him to open a window. The guy continues to wipe the window with his hand. The driver finally opens a side window and it clears up quickly.

I relax too soon. Our driver begins to talk to some of the people in the bus. Not usually a bad thing, but this driver is turning around to make eye contact. He doesn’t slow down. Again we yell at him. He shrugs us off.

Our driver gives orders to one of the passengers to collect money. They announce they want 300 rupees per person, about five US dollars. We spend the next fifteen minutes shuffling our positions so he can collect money from each of us.

One of the backpackers doesn't want to pay. He feels he has already paid for this trip. I understand the principle, but question his judgment. The driver slams on the brakes. We screech to a halt. We are so packed inside the bus, that no one gets hurt. The driver refuses to go on until the passenger agrees to pay. Words are exchanged and we move on. More words are exchanged and we stop again. Finally a compromise is reached and we are off again.

We continue down the road. I am sitting down, but cannot move. There is no room. I have my pack on my lap. My butt is falling asleep and getting sore. I cannot get comfortable. I am sitting over the engine. I feel like I’m sitting on a frying pan.

We stop four times at various checkpoints along the way. At one of the checkpoints, we three backpackers are told to go into the office. We struggle to squeeze out of the bus. The office is one bare room with a desk and no lights. There are three people sitting in the dark. Using our flashlights, we write our names and passport numbers into a big logbook. The official looks through our passports. I show him the Pakistani visa. He doesn’t care. He takes back the passport. I want to hurry. I am worried that the bus and my pack will leave without us. He finally finds whatever he is looking for and we are allowed to leave.

We squeeze back onto the bus. Sensing our frustration, the passengers tell us there are no other checkpoints. I am hopeful. We are on the home stretch. We pass a sign that says it is four kilometers to Sost, our destination. I have missed the scenery but am grateful to finally be done with this trip.

As I finish this thought, the engine stops and the bus begins to coast. Now what? He restarts the engine. It starts and then stalls. We slow down and come to a stop. You’ve got to be kidding. The minibus has run out of gas.

The passengers get off the bus. The driver says there is oil available five minutes away. The driver’s assistant grabs an empty soda bottle and runs off. The three of us get off the bus and huddle.

“How far is it to Sost?”

“The last sign said four kilometers.”

“You can’t trust Pakistani signs.”

“Should we walk, what do you think?”

“Do you think it’s really only four kilometers?”

“I can’t take this anymore.”

“I am out of here.”

It is decided. We will take matters into our own hands. We retrieve our bags. We are walking the rest of the way. The driver pleads with us:

“You can’t go on your own.”

“The oil will be here soon... five minutes.”

“It is too far to walk for you.”

“It is not allowed.”

Despite his protests, we leave. It is 10:00 PM. We calculate that we should be in Sost within an hour. It is pitch black. We take out our flashlights. We walk for close to an hour but no town. I start to silently question the wisdom of our decision.

A motorcycle comes by. We stop him and he tells us the town is only twenty minutes away, but my morale is low. I have been tested during the trip. I try to convince myself that at least we are making progress.

We finally see the lights of a village. We arrive in Sost. The immigration official is in a tent sleeping next to the last gate. We wake him up. I prepare for more problems. He tells us to go into town, and come back in the morning.

We arrive at a hotel, get a room, and shower. Clean and feeling energized, we head to the restaurant for a late dinner. It is a little before midnight. We talk like old friends. First reliving our ordeal but soon moving on to other topics.

A half-hour later, our bus arrives. As the weary passengers file by, we smile and toast to our small victory with orange Fanta sodas.